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dragonsateyourtoast · 4 years

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Special thanks to @owl-in-a-top-hat for their support of social justice! They requested something from the Calliope's Tale universe, and I am happy to oblige. Sorry this took so long - it got a little lengthy, haha! And then I had to rewrite the entire end of it because tumblr decided to delete my edits.

Her name was Miyei, and she was the queen of the sea.

No nation could capture her. No navy could break her fleet's formation. There was no ship upon the seas of the world that could - or would - best her.

This was in the old days, before the Midnight Sun and Calliope, before the Crown and their vile trade, before even Buroni Hakir and its law of fealty. This was when those that could conquer the waves were considered strong as the gods themselves, able to tame the water beneath and the wind about.

Her name was Miyei.

A fleet of five hundred ships, she had. A fleet that no coastal village could stand up against. No port could deny them. They could blockade a nation if they wanted, and vanish into the Topaz Islands the next day, invisible amongst the thousands of tiny stones jutting from the sea, the coral reefs that lurked beneath them. The Islands belonged to Miyei and her fleet, and everyone knew it. No one could navigate it like she did. No one had ever mapped its intricate formations.

Inside the islands, Miyei was safe. Until she wasn't.

Perhaps it was her hubris and disrespect that brought Kulari's wrath down upon them, or perhaps it was just chance that coaxed a hurricane from the southeastern waters and sent it roaring to the coast in a day and a half. Whatever the truth, even Miyei's seers did not sense its approach, not until it was too late. The hurricane burst over the Islands like an angry god, ripping the trees from their stones and ripping the fleet apart. She mobilized them as soon as it appeared on the horizon, but they weren't fast enough. Perhaps half the fleet escaped. The other half was too slow to run, or they thought the Islands would shelter them. That was not true - the Islands simply gave the storm something to batter them against.

Miyei's flagship, the Blue Bone, was one of the ones caught behind. When the hurricane came, it tore her ship to shreds beneath her and threw her into the ocean like a ragdoll.

This is it, Miyei realized, as she saw the stormlight fading above her, the water dragging her down. I will be no more.

To her surprise, she awoke some time later, laying atop a flat piece of wood in the water. When she scrubbed the salt from her stinging eyes, she realized she was afloat on half of a ship's deck, in the calm, cloudy blue water of the Islands. She didn't try to stand, just squinted around at the world.

There was something watching her at the edge of the deck.

Miyei scrambled back from a creature with eyes so dark brown they were almost black and skin almost as dark as its eyes, head resting on its crossed forearms. "Stay back!" she shrieked, grabbing for something, anything - a piece of metal tied to the deck, anything. She held it out in front of her like a sword, shaking hands pointing the sharp tip towards the creature.

She'd seen merids before. But never this close. "Stay away from me!" she shouted, and the merid, finally, slid backwards into the water and disappeared.

Miyei took stock of her surroundings. Ship deck, metal piece, and a few of the islands in sight. But she didn't have any way to paddle her raft to them, and she didn't know if she would be able to swim all the way to one of the nearer blots of rock. For several hours, she tried to construct something, all the while well aware of the blistering heat of the sun and the lack of water.

Towards midday she sat down. "I am going to die here," she murmured, and wondered if she ought to just let Zzoriel take her now for the reef.

A laugh came from beside her. She sat upright, eyes wide, and saw again the merid beside her. "Stay-" she started, but the merid interrupted her by pulling a parrotfish out of the water and tossing it onto the deck.

The merid - mermaid, from the looks of it - just watched as Miyei carefully stole forward and touched the fish. It was dead, freshly so. "I..." Merids couldn't speak; that was ridiculous. Still... "Is this... a gift?"

"Is it?" The mermaid said, and disappeared again.

Stunned, Miyei sat down hard on the salt-crusted wood. Xikaal grant me the breath in my body and salt in my tears, what? she thought. But... I've never heard a merid speak before! They, they can't...

No. Now was not the time for pondering. She didn't have a fire to cook it with, but a fish was a fish, and the one thing that hasn't been torn from her in the hurricane was her knife, a coral-handled iron blade that gleamed bright silver in the sun. She stripped as much flesh from the fish as she could and savored it.

By the evening, she still hadn’t found a way to get herself to the nearest island in the chain. She didn’t even know where in the chain she was, though she had a vague idea - she knew the shapes of individual rocks poking above the water. But... she couldn’t reach them.

At nightfall, she waited to see if the mermaid would come back. When she spotted a flash of brown under the water, she went still and silent, until the mermaid’s dark head poked up above the swell.

“Listen,” Miyei said, speaking quickly in case she darted off again. “I am a pirate queen. Anything you want, I can give to you, if you get me back to the islands.”

“A queen,” the mermaid scoffed. “Really? With what nation?”

She can speak! She can really speak! Where did she learn?! Never mind, that doesn’t matter. “I’m powerful enough to build my fleet back up if I can get to an island with enough wood and sticks to build a raft back to one of my strongholds.”

The mermaid watched, leaning on the edge of the raft. It tipped perilously; Miyei swayed to keep her balance. “Sure,” the mermaid drawled. “Whatever.”

And she was gone. Miyei sat down again, frustrated, but she didn’t come back that night.

The pattern repeated the next day. The mermaid gave her a fish; Miyei tried in vain to make some kind of sail, or paddle or something that could get her moving. But one of the things that made the Topaz Islands hers was her wind-magic sailors, the ones that could power the ships through this unnaturally calm area, usually so untouched by Kulari’s breath. There was no breeze to sail by.

That night, the mermaid came back. “You must take me to an island,” Miyei ordered her, rage bubbling in her chest. “You must!”

“Or what?” the mermaid asked. “You’ll kill me? Out here, it’s you who’s in danger. I’m doing fine.”

Miyei seethed, but she was right. “You will take me to one of my strongholds, or I will kill you,” she snapped.

The mermaid stared at her, then shrugged and slid under the water. Miyei this time charged forwards to the edge of the raft, that sharp piece of metal in her hand, and stabbed it down into the water. Nothing. Of course not.

Then the mermaid’s hand closed around the metal and tugged hard, and Miyei overbalanced and was dragged into the sea. The water was cool to the touch, and she automatically shut her mouth and held her breath, trying to right herself - but strong hands grabbed onto her and held her in place, one over her mouth, one around her torso and arms, locking them down. The mermaid was behind her. Miyei knew instantly that she could not escape, but she struggled anyway.

“You’re foolish,” the mermaid told her, voice clear in the water, somehow. She just held Miyei, below the surface. Miyei knew she could hold her breath for four minutes, but she hadn’t been prepared, and she knew the merid could out last her. “Do you want to stay down here with me? Is that it?”

No! Miyei struggled, shaking her head.

“Then get out of my ocean.” The mermaid released her. Miyei flailed, then kicked upwards until she broke the surface, gasping for breath, and pulled herself back up onto the wooden raft.

The next day, at midmorning, she sat down on the planks and called out, “What are you doing?”

No answer. Miyei narrowed her eyes. “I know you can hear me,” she shouted, voice ringing over the waves. “What’s your plot, here? Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

The mermaid surfaced next to the ship and leaned on it again. “I want you to stop ruining my islands,” she said, conversationally. “You have cannons and swords. My people do not, except of ocean glass and stone and coral. We can’t beat you in a fight. So we’re forced to negotiate with you, except you people won’t listen unless we make you listen. It’s an opportunity.” She shrugged.

Miyei glared at her. “Well, fine, you have my attention,” she snapped.

“Good. Promise to leave the islands alone forever, and I’ll take you to a stronghold. Then you can clear your people out and leave.”

That... was absurd. But Miyei knew she wouldn’t be getting out unless she did this. Besides, she could just lie. “Deal,” she said.

“That was surprisingly easy,” the mermaid said, watching her face. “Too easy. You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not!”

“And there, too.” The mermaid shook her head. “That’s not a deal if you mean to break it. You just want to get back up on a ship where you’re safe away from me, and then you’ll continue parading around. Well, I’ll tell you this: we asked Kulari for help once, and we can do it again. If she gets tired of helping us, she’ll bother Athu about it. Then what? Then what happens to you, pirate queen?”

Miyei glowered at her. “I can’t leave the Islands,” she said. “They’re where my fleet needs to hide. It’s where we live.”

“I can tell you right now, we were here first,” the mermaid said, shaking her head. “We were here first, and we don’t care for you moving in and saying it’s yours.”

“I can’t just make them leave!”

“Yes, you can. You made them come here. You can make them leave here.”

“It’s not that simple!” Why am I even entertaining this thought? This creature wants me to destroy my entire empire! “You can’t just make people leave.”

“Well, I hope you figure out a way to do that,” the mermaid said. “When you do, I’ll be ready to tow you back to a stronghold, so you can enact your plan. Good luck.” And she disappeared again.

Miyei stamped her foot on the deck and swore several times, loudly. Curse this stupid merid! Curse that stupid storm! None of this was - none of this should have happened! Wretched, horrible merids, lurking underneath the waves and causing problems and now trying to take her Islands from her! No - she couldn’t. She couldn’t leave. She’d just have to - she’d just have to lie better.

She waited several hours, then called out again. “Fine,” she snarled. “I hate it. And I hate you. But I like living better. Do you hear me? I’ll adhere to your horrible conditions if you’ll only let me go!”

A disturbance in the water. Miyei strode over to the edge of the raft and stared down into the water. “Do you hear me?” she again shouted.

A hand shot out and clasped around her ankle, and with a shriek, Miyei was again dragged down into the water. She clawed at the boards, but all she did was get a splinter in one hand before she was dragged into the water.

The mermaid stared at her, holding her by the shoulder. “You just cannot bring yourself to be a good person,” she said, sounding irritated. “So I’ll have to force you to be one. I was really hoping maybe you’d just have the decency to listen and realize there are real people you’ve invaded here, but I should have known from your past habits that you’re not capable of such a thing, so I’ll have to play tour guide and hope my land can speak for itself. You disgust me.” With that, she shook her hair out of her face and sang out a few sharp, clear notes that made Miyei’s vision blur and go black. She felt her body involuntarily breathe in and shrieked - this creature was trying to drown her! - but the water just felt like thick, humid air, rushing into her lungs, and out again, taking her air bubbles with it. It stung, and hurt in her throat and nose, but after a few moments, she was forced to accept that it wasn’t killing her.

The mermaid was watching her when she opened her eyes. “If you climb out of the water, you’ll drown,” the merid said casually. “So I really wouldn’t recommend trying to get away.”

If it had been humans she’d been negotiating with, Miyei would’ve tried to escape. But this was a merid. And she’d done something to Miyei, something magical, and there was no way Miyei could count on her magic not killing her if she tried to break free. So she glowered at her and said nothing.

“Good! Great. Now, come on.” The mermaid grabbed hold of Miyei’s wrist and immediately towed her away from the raft.

There was so much more beneath the Islands than she’d realized. Miyei could swim, of course, and was familiar with reefs, but she’d never been one to go exploring around in them like some folks did. The seabed here went deeper than she expected in caves and crevasses, and the coral covered secret clearings of white sand and green seagrass. Her vision was unexpectedly clear down here, peering through the water, and the sunlight that reached down showed an extraordinary number of fish and corals hiding on and in the rocks.

But more impressive than that were the merids. Miyei had rarely ever seen a merid in the Topaz Islands - she’d assumed they were too shallow for them. But here, she saw them everywhere. Watching from behind rocky outcroppings, cloaked in the green sea-grass sprouting from the sand beds, tucked underneath a spur of coral just peering out at her. They all stared at her, and each had an expression of mixed curiosity and... hatred?

Why do they look at me like that?

“They hate you because they were here first, and you and your fleet moved in and started destroying everything,” the mermaid told her, conversationally. “You drop your anchors on our coral. You catch all the fish and leave none for us. You destroy things we create without even noticing, and you do not listen to us. These are where we raise our children. And you just sail on in and wreck the place. Can you see why we have a problem?”

Miyei tried to speak. To her surprise, she could, though it was hard, forcing water sluggishly through her throat. Her lungs weren’t used to this kind of effort. “Why... didn’t you mention this... before?”

“You don’t think we tried?” the mermaid snapped. “We tried! But nobody listens to sea monsters. I had to learn your horrible language in order to even get you to listen.”

“You could’ve... talked to us before.”

“No, I couldn’t have. You would’ve captured me in a net and put me in a tank for entertainment. Absolutely not.”

That... may have been true. Miyei winced. You don’t use people for entertainment. But I didn’t know they were people, she thought, and grimaced, and said nothing.

“You look uncomfortable,” the mermaid said, with a kind of grim satisfaction. “Good! You should be.”

She continued to drag Miyei after her, downwards, towards a large hollow in the rocks. It led to a soft sandy area, where several mer-matrons carefully watched a few chubby, awkward-looking blobs go floating about. Baby mermaids, Miyei realized, staring at them. They were... very strange looking. Weirdly similar to human children, except for the gills and the heavy, fleshy tail.

“Oh, yes, we have children,” the mermaid commented. “I know, astonishing. It’s almost like we’re people who come from somewhere.”

“I get it,” Miyei grumbled. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t.” The mermaid turned, staring at her. “You don’t get it. We live here. You tried to steal our home from us, and you’ve been succeeding this whole time. You need to leave here.“

“But where... do we go?” Miyei asked.

“That,” the mermaid sniffed, “is not my problem. There are other islands to live on that don’t have our ancestral birthing grounds underneath them. Go use those.”

The mer-matrons had gathered together in a little group, warily watching Miyei and the mermaid. The mermaid sighed and called out something in a searing, hissing language that made Miyei’s ears hurt; the mer-matrons responded, their voices deeper and stronger, and stayed where they were.

“What’s your name?” Miyei asked.

“Ah, finally!” The mermaid turned back to her. “Finally you ask! I was really wondering how long it would take you to realize I probably have a name.”

“I get it, alright?” Miyei snapped. “There’s no reason to keep on me like this. I get it!”

The mermaid glared at her. “You couldn’t pronounce my name if you tried,” she snapped. “It’s Skreshkaiurhsra. You can call me... let’s go with Resh.”

Miyei took a deep breath (of... water. It still unnerved her) and let it out. He crew on the Blue Bone answered to her because she was just and fair to them, and because she punished anyone who broke her rules. If - if - she got out of this mess, she knew, she’d have to adhere to the merids’ demands, or face the same punishment.

And... she didn’t realize there were kids down here. Children.

“Resh,” she said. “Right. I’m Miyei. So to get home, what do you need me to do?”

Resh wouldn’t let her go that easily. She casually assured Miyei that the magic wouldn’t wear off any time soon and told her to help out. The storm had ripped some of the reef apart - the merids were trying to repair it as best as they could.

It wasn’t natural, Miyei was told. The reef was cultivated, kept at its most beautiful and healthy, by the merids who lived here. Some were here all year round to maintain it, and others came and went, coming here to give birth to their children, leaving later once they were grown. “Like turtles,” she said, “but, you know, awake in the thoughts.”

Awake in the thoughts. The thing that Miyei had thought merids weren’t.

It was easier to lift stones and coral underwater, but Miyei wasn’t as quick swimming as the merids were. A single flick of their tails, and they were gone; she had to drag herself through the water. She didn’t belong here, and it was obvious. For days, she struggled to keep up with the merids, doing what they asked of her - she had no choice! And by the end of a week, the younger mermaids (not the babies, but the children) were brave enough to whirl around her, taunting her in their weird language.

“Go away,” she snarled at them, a time or two, feeling her face flush. She didn’t like being made fun of.

“Aww, they’re having fun,” Resh said, appearing behind her. “They aren’t faster than the adults. Let them mock you.”

“Why?!”

“Because they’re children, and they’re having fun,” Resh replied. “Honestly. Were you ever a child, or were you born grumpy?”

Miyei was worried about her fleet. The Blue Bone had been destroyed, she knew, and half her fleet with it. Where were they now? Had they chosen a new captain, a new queen? Would they try to find her? Or would they assume she was gone? Where was her life now, all remnants of it sunk beneath the waves? And myself with it, she thought, looking up to the glittering surface far above. I’m down here, too.

No one came looking for her. It was as if the world above the surface ceased to exist. Everything was the ocean: the coral, the merids, the water that she breathed. Everything. The ocean became the only thing that mattered. Two weeks. Three. A month. Two months.

The merids stopped being so afraid and wary of her, after a time. She’d long since lost that piece of metal, and she didn’t use her knife as a weapon - it was a tool, nothing more. They even seemed to be okay with her presence around. Resh almost seemed to like her.

And then the storm.

It was sudden. The first news they got of it was a crack of thunder over the ocean miles away that they could hear, even from the caverns. All the merids started, and looked up; Miyei, who’d picked up a little bit of their language, could understand what they were saying. A storm? Approaching? They hadn’t thought there would be one. Merids could feel when storms came. But they hadn’t felt this one.

She swam out of the cavern and found Resh as quickly as possible. “There’s a storm coming,” she told the mermaid, as if she didn’t know.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Resh said, but her face was more worried than irritated. “That shouldn’t happen. And we didn’t call that.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some of your old friends, who knows.”

The storm came. Miyei had never seen a storm from below before. She thought that perhaps the wind would be dulled underwater, that it would simply be a lovely light-show. She couldn’t have been more wrong. The water became her enemy, roaring, twisting, tearing sand and plants up from the seabed. Fish hid inside the rocks and corals, but even those weren’t safe. The water ripped at the reef like a sea serpent.

Resh hauled boulders in front of a cavern where several merid families had fled for refuge. "Bring more!" she bellowed when she saw Miyei. "Seal it up, keep them safe!"

"I will," Miyei called back, and then the storm ripped away any further words she could have said. She had a split second to think before a wave came roaring in. A whirl of water caught a rock and sent it hurtling away towards the mermaid.

The last thing Miyei remembered was trying to warn her. "Resh!" She remembered shouting, and then there was water, and sound, and -

Miyei woke on the shore. Wet sand on her cheeks. Air blowing above her. When she raised herself up, she was seized by a fit of coughing and choking; water in her lungs trying to escape, to be replaced with air. Air. I’m alive. I’m on land.

There were voices in the distance. Miyei dragged herself to her knees - she was so heavy, so clumsy here! - and spat up water. It didn’t sting like she thought it would.

Voices drew closer, and Miyei sat back on her heels and turned her face to the sun. She breathed in, deep - deeper than she should have. The air felt like nothing. She breathed too much, and it sent her coughing again.

By the time she recovered, she was surrounded by people. “Queen!” someone shouted. “Queen, Kulari’s breath, you’re alive!“

Those must be from her fleet. Her crew. The ones that made it out before the storm. She tried to breathe lightly - had it always been this easy? No, she was simply used to the water, which resisted her, which supported her, not this place of air and dead sound where she had to drag herself along through nothing - and looked at them.

“Queen,” one of them started, and then the words died in their mouth. They stared at her, eyes wide, faces pale. Miyei paused. Something was wrong. She raised a hand to her face.

She hadn’t noticed it before, not with how heavy she felt freed from the tides, but there was a strange weight to her head. She ran her hand along her face, her cheeks. There was a strange, smooth ridge of hard bone rising from her cheeks, sweeping up above her ears. There, again, alongside her eyebrows - and from her forehead as well.

Miyei staggered to her feet and turned towards the nearest sailor. In one swift movement she lunged forward and grabbed for the hilt of his blade, unsheathing it fully. He yelped and leaped back, but she only raised the sword and stared into the mirror-bright blade.

Coral. It was coral. It split from beneath her skin and surrounded her face like a portrait frame, or a halo, hanging about her head. It was oddly smooth for coral, and solid, but there was no mistaking that intricate patterning or that dull olive green color.

Miyei stared for a moment longer, then dropped her hand and threw the blade into the wet sand. It stuck point-first and hilt-up, quivering where it landed. “Gather everyone,” she rasped, her voice rough with salt and sand. “Every ship. We empty the strongholds. No one remains in the Islands after three days’ time.”

“What?” said one pirate, staring. “Queen, we can’t -”

“We can,” she interrupted him, a low growl. “Every person here leaves. Do you understand me?”

“Queen,” someone started, and she whirled to face them, her black hair flying around her. Sand sprayed onto the ground. The sailor went quiet.

“Good,” she said. “Let’s go. I need a new ship.”

Miyei looked to the water. It glittered so bright it nearly blinded her, but she swore for a moment she caught sight of a dark-haired head vanishing between one swell-peak and the next.

The Topaz Islands are a sacred place. They are holy by all of the goddesses of the sea, protected by a living fleet that has held its vow for thousands of years. No nation can capture them. No fleet can break through their waters. There is no ship upon the sea that may enter them and live to tell the tale.

The fleet that guards them is eternal, and its captain, they say, has been alive since its founding. They say that instead of blood she has saltwater and kelp-fiber. They say that she speaks the merids’ tongue. They say that if you intrude into the place she has given her soul to protect, that even Kulari’s blessing could not protect you from her retribution.

Her name is Miyei, and she is the queen of nothing, for the sea itself needs no crown.

#Calliope's Tale #ctverse #writing #writeblr #UGH sorry for the mishap #had to EDIT ALL THE DRAFTED WORDS BACK IN #because TUMBLR DELETED THEM

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jamesthenotsogiantpeach · 3 years

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Let’s see, salut comrades! Needless to say I am quite new to tumblr as a whole, and thought I might as well ramble on about my new favorite game I’ve been in love with; Genshin Impact.

I adore the Honkai-Verse and have been blown away by their games thus far, but miHoYo has absolutely knocked it out of the park with Genshin. I probably spend far too much time playing, but alas, I want to explain my ultimate Genshin dream team!

So I have this obsessive format I created in my mind when it comes down to a dream team and how to set up my party, so for reference I always go in the order from top to bottom, Mc, an archer, optional, and then a claymore user. Pretty simple, and my dream team is pretty run of the mill but I can’t think of anything else so why not!

First Off: MC; Aether!

So I chose Aether out of the two twins, (the male player as opposed to the female player), for no other reason than I thought he looked cool and was presented as the main character in the Genshin promotional trailers, so I clicked away!

In my opinion I think him and Lumine are easily the most powerful fighters in the game because of their ability, (depending on who you chose as your protagonist), to resonate with any one of the seven elemental abilities. That said, there’s obviously some leanway with this because you have to unlock those regions to gain access to those abilities, and it’s just my opinion!

I just tend to keep any MC in my fighting team on impulse, so there’s not much else I can comment on, other than I think Aether is a tad underrated compared to Lumine but ability wise they’re exactly the same and play the exact same role, so the only argument there is to make is just simply who you prefer!

Archer Spot: Childe! (Tartaglia)

I was ecstatic when Childe was released as a playable character, and even more pumped when I played his test run. I think he’s the most useful archer, in terms of strength. (Though when it comes to completing quests, amber takes the cake because of how much she’s required!)

I like that you can switch from duel blades to a bow so you don’t become immediately screwed over when you get charged at. Also, in other words I, like most people, just think he’s dope as hell!

[Spoiler] I’m already heart broken over his betrayal that I haven’t even gotten to yet lmfao. BuT aRen’t wE all, aTleast we get to use his Mora!

Optional: (Probably) Kaeya!

So Kaeya is great from becoming a mini Jesus and walking on water, but besides that he came in extremely handy when facing off against the Electro Hypostasis during the Adventure Rank 25 Ascension Quest, when at the time I didn’t have any other frost flavored fighters.

I have a mega bias for this guy because let’s be real, I think he’s hot like the gay weeb I am, but I’ll be classy and explain! With the combination of Childe’s water element, Kaeya becomes far more useful because of course you can freeze your enemie after they’ve been affected by Hydro. A good and convenient combination, though of course this spot is optional.

Some of my other favorite fighters that I currently own include Sucrose, Beidou, and Razor! Of course I adore them all though, except Lisa. Her character? Great! Her fighting ability? Oh my god stab my eyes out. That’s probably putting it a little harsh but you get what I mean. Anyways, moving onto the last but DEFINITELY not least;

Claymore User: Diluc!

Let’s be real, who doesn’t want Diluc? He’s strong as all hell and will set your ass ablaze in .5 seconds, literally. (Even more reason to have Childe, he sets everyone on fire.)

I unfortunately was unable to pull him in the time he was available, which granted would have been impressive given the .6% chance drop rate for all five star characters, but hey a guy never stops dreaming. But anyways, besides me gushing over all the characters, Diluc is an extremely powerful character and I desperately want to make use of his Pyro, which pairs very well with Anemo abilities when doing attack combinations.

I also love any character that uses a claymore type weapon not only for mining but because they are really damn good at demolishing anything in their path. Pair that with a flaming blaze and you got a damn good fighter!

Conclusion!

Well, if you actually read all my spewing, thank you! Basically in summary I love genshin, and all of its characters, and I also have WAYYY too much time in my hands!

I’m glad my first post (or blog I think it’s called), could be something I’m passionate about, even if it is just ritirations of what every Genshin player already probably wishes for. Still, I think my friends got tired of my rambling so why not!

Anyways, have a wonderful night, Traveler!

#genshin childe #genshin impact #genshin #genshin aether #genshin kaeya #genshin diluc #gaming #ramblings

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the-schwayest-batman-around · 4 years

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Commissions Open

Hello everyone!

I hope everyone is doing well and this year has been more than a little crazy. However, I figure to help make the year a little easier and help out for some future plans, I’m going to be reopening commissions.

There will be 5 slots. I don’t want to overwhelm myself and I don’t want to suddenly keep a lot of people waiting in case my job situation does change. This will first come/first serve. I will only be accepting stuff via ask or tumblr messenger. That means no anons. I need to actually communicate with anyone interested in commissions.

Details Under the Read More:

Headcanons (Examples): These will cost $10.00 as a base fee. With headcanons, I try to go in depth with the concept you wish to discuss. This won’t really feature an POV of the character in question. Their point of view can be explored but it generally is done in my perspective. The $10 will buy you the first 1,500 words completely free of charge with an extra dollar for every 100 words. The word count will be rounded up if it’s over 50.

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I will only allow up to 2 major changes like this. If you wish to add something, the additional charges will be done to the final payment. As stated above, I will not release the product until payment is complete. If you wish to remove charges, I will not refund you. However, I will attempt to increase the word count to make this a fairly even trade.

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I have a little over 20 years of writing experience in several formats and fandoms. Aside from what you can find on the blog, I have assisted in creating unique battle scripts and plots for my own original projects and writing partners. I have created several unique plots with several praising the quality of work and creativity on display.

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vertanimeni · 4 years

Text

the ice will start to break, the day will fade away (5/18)

Summary:

“Have you heard? The Elephant of Caocin has committed high treason!”

From Trikru’s most reputable war hero to Trikru’s most wanted traitor, Kova found themselves stripped of their titles and trapped between a clan that wants them dead and a camp of invaders - the same ones who kidnapped and tortured their brother.

But Kova was willing to do anything to stay alive and keep their family together.

Pairing: Bellamy/Grounder OC

Word Count: 6,277

TW: Canon typical violence, injuries.

A/N: Hi hi! After some convincing from my friends, I decided to post this series here :D I’ve already finished with season 1 and half of season 2, I’m just in the middle of re-writing and editing. If you’re reading through my blog, the read more does not show up due to Tumblr’s new formatting, so please click on the post itself. I’ll be updating every other day at 12pm EST. Anyways, hope you enjoy it!

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⟻ Previous Chapter || Masterlist || Next Chapter ⟼

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v. intervention.

The sole fact that the Ankwon Bridge stood tall and proud despite the dry creek underneath, despite having gone through neglect, a nuclear war, renovation, and more neglect, was an impressive feat on its own. The debris scattered across the floor and the crumbling sides and edges made it quite obvious that it had been abandoned, or at the very least, hadn’t been used as often, for trading or otherwise. After all, there were faster routes to get to southwest Trikru, and with no villages or people for miles down this road, it became an unpopular course.

Which is why Kova couldn’t hide their surprise when they found someone casually leaning against the railings, as if she had been waiting there for a while now.

Knowing their tendency to accidentally sneak up on others, Kova made sure to step with a bit of extra pressure on a few dried leaves and twigs. Octavia turned at the noise. Her eyes landed on Kova, and she gave them a wry smile. They dipped their head in acknowledgment. Octavia might be Lincoln’s… interest, but that didn’t mean Kova would drop their guard just for—

“No sword to the throat? I thought you liked me?” Octavia couldn’t help but tease, a sly smile on her face.

The muscle underneath Kova’s eyes twitched. They blinked once. twice. Octavia could have sworn for a brief second she saw the corners of their lips twitch, too. Suddenly Kova’s chest spasmed as a light laugh tumbled out without restraint.

Alright. Maybe they could warm up to her.

Once they calmed down and cleared their throat (pointedly ignoring Octavia’s wide eyes), they held out their forearm. Without hesitation, Octavia gripped theirs with her own, and her smile was much more natural when they squeezed lightly.

“Wanna sit with me while we wait for the others?” She asked.

“…mn.”

Since they were early, the two sat on the edge of the bridge, legs hanging over the side and arms resting on top of the lower railings. And to Octavia’s shock, Kova easily plopped down by her side, letting their shoulders touch.

“Lincoln talked about you a lot.” There was no hint of malice in Octavia’s tone, just curiosity. “He mentioned why you can’t take off the mask. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to make sure you can stay with us while everything clears up.”

“Mn. Thank you. I appreciate it.” They faced her and bowed their head slightly. “He talked about you as well.”

Well. More like gushed. A lot. He had been telling Kova as much as he could about Octavia, probably to put the woman in a favorable light. But she was doing just fine on her own.

Her cheeks flushed at their words.

After that, conversation flowed out naturally. After all, both sides were equally curious about the other. Octavia spoke about how difficult life was on the Ark. She spoke of the prison system, her trauma of being thrown in the sky box just for being born (and that added a whole new conversation topic on the Ark’s justice system — Octavia never thought she would see the day where she had to explain how the justice system worked and try to defend the justification behind her imprisonment, but here she was.)

But she also spoke of the parties, the view of the moon and stars and the sun with its solar flares, and how different and freeing it was to live here, with friends, clean fresh air, and the ticklish grass underneath her feet (although she had to admit, she hated the mosquitoes and bugs that tried to sneak in her tent.)

Octavia had to admit, she liked the way Kova listened intently while they watched the distant landscape, with a few hums of acknowledgments and agreements, a few frowns and worried glances when she mentioned the sky box and her “crimes.” Almost exactly like how Lincoln had reacted when she told him.

“What about you? What’s your sob story?” She couldn’t help but ask at the end of her history.

Seeing as Octavia laid out most, if not all her history and secrets and worries bare to them, Kova couldn’t help but want to do the same. Well, not all their secrets, maybe not even most, but more than anyone would know.

(Except for Lincoln, of course. He knew everything.)

So Kova explained what it was like to live on Earth. They spoke about Trikru, about how Trikruvians are expected to train in the militia for 20 years before they’re allowed to opt out, how they themselves so desperately wanted to opt out early and work full time in prosthetic handling, something they thoroughly enjoyed on the side. They spoke about how tired they were of training, of fighting battles after battles, wars after wars (Kova could tell Octavia sat up a little straighter, as if she wanted to delve more into that topic, but Kova sent her their most nicest glare and she thankfully didn’t press into that open wound.)

But they also spoke of the ceremonies and celebrations, the drinks and foods with spices so ferocious tears would bundle at the corners of their eyes, the delicate warmth of fire after a night of fishing in the river, the stars and moon twinkling above them, the smell of the earth after it rains, and the way the trees move with the winds.

(They told her they hated the bugs just as much, if not more, than she did. And if they get the chance to, they would show her which plants keep them away.)

A comfortable silence fell between them as the sun began to rise higher in the sky. Both of them needed a moment to gather their bearings. After all, two weeks ago they hadn’t known the other person even existed, and in Octavia’s case, she was getting used to the fact that she was practically an alien on a planet her ancestors were from.

Surprisingly (or maybe not, due to the nature of their question), Kova broke the silence with, “Can I ask what your intentions are with my brother?”

Octavia nearly choked on her spit. She leaned over the railing as she coughed, but eventually broke out into a laugh. “Are you giving me a shovel talk?”

Thumping her back, Kova couldn’t help but soften their eyes. “No. But I am curious.”

“Huh. Well, I’m interested in your brother.” Octavia’s cheeks flushed. She suddenly found her nails interesting and picked at them. “Really interested.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yeah.” She would have been more shocked at her quick answer if she hadn’t known her feelings already. “I do. A lot.”

Of course, this entire time Octavia knew she had been talking with Kova, Lincoln’s sibling. But it suddenly struck her as fast as a train that this was Lincoln’s sibling. As in the person closest to him in the entire world. Shouldn’t she be proving her feelings towards their brother? Shouldn’t she say more than ‘I like him a lot?’

“Mn.” Kova nodded slowly, unaware of Octavia’s sudden flustered panic. “Good.”

Octavia paused. “Good?”

“Good. As long as he’s happy, you don’t have to worry about me.”

A pause.

Ah.

So it was a shovel talk.

The two made eye contact. Octavia was the first to burst out into a light laugh, one that made the corners of Kova’s lips quirk up. Yeah. They could see where Lincoln’s infatuation came from.

Their conversation ended when Kova’s ears picked up the crunch of leaves and twigs in the forest closest to them. They snapped their head to the side, alerting Octavia. The two stood up just as three figures came out of the forest. Despite Kova’s mask in the way, Octavia understood the questioning look they gave her, and gave them a safe nod.

One girl, presumably Clarke, and two boys, one of which Kova easily recognized as Finn, the boy Lincoln had stabbed.

“So that’s how you set this up.” Clarke’s eyes glanced between the boys behind her and Octavia. “You helped that grounder escape, didn’t you?” An all too familiar accusatory tone laced her words.

That word didn’t seem nice. Hmm. She reminded Kova of General Tristan. That was already a bad sign. Before Octavia could respond, Kova stepped in between her and Clarke. “The ‘grounder’ you speak of is my brother,” Kova bit out, “and it was I who rescued him.”

“You? How?”

Kova dipped their head ever so slightly, locking eyes with Clark dead on. “If you truly do not know, then I believe you should update your security measures.”

To Octavia, Kova’s personality did a complete 180 compared to who she had been talking to a few moments beforehand. Now she understood what Lincoln had meant when he said, ‘They might be cold to you at first, maybe even sharp, but once you get to know them, they’ll warm up.’ They were neither of those things when they had started talking, but now…

Their straight and tall posture displayed for all the confidence of someone who had expertise of these situations, of someone who took no shit, of someone who had been there, done that. Kova’s presence certainly created a challenging atmosphere, one that Lincoln would find in handy.

Clarke, poor Clarke, grew both uncomfortable and seemingly irritated at the sudden switch in the situation, her face going tight and her eyebrows wrinkling. “I see. Who are you? Are you the one I’m meeting with today?”

Kova didn’t respond, they merely stared at her. The skin under their eyes twitched, a movement Octavia recognized from before. Ah. She wanted to smack herself in the forehead for not realizing, and she suddenly found herself in the same place as Kova, struggling to hold back her laugh.

Imagine? Imagine if Kova had been the Lieutenant? Imagine if the sky people had tortured the brother of the Lieutenant they were meeting with today? What a stroke of bad luck that would have been — the sky people wouldn’t even be able to negotiate a way out of their situation. Hell, they would be fortunate if they made it out of the bridge alive.

Oh, to most people Clarke’s face seemed stone cold, but Octavia could practically feel the panic thrumming in waves from the sky people’s leader. Taking pity, she took charge. “This is Kova.” Octavia placed a hand on their shoulder. “They’re the one helping us today with Lieutenant Anya.”

They raised an eyebrow at that. “The Lieutenant? Not the Chief?”

“Nope, Lincoln said it would be best to skip the Chief and went straight to the Lieutenant. I was shocked too.”

Octavia truly had intense whiplash from Kova’s sudden personality change, and didn’t know how to respond when they gave her a succinct nod. Thankfully, Octavia didn’t have time to over think it, because Kova started talking.

“My brother, despite everything, was kind enough to set up this meeting between you and the Lieutenant. You must provide her with good reasons why Trikru shouldn’t declare war. If she thinks it is sound, then she will pass the message on to the Commander. Did you prepare?”

“Naturally. I—” Clarke paused. Something caught her attention behind Kova. But just as Kova turned to look, something bright shined across their eyes for a brief moment. Their gaze turned to the tree line over the bridge. They switched their gaze to Octavia when her warm hand left their shoulder. She ran across the bridge to—

Lincoln.

He jogged towards them from the other side. He must have came after talking with the Lieutenant. Kova used the distraction to coax Clarke to the side of the bridge. She followed with little reluctance, as if knowing what Kova would say.

They jutted their chin towards the bank of the dry creek. Clarke’s back-up contrasted severely against the green bushes. Kova’s mere presence seemed to have forced Clarke’s back-up out of their hiding spot behind the bushes for a better view.

“Guns aren’t permitted. If the Lieutenant sees them, she’ll kill you on the spot.” Kova stated. “But seeing as you all seemed to have been taught to use them, you are allowed to have use them, so long as those three,” They jutted their chin once more. “can hide properly. I have to say, it is physically hurting me to see how careless they are.”

Flustered, Clarke turned around to face the trio. She signaled them to move back, to hide themselves lower in the thickets. Once they were concealed properly, Clarke gave Kova a silent nod of gratitude before heading back to the others waiting for her.

Kova remained where they stood. They stared silently into the distance before turning their sharp gaze on the trio. Based on the rustling of the bushes, Kova must have startled them. Satisfied with their coverage, they sent them a thumbs up before heading back to their position.

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It had been a struggle to set up the guns at the bank of the dried river, but Raven, Jasper, and Bellamy managed to make it work despite all the foliage around them. Jasper muttered under his breath in the background while Raven and Bellamy remained posted by the guns. The two figured it was best for him to let off some steam by organizing their water and snacks.

Raven looked through the optic of her rifle towards the bridge. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, where did Octavia come from?”

The fear that shot throughout Bellamy was enough for him to grab his rifle and peep through the optic. Jasper followed suit and said, “Who’s the grounder next to her?”

Well, they certainly weren’t the grounder that escaped the camp not too long ago. That one was bald, brown skinned, and tall. This one had long dreads, dark skin, and although they were tall, they weren’t as tall as the other one. There wasn’t much else they could say about the new grounder, since an intricate mask covered the entirety of their face.

“Do you think that’s who Clarke’s supposed to meet?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Bellamy muttered before taking aim.

Raven immediately pushed his gun down by the muzzle, an appalled look on her face. “Bellamy, what do you think you’re doing?”

He pulled his gun back, his famous scowl back on his face. “Waiting for this shitshow to blow up.”

“What—?”

Before Raven could scold him, Jasper interrupted with, “Guys, somethings going on.”

The three of them looked through the opticals. There was movement in the trees opposite of their side of the bridge before someone came jogging out. It was the same grounder they had captured!

“What’s Octavia doing— Oh.”

Octavia had practically thrown herself into the grounder’s arms. The two embraced one another tightly. There was no question what their relationship could possibly be.

Jasper felt his heart sink deep into his chest, a pain strong enough to make the scar throb.

“Well, I guess we know how he got away now.” Raven remarked with a smirk, unaware of Jasper’s change in mood and purposefully ignoring the way Bellamy seethed with anger. Her eyes flickered back to their side of the bridge. “We got movement with Clarke and the new grounder.”

The trio watched carefully. To their shock, the grounder jutted their head directly towards them without sparing a glance. For a moment, the trio panicked, under the assumption that they had been caught by this grounder leader, and thus destroying the chance at a deal. But because of the mask, they couldn’t tell the grounder was still talking until, to their shock, Clarke turned and signaled for them to move farther back behind the foliage.

The trio did as told without hesitation.

Once Clarke felt satisfied, she nodded to the grounder, as if showing her thanks, and made her way back to Wells and Finn. Huh.

“What was that about?”

“Are both grounders helping us?”

The grounder hadn’t moved, even long after Clarke left their presence. Now that they were heavily covered by surrounding bushes, Bellamy knew there was little to no way the grounder could directly see them. But as he peered through his optical, the grounder seeemd to have looked straight at him. He hated the shudder that ran up his spine.

After a moment, as if scanning their area, the grounder sent them a discreet thumbs up before turning away and heading out of sight.

“It seems like we have a new friend?” Raven elbowed Bellamy’s side. Not wanting to decipher whatever look she was giving him, he turned away.

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Back on the bridge, Kova joined the rest of the group and clapped Lincoln’s shoulder. “How’s everything?”

He nodded briefly. “The Lieutenant is pissed, but she’s willing to—”

The bridge under their feet rumbled, followed by the sounds of hoofbeats. The two Trikruvians winced at the familiar noise, but the invaders had no idea what it was, and their eyes flickered across the bridge in a crazed panic.

Clarke looked past the group and towards the other side of the bridge. “Oh my god,” Her mouth dropped slightly in excited shock, “are those horses?”

“Don’t look too happy about it.” Kova muttered.

Three horses came into view, Anya in the lead with two warriors beside her. The two warriors carried swords, but it seemed the Lieutenant did not.

“Hey, we said no weapons.” Finn protested, placing him between Clarke and the other side.

“We were told there wouldn’t be.” Lincoln glanced at Kova, as if to say ‘guess you were right.’

“It’s too late now.” Clarke brushed past Finn and made her way to the middle of the bridge.

He and Wells sent each other a look before stepping forward, as if to follow her. Until Kova and Lincoln stuck their arms out, shaking their head. “No. She has to go alone.”

“But—”

“I’ll take responsibility. I won’t let anything happen to her — you have my word.” They placed a hand on Wells’ shoulder, as sturdy as their gaze. Wells and Finn glanced at one another, then to Octavia, who gave them a subtle nod. The two boys conceded and went to sit next to her.

Kova could feel the heavy weight of Lincoln’s worried gaze once the two boys were out of earshot. “Don’t stress.” They murmured and lightly bumped their shoulder against his. “You focus on making this crazy ass plan of yours work. I’ll focus on keeping the kids alive.”

Out of the corner of their eye they saw him practically break his neck to look at them in shock. They would have found his reaction hilarious if it weren’t for their situation.

“…kids.”

Kova nodded. “Kids. They’re only two or three years older than Artigas. So. They’re children to me. I feel like I should say be something about you and Octavia…”

Lincoln stiffened.

“…but I already had a talk with her earlier. It all seems good. Treat her well.”

“…of course.”

Their conversation fell off after that once Lieutenant Anya walked up to the meeting point, holding the confidence of someone with three decades of warrior and battle experience under her belt. Not once did she waver, nor did her expression change during her talk with Clarke. To Kova and Lincoln, this was a good sign, and the two of them relaxed their tense bodies ever so slightly, arms crossed, leaning against one another.

“They seem to be doing fine so far.” Kova commented quietly, as if their voice could carry across the bridge.

“Mn.”

“How does it seem like they’re doing fine?” Wells’ panicked voice would have surprised the two siblings if they hadn’t heard his feet snap what seemed like every twig littering the bridge. “Your Lieutenant looks like she’s about to kill her at any moment.”

“But the fact is, she hasn’t.” Kova pointed out. “She hasn’t even glanced at her weapons, if she has any. It’s a good sign that your leader isn’t completely incompetent, at least.”

Truthfully, Kova regretted the words as soon as they left their lips. Even they could tell when their words were too harsh, and it was quite obvious they had offended Wells, as well as Finn who came up to them. The two boys straightened to their full heights. But before they could defend their leader—

“They’re about to shoot! CLARKE!” A boy’s voice bellowed from the bank of the bridge. “RUN CLARKE! THERE'S GROUNDERS IN THE TREES!”

Everyone twisted their head towards the noise, but Lincoln was the one who ran up to the side of the bridge only to find a sky boy at the bank of the dried creek, still shouting to warn his leader. “Clarke brought back-up?”

“Mn—” Before Kova could elaborate, gunshots rang throughout the area. The leaves were still plenty and bountiful, but even the trees couldn’t hide the thumps! of bodies hitting the ground. Too many bodies, actually.

Heart hammering against their chest, breath hitched, Kova found themselves trapped in their thoughts until someone bumped into their shoulder running by them. Before they could react, Lincoln stepped in front of the runner. Wells barreled into Lincoln’s arm, calling out Clarke’s name in fear, but Lincoln was much stronger than the younger boy and dragged him away from the bridge. “Don’t! The scouts will shoot you down.”

Lincoln had only been expecting at least one of the three sky people to try and run across the bridge to save Clarke, which is how he had managed to catch Wells easily. Yet when he looked back to Octavia and Finn behind him, Wells in his arms, he caught a glimpse of someone sprinting past him.

He had almost called out their name. Almost. He managed to stop himself, thankfully. But with no way to help them, he felt useless.

His grip around Wells tightened.

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Clarke had heard of the flight, fight, and freeze response, but there were no predators in space, and she had no idea what it truly felt like until now. She had only looked away from Lieutenant Anya for a moment — just for a single moment — when a strong shiver ran up her back, her body stiffening, hair standing on end, a heavy pit forming deep in her gut.

On instinct she turned back, raising her arms to protect herself (from what?). She only managed to catch a glimpse of shiny silver and the screech of metal scraping against metal before she felt someone’s hand on her shoulder, pulling her away.

The sheer unexpected force of the defensive move sent the Lieutenant’s arm reeling back. She stumbled over the debris of the old bridge. Kova stood in Clarke’s place, one hand holding a dagger and the other a barrier between the two.

The Lieutenant gathered herself and stepped forward to attack. Everyone flinched at the sound of a loud bang! followed by the sound of a bullet hitting its mark. Kova looked only to find the Lieutenant on the floor, clutching her shoulder and roaring in pain.

Not one to waste an opportunity, they grabbed Clarke by the back of her arm, shouting, “Go, go!”

“Fire!”

Kova paled. They looked over their shoulder as the two ran. The two warriors the Lieutenant had brought were now at her side, two large shields across their back. From the forest, as if in slow motion, dozen arrows shot up in the air, followed by half a dozen more. They had practiced how to avoid the arrows in training by prediction, but not once did Kova consider they would actually have to use this information against their clan.

Their predictions found a safe zone up ahead. If they had been alone, they would have made it with ease. But Clarke had neither the stamina nor the speed to reach it in time.

‘Ah. I took responsibility.’

They jammed their dagger back into its sheath and tackled Clarke to the ground, using their own body as a shield.

The arrows darted around the two. They counted each sound of seventeen arrows embedding into the ground around them, wincing at #14 who landed just by their head. For a moment, Kova wondered what happened to #18 when they felt a scorching fire shooting up from the outside of their left calf.

They looked over. The arrow sliced their pant leg and barely nicked their skin, thankfully avoiding Clarke altogether, but the pain grew intense with every throb of their heartbeat to the point of sudden intense nausea. They groaned, pressing their forehead against the cement below and gritting their teeth, taking deep breaths, eyebrows scrunched together.

Ah, unfortunately this pain was all too familiar for Kova. Trikru’s archers could be quite deadly when they wanted to be, and it wasn’t below them to dip arrowheads into vials of fire ant venom. If potent enough and in the right place, it could kill a person. If this were another time, Kova could only thank the Gods for the luck they bestowed on them. 1, the arrow didn’t land in the right place. 2, the arrow only nicked them. 3, the venom was certainly not potent enough.

But as they rolled off of Clarke onto their back, facing the blue sky, their eyesight slowly going white, leg twitching in pain, they couldn’t bring themselves to even think, let alone thank the Gods.

The bridge rumbled with hoofbeats, and for a moment they thought they heard Clarke talking to them, but all they could manage was a quiet groan. Next thing they knew, they felt hands lifting them up and over someone’s shoulder. Their head lolled around, and in their haze, they thought Trikru might have captured them, and tried to fight back. Kova slammed tight fists into the person’s spine to let them go, only to be surprised that the person could take their hits without wavering. In reality, they were only lightly tapping the person’s lower back with loose, curled fingers.

“—they’ll be safer with you guys for now, so please take them with you. Run and don’t stop until you’re behind your walls.”

“…A-Lin?” Their question was barely audible, the cloudiness of both their head and vision intensifying. They waved a hand in his general direction. A pair of shoes popped into their vision, and a warm hand settled gently on the back of their head. “Good luck fixing all that.”

“Thanks.” Kova could hear the small smile in his voice. “Don’t worry. I’ll come and find you when it’s all clear.”

“Mn.” They only managed to give a weak nod before their body finally gave up on retaining consciousness. But before they knocked out, they sent a thumbs up towards their brother.

***

Reluctantly, Lincoln brought his hand away, releasing a heavy sigh. He thanked Wells, who had offered to carry Kova. Wells could only nod, his face scrunched up as if all his energy went into holding them. Lincoln then turned to Octavia to give her a light kiss on the forehead before jogging off to where the Lieutenant had retreated to.

He had a lot of work to settle.

Just as he left their sight, Raven, Jasper, and Bellamy arrived at the foot of the bridge. The group merged and ran through the forest. Halfway through Bellamy noticed Octavia and Wells lagging behind and waved at them, urging them to hurry up, but he paused halfway through his wave, his face falling from disbelief to anger. “Why are you carrying that g—!”

“Bellamy, not right now!” Octavia snapped. “We don’t have time, and they saved Clarke.”

He opened his mouth—

“She’s right.” To everyone’s surprise, Clarke agreed. “Let’s bring them back now and talk about it later.”

As much as Bellamy wanted to argue, even he knew this wasn’t the right time nor place. “Fine. But we don’t have time for this,” he gestured vaguely to Wells’ trembling form, “either. Pass them over.’

If they weren’t in a dangerous situation, Wells would have felt at least a little offended. Instead, he passed the unconscious grounder over, Octavia helping with the process. Once Bellamy settled the grounder on his back, both arms curled under their legs, the group ran back to camp.

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The group slowed to a quick-paced walk once they were near the camp, much to Bellamy’s dismay. The grounder was heavy — there were too many times where he had thought he would topple over a root and under their weight. Now that the group no longer rushed through the foliage of the forest and the momentum was lost, the grounder felt even more burdensome — physically and mentally. How the fuck were they gonna explain why they brought a groun—

A steady, warm breath enveloped the back of his neck.

He detested the shiver running up his spine to the top of his scalp.

As if that weren’t enough, the next breath made its way between his leather jacket and shirt, leaving behind an even stronger warmth across his upper back.

The walk also meant Bellamy noticed little things from the grounder, like the loose arms across perpendicular to his shoulders, bouncing with every step, the expanding of their chest against his back, the twitch of their fingers—

The stiffening of thighs and calves against the hands underneath the back of their knees.

A soft groan.

Twitching fingers clenching, forming tight fists.

Before he could alert the rest of the group of the grounder’s awakening, the thighs in his hands suddenly pushed down with all their weight, forcing him to drop their legs. The once loose arms suddenly wrapped across his abdomen—

Bellamy only caught a glimpse of Octavia and Wells turning towards him in shock before his world flipped. The trees and the sky streaked across his vision until his shoulder landed against the forest floor—

There was no pop, but something definitely shifted. He let out a loud groan and rolled to his front, leaning on his uninjured arm.

“Hey!”

“Wait!”

With everyone shouting, it was a wonder that Bellamy heard the sound of metal unsheathing. He fell back on his butt, narrowly avoiding the swipe of their dagger. He noticed the grounder stayed close to the ground, favoring their injured leg.

Unfortunately, taking note of this meant he couldn’t dodge the next swipe. He flinched with the cut to his cheekbone, warmth trailing down his face. In his panic, he scrambled back, trying to evade each strike until his back slammed against a tree.

Oh. Oh no.

The grounder reversed their grip on their knife, the butt of the blade against their thumb, and struck at his neck.

Bellamy might not have been the strongest in the Ark’s cadet force, but he certainly wasn’t weak. Yet when he blocked their attack, slamming his forearms into theirs, his other hand supporting and exerting more force, he found himself struggling under their strength. The dagger, shaking under the force of both sides, was far too close for comfort now.

His gaze rose from the pointed end to the grounder. He had expected the grounder’s eyes to be focused, sharp, merciless, piercing him just as the dagger would. Instead, he found wide eyes, shaky hazy pupils glazed over with pain and panic.

Blood rushed in his ears. He couldn’t hear the shouts and warnings from the others around them, except for one clear call.

“Kova!”

As if a spell broke, the grounder’s panicked eyes widened and looked to the side of the direction where the voice came from, breath hitching in their chest, the momentum of their strength trembling.

Bellamy struck the bottom of the grounder’s chin with the palm of his hand.

The mask clunked! against their face, the ribbons unraveling, and it slipped off, landing out of reach along with the dagger. The grounder fell back from their crouched position onto their butt, and for a brief moment, Bellamy thought he was safe. Until the grounder used the moment and rolled back, landing on their feet in fighting position, legs trembling, ready to strike with bare fists—

“Kova!”

The grounder’s dreads fell over their face, and before Bellamy could catch a clear look, Octavia stepped in between the two, holding her arms out in a placating manner. Briefly, Bellamy wondered when his little sister started growing up, and when did she start protecting him?

“It’s alright. You’re safe. This is my brother, the one I mentioned before. He helped us.”

The grounder didn’t respond. Fear spiked in Bellamy’s heart, but before he could move in front of Octavia, the grounder dropped their arms and fell to their knees, hunching over. Octavia cried out their name and rushed to their side without hesitation, pressing a hand against their chest to prevent them from falling over.

Using the tree behind him, Bellamy took the opportunity to stand and looked at his people. Clarke, Wells, Raven, and Jasper stood around, completely stunned. Whether by what just happened or because of Octavia, Bellamy couldn’t tell. “Thanks.” He grunted towards Jasper, the one closest to him.

“What, you expected me to go against that?”

“Are you okay?” Came Octavia’s hushed murmurs.

Bellamy turned to answer, only to find Octavia pressing the mask against the grounder’s face, helping them keep it on straight while the grounder reached behind their head and tied the ribbons firmly. Betrayal and anger bubbled slowly in his chest. “Shouldn’t you be asking me that?” He snapped.

Imagine his surprise when, while helping the grounder stand, Octavia sent him an annoyed look! Dumbfounded, he opened his mouth—

“Sorry, I’m sorry. Panicked.” The grounder murmured.

While Bellamy couldn’t catch a clear look of their face, he saw how they leaned heavily against his sister, head hanging, hunched over, one leg trembling worse than the other. How could one arrow cause so much damage? He wouldn’t have believed it for a second if not for the eyes he had seen behind the mask up close.

“Kova, you okay?” Octavia asked again. “What happened back there on the bridge? Lincoln didn’t tell us why you passed out like that.”

“Fire ant venom.” Kova gritted out. “Pretty common for Trikru to use in battle, not so common for them to use it during a negotiation meeting. Then again—” Full of resentment and anger, the single eye visible through their curtain of dreads landed on Jasper, who flinched and curled away from them. “—it wasn’t like they had much of a choice.” They glanced at Clarke before turning downcast, hiding away from the group. “They aimed for your leader’s heart. She would have died. I promised I would take responsibility.”

Wells and Finn startled ever so slightly at that. They sent each other a look Bellamy couldn’t decipher.

Suddenly, Finn turned to Clarke, an angry look with hints of betrayal flashed across his face. “I told you not to bring guns!”

“And I told you we couldn’t trust them, I was right!”

“You didn’t have to trust them, you just had to trust me.”

A bitter, weak laugh caught the two off guard. Everyone turned back to Kova. “Foolish boy. Take your fragile pride elsewhere.” They gritted out. “You should be praising your leader. It was smart to bring back-up.”

Before Finn could respond, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He was face to face with a very angry Raven. “And why didn’t you tell me what you were up to?”

“I tried, but you were too busy making bullets for your guns!”

“The grounder’s right.” Hmm. That didn’t sit right in Bellamy’s mouth, but he continued. “You’re lucky she brought that. Those grounders came to kill you, Finn.”

“You don’t know that, Jasper fired the first shot!”

“A mix of both.” Said Kova. “Trikru, naturally, would be ready to kill, but not unprovoked. Just as your gunmen had their sights on the Lieutenant, the archers had their sights on Clarke. They only shot because of that one.” They jutted their head towards Jasper, who flinched and looked away, rubbing at his arms.

“Raven.” Octavia called gently. She noticed Kova’s words began slurring together gradually. “Help me bring them to my tent?”

“…sure.”

“Whoa,” Bellamy held Octavia’s free shoulder as she tried to pass him. “Who said they’re sleeping in your tent?”

“Where else would they sleep?”

“The dropship, obviously. What if they try to kill you?”

“That’s a stupid idea.” Octavia’s eyebrows scrunched into a frown. “Say we put them in the dropship. They wake up, can’t recognize their surroundings, and start panicking. Are you trying to get sliced up by them again?” Before Bellamy could respond, she kept going. “At least if they’re in my tent, they can recognize me, and recognize they’re safe, like they did now.”

“You don’t have to worry about Octavia.” Kova’s deep voice grew quieter and quieter every time they spoke, as if it took up all their energy to speak. “I’m not dangerous to anyone like this—”

‘My cheek says otherwise,’ Bellamy thought bitterly.

“—let alone to Lincoln’s… interest.”

“…interest.” Bellamy gritted out.

“Bellamy.” Clarke stood next to him, dropping a placating hand on his shoulder. “They saved my life. Twice, actually. Lincoln said it before — it’s not safe for them to return to the grounders since they helped us.” She turned to Raven and nodded. Raven returned the gesture and moved to Kova’s other side, swinging one of their arms around her shoulders. “We’re letting them stay. Bring them to Octavia’s.”

“Got it.”

With a sigh, fists on his hips, Bellamy had no choice but to reluctantly yield, stepping to the side. Octavia and Raven dragged Kova into the camp. Bellamy turned to Clarke, as if wanting to argue more, but before he could speak—

Boom!

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#bellamy blake x oc #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake imagine #bellamy blake imagines #the 100 fic #the 100 imagines #the night our stars aligned (and our breaths touched)#bellamy blake #the 100 #writeblr #wip fanfic

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fangirl--of-everything · 5 years

Text

Stab Wounds and Stitches (Diego Hargreeves x Reader)

word count: ~1460

request: nope, I still don’t take those

summary: When Diego comes home with a stab wound, (y/n) insists he goes to the hospital and get it looked at. The doctor says he needs stitches, and we all know what Diego is like with needles.

warning: nothing too crazy, but there’s mentions of blood and violence, needles, mentions of stitches, maybe a bit of swearing

A.N. Just a little idea that popped into my head, definitely not an original concept (it’s been done to death in television and stuff) but a cute little scenario I wanted to write because Diego is a bean. Also I have no idea why the formatting of this is so weird, but I can’t seem to fix it. Tumblr is just being a bitch again I guess.

Alright, enjoy :)

It was a pretty common occurrence for Diego to come back home from a night on patrol bloody and bruised and exhausted, popping a couple of aspirin and collapsing into bed. Whenever (y/n) asked if he was alright he always told her that all he needed was a kiss and a good sleep. He would tug her down into bed with him and rest his head on her chest and tell her she was all he needed.

Well today that wasn’t going to fly. Diego had been stabbed in the stomach with a piece of metal when he tried to stop a junkie from robbing a convenience store. He said he was fine, but (y/n) could just imagine that whatever the dude had stabbed him with was probably disgusting, and the wound was already red and swollen. Diego could protest all he wanted, he could flash those big brown puppy dog eyes and pout at her with that perfect mouth, but enough was enough.

She kissed him on those pouty lips and then grabbed him by the ear, dragging him out of their apartment and into the car. They were going to the hospital whether he liked it or not.

Apparently the hospital wasn’t busy today, and they took stab wounds pretty seriously, so it wasn’t long before the two of them were in an examination room waiting to be seen by a doctor.

“Babe, this is ridiculous. I’m fine.” Diego turned to walk towards the door, but (y/n) caught his arm and pulled him back roughly. If she hadn’t known something was wrong before now, her suspicions were confirmed when she was able to push him backwards with ease. Normally Diego enjoyed being a wall of muscle whenever she tried to get him to do anything, laughing when she tried to pull him around.

“Sit your ass down.” Her tone was harsh, and Diego’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to protest, but she glared at him, and he sat down on the exam table.

“Jeez baby.”

“Diego you were stabbed. You might have tetanus or hepatitis or something. You need to see a doctor.”

“I told you I’m fine. Trust me, this isn’t the first time--”

“Diego Hargreeves?” A doctor walked into the exam room, cutting off Diego’s protest. The woman was young, and she gave the two of them a friendly smile as she entered. “Hi, I’m Doctor Pan, I’ll be taking care of you today. I heard you got stabbed. Let’s see if we can do something about that, shall we?”

“Like I’ve said a million times, I’m fine.” Diego looked between (y/n) and the doctor. “My girlfriend is worried, but it’s just a flesh wound. We shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“It’s part of my job to be bothered when you get stabbed.” Doctor Pan said. “Now, why don’t we take a look, and we can figure out what to do?”

Diego looked like he wanted to protest again, but (y/n) pinched his shoulder and gave him a stern look. He sighed in defeat and pulled up his shirt so the doctor could examine him.

She studied the wound for a minute, and then told them that Diego was really lucky. Apparently it wasn’t too deep. It just needed to be cleaned, and she would prescribe some antibiotics to help fight off infections. Diego just needed to get a tetanus shot, and she would be back with the supplies she needed to give him a couple of stitches, and then he could be on his way.

Diego paled and swallowed thickly, but the doctor didn’t notice, giving them both a friendly smile as she left. (Y/n) caught the change in his demeanour and studied him. “Is everything okay babe?”

He nodded, and gave her a slightly shaky smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you sure we have to do this?”

“Yes Diego, we have to do this. I’m not losing you to tetanus.” She grabbed his chin and kissed him hard, smiling when she saw the way he smirked once she pulled away.

Diego bit his bottom lip and caught her hand, tugging him towards her. “Hey, how long do you think the doctor will be?” He whispered, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh at his antics, giving him another quick kiss and then swatting his hand away when he tried to pull her onto his lap.

They sat in silence for the next ten minutes, and Diego only tried to escape once, which made (y/n) pretty proud. When the doctor came back she had a metal tray in her hands, which she settled on the side. She had Diego take off his shirt, her eyebrows raising when she saw the scattered bruises and scars across Diego’s chest and sides.

He shrugged and said simply, “I’m a boxer.”

The doctor raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t say anything about it. She cleaned the wound carefully, and (y/n) was surprised at how well Diego handled it. She knew her man was tough, but it was impressive to see him not flinch when the doctor pressed antiseptic to the gash. Diego reached over and took her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze.

“You okay?” She asked softly.

He nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m all good baby. This is nothing.”

“Alright,” Doctor Pan pulled off her gloves and put on a fresh pair. “Let’s do the tetanus shot first, and then I’ll give you a local anesthetic so we can do your stitches.”

Diego’s grip on (y/n)’s fingers tightened slightly, and she looked at him in surprise. If she didn’t know him she would have said he was fine, but they had been together for months and she knew him. She saw the way his mouth tightened slightly and his shoulders stiffened, and she knew something was wrong.

The second the doctor pulled the cap off the needle Diego’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp. (Y/n) and the doctor both scrambled to catch him and keep him from falling off the table, staring at each other with wide eyes. The doctor waved something under his nose to wake him up.

He groaned, shaking his head. “Wha’ happened?”

“You fainted.” Doctor Pan gave him a sympathetic smile. “Are you afraid of needles Mr. Hargreeves?”

“W-what?” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, getting immediately defensive. “No, of course, of course not. I’m f-fine.” He glanced at the needle again and his face went white.

“Baby,” (Y/n) scrambled forward, pulling his attention to her before he could black out again. He was pale and his face was tight. “Hey, just look at me alright?”

He swallowed thickly. “I can’t, I ca- I can’t do this.”

She had never seen him look so nervous before, and it made her stomach twist guiltily. She was the one who had forced him to come here and do this. But then she remembered her reasoning, and she realized that he had to get that needle, no matter what.

“Baby look at me.” She put both hands on his face, making sure he was facing her and not the doctor. “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be fine.”

“I can’t do it b-baby.”

“Yes you can.” She shot a look at Doctor Pan, who was standing ready with the needle but was looking at them waiting for an okay. (Y/n) gave her a small nod.

She tugged Diego’s head forward, kissing him hard. He grunted in surprise, but he responded almost immediately, both arms sliding around her waist to pull her closer. He sighed against her moth, kissing her even harder and stealing the air from her lungs.

They broke apart, (y/n) feeling a hot flush across her cheeks and a confident smile spread across her face.

“What was that for?” Diego asked, his pupils huge and his mouth all full and pouty.

(Y/n) gave him a quick peck on the lips and then turned to look at the doctor. “Did you get it?”

Doctor Pan nodded and wiggled the empty syringe.

Diego looked between the two of them in surprise, and then reached up to rub his arm. “Wait, seriously? I didn’t even--” he looked at (y/n) with shocked respect. “That was clever babe.”

“Thank you.” She smiled.

“It was a good idea,” Doctor Pan agreed, “but what are we gonna do about the stitches? That’s a needle too.”

Diego swallowed thickly at the thought, colour draining from his cheeks. He tightened his grip on (y/n)’s waist and pulled her closer, giving her his best attempt at a nervous cheeky smile. “Think you can keep me distracted long enough for the doctor to stitch me up?”

#diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves x reader #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagine #diego hargreeves imagine #diego hargreeves fanfiction #the umbrella academy fanfiction #the umbrella academy x reader #writing #fanfiction #mine #tua

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magicallygrimmwiccan · 5 years

Text

Only Time

Summary: They used to spend almost every moment of their lives together. Everything changes once high school hits, and Roman begins to realize that his actions have consequences.

Notes: This is my half of an art/writing trade with the wonderful Wren (@dailypattondoodle or @moonfang03), who wanted some twin Logince with angst and a fluffy resolution. Welp, hope you enjoy this :) This is going to be posted in a couple different chapters, purely for the sake of my editor and formatting on Tumblr. Hope you enjoy, Wren!

Logan and Roman Everhart had always been non-normal children. They were an adopted set of identical twins, something very unheard of by most. Their adopted fathers were always quick to defend the legitimacy of their claim to parenthood, however, with Roman and Logan none the wiser. The twins also never quite seemed to act their age. Roman began to recite Shakespearean sonnets at 8 without being in an acting company. Logan was reading high-school level chemistry textbooks at age 10 and actually understanding them. Roman was fluent in at least 3 languages including English by the age of 11, and Logan could translate texts in at least 5 by the same age. Their fathers were extremely proud of their children (although baffled over how they learned these things that quickly) and encouraged their interests as individuals.

At the same time, however, both were still just average children. Roman enjoyed going to movies and playing outside and doing sports while also joining a Shakespeare youth company and a choir outside of school. Logan found a STEM group outside of school and joined that while also enjoying reading in his spot on the windowsill in the living room. Both boys had their differences, both from each other and from other children, of course, but first and foremost, they were brothers. They did everything together as children, from watching new shows and movies to starting new books and even trying to cook together. In other words, they were siblings. Yes, they fought, and had their differences, but at the end of the day, they were each other’s best friend. The two of them were always there for each other. Well… until high school, that is.

The first day of high school, Roman met the other theatre kids and was instantly enamoured by them. They understood him perfectly. They supported and participated in his dramatics. They didn’t laugh when he began to geek out over the latest Disney news or the latest Broadway musical or the newest episode of a cartoon show that he really should have stopped watching years ago when he got “too old for it”. They were there with him, just as passionate about the same things. Oh, sure, they all had their differences, and drama, but overall, Roman knew that he had found a new family in this small group of social outcasts in the theatre department at his new high school.

Logan, however? Logan struggled. Not only was he seen as a freak for his selective mutism (and yes, it was selective, he had a hard enough time talking normally so it wasn’t much of a stretch to only communicate in sign), his uncommon interests pushed him even further away from his peers. While he made a couple of friends, mostly fellow science fans, they had lives and responsibilities away from him and their group, and, as all of them were introverts, they tended to not meet up outside of school very often. As such, Logan was extremely lonely without Roman. But this was fine, he told himself. Roman was a social person by nature. He needed people to talk to that weren’t his brother. Logan had no reason to be upset, right?

“And then he just started bawling! I mean, it’s understandable, that spider was far too large for any five year old to handle, but I think that’s the most emotion he’s ever shown in his life!” Roman finished, head thrown back from the force of his laughter. The rest of his friends giggled a bit as well, all too used to hearing about the adventures of Young Logan and Roman.

“Roman, you’re so mean to your brother!” Mabel giggled, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulders. Her brown eyes twinkled with mirth as she almost dropped her fork into her pasta. Roman snorted and rolled his eyes, far too used to Mabel’s clumsiness.

“Mabel, you have no room to talk,” he shot back, grinning. “I seem to recall you telling us stories about being an absolute menace to your brother one summer when you were 12?” The other six people at the table laughed and oohed along with Mabel and Roman like the immature freshmen that they were. People at nearby tables shot them looks but did not speak up, ultimately succumbing to the apathy high school filled you with and returning to their regularly scheduled lunches. Nonetheless, their table did quiet down, not wanting to cause a fight to break out in the crowded lunchroom.

“Hey, speaking of brothers, I haven’t seen yours in a while, Roman,” Shiloh mentioned, instantly dampening the mood of the conversation. While Logan was liked by all at the table, more than one person had a complicated relationship with him, whether it be from classes or indirect experience through another person. Roman blinked in shock at Shiloh’s statement, mind whirling. He had just spoken to Logan an hour ago, hadn’t he? Outside of Logan’s Honors English classroom? And hadn’t his friends been with him? No, they had not, he concluded as the memories solidified. He had talked to Logan alone.

“He’s been busy with classes. He’s in all honors, remember, and he has a lot of activities to do outside of school,” Roman answered, voice even and unconcerned. Why should he be concerned, after all? This was normal behaviour for Logan, who did not like to talk to most people that were not in his immediate circle of Trusted Humans. Plus, these were not Logan’s friends. Acquaintances, yes, but not friends. Logan had his own friends, a couple of fellow sciencey introverts who did not mind Logan’s methods of communication. Why should Roman be concerned, then, that his friends had not seen Logan for a bit?

“Yeah, true. I dunno, though, he used to stop by at least once a lunch period. He hasn’t done that for at least two weeks,” Shiloh continued, chewing his bottom lip. Dani murmured in quiet agreement and shoved the rest of her sandwich in her mouth, and Mabel sighed, eyes flickering with melancholy. None of them would admit it, but they missed Logan’s visits, if only to see his adorable banter with his twin.

“He’s probably just busy, okay guys? Nothing’s wrong,” Roman huffed, stabbing violently into his pasta. “Why are you worried, anyway? He’d tell me if something is wrong.” Dani and Shiloh looked at each other across the table, silently communicating with eyebrow raises and glances. Clearly, Roman wasn’t paying attention to his sibling. Should they tell him, or let him figure this out on his own?

The bell to signal the end of lunch interrupted their decision making, and the group all stood to scatter to their afternoon classes, groaning the entire time. Roman hiked up his backpack and stalked off to algebra, slipping into his seat just before the late bell rang. Logan was fine, he knew. His friends had no reason to make such a big deal over this. Right?

Logan choked back his tears as he checked his phone for the fifth time in the last minute or so. Roman wasn’t coming, it was clear. This was far from the first time Roman had skipped their meetings, and it was very unlikely to be the last. He had a life, and friends, and better things to do with his time than spend time with his stupid nerdy brother who was still far too clingy at age 14. Five more minutes, he thought, I’ll give him five more minutes. He was already five minutes late, Logan knew, but he was not quite willing to accept that fact yet. He was not ready to admit that his brother was abandoning him.

Five minutes passed and Roman was nowhere to be found, as was normal lately. Logan sighed and began to walk towards his next class half an hour early as usual, ignoring the pangs and tearing in his chest. He should be fine, he couldn’t possibly expect Roman to spend every moment with him, he should be happy for his brother and his new friends. Logan knew that change was natural in high school, yet he somehow still felt awful over it. He should have made more of an effort in his younger years to talk to people other than Roman. Maybe then he’d know how to deal with this.

“Logan? You’re here early again. Is something wrong?” his Trig Honours teacher asked, concern dripping from her voice. Logan swallowed down his feelings, shifted his binder to his right arm, and lifted his left hand to reply.

No, I just finished lunch early and my friends are busy. May I please stay in here? he asked, hand shaking slightly at the thought of rejection. His teacher must have noticed and smiled at him, waves of calm radiating off of her.

“Of course you can stay in here, Logan. In fact, could you help me grade the Algebra 1 tests? If that’s not too much trouble,” she replied, holding up a stack of paper. Logan nodded and set his materials at his desk before walking back over and settling down to help grade. Grading relaxed him and took his mind off of his issues.

“So, Logan. Do you need to talk?” she asked, looking over her glasses. Logan shook his head, focusing on correcting a poor freshman’s factoring. She sighed and went back to silence, allowing Logan to stew in his thoughts. Far too soon, the rest of his class began to filter in, and Logan had to go back into his daily schedule, still raw and uncertain about what was going on with his brother.

Luckily, school was over quickly, and Logan began his walk home, not willing to wait for Roman to finish play practice today. Plus, he had homework, and Dad would need help making dinner since Papa was working late tonight. It’s not like Roman would worry, anyway, Logan knew as he reached the front door, reaching into his pocket to grab his house keys. He walked in the door, the scent of burning sugar hitting his nose.

“Logan? Can you help me? I can’t… figure out how to cook!” Dad’s voice called, tinged with panic. Logan chuffed, threw his backpack onto the couch, and walked into the kitchen, eyes widening as he took in the destruction around him. Flour dusted every surface. Eggs were splattered across the table. Sloppily chopped cloves of garlic lay on the floor, and a bottle of olive oil lay on its side, thankfully sealed and not leaking. In the middle of this cooking disaster zone stood Virgil Everhart, a famous author who still didn’t know how to cook at age 30. Logan smiles slightly and walked over, picking up a discarded chopping knife.

What are you trying to make, Dad? Virgil sighed and turned back to the stove, shutting it off and taking the slightly-smoking pan off of the burner.

“This… this nice pasta recipe. And we had all the things to hand make pasta… and I wanted to surprise Patton with something special? But… I failed,” Virgil muttered, gesturing around the room. Logan nodded and gently took the pan from Virgil. He grabbed out all the ingredients he was going to need and set to work, smiling.

I can do this, Dad. Just focus on cleaning up, Logan signed before setting to work. Virgil shuffled around behind him, cleaning up everything that he had almost destroyed and handing Logan the olive oil for later. Logan snorted and took it, giving his Dad a large smile and a big thumbs-up. Virgil was trying to learn a new skill, it was clear.

“Okay, it’s all cleaned up. Can I help?” Logan shook his head and finished kneading the dough, beginning to set it up to roll it out and cut it. The kitchen descended into silence as the two worked, Virgil mostly handing Logan things and stepping back and watching his son make the meal. Logan was just finishing dishing the pasta into bowls when the front door slammed open and Roman’s voice came floating in.

“I’m home, everyone! Do I smell garlic?” Logan stiffened a bit but focused on finishing his task while Virgil went out to find and talk to Roman.

“Yep. Logan actually made dinner. Talk to him,” Virgil drawled. Logan finished topping everything with parmesan and hurried towards his room, snatching a bowl on the way. No, he wasn’t avoiding Roman, what were you talking about?

He walked into his room and softly closed the door before collapsing into his desk chair, pulling out his math textbook and flipping open his notebook. This was not the first time he did this, eating dinner and doing homework while avoiding his family, and it would be far from the last time he did this. He shoved down the bubbling heat, stabbed his fork into a mushroom, and threw himself into graphing conic sections for the second night in a row.

“So… Roman. We need to have a talk,” Virgil started, sitting down with his noodles across from his more extroverted son. Roman blinked and looked up, mouth full of pasta and carrots. Confusion painted his face, which Virgil would find adorable in any other scenario, but right now made anger bubble in his gut. It was clear Logan was hurting, and Roman should have noticed and known, but he clearly had no idea, and that made Virgil angrier than he thought.

“About what? My grades are fine, I’m not having issues… what’s up, Dad? Is someone dying?” Roman babbled, eyes wide and panicked. Virgil sighed and pinched his nose. Wow, how did he raise such a dramatic child? He blamed Patton.

“No one is dying. You’re not in trouble. It’s Logan.” Roman’s face paled and he almost dropped the bowl, catching it at the last second. “I… what? What’s wrong with Logan? Is he being bullied? Is he okay? Is he sick? Does he have depression? Who do I need to fight?” Roman rattled off, fists clenching and teeth gritting. Virgil actually… felt scared of his son at that moment. That… that should not happen.

“Whoa, hang on, Roman! Slow down! No, Logan is okay in most of those fields. Please let me talk!” Virgil babbled. Roman quieted down, brown eyes wide with expectation. Virgil sighed, steepled his fingers, and began. “I… I believe Logan may be exhibiting symptoms of depression or anxiety. And… I want to ask you if you have any idea why?”

Roman frowned and began to think. He seemed to finally stumble across a solution and his eyes widened, horror and despair filling their cocoa depths. “I… holy shit. I have no idea,” he whispered. Virgil sighed, took a bite of his pasta, and began to think about how to explain things to his son.

“I… you talk a lot about your friends, which is great, don’t get me wrong, but you also used to talk about Logan… and I’m wondering if you’ve just stopped talking to him?” Roman frowned before comprehension dawned.

“I haven’t been talking to him… oh crap, we were supposed to meet up at lunch today… oh crap!” Roman bolted upright, face pale. “I… where’s Logan! I need to talk to him! I- I need to fix this!” He sprinted out of the room, leaving Virgil alone to eat his pasta and contemplate all the horrible outcomes this situation could bring.

The front door opened again and closed again, and Virgil looked up to find Patton smiling softly at him. “Hey, honey, what’s going on?” Virgil sighed and pecked Patton on the cheek.

“Roman and Logan… are having some issues. They’re talking it out now.” Patton nodded and sat next to him, squeezing his hand.

“It’ll be fine, darling. They’re strong. They have a great bond. Everything will be okay,” Patton whispered. Virgil leaned against him, smiling softly.

“I hope so, Patt. I hope so.”

Knock knock. “Logan? Can we talk?” Logan’s head snapped upwards and he gulped at the sound of Roman’s nervous voice. His brother only sounded nervous when things were serious. Had Logan done something wrong? The mere thought sent nasty whispers through his brain, and he tried to block them out, focusing on the present. He stood and walked to his door, opening it to find Roman fidgeting with his sleeves in the hallway. “Can I come in?” Roman asked, eyes shining with something Logan couldn’t decipher. Logan nodded and let him in, closing the door behind his twin before sitting back in his desk chair while Roman perched on the bed. Silence reigned as the brothers faced each other, neither putting forth any words. Finally, after a solid three minutes of silence, Roman placed his hands on his knees, sighed, and began.

“Logan. I… you’ve been acting off lately. A bit more… depressed? And anxious? And I’d like to know what’s going on.” Logan bit his lip and wrung his hands together, trying to formulate a response. Should he be honest? Should he tell Roman the truth about his feelings? Or should he try and make Roman feel better? Looking into Roman’s earnest eyes, however, Logan felt all plans of lying leave his head. He had to tell his twin the truth.

I… have been feeling abandoned lately? You have been skipping our lunch meetings to hang out with your friends… and we don’t talk much anymore… which is fine! You have your own friends and your own life. I just feel a bit sad and hurt over it, Logan signed. His hands shook as they formed the damning signs, his hands lowering when he was done. Silence reigned, and Logan’s throat began to close up. He was so stupid, why couldn’t he just push his feelings down, why couldn’t he grow up and let Roman go-

Logan was suddenly yanked into a hug and he gasped, tears bubbling in his eyes. “You’re okay, Logan. You’re okay. I’m so, so sorry, bro, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” Roman sobbed, squeezing Logan. Logan slowly lifted his arms and hugged Roman back, finally allowing the tears to stream down his cheeks. There the two brothers sat, crying, for a length of time neither could tell, simply basking in the presence and love of the other, their best friend since birth. Eventually, Roman pulled back, sniffing, but kept his hands on Logan’s shoulders, giving him a watery grin.

“Okay. I promise, I will not forget our meetings, okay? In fact, I’m going to start spending all of lunch at least once a week with you. How does that sound?” Logan’s eyes widened and he frantically shook his head. No, he didn’t want that, Roman’s friends would start to hate him for taking Roman away-

“Hey, Logan? My friends will understand, okay? You come first, anyway. If they can’t handle me spending time with my brother, then they weren’t that great of friends in the first place,” Roman stated firmly, his voice cutting through Logan’s spiraling thoughts. Logan gulped and raised his hands.

I don’t want to cut into your time with people you enjoy, though. Roman growled and shook Logan gently.

“Logan. You matter more, okay? Plus, they all miss you. Just… trust me on this, okay?” Logan slowly, shakily nodded, and Roman smiled softly. “Good. That’s great, Logan. Now, yell at me if I do anything stupid, okay?”

Logan snorted. You’ll be smacked about ten times per day, then. Roman blinked before his cheeks puffed out.

“Hey! That’s rude!” Logan giggled, and Roman simply pouted more in an effort to be the largest drama queen on the planet. This caused Logan to giggle harder, and finally, Roman broke down laughing as well, happiness welling up in both sibling’s souls. They ended up cuddling on Logan’s bed and watching Netflix, somehow, but neither complained. This was the most time they’d spent with each other for a while, and neither was willing to have this end.

What neither knew was that, when they eventually fell asleep, Patton slipped into the room and tucked them in, plugged in Logan’s laptop, and dropped a soft kiss onto both of their foreheads. “Sweet dreams, kiddos,” he murmured before leaving, smiling to himself. His kiddos were finally beginning to make things better, and nothing could be better in his eyes.

“Logan, calm down. They all like you, remember?” Roman murmured, nudging his brother in the ribs gently. Logan gulped and adjusted his grip on his Caesar salad, staring across the lunchroom at Roman’s usual table filled with loud, laughing theatre kids. Mabel was draped across Dani, the two girls watching something on Dani’s phone. Shiloh and Tommy were shouting in Hebrew about math homework (Logan could only tell because he glimpsed their open math textbooks), and Clair was giggling along with Cory and Kate about cute humans. Overall, an alien environment to Logan. He didn’t fit in; he didn’t belong there. Roman huffed and grabbed Logan’s arm, yanking him after him as he marched over.

“Friends! Countrymen! Gentlewomen! Lend me your ears!” he called, causing the entire cafeteria to turn around and stare at them. Logan flinched, but Roman and his entire friend group took this in stride, grinning.

“Yes, Your Highness? What say you?” Shiloh yelled back, his voice lilting with sarcasm. The entire table chorused agreement, a cacophony of sarcasm erupting from the table. Logan flinched back, but Roman pushed onwards, gently shoving him in between Shiloh and Alfred. Logan simply fidgeted with his fork and waited to be kicked from the table.

“I say that my darling advisor, my dear brother, will be joining us today!” Roman chirped, lowering his volume. The rest of the cafeteria ignored them once again, and Logan swallowed as all the eyes at the table turned to him. He was acutely aware of how his argyle sweater vest and tie made him stand out among this group of fashionable teens. He fidgeted, not used to this much attention. Mika and Wirt were much more subdued and hated eye contact as much as Logan did. This… this was not in Logan’s comfort zone at all.

“Cool! So, Logan, do you listen to musicals? I just finished listening to the UK version of Heathers and do I have some opinions,” Mabel answered Roman, slamming her fist into the table.

“Oh, en guarde, bitch, you do not get to trash that recording!” Tommy yelped, slamming his fist into the table. Mabel yelled a challenge back, and Logan soon found himself embroiled in a conversation about which version of Heathers was better, a topic he knew nothing about. However, he found this conversation… pleasant, even fun. All of Roman’s friends were very welcoming and warm, and all of them took their time and let him sign, Roman translating for him. Never once did Logan feel excluded. This was… nice. He smiled his first genuine smile in months. Things were finally looking up.

Notes: And that’s Chapter One! I’m most likely posting Chapter 2 tomorrow (fingers crossed!). Hope you all enjoyed this!

#sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #twin logince #patton sanders #virgil sanders #parental moxiety #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #selectively mute logan #i am an evil author #writing trade #chapter one #only time

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edosianorchids901 · 5 years

Note

Hi! If you're still doing the Garashir prompts, how about number 91. "I can't breathe."? Either angsty or fluffy would be fine by me, so whatever you feel like writing. Thank you so much!

Thank you so much for the prompt!!

Read on AO3 - if Tumblr mobile formatting is acting up, this is likely your best bet

The walls loomed, tipped, collapsed.

Garak clutched the edge of his table. Deep breaths, in andout. That was all he needed. Deep breaths.

As if I haven’t spenthours forcing myself to take deep breaths, he thought. The entire dayconsisted of one deep breath after another.

Just breathe. Just calm down. Just relax. The asinineplatitudes given by those who’d never endured true panic, never known thecrushing weight of rubble. Rubble didn’t care how deeply you breathed, howloudly you screamed. It was immutable, oppressive, eternal.

But now, the rubble existed only in his mind. When he lookedup, his shop walls stood innocently in place. He waited, challenging them tomove in again.

They remained still, and Garak bent over his work. The fabriccaught on his trembling fingers. Something exploded in his chest and he hurledboth dress and tailoring tool onto the table.

The tool skidded across the smooth surface before crashingagainst a bolt of cloth with a satisfying thud. The dress, however, simply fluttereddownward, brushed against the table edge, hung there for a mere second, andthen slid lifelessly to the floor.

“If that isn’t typical,” Garak muttered. He bit back theseething mass of rage, fingers digging into his thigh. A true Obsidian Orderagent wouldn’t allow himself to knocked off his place by a disobedient garment.

And yet, the dress seemed to mock him from the floor. You can’t even control fabric. How can youever hope to control yourself?

“Perhaps I’m not a true agent anymore,” he said to the inertpile of cloth. “Perhaps I never was. After all, didn’t I repeatedly fall preyto sentiment? And now… I’m certainly not doing much to serve my people thesedays.”

Informing on them, yes. Fighting against them, yes. Killingthem all, yes.

Serving them? No.

“Elim?”

Garak jerked his head up. How had he missed the footsteps?“Ah, Julian.”

Deep furrows carved into Julian’s brow. He strode throughthe shop and pressed his fingertips to Garak’s temple. “God, your pulse isracing again. Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine.” No time for weakness. “Whatever are youdoing here? It’s late.”

“Precisely. It’s late, and you never came home.”

Ah. That. Garak wriggled out from under Julian’sministrations and scooped the dress off the floor. He deposited the outfit onthe table—more calmly this time—and gathered errant scraps of cloth. “I wasworking.”

“You looked like you were talking to a dress.”

“Yes, well, it’s like plants. The clothes grow better if youtalk to them.” The stranglehold on his throat refused to ease. He shook thescraps out and laid them on the table one by one, then neatly folded them.

“That’s…nice,” Julian said in that I’m not entirely sure if you’re joking tone. “But really. It’sincredibly late, and you need rest. You’re under a lot of stress lately—”

“Oh, am I? I hadn’t noticed.” Really. What was it withhumans and their constant need to state the obvious?

“—under a lot of stress lately,” Julian pressed on, “andit’s important that you rest. You’ll never recover otherwise.”

Recovery. Another odd human concept. As a Cardassian, therewas no recovering from those sorts of memories. One either integrated theexperiences into their proper place and went on with life…or one didn’t.

Perhaps that was what Julian meant by recovery. Theexperiences couldn’t be erased, not even by humans’ fading memories. Butlearning to live with those memories, to continue with life…that was a necessary,if uncomfortable, process.

Garak added another folded scrap to the stack. “Sleep evadesme these days, my dear, as I believe you well know.”

“Garak.” Julian leaned against the table, and Garak edgedaway. “I know you’re not sleeping well, but that’s exactly why you need to comehome. Even if you can’t actually sleep, the rest will be beneficial. It’sbetter for you than spending all night…”

Being completelymiserable and questioning why I’m alive? “Brooding?”

“Well…yes.”

Garak sighed. Not many options left at this point. Oh, hecould always create a scene with Julian, the same sort of thing he’d done toEzri. But that hadn’t been fair to her at all, and lashing out at Julian wouldbe horrifically cruel. The good doctor was only trying to help, annoying thoughit was.

Yet perhaps a fight was preferable to admitting why hecouldn’t go home.

Ridiculous. Pullyourself together, Elim.

“Yes, of course. You’re quite right.” The rest would benefithim, leave him fresh for the miseries of the next day. If only he couldactually make it to their quarters.

Julian’s shoulders relaxed and a smile played on his face.“Good. I’m sure you didn’t eat, so we’ll have dinner before bed.”

“And kanar.” Goodness, he needed kanar. He brieflyconsidered raiding Quark’s private stock. The bar was closed at present, butbetween one ex-spy and one genetically enhanced doctor, they could defeat Rom’selaborate locking mechanism.

“Did you have your session with Ezri?” Julian asked,breaking Garak’s criminal contemplations. “I sent you a message earlier askinghow it went, but you never responded.”

A sharp twisting pain stabbed Garak’s stomach. He tipped hishead back and studied the empty walkways on the Promenade’s second level. Not only a traitor to my people, but aterrible partner. I suppose it’s true to form. “My apologies.”

“I was worried.” Julian touched a warm hand to the small ofGarak’s back as they walked. A sweet gesture, one he didn’t deserve after hisnegligence. “It’s not like you to completely vanish.”

“You could have come to check on me.” The nearer they drewto the lift, the more his restless energy sought an outlet, a target. “It’s notas though my shop is a great distance from the Infirmary.”

He winced at his own tone. Julian, however, merely looked athim. “What’s going on?” he asked with his usual disarming directness. “Is itjust the decryptions? Or has something else happened?”

“Does something else need to happen?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Ah, humans. Such a narrow view of ‘answers’.”

The lift doors parted like the maw of a great beast. For afraction of a second, Garak’s steps faltered. But no, he wouldn’t allow himselfto be defeated again.

He passed into the abyss, into the dark cage of metal andcircuitry. Each breath echoed in his ears. His head roared, heart pounded,hands quaked.

And then the doors to the trap sealed shut. They’d neveropen again. He’d die here, in this box. And he wasn’t just trapped in the box,in this coffin. No, the entire stationwas a trap, a metal monstrosity suspended in vacuum. There was no air outthere, no air in here, and he couldn’t breathe—

“Stop!” He slammed his hand against the door. Everythingfell away around him, leaving only his frantic breaths, only darkness, only thewalls closing in, crushing him…

“Computer, emergency override, open lift doors.” Handscaught him, pulled at him. “Garak, come on. Garak.”

He surrendered to those hands, just as he’d done in thecrawlspace at Internment Camp 371. There was an odd lurch, a sense of being lifted,and then he was on solid ground again.

“Elim, look at me.” A warm hand on his cheek. “Garak, I’mhere. You’re safe.”

Julian. Yes. “I can’t breathe.”

“You’re all right, you’re not trapped. We’re back on thePromenade.”

The Promenade. He blinked, twisted. The lift lurked behindthem, doors frozen open by Julian’s emergency override. The damned contraptionstill looked like it wanted to eat him. It was at an odd angle now, though.Sideways.

Oh. It’s me, not thelift. I collapsed again. Lovely. He splayed a hand against the cold deckand pushed into a seated position. Julian knelt beside him, expression almoststubbornly professional. “Easy, Garak,” he said, grasping Garak’s shoulders.“Not too fast.”

“I believe I’m somewhat better now.” His heart still thumpeddramatically, and his breaths raced as if he’d just flowed through acomplicated series of stratagems. And his head…oh,how it ached. But the walls remained stationary.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Garak?” Julian’s voicethrummed with barely suppressed fury. “Why didn’t you tell me you were havingtrouble with the lifts?”

All my lessonscertainly haven’t gone to waste. He’s getting quite good at this. “Why doyou assume I was having trouble prior to this?”

That earned a look that the doctor usually reserved for hisworst patients. Which was perfectly fair, in truth. “You should have told me.How many times did you try?”

The tightness in Garak’s chest finally eased, and he manageda deep breath. The air filled his lungs, clearing his head. “Three, but thiswas my best attempt. I actually managed to stay in until it began moving. Quiteremarkable, to say the least.”

Julian caught his arms and tugged. “Come on. Get up.”

Absolutely not. Garak rocked his weight back and remainedfirmly in place. “I’m not up to another try, Doctor. I believe I’ll just sleephere tonight.”

“Do you really think I’d try to shove you back into a small,dark space?” Julian gave another pull, and Garak didn’t resist this time. “I’mnot forcing you to come home, but I’m also not gonna leave you sleeping on thedeck. You’ll give yourself hypothermia.”

Another annoyingly fair point. Garak let himself meltagainst the doctor’s side. “So, where are we going?”

“As you pointed out earlier, I happen to have an Infirmarynot too far away.” The gently teasing note returned to Julian’s voice, and herubbed Garak’s arm. “An Infirmary with lots of beds.”

That was certainly a better alternative than another trip inthat damned coffin of a lift. Garak leaned closer, greedily absorbing the warmcomfort that Julian so freely offered. “Lead the way, then.”

#garashir #garak x bashir #elim garak #julian bashir #star trek #deep space nine #ds9 #plain simple writing

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thepageofa1000worlds · 5 years

Text

Pairing: James Conrad x reader Part 1 · Part 2 · Part 3 · Part 4 · Part 5 · Part 6 ·

Synopsis: After having left thing uncompleted and unresolved with James Conrad 3 years ago, you two find yourself again in the kong island. What happened three years ago with you two? How is it that you got to make part of an expeditionary mission?

Song: Ólafur Arnalds- So Far

Warnings: it’s a six part mini-series.

A/N: So like the entire thing has been written so long ago but i kinda got discourage because there was a problem with tumblr ( if you put links on the pots then it would not show on the tags) so yeah, i decided to better finish it.

Words: 2464

The gas made it difficult to see up ahead, your heart was beating fast and your senses were analyzing every little thing. Now and then you would hear Randa’s camera taking photos close by. Trying to calm down you stopped altogether, looking around you saw James a couple of feet ahead, while Mason was standing down a bone that made a form of an arch.

An explosion made you raise your gun defensively, once you became aware that it had been just a gas explosion you lower it.

The first time you heard them you didn’t know if it had been only on your head or if it was real. Seeing people around you react to the sound, made you aware that it wasn’t in your head.

“RUN” shouted Hank, and he didn’t have to repeat as you run towards Conrad and Mason, hiding after a rock or a bone, it was hard to tell.

The first look at the creature through the fog made your eyes go wide, Conrad's hand taking a drip on your hip to pull you closer to him.

The sound the creature made was that of cracking glass combined with nails on a chalkboard, but way louder and way awful than any sound you had ever heard. You close your eyes for a moment to try and calm yourself.

“ That thing is awful” You whispered.

“ I told you this damn place was a no, no,” said hank who was hiding in the nearby rock.

Conrad release your hip and hold the gun firmer. Turning around you face both of them and Mason’s face reflected the horror in yours.

The creature was near your hiding place as you could feel the vibration he’s steps made. It felt as if an animal was trying to regurgitate something and you weren’t wrong as a skull landed close to the rock you three were hiding in.

When the creature move, you crawl closer to the skull that seemed to have something around it. It was the dog tags, with a name on it. A sob escaped you and as quiet as you could, you took the metal chain and then crawling back to where Mason was, you showed to her.

“ he’s dead” She whispered, you put the chain on your pocket.

“ This was a bad idea,” you said resting your back against the rock.

Conrad was looking if the creature was somewhere near. Hearing the footstep of the soldiers made you all rise from behind the rock.

“ Lets move” shouted Packard.

Without much more you tried to keep close to the group, as there was no much more that could be done as all of you were already inside. One thing that had changed was that now many others were terrified and it didn’t help calm you down.

You saw Randa stop and signalled for him to keep moving, but he pointed to the camera. Tears started to blur your sight as you looked above Randa and saw the creature a couple of feet behind.

“ Randa” You whispered voice breaking, tears already spilling from your eyes. Randa raised his head and looked one last time at you.

Slivko was the best to react and start shooting at the lizard-like creature. The flash of Randa’s camera making it clear when he had gone through the monster throat.

The monster diverted his direction to avoid the shooting but you were there on the ground without moving.

“ Y/n” Keep saying, Conrad. “ Weaver”

“ Y/n,” she said while shaking your arm, with a long breath you took your gun and point it straight ahead.

“ Am fine” you tried saying without your voice cracking and you failed. The flash could be heard still functioning making it easier to know where it was.

When the creature appeared, Mason pushed you towards the other side and without doubt, both started running. The gun wasn't going to do anything to that thing. It went straight to the armament Packard had put and with one movement destroyed it, while also eating the man who had been firing.

As your luck would have it, the creature seemed to have seen you and Mason running, as it was now coming after you two. The shots of the weapons were impossible to ignore, tuning faster you both enter some kind of formation made out of ribs, which the thing started to try to eat through. You heard Packard barking orders and no long after you felt the warmth of the flames brace your skin. Mason helped you get up from the ground and run towards another formation up ahead.

To your left an explosion took place.

“ Slivko” you heard Conrad scream. “ GAS”

Shit broke loose as the toxic gas made the birds that killed Viktor come out of hiding. Your eyes analyzed the floor in search of a weapon bigger than your gun.

Soldiers were being picked up from the ground and thrown up in the sky, somewhere even stab by the birds through the chest.

You had Mason behind as you were shooting to any bird that came your way, making them fly over both of you.

“ Marlow, Sword” You heard Conrad shout. The gas was making it more difficult to breathe and your eyes were filled with tears.

“ Dammit,” you said putting the gun down “ out” is all you told Mason, who was looking around.

“ Come with me,” Said Mason while pulling you by the arm towards Conrad and Slivko. You saw her take out a lighter and throw it towards the creature. Who burst out in flames, the momentum of the explosion throwing you all back and into the ground.

You felt someone heavy fall above you, the pain in your shoulder making itself known once again, making you shout in pain.

“ Conrad,” you said while trying to get air into your lungs “ move” trying to get him off of you. Throwing him a little at your side, you noted that none of you had the energy nor the will to move from the ground. “ A warning would have been nice,” You said laughing. Their chuckles made you calm down a little.

Raising from where he was, Conrad helped Mason and Slivko out the ground. Then kneeling in front of you he put a hand on your neck and raised your face towards him, there was a little of blood running down the side of your face.

“ Are you alright? “ He asked, searching for injuries. Other than the cut you seemed to be okay.

“ I hate this place,” you said looking at his eyes, were you found only worry.

“ You’re not the only one,” Slivko said.

James helped you up and for your surprise put his hand on our neck, trying to make you stop looking around and focus on him.

“I’m fine, really” You looked at him, with a smile. He let out a sigh and kissed your forehead. “ James, are you okay?” You asked, because of the long time you’ve known each other, you had learned to read many of his expression. He was trembling, his breath shacking and somehow the kiss to your forehead didn’t calm you down, not that you were complaining or anything. You could feel his heart beat, fast against his ribs.

He let go of you, realizing you had picked up the trembling and his pulse “ Don’t leave my sight” he whispered into your hair, only for you to hear.

“ Now look colonel, you may outrank me,” Said Hank when all of you were out of that hell hole. “ But I’ve been here a hell of a lot longer, and am telling you that thing that just shreds us was just the first of them”

James was helping Slivko walk, Mason and you were nearby seeing Hank up ahead discussing with the colonel.

and we need to turn back”

“ Not as long as Chapman is out there,” Said him in response.

“ Sorry Colonel Packard” you deliver to James the metal plates and he raised them In the air. “ He’s dead”

“ That changes nothing “ Was what Packard responded “ we’re still going to that crash site”

“ What's in that crash site that you want so badly?” Asked Conrad

“ Guns” he shouted “ Enough to kill it”

“ He didn’t kill Chapman”

“ But he did kill these men” said Packard raising his hand, on which were multiple dog tags of the man he’d lost. “ My men”

“ You can't kill kong colonel, he’s god on this island” Interrupted Hank. “ He’s the only thing keeping those lizard things on the ground”

“ We can't kill kong, that other creature,” Said Brooks, “that's the threat” with the new development it didn’t surprise you he wanted kong alive. “ and they are way more down there,” he said signalling to the floor. “ If you take a species natural competition they proliferate out of control” He tried explaining to the colonel.

“ Then we’ll kill them too after we bring this thing down”

“ I can't let you do that colonel” Said Hank drawing the sword.

All the men raised their sons towards Hank, while the colonel knocks him to the ground.

“ Hold fire” shouted James

“ This is one war, we are not gonna lose”

“ HE’S NUTS, YOU HEAR ME” screamed Hank from the floor.

“ Please, you need to listen to us” San was trying too, to make the colonel listen to reason.

“You're making a mistake “ Said Brooks, the colonel raised his weapon towards him. Without thinking twice you searched for the gun you still had but you didn’t raise it.

“ Please put your gun down Packard, “ You said in a calming tone and moving so that your body was in front of the weapon he was holding.

“ Your lies got my men to kill” he was now pointing at you.

It surprised you, he had n't lowered his weapon but pointed at you instead.

“ There was no way to know that Kong was out there” You tried to get him to reason.

“ and your gonna get us all kill” Said Mason putting herself in front of you.

“ Not our fight,” Said James, takin Mason by the arm and pulling her behind him.

“ Who side are you on? captain”

“ Ok colonel, “ he said.

After explaining where the helicopter they were searching was, James, signalled back you and your group.

“ Am gonna take these civilians back to the boat and wait for you there, alright? ”

By the face of the colonel, he was thinking if it was a good idea, it took him a little longer to decide to put down the weapon, you could feel the Colonels' eyes on you.

“ And what about you?” He asked.

“ I don’t have military training” you answered, but he huffed as a response.

“ Am gonna have a conversation with your father, when we go back … Lets go kill this thing?” Said the colonel to his group, who all started walking to the direction that Conrad had signalled.

You helped Hank to stand up.

“ You need to stop him,” said him.

“ You wanna talk with him about It again, he seems to really go for it the first time” Said Mason

“ He’s losing his grip”

“ He lost his grip” You corrected.

“ Are you lost? Which way”

You’ve been walking for longer than it seemed, you knew Conrad and the way he was behaving let you know that he had lost the track.

“ Brooks, calm down,” You said.

“ Hang On”

Something that sounded as a roar broke the silence that had formed.

“ Wait here,” Said James, waking ahead. “ I gotta get to higher ground to find the river”

“ Hey,” said Mason “am coming too”

You saw how Conrad and Mason disappear in the density of the jungle.

You’ve been thinking during the walk here, how colonel Packard though of killing kong on his own home. If the group hadn’t thrown the seismic charges then he wouldn’t have killed those men.

This was supposed to be an expedition, maybe find a new species or two at most. Never had it cross your mind that the monster Randa talked about was even real. You had diagnosed him with PSD linked to what had happened to him and that his mind had searched a rational explication, creating a monster.

You could stop the colonel from making a big mistake, killing kong wasn’t the solution. After ten minutes of debating whether or not you should, you got to the conclusion that it was better to at least try. Raising from your spot next to Marlow you looked at Brooks.

“ I Need your weapon,” You said.

“ I know that look, what are you going to do?”

“ Am going to stop Packard” You said while extending your hand.

“ But what do you think you’re going to do?” Asked him holding the gun close to his body. “ Am sorry, its because you're my friend that am asking you to stay”

“ We were an expedition, we weren’t meant to alter the habitat and woke those things up” You signalled to the jungle, the sun was starting to set. “ Brook please, he’s just like you and me, trying to protect what we care about” you sighed “ I have to at least try”

“ And what do I tell Conrad,” He said pointing where Conrad had left.

“ Whatever you want”

“ Oh, boy,” say Marlow.

“ Here,” Said San behind you

“ Thanks “ you smiled at her, taking the gun and giving her your backpack.

“ Please be careful” she smiled back

“ Be careful? “ Said brooks too, trying to encourage you but with doubt on his voice.

Having the encounter with kong had put things on perspective for Conrad. He was simply trying to protect what was his. After helping Mason down the mountain they both ran towards where you and the others were supposed to be. He was dying to tell you he’d make his mind about helping kong and stopping Packard.

“ Don’t shot “ he shouted to Brooks who was pointing at him.

“ Tell me man, which way are we going?” Asked Brooks, tired.

“ You all back to the boat… is that way,” he said gesturing to his right. “ Wait for us until dawn if we're not back by then, just go”

“ Where are you going? “ Asked Marlow

“ We're going to save kong” reply, Conrad.

“ Not without me, pal” Said Marlow

Looking around Conrad searched for you, normally you would encourage him or something of that kind. You weren’t there, with the group.

“ Where’s y/n?” asked Mason before he could

“ That one decided to stop Packard, long ago” Said Marlow. “ I think we better hurry, Churchill” Conrads mouth went dry.

Mason heard Conrad curse under his breath.

Of course, you had decided to take matters into your own hand, Conrad only wished that you would have waited, a little before heading to the jungle. Now he felt eager to know, if you had made it out of the jungle, and if you had, that the colonel had not shot you.

Masterlist

#James Conrad #captain James conrad #imagine #james conrad x reader #james x reader #kong #kong skull island #james conrad imagine #reader #fluff #so far #mini-series #thepageofa1000worlds #tom hiddleston #tom hiddelston imagine

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doom-dreaming · 5 years

Text

Second’s Not The Same

A life together wouldn't have worked out. She was a Vault Hunter. He was the CEO of Atlas. But when they meet years later, one thing is clear. He's moved on. She hasn't.

Read it on Ao3 here! (Probably the best option because I have no idea what Tumblr is gonna do to the formatting.)

I would recommend listening to “Is There Somewhere” by Halsey while (or before or after) you read, as it was the song that inspired the whole thing.

WARNINGS: Infidelity in favor of the pairing.

******

It’s been years. She’s missed him. She says this openly. She has to fight back a stab of jealousy when she sees the simple golden band glinting on his finger. ...she doesn’t say this. “Seems like Atlas is treating you well.”

He nods, tipping back the rest of the drink in his hand. “Hasn’t been easy, but...what ever is, right?” He smiles.

It’s a goofy little lopsided thing; mostly lips, just a hint of perfect white teeth. It makes her heart beat faster and she decides to lose herself in her cocktail. Anything to avoid looking at him. To avoid feeling something.

“How about you? Any Vaults worth mentioning?”

She smiles into the brightly-colored drink on the bar in front of her. “It’s more waiting and following false leads than anything else.”

“Well, they don’t call it Vault hunting for no reason.” He smiles again, wider this time.

It’s more of a grin, really. He still looks so boyish, and she finds herself wishing she felt as young as he looks in that moment.

“But you...you’re doing alright? The rest of the team’s treating you okay?”

She feels a lump rise in her throat. Hearing that concern. Knowing he still cares. Pushing down everything but a smile, she nods. “They’re treating me like family.” The answer is honest. Which is why it chokes her up. Lilith, Axton, Gaige, Mordecai, all of them, even Krieg and Salvador; they’ve become her family. They’re the people she’ll fight and die alongside. They’re the people she’ll spend the rest of her life with.

Even though it could have been him. She can’t keep herself from looking at the ring on his finger again. It’s such an innocent thing. Just a plain band of metal. But it somehow carves out a hollow space in the pit of her stomach.

His words. Before the Vault. I’m interested in someone else. She knew what that had meant. But she hadn’t been ready. She’d been too eager to start her life. Her new life.

And she’d missed her chance. And he’d moved on. To... ...someone else.

Warm fingers on her arm jolt her out of her regrets. Warm...all except for the ring. The ring is icy against her skin. She has to fight with every muscle in her body to keep herself from pulling away.

“You sure you’re alright, Fi?”

Fi. It sounds like something out of a dream. Sure, the others use this nickname. But none of them say it quite the same way he does. She can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to see his face. It feels like she’s hit rock bottom already, but she knows that if she looks up, into his eyes, she’ll be able to fall even further.

“You know you can tell me, right?”

Something strangely foreign starts welling up inside her, boiling in her blood. Sadness. Anger. Nostalgia. ...hope. She doesn’t know whether to punch him or cry. Or both. So she just sits there, silent, wrestling with this unwelcome chimera of emotion.

She can feel him rubbing his thumb against her arm. She can imagine the expression on his face. So she still doesn’t look at him. She knows she won’t be able to hold back whatever’s trying to spill over if she does. Those mismatched eyes were always able to say more than his words ever could. And if his words alone were tearing her apart... She didn’t want to think about what his eyes would do.

“Fi, talk to me. Something’s wrong.” His voice is soft. So soft. Gentle.

And something clicks inside her. That bubbling feeling suddenly cements itself, dropping heavily into her gut. It’s the weight of realization. She knows what this is. It’s love.

And that’s when she looks at him.

“You were dancing in your tube socks in our hotel room… Flashing those eyes like highway signs. ...rest your head upon my shoulder, just wanna feel your lips against my skin...”

“...And I promised myself I wouldn’t let you...complete me. I’m tryin’ not to let it show, that I don’t wanna let this go. Is there somewhere you can meet me? Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railings… And you clutched my brain...and eased my ailing.”

“So...who is she?” Fiona nods to the ring. It’s sitting on the nightstand. Next to the bed. She wants to cover it with something. A pang of guilt slices through her.

He sighs and presses a kiss to her collar bone. “Is now really the time?”

No. It’s not. But she can’t just let it go. The last hour had been a beautiful distraction. She’d actually liked seeing his ECHO-eye glimmer online as she slipped out of her dress. The dress she’d bought specifically for this meeting. The dress that now lay crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

The soft sheets. His warm body. How everything just came so naturally to them. How they’d fit so perfectly in each others’ curves. But she knows it’s going to be the last time as well as the first.

She needs something to remind her that they shouldn’t be here. Not like this. He isn’t hers to have. Not anymore. “Not telling me won’t make it any easier.”

He’s silent and she knows he’s studying her face. She just leans against his shoulder, tracing the tattoos across his chest. Memorizing him. Just in case it’s the last time she ever sees him again.

“We met about two years ago.” He begins quietly. “Through Atlas. It started as a...collaboration. On some weapon designs.”

Fiona swallows the sour taste in the back of her throat. Collaboration. Thrown together and forced to work as a team. It sounds too familiar.

“She and I had similar ideas. We liked working together. Started going out for coffee. Off-the-clock meetings turned into...”

She closes her eyes as he trails off. This hurts a lot more than she’d expected it to. Is she anything like me? she wants to ask. But she keeps her mouth shut because she doesn’t know what will come out if she opens it.

“I...waited for you, you know. Year after year, but you never...” He breathes out a shaky sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say I’m sorry.”

But he’s not. And that’s all she needs to know. That’s all she needs to tell her that it was her fault. Her fault for resisting. Her fault for waiting. Waiting so long that his hope ran out and he...gave up.

The silence that follows lasts for several long minutes. Eventually, he kisses the top of her head. She swallows, hoping that when she speaks, her voice won’t betray her emotion. “I should be the one apologizing. You...meant what you said.” She knows she doesn’t have to specify.

“I did.” His breath whispers through her hair. “And, if we’re being honest...”

She finally looks up, placing a finger across his lips. It’s hard to force a smile with the tears burning behind her eyes, but she does it anyway. “Just don’t say it, Rhys. It’s better if you don’t.” Because those words won’t change the fact that you’re going to be waking up with someone else for the rest of your life.

“Your girl’s got red in her cheeks, cause we’re somethin’ she can’t see. And I try to refrain...but you’re stuck in my brain, And all I do is cry and complain… Because second’s not the same.”

“I’m sorry but I fell in love tonight… I didn’t mean to fall in love tonight… You’re lookin’ like you fell in love tonight… ...Can we pretend that we’re in love?”

Tag List: @corpseyb0nes @afterthedreamer @mischiefsilvertongue @marigold-magpie @tricerathotss @vanderlinde-exe @ayilachan @zipp0flare @luxury-of-insanity @omgzakoko

#borderlands fanfiction #rhyiona #tw:cheating #my writing #rhys the company man #rhys the ceo #fiona the con artist #fiona the vault hunter

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therealandian · 5 years

Text

Spoilery as hell essay about Tony Stark I did for my English class:

Please do not read it if you haven’t seen ENDGAME, because everything is spoiled. EVERYTHING!!!

This essay explores how Tony Stark is a tragic hero more than anything else.

The Tragedy of Tony Stark

The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) is a titanic movie franchise spanning more than a decade with over 20 movies to its name. As a franchise based off of comic books, it has its share of wacky characters, witty one-liners, and ridiculous costumes. But as a movie franchise, it also has its share of dark, profound plot elements. One such element is the tragedy of Tony Stark.

Tony Stark is no ordinary hero. He is, as he once boldly proclaimed, a “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist” (The Avengers). Beyond that, he is Iron Man, legendary hero in his personal weaponized suit of mechanical armor. But this is only scratching at the surface of the man who has carried the entire MCU since its infancy. During this time, he has been beaten down and betrayed, has suffered and struggled, and has been abused and ignored. Despite all of his achievements, Tony is much more of a tragic hero than he has ever been just a hero.

A tragic hero is defined in the dictionary as “a great or virtuous hero…who is destined for downfall, suffering, or defeat.” Commonly, they’re set in dramatic tragedies, such as Oedipus Rex or Hamlet. Although the MCU doesn’t quite ring true as a “dramatic tragedy,” the “hero destined for suffering” part perfectly describes Tony, who struggles against foes far more powerful than himself, only to lose a piece of himself in the process. Jennifer Wallace puts it best when she states “The source of a tragic hero's greatness is also the cause of his destruction. The overriding desire for honor that motivates tragic protagonists also results in their shame and demise” (Wallace). This also describes Tony very well; many of Tony’s enemies are of his own making, and people tend to get hurt when he takes matters into his own hands and attempts to solve the problems himself.

Almost everything that happens throughout the MCU involves the tragedy of Tony Stark in some way. He is a walking, breathing catastrophe who can barely hold himself together. He is guilt-ridden and anxiety-plagued, yet everyone still expects him to be Iron Man. When he snaps and lashes out at people, or otherwise ignores their requests for assistance, everyone tends to be surprised. One of the most clear examples comes from the most recent MCU film: Avengers: Endgame. After Tony had just returned from almost starving to death during his month-long space trip, the other Avengers immediately want to talk strategy with him. He’s still hooked up to an IV while they discuss all the things he’d predicted was coming long before they ever came to pass. He snaps at Steve Rogers, saying “I got nothin' for you, Cap! I've got no coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options! Zero, zip, nada. No trust—LIAR!” (Avengers: Endgame). He collapses shortly thereafter, completely, utterly defeated.

In a world of supersoldiers, monsters, aliens, and supervillains, Tony is a bit of an odd man out—he’s still human. “The Tony Stark character is memorable in that he was someone who could readily comment on the insanity around him” (“First-of-its-Kind…”), says the Targeted News Service. Rather than being a supersoldier, ultra powerful gamma monster, or highly trained assassin, Tony is just a “man in a can” (Iron Man 3). He has only his intelligence to aid his hero’s journey, and he carries the burden of it with him everywhere. In every movie after the first Avengers film, Tony struggles with the knowledge that something like the attack on New York will happen again (Iron Man 3; Avengers: Age of Ultron). His greatest fear is losing everything because he failed to do enough, and it shows the most in his most vulnerable moments. Even worse, his fears become reality before his very eyes (Avengers: Infinity War).

Further setting the burden of tragic heroism on Tony’s shoulders is the sheer amount of villains he’s created. Justin Hammer, Ivan Vanko, Aldrich Killian, Ultron, and Adrian Toomes are all directly linked to Tony and his bad decisions. Killian is ignored by Tony completely after he makes a promise to meet him, Hammer attempts to replicate the Iron Man armor for military use and personal gain, Vanko gets Tony’s personal advice on how to make his weapons more efficient, Toomes loses his job because of Tony’s handling the aftermath of Loki’s attack on New York, and Ultron comes into existence because Tony let his fears control him (Iron Man 3; Iron Man 2; Spiderman: Homecoming; Avengers: Age of Ultron).

Tony’s ego is certainly one to blame, but so is his carelessness. He often lets the situation dictate his response, rather than forcing his actions to dictate the situation. In other words, Tony is a reactionary character. This can be seen best in Captain America: Civil War (CA:CW), when he reacts to the death of his parents, and in Avengers: Age of Ultron (AoU), when he experiments with Loki’s scepter to streamline the creation of Ultron.

Tony also faces two life-shattering betrayals and several smaller ones, further placing him in the “tragic” category. In his debut movie, Iron Man, he learns that the terrorist group called the Ten Rings was hired to kill him by Obadiah, his trusted friend and mentor. Obadiah later paralyzes Tony and physically rips out the one thing that keeps him alive—his arc reactor. Tony manages to survive on an older model, but is almost killed in the ensuing battle. He even resigns himself to death and forces his personal assistant to blow the reactor beneath them. He fortunately survives, but his former friend does not (Iron Man). In this movie, not only does he survive a torturous three months in Afghanistan, but he comes back to almost immediately die at the hand of one of his closest friends.

In CA:CW, Tony learns that his parents were murdered by Bucky Barnes, who is unfortunately standing next to him at that time. He’s understandably distraught, but becomes enraged when Steve reveals that he already knew about the murder and never told him. This moment is especially ironic given Steve’s line in AoU, when he tells Tony in frustration that “sometimes my teammates don’t tell me things” (Avengers: Age of Ultron). Tony attacks the pair, who proceed to nearly beat him to death. At one point, Steve rips off Tony’s face mask, then stabs his arc reactor with his shield. They then leave him, beaten and alone in Siberia, with Steve having chosen one friend over the other. Tumblr user @teamsharoncarter notes that “Tony Stark lifted up his arms, covering his face when Steve was going to hit him with the shield, subtly showing that Tony is used to anyone he trusted to betray him and try to kill him” (“Tony Stark…”). While this point could be debated as mere headcanon, it is true that Tony is betrayed often. It’s fascinating to see a side-by-side comparison of Tony’s facial expression when he discovers the two major betrayals.

Tony also deals quite a bit with mental illness. It becomes most prevalent in Iron Man 3 (IM3), and looms on the sidelines in other movies. Given at the start of IM3, he has been kidnapped and tortured (Iron Man), has nearly died of radiation poisoning (Iron Man 2), and has flown a nuclear missile into a wormhole to kill an alien army with no hope of surviving (The Avengers), it’s a wonder PTSD isn’t a major topic prior to it. Much of IM3’s secondary plot revolves around Tony’s mental state post-Avengers, and he never quite resolves it. Later on, he begins a multi-million dollar project to help “clear traumatic memories” by recreating them in a pseudo-physical format and altering them as the user wishes (Captain America: Civil War).

Tony tries again and again to do the right thing, yet he somehow makes everything worse in the process and loses something very dear to him. These attempts and subsequent failures are the most telling mark of his tragic heroism. He saves his life with the arc reactor, but it winds up poisoning him with radiation (Iron Man 2). He enters the clean energy market to make up for his company’s history of weapons contracting, only for his building to be partially destroyed during the Battle of New York (The Avengers). He tries to be better to his girlfriend, only for her to be kidnapped and tortured after their home is blown up because he ditched someone on a roof in 1999 (Iron Man 3). He tries to build a peacekeeping A.I., but it turns murderous and tries to drop a city out of the sky to wipe out humanity. He winds up losing much of his certainty, Bruce Banner, and J.A.R.V.I.S., his personal A.I. based on a childhood friend (Avengers: Age of Ultron). He signs the Sokovia Accords to try and redeem himself, but according to Rogers, it is the moment he signs it that he destroys the team (Captain America: Civil War). He tries to retire from being a hero and settle down, but he winds up lost in space with half the universe disappearing from existence because someone wanted to spare his life (Avengers: Infinity War).

It is rather fitting that when Ultron asks him if he’s come to confess his sins, he answers with “I dunno, how much time you got?” (Avengers: Age of Ultron).

Yet no one stops him from doing anything, and it often ends in disaster. And then when he tries to right these wrongs later on, his former teammates turn on him and abandon him in the cold of Siberia, halfway beaten to death by two supersoldiers. His contributions to the team and efforts to protect it are overlooked and forgotten the moment he signs the Sokovia Accords. Clint Barton says “you better watch your back on this guy. Chances are he's going to break it” (Captain America: Civil War), despite having fought alongside him only a year before during AoU. Even Tony’s plan to take the fight to Thanos, rather than returning to Earth, backfires and results in the loss of the Time Stone to the Mad Titan (Avengers: Infinity War).

All this being said, there is no denying that Tony is a hero. Incredibly, despite everything he goes through, he still keeps being Iron Man. As pointed out by Marvel Comics editor Axel Alonso, “he perseveres because of his winning combination of brains and heart” (”Iron Man Insider”). Tony himself even proclaims “I shouldn't be alive, unless it was for a reason...I just finally know what I have to do. And I know in my heart that it's right...there is the next mission, and nothing else” (Iron Man).

In almost any story that’s called a tragedy, the protagonist(s) dies at the end. Take, for example, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and The Fall of Icarus. Unfortunately for Tony Stark, this trope still applies. The final nail in the coffin for Tony’s tragic-yet-heroic narrative is his battle against Thanos in Avengers: Endgame. After having survived wave after countless wave of attacks against both himself and his planet, Tony is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice, despite having finally achieved all but one of his goals throughout the MCU: “Peace in our time” (Avengers: Age of Ultron; Avengers: Endgame).

Despite everything, though—all the pain, suffering, torment, betrayals, and losses—he keeps getting up and coming back to fight the bad guys in a bid to make the world a better place. And perhaps this is the most tragic part about him. It’s not that he keeps losing, it’s that he keeps believing that someday, somehow, he’ll get his happy ending. And now that we know how Tony’s character arc ends, we also know that he never truly finds it.

Works Cited (for things that aren’t the movies)

“First-of-its-Kind Course to Examine ‘Universe’ of Cinematic Storytelling, Perspectives in Ongoing Marvel Films.” (2014, Sep 16). Targeted News Service.

“Iron Man Insider.” Discover, vol. 34, no. 4, May 2013, p. 23. EBSCOhost.

@teamsharoncarter. “Tony Stark lifted up his arms, covering his face when Steve was going to hit him with the shield, subtly showing that Tony is used to anyone he trusted to betray him and try to kill him.” Tumblr, http://teamsharoncarter.tumblr.com/post/144019313080/tony-stark-lifted-up-his-arms-covering-his-face.

Wallace, Jennifer. (2012). “The Tragic Paradox.” Comparative Drama, 46(4), 545-548,581.In almost any story that’s called a tragedy, the protagonist(s) dies at the end. Take, for example, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and The Fall of Icarus. Unfortunately for Tony Stark, this trope still applies.

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rhysie-cakes314 · 6 years

Text

Day 23- Urban Legend

Sorry, if you want specific warnings, you’re better off reading on my ao3 page than on tumblr (the format is easier for me there). Just as a heads up because this one is a bit extra angsty.

...What was the point of having his amazing car collection if he didn’t get to drive them? A night alone on empty highways was peaceful.

The first several hours were perfect. The dashed lines passing him by and the focus he could put into just the feeling of driving was therapeutic. The slight buzzing of the engine underneath his fingertips reminded him of his teens, the good parts, when he could get away with long trips to nowhere to escape everything. There was no time for brooding or panic attacks when autopilot wasn’t an option, like in the suit, and driving helped keep Tony from drinking. He sighed, life was going pretty alright.

That was, of course, until the black-eyed child showed up.

“Yeah, Pep, I get it, I’ll be there.” Tony rolled his eyes and took a sip of his water bottle. The night was a bit chilly, so he had the convertible Audi R8’s roof up to avoid the chill. The air flowed openly through the vents though. If Tony liked one thing about October, it was that the smells of autumn hung in the air before being swept away in November’s cold.

“I’m serious Tony,” her voice sounded warped by the cell phone’s speaker. “It’s first thing in the morning, and you chose to drive. You’re never going to make it in time.”

“Oh ye of so little faith. I drive plenty fast enough, and sleep is for the weak.”

“Tony! No driving without sleep, I’m going to call happy to meet you at an airport this is-”

“Ksshhht, Pepper, I, shhhhkkk, we’re breaking up.” Tony tapped the end call button with absolutely no guilt. He was in a bout of insomnia anyway, so he wouldn’t be sleeping, and he never got to go on long drives anymore. What was the point of having his amazing car collection if he didn’t get to drive them? A night alone on empty highways was peaceful.

Of course the thought had floated through his mind before he could stop it. Bad thing always happened when he thought that. As if on cue, his periphery caught a figure standing off the side of the road, barely noticeable outside of the streetlight’s beam. It was probably a child given the stature, and they looked cold and alone. Tony lamented the loss of his solitude as he pulled up beside them.

“Hey! Need a ride?” He called out the rolled down passenger side window.

The figure looked up, her hoodie falling back to reveal a teenage girl, probably of some mix of asian descent, with her hair in high pigtails. She made no move towards the car, but watched him from afar. Her head tilted slightly. Tony guessed, in fairness, it probably wasn’t in a teenage girl’s best interest to get into strange men’s cars without a little hesitation. He wondered if she had a cell phone, and why she hadn’t called for help, though they were on a country road in the middle of nowhere. Non-Stark phones probably didn’t have signal out here.

Tony put the car in park, and made sure to make his moments slow as he exited the vehicle. The last thing he wanted was to scare the poor girl. He approached with his hands raised, so she knew he didn’t have a weapon. Maybe in the light, she’d recognize him from TV. “I mean no harm, I’m Tony Stark. I just thought you look a little lost out here alone.” She nodded in agreement, but still said nothing, unwilling to meet Tony’s gaze as he got closer. “I won’t force you, but would you like a ride to the nearest town?” The girl hesitated, then raised her face to meet his gaze.

Something was very wrong. The girl had no sclera or iris, just purely black orbs for eyes. It was disconcerting on its own, but Tony had met stranger kids who often ended up with Xavier and the X-Men. No, the eyes alone were not the issue. She stared at him blankly, and his fear response was illogical. Shut up, he told his anxiety, now was hardly a good time for a panic attack. There was a civilian in need right in front of him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Tony was no longer on the side of a country road. He was suddenly in Gulmira watching small children begging and crying while men scarred them for lives by holding them at gunpoint with his weapons. He wasted no time killing all of the threats, but he flew away feeling sick. Terrorists were running this area of the world while he had been partying and womanizing with the profits. Things had to change.

Howard was handing him a glass of brown liquid, and Tony tried to give it back. He didn’t want it, it smelled bad and it reminded Tony of how his dad’s breath would smell when things were bad. Howard pushed it into his hand harder and glared at Tony, and he just wanted the man to look happy with him once. He downed the glass, and promptly broke off into a coughing fit while his throat burned and tasted acrid. Tony should’ve walked away.

Obadiah had the reactor in his hands and Tony sat, unable to move while the man disconnected the wires. The pain was excruciating, but he couldn’t cry, couldn’t scream. His father’s friend, the man who had helped raise him, walked away with Tony’s heart in hand. Tony should never have trusted him.

Tony took one last glance over their handiwork. The small group of senators had worked with him and Fury to write the law, made sure they were well-worded to do the greatest good. Masked heroes needed to be held accountable. Tony had made the mistake of being unaccountable before, had been the Merchant of Death; he wanted to save all his friends the pain of learning that lesson the hard way. The children who’d died in that explosion were his fault. Not directly, of course, but Tony knew better. He should have foreseen this and done something sooner. This was for the best. A flash of the future felt like a punch to the gut. Tony should’ve never made the Superhero Registration Act.

Tony was overcome with grief, sobbing into his hands as he lay next to Steve’s body. His Steve. Steve Rogers, beautiful, perfect man, the great Captain America was dead. The tears that streamed down his face felt hyper-real somehow. This was all his fault. How could he have let things spiral so far out of control. The love of his life was still and cold, and Tony would never be able to tell him how sorry he was. He should’ve listened to the man sooner. If sadness was going to kill him, this was it.

Steve stood awkwardly in front of Tony, and everything they had shared before was gone. Tony didn’t trust him, and he didn’t trust Tony. It was the greatest surprise in the world that Steve had never actually died, but the suffering had been real nonetheless. And now that he was here, Tony had no idea where to start. He had failed with SHIELD, had barely survived the Skrulls, and his health was failing, his brain slowing. Steve shifted on his feet, sadness so clear in his eyes that Tony felt like it stabbed him in the heart. He needed to explain everything, that he regretted all of it, but his brain just wouldn’t seem to work fast enough.

The entire city of Paris is full of statues. No, he berates himself, they’re not statues. The population of Paris was turned to stone because he couldn’t convince Odin to help him save it fast enough. Half of the fight with serpent had nearly killed his friends while he was taking far too long in Nidavellir making their weapons worthy. If Tony had just been a little more focused, things may have gone smoothly. Every casualty in Paris was a failure that ate at him from the inside out. Tony should’ve never even tried to claim he was a hero.

The trust that had taken them so long to rebuild after Civil War was shattered again. Steve couldn’t even meet Tony’s gaze anymore, and being around any of Tony’s friends made him want to curl up and die. There were so many secrets and lies between them all for the Illuminati, and it wasn’t worth it. Following their plans to destroy other worlds… What had he been thinking? Tony never learned or grew wiser, his mistakes just did more and more damage. He regretted who he was to the core.

There was no more Tony Stark. He was sadness, grief, regret, angst, emotional anguish incarnate. Far away, in another time, his knees hurt and his cheeks were wet with warm, sticky tears. Every painful memory of his regrets flashed before his eyes and they each felt like another sword through his center. The pain was unbearable, and he wished he’d just die already.

…

When Steve made it to the gps coordinates JARVIS, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Tony had never made it to the meeting this morning, and Pepper had called Steve demanding to speak to the genius. When Steve assured her that no, Tony had never come home, and no he wasn’t just covering for the man, the fear had started to settle in. Together they traced Tony’s phone through the night, and for some reason it had stopped traveling in the middle of nowhere, and was still there.

Steve pulled over onto the shoulder of the road in front of Tony, and got out at a run. “Tony! What are you-” he stopped short. Tony was on his knees, shaky breaths in between heaving sobs wracking his small frame. The smears and streams down his face were of blood, and the man was clearly not present. Steve waved a hand in front of Tony’s face, but he didn’t even blink. Steve knelt down beside him, terrified and unsure what to do. The car was gone, someone must’ve taken it after they left him like this, but what did they do!? Tony’s pained gasp urged Steve through the fear, and he put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He shook it violently, screaming at Tony to please wake up. It took several minutes before the man blinked hard, and seemed to suddenly become aware of his surroundings.

Tony was back, on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, but now it was daytime. Where had the girl gone? Who was shaking him? “Steve?” he rasped, eyes wide with confusion. “Why are you here? Where’s the girl?”

The relief was dizzying. “What girl? Tony, what happened?”

“She was here, her eyes were black- Aaah!” He pitched forward suddenly, hand automatically grasping at his chest with the sudden tightness and sharp pain, but he breathed through it, and it slowly lessened.

“Tony! I’m calling an ambulance,” Steve dialed 911. Tony was shaking his head, murmuring something about being fine, but the man was clearly not ok.

Whatever the girl had done to him with her black eyes, he remembered all of it. Tony felt the pain of it wash over him again, the shock of snapping away from the trance gone. Regular, saltwater tears mixed with the dried blood on his face. “Oh god,” he moaned. People weren’t meant to deal with this much at once. There was a reason Tony pushes things away to deal with later, one at a time, preferably with alcohol handy. Steve was still talking to someone on the phone, but it all seemed distant. The dead Steve on the table in front of him, a ghost of the past, seemed far more real. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. His heart squeezed painfully again, and maybe the universe would have mercy and just smite him.

It didn’t seem like there was warning before Tony slumped over, lying unconscious. His breathing became more even without the sobbing, but he looked pale. No one could look healthy with bloody tears all over them, though, so Steve tried to just take comfort in the fact that he was still breathing. The medics were almost there. Tony dialed JARVIS and Pepper, updating them on the situation so someone can start looking for the car.

…

Tony woke up with a start. He was in a hospital bed, and Steve was watching him warily. He was tired, and had an IV in with a simple saline solution, but that was it. Clearly whatever had been causing his chest pain had been nothing, like he told Steve, but he couldn’t really blame the man for the precaution. Tony was hardly known for his stellar cardiac health. “Did you find the girl?” Steve nodded, tears forming but not spilling. Tony grabbed his hand and pulled him in for a kiss. “Hey, it’s fine, right?”

Steve nodded again, and took a steadying breath. “Xavier stopped in while you were out, explained what happened, and they found her with your car on the way to an airport. She had been trying to get to Madripoor, where she’s from.”

Tony blinked. Xavier had been in his head? Saw all of, well, that pain? God, no wonder Steve looked so stricken. He couldn’t imagine what it must sound like explained allowed. Hopefully Professor X had been skimpy on the details. “Who was she? All I can think of now is that urban legend with the scary black-eyed children. You know? With the weird approaching adults alone and people think they’re aliens or something?”

Steve shook his head. “Is that one of those creepypasta things Clint told me about?” Tony snorted, and Steve was so thankful to have him back. That sobbing shell of pure pain had not been his husband. “Anyway, she goes by Gazing Nightshade. She’s a mutant, apparently when she looks into your eyes she can put you in a ‘trance-like state full of sorrow fueled by your deepest regrets’ according to Xavier. He didn’t tell me what he saw by the way, if you’re worried.”

Tony let out a long breath, thinking. “That’s a scary power. How did that land me here?”

“Doc said a prolonged state of such grief can cause your heart to temporarily malfunction, it should be fine now though. Broken Heart Syndrome. The bloody tears-”

“Wait, bloody tears?”

Steve nodded, a look of horror on his face for a moment. “Oh, yeah, your face was covered in wet and dried blood, it was terrifying Tony.” He shuddered. “That’s part of her power too, makes your eyes and hers bleed. Mutants are weird sometimes.”

“God, Steve I’m so sorry you had to see me like that…” He couldn’t even imagine finding Steve in that state.

The humorless laugh that escaped him was almost a sob. “No, I am so sorry you went through that. If you want to talk about it, I think you should, I mean, I’m here to listen, unless you don’t want it to be me,” It was rare for Steve to be the one rambling, and Tony squeezed his hand until he stopped.

“Hey, it’s okay now. And I agree, I should talk about it. Can we talk about it when we get home?” Tony smiled tentatively. This new open thing had come with their engagement, and stuck around into the marriage. They had agreed it was their best chance to avoid repeating their many past mistakes. It often left Tony feeling raw and exposed, but Steve was there to soothe it.

Steve returned the small smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

#thearkoctoberchallenge2018 #stony #marvel #marvel 616 #avengers #x-men blue #gazing nightshade #tony stark #steve rogers #superhusbands #fanfic #fanfiction

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ragecandyfics · 5 years

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Archanea Week Day 3: Loyal/Heart

Characters: Ogma, Caeda, some Samuel Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, torture Word count: ~15K

Ogma is more than willing to put his life on the line for Princess Caeda; she did save him from a terrible fate, after all. But Caeda doesn’t want anyone’s life to be on the line; that’s why she saved his in the first place.

Notes: Due to Tumblr's ridiculous refusal to show posts with links in them in search results, I’m going to paste the whole thing here. Due to Tumblr’s inability to keep my formatting, italics and bold won’t be preserved, and, due to Tumblr mobiles disregard of read mores, mobile users are in for lots of scrolling. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll put the AO3 link in the notes for those who want to see the fic in its intended format.

Loyal

Ogma wasn’t a reckless fighter by any means. He wasn’t quite so cautious and guarded as many of the younger soldiers, either, but that was only because he had years of experience behind him and could usually judge danger very accurately. Besides, with his skill level, he could afford to throw some caution to the wind now and again. He rarely did, for fear of incurring Princess Caeda’s wrath―but he could, theoretically, afford to.

When he spotted the archer nocking an arrow towards the sky, though, he didn’t stop to think about it. The fear of his lady’s anger; his own instincts he’d honed over the years; the swarms of Macedonian soldiers around him―none of it even registered. Ogma moved. He plowed through their ranks, weaving between hulking suits of ebon armor and flashing lances that nipped at his heels, and the lucky few enemies who reacted quickly enough to step in front of him were only met with the edge of his sword.

By the time the archer heard his fellows’ screams and glanced away from the pegasus he’d been about to shoot down, his head was already toppling off his shoulders.

There. One less archer; one less potential threat.

Only then did Ogma stop to consider the situation. And he quickly came to the conclusion that, having accomplished his goal, he was now essentially trapped behind enemy lines, completely surrounded, and still riding a wave of adrenaline that made his hands shake and his vision go dark around the edges.

‘Princess Caeda is going to kill me,’ he found himself thinking as the Macedonians broke out of their stupor and turned their weapons towards him. ‘Or,’ he amended after a moment, ‘she’ll kill my ghost.’

Physically impossible, but she would find a way.

Then the soldiers fell upon him in a confused flurry of steel, and Ogma could do nothing but drop flat to the ground. One weapon whistled over his head―he couldn’t see it, but it sounded like an axe―and he sent it flying with a deft twist of his sword, clearing up just enough space to get his feet back underneath him.

Seeing little choice, he took three haphazard stabs at the soldiers nearest to him in quick succession, still crouching under the wild singing of various weapons overhead. All three men hit the ground, and he heard a fourth man scream as―Ogma risked a glance to check―the pinwheeling axe from earlier caught him in the shoulder, sending him stumbling into the mage behind him. Ah: a rare stroke of luck. Taking advantage of the brief confusion, Ogma rolled forward, barely evading what would’ve been a fatal stab to the neck, and skewered both the grunt and mage at once.

He allowed himself exactly half a second to marvel at the quality of his newest sword. Not many blades could pierce two bodies in one go, even with Ogma’s considerable strength behind them. Then he sprung back onto his feet, knocking aside a clumsy sword slash, and the fight began in earnest.

After that, he didn’t bother keeping tabs on each individual attack. The way he moved was mostly instinct, combined with some simple on-the-fly assessments―those halberdiers are a real problem; I should take care of those next. This swordmaster has no idea what he’s doing, so it’s probably safe to leave him alive for now. That archer might decide to go after Princess Caeda―there we go. Not anymore, he won’t. It was a tried and tested formula that he’d developed back in the gladiator days, and it had yet to fail him.

(But there was, of course, a first time for everything.)

Ogma couldn’t identify the attack which finally broke through his defenses. That was the nature of being attacked from behind: you either noticed it beforehand or you just wondered where that sudden stabbing pain had come from.

Whatever kind of wound it was, it hurt, and Ogma faltered, letting out a sort of choked growl that fell just short of a shout. Then something jostled inside of his newly-injured shoulder―the weapon hadn’t yet been removed, he supposed―sword? Axe? Too shallow to be a lance; too much movement to be an arrow―

He barely even realized that his own legs had buckled underneath him (the traitors), but that was definitely dirt beneath his knees. And a quick, bleary-eyed glance proved that, as he’d suspected, he was still completely surrounded. A dozen soldiers on their feet versus a wounded mercenary on his knees. It was a fool’s wager.

With one last burst of adrenaline, Ogma buried his sword up to the hilt in the closest target―some poor chump’s thigh―and then the weapon in his back twisted very deliberately and Ogma lost his grip, both palms hitting the ground.

Belatedly, he snarled in pain, fingers gouging into the dirt. The Macedonians tightened around him as if he wasn’t already hemmed in, hastily dragging away the swordsman he’d injured―and, with him, Ogma’s sword, still embedded in his leg. Even if he’d managed to keep his grip on the damn thing, he still would have been done for, but the added helplessness of being disarmed was enough to make his throat constrict in an uncharacteristic moment of panic.

‘Princess Caeda is going to turn to the dark arts,’ he found himself thinking nigh hysterically (and rather incongruously, given the circumstances). ‘Princess Caeda is going to defect, and have Gharnef teach her forbidden magic, and bring me back to life, solely for the purpose of killing me again, but slower.’

Then, as he began to lose coherence, his muddled brain added, somewhat more rationally and much more distressingly:

‘Caeda’s gonna cry.’

The weapon in his shoulder drove down until his vision went white and his ears rang, and Ogma screamed, slamming against the ground as his limbs crumpled uselessly underneath him. Blade scraped bone, pushing through flesh long since torn asunder, and a jolt of white-hot agony vibrated through his entire being, tearing another choked gasp from his lips.

He was dead. He was a corpse. His mind was already severed from his body, hovering on a separate plane of existence as he waited for his chance to pass into the afterlife. Waiting to see whether he would be admitted into paradise or consigned to a much less pleasant fate.

Perhaps, he thought, the gods would judge him kindly for his meager years of service to Princess Caeda. Surely, if they even spared a glance at his soul, they would find it sorely wanting for virtue. But perhaps the Princess’ overabundance of virtue would reflect well on him. She may yet manage to save him a third time.

Agony―a sudden burst of it, centered around his shoulder―and Ogma’s mind writhed even as his body remained inert and lifeless. No such luck, then―he’d already been found lacking. Understandably so, perhaps. Caeda’s command had been the best part of his life but, ultimately, the shortest part as well. It wouldn’t hold much weight in the value of his soul, even though it felt as if his life hadn’t truly begun until he’d looked up through bloodied eyelashes and seen a puny girl with deep blue hair standing over him.

Another jolt of pain, followed by the strange sensation of being moved. Ogma wondered why he could still feel his body if his soul had already abandoned ship. An incomprehensible cacophony of unintelligible noises wormed its way into his ears, overpowering the shrill ring that hadn’t yet faded, and he surprised himself by physically squirming. Was this Hell? Did the damned have bodies that they could move? Perhaps his corpse was simply still twitching.

He didn’t notice that the pain in his shoulder had receded somewhat until it came back again full-force. A sharp jab against his chest was all it took to jostle the wound, and he surprised himself again by groaning out loud. If this was Hell, then it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected―yet―but even this was probably enough to merit the title of “damnation”.

Another jab, another groan, and another squirm. Ogma wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know what was prodding him or not. It was too blunt to be a trident like the ones that demons traditionally carried, and, other than that, he didn’t have even a guess. But, when it pressed insistently into his chest, he decided that he probably had no choice―this would continue until he relented and looked.

With monumental effort, Ogma managed to pry his eyes open. He could barely see anyway, the light nearly blinding him, his vision blurry and unstable, but something about the few vague, pulsing colors he could make out gave him pause.

Finally, the world came into a shaky sort of focus. The colors solidified into something more tangible―shapes; figures; wings?―and Ogma wondered if this was an angel coming to spirit him away. Then the image sharpened―blue hair; red clothing; white wings―not on her, but a pegasus―and Ogma thought, ‘Oh, I was half right.’

Princess Caeda―it could be no other―was hovering over him, mounted atop Tempest, but they weren’t airborne. The butt of her wing spear was pressed lightly against his chest, pushing his wound into the ground, which explained why it hurt like hellfire. In her other hand was a blood-crusted axe.

Briefly, Ogma entertained the idea that Caeda had, in fact, resurrected him so that she could kill him herself. Then she tossed the axe aside, urged Tempest into a sharp turn, and thrust out her hand in a desperate grab for his arm. Ogma couldn’t really hear what she was saying, but he definitely saw his name cross her lips as she leaned further out of the saddle, still too far off the ground to reach him.

He wasn’t sure whether to classify the feeling that overtook him as nostalgia or deja vu, but, either way, it was intense enough to drive some of the cotton from his skull. Staring up at Princess Caeda, gritting his teeth against wave after wave of pain, trying to piece together the fact that he wasn’t yet dead as she stretched a hand towards him―it was all very familiar.

Well, his soul might still be forfeit, he mused to himself as comprehension finally dawned on him, but Caeda would get the chance to save him a third time, anyway.

Ogma forced a bit of feeling back into his numb extremities. He wished for all the world that he could just lay there until his shoulder stopped screaming for mercy, but that was no longer an option.

He was still alive.

Caeda had passed her judgment.

Clawing into the deepest chasms of his body, Ogma managed to scrounge up one last scrap of adrenaline. It was just enough for him to stifle the pain and throw out his arm in an inelegant grab for Caeda’s. Luckily, at the same time, Caeda lunged towards him, nearly unseating herself in the process, and they each managed to clumsily wrap a hand around the other’s forearm.

The Princess’ grip was bruising, and Ogma’s shoulder strained when she rocked back into the saddle, tugging him halfway off the ground. Tempest reared―he noticed, only now, that they were still encircled by Macedonian soldiers, albeit far fewer than before―and then Caeda jerked his arm with all the force of a killing blow, pulling his limp body off of the ground entirely.

For a split second, he was airborne. He spent most of that split-second on a strangled but vehement curse that he hoped wasn’t loud enough to sully the Princess’ ears. Despite his pained shout and Tempest’s distressed whinnies, though, the nauseating sound of his shoulder popping out of socket was still audible.

His forehead ricocheted off of Caeda’s pauldron with a clang that sent his head spinning, and the rest of his body made contact an instant later, his torso colliding with hers and his legs ramming up against Tempest’s side. All three yelped on impact, and the two humans immediately clung to each other as the pegasus underneath them reared once again. Ogma thoughtlessly scrambled for a foothold, boots scraping against Tempest’s hide, which only exacerbated the situation.

Caeda didn’t give them time to get situated. As soon as her grip on Ogma was secure enough that she could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t fall, she spurred her panicked pegasus off of the ground, and they took off. The Macedonians shouted, but Tempest was too fast for them to catch, even when she was throwing a fit.

Half-delirious with pain and panic, Ogma clawed for purchase against both Caeda’s armor and Tempest’s side. Already, he was beginning to slide dangerously downward, gravity doing its damnedest to pull him back to the ground, and Tempest’s desperate thrashing wasn’t exactly helping matters.

Before he could fall, Caeda tightened her grasp on his torso―he hissed in pain, but she wisely didn’t relent―and heaved him up, both of them teetering precariously. Through mostly dumb luck, Ogma’s kicking legs hooked over the side of the saddle, and, with a bit of flailing and a few near deaths, Caeda managed to settle him behind her on Tempest’s back.

Without his feet in the stirrups, and with Tempest still bucking and neighing, Ogma had no choice but cling to the Princess for dear life, stifling an agonized cry into her shoulder for lack of anywhere else to stifle it. For a moment, her hand alighted on his, and she turned to say something over her shoulder―Ogma thought he might have heard his name, and perhaps a ‘hang on tight’―before she leaned forward to take Tempest’s reigns in both hands.

A sharp yank had the pegasus whirling around, and Ogma seized the leather strap of Caeda’s breastplate between his teeth rather than letting himself scream. The wind was whistling past them, now, as Tempest picked up speed, and he was becoming progressively surer that Caeda had, in fact, warned him to hang on. It seemed to be sage advice.

The thought of tightening his grip―and therefore pulling at the wound on his back―was enough to make him flinch in breathless anticipation. Neither of his shoulders was in particularly good condition right now―one bleeding profusely, the other dislocated―and trying to ‘hold on’ with his arms injured like this would be... perilous, to say the least.

This was going to hurt, he acknowledged numbly. It was going to hurt far more than that petty little wound he’d gotten earlier. And he was fresh out of adrenaline to drown it out.

‘Rise, Sir Ogma of Talys. From this day forward, you will serve as my personal retainer.’

‘As you wish, Princess Caeda. This body is yours until it breaks.’

With the last of his strength, Ogma clung to Caeda as tightly as he could, instinctively taking two fistfuls of her shirt as his arms locked around her torso. As he’d expected, the motion made his back and shoulder scream like the souls of the damned, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a choked gasp. The more it hurt, the tighter he held. The tighter he held, the more it hurt. If he was even somewhat aware right now, he might worry that his grip would suffocate her.

But he was not, so he just held on, his eyes still tightly screwed shut, his entire body taut and trembling, his breaths coming fast and unsteady.

He maintained his tenuous grasp on consciousness just long enough for Tempest to land. Then, his duty completed, Ogma let his head loll forward against his liege lady's back and surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

Samuel had concocted the plan.

For all the kid’s faults, it was a pretty ingenious idea, and he’d already gathered all the information they would need before he made his proposal. They would slip out after tomorrow’s tournament ended; Samuel would lift the keys from one of the guards after his bout, which would be second-to-last. Once he’d been escorted back to his cell, he would free himself and the others. As always, Ogma would be given the last and toughest opponent; when the guards led him back to his cell, the other gladiators would ambush them and get Ogma unshackled. They would fight their way out to the back entrance, where they would close the gate and sever the ropes used to open it, effectively locking it shut. Once it was “locked”, they were home free―they’d simply split into small groups and vanish into the city.

Other than the obvious, unavoidable issues, such as the high likelihood that they’d stand out from the crowd here in Knorda and quickly be recaptured, it was a very solid plan. Samuel had taken almost everything into account, from the length of the patrol routes to the number of men who could feasibly go unnoticed in a crowd. He’d even managed to pilfer a weapon from the arena: a single iron sword, which, by unanimous vote, would be given to Ogma.

There was only one problem.

Not everyone could make it out.

No one else seemed to notice the fatal flaw in their little scheme―or, if they did, they didn’t point it out. Ogma, however, saw it immediately.

The plan called for Samuel himself to hold back any remaining guards while the others escaped, then quickly slide under the gate just before it could close. And, gods, the kid was good with a sword, but not that good. He was underestimating how quickly the guards would mobilize. One man couldn’t hold the lines on his own; he would be overcome quickly, and then the entire thing would fall apart. But they couldn’t afford for more than one person to stay inside; their plan revolved around as many men as possible making it into the trees before the gate was even shut.

The idea was good on paper, but putting it into practice would probably meet with failure. Sure, one or two people might escape, but the rest would be captured and punished severely for their rebellion―tortured, probably, and then executed for good measure.

But this was the best chance they were ever going to get.

So, as he and his co-conspirators sat in a tight circle, whispering amongst each other as they laid out each and every second of the escape in excruciating detail, Ogma placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder and muttered, “You should stay with the rest and make sure everything goes smoothly. I’ll hold off the guards.”

He was fully aware that he was unlikely to survive that encounter―and, if he did, he would just find himself in the gallows―but it wasn’t as if he was likely to survive if someone else took up the job, anyway.

Besides, Ogma had only ever been good at one thing―fighting―and his years of nearly non-stop combat in the colosseum had destroyed what little conversational skill he’d had before. Even if he did make it out, he wasn’t sure what he would do with his newfound freedom. Probably just go looking for a fight. Samuel and the others were... different. Most of them were very young―teenagers, even―with some real talents and dreams. They had a whole life’s worth of possibilities ahead of them.

That was something worth dying for, he supposed.

To Samuel’s credit, up until the guards started pouring in, the plan went off without a hitch. After his unsurprising victory in the arena, Ogma allowed himself to be led back to his cell, only for Samuel to leap out from a dark corner and knock the guard out cold. Ogma’s wrists were freed and he took the proffered sword, and then they were off, their fellow gladiators quietly slipping out of their unlocked cells to join them. They encountered only the two patrols they’d expected to encounter, both of whom they dispatched of with ease, and, soon enough, they were working together to hastily raise the back gate. Freedom was just a short sprint away.

Then the first wave of guards surged around the corner.

Samuel cursed―he hadn’t expected anyone to realize they were gone―but Ogma just drew his sword and lunged, lopping off the first guard’s head before he could even raise his lance. “Hurry!” he snarled―as if that wasn’t a given―and the other gladiators frantically cranked the gate further up.

The first group of guards was small and unprepared, and Ogma cut them down effortlessly, like wheat at the harvest, though he quickly realized that the sword he’d been granted was incredibly dull and far too light. That would have been a problem, he suspected, if he was planning on surviving this battle. For his purposes, though, it would do just fine. Even a rusty old iron sword like this could at least last long enough for the others to escape, and, once the gate was jammed shut, Ogma couldn’t care less what became of the sword. He wouldn’t need it where he was going.

As the second wave poured in, followed closely by the third, the gate finally rose far enough for everyone to duck underneath, and Ogma shoved Samuel away when he stepped forward as if to help fend off the guards. “Go,” he urged, his voice deathly calm. Knowing with some certainty that you were about to die was strangely soothing. “Lead the others to safety. You’re the one with the plan.”

Samuel, for some gods-forsaken reason, actually hesitated. “But―but there are so many of them,” he stammered, gesturing to the guards who were almost upon them. “You can’t take them all on at once―you’ll die!”

A sweet sentiment, but ultimately meaningless; Ogma had already concluded that he was only leaving this room in chains or a coffin. Not that a rebel gladiator would be afforded a proper burial. “Go,” he repeated firmly, kicking Samuel one of the dead soldiers’ swords. “I’ll be alright.” A blatant lie. The kid would have to forgive him.

One more moment of hesitation; then, with a resolute nod, Samuel turned and released the mechanism holding the gate up, ducking through the door before it could fall down on his head. Just cut the ropes, Ogma wanted to say, but he doubted the fool would listen; he was still convinced that Ogma would be escaping with the rest. The gravity of the situation hadn’t quite hit him yet.

Ogma just hoped that, when he did figure it out, he wouldn’t make a scene. He preferred to die with as little pointless fanfare as possible.

Then the guards were upon him, and he couldn’t afford to watch any longer. He would just have to hope that Samuel would realize what was happening and cut the cables before he left. Ogma had his own things to cut―mainly throats and tendons―and he couldn’t waste time on the gate.

To their credit, the soldiers that patrolled this place weren’t exactly half-rate. More like... three-quarter-rate. Sure, Ogma sliced through their ranks easily enough, dodging clumsy thrusts of various weapons and aiming for the parts of the body which they foolishly left unprotected, but it wasn’t as effortless as it could’ve been. As the last of the second wave fell at his feet and the third wave crested over them, Ogma even found himself thinking that, under different circumstances, he might be proud to serve alongside men like these.

Circumstance was everything, though, so he still cut them down without hesitation.

It was only part-way through the third wave that Ogma felt himself begin to tire. He hadn’t taken any direct blows, but there had been several scrapes and brushes with various blades and spearheads, and his lungs were beginning to beg for air. It wouldn’t be long before he was overwhelmed and either killed or captured.

Numbly, as he ducked under a clumsy sword swing, Ogma decided that he should double-check to make sure that Samuel had cut the cables before he left. If he ended up pinned and the guards opened up the gates, then this would all be for naught; the others couldn’t outrun an entire arena of soldiers with only a minute-long head start. He would just have to wait for a good opportunity to turn around.

The choice was taken away from him almost immediately. “Ogma!” Samuel cried, way too close to be anywhere near the treeline, and, against his better judgment, Ogma risked a brief glance over his shoulder. Simultaneous waves of fondness and irritation crashed over him when he caught sight of the kid kneeling on the cobblestone, his shoulder braced against the underside of the gate, fists white-knuckled on the bars. He was holding the heavy cast-iron up on his own―keeping it propped open just enough for Ogma to, theoretically, take a running start and slide to freedom.

Of course, theory wasn’t always reality, and, in reality, several soldiers swerved around Ogma, using his distraction to their advantage, and made a beeline for Samuel with lances drawn. The kid hastily let go of the gate with one hand―the extra weight visibly bore down on his shoulder, and he grunted in pain―and unsheathed the sword that Ogma had tossed him. Any fool could see that the sword was useless, though. Half-a-dozen soldiers on their feet versus a burdened gladiator on his knees.

A fool’s wager.

Without pausing to think about it, Ogma knocked a man silly with the hilt of his sword, swept several off of their feet with a swing of his leg, then completely disregarded every ounce of combat instinct ingrained into his mind and threw his sword across the room. It pinwheeled clumsily through the air, not properly weighted as a throwing weapon, but his aim was true enough; the blade hit one of the soldiers across his shoulders, and he stumbled with a pained yelp, his comrades pausing and whirling around to face this new threat.

Ogma met Samuel’s wide, surprised eyes and bellowed, “Drop it!”

Naga be praised, the kid didn’t stop to argue; he let go of the bars and managed to get out just in time, the gate hitting the ground with a clang right as the first soldier’s lance pierced the space where his head had been seconds earlier.

Relief flooded Ogma, and he allowed himself a fleeting moment to be grateful to the gods for letting this crazy, harebrained scheme actually work. Everyone who had intended to escape had already escaped. The gate was closed. In a moment, it would be closed for good. They’d done it. Samuel had seen the plan through.

They were home free.

Then several guards piled on top of him, grabbing him around the neck and under the arms, hands twisting in his ragged clothes―boots kicking at his knees, fingers scrabbling at his throat―and Ogma could do very little but snarl like a caged animal as he was wrestled onto the ground.

Unfortunately, as intelligent as he was, Samuel apparently hadn’t foreseen this, because he gasped, lunging forward and wrapping both hands around the iron bars between them. “Ogma―!”

Gritting his teeth, Ogma braced himself against the floor and managed to throw one of the soldiers off of him, startling the kid into scrambling back. The guards’ lances slipped through the bars, and Samuel danced out of the way, but he didn’t run. Idiot―idiot, idiot, idiot― “Go!” Ogma snapped, even as two more soldiers took the last one’s place, weighing down on him as he struggled to get his feet underneath him.

Samuel, damn him, still hadn’t caught on. “Wh-what―?!” he spluttered, eyes wide and almost affronted; as if Ogma had just asked him to slaughter an infant in the cradle.

“Go!” he repeated without hesitation as another soldier jumped on top of him. Even his strength faltered under that much weight, and his knees banged painfully against the ground. The real agony, however, was watching two more guards rush towards the levers to reopen the gate while Samuel just stood there, staring like an idiot, mouth agape and sword limp at his side.

“But you―” the kid started.

Ogma didn’t give him a chance. “Go without me, you fool!” he practically screamed.

By now, the guards had managed to get him on his stomach, his cheek pressed flat against the cobblestone, but he could still see the shock and denial play across Samuel’s face. Damn it. “This was the plan!” he yelled, hoping that the admission would jar him into action. “I knew I wouldn’t make it out! I never planned to make it out! So stop playing the martyr and go!”

And, yes, Ogma did see the hypocrisy in that statement, but he was already functionally dead, and Samuel still had a fighting chance―a fighting chance that Ogma had essentially died to win for him―a fighting chance that dwindled with each passing second―

“Hurry!”

This damn kid and his bleeding heart―right at the verge of being home-free, yet he hesitated, eying the swarm of guards warily, as if he was sizing them up―as if he had any chance against them―as if saving Ogma was worth forfeiting all of their lives. One guard was working each crank, the ropes straining as the gate began to inch up again, and Ogma’s heart pounded. “Go, damn you!” he bellowed one last time, a rare note of desperation coloring his voice.

(Get out of here, you stupid kid, or else I’ll have died for nothing.)

For a moment, Ogma feared that his words, spoken and unspoken, would fall on deaf ears. Then, in one quick, fluid motion, Samuel unsheathed his sword, slashed the wrists grabbing at him through the gate, and severed both cables, sending the gate crashing back to the ground―this time, for good.

Ogma could just barely hear a quiet “I’m sorry,” over the clang of cast-iron bars hitting cobblestone and the myriad of curses as the wounded guards stumbled back. When the soldiers bent to the ground and frantically tried to lift the gate back up, Samuel was nowhere to be found.

‘Dumb kid,’ Ogma thought privately to himself, even as his shoulders slumped in both relief and resignation. ‘Say ‘thank you’, not ‘sorry’.’

Of course, the guards were trained well enough―they’d managed to overpower Ogma, which was impressive even given their vastly superior numbers―but they were no Samuel. They hadn’t been forced to fight for their lives nearly every day for years, and manually lifting the gate off of the ground was much more difficult than stopping it from closing, anyway. After a few minutes of futile heaving, they gave up.

“No use,” one of them grunted, letting go and clambering back his feet. “That thing’s right stuck.”

His fellows quickly followed his example, wiping the sweat from their foreheads. “Damn lowlives did well to jam it like that,” another admitted begrudgingly. “We’ll have to send scouts to sniff ‘em out.”

The first man snorted derisively. “Gimme a break―those mutts don’t stand a chance out there. Stick out like sore thumbs, they will. And no way they’ve got a plan on what they’re gonna do now. Bet they’ll come crawling right back here once they realize they got no place else to go.”

Ogma had stayed silent until then, but, at that, he couldn’t quite stifle a snort of his own. “Yeah, sure,” he rasped as the guards turned to scowl at him, “I bet they’ll give up a life of freedom and come back here to be beaten, imprisoned, and killed. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it?”

One of the guards gave him a warning kick with a newly-polished boot. “You’d be smart to shut your mouth, prisoner.”

Ogma shot the lot of them his most smug, condescending smirk―he was dead anyway; might as well raise their hackles for the hell of it. “Well,” he drawled, “I never was the brightest―”

“Clearly,” a deep voice cut in, and the soldiers snapped to attention.

Ogma refused to react on principle, but he couldn’t quite help the slight twinge of dread in his gut as the guards scrambled into some semblance of order. Only two stayed down to keep him pinned. It didn’t much matter to Ogma, but he was a bit insulted that they thought two men were enough to hold him―though he wasn’t exactly planning on proving them wrong. No point, really.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the now-silent corridor, and Ogma grit his teeth to keep from growling. “What happened here?” the voice continued in a heavy accent, and the soldiers visibly shrunk back.

After a moment of silence, one of them cleared his throat. “The prisoners mounted an escape attempt, sir!” he said with false certainty, despite the nearly imperceptible quiver in his voice. “They jammed the gate and ran into the forest! Sir!”

“Escape attempt?” The anger dripping from his voice was enough to make even the guards on top of Ogma squirm. “I think you mean ‘successful escape’. Unless you’ve already got them all back in their cells.”

There was a collective cringe from the room as a whole. “S-sir!” one of the guards cried after a moment, snapping to a sharp salute. “Most of the prisoners escaped, but we managed to catch this one, sir!”

At those words, the grunts who’d tackled him each grabbed an arm and hauled him to his feet, eager to prove that they hadn’t failed completely. Ogma grunted quietly, but didn’t bother struggling as they dragged him across the room; he could probably wrench himself free, but it wouldn’t last long. He would just end up on the floor again, this time with even more guards on top of him. Anyway, he’d known that he would lose; might as well take it gracefully.

With a well-placed kick, the guards forced Ogma onto his knees, though they didn’t release their grip on his arms. A boot landed between his jutting shoulder blades, pushing him into a deep bow, and his shoulders strained. Nevertheless, he craned his head back as far as it would go, meeting his captor’s eyes with fierce defiance.

“Oh,” the colosseum’s owner growled from above him. “It’s you.” He drew his thick eyebrows down in a glare, which only made his bulbous eyes seem to pop even further out of his head. “I should have known.”

Ogma grinned up at him like a wild dog and congratulated himself when the craven dastard cringed away, taking a reflexive step back. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you should’ve known. But you didn’t, didja?” He tilted his head to the side, grin not wavering. “You got any idea how long I’ve been planning this? Months. Months, and you didn’t even notice.” Less than a week, actually, and Ogma had only been let in on the plan maybe thirty hours ago. But the enraged, humiliated look blooming across the owner’s puce-colored face was way too satisfying to pass up.

“You―” His word devolved into a growl, and Ogma had a moment to brace himself before a boot landed directly in his face. His head tried to snap back, but it was already craned as far as it could go, so it just fell forward; his pained grunt sprayed red-tinted saliva onto the ground. Quickly probing around with his tongue, he determined that the worst of the damage was his split lip and the small cut where his teeth had snapped shut around his cheek.

Before he could lift his head again, his owner’s foot pressed down on the back of his skull, pushing down until his already-aching neck strained. “Don’t pretend that you won,” the owner spat, grinding his foot down. “If your plan was so foolproof, then why are you here?”

It was hard to say whether he gave the guards a silent gesture or they were just following his lead, but, either way, a flurry of kicks suddenly rained down on Ogma from both sides, and he locked an elongated snarl behind his teeth. Nonetheless, he couldn’t stop his body from jerking in the soldiers’ hold, and his owner laughed at him, loud and mocking. “Not so clever now, are you?” he gloated, the tread of his boots rough as he leaned a little harder on Ogma’s head. “We foiled your little escape plan, prisoner.”

Ogma managed to crane his neck back just enough to grin at the bastard, blood dribbling sluggishly through his teeth. “Yes, good job,” he slurred; “You captured the decoy.”

A scowl crossed the corpulent man’s face, and he kicked Ogma hard enough that the guards holding him almost lost their grip. Another few seconds of pregnant silence followed as all the soldiers held their breath. Then― “Well, what are you waiting for?! You―alert the other guards! The rest of you, out through the front entrance and after them! Every prisoner that escapes, one of you idiots takes his place in the gallows!”

Immediately, there was a mad scramble to follow his order, the guards pouring out of the room at top speed. Some bent over to scoop up the discarded weapons that their friends had left behind; others just clutched their own weapons to their chests and ran. Within maybe ten or twenty seconds, only the owner, Ogma, and the two guards restraining him remained.

“Sir, what about him?” one of those guards asked tentatively, nudging Ogma with his foot as if it was unclear who he was referring to.

The owner looked down his long nose, curling his lip as if Ogma was something unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe. “Call up a crowd and have him flogged out front,” he said simply after a moment of deliberation. “Hang him when you’re done.”

“How many lashes?”

“As many as it takes.” Neither Ogma nor his owner broke eye contact. “Don’t grant him death until he begs for it.”

To his credit, the guard cringed sympathetically. “And if he doesn’t?”

The owner grinned sickeningly down at Ogma, eyes sharp and borderline gleeful.

“Keep going,” he drawled, “until he does.”

Ogma just smiled grimly, having anticipated such a fate. “Your threats can’t touch me,” he rasped.

His owner―whose name Ogma had never bothered to learn―scowled. “We’ll see about that.” He huffed harshly through his nose, then snapped his fingers and waved the guards away. “Take this maggot out of my sight. I don’t want to see him again until he’s dying or dead.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldiers replied, and they immediately tugged Ogma off of his knees, though not quite all the way onto his feet. As his bare feet scrambled for purchase on the blood-splattered cobblestone floor, his arms were jerkily maneuvered in front of him, one guard holding him still while the other removed a set of iron manacles from his belt.

Cold metal closed around his arms with a clang and a click, and Ogma wasn’t sure whether the sinking feeling in his gut was dread of his impending death or just resigned acceptance at the familiar weight of shackles on his wrists.

Either way, he didn’t put up a struggle as they dragged him away. Might as well face death with what little dignity he had left.

The plan had worked; the others were safe. That was all that mattered.

Neither of the guards spoke a word as they led him through the winding corridors, still full of panicking soldiers trying to get ready for a manhunt. Ogma didn’t really mind. Nothing they could say would change the situation at all, so he was glad to be spared any further mockery―or, worse, meaningless sympathy.

Being dragged outside, however, was... strange. In a way, it was a good feeling―he imagined that, after years spent in dingy cells and death matches, anyone would be relieved to feel the open air on their face again. He was almost tempted to rip himself out of the guards’ hold just so that he could properly enjoy the grass beneath his feet and the wind in his hair, but... well, to be frank, he didn’t want to run and, therefore, seem afraid. No; he wouldn’t give his owner the satisfaction.

Still, Ogma decided as the sun warmed his face, this wasn’t a bad way to g0 at all. Out here, he could die with a lungful of fresh air, and his body would be quickly discarded, rather than being left to decay until the guards couldn’t stand the smell anymore. He had no intention of begging, so he would be whipped until his body gave out, which was significantly less pleasant, but it was better than bleeding to death in the colosseum or rotting alive in his cell.

He had a lot to thank Samuel for, he supposed, even if their plan hadn’t exactly proceeded flawlessly like he’d promised.

A crowd was already gathered around the raised platform used for public beatings and executions, and Ogma marveled at the speed with which they congregated when they were promised something juicy like a flogging. He wondered if any of them cared who he was and what he’d done to warrant this, or if they’d just come running at the word “scourged”. Probably the latter.

Then he was lifted onto the platform, his already tattered shirt roughly torn off of him, knees forced to the floor for the hundredth time today, and Ogma barely even registered the painful scrape of splintered wood against his chest as he was slung over an old, blood-stained block. Rusty chains were hastily hooked to his bound hands, stretching them out before him, and his legs were similarly shackled to the ground, keeping him pressed firmly against the block with his bare back fully exposed.

“This prisoner,” one of the guards announced to the restless crowd, “incited a riot that killed and injured dozens of innocent guards! In retribution, he shall be lashed until he repents for his crimes!”

An excited murmur rippled through the crowd―everyone knew that “lashed until he repents” really just meant “lashed to death”―and, for the first time in this whole ordeal, Ogma felt his stomach turn. At the very least, some of the people watching seemed uncomfortable―he even saw a few leave, curiosity sated―but the majority were visibly enthusiastic.

This was just a show to them. Their weekly entertainment. A bit rarer than fights in the colosseum, and therefore significantly more exciting.

He wondered if any of them recognized him from the tournament that had just ended, less than an hour ago.

He wondered if such recognition would make them more or less excited to witness his last few agonized hours on this miserable earth.

Cold fingers clamped around his face, tugging it up until he was staring directly into the face of his executioner. The man already had a long, nasty-looking whip in one hand, though Ogma was at least relieved to notice that it was not the cat o’ nine tails. He still had some time to prepare himself for that particular torture.

“Any last words, cur?” the executioner asked, sounding distressingly sadistic and almost bored at the same time. As if this was an exciting but utterly mundane occurrence. Yes, a flogging: how fun, yet how truly unspectacular.

Ogma spat out a mouthful of blood. “My life is well-spent,” he croaked, “buying the freedom of my comrades-in-arms.” Then, eyes flickering down to the crowd, he added, “And this was no riot. It was a daring escape. If you plan to kill me, at least do so for the right reasons.”

The executioner released his chin, and his head flopped back down to hang between his bound arms. “The prisoner refuses to repent!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered. “He must be shown the error of his ways!”

Ogma closed his eyes and breathed deep. He’d known that this would happen. He’d chosen this. No sense struggling; these manacles offered very little slack. Besides, there was nothing to hold out for―no reinforcements were coming; no specific number of lashes would be deemed “enough”; there would certainly be no sudden mercy. The quicker he bled out, the better. Until then, he would just have to endure the pain to the best of his ability.

‘Everyone else made it out,’ he reminded himself as the executioner circled around him to loom over his vulnerable back. ‘They have their whole lives ahead of them,’ he reminded himself, even as his instincts bubbled up and his body jerked futilely against the chains keeping him laid out like an invitation.

‘You chose this,’ he reminded himself as the executioner raised the whip over his head, but the words rang hollow.

Then the crack of the whip rang throughout the clearing and Ogma’s body jolted.

‘You chose this.’

Through the first five lashes, each one its own distinct, sharp sting against his back, Ogma remained dead silent, his teeth clamping down tight on his lower lip. The sixth drew a low, stifled grunt from him before he quickly regained his composure and locked another noise deep in his throat.

‘You chose this.’

By the ninth, his silence ended for good; each subsequent lash dragged a sharp gasp from his lips. He grabbed onto his chains in an effort to ground himself, fingers white-knuckled against the cold, corroded metal, but his body still jerked every time the whip fell.

‘You chose this. You chose this. You chose this.’

He lost count at fifteen. They came so quickly and steadily that they were hard to distinguish from one another, each wound layering over the last, criss-crossing over his back from shoulder to shoulder, neck to hip. The endless firings of his nerve endings were beginning to lose coherence. The endless wave of blows was beginning to drown him.

‘You chose this you chose this you chose this you chose this you chose this you―’

He didn’t start screaming until at least lash number thirty.

His body was on fire. His skin was melting away. The fractured bones beneath his skin were shifting; poking up through his flesh like jagged teeth emerging from a beast’s mouth. The boiling blood inside him was solidifying into a sea of tiny needles, pressing out against his veins insistently; trying to destroy him from the inside. His mouth tasted like rust. The chains got tighter every time he thrashed.

He could hear the crowd go wild.

‘It’s almost over,’ he thought to himself, half-delirious with pain. ‘You’re almost dead. You’re almost dead. You can rest soon.’

Or, he acknowledged numbly as another lash landed on his flaming back, perhaps not. After all, if the gods spared even a glance at his soul, surely they would find it sorely wanting for virtue. He couldn’t possibly be worthy of paradise. Which meant he would be consigned to a much worse fate.

Or perhaps such a fate had already befallen him. Perhaps he was already dead and simply had yet to realize, because his eternal punishment would simply continue the punishment he’d been given in life. Whipped over and over, without rest, until he was blinded by the pain; until he couldn’t remember how to do anything with his mouth besides scream.

It would certainly explain why his back was writhing in multiple different layers of agony, as if someone had peeled back his tattered skin to whip his bare tendons, and then peeled back his tendons to whip right down to his bones.

It didn’t really matter, he supposed. If he was dead, then it made no difference. If he was alive, then he wouldn’t be for long. Whether he was still breathing or not, this would be the rest of his pitiable existence. Thrashing in the shackles holding him down, screaming his throat raw, and waiting for an end that would never come.

‘Kid,’ he found himself thinking in one last flicker of lucidity, ‘you’d better be enjoying your freedom, you hear me?’

It took him a long moment to realize that he’d stopped screaming. He’d long since stopped hearing his own voice, the ringing in his ears and the roaring of the crowd overwhelming all other sounds, so he only really noticed when he managed to suck in a deep breath without it hitching. Maybe ten seconds after that―or one second, or three years; he’d lost all grip of time however-long ago―he realized that the crowd wasn’t cheering quite so loudly anymore, and the agony painted all over his back wasn’t growing. There were no more cracks of the whip.

He felt fingers grab him by the hair, and he felt his head be yanked back, but he couldn’t see anything. His eyes were still closed, he realized after a moment, and it took another moment to remember how to open them.

The executioner swam into view. Ogma was cognizant enough to see his lips move, but the sounds jumbled together in his brain until they were unrecognizable, and he just stared blankly. A sharp smack to the cheek jolted him back to relative awareness, and he blinked away stars.

“Beg,” the executioner said gruffly, voice distant and quiet despite the closeness of his face. “Beg, and I’ll give you a quick death.”

Ah―still alive, then? Or just a ruse by the devil to lure him into a false sense of security before starting on another wave of torment?

Either way, his response was the same. Ogma licked his lips and, in absence of his trademark insolent grin, conjured up a pained grimace. “No,” he croaked, lacking the spare breath or brainpower for anything cleverer than that.

His hair was released, and he allowed his head to fall back down, chin bouncing against the edge of the block. “The prisoner refuses to repent!” the executioner said again, and the crowd cheered. Ogma blinked a few times in a futile effort to stabilize his vision, then just closed his eyes again. He could use this brief respite to collect his composure; steel himself for the next wave of lashes.

‘You chose this,’ he reminded himself one last time, breathing slowly.

The whip fell upon his shoulder this time, curling down to stretch down his back, and Ogma grunted, but didn’t scream. Another blow, on the other shoulder, earned a similar reaction. Ah―so his tormenter was switching it up a bit. Whipping him from the front, rather than the back. Flaying him alive vertically, rather than horizontally. Would the next blow land on his face?

The singing of the whip as it whistled through the air. The enthusiastic cheering of the crowd below. The loud clanking of Ogma’s chains as he flinched. The crack of the lash meeting skin.

A soft cry of pain. Not his.

A chorus of gasps and screams.

Ogma barely realized, at first, that the blow had never connected. A minute ago, he wouldn’t have noticed at all, but the brief lull had cleared his mind a bit; he could distinguish between each blow again, and there was no new pain this time. Just the throbbing welts on each shoulder and the absolute inferno that was his back.

Confused enough to be curious, Ogma sluggishly cleared the ringing out of his ears, trying to tune in to the sudden, strange silence around him. The crowd was no longer cheering; the whip was no longer singing; even Ogma’s chains had gone quiet as he held still and tried to listen.

There was a thunk as something hit the floor, followed by a few faint murmurs that were far too quiet for Ogma’s muddled brain to make out. He thought he heard the executioner stammer out, “My―my lady―”

Then the cotton in his ears finally cleared enough for Ogma to make out the soft, trembling breaths, bordering on sobs, right in front of him.

Caught off-guard, Ogma pried his eyes open and tilted his head back, blearily blinking up at the blob of colors standing before him.

There was some deep blue, but it was mostly pink and peach and white, vaguely arranged in the silhouette of a person, and Ogma wondered if this was an angel coming to spirit him away. Then his vision cleared a bit―enough for him to realize that those weren’t wings, merely a fluttery white gown of some sort―and he thought, ‘No, just a noble.’

Of course, that elucidated very little, in the grand scheme of things, so Ogma wearily glanced around for any other clues as to what was happening. The executioner was standing a few feet away, stock-still, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open; the whip was laying on the platform at his feet. Ogma couldn’t really make out the crowd, but they seemed to be similarly frozen, still dead silent.

After a moment, a couple of armored figures shouldered through the crowd and clambered up onto the platform, their movement so jarring in the otherwise still tableau that Ogma’s eyes snapped over to them immediately. “My lady, get away from there!” one of them cried, hurrying towards Ogma, while the other rounded on the executioner with an enraged “How dare you strike Her Highness?!”

The cogs in Ogma’s head turned very slowly. The executioner had... attacked someone else? The noble girl standing in front of him―was that who he had attacked? But why on Earth would he―?

Wait.

Her Highness?

At that moment, the noble girl took a step back from the armored man, putting Ogma’s face inches from her back, and shouted “No!” with such vehemence that everyone froze in place.

Ogma tilted his head up so he could see over her shoulder, his confusion only growing by the second, as the armored guards sputtered, disregarding the executioner entirely. “M-milady,” the woman stammered, “please, don’t be reckless―I know it’s scary, but executions are a necessary part of―”

“No!” the noble girl―the ‘highness’―cried again, and Ogma only then noticed that her arms were extended to either side, as if to shield him from harm. “I won’t move!”

“Princess Caeda―” one of the knights tried again, but the girl―the Princess; Princess Caeda―disregarded him completely, instead twisting around to meet Ogma’s unfocused gaze. He startled, and some instinct urged him to bow his head―not because he’d overheard that she was royalty; there was just something about her demeanor that made him think ‘important person’.

Naga only knew why; in that moment, she looked nothing like a princess and every bit a little girl. Her eyes were wide and misty, her lip quivering, and he even saw a bit of snot leaking from one nostril. Only her elegant pink and white clothing hinted towards her status.

It was then that Ogma saw the angry red welt that marred her otherwise pale skin, staring at her collarbone, slanting across her bare shoulder, and then curving around to trail down her back, where it vanished under her dress.

Finally, his mind pieced the puzzle together. Yet all that came out of his mouth was a faint, slurred, “You’re bleeding.”

That startled a laugh out of the girl―the Princess―Caeda, though she remained teary-eyed. “You’re bleeding more,” she whispered softly, as if it were some great secret.

Ogma stared for a moment, struggling to formulate his thoughts into words. “I’m supposed to bleed,” he eventually settled on.

At that, the Princess―Caeda―scowled. “You’re not,” she said fiercely. “No one is supposed to be hurt. Not ever.”

A pause; then she quietly added, “My blood, at least, is useful for one thing.”

With that, she turned back towards the executioner, her knights, and the crowd, and loudly announced, “I will not be moved until this man is freed!”

The executioner floundered. “Wha―but―Princess Caeda, you can’t―we can’t just... let him go!”

Princess Caeda glared at him until he shrunk back. “Will you disobey your Princess, then?” she demanded. “You can’t hurt him anymore! I won’t let you!” As if to prove her point, she spread her arms wider still, standing on her tiptoes to block his view of Ogma entirely. Their proximity was so close that her gauzy skirt draped across Ogma’s chained arms like a bedsheet, the fabric no doubt soaking up more blood and sweat and grime the longer it touched his absolutely filthy skin.

For a moment, the entire world seemed dumbstruck. Then the guards and knights began to whisper furiously amongst themselves, shooting the Princess uncertain glances every few words. Ogma saw them gesture towards him, and the female knight kept making aborted grabs for her sword, but he couldn’t make out a word they said over the persistent ringing in his ears and the low murmur of the crowd.

Princess Caeda, meanwhile, remained firmly planted before him, chin held high and arms still outstretched, even though he could see her teeter unsteadily on her toes as her wounded shoulder trembled with exertion.

Her dress was stained, now, he realized, and not just where it had come into contact with him; the welt on her collarbone was bleeding sluggishly, crimson trickling down her back to leave dark, ugly blots on her frilly silk collar, and, before he could stop himself, Ogma croaked out an incredulous “Why?”

For all intents and purposes, the question was completely meaningless―too vague to communicate much of anything other than general bafflement. Yet, somehow, Princess Caeda spared him the trouble of trying to articulate when she glanced down at him over her shoulder, her face not hesitant and helpless but sure and resolute.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, with the tone of a statement. “Just let you die?”

Ogma had no response.

Luckily, the Princess didn’t prod him for one, and they both waited wordlessly for the guards and knights to come to an agreement, Caeda keeping rapt vigil over Ogma in case anyone worked up the nerve to attack him again. An eternity of heavy, pregnant silence seemed to pass before, at last, the executioner threw his hands in the air and gestured to the other soldiers, setting his weapon aside.

As the guards approached, the Princess moved with them, trying to keep her petite frame between them and Ogma. In the end, her knights ushered her aside, mollifying her with a whisper he couldn’t hear, but the gesture was enough to make his throat thicken with―something. Gratitude, perhaps, for the girl who’d tried to save his life. More than even that, respect―for the girl who’d faced down a squadron of trained soldiers unflinchingly, even after she’d gotten her first taste of the whip.

‘It would take balls of titanium to disobey a Princess like that,’ Ogma found himself thinking. Yet, somehow, he still managed to be surprised when the guards knelt, unhooked his arms from the block, cut his legs free, and heaved him to his feet.

The rough handling hurt like all hell, reigniting the agony etched into his back, and he let out a strangled cry without really meaning to. The reaction was immediate. “Stop! Be careful, or you’ll hurt him more!” the Princess snapped, and the guards hastened to comply, taking most of Ogma’s weight without jostling his wounded back. “And unchain him at once―all the way!”

Oh―he hadn’t even noticed that his wrists were still shackled before him, like usual. Clearly, this had been a conscious decision on the guards’ part, because they sputtered once again under her demands. “B-but―Your Highness, we can’t―”

“You can and will,” she interrupted before they could even try to make their case, a note of authority in her impossibly young voice. “I will hear no arguments. He has been pardoned, so he shall be freed.”

One of the knights―a tall, well-built woman with a wicked-looking scimitar at her hip―placed a cautious hand on Caeda’s shoulder. “Milady, it’s not that simple,” she said, not unkindly. “He was already a gladiator before he did any crime. The pardon of every princess in Archanea wouldn’t change that.” To the knight’s credit, Ogma detected a hint of righteous anger when she continued, “Pardon him, and he goes back to being property. And you can’t seize private property without a lawful reason.”

Ah. So that was the catch. He would return to the colosseum, the Princess would be appeased, and, in her absence, he would simply be dragged back to the block, once enough time had elapsed for this novel occurrence to fade from the public consciousness. As soon as he’d regained his relative anonymity, he would end up right back here again. Or, perhaps, he would simply be pitted up against opponents that he could not beat so that his death could be claimed “accidental”. With his back injured so heavily, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a foe who could best him.

‘Or,’ Ogma found himself thinking, ‘maybe I’ll survive. Live to die another day. Help some more people escape―maybe even manage to escape, myself.’

It was one hell of a long shot, but something about the gutted, distressed look on Princess Caeda’s face made him want to believe that her fears were unfounded. More than anything else, he wanted to reassure her; at the very least, she’d delayed his death significantly―but, somehow, he doubted she’d be happy to hear as much. It felt... wrong, though, to not even attempt to console her, after she’d given him some concrete hope to cling to in his dying breaths―not just hope for himself, but hope for the world to which Samuel and the others had escaped.

(Talys couldn’t be too bad with an heir apparent like this.)

Apparently, though, the heiress in question was perfectly capable of generating her own hope, because the despair in her eyes was short-lived. “Let’s say, then, that I don’t pardon him,” she said, her voice beginning to wear thin, unused to maintaining an air of importance for so long. “Instead, I find him guilty and sentence him to a lifetime of community service. This would not be considered seizing property, just claiming my natural right to...”

She glanced at the other knight―a short, burly man in heavy armor wielding an imposing polearm―for assistance, and he cleared his throat. “To ‘render the supreme judgment of the crown’, my lady,” he tentatively filled in, “but I’m afraid that criminals charged with murder and violence cannot be given community service.”

“Exactly!” the executioner cut in from the side, stepping forward with unwarranted confidence, only to immediately quail when both knights and their liege leveled him with icy glares. “I-it’s... that is to say... it’s just public safety, Your Highness. A mongrel like him could get somebody killed―somebody innocent.”

It was a perfectly reasonable argument, and it would have been perfectly reasonable for Princess Caeda to subside and send Ogma away to whatever gruesome fate awaited him―to save herself the trouble, if nothing else. At this point, though, Ogma was hardly surprised when she stood her ground without ceding a single inch. “But the... the reasoning is sound, yes?” she pressed, eyes darting back over to the burly knight. “I don’t have to pardon him, I can just... change his sentence?”

The burly knight considered this. “There is precedent for such a thing,” he said slowly, “but, in extreme cases such as this, the only appropriate sentence would be jail time, and he would still be considered property of the colosseum’s owner upon release. Unless you gave him a life sentence―”

Before he could finish that thought, the other knight pulled Princess Caeda a bit closer and stooped over, bending low to murmur in her ear, “Do you think life in prison would be a kindness, milady?”

The Princess visibly started, as if this question was a new and alarming thought that hadn’t occurred to her, and her eyes flickered over to Ogma, who couldn’t quite contain his own startled jolt. Watching the three interact, he’d almost forgotten that they were talking about him. Now, under the full weight of the Princess’ regard, he found himself wondering the same thing―which would be better: life as a gladiator with a probable execution incoming, or life as a prisoner with no end in sight until he eventually wasted away?

To her credit, Princess Caeda was only struck silent for the briefest of moments before she wiped the shock off of her face. “Very well,” she said, the slight tremor in her voice belying her stoic countenance. “What... what is your name, good sir?”

A strange question, if she was going to ask one, but he wasn’t complaining. “Ogma,” he answered simply, his voice rough with under- and overuse.

The Princess nodded her understanding. “And what are your charges, Ogma?”

Ah―a much more reasonable question. And, unfortunately, one with an answer that didn’t paint him in the best of lights. The correct response was “Inciting a riot”, but Ogma threw caution to the wind and instead replied, “I helped my fellow gladiators escape the arena. I was a diversion.” Then, because he might as well be completely honest if he was going to tell the truth: “I killed the guards to keep them from recapturing everyone.”

One of the guards made a triumphant noise. “You see―he admits it!” he tried, but immediately fell silent when the female knight shot him a warning look.

Princess Caeda didn’t react to either Ogma’s explanation or the soldier’s words; she just continued to stare at Ogma with such intense scrutiny that it was almost enough to make him squirm. After a long while that felt even longer, she nodded again, acknowledging his words as truth. “For these charges,” she began, her voice tender in sharp contrast to the hardness of her eyes, “what do you feel to be a fitting sentence?”

Shouts of protest arose from the guards and crowd alike, but the Princess quelled them with a wave of her hand and a responding brandish of her knights’ weapons. “I will hear his plea, then render my judgment,” she said firmly, leaving no room for complaint or compromise. With that, she returned her piercing gaze to Ogma. “Well?”

For a moment, he could summon no words. He had to remind himself to swallow, rather than letting the spit pool up in his mouth, and his stiff muscles strained against his throat.

Finally, he managed to string the syllables together as coherently as he could. “I had resigned myself to death when I decided to help the others escape,” he said simply. “Any other fate is preferable, but I’m not scared to face the block. If you want me to die, then I’ll die now, without regrets.”

Surprise flickered across the Princess’ face for only a moment before she hastily swallowed it down. She searched his face again, and, whatever she was looking for, she must have found it.

“What if...” Her tongue swiped across her lip, and she began again, her voice steadier this time. “What if I want you to live?”

She’d struck him speechless before with such frequency and in such quick succession that, this time, Ogma wasn’t even surprised so much as he was bemused. Still, he didn’t speak for a good long moment, taking the opportunity to scan her face as thoroughly as she’d scanned his.

Caeda’s eyes were fierce and unwavering, her posture impeccable and her shoulders thrown back, but there was a gentleness there; not naivete or clinical pity, but a genuine empathy that was rare to see in nobles―much less nobles with that kind of fire in their eyes.

He made his decision.

With some difficulty, Ogma wrested himself from the guards’ grip. The crowd gasped, and the Princess’ knights drew their weapons, but he didn’t lunge; he merely lowered himself slowly, his back screaming in protest, until one trembling, bruised knee was pressed against the floor. Then, breathing through the pain, he raised his head to meet Caeda’s wide eyes.

She looked even younger now, and Ogma allowed himself a moment to marvel at how strange it was―that this was the first person he’d willingly bent his knee to in years.

He swallowed a mouthful of dirt and blood and said, as clearly as he could, “Then I’ll live for as long as you want me to, if I can.”

(He was always thinking about how he needed a reason to live―a reason to fight―more than anything. And, well, she’d spared his life, anyway―it practically belonged to her, now.)

This time, there was no sudden determination that broke across Caeda’s face to cover her surprise; she remained wide-eyed and open-mouthed, even as she gulped and shakily nodded her understanding. “I see,” she said faintly. Then her eyebrows drew down and her lips thinned, though the rest of her expression remained guileless and stricken.

“Dame Aiveen.” Her voice no longer trembled. “Your sword, please.”

For all that he’d come to understand Caeda in the brief interactions they’d shared, Ogma still considered for a moment that maybe she’d decided to remove his head, after all. Then she accepted the sword her knight offered and nearly dropped it to the ground immediately, arms quivering under its weight as she struggled to lift it without losing her balance, and he felt like a fool for thinking, even for a moment, that she had a cruel bone in her body.

The sword wavered noticeably as Caeda raised it with both hands, shakily holding it before her, with the tip less than a foot from Ogma’s face. “In repentance for his crimes,” she declared, loud enough for all to hear, “Ogma shall serve the Crown of Talys until his dying breath.” She met his eyes. Her confident stare, which he had already come to think of as her “true” expression, was finally back. “He shall swear his fealty as my vassal and pledge eternal loyalty to me and me only.”

Ah. So that was her game. Swearing himself as a vassal to the crown would rid him of his status as ‘private property’ permanently. Vassals, after all, could own land, and you couldn’t own property if you, yourself, were ‘property’. What a simple solution. A truly elementary idea.

Ogma was certain that he was supposed to respond with some specific line, but he had no clue as to what such a line might entail, so he simply bowed his head and said, “Yes.”

No one seemed particularly concerned with the informality of his words―or, at the very least, no one stopped her from leaning forward and touching the flat of the sword to Ogma’s shoulder. It landed with a thunk as she failed to manage its weight, but he was able to completely smother his hiss of pain, so it was of no consequence. When it moved over to his opposite shoulder, though, it was much gentler, the blade’s quivers intensifying as Caeda struggled not to put too much of its weight on him, so she must have noticed his pain, anyway. Naga only knew how.

The sword withdrew from his shoulder, and Ogma raised his head on instinct, meeting his new liege’s eyes. Her expression was mostly blank, save for the certainty and confidence that she exuded as a default, but that was fine. Ogma couldn’t even wager a guess as to what his own face looked like right now, anyway, so he was in no position to judge.

Caeda took a deep breath and lowered the sword to the ground, placing both hands atop its pommel. “Rise, Sir Ogma of Talys.” Her voice rang loud and clear and certain, like a church bell’s toll. “From this day forward, you will serve as my personal retainer.”

Lacking the strength to stand on his own, Ogma just bowed again, even as the tattered skin on his back strained. “As you wish, Princess Caeda,” he replied, dead serious despite the near-giddy glee welling up in his chest. “This body is yours until it breaks.”

Without warning, her hand shot out and clamped down on his shoulder, nowhere near the welts but still tight enough to elicit a flinch. He looked up to find a teary glare bearing down on him.

“It best not break any time soon,” Caeda said, her tone threatening despite the thick emotion dripping from each word, “because breaking my heart is against your vows. Understand?”

Despite himself, Ogma let a small, sincere smile slip onto his face―and, against all odds, when he softly replied, “I understand,” he was telling the truth.

He awoke to a dry throat, a bone-deep grogginess that he couldn’t quite shake off, a faint but insistent pain in his back, and the familiar sounds of soft humming and metal scraping against stone.

Over the years, he’d grown to recognize the medical tent almost immediately by scent alone, and, by the time he’d managed to pry open his eyes, he already had a decent idea of what was happening. The sensation of a wound completely healed by magic, leaving huge patches of too-new skin that twitched and tingled at the slightest touch, was easy to recognize when you’d had so many wounds fixed in such a manner. A thin sleeping pad, damp with sweat but much cleaner than his usual cot; light sheets draped across his body, and a thick duvet on top, rather than his thin woolen blanket; bandages squeezing his torso, but only his trousers covering him otherwise.

He must have been badly injured, and the clerics must have narrowly saved him.

Once he reached that conclusion, his memories came rushing back to him. The archer; the Macedonians; the unseen injury; Princess Caeda’s intervention; the perilous flight back through enemy lines; losing consciousness just as they arrived.

It appeared that Princess Caeda, as always, had gone for the most daring save imaginable, and, as always, her harebrained scheme had succeeded.

Torn between a fond smile and a pained grimace as his freshly-fixed injury tingled uncomfortably, Ogma settled for a soft groan, slowly blinking his eyes open. Sure enough, the tan canvas of the medical tent swam into view, although it was far less crowded than it tended to be directly after a battle. He must’ve been out for a while, then. It made sense, he supposed; his wound had been bad enough to temporarily convince him that he was dead, so it must’ve taken a while for his body to recover. In that time, the rest of the wounded had evidently healed and returned to their own tents, leaving him seemingly alone in the middle of the tent.

That also meant that he’d either suffered the most grievous injury out of the Archanean troops, or else those who’d suffered worse injuries had passed away before he could wake. Given the sheer number of troops they’d faced, the latter seemed more likely, but Lord Marth was a cautious commander and the thought of his allies dying because he hadn’t been there to protect him made his stomach roll, so Ogma optimistically chose to believe the former.

Breathing out heavily through his nose, he experimentally rolled his shoulders, feeling his new scar tissue strain with the movement. Lena, Wrys, and/or Maria had done an admirable job; other than the obvious stiffness and aches, the pain was almost nonexistent. With a week or so of rest, it would likely fade entirely. He would have to remember to thank whoever had fixed him up at the first opportunity.

With that thought in mind, he breathed deep through his nose and slowly began to sit up, using his good arm to support himself and trying not to strain his injured back or shoulder too much.

“Ahem.”

Ogma startled, accidentally jostling his wound, and whirled around. Sitting a few feet behind him, with her back against the canvas tent wall and her legs crossed daintily beneath her, was Princess Caeda, wearing only her undershirt and an old pair of trousers, yet somehow twice as intimidating as a Macedonian soldier in full armor.

As he stared, instinctively shifting his legs underneath him so that he didn’t have to twist over his injured shoulder, she slowly looked up from the wing spear in her lap, which she appeared to be in the middle of sharpening. Or perhaps she’d been sharpening her eyes, instead, because the cold look on her face pierced Ogma with the ease of a ballista shot and the force of a rampaging wyvern.

“You’re awake,” she observed icily, and Ogma wondered how likely it was that she’d gone to the trouble of saving his life a third time just so she’d have the satisfaction of killing him herself.

That was a ridiculous thought only born of apprehension, though, so, rather than frantically try to explain himself, he just swallowed and warily responded, “So I am.”

Caeda made a noise that acknowledged she’d heard his words but imparted no other information about her thoughts or current level of anger. Slowly, she set her whetstone aside, though her grip on the wing spear didn’t falter as she leaned forward.

“How is your injury?” she asked, her voice still perfectly impassive, though the question seemed genuine, not just a way to fill time.

Ogma gratefully accepted the transition into a much easier conversational topic. “Much better,” he said, turning to face her fully so he could demonstrate his improved range of motion without letting on how strange and tight his skin felt. “Whoever healed me did a da―a good job.”

Caeda caught his cut-off curse and rolled her eyes, but didn’t comment. “Let me see,” she said instead, shuffling forward without waiting for a response. She sidled into his blind spot with complete nonchalance, and he allowed her to quickly and carefully unwind his bandages to get a better look at the afflicted area.

Of course, observant as Caeda was, there was no chance of her catching something that the healers had somehow missed, but he knew that it eased her fears to see the scar tissue with her own eyes, and who was he to deny her that paltry comfort?

After a brief moment, she hummed again and carefully redressed his wound, though Ogma seriously doubted that it was necessary at this point, since it was nearly completely healed. “Looks fine,” she said neutrally, without her usual relieved ‘I’m so glad you’re alright’ or ‘We should both count ourselves lucky’.

Right. It was easy to forget that she wasn’t pleased with him when he couldn’t see the clear signs of thinly-veiled anger in her body language. Clearing his throat, Ogma turned himself around once again to face her. “Yeah,” he began, “it doesn’t hurt any―”

Then he saw the bandages wrapped around her right shoulder, nearly blending in against her pale skin, and abruptly forgot what he was saying.

“Princess,” he interrupted himself, the urgency in his voice enough to make her look up at him immediately, “your arm―”

Understanding crossed her face, and she raised a hand to silence him―it didn’t escape his notice that she raised her left hand, rather than her dominant right, which stayed limp in her lap. “Peace―it’s already mostly healed.”

“Mostly?” With the extensive healing magic they had at their disposal, only grievous wounds like his would be only ‘mostly’ healed this long after the fact―and, even though she had to have used both hands to sharpen her spear or untie the bandages, Ogma couldn’t help but think, irrationally, that he hadn’t seen her right arm move yet.

Caeda simply shrugged, reaching up subconsciously to wrap her left hand around the bandaged area. “Arrow wound,” she explained. “Didn’t hit Tempest, thank the gods. Lena and Wrys got me patched up, but I wouldn’t let them waste their magic on such a minor injury―a vulnerary each morning for a week without strenuous activity, and I’ll be fine.”

Ogma had no good reason to feel like the breath had been knocked out of his lungs by those words, but, well. Here he was. ‘An arrow wound.’ Clearly, his efforts in clearing the battlefield of archers hadn’t been enough. Of course they hadn’t―one man alone couldn’t protect the Princess from harm when she often found herself on the front lines in the middle of a war―but some irrational part of him was still shocked that something had slipped past him.

Caeda snapped her fingers, and he startled back to attention. She frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”

Ogma opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. He didn’t think it prudent to mention that the entire reason he’d nearly died in the first place was that he’d rushed into the middle of an enemy platoon just to take out a single archer. Nor had he ever admitted that he always targeted archers first, even when they weren’t currently taking aim at her.

Unfortunately for him, Caeda seemed to glean all of these things without being told. “Ogma,” she said dryly after a moment, her face frosting over again, “this may surprise you, but you are not physically capable of incapacitating every archer in Macedonia, no matter how many times you charge into a huge group of enemies without backup. Actually, as your liege lady, I’m afraid I’ll have to forbid you from doing so again, since this incident alone has already removed a good three years from my lifespan.”

Ogma winced. The rebuke hurt all the more for its accuracy―worrying aside, his recklessness had very nearly gotten his Princess killed. If Tempest had bucked just a bit harder while Caeda had both hands off of the reigns, busy trying to get Ogma situated, then they both would’ve fallen. And, if the impact hadn’t killed them, the Macedonians would have. Either way, these reckless charges had to stop.

“Of course, my lady,” was all he could say, bowing his head slightly, both in apology and recognition of her orders. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Caeda didn’t reply. When she did, it was uncharacteristically soft―a quiet, uncertain mutter of “As long as you don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” Ogma responded immediately, less as a conscious thought and more because he couldn’t stand to hear his liege sound like that. Raising his head, he tried to impart some of his sincerity through his eyes, but she wasn’t looking at him.

He hesitated for a moment, then gestured to her bandaged shoulder. “May I?”

She nodded her affirmative, brushing her hair back with her left hand, and he reached forward to undo the bandages as carefully as he could, just in case she’d exaggerated how much she’d already healed. Fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case: all that was left to indicate she’d been wounded was a dark scab. It must not have been a very deep injury, he supposed.

“Like I said, it wasn’t even worth the magic,” Caeda murmured after a moment, and Ogma quietly hummed his agreement, glancing over to see if she was still refusing to meet his gaze. Halfway there, though, his eyes caught on her collarbone, and his whole body stilled.

By this point, the scar had become faint with age, even harder to pick out against her naturally pale skin. It curved around from her collarbone to her back, thicker and bolder along the top of her shoulder where the whip had struck hardest, but thin enough in the back that it was almost difficult to see if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Mainly, though, it wasn’t the color that set it apart, but the slight puffiness of the scar tissue; the marks that the welt had left behind blatantly raised from the rest of her smooth skin.

Ogma swallowed thickly.

He still remembered how she’d refused to allow the clerics to attend her first. ‘Sir Ogma is hurt far worse,’ she’d said, stomping her feet petulantly even as she exerted her authority over the royal attendants with ease. ‘You can’t heal me until you heal him! That’s an order!’

They’d warned her, as they set to the nigh-impossible task of mending his back, that it was likely to scar quite noticeably if she didn’t allow them to see it at once. If anything, though, she’d taken that as a challenge. In the end, by the time she finally gave in and let the medics approach, at her knights’ and Ogma’s behest, it was too late to avert or even lessen the scarring.

She’d never seemed particularly ashamed of the scar, which Ogma was endlessly grateful for―it wasn’t something she should be ashamed of, by any means. If anything, it was a badge of honor that displayed her courage and sense of justice for all to see, and she was right to wear it as proudly as she did. Naga knew he held more respect for anyone who’d felt the whip before.

Still, every time he saw it, he couldn’t help the vague guilt that collected at the back of his throat.

Without thinking, he reached forward and touched the scar with the tips of his fingers. Caeda didn’t react, and he hastily yanked his hand back once he realized what he’d done, but there was no way she hadn’t noticed, and he coughed awkwardly into his fist. “Erm, sorry, Princess,” he muttered gruffly. “I wasn’t thinking.��

No response. After a moment, Caeda reached up herself and wrapped her hand around the mark, rubbing it like an old wound that still ached. Like Ogma sometimes caught himself rubbing his own shoulders, because he couldn’t reach far enough to rub his back in a useless attempt to sooth the scars that lay there, hidden under his shirt.

Ducking his head, Ogma deftly did up the Princess’ bandages again, carefully working around the slim fingers wrapped around her shoulder. When he moved to knot it off, though, Caeda’s hand suddenly slid down to cover his, grip tight enough to make him jump.

He glanced up, but she was still facing away from him, the small visible portion of her face unreadable. Shifting uneasily, he kept his hand carefully still underneath hers, even as he fumbled with the bandages. “Princess Caeda?”

“Do you remember what I told you that day?” she asked suddenly, voice not betraying her emotions.

Ogma couldn’t help but huff out a half-chuckle at that. “You’ll have to be a little more specific, Princess,” he replied, not unkindly, although he was reasonably certain that he remembered just about every sentence that left her mouth that fateful day―if not by word, then certainly in spirit.

The silence was fleeting. “I told you not to break your body,” Caeda elaborated after a moment, “because that would break my heart―”

“―and breaking your heart meant breaking my vows,” Ogma finished for her, matching her quiet, solemn tone. His eyes flickered down for a moment, and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “...Yeah. I remember, Princess.”

Abruptly, Caeda twisted to look over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his with a vehemence that was, at once, startling in its ferocity, completely incongruous with the mood in the room, and so typical of her that it was hardly surprising at all.

“Then act like it,” she ordered, her voice firm despite the unmistakable quiver of thick emotion.

At that, despite himself, Ogma really did laugh, his eyes squeezing shut and his free hand automatically rising to cover his mouth. When he regained himself and looked back, Caeda’s gaze hadn’t wavered, though her expression had softened considerably. She didn’t relinquish her hold on his hand.

Well, what was there to say? He couldn’t stay somber and downtrodden in the face of the girl he’d sworn his life to.

“As my lady commands,” Ogma said with a grin, and carefully knotted the bandage into place without wresting his hand from Caeda’s grip.

#Fire Emblem #FE Ogma #FE Caeda #Shadow Dragon #archanea week #FE11 #angst #hurt/comfort #Angst with a happy ending #but they have to earn their happy ending #oneshot #THE WORD COUNT GUYS #I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED #scene 2 somehow turned into 10k???#blood tw #violence tw #torture tw

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