#he's done mourning living in that grief and his sacrifice is the last thing he wanted to give to protect the kingdom he still saw as sonic' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

im-not-corrupted · 7 months

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Part 1/6 of my merman Hob au (also on ao3 here!), of which I previously posted a snippet of here. Chapters two and three are half done so far so updates may take a bit? I’m not sure but we shall see!

Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Merman!Hob, Human Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, the fantasy is very vague but like. mermaids., Dream of the Endless | Morpheus has Depression, Grief/Mourning, deals with the death of Orpheus, and Dream and Calliope's divorce, Brief suicidal ideation, Near Death Experiences, Drowning, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, POV Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Arranged Marriage, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Saves Hob Gadling, Developing Friendships

—————

The first time Morpheus de Endeles steps foot on a ship, it is with the intention of sailing to his wife’s homeland—the place of her birth, the place her parents rule, the place their son once knew far greater than he does now.

Ex wife, that is. They are no longer married now, because he had thoroughly ruined whatever the two of them had. The divorce had been a swift affair, and he is glad for it, despite the uproar it caused amongst his parent’s court and the disappointment his parents expressed in the face of such disaster. Last they saw one another, Calliope’s parting words had been scathing things, weapons made to kill and maim and cause the most damage possible while doing so.

She hates him now. This he acknowledges distantly as he steps on board the ship, feeling a little like he walks towards his own death. More than once, he bore witness to the end of a criminal’s life with the distinct impression that justice had been served, brutally and efficiently. Now he wonders if this is how they felt, facing their own end.

A bleak thought to start the trip off on, but that seems appropriate. If the knowledge of Calliope’s hatred for him is a distant thing, that is only because his mind remains occupied by other recent events. Namely, his son’s death.

The first time Morpheus de Endeles boards a ship, he does so with the intention of sailing to his son’s funeral.

Calliope insisted—over letters, written in elegant, swooping hand that did nothing to hide the sharp edges to her words—that Orpheus be buried in her homeland. And though the knowledge of her hatred is a distant thing, and has been since she spoke her last parting words, there was room inside him even then for the ache that arose as he read that letter.

There was more than enough room inside him for the guilt, too. There still is. You sent our son off to his death, Calliope hissed at him. This, he knows, is true. It is a different kind of agony, this knowledge. To know his son is dead is one thing. To be the one to blame, to have Orpheus’s blood stain his hands however indirectly—well, that is another thing entirely.

It was also this knowledge that prompted him to grant his past wife this wish and agree that Orpheus should be buried in her homeland. It was, he figures, the least he could do. He had subjected her to the same pain that currently sits inside his chest, an agony he thinks he won’t be rid of for as long as he lives. If this would soothe some of that agony for her, then he will gladly make that sacrifice for her.

On this ship is Telute, too. As Morpheus stands by the railing, looking out at the sea and the sky with a sense of detachment he has not felt since dear Del’s death, she stands beside him. She is dressed similarly to him, in mourning regalia. This is not so different to either of their typical styles—black suits them both well, and they each prefer the darker, drearier colours to those Epithumia tends to don.

She places a gentle hand on his shoulder. It is a comforting weight. His shoulders bow underneath it. He does not deserve this comfort—She is dead, he told Orpheus, unsympathetic as he wept for his lost love Eurydice, and yet you live. So live.—but he is a greedy thing, and therefore does not push her away.

She does not speak. She does not move away, either. Not as the sails are raised, commands shouted across the deck of the ship. Not as they begin to leave the harbour, and any sense of familiarity. She remains there, standing beside him, in a show of solidarity as the ship begins to move.

The swaying motion leaves him feeling ill. He pushes it down insistently. It is a feeling he must bear—a punishment, for all he has brought upon both his own family and Calliope. The disappointment in Nyx’s eyes, the rage in Cronos’s, and Calliope’s final words are not things he is likely to forget. He holds them close to his chest, a reminder of his own failures and regrets. Perhaps this way, he will not make them again.

A foolish thought, that. He has always been particularly resistant to the idea of change.

”It’ll be alright,” Telute tells him softly.

It is not a comfort. He nods stiffly anyway.

The two siblings remain standing for a while, silent and still as statues, and the feeling of dread doesn’t leave him for the duration of the trip.

+++

It is a quiet affair, the funeral. The hushed air, the grief that seems to live in it, do not disguise the looks he receives from both Calliope and her sisters. They hate him too. He does not begrudge them this, and tries his best to ignore them.

They are not his concern. His concern is Orpheus—his dear son, whose eyes were the same lovely brown as Calliope’s, whose raven hair curled at the nape of his neck. Orpheus was a joy, with a grin made for laughter and a voice made for singing. His affinity for music made things all the brighter back at home—there was no way to be miserable, even under the shadow of his parents, when Orpheus sang or played the lute. It was his own joy that made it so lovely, Morpheus thinks. It had been infectious. He had been made for music, and that became apparent with every string he plucked and note he hit.

This reminder made the funeral all the more painful. It is spent mostly in silence, broken only by the weeping of immediate family members and speeches made by Orpheus’s Calliope’s family. Not himself—he adamantly refuses when Calliope offers him the chance. It disappoints her, he sees it in her face, but how is he supposed to put words to the grief he felt over his son’s death? How is he supposed to speak and remain composed while reliving the death of one he loves more than he has loved anything or anybody before?

The silence is a mournful thing, sorrowful and weighing heavy. He thinks, for a moment, that he should’ve liked to hear Orpheus play at least once more before his death.

He does not cry. He is too scraped raw for that, for tears to come to his eyes. (Later, Calliope admonishes him about it. They are the last two standing before his grave, the sight o the name Orpheus carved into his headstone a knife in his chest. You did not even cry, she murmurs, her voice a terribly brittle thing. And Morpheus stands there and wishes he could turn back time, that the names they were given meant something more than abstract concepts. You do not even care.) He wants to cry. He wants to shed tears over his son’s death, to rage and agonise and scream at the sky. It all seems terribly unfair.

Telute remains by his side. Their arms are interlocked, now, his sister’s hand on his arm, and he is glad for her. For the steady, comforting presence she offers—for the ability to lean on her, to let himself succumb to despair while she remains the strong one. He has always looked up to Telute, to his dear sister Death, and he is more grateful than he thinks he can ever put into words for the fact that she didn’t leave him to face this by himself. He does not know if he would’ve coped otherwise.

She leaves him eventually, as those gathered begin to disperse. “You should say your own goodbyes,” she tells him, head tilting towards Orpheus’s new grave. Calliope sits before it, a motionless study of sorrow and mourning.

She is wise, dear Telute. He knows this. He knows this well. Always, she has had the answers, the right words to say. She is right about this, too.

But he stares after Calliope and yearns. Yearns to reach out, to offer a comforting hand on her shoulder or his own shoulder to cry on. Neither of those are things she will welcome. He does not blame her for this, but the yearning does not follow any kind of logic he knows of. They are nothing now, their relationship little more than ashes between them. His memories of their time together is soured by grief, by frustration and rage aimed at this entire damned situation, the hopelessness he feels so keenly.

He loves her still. Would offer her comfort despite it all, if he knew she’d accept it.

”I should,” he agrees softly. He doesn’t move. He isn’t sure he can. Grief has made his heart a cold, hardened thing. He is chilled with it, his blood like ice in his veins.

Telute offers him a terribly sympathetic look. It grates on him, makes him clench his jaw. He does not need pity.

Yet he would not dare say such a thing to his sister, and so she ignores the affronted expression he knows he wears and urges, “Go.”

He does. Calliope speaks to him only once, and it is as painful as the funeral itself. (I care, he wants to tell her. He wants to scream it, wants to make sure she knows. I care. He was my son, too.) She leaves him standing by their son’s grave.

He does not cry even then. He leaves a flower atop the gravestone instead, knowing it will be a while until he sees it again, and returns to Telute. (His eyes sting as they make their way back to their accommodations. He cries then. A single tear, but it is something.)

+++

The second time Morpheus de Endeles boards a ship, it is to return to his own homeland. It is to turn his back on his son, on the woman he once called wife and still loves as one despite her thorough abandonment of her. (There is a slowly rising anger there, too, as he thinks of her hardened eyes, once so gentle, as she accused him of not caring. Does she not know him better than that? Did their five years of marriage amount to nothing, for her to know him so little?)

It is also to face his first storm at sea, and to nearly drown.

It happens after a week and a half on the sea. They are nearly home, the captain tells him. He is a prideful thing, this captain, sure of himself and his abilities. I have not steered this ship wrong before, my Lord, he says, and this is enough for Morpheus, who only wishes to return to his home and immerse himself in the library so he might escape the horror of the last couple of months. He finds himself too tired to ask further questions, and simply leaves to return to his own cabin. His body has mostly acclimated to sea travel now—his stomach no longer feels like it is about to betray him at any given moment, and he is able to walk steadily.

A day later, they are hit by a storm.

It is a brutal, savage thing. At first, it is just the rain—the sky opens up above them to drench them in rain, the event so sudden it comes as a surprise. The skies were overcast before this, yes, but not bad enough for a storm so terrible, surely.

The sudden winds rip at them fiercely. The tides, which had been gentle for their journey so far, turn violent, larger than he ever imagined the sea capable of. His own fault, that—there are many stories about the brutality of the ocean, the fury that hides within its depths. He simply forgot about them, distracted by the beauty of the sun glistening on its calmer waves and the knowledge of why he stands atop a ship on the sea. He chose to see the beauty instead of the danger—he knows, in that moment, that he will not do the same a second time.

If he lives to see a second time. He is suddenly unsure he will—both sea water and rain drenches the deck. The crew hurries to obey the captain’s shouted, panicked orders, only just heard over the roaring winds. The ship tips and rocks and sways precariously. Morpheus grips onto the railing, tight enough his palms ache, and finds himself filled with a loud, insistent fear.

People die in the ocean all the time. The sea is not kind—it is full of rage and it is vengeful, determined to drown those who try to conquer it. He knows this. He knows this and yet he had let himself be distracted. And now he will die here, so soon after his son’s own death.

It is not that idea that terrifies him. Death does not scare him. He does not think it ever has. He believes not in any kind of afterlife—death, he believes, is simply nothing. To die is to no longer exist. There is beauty in that, he thinks. He is tired of existing already, and the grief that only swells within him makes that exhaustion all the more unbearable.

He does fear for his sister, though. His sister, whose eyes shine brightly, who treated his son kindly. Who had been there for him during his younger years, when misery clung to him like a parasite and sucked him dry of all desire for life. She does not understand him properly and often says the wrong things, but Morpheus doesn’t think that’s the point. She tries. She cares, offering him soft, fond smiles that are sometimes exasperated. She loves him, and even made this journey for him.

He thinks she does not deserve to die. He thinks, too, that he would do any number of things to ensure she makes it out.

There are shouts on the air, growing more urgent by the second. This is, surely, proof that this storm is far stronger than the rest of them, and he grits his teeth. Insistently, he surveys the crew as they rush back and forth, only—only he cannot see Telute anywhere. She doesn’t seem to be on the main deck, or perhaps he isn’t looking hard enough. The ship rocks and sways and his stomach lurches with it—he is not used to so much violent movement, and it is distracting.

But he steels his spine and stumbles across the deck, shouting as loud as he can, “Telute!”

”My Lord,” somebody says behind him, and he whirls—too fast, for his stomach lurches and he fears then that he will throw up, which would certainly be a reaction to have here and now—to find Lucienne standing behind him, her expression panicked and concerned. “My Lord, we must get you onto one of the boats.”

”No,” he denies immediately. The worst of his nausea dissipates but his voice still feels weak. He looks past Lucienne, ignoring the rain drenching his clothes and his face and his hair, and tries desperately to find Telute. “No. I must—I must find my sister.”

”My Lord, Jessamy is looking for her,” Lucienne informs him. When he returns his attention to her face, there is a quiet devastation there, and he regrets how harshly he spoke to her. She is a patient advisor, dear Lucienne. She does not deserve his harshness. Not now and not ever. “You must come with me now.”

He would trust Jessamy with his life, if it came to that. There is nobody more steadfast, nobody more loyal, than her. If she searches for Telute, there is little chance that she will stop until she inevitably finds her. Her stubborn streak runs bright, as does her loyalty to the Royal Family.

It is enough to inspire relief. Enough to make his shoulders slump for a moment—and as he says, “Very well,” he sees Jessamy escort a rather worried-looking Telute, who glances over her shoulder frantically, desperately. She will be safe, then.

“This way, my Lord,” Lucienne urges him, and he makes to follow.

He takes nothing more than a single step before the ship crests another wave violently, the winds driving them in the wrong direction, and it suddenly tips.

There is nothing for him to grab immediately, save Lucienne. Only, as he loses his footing and watches as Lucienne quickly regains hers, he doesn’t think that would be fair. If he falls—and he is, he realises belatedly, he is falling and falling and the violent, beautiful sea has never seemed quite so close—if he falls, he knows he would only drag her down with him. He is unaccustomed to this, to being upon the sea like so. He was not made for this. He was made for a throne to sit beside his parents’, and then beside his elder brother when his time eventually comes, just like the rest of their siblings. If not that, then marriage to another kingdom, to keep their ties strong, to keep trades between countries going. His fate was never supposed to be this.

He loses his footing and he falls and there is railing behind his back, digging in, and panic flares inside his chest. The ship is righted quickly, only to be assaulted again, and he does not cling tightly enough to the railing behind him to stop himself from falling overboard.

Then he is in the ocean. It is frigid, freezing, and he gasps loudly when he breaks the surface. It is the kind of cold that could seep through to bone, that could freeze him all the way through until he is nothing but ice.

He never really learned how to swim properly, but he knows enough to keep himself afloat. The winds whip his hair, soaked through with rain and sea water both, into his face, and he is not sure how he can make it out of this. The ship he fell from is being pushed away from him, the winds terrifyingly strong, despite efforts of the crew and the captain. With some deep-rooted instinct, he tries to swim forward, cursing inwardly at himself and his younger mind’s insistence on finding pleasure in things other than his lessons.

For a moment, it seems like he may be capable of making it back. It seems like he could truly do it, could make it close enough to the ship they could help him back up, or close enough they might be able to pull him back up.

Then a wave crests behind him, shadowing him, a great, looming giant, and falls atop him without a care in the world.

He is pulled under the surface of the ocean and holds his breath intently. It is dark down there. The sea pushes him from seemingly every direction, with the same ferocity as the storm, and try as he does to push against the currents, he is unable to do much at all. The surface remains terribly distant, and that distance seems suddenly insurmountable. He knows, with abrupt and perfect clarity, that he is not making it out of there.

Morpheus de Endeless does not often contemplate death. Not truly.

There are thoughts, of course, that sneak past his own defences. They boil down to this: If I were to die today, I do not think I would mind. Ultimately, that is easy to ignore, to push away. He does not truly want to die, the way he knows some people do. He has his duties to his family, after all. He simply would not mind if death caught him in its clutches.

Now, with his lungs burning and his frantic struggles against the damned ocean proving futile, he thinks this may be preferable. Beneath all the pain of oxygen deprivation as he stubbornly refuses to try to take in a breath only to swallow the ocean into his lungs lies the grief, the ache, the knowledge that he so thoroughly ruined everything good he somehow managed to make his own. His Calliope. His Orpheus. His loves. One hates him now. The other is buried in the ground at only nineteen, hardly an adult and far too young to lose. His parents’ disappointment is an easy thing to conjure up in his mind, and he hates that just as much as he does his losses. What is there left for him, above the surface? At home?

When he frames it like that, he thinks—he thinks it would not be so terrible to face death. He thinks it might be better than rising another day only to remember his son is gone, to see another sunset and acknowledge the fact that Orpheus will not get to see one again.

When he thinks about it like that, it is remarkably easy to stop struggling. Involuntarily, he tries to suck in a breath only to choke on ocean water, and now he is stuck in an endless cycle of pain as he slowly drowns. His head feels…fuzzy, his vision full of little black spots. Distantly, he knows this isn’t good. Knows if he doesn’t do something, he will not make it out of this alive.

He does not want to. The ocean is not violent, he realises now. It is kind, and offers him a reprieve as his body slowly sinks, weighed down by the rich fabrics he wears, as his vision grows hazy and dark and keeping his eyelids open seems like an insurmountable task.

Before he closes them properly, he thinks—he thinks he sees something in the water. A figure, moving towards him. A person, perhaps, only—only that looks like a fish’s tail, fins and all.

Then his eyes fall shut, blocking out everything around him, and he loses himself to the void and the cold and the blissful, welcoming nothing that waits for him beyond.

+++

He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up.

It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.

He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.

It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped on board the ship. His mind had been occupied then, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.

Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.

He should’ve been more careful.

It is not just the ocean that lies before him, he realises after a moment, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.

It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird.

“Who are you?” Morpheus asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?

The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his joyful face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"

He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now, an alluring song. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"

Come to think of it, he can't recall whether he has seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.

Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.

Thinking of it makes his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving Prince Morpheus de Endeles’s life.

He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.

The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him expectantly as though waiting for something more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares in the moment–and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.

Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.

A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who has a fish's tail instead of legs.

Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and tender, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."

The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.

"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.

Sure. Why not? "Why did you save me then?"

He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.

He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.

The merman blinks at him, expression ever-serious. “You are.”

”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does, anyway.

Whatever energy allowed him to carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.

He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearns for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever comes first. He doesn’t mind either way.

Then the merman speaks again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”

It takes a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”

”Are you sure?”

He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”

Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thinks, and the thought is almost blissful—and then he is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”

He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too, maybe. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."

The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he says slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."

"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.

"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.

He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."

The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is truly an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.

When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from death at the hands of the ocean.

#the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #morpheus dream of the endless #dreamling fic #the sandman fic #merman au #eris writes things #death of the endless

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waxing2you · 6 months

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monument mythos/nixonverse rambling lets GO (warning for spoilers btw)

okay, so i think that the "grief makes you a monster" thing ties into three major parts of the series. 1. james dean setting out to kill howard melrose, 2. the house in the ocean/crescent king, 3. everett's entire character arc

1. james' reaction to the death of eunice was (i think, i'm not sure) one of the first examples of this grief. of course, the very first example was with the canyon crowns- being turned into inhuman beings by being too curious, and then, presumably, grieving the lives they lost, and their pain being used to lead others to their deaths. however, this is the first example where someone could have chosen something else and didn't. the canyon crowns practically had no choice in leading others to their demise, since they had to get vinegar and/or protection so they wouldn't be found by tourists and such. james' reaction is also irrational, but so is grief. it is his irrational mind (pained by losing his sister and some random journalist hearing her last words instead of him) is what compels him to crash a plane into the side of the one that melrose was on- without regard for the other passengers (considering it was likely a passenger flight) and this is how he was turned into a monster. he is still undeniably human (although many believe that he has some sort of power to charm others, but i think he's just like that) but he has been changed, and he hurt others because of his grief.

2. the house in the ocean was, at first, based on alex's father's death, but i think it does fit pretty well in the rest of the series. i didn't get to see the series when he originally uploaded it, so if there was anything discussed/uploaded on that version, i don't know about it. however, i think the whole premise of the series (especially the cartoons) is really important to the monument mythos. the cartoons, i believe, represent forgetting things about someone over time- and as your brain struggles to make connections, it changes bit by bit. sure, one can be reminded of what it really was, but unless that reminder encompasses all of their memories, some things will slip through the cracks. i also think that the house being made to turn into the crescent king represents someone's grief being used for something they wouldnt normally want. after, the king "can't stop crying"- likely mourning the person he once was. through the series, he'd been used multiple times, by the US (jesus in vietnam) and the lunarians, so him mourning the person he once was, helping others and preventing bad decisions, shows how he grieves for himself.

3. everett my boy. he's overall my favorite character in the series, awesome, super cool, all that. i think his grief is pretty face value- he is grieving the time he lost in wonderland, but he is using that grief to help others. he doesn't want anyone to go through what he did, so he decides to sacrifice himself to save everyone from the martian serpent. this also goes for the freedom statue and air force one angel- they had been used, had done terrible things, etc etc, but they see that the martian serpent is more dangerous than anything else. everett following the copy of virginia also shows that, despite his situation, he wants to help others- and he hopes that one of the times he finds the real her to get her out.

if one is watching this series, i recommend it be watched when sad or grieving. it hit twice as hard as it would have if i didn't watch it during one of those times, and it still holds a huge place in my heart. sometimes, i even watch videos about the series itself because i want to see someone else discover the beauty of the monument mythos.

#waxing to you guys #the nixonverse #the monument mythos

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phoenix-downer · 9 months

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With the Dawn

~1155 words. Tidus/Yuna. Post-FFX. Yuna POV. Grief/Mourning, Angst, Romance, Coping with Loss.

Summary: Yuna reflects on how Tidus has impacted her life. Though she misses him terribly, her memories of him give her the strength to move forward one day, one hour, one moment at a time.

Yuna can’t go anywhere that doesn’t remind her of him. They went everywhere around Spira together. Kilika, Luca, the Mi’ihen Highroad, Djose, Moonflow, Guadosalam, the Thunder Plains, the Macalania Woods, Bevelle. The Calm Lands, Mt. Gagazet, Zanarkand, they saw it all together. Places that once brought her comfort and happy memories now reopen the wounds of grief. Not even her beloved Besaid is safe. His face and voice are everywhere and yet nowhere. He’s gone from this world, and his absence hangs over everything like a giant canopy cloaking the sun.

Fittingly for a day like today, the sky is overcast as she walks along, casting a pall on this beautiful tropical paradise like his loss casts a shadow over her life. She knew him for only a small portion of it, and yet, he had such an impact on her that his influence is undeniable. The two of them spent their short time together better than most people spend decades together. That was just how Tidus was. Always making the most of every moment. Always living life to the fullest. He showed her there was another way to live, another way to love. That if she was going to sacrifice herself, it had better be for something she believed in with all her heart.

She can no longer believe in Yu Yevon anymore. That is perhaps Tidus’s greatest gift to her: truth and freedom from an oppressive belief system that held her and so many other people captive. Being called a heretic and an apostate is oddly freeing once you’ve found the truth. Like a badge she wears proudly because she cared enough to keep searching for answers.

If only she could search for him. But how do you search for someone who is not dead because he was never really alive? Tidus only existed because of the Dream of the Fayth. His life was never like hers. And yet he was the realest person she’s ever met.

She stares at Besaid Falls, the churning white water ever crashing against the rock. This place has been here since she first set foot on Besaid, and it’s tempting to think it always will be. And yet she knows that even this is temporary, that someday these falls will be no more. That is the only guarantee in this life, that someday everything will end. Best to appreciate the good things while they last.

She wanted to have so much more time with him. Imagine what they could’ve done with even a few more days, a few more hours, a few more minutes. But she recognizes some people are meant to be in her life for only a season. The spray from the falls mixes with the tears on her face as she thinks about what a wonderful season it was. Tidus taught her so much. And she knows he would say the same about her—that she helped him appreciate the value of love and sacrifice. Of having a purpose you believe in with all your heart. She’s glad he was able to reconcile with his father too. Sir Jecht certainly had his flaws, but he truly loved his son.

She wipes her eyes and turns away from the falls. Life is far too short and far too precious to hold grudges. It’s best spent loving the people you hold dear and letting them know how much they mean to you while you still can. Making treasured memories that will last until your own time runs out. Death always comes in the end, sometimes when you least expect it. All the Sendings she’s performed, all too often for those far too young, are proof enough of that.

Her mother, her father, and now Tidus. Her life is a series of one loss after the other. But for the sake of the people who remain, she must carry on. To honor the memory of the people she loves and has lost, she must live the rest of her life to the fullest. Must make the most of the remaining time she has and help Spira rebuild.

She walks along the well-worn path. Some moments she desperately wishes she could be reunited with her parents and Tidus again now, even if it means the end of her own life. But then she thinks about how they all want her to live. It would not honor them to end her own life prematurely, especially when her living loved ones need her. She still has work to do in this life. Then, when her time comes and she is reunited with her deceased loved ones in the Farplane at long last, she can do so with the knowledge she has made them proud and has lived her life well. She wants to leave a legacy as impactful as their legacies.

She is on the beach now where Tidus initially appeared, where he first erupted into her life and left a wave of bliss in his wake. The water laps at the hem of her dress and the wet sand rubs against her feet as the sunset streaks the sky with a symphony of colors. She is alive, and every sense celebrates this fact. Out of habit she performs his whistle, flooding the air with the familiar sound. Not so much to try to summon him as to let him know she’s thinking of him. That she remembers him. A promise that he is on her heart and mind until the day she dies.

That’s all anyone really wants, isn’t it? To be remembered even after they’re gone. For their loved ones to treasure the memories of their precious time together in their hearts. That matters far more than fame and riches.

Yuna clasps her hands and clears her throat, then recounts one of her favorite memories of Tidus, the moment he smiled at her after their first kiss. It’s a little moment in a sea of big ones, but it means so much to her. The tears come and she doesn’t try to restrain them this time. They’re precious reminders of her love for him and soon join the swell of the ocean to carry her grief far away. She’s honest about how much she misses him and how much she wants to see him again. All the specific ways his loss is felt in her heart and her life.

Her only answer is the steady tide lapping against the shore. No one can hear her, no one visible anyway, and yet she feels calmer afterwards. At peace.

She sighs deeply. The sun has set and a cool evening breeze has picked up. The moon casts its gentle warm glow on the sea, and the stars are twinkling in the heavens above. She’s made it through another day without him. Night has come, and this too shall pass.

This will all pass in the end, and hope will come with the dawn.

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

A/N: FFX holds a very dear place in my heart, as it was the first Final Fantasy game I ever played. I have fond memories from enjoying it with one of my closest friends, and then later sharing it with a family member. During difficult times in my life, it's been a comfort to return to, so it was very cathartic to write this story and explore Yuna's thoughts and feelings post-FFX.

Thank you for reading!

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mxllitiam · 1 year

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INTRODUCING . . .

g a l e h a w t h o r n e .

GENERAL...

name : gale hawthorne. meaning : gale "joyous"; hawthorne "where hawthorn trees grow". nickname : nightingale (his mom). age : twenty-four. birthdate : april 18th. zodiac: aries sun, taurus rising, aquarius moon. gender identity : cisgender man , he / him. orientation : bisexual , biromantic. place of birth : district 12. current residence : district 12. occupation : citizen of district 12, mine worker, lottery winner, recruited by the rebellion .

HISTORY...

tw: child abandonment, parental death.

Gale Hawthorne has been fighting his whole life. He is dirt under fingernails and matted down hair and scars on tan skin. All he's known is that he needs to scramble his way through life before it finds a way to sink him, and that's what he's always done.

He can't remember a life before his parents, not quite. His colorful and vivid memories are a well-painted picture far after his six or seven years of life, within the comfort of a newfound home to call his own. But he remembers the feeling. He remembers the cold abandonment of the streets, the chill in his bones that made him think he would die out there. Alone. He remembers thinking he'd give anything to have a family. He was four-years-old and already bargaining with death to let him live another day.

This was the certain weight that Gale carried everywhere – like a sack, a lump of grief that he dragged behind him, everywhere he went, from birth. He grew into a confident boy, and then soon into a snarky teenager, but he was still always a touch too sober. There was always a dullness in his eyes, even behind the childish glint of his one too many dry jokes. He was robbed of a childhood, and he could only emulate that same sort of freedom he saw on other kids.

And then he was robbed of his teenage years, too. It was only natural to step up when his father died, even if that gave him no time to mourn. Even if it meant choking back tears while he held his little siblings and his mother. He did what he'd always known best, he squared his shoulders up and he braved it, for the people he loves. People would often give him sad eyes and tell his mother about what a pity it was, that he had to become the man of the house so young, but Gale sees it as a blessing now. A blessing that he was the one to do it, so his siblings could cry when they needed to. A blessing that he could hunt and prepare meals and give the little ones baths, while his mother had time to grieve. A blessing that the sacrifice was his, not anyone else's, because he loves them so much.

Life is this, he learns. For people like him, life is baring his teeth and laughing at misery, and finding peace where he can. He takes care of his family, he loves with his heart tucked safely away in his chest. He's unlucky with love, he'd tell you, in the same breath he'd make some awfully dry remark about how maybe he could test his luck out in the Games, next. Maybe deep down, he always knew he and Katniss couldn't work, and maybe that still stings. His tongue is a weapon sharpened to precision that doesn't hesitate to protect the beating organ in his ribcage whenever he's near her or Peeta, these days.

The last year has been a blur. Losing the girl he loved – over and over again, first for the reaping, then for marriage, now for the capitol –, having to worry about his siblings and their names being called in the next few years, being whipped to near-death in the town square. He can feel something building in his throat, something in him pulled taut like a rubber band, ready to snap broken. This can't be the world they live in. Resentment pools somewhere in his stomach, at this whole thing, and at anyone who isn't actively doing something about it.

Enough of his bitter remarks eventually catch the attention of the rebellion. A hushed voice offers him a chance to help one day, while he's selling game in a back alley, and he takes it without any hesitation. A chance to make a difference, that's all he needs, he thinks.

And then his mother is reaped and he feels his shoulders caving in. Tall and broad Gale Hawthorne, suddenly small, a frail thing, no bigger than the four-year-old his mother found on the streets that one fateful night. He can't look at her for a while, and when he finally does, he knows she can see the terror in his eyes. He'd become immune to so many things, he'd toughen up in the face of so much pain, but not this. Now he doesn't think he could survive losing her, too.

When he wins the lottery ticket, his chest burns with something foul. He is not naive enough to think that this is a sick joke from the universe, no, he knows everything has a certain hand behind it. So he bears it. For the first time in his life, the tides shift, and he chooses something else over taking care of his family. He kisses his siblings on the head and leaves them behind, to go fight for something better. He'll build a new world for them, teeth and nails, if he must.

#gale : intro #intermission time: new face debut everyone #deeply sorry to admin red who has to redo graphics i feel so bad but ily!!!#intro is the same i just wanted to do a new one with new gifs hehe

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nerdiestnerdtoevernerd · 2 years

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This is a gift for @krashing-starz for the @mcytblraufest summer au gift exchange

I’m not quite sure this is what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy it! :D

(Also posted on AO3)

Livin’ In a Mansion That We Made Out of Glass

Word count: 6134

“I said no.” A voice growls in the darkness.

“But I want to be like you!” A young voice responds, as filled with hope and life as the other voice is bitterness and gloom.

A gruff, dark chuckle. “Trust me, kid. You don’t want this kind of life.”

- - -

Apocalypse Assassin AU with a bit of an age reversal

It, like most things, started with a disagreement. No one remembers who disagreed with who, or even what they disagreed on, but everyone knows it led to a war. A world-ending war. The Last War. Millions, if not billions of people were killed with all matters of weaponry. Guns, nukes, bombs, you name it. Towards the end, it was even with knives and rocks and any weapons on hand. It was everyone for themselves, everyone versus everyone. No one was safe.

But then people began to band together. They formed tribes, communities, set up camps. Soon more groups banded together and those camps became permanent and people had homes, grew gardens, had children. There wasn’t peace, but it wasn’t all-out war. The factions had settled down far enough away from each other to prevent any fighting (it helped that there weren’t a lot of people on every continent, and that the remaining population was spread all around the planet—well, the places on the planet that were still inhabitable that is), but there were roamers that would fight and most likely kill you if they came across you. Everything was fair game. Leaving a tribe, leaving a community was certain death. And yet some people still did so. Of course, almost all of them were now dead, but the legend of the Void Killer still led many to strike out on their own. None were as successful as him, but several people were still able to survive.

Legend has it that in the early days after the war, long before Techno was ever born, when everyone was still settling and the world was rife with contention, an odd community arose. There were rumors of sacrifices and demon worship, and the whisper of witchcraft grew increasingly common. The people in this community mostly stuck to themselves, though they were always welcoming and kind to travelers. Those who visited told of a loving community, the people acting like one big family.

(These stories, of course, were drowned out and buried by the rumors of evil and witchcraft.)

But then tragedy struck. A young boy—and here the legends vary: some say a boy as young as fourteen, while others add a good ten years to his age; the truth, of course, is lost to time—came home one day to find his entire family slaughtered in their beds. Crude markings decorated the house, the red liquid of the symbols dripping down the walls to create an eerie nightmare. The boy dropped to his knees at the side of his youngest sister’s bed and, cradling her broken, mutilated body in his arms, howled in grief. There wasn’t a person in the world who didn’t hear his mourning wails.

Hearing the pure devastation in the cry, the townspeople ran to the home and discovered a gruesome sight. This family, once the most happy, welcoming, and energetic of them all, was dead. Eyes stared unseeing at the bloody walls; cold, empty corpses once warm and lively lay still, limbs bent in odd directions; and at the center of it a lonely, grieving, live body curled around his worst nightmare. As the shocked gazes take in the sight, whispers start. Who could do such a thing?

Hearing the voices, the boy looks up. He lets out a long, cold, emotionless laugh that sends shivers down the viewers’ spines.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, tone firm and unfeeling but promising pain. “But when I find them, they will never be the same.”

Vowing revenge, and cursing all those who had done this, he disappeared that night, leaving his destroyed home and dead family behind.

Making good on his promise, he trained and trained and trained. He traveled the land, learning how to survive, how to fight. He ran into the occasional soldier and begged them to teach him how to fight. He learned how to defend, how to survive, but most of all he learned how to kill. How to take from those that took from him. He learned to live, to not let anything take him down until he had his revenge. He mastered every deadly art he could, and then, when he was ready, he returned to his community.

All he found was a ghost town. Every man, woman, and child had left, run away, hoping to escape his wrath. Those who could not travel were left behind to die. Any who did leave separated into groups. They traveled the land, became traders and nomads, and some settled down with other colonies. Those who had killed his family, who practiced the so-called witchcraft passed down their knowledge, shared their beliefs. But they tried to be quiet about it. No killing. No human sacrifices. They did a good job of staying under the radar.

But then, in one colony, bodies started appearing. Weird, unintelligible symbols were drawn in blood on the ground and walls near the bodies. In a panic, the teachers of these beliefs called a meeting, hoping to discourage any further killings and prevent him from finding them.

The next day, all their bodies were found in the room of the meeting, with three tiny stars painted in black paint on each body’s left forearm. They weren’t particularly violent deaths, but it was obvious that every person there died in the worst pain imaginable.

People talked, and stories spread about the oddness of these murders. And then a feeble old woman whispered the story of the grisly murders of a family and the sworn revenge of the one surviving son. Her grandchildren whispered the story to their friends, and those friends to their friends and family, until no ear did not know the story of the Void Killer.

Every now and then, entire communities disappear, or someone is found dead, bearing his mark. Whispers circle, people gather like vultures to share the legends. As years pass, and people keep disappearing, whispers of his immortality abound. They question his long life, wonder if he turned to demon worship and witchcraft to live long enough to enact his revenge. They tell of a man so twisted by grief and revenge that he became the very thing he hated most.

Years pass and his story begins to fade. Instead of being treated as truth, he becomes a myth, a legend, a scary story to tell at night.

Though many don’t believe him to be real, beliefs don’t change the truth.

And the truth?

Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself.

——————————

Techno never thought much of the rumors and legends. He didn’t believe them, but he didn’t disbelieve them either. He thought it was a nice story that was rooted in truth but grew way out of proportion. He didn’t think there was anyone that went around and killed everyone who pretended to practice witchcraft (much less some immortal assassin that was never seen).

That was, at least, until he actually met the Void Killer himself.

Techno wasn’t the biggest fan of his “family.” He’d only been with them for a few months, after getting dropped off by a couple of traders who found him in the destroyed remains of his previous colony. They, being the kind souls that they were, agreed to take him to another colony to increase the likelihood of him surviving until adulthood. It took a good month or two of travel, in which he learned a bit about surviving on his own, but they finally made it to the nearest colony. Upon arrival, he was pitied and cooed over and finally placed with a family that agreed to take care of him. And it’s not like they were cruel or hurt him in any way, they were just… different. Not his family. For one, they were the healers of the community. That was something that Techno knew next to nothing about. His specialty was farming. That’s what he grew up learning about and doing. That was going to be his job when he grew up. He could tell you what nutrients different plants need, how long they need to be watered, whether it was better to plant them in the sun or the shade, and even when to tell when any plant was ready. What he couldn’t tell you was how to clean an injury, wrap it, perform stitches, cauterize a wound, and any other medical mumbo-jumbo. He was completely and utterly lost and confused and alone. And there was nothing he could do to change that. He was with the only family in the colony that could take him in; running away and trying to live on his own would be a death sentence, especially at his age; he couldn’t travel to another colony—the next one was several months travel away; trying to learn how to be a healer had only ever ended in disaster (there were several people in the colony who had either had experience with him tending to their wounds or had heard stories, who shied away from him whenever they were injured, the memories and stories (correctly) cautioning them away).

So it makes sense of course, that because he knows plants reasonably well and he dislikes his so-called family and doesn’t really want to get to know them better, he would be the one sent off to gather the wild herbs needed for different poultices and medications. This was his usual job, and he rather enjoyed it. He came to know the surrounding forest fairly well, and though he always made sure to stay close to the settlement to decrease the likelihood of him dying, he, being the young rebellious child that he is, of course, strays just a bit farther than he probably should, and spends more time away from his “family” than is strictly necessary. Because he spends most of his time wandering the nearby forest, he’s become more familiar with the land. This is especially important for his herb gathering, as knowing the terrain helps him have a better guess of where to look to find the plants he needs. He likes to bring his journal with him to take note of all the different plants and animals he sees and where he can find them. When he breaks for lunch, he likes to pull out a book that he probably spends more time reading than he actually should (but he’s got to do something to pass the time!). Sometimes he even likes to take his shoes and socks off and roll up his pants so he can splash in the river. Occasionally he even breaks down and removes all his clothes so he can go for a refreshing swim. Then he likes to lay on the soft grass and read, or write or draw in his journal while he dries off. His all-time favorite way to pass the time though, is practicing self-defense and sword training (unfortunately he doesn’t actually have a sword, so he just finds the best stick he can and starts whacking trees with it). In the colony where he was born, there was a man who was descended from a soldier. Said soldier had taught his children how to defend themselves, and those children had passed down the knowledge. Though the man had no children of his own, he too deemed the information important and decided to teach others. He held weekly lessons to teach people how to defend themselves from the evil outside the commune’s walls. Techno always looked forward to his class, fascinated with the idea of learning to fight (if his inspiration and interest came from the legends of the Void Killer and the idea that someone could survive out in the wilderness all on their own no one ever had to know. He didn’t think he would ever be able to survive on his own, and it amazed him that some people tried. Not that Techno hadn’t seriously thought about leaving his current colony and trying to live on his own. He just valued his life too much to even try.).

So that’s where he found himself. Day after day after day. Picking herbs and wandering the nearby forest; never going much further than the approved and explored areas. At least the monotony was broken up by the varying herbs! Not that it made life any less dull.

But at least he was alive and somewhat happy, right?

Right.

——————————

Echinacea– 5 bundles

Chamomile– 3 bundles

Feverfew– 2 bundles

Mullein– 1 bundle

Valerian– 1 bundle

Huh. Not too bad of a list. There aren’t that many today, and at least he won’t have to trek too far. Chamomile and echinacea should be close to each other, with the possibility of Mullein in the same spot depending on whether any new plants have sprung up. Valerian, feverfew, and mullein (if he hasn’t gotten it yet) are the furthest away and will take some time to find and grab. It could probably be worse though. At least he doesn’t have to gather thistles today. Those are always the absolute worst. His hands hurt for ages after.

Grabbing the list and his lunch, he slips them into his pack as he leaves. Standing right outside the door to his house, he takes a moment to breathe in the fresh smells of the morning and bask in the weak rays of sunlight straining over the mountain tops. He admires the way the light reflects off the dew drops on the grass as he makes his way to the gates. He tries to avoid as many people as possible, sticking to the edges of the community and hiding in the shadows of the tall walls that surround and protect the colony.

Techno doesn’t remember a time before the walls were erected. For as long as he can remember they’ve stood as a reminder of protection and comfort and, sometimes in his case, imprisonment. Don’t get him wrong, he’s still grateful for the walls—he’s heard horrifying stories from before they were built—it’s just that sometimes he wishes he wasn’t trapped here with nowhere else to go. Then again, maybe the reason he’s stuck here is because his old colony didn’t have any walls. He doesn’t remember much from that time, just faint impressions of soft touches, beautiful singing, laughter and smiles, gentle hands washing dirt from under his fingernails, and general contentment and happiness. But then he also remembers loud noises: yelling, screaming, clanging, crackling, heat, dancing tongues of flame taunting him, those same gentle-soft-loving-caring hands shoving him away into dark-small-lonely, fear as he hides in the darkness, the unknown of what’s going on pressing down on him. He remembers finally emerging to a ravaged wasteland. He looks up and sees white flakes floating down. He sticks his tongue out to catch one and is surprised when, expecting the cold bite of snow, he chokes on the bitter, smoky flavor of ash.

“Momma? Momma?” he calls, hoping to hear the familiar, comforting, melodic voice respond. He hears nothing. He takes a few steps, glancing around for something familiar. No gentle-soft-loving hands reach out for him, welcoming him into their embrace and suddenly, despite the heat still radiating from burned structures, he feels cold and alone. He continues his calls, now becoming louder and more frantic, fear and uncertainty tying knots in his insides until the only thoughts he has are find her, find momma, find warmth-love-comfort. He wanders his community, looking for something familiar, anything really for what feels like an eternity, his young mind unable to comprehend and distinguish the passing of time.

He nearly shrieks when he feels a hand settle on his shoulder, the only reason no sound escapes is the dry, painful feeling in his throat his screaming has caused. Though he’s silent, his body still reacts to the surprise, jumping away and twisting to face a weather-worn face, creased in grief, with worry and sadness warring for dominance in wise, old eyes. The man opens his mouth and says something, but Techno’s whirling thoughts block out the words.

“Momma?” he forces out, voice whispery and hoarse.

The old man hesitates but then sighs, a sad smile appearing on his face. “I’m sorry child. I do not know where your mother is.”

“Momma?” he says again, not comprehending. The man sighs again and the smile slides off his face. Too young to understand what’s going on, Techno reaches out a hand, seeking comfort. The old man reaches out and scoops Techno up, cradling his small, injured body against his chest.

“Momma?” he asks again.

“Come on, young one. Let’s get you taken care of and then we’ll see about your momma.”

As they walk away, Techno doesn’t look back, though young and confused, he knows that there is nothing for him back there.

“Technoblade!” a voice calls from behind him, breaking him out of his memories.

Turning around, he sees a short, rather rotund woman chasing after him.

Great. He’s almost to the gates, walking through the small marketplace a few dozen feet from the entrance to the colony when he gets stopped.

He steps aside, out of the slow flow of traffic (that’s really only like ten people making their way to work), as he waits for her to reach him.

“Mrs. Higby,” he greets. “Good morning.”

“Good morning my dear Technoblade,” she returns. He inwardly cringes at the term of endearment. In acknowledgment, he nods and forces a smile that probably looks more like a grimace than a grin.

“How are you today?” he asks out of politeness, and immediately regrets it when she begins a long, boring story about something or other her kids have already done today, despite it still being “the wee hours of the morning.”

Hoping to quickly get this conversation over with, he interrupts her rant, skipping the normal pleasantries, and gets right to business. “Sorry to interrupt ma’am,” he plays up the respect, praying it gives him some sort of points that he can cash in to end the conversation. “But I should really get started on my chores.”

“Oh yes, yes! If only my kids were as eager to please as you.” Oh great, another rant about her kids. Kill him now. “But I digress.” Hold that thought! The universe must be looking on him favorably today. “You are off to collect herbs for your family, correct?” He nods a confirmation, though he winces at the incorrectness of her question. They aren’t his family. His family is dead.

“Oh good! Would you terribly mind getting some coriander? The cook’s garden is all out and it’s quite essential for a recipe. I’ll pay you back of course.” Hm. Coriander. It grows in the shade right? Shouldn’t be too difficult to find. There’s plenty of shade in the forest. Alright, might as well. “Of course not Mrs. Higby. You won’t be able to get it until, at the earliest, this afternoon though. I hope that’s alright?” That was polite enough right? Please let it be polite enough to get him out of this conversation. Please.

“Of course! And aren’t you such a polite little thing! Why, when I was your age…”

And there she goes again. He runs his hands through his brown short cropped hair in frustration. At this rate, it’ll be at least another hour before he gets out of this conversation unless he sacrifices some politeness points and just walks away? He awkwardly nods along to her rant, and says “Oh, how rude.” in the right spots, showing that he’s listening when he’s really not. He shifts his weight several times, seriously considering just running away. Would it actually work? Or would it start her on another rant about being rude? Wait a second. Has she taken a breath at all since she started talking? Oh goodness, is she some kind of zombie or something? Or a vampire? In all seriousness though, Techno’s like 87% sure Mrs. Higby has not taken a single breath throughout this entire rant. How does one person have that much air in their lungs? It should be impossible! Oh, wait. She just took a breath. Great. Now who knows how long she’ll talk for. He shifts again, hand coming up to rub at his neck. Luckily, this time she seems to notice the horrible social cues Techno is putting out.

“Oh goodness,” she says crossly. “Here I am blabbering on, taking up your precious time. Well, you best be going. I’ll see you later Technoblade!” And then she bustles off to trap another poor soul into conversation.

Techno sighs in relief, tension draining from his figure. He would not wish that woman on his worst enemy. He shakes his head to refocus and collect his thoughts and then scrambles to grab a pencil from his pack and scratch Coriander- 1 bundle for Higby on his list before he forgets. One awkward social interaction down, hopefully no more to go, he thinks as he walks out the front gates.

——————————

The first thing he’s aware of is pain, and he’s fairly certain that he’s broken his shoulder somehow. And really, isn’t that the question? How? And when? And where is he? And then by extension, why is he here, when is it (is it even still the same day? And what day was that? Monday? Wednesday? Whoa. Concussion much?), and, perhaps most importantly, what is going on?

As he wakes up more, he opens his eyes to…

Darkness?

Oh gosh is he blind?

Wait, no.

Focusing, he can feel the cloth wrapped around his eyes, preventing him from seeing what’s happening. It’s then that he also notices the rough rope chafing against his ankles and wrists, and the hard, bumpy thing he’s leaning against that he thinks is a tree.

Trying to focus and ignore the pain, he shakes his head, which is a big mistake. He suddenly becomes more aware of the splitting headache he hadn’t noticed, and is now trying his best to ignore. That and the agony of his shoulder. Pushing the pain from his mind, he focuses on his surroundings, trying to absorb as much information as he can without being able to see. He hears grunts and the sound of things hitting each other. What in the world is going on? Is- is that a fight? Which is just even more confusing, because why are his captors fighting? Are they fighting over him? Or maybe someone’s here to rescue him!

Techno nearly snorts at the absurdity of the idea.

No one would even suspect that there was something wrong. It surely hasn’t… been… that… long…

Oh great.

Has it really been more than a day?

Wait.

But even if people knew he was missing, who would they send after him? No one in the commune knows how to fight. So… maybe they’re just practicing?

Wait, but who are they?

He tries to remember what happened, but only manages to catch a few glimpses of a body, a red liquid he thinks is blood (and isn’t that a worrying thought), and people dressed in weird robes.

Well, that’s concerning. Was he kidnapped by a cult? He should probably figure out what’s going on and how to get out of it. Oh gosh. There was a dead body and blood. What if they kidnapped him because he’s next? He doesn’t want to die! He’s much too young! He’s not even a teenager yet! Plus he still has to deliver that coriander to Mrs. Higby. Don’t want to let her down and all. But most of all he just really, really does not want to die.

He starts frantically tugging his arms apart, trying to get the rope off. Disappointment starts to creep in, but then he realizes he should probably at least try to get the blindfold off before giving up all hope. He starts rubbing his head against the tree, trying to roll the cloth off. It takes a few minutes, and several scratches from the rough bark, but he finally manages to get the blindfold off.

He blinks at the bright light, his eyes sensitive from the darkness they’ve been in for the last who knows how long. He squints as his eyes adjust, beginning to make out the shape of figures not too far off. Oddly enough, there seem to be several people attacking one single person. That’s certainly an interesting way to train. Or…

As the fight moves closer to him, Techno stares at the lone fighter who’s wearing all black, finally noticing a strip of white on one arm. He looks closer. Three stars: one big, one medium, and one small are embroidered on the white strip of fabric.

The Void Killer’s symbol.

Yeah. They’re probably not training.

He stares in awe as the guy flips and spins and dances through the air, getting rid of his attackers (or is he the attacker?) in graceful, fluid moves. His steady hands throw knives that whistle through the air and hit their target every time, either killing or pinning down his opponent just long enough for him to take care of them. His long limbs smoothly move out of the way of fists and thrown projectiles. His movements are quick and precise, people crumpling to the ground shortly after his hits. Techno watches in awe as he jumps out of the way of a low hit and throws another knife, hitting another opponent directly in the heart.

(At least Techno thinks it was the heart. He has no idea where a person’s heart is actually located.)

Finally, after the last robed guy collapses on the ground, the Void Killer turns to face him.

“You okay kid?” A surprisingly deep voice asks him. Techno can only gape in shock, his brain not processing anything. The Void Killer is real! And he’s standing right in front of Techno!

Techno’s mouth hangs open in shock. “You’re- you’re the Void Killer!” he sputters. As soon as the words are out of his mouth he blushes red in embarrassment. Wow Techno, what a great first impression. He probably thinks you’re an idiot.

The guy snorts, dropping his cold, emotionless facade. “That I am kid,” he says tiredly, as he begins to peel off his black fingerless leather gloves.

“But… but I thought you were a myth!” Techno’s mouth embarrassingly decides to say. “I mean your story is just so unrealistic. I mean it’s been around for so long and- Are you really immortal?” Great. Now he’s rambling. Please mouth, please shut up. “‘Cause you don’t look a day over twenty-five, but the-”

“Whoa.” the guy interrupts, looking a bit taken aback. “Uh… as you can see, clearly not a myth.” He gestures at himself. “Uh… bit insulted at the unrealistic comment, because it totally happened. For the most part at least. I’m not too sure what you’ve heard and a lot of it seems to be exaggerated, but yeah. Oh, and, uh, not immortal.” He awkwardly nods and continues. “Just some guy who…. Yeah. I don’t- I don’t know how to explain the whole ‘been around for quite a while’ thing. Just- just trust me when I say I am not immortal, but I do exist.” He gives Techno two cheesy thumbs up, somehow looking more awkward than before.

Is this guy somehow more socially incompetent than Techno? He didn’t even know that was possible! How can any one person be this awkward?

“Wow,” is all Techno can say in response, eyes still wide with amazement and shock. He continues to stare at the man in front of him, taking in all the small details.

His dark clothing is loose enough to be comfortable, while still clinging to his skin just enough to allow free movement. A simple belt around his waist holds several weapons and Techno notices a few pockets he thinks probably have poison or some other deadly weapon. The cloth-mask-face-covering-thing, as well as his pants and long sleeves, succeed in hiding his face as well as any identifying marks. Though Techo has to concede that his clothing would make him rather hot in the heat of summer, it also allows him to slip through shadows unnoticed. He thinks the fingerless leather gloves are pretty cool, and he’d like to get his hands on a pair for himself. Overall, the whole thing is pretty cool. The only complaint Techno has is that it’s pretty drab clothing. He could do with a little splash of color here and there. Even if it’s just a bit of embroidery on the hem or something!

The Void Killer huffs a laugh. “Color makes it easier to be spotted. And I wouldn’t want to ruin it. I do a lot of fighting. Plus there’s the whole ‘wandering through the wilderness’ thing that is not easy on my clothes.”

….

Oh.

Oops.

How long has Techno been unknowingly speaking out loud?

This is just even more embarrassing. Like- like embarrassment squared. There is just no way at all to recover from this now. He is forever doomed to be the guy who made a fool of himself in front of a legend.

He’s startled by a flash of light near his arm, instinctively jerking away.

Ow.

He really regrets that. His shoulder is now throbbing in tandem with his head. He breathes a slow, even breath out through pursed lips, trying not to cry.

Tears somewhat put at bay, he looks back at the Void Killer who’s now cautiously watching him, multi-colored eyes studying him with… is that concern? No. Probably not. He’s probably just impatient and wants to get a move on. Maybe it’s anger. Or disappointment. That’s an option too.

Techno glances in the direction of the flash of light and sees the sun reflecting off…

A knife.

Crap.

He’s going to die, isn’t he?

As soon as this thought crosses his mind, he starts hysterically rambling– apologizing and begging to be let go. “Sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t tell anyone. Just- just let me go. I promise! I promise I won’t! Just please don’t kill me”

Alarm fills the Void Killer’s face as his eyes widen with surprise. He brings both hands up to awkwardly gesticulate as he too rambles and tries to calm Techno down.

“Oh geez. No! No! I’m not going to kill you.” His hands are still frantically waving about, scaring Techno more as he now has to flinch away from the knife that is now even closer to his face, on top of worrying about being killed. “I just was going to cut you loose. I figured you didn’t have a knife or anything and you wouldn’t be able to get yourself free. I’m not just going to leave you here on your own. But I wasn’t going to kill you! I don’t- I don’t kill innocent people. Oh gosh. No. Sorry.”

Techno lets out a delirious giggle. This killer is so awkward it’s not even funny. Here he is apologizing for scaring Techno with a knife, while still waving around said knife! It all just seems like one long, painful fever dream. At this point, Techno is like 80% sure he’ll wake up and realize that none of this was ever real.

“Oh,” is all he says, exhaustion and pain washing over him as the adrenaline fades away. Yup. Definitely real. His head thunks back against the tree (ow) and he closes his eyes, ignoring the man as he cuts the ropes tying Techno up and then begins gathering his stuff. Techno just sits there, enjoying the moment of silence as he recharges.

He should probably get up.

Nah.

Several minutes later, he manages to finally pry his eyes open and is met with the sight of the Void Killer watching him, awkwardly shifting his weight. Seeing Techno looking back at him he says, “Alright, kid. I’m just gonna go now, so get back to your colony and maybe stay there? Don’t wander around out here. It’s not safe.”

Irritation fills him. Is this guy calling him incompetent? He can take care of himself! (Present circumstances excluded—this was just a fluke!) He says as much and earns a skeptical scoff in return.

“What? I can! I know some self defense, and I’m usually pretty safe out here. There’s just not usually witchy cult people out here. And I should know. I’m out here every day.” “Alright, um, setting that concerning bit of information aside– and we will be getting back to that –these ‘witchy cult people,’” he says, lifting his hands to make quotation marks. “are everywhere. And I should know that. So you should probably just stay in your community as much as you can,” the Void Killer says, crossing his arms and looking as much like a concerned, scolding parent as he possibly can. “But my job is to collect all the herbs. I have to be out here!” Techno exclaims, crossing his arms as well—much to the protests of his shoulder.

“But you’re a child!”

Oh this guy is getting smacked. Techno is not a child!

Okay. He is technically a child. But he can take care of himself!

“Am not!”

“Are too!” “Am not!”

“Are- fine! Fine, you’re not a child. But that still doesn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t be out here! It’s dangerous for adults too,” the Void Killer states, looking triumphant. “Then why are you out here?” Techno smirks, raising his eyebrow in challenge.

The guy sighs and runs an exasperated hand down his face. “I’m done. I am so done,” he mutters as he turns and walks off with his stuff.

Techno scrambles up and trails after him. “Wait!”

The Void Killer keeps walking. “Goodbye kid.” “Train me?” Techno asks, reaching out to poke him.

The guy whirls around and looms over him. “No.” He says firmly.

“Please, teach me,” Techno pleads, not at all intimidated.

“No kid.” The killer growls. “Not happening.”

“But I want to learn!” Techno says on the verge of sounding petulant.

“But I said no,” the older retorts, sounding like a parent arguing with an irrational child. (Which Techno would like to state for the record, he is not. He’s also not petulant. He is a very rational not-petulant not-child.)

“Please?”

“No. And that’s final.” The assassin spins back around and stalks off, leaving Techno behind.

“Wait!” he calls after him, hoping for… he doesn’t know what he’s hoping for actually. Just… just something. Anything really.

The man stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Can I get something at least?” Techno scrambles for something to say. “Like your name?” Yeah, that works! Please. Just give him this one thing. His hopes have already been dashed. This incredible fighter isn’t going to teach him how to fight—which is literally like the only thing he wants in his life (well, other than going back to his real family and that’s just not possible)—but the least he can do is give him his name, right?

The Void Killer tenses, back straightening as he deliberates. Techno is frozen in hope. Please. Just give him this. Please. He won’t ask for anything else.

The older man sighs, resignation slipping in. “Ranboo,” he says, not turning around.

“What?” Techno’s in shock. Did… did he just say his name? “My name is Ranboo,” the Void Killer says, irritation slipping into his voice.

“Oh. Wow. Cool. I’m- I’m Techno,” he stammers. Techno’s brain might be broken. He… he was just told the Void Killer’s name. HE WAS JUST TOLD THE VOID KILLER’S NAME. What even is his life?

First he’s attacked and tied to a tree by weird demon worshipping cult people, then he meets the Void Killer—who actually exists—AND THEN HE LEARNS HIS NAME!

This has been one crazy day.

Ranboo huffs in what might be a laugh. “Nice to meet you kid.” He lifts two fingers in a wave and starts to walk off again.

“Wait!”

The older man pauses, exasperation rolling off of him in waves.

“And you’re sure you won’t teach me?” he asks resignedly.

“Oh my gosh,” the Void killer mutters. Then louder, “I said no, kid.”

“Even though I want to be like you?”

A gruff, dark chuckle. “Trust me, kid. You don’t want this kind of life.”

Techno stays, sliding down against a tree to sit on the forest floor, watching as Ranboo disappears. He’s filled with an odd mix of awe and disappointment. He just met the Void Killer! He just met the freaking VOID KILLER! THE VOID KILLER WHO ACTUALLY EXISTS! And he got his actual name! And he was so cool! He moved so quickly and gracefully and Techno wants nothing more than to be just like him.

As the man disappears in the distance, determination arises.

“I’ll find you,” he promises under his breath. “And I’ll make you teach me.”

#technoblade #ranboo #technoblade never dies #mcytblr au fest #assassin au #post apocalyptic #age reversal au #child technoblade #also on ao3 #dsmp fanfic

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desultory-novice · 2 years

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How would you think Kirby would handle it if Elfilin died for real? Also do you think in a ideal world where most don't know true loss that anyone would be able to help?

EDIT: Due to the serious nature of this topic and the potentially detailed description of mourning I go into, I recommend anyone who is currently dealing with grief or loss or has experienced traumatic loss in the past and wish to avoid being reminded of it indulge in self-care and avoid this post.

Wishing everyone well.

Phew...Deep topic... Warning for discussion of death, loss, and grieving. Also Forgotten Land end game spoilers, naturally.

First off, I think there's two possibilities to consider. 1) Kirby is unable to rescue Elfilin from Elfilis and loses him that way.

2) Elfilin loses his life sealing off the two worlds.

Both would be equally devastating, but I think both would come around to the same general outcome. Let's discuss.

We get a glimpse of Kirby's reactions upon thinking he's lost Elfilin, and while it's relatively subdued-seeming, this is only the very first emotional response that comes to him. He's sad and he looks a little lost. Grief and loss are weird things - they effect us our whole lives long. Even if it's someone you didn't know for very long or know very well, it can hit you again out of the blue while you're getting a drink or laying down to sleep, "That person is gone."

With Kirby and Elfilin, they may not have known each other for long, but they became friends and PARTNERS in such a short period of time. And the bonds built in battle (I mean, kinda. There is a bit of a war going on between the Dreamlanders and the Beast Pack, but it's underplayed) are said to be some of the strongest. Needless to say, his bond with Elfilin is a deep one.

If Kirby loses Elfilin to Elfilis, there's an additional emotional wound Kirby would take here and that is FAILURE. Kirby made it his quest to save Elfilin, and while people have died (or had other bad stuff happen to them) around him, it's never been because he -failed- to do what he set out to do. (For example, with the not-quite-but-looked-dead Magolor, it was Kirby's goal to stop him, and he did. He also needed to stop Haltmann, who, while important to Susie, was already braindead/had his conscious mind permanently merged with Star Dream by the time Kirby had even a remote insight what their relationship was.)

This would be the first time Kirby failed in a RESCUE mission and even if he got back up and continued the fight, it's probable it would be a blow to his self-confidence. Even doctors, nurses, emergency service workers, and caretakers who've been around life and death their entire career will find themselves asking, "What could I have done better?" I don't think guilt would ever stop Kirby from doing what he does, just like those who make it their job to save lives here do, but it would weigh on him. Which is interesting, because we've seen very little do so before now.

Now, if Kirby sees Elfilin sacrifice himself to close the portal, there's another aspect to consider: he is forever separated from King Dedede, Meta Knight, and the other Waddle Dees - I mean, as far as he knows. (Dimensional Rifts aren't uncommon in Kirby, but Kirby's never personally been responsible for them. And he wouldn't even know what dimension to START looking in to find them.) He also last saw Dedede in a bad situation, which certainly can't help. In this instance, not only has Kirby lost his new friend Elfilin, he's lost two of his greatest allies and two people who he almost certainly would have wanted/needed to help him through these new feelings.

(Of course, I think Meta Knight and King Dedede would find their own way back in time. King Dedede especially would fight like hell for it - once he recovered, that is.)

He still has Bandanna Waddle Dee with him, and there is a bit of salvation in the fact that he DID get to rescue Elfilin and they teamed up together one last time. Plus, he'll know that Elfilin died to protect him and all of Popstar. For a lot of people, knowing someone you loved died helping you or others out is a blessing during the grieving period. I think this would be the "best" outcome for Kirby in an "Elfilin has to die" situation. Not that death is ever ideal, but, you know what I'm getting at.

I can't say for certainty how the act of -mourning- would go for Kirby, but I definitely see food not tasting as good for a while, and him maybe just not wanting to eat. He may also find himself wanting to spend some time alone and just ending up in a daze. Bandanna Waddle Dee would make sure his idol and best friend doesn't wreck himself in his grief, and I think Kirby is the kind of person that becomes a shield for others when they're in trouble, so if a dangerous incident occurred while Kirby's still grieving, Kirby would spring up to handle it anyway. That's just the kind of puffball he is. But the feelings are likely to come back and linger once the dust has settled.

...Now, that we've covered the initial impact of the loss, and part of the grieving, let's see how he might deal with the impact of someone's death going forward.

I mentioned my own guilt at "killing" Marx in another post, and I do think Kirby (the series and the character) has subtlety come around to touching on the idea of loss and permanency as the games continue on. Think about how many games there are where he just walks away from the villain's defeat without batting an adorable eye. But just like he started coming around to the idea of redeeming the "bad guys" in Star Allies, I think the attitude of "The big bad exploded, time to go home!" is shifting in Kirby - especially now that Kirby has encountered actual, canonical permanent loss.

I'm talking about Sectonia and Max Haltmann, of course.

They were antagonistic to him at the time, yes, but they were both very important to people who were friendly to him (...err, after their turnarounds) and I think Kirby can recognize what that importance means now. I think recognizing that people you may not know very well and may not even like were very important to someone else and thinking how you'd feel if you were the person who loved them is a big step in the growth of empathy. So I'd say the Kirby of Forgotten Lands (assuming a linear timeline) has begun to learn about grief and loss AND how to re-evaluate those who hurt you from Taranza and Susie - which leads us to who would be able to help.

Now, I think Taranza and Susie would have pretty opposite views on how to help. Which is going to best for Kirby, as when someone is relatively new to loss, you don't want to pigeonhole them into one form of grieving. We're all different people with different but similar needs, and sometimes it takes some shopping around to figure out what is going to be the most meaningful/the most helpful to you.

Susie is likely to be the kind to gently (or not gently) push "Pinky" to move forward and point out they're not acting like themselves in hopes that Kirby will get back to a routine - and routines can be so important. Health is a combination of factors and not eating, sleeping, or moving can contribute to breaking the body down a lot faster when the mind/heart isn't it it. Taranza, who is used to holding on to grief in the long term and maintaining the precious memories of the lost, would offer Kirby lots of time and plenty of opportunities to reminisce and talk about Elfilin, knowing that the impact death leaves on us is huge and that the hurt may never go away.

Even if neither of them could provide the perfect solution for Kirby's grief, Kirby would still have some positive take aways from the fact that both of them are trying so hard to help him. (And I think they would, honestly.)

In fact, there's a bit from another one of the Itsudemo Kirby books where Kirby is specifically hanging out with Taranza -while- Taranza is reflecting on Sectonia, and the text (my translation) says, "Thank you for your presence and the memories of you that always bring light to my heart."

That right there is, I think, exactly the kind of resolution waiting down the road for Kirby in a scenario in which Elfilin dies.

Whatever happens in game, the Kirby series tries to maintain a positive outlook, even if that means dealing with the loss of a friend. Kirby would eventually come to focus on the adventure and the memories and the fact that Elfilin cared so much for Kirby in the time they knew each other. Elfilin being gone can't change that.

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angellissy · 3 years

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Hey :) I’ve never requested anything before so I’m sorry if i do it wrong hahah

But could I request something where instead of ward faking his death it’s rafe who has to do it and none of the pouges know about your relationship until it’s you crying in the dock instead of Sarah. And when you and the piggies go on the “rescue” mission to get Sarah off of the boat you see rafe and eventually end up staying with him and leaving your friends

I’m sorry if this is really long xx thank you for taking the time to read my request

R E A C H I N G F O R T H E S U R F A C E

SEASON TWO SPOILERS!

rafe Cameron x Reader

warnings: angst with a big a, canon rafe (maybe a bit softer), toxic relationship, rafe playing the victim card, death and talks of suicide.

a/n: I feel like it is of importance that I tell you all that I have done everything in my power not to romanticize the rafe cameron character and if I have then please kindly let me know because sometimes it can be hard. However I still need to say that I am writing through the eyes of the “reader” who very much still cares for this boy, which also means that the way the reader deals with things might not have been your way. If any more warnings should be included in the beginning, feel free to let me know. I hope you enjoy this fic which I am actually very proud of. A big thanks to @snkkat who is my proof reading buddy. Also thanks for sending in the request, I LOVED writing it! <3

They say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes, but how about when you watch someone else die? For as you watched him die, the life and moments the two of you had shared flashed before your eyes like a string of reminders of a life and love lost. It felt as if there was no air for you to breathe, you weren’t even sure how long it had been since you managed to take a full breath. Your mind was running in circles, trying to grasp what had just occurred, replaying the scene over and over again until you were not even sure what reality you were in. With a hammering heart and a split soul, you were kneeling on the dock, just minutes after watching your first love take his own life. You could not even remember how you had gotten out here in the first place, you just wished that you would have stayed behind as all your friends rushed toward a disaster in waiting. Perhaps that would have spared you some of the heartbreak, spared you from hearing him scream that he loved you one last time, spared you from seeing his boat go up in flames. But no, you were sure that for as long as you lived, you would see that blazing inferno whenever you closed your eyes.

There were arms around you, an attempt to soothe your shaking body, it only made you feel more trapped in a memory you would never escape. Those arms lifted you up and suddenly you were walking, mixed in all the anger and sadness there was a surprise that your body was even able to function. It felt as if you were outside of your body watching everything occur, you watched as Kiara and JJ helped you sit down on a sofa and as they draped a blanket over your shoulders. You watched it unfold, but you couldn’t feel it and there was no way that you would be able to respond to their worried questions. Instead, you were stuck in a mind that replayed everything Rafe had ever said or done to you as if that somehow could manifest him back to life. That stuck-up boy with the golden hair had been your first boyfriend, complicated as the relationship may have been, it had been the first time you ever experienced something close to love. Just days ago you had stood before him, tears in your eyes and heart in your throat as you called the relationship off. For a very long time, he had not been the boy you fell for, but rather a ghost of who he once was. Where he had once been sweet and tender with you, there had only been cold stares and words sharp enough to cut through ice. You were not oblivious to the fact that he struggled with issues you could never comprehend, but you refused to be an accomplice in his undoing. Time after time you had tried to be the person he could cling to when the world sat heavily upon his shoulders, but you soon realized that love and affection could not solve all problems. Oh, and you had loved him so much that you would have done anything for him to smile at you the way he had when he uttered those big three words for the first time. He had watched you with eyes that held so much adoration that you thought that they would never dim, that they would shine brighter for each time his eyes found yours. But eventually, they had dulled, and so you had realized that you would not sacrifice yourself no matter how much you cared for him. It did not matter that you had called things off with him or that you had decided to leave him in order to save yourself, for the knowledge that he was actually gone made it feel like someone was clawing at your heart and trying to rip it apart. It felt like no time in the world would be able to heal the pain in your chest or dry the tears falling from your eyes.

Time was indeed a funny thing, how seconds turned into minutes and how then those minutes became hours. Hours that you spent reminiscing over a life you thought you had given up before it was lost forever. You clung to the memories of him as if they were the lifebuoy keeping an anchor from pulling you down in a sea made up of your own sorrow. You knew that you were staying in your own made-up memories of a relationship with more bad times than good, but a part of you felt that you could not grieve the person he had become. For he had been vile and horrid, and if you acknowledged that, you would feel guilty for the sadness overwhelming you. So yes, you stayed in your made-up reality and wept for the boy that could have been. As hours turned into days, your friends made every effort to comfort you and try to get you out of the room that had become your place of mourning. Their tries aggravated you, for they did not understand the feelings rushing through your body at such speed it made you lightheaded. Each one of them had hated Rafe Cameron with at least one bone in their body and you knew how some of them had looked the day he died as if they were content that he was finally gone. Relieved that he could no longer plague them with taunts and threats that might have become reality was it not for his passing. You might have understood this, had it not been for the grief and guilt plaguing every bone in your body.

As days turned into weeks, you eventually came to appreciate their efforts to help you. It was like your vision was starting to clear and you could finally start trying to live your life again, and the first step to doing that was always to surround yourself with people that made you roar with laughter. Their ventures to try and find the Cross of Santo Domingo, were helpful, to say the least. Those adventures were as distracting as they were terrifying since the outcome was never given. Your mixed friend group of pogues and kooks had actually found that damn cross as well. Who would have thought that a bunch of high school kids would be able to find a historic relic? The answer would have been no one, and that is why you don’t underestimate kids with no limits. The cross had been in your grasp until a greedy and manipulative Ward Cameron came along and grabbed it. Ever since that particular happening, things started going south fast and it all ended up with Sarah being kidnapped by her own guardians. It also ended up with the rest of you stowed away like cargo on the ship she was on. While John B and Pope carried out their plan to find Sarah and the famous cross, you, JJ, and Kie sweated from every pore as you waited to hear from them. You had zoned out, staring mindlessly into one of the walls of the container, in the background you could hear your two friends talk about their dreams for the future. Something about going on several surfing trips at various destinations with each other, and that part made your heart ache. Sure, after everything he had done, a future with Rafe had not been one of your dreams. Still, as you listened to your friends talk, you could only remember a time where he had been everything you wanted in life. You pressed your palms upon your face as if you somehow could force every memory of him to remain in that little part of your brain where you were hoping they would become forgotten. A loud clank dragged you out of your thoughts and you looked up just in time to see Pope and John B climb in through that small window opening, followed by a woman you had never ever seen. Shortly after that, problems started to arise and soon all of you were scrambling out of the container in hopes of not being detected by the workers on the boat. They were in obvious search of all of you, which made you sweat even more than you had done inside the container. All of you received different plans on how to tackle the situation, yours was to act as a lookout for John B as he searched for Sarah.

You followed him down to what you could only assume was the boiler room since steam was thick in the air and you took your place by the door as he ventured further down. His desperate cries for Sarah echoed through the room and you dearly wished for a response to be heard, but there was nothing except the sound of his shoes against the floor. Thump, thump, thump and then utter silence until John B utters a name that made it feel as if the floor was pulled away from under your feet.

“Rafe.”

One of your hands finds the doorframe, a poor attempt to steady yourself as you try to figure out if this is a trick played by your grieving mind. You take a few breaths and as the silence is once again interrupted by two raised voices, you follow John B’s path down into the room. The heart in your chest is beating so hard that it feels like you are going to throw up, and it only gets worse the nearer you come. At first, you only see your friend, but then you look past him

and

your

heart

stops.

Rafe Cameron had died in front of your very eyes, so either the gods were playing a nasty cruel joke or you had lost the battle with your mind. You shut your eyes just to open them again, and no matter how many times you did it, he still remained. What happened next was a bit peculiar to you, for weeks you had drowned in grief where sadness was the constant emotion, but as you looked him in the eye and saw that he was very much alive, rage and anger crushed into you with the force of a thousand waves. You stepped toward him, only for an arm to shoot out to stop you, and John B added to his gesture by saying “Don’t”. Laughter bubbled in your throat, for who was he to tell you what you could or could not say to your “dead” ex-boyfriend who seemed to never stop causing you grief.

“Find Sarah.” John B hesitated for a few moments before following your unspoken order to leave you and Rafe alone. It wasn’t surprising considering that his worry for Sarah would always overpower anything else. Once again you looked into Rafe’s blue eyes, remembering a time when you used to stare in them for so long you would see specks of green and grey. Had you searched for those colors now, you would probably have found them. However, you were trying to decipher whatever feeling that was shining in them, was it anger? No, his other features were too soft for that and the hand holding his weapon had gone slack as he watched you. Maybe it was relief? No that was not it either, for why would he be relieved to see you? You were not the one who had died and left the other behind. You stepped even closer to him, the simmering anger inside of your veins made your hands shake and he looked at them briefly as if he wanted to take them in his. Your hands clenched into fists and you watched as his shoulders dropped the tiniest bit, and suddenly you knew exactly what was shining in his eyes.

Love, and sadness. Your heart started to speed up again, and you knew that once you opened your mouth, the anger and grief that had become part of you, would tumble out in words that you would never be able to take back. But he had done something much worse, so he would listen, you would make sure of it. Your lips parted slightly and he must have seen it for his words came first.

“I- fuck I am sorry okay? But I had to do it, you wouldn’t understand but I had to do it, it was the best for everyone.” As he says this you can’t help the sound that slips through your lips, it was supposed to be a laugh but it sounds more like a sob. His eyes flicker between you and everything else in the room as if there was anything in here that could save him for this conversation. You move your hands toward your chest and his eyes watch as you press them hard against your chest, against the heart that won’t stop breaking.

“Best for everyone?” Your voice is the combination of a whisper and a ragged breath “Did you have my best interest in mind when you let me believe you had blown yourself up?” He winces and makes an attempt to say something but you hold up a hand to stop him. “Did it ever occur to you how your little stunt would affect the one person who still, despite everything, loved you?” This time, your voice has started to rise towards something like a scream, and how could you not scream when there is so much sadness inside of you that it felt like just looking at him would turn your body into a pool of water.

“You broke up with me, so don’t start acting like a victim where you aren’t one.” His features are starting to morph into those he carries when anger overcomes him, but you will not back away from this. Your hands are in your hair, pulling at it as if that would help you make sense of this situation. “You broke my heart long before I broke yours.” You can’t help the way your voice breaks or the tears that start falling from your eyes.“You needed and still need help and until you receive that help, you are prone to hurt anyone in your vicinity.” Now it is his turn to drag his hands through his hair and his breaths come faster and faster until you realize that he is starting to hyperventilate. He sinks to the floor and you follow, not sure how to help when it feels like his state is mirroring your own. With cautious movements, you place your hands on his shoulders, and the shaking of his body sends trembles throughout yours. For a while nothing happens, you just sit there with your hands on his body and watch him fall apart. Perhaps you should have been glad that he was suffering, after everything he had done to you he deserved it. But you couldn’t feel anything other than anguish and as a sob escaped his body every restraint you had kept on yourself broke and you hugged him towards your chest. You could never save him, but he clung to you as if you had the power to undo every wrong he had ever done. After a while, he looks up at your tear-streaked face and one of his hands reaches up to cup it. You want to look away because you can see everything in those eyes of his, every regret and every wish he has ever had. His forehead leans towards you and you feel his hot breath against your skin. As you breathe in the scent of cologne and feel his skin against yours, you feel overwhelmed by the fact that he is actually here. You notice that his lips part and for a second you are scared that he is going to kiss you, but he must know that there is a limit to your patience with him so he just whispers words with the promise of what could have been. “I wanted to be good for you.” A small smile takes place on your lips and you close your eyes as you try to restrain the well of emotions inside of you. “I know Rafe, I know.” He breathes out a little, almost as if he is relieved that you are aware that he tried in a world and with a mind constantly working against him. You knew, but you also knew that there was someone else out there for you. Someone who would love you in a way that Rafe would never be able to, in a way that would not send the two of you to the bottom of the ocean. Whoever was out there would make you swim. For so long you had wanted to believe that Rafe was the one, despite all his flaws you would have given anything for him to be your future. It was a relief to know that you could and deserved to have more. But you also knew that you needed to do something before that could happen.

“I will stay-.” Before you could even finish your sentence he whipped his head up to look at you with such hope you never wanted to continue talking. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to go on. “I will stay with you just to make sure you receive the help you need.” His whole body deflated and you had to bite your lip in order not to cry again. Eventually, he nodded and you closed your eyes in relief. You knew that this had to be the right move, no one else would listen to him or make sure he got help, so you needed to be the one to did. Just enough so that you finally could start swimming towards the surface.

#rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron headcanon #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x oc #rafe cameron x you #drew starkey #outer banks x reader #outer banks #outer banks season 2 #outer banks imagine #obx #obx season 2 #obx spoilers #obx fanfiction

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stvrchaser · 3 years

Text

forgive me ( regulus arcturus black )

word count : 1,300

warnings : angst because i don’t know how to write anything else, death

summary : she takes it upon herself to destroy slytherin’s locket and mourns the life she’ll never share with regulus

There’s a calmness in the way the earth seemed to tremble beneath her feet. Like the rocking of the chair which used to lull her to sleep.

She wondered if he sat there now, her dear Regulus. Maybe he’d be vexed she hadn’t showed. She promised she would, after all. Well, better angry than worried.

He couldn’t know about what she’d done. Not yet.

He probably waited in her room with a present in hand.

She always insisted, “It’s only my birthday. Really, you shouldn’t fuss over it. There’s no need to get me anything.” And every time, he did just that.

Regulus was a stubborn boy. Clever, but incredibly stubborn. She admired his persistence— his courage and dedication to all that he cared about. She was happy she’d made sure to tell him that. She was pleased that he would know at least one person who was guaranteed to care for him. Always. She knew he didn’t get much of that.

But, again, he was stubborn. His curiosity could fuel his will to venture far, no matter the journey. But he had surpassed the limits. He had taken it too far.

Regulus discovered a secret better left untouched and forgotten. But this was Regulus, and so it was not.

——————————————

He snuck in through her bedroom window, as per usual. She had left it open for him. It didn’t matter that his family, too, were purebloods. The knowledge that the two of them spent time together, alone in her bedroom, would be scandalous. And so, it seemed like a normal afternoon, a mere continuation of the routine they had gotten used to.

But she noticed the way he stumbled in. Regulus had never been clumsy. And he walked carelessly, dragging his feet. He looked tranced— disturbed. So she stood from her rocking chair, dropping the book in her hand onto the small side table.

“Reg?” she spoke softly, trying to make out his features in the weak light.

“The thing he’s hiding. I’ve figured out what it is.”

Voldemort.

“Come,” she held her arm out, inviting him closer. She’d intended to get him to sit down, stop his swaying. But she found herself in his embrace. “What can I do?”

In their line of work, explanation was scarce. She had long since stopped asking “what happened” and went straight for assistance. This wasn’t the first time Regulus had sought her comfort while under Voldemort’s orders. She’d healed his wounds, dried his tears, perfected the dreamless drought to keep his terrors at bay.

Yes. She was quite familiar with his work.

“I shouldn’t have sent Kreacher,” he mumbled into her hair.

Regulus had always cared for Kreacher, no matter his age and bitter nature. She supposed that the house-elf was the first friend he’d ever made that wasn’t Sirius or one of the purebloods that his parents had insisted he befriended.

She made note to thank him for that someday.

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“He could have died.” His shoulders tensed. “He was… he nearly was.”

“I’m so sorry, Regulus.” It was a phrase she often uttered with a heavy heart. With so much sorrow and rage. With guilt. Regulus Black deserved the world and her ‘sorry’ wouldn’t suffice. It never would. It couldn’t make up for the sacrifices he’d made. Not for all that he’d lost.

“The world will set itself right someday.” ‘I’ll set it right for you,’ she said to herself.

“Not while He exists,” Regulus insisted with a shake of his head. “There’s no hope for this world when someone— some thing as vile as he can exist.”

“Light can have no purpose without darkness—“

“He’s split his soul.” Her grip on his arms tightened.

“What?”

“He’s taken a life to preserve a piece of his soul. He’s made a horcrux and I’ve just helped him keep it out of everyone’s reach.”

She sobbed at his confession— at the heart wrenching guilt in his tearful eyes.

What had this world done to him?

“It can’t be. The dark magic that it would have required—“

“He’s got it.”

She looked back at him with an open mouth, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to speak.

Horcruxes— they required an act so dark that a person’s soul was supposedly beyond redemption. It took intent— a sickening willingness to take a life in exchange for your own soul so that one could become immortal. Invincible.

“I didn’t— I should have known. I should have guessed what he… but it’s too late.” A cry tore through his throat. “Forgive me,” Regulus begged.

She held him closer, her hands running through the curled obsidian at the nape of his neck. She steadied his trembling body with hers, as if absorbing it. His fear seeped into her skin. But she let it. She always did. She welcomed his misery alongside his love, as well as every other aspect of him within her reach. He was intertwined with her nerves, carved into her bones.

So while she welcomed his pain, she made up her mind. Regulus would not suffer at the hands of the Dark Lord.

———————————————————

“Forgive me,” she sobbed at the skies. Her mind was distorted, seeing visions of him with every turn of her head. Even at the shut of her eyes.

She writhed in pain, the liquid running down her throat like sand, but Kreacher held a shaking hand to her chin as she had instructed him to do.

She had coaxed every bit of information from Regulus since the night of his visit. She had concocted a plan without his knowledge. Deceived him. Betrayed him.

He had trusted her with a plan. To destroy the damned locket and to risk his life doing it. Of course, she would not— could not— let him.

And she’d sworn to protect him, hadn’t she?

He’ll hate her when he finds out. And she knows he will, her wonderfully clever Regulus.

“Mistress mustn’t stop,” the house elf reminded her, but his voice was barely coherent between her sobs.

“He’s going to hate me, Kreacher. Regulus is going to hate me.”

The internal debate in his eyes were obvious. But Kreacher was loyal to her and, more importantly, Regulus. And he had ordered him to obey her as he would his family. Hence the reason she was so often addressed as his “Mistress.”

It was a shame she’d never know the joy of being his wife.

“This is for his safety,” she told him when he contemplated to tell Regulus about her plan. “It’ll always be for him.”

“Mistress has to drink,” Kreacher pleaded with tearful eyes.

“I can’t have him hating me,” she whispered through gasps of air. “Tell him I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Mistress needn’t apologize for wanting the young Master to live,” Kreacher responded with the last of the basin gathered in his hold. He held more emotion than she had ever seen in him. He tried to comfort her to the best of his abilities. To stay true to his word that he would protect Regulus at all costs.

Still, he looked ashamed. Full of grief like nothing she’d ever seen. She felt horrible for dragging him with her. For causing him the pain of disobeying Regulus’s orders to keep her safe.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Kreacher. For Regulus. For me. You’ve done your job well.” With she drank with one last sob as the liquid clawed at her throat. “Get the l- locket and l- leave. Take c- care of him. T- tell Regulus—“

She never did get to finish that sentence, but her pleads for forgiveness rattled in Kreacher’s head.

“Master Regulus could never hate his beloved Mistress,” the house elf cried at the sight of her lifeless eyes. “But Kreacher will do as Mistress says for he serves the most Noble House of Black.”

#regulus arcturus black #regulus black x reader #regulus x y/n #angst #one shot #death trope #regulus black #marauders era #fanfiction #imagine #fanfic #harry potter au #there’s no purpose to this #i was just sad

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untamedmetablogiguess · 3 years

Text

Sometimes I think that the cruelest thing Jin Guangyao ever did to Lan Xichen was to save his life at the end of everything.

Because if he hadn’t done that, then Xichen - assuming, of course, that he had lived, that someone else had pulled him out - could probably have healed from that betrayal eventually. He’d have been able to write off Jin Guangyao as wholly evil, wholly unrepentant, and concluded that everything good he’d ever thought he’d seen in him was a lie. It would have hurt, obviously, to think the person he’d loved had never really existed, to think that all along he’d only ever been a tool for Jin Guangyao to use - but he could’ve gotten past it.

But by using the last of his strength to save Xichen’s life, by making his last living act one of sacrifice and love, he makes it impossible for Xichen to ever get over him. He knows, now, that it wasn’t entirely a lie, that Jin Guangyao did love him, that the boy who saved his life at the risk of his own when he had nothing to gain from it was still in there, somehow -- he can’t get past that. How can he write that person off, how can he go without mourning him? But then, how could he mourn the man who killed Nie Mingjue, who did all the other terrible things he now knows Jin Guangyao did? How can he ever get past that grief, if he can’t allow himself to process it because no matter how he thinks about it, he’s betraying someone who loved him? He can’t forgive Jin Guangyao, but now he also can’t hate him - so what can he do?

He’s trapped - too angry to grieve, but too grieved to be angry.

#the untamed #mo dao zu shi #spoilers #meta #jin guangyao #lan xichen

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naruto-scenarios-plus-akatsuki · 3 years

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I'd like a scenario of Ino and Shika mourning the death of their dads and their uncles. It's not explored at all in the series, but I find it hard to believe that they weren't close. I wish Inoichi could have said something to Shikamaru, even if it was really short due to the time: "I'd have liked to see you grow even more. Work hard, Shikamaru". And Shikaku telling Ino something like "you've always been like a daughter to me. Make us proud'. Inoshikacho is the best family in Konoha.

Thank you for the request. I never lost a father or mother so I may not know the complete feeling but I have loss someone dear to me. With those feelings, I hoped I conveyed the sense of mourning and loss one truly feels when anyone close to them passes away.

“For the Lord Himself will descend from Heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.” 1 Thessalonians 4:16-17 NKJV

Loss and Remembering

The war was won. The enemy was defeated. Naruto was safe and Sasuke had returned. You would think all was well with the world. That good had won the day. Yet with any war there was always a cost. With anything left good to fight for there was a price.

Ino struggled with that price. Her and many of her comrades had suffered a loss during the war. There was an emptiness to her heart that she hadn’t felt before. A bare hole that was expanding with each passing day as the reconstruction of Konoha went on.

The memorial service for the fallen had already taken place and she had shed most of her tears at the event. Home was bittersweet without her dad. Every article and room had a memory of him in it that she could not erase. She had been a wreak the moment she stepped through the door of her house the first night she returned from the Land of Lightning.

The adrenaline and self-preservation no longer distracted her from the reality that her father had passed away. Her mother had already heard the news luckily before her arrival and embraced her only living child fully as soon as she returned. They both cried together, falling to the floor in their grief.

Death was common in the life of a shinobi, but although it is expected, the pain is still very real and affects the lives of those touched by the individual’s sacrifice. Both Ino and her mom knew what kind of man Inoichi was and how he would give his life for his village and comrades to keep them safe. He paid the ultimate price and although there was honor in his death, both of them were really hurt.

After the memorial and funeral service held for those fallen from the 4th Great Ninja War, Ino realized she wasn’t the only one hurting. The village had lost over a hundred lives. Her friends were all hurting. They had lost someone their own age, Neji, who died saving Hinata. Her teammate, Shikamaru, lost his own father. The pain evident on his face while Choji sympathized and cried too, feeling the lost of both of them.

She thought she had cried all that she had that day. The week building up to the funeral was nothing but tears and staying at home. When the day passed and the memory of the fallen forgotten, others were ready to pick up their lives where they left off. The second to the Yamanaka clan had took over as leader while the elders discuss what was next for the clan. They had expectations for her, and she soon had little time to feel anymore as she was filled with busy work.

They were prepping her to become the next leader. The added pressure weighing on her heart and shoulders, making her wonder if she was capable of it. She hadn’t seen her teammates since the funeral, but to be honest, she was currently lost in her own little world. A bubble filled with to-dos and things she had to learn.

Her elders and clan gave her many praises for her accomplishments in the war, but she would not take hold of the clan until she was of proper age. There were still many things for her to learn. They had told her that although war can advance someone’s maturity, they wanted to be sure she was ready.

Ino felt anything but ready. She hadn’t expected to come back from the war to take over her dad’s position. She thought he would still be here with her. She thought she had many more years left with him. With him teaching her, guiding her, loving her, but he was gone and now she wanted nothing more than her father’s warm embrace and kind smile, telling her how much he was proud of her.

Her mind winced at the thought. She thought she was okay but today was one of those days. She stopped in the middle of the street. The sun was beating down and sky was cloudless. There was hardly a breeze and civilians bustled around her going about their daily lives. So much has changed and yet life keeps on going. Her eyes were watching as the architects and stone cravers were working on the latest project of Kakashi’s face on the Hokage mountain.

She was staring at the piece for a while, lost in her own thoughts. A sense of discontent filling her being. She didn’t want to cry. She thought she was done crying. After the memorial service, she told herself she wasn’t going to cry anymore. She had her mom to be brave for and a clan to lead.

“Ino?”

She was driven out of her thoughts and looked away from the mountain top to see Choji in front of her.

“You okay?” He asked concerned.

“Yea,” she replied quickly, glad to have snapped out of it. She smiled out of habit.

“Are you sure?” he asked, not convinced. He was typically sensitive to other people’s emotions, especially his teammates that he has known since childhood.

“Yup, I had a few errands to run this morning and finally got a break for myself.” She gave a fake laugh.

Choji nodded. “How’s your mom doing? I’ve been meaning to stop by, but everything been so busy.”

“You’re telling me. Between clan duties, training, and the flower shop, I’m typically spent. My mom has been doing fine. She’s been tending to the Yamanaka gardens mostly. Spring just popped up, so we been replenishing our stock…” Ino trailed off.

Choji understood. The Yamanaka clan had supplied most of theflowers for the funeral service free of charge for those who were loss. The biggest bouquets going to Inoichi and Shikaku. Choji had a grim smile on his face.

“That’s great to hear.”

Ino nodded, smiling painfully. Her thoughts having led back to her dad. “Yup. Well I’ll catch you later Choji.” She said ready to make her exit and move pass him.

“Wait Ino.”

She stopped to listen.

“If you ever need to talk, you can talk to me. I miss your dad too, not as much as you probably do, and I know its probably not the same way I’m feeling. If anyone knows what your going through it would be Shikamaru,” he said gently.

Ino’s soft smile was more genuine this time. “Thanks Choji.” she said before she continuing on.

Her mind now was overwhelmed and swirling. She guessed she wasn’t doing as great as she thought she was if Choji could tell something was wrong. She sighed. She also felt like a terrible friend. She hadn’t checked up on Shikamaru. The loss of his dad was probably hurting him just as much and Ino knew Choji would be right that Shikamaru could relate to how she was feeling,but he seemed to be doing just fine.

She wondered how he was able to manage it. The grief, the pain, and the numbness from it. She made her way to the Hokage tower slowly, hoping to find her teammate.

Shikamaru was easy enough to find after asking the receptionist. He had his own personal office now and when she entered it, he was reading through a scroll. He looked up surprised to see her and greeted her. She felt awkward as she greeted him back.

He discerned her quickly, knowing something was on her mind.“What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing just wanted to see how you are doing. I haven’t seen you in a while. I wanted to check in,” she expressed as if carefree.

Shikamaru leaned back in his chair and yawned. “Well I could use a break. Want to join me?”

She nodded and they both made their way out of his office and to the roof of the Hokage tower. They both found a seat on a bench up there and Shikamaru leaned back to stare at the clouds.

“So how are you holding up?” he asked bluntly.

“Is it that obvious?” She questioned insecure.

“No, but I know.” Shikamaru reasoned.

“I feel like I’m just supposed to magically move on from it but I don’t know how everything just keeps…”

“Reminding you of them?” Shikamaru finished.

“Yes,” Ino breathed. “It hurts. It really does. It feels like I lost…” She was lacking words how she was trying to express how she feels.

“I know,” Shikamaru nodded, his face solemn.

“How are you holding up so well?” Ino questioned in desperation.

“I’m not.” Shikamaru admitted. “I think of my father quite often. He showed me how to be a man. How to love. How to fight. How to be smart. I also think of Asuma often. He had depended on me, he was proud of me, he built me up, and never gave up on me.” He took out Asuma’s lighter, opening and closing it. “I miss them both greatly.” He said after a minute.

There was a silence.

“I miss your father as well.”

Ino sniffled trying to hold back tears but started to cry silently anyway.

“Inoichi was kind enough to relay a message from my father and I’m grateful for him to do so, to give me my father’s last words, but also, he too, gave me a message.”

Ino’s ears perked up and she stopped crying to listen more closely. “My dad left you a message too?”

“Yes, just briefly after my father’s words since there wasn’t much time. But your dad told me that he never had a son, but Choji and I were like sons to him. And he was proud of the men he knew we would become. He also asked for me to keep an eye on you.”

Ino smiled softly at that and thought about all Shikamaru had gone through. She thought of his dad, Shikaku. He was a brilliant man as well and she knew how much Shikamaru had admired and loved his dad.

“Your father gave me some advice once,” Ino recalled, and cleared her throat.

Shikamaru turned his head to listen now and stopped fidgeting with the lighter.

“It was when we were little and having a play date while the clan heads got together. You and Choji were being boys throwing rocks and climbing trees. I felt out of place and was mad about something and was sulking on the porch. The grownups went in to talk but before your dad went inside, he kneeled down next to me, seeing as I was staring at you two boys. He told me not to let my anger and sadness keep me from enjoying life and the people in my life.” Ino then giggled. “Of course, I was only six and couldn’t understand what he meant as of yet, but I think now his words ring a little clearer. I feel like the loss of them: Asuma, Shikaku, Neji and my dad will never go away.”

“Yet the pain shouldn’t keep us from living. Although the pain is very real, it is temporary. They will never be taken from our hearts or our memory. We’ll live a life they can be proud of and perhaps one day, we’ll see them again.”

That hope uplifted Ino’s spirits. “Yea, I suppose your right.”

Both of them fell into silence for a few moments, remembering the ones they lost. They spent a good while up on the rooftop, sharing more feelings and memories and coming to peace in the wake of the loss although the pain was definitely there. They had each other to comfort themselves and with that only time would heal.

#ino #shikamaru #choji #ino scenario #shikamaru scenario #Inoichi Yamanaka #inoichi #shikamaru nara #Ino Yamanaka #choji akimichi #inoshikacho #Shikaku #Shikaku Nara #loss #death #ino fanfic #team 10

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platoniclokiimagines · 3 years

Note

i’m going through the stages of grief all over again after having to watch Loki’s death in HD since IW came out on digital. can you please cheer me up by writing something about if loki survived and thanos was defeated so loki and reader go out to celebrate after the craziness?

WC: 1413

TW: none

A/N: I know this was likely meant to be a fix-it for IW, but I thought it would give it a little more ~spice~ if I fixed Endgame instead. Might explore this idea a little more thoroughly in the future, if people seem interested. But I hope you enjoy this!

You’d expected the battle with Thanos and his army to be tough, but you hadn’t expected it to be this much of a bloodbath. You felt like you’d seen one too many of the other Asgardians- or what had the Captain called you all, Avengers?- fall during the fight, and try as you might to remain positive, you were terrified that you were going to be the next one on the chopping block.

You could hear through the earpiece you’d all been given that the gauntlet was currently being passed along in an attempt to get it to some kind of vehicle that could allow people to time-travel, and you were just far enough away from them that it would do you no good to intervene, so you took what brief time you had to regroup and regather your thoughts, leaning heavily against a pile of rocks that kept you out of sight from the battlefield.

You had just about psyched yourself up to get back into the fray when a shimmer of green caught your eye, and you turned your head to watch as it slowly began to expand, like someone was ripping the very fabric of reality right in front of your eyes.

It wasn’t until you saw someone step through that you realized it was a portal, and once that had set in, all you could do was stare dumbly at the person who had walked through.

“……Loki?”

Everyone else had just assumed they had died. Thor had said that they had, and that had been taken as the truth by the rest of the Asgardians, but you’d held out hope for five years, praying to the Norns that Loki was just playing a really long trick, and would show up just in the nick of time.

Right now, it certainly looked like you had been right.

“What, you didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun, did you?” Loki grinned, and there were a million things you wanted to say and ask, but Loki cut you off before you could. “Where’s the fight?”

Right. You were in the middle of something.

Heaving an exhausted sigh, you gestured half-heartedly to the space around you. “You’re looking at it.”

Loki only nodded, and summoned two daggers at their sides. “Well. Shall we get back into it then?”

Finding that you had a bit more energy now, you nodded, and ran after Loki back out into the battle.

Once everything had been said and done, you supposed that you and Loki had come out of this fight luckier than a lot of the others had. Everyone that was left was tattered, and had more cuts and broken bones and wounds than you could count, but you and Loki had somehow managed to come out of everything with only a few scrapes, bruises, and minor cuts between the two of you.

And the ones that hadn’t survived… Well, that was a grief weighing over everyone that had.

You didn’t know the one who had used the stones and perished in the process. You knew of him, and recognized that he had made the ultimate sacrifice, and so you mourned with the others for everything that he had done so that you all could survive, but you still felt a little distanced, like you were looking in on the whole ordeal rather than actively participating, and it wasn’t until you felt a familiar presence at your side that you tore your gaze away from what was happening, looking up at Loki.

“…did you know him?”

Loki’s expression was unreadable as they watched their brother and the rest of the Avengers grieve and mourn together. “…I did. But I was a much different person then.”

You could tell Loki didn’t want to talk about it, and so you didn’t push the subject, only nudged your shoulder against their arm. “…we did it.”

“We did.”

“Do you suppose there’ll be revels?”

“Oh, without a doubt. The entire world will celebrate. We just saved all of humanity. I reckon it won’t end for days.”

“…we should go find one of those medics the others were telling us about. Get patched up and stuff.”

“In a moment.”

You followed Loki’s gaze back to Thor and the others, and for a long moment just watched in silence. You didn’t know much about what had happened the last time Loki had been to earth, but you knew that it wasn’t exactly good. “…you should go talk to them. Your brother, the others. Make amends. You can find me later. When we’re all celebrating.”

Loki nodded, and hesitated for a while longer before steeling themself and heading over to the group, and you watched in silence as Thor ran to them, and hugged them, and began talking to the rest of the group, no doubt singing Loki’s praises and how they had changed so much in so little time, and it made you smile to see Loki relax a little bit.

You had so many questions you wanted to ask them, about where they’d gone, and what they had done, and why they hadn’t come back sooner, but you supposed, for now, it was enough to just know that they were alive, that you all were.

There would be time for catching up later.

Much as Loki had predicted, the celebrations around the world had started almost immediately, once it had been announced that there was no more threat to the world, and that the vanished half of humanity had been returned. The fireworks and parties and celebrations had been going strong for more than a week, and you were certain they’d go on for much longer, and for once, it was nice to not have to worry about anything except how much you’d had to drink in a night.

Over the course of that week, you’d gotten answers, albeit a little cryptic even for them, about where exactly Loki had been for five years. Something about an alliance that oversaw time and those who traveled through it, or the sort. It hadn’t made much sense to you, and mostly you just cared that Loki was back, so you hadn’t pressed for any further clarification.

“You’re supposed to be in there with the rest of us.”

You snapped out of your reminiscing, looking up as Loki came to a stop at your side on the balcony of the fancy hotel everyone was staying at until they could figure out how they were going to rebuild the Compound, and for a while, you both just watched the fireworks in the distance. They hadn’t stopped for as long as the world had been celebrating, and it was new and fun to watch, so you found yourself out there watching them often.

“I can celebrate just as well out here, you know.” You smiled and took the glass of too-strong alcohol that Loki had brought out for you, taking a long sip of it as you both continued to watch the night sky light up.

“…it is weird, isn’t it? Not having something to fight for, or against.”

“I wager that’s how most people spend their lives. Just living. Making friends, going out to dinner with their families and loved ones.” You shrugged a bit, turning back to Loki now.

“Yes, well. We all get to do that now, too.”

You huffed out a skeptical laugh. “For now. There’ll be other threats.”

“There always are, yes. And there always will be.” Loki spoke solemnly, and then in the blink of an eye, grinned again. “But we’re not thinking about that right now, we’re celebrating.”

By now you could tell that Loki was mildly inebriated, certainly a feat with the meager excuse for alcohol Midgardians had, and you couldn’t help but to smile a bit at Loki’s eagerness to get you back in with everyone else.

“Fine. Someone has to stop you from making a fool of yourself, anyway.”

“Hey! I haven’t even started telling embarrassing stories about when Thor and I were kids yet!”

You couldn’t help but to laugh at that, and with an unnecessarily dramatic sigh, you threw back the rest of your drink and stepped away from the balcony railing. “Well, let’s change that.”

Loki grinned, and immediately took you by the hand and started pulling you back into the building, and you smiled softly as you let yourself relax.

Perhaps you deserved some rest now, too.

#Loki imagine #platonic Loki imagine #Loki #Loki Laufeyson #Loki Odinson #Loki x reader #platonic!Loki x reader #anonymous #ask #answered #thank you for the prompt #slight angst

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cruelfeline · 4 years

Text

I’ve been thinking about various aspects of SPoP, as I am wont to do, and as often happens, I’ve settled on trying to figure out why I feel a certain way. Namely regarding why I, personally, am able to feel so much more compassion towards Hordak rather than towards the Princesses. After all, the Princesses are the ones being wronged throughout this show, aren’t they? Their lands are being invaded. They’re the ones having to fight to maintain their way of life. They’re losing ground because of Hordak’s war.

So... why do I find it hard to care about them? Why are their experiences in this conflict just sort of... well, meaningless to me?

And why, instead, do my tender emotional responses strongly favor Hordak, despite his serious role in starting a terrible war?

Well! As per usual, I’m going to try to talk my way through it.

(and, as per usual, your mileage may vary!)

Let’s start with the Princesses. They range from children to young adults. Seem like reasonably nice girls, despite various flaws. They clearly did not ask for a war, had no hand in starting it, and are clearly on the side of good, seeking to protect innocents and simply return to a peaceful way of life.

They appear perfectly designed to garner sympathy and connection... yet I feel so little for them. I feel little because, despite the show telling me that they’re fighting for their lives, and for their home, despite them being the apparent underdogs in their battle against the Horde, I feel like their lives remain relatively stable. Pleasant. Even enjoyable.

Essentially, I feel like despite everything, they do not truly suffer. Not in a way that is consistent or touching.

The arcs the Princesses go through either deal largely with matters unrelated to the war and subsequently involve less arduous difficulties, or are handled in such a way that any real pain is quickly resolved and loses its impact.

Frosta and Perfuma represent the former. Both are parentless rulers of their kingdoms, but there is no real confirmation that their parents were killed by the Horde, and they themselves seem largely unperturbed by parental loss. They maintain control of their kingdoms throughout the series. Frosta never loses the Kingdom of Snows, while Perfuma, though in brief danger of losing Plumeria due to damage to the Heart Blossom, ends up... well, defeating the Horde with a band of untrained hippies. So while they fight in the war against Hordak, they never really suffer any significant, confirmed personal losses because of it.

In fact, the Plumerian conflict is... kind of played for laughs.

The other aspects of their arcs have largely to do with friendship matters, or self-belief, and are also dealt with quickly and with little fanfare. Frosta learns how to make friends. Perfuma learns how to play with cacti. Afterwards, Frosta spends the remainder of the story essentially being a violence-happy little kid; amusing, yes, but not particularly tugging at my heartstrings. Perfuma likewise settles into “sympathetic friend” and, though she’s involved in Scorpia’s story at the end, also does little to invoke any sort of significant emotion.

we’re just going to skirt around the whole “leashing Entrapta” thing, as it’s not relevant to this discussion

(Spinnerella and Netossa barely even register to me, given their very bare-bones roles in the first four seasons and standard “chipped loved one” narrative (that everyone experiences) in the fifth.)

So, let’s move on to Glimmer and Mermista.

Glimmer and Mermista are arguably the two Princesses who actually lose unique things in the war and suffer because of those losses. And yet, because of the way the show is written, even their pain is dulled in such a way that it just does not facilitate me forming any sort of consistent, compassionate bond with them.

Mermista is the only Princess to actually lose a kingdom. In Hordak’s most visible evil act, Salineas is burned and beflagged, leading to Mermista deeply mourning the loss of her home, her culture, her peop- oh. Hm.

She takes it oddly well, doesn’t she? Apparently, ice cream in a bathtub is how deposed rulers deal with the loss of their entire country nowadays.

And once she’s done with her moment of moping, she’s back in the fight, fueled by Sea Hawk’s shenanigans and her own power ballad (and Bright Moon’s lack of ice cream). There is no extended mourning for her people, no real depth to the loss she has supposedly suffered. There’s not even a real sense of it: we never see the people of Salineas, never know them, never get to feel anything for them. And with them being all but theoretical, the show appears to have no issue quickly forgetting them: Mermista never negotiates on their behalf, or visits refugees, or... anything. She might use Salineas in her future battle cries and as an excuse for increased recklessness, but that homage is the extent of emotion that we see.

Kingdom gone, bathtub ice cream finished, she goes on living life as if little has happened. And, because of her royal connections, she doesn’t even experience a decrease in quality of life: she continues to live in luxurious comfort despite an apparently raging war.

Because of how the writing handles Salineas, and her character in general, I never feel connected to how Mermista feels. Whatever pain she experiences is there and gone in a few scenes, quickly dealt with so the story can continue. There is no exploration, no nuance, nothing to really make me appreciate any sort of depth to her experience. And so I feel little, if anything, for her plight.

Glimmer, then, is the last chance the show has to make me feel something for the Alliance Princesses’ suffering during this war, and while season four nearly does it, the series again ends up falling short.

Glimmer loses her mother. The actual sacrifice is emotional... though that emotion, admittedly, comes mainly from Adora. Glimmer’s pain comes through at the beginning of season four, when she is clearly in mourning all while needing to take Angella’s place as queen. Afterwards, season four does a fairly good job of making the loss meaningful: Glimmer becomes more and more willing to commit dark acts due to a mixture of grief and desperation. It works well, and out of all of the Princesses, I feel for her the most... until season five comes along and pretty much erases Angella from character consciousness.

Angella’s death essentially plays no role in season five. Glimmer does not appear to think back to it. While it drives her actions during season four, it appears to have been all but forgotten now, a particularly glaring shift when Catra, the one who is practically responsible, joins the group without it coming up at all. Glimmer’s other parental loss, Micah, likewise becomes meaningless not because of questionable writing choices, but because he simply never died.

Glimmer’s other problem, her rift with Bow and Adora, is repaired within an episode and never spoken of again. That... falls quite flat for me.

And so, by the end of the series, Glimmer fails to maintain a believable level of distress and thus doesn’t invoke any real emotion in me. The one thing that really mattered, that really hurt her? Suddenly irrelevant in the name of Catra’s redemption. Hm.

And while these are the specific character examples that come to mind, the general situation the Princesses find themselves also fails to carry much weight in my mind. They are in the middle of a war, yet they continue to live in luxury. Skirmishes carry a sense of light-heartedness and sometimes seem almost fun. Battle plans are developed via a game of DnD. There is just no consistent sense of urgency or severity, no believable sense of emotional depth to convey to me that these characters are in truly dire straits. Yes, there are moments... but these moments are so brief, and carry such questionable lasting impact, that they don’t connect with me the way that they should. And as a result, the plight of the Princesses just feels hollow to me.

I just... I just find myself unable to care about them because, when all is said and done, I don’t feel like they are truly in danger of real harm, or that they are realistically affected by their losses. It all just feels so shallow to me.

Now, let’s pivot and look at Hordak. Hordak, whom I still cry over on the daily. Hordak, who has owned my heart for over a year now. Hordak, who invokes in me all of the emotions.

What is the difference between Hordak and the Princesses, other than the glaring fact that he is the instigator of the Etherian war and thus a bad, bad man? What makes him snap my heartstrings in half, while the Princesses barely manage a gentle tug?

The answer is that Hordak legitimately suffers. Terribly. Consistently. Throughout the entire series. While the Princesses experience brief moments of distress that the show quickly sweeps under the rug in favor of witty banter and friendship problems, Hordak is the direct opposite: he experiences only the occasional breath of happiness while otherwise drowning in a constant sea of bitterness, fear, pain, and deep unhappiness.

From the moment we meet him, Hordak is stern and humorless and angry, and while this initially appears to be a side effect of him being a Standard Ultimate Villain Who Never Smiles, we quickly learn that it is due to his struggle. Hordak is constantly struggling against his physical defect, battling an illness that causes him not only significant health problems, but incredible shame. He is likewise constantly struggling to earn the respect and validation and nonexistent love of his god-brother. His sour demeanor, with all of its anger and dourness, originates in the fact that, throughout the overwhelming majority of the series, he is gravely unhappy. He is in ever-present distress, both physical and emotional.

And as the series goes on, does that distress lessen? No. No, instead, he is rejected by his brother, thoroughly humiliated, and brutally “reset” back into his life as an actual cult slave. Rather than having his difficulties minimized like so many Princesses do, he finds himself in ever-worsening circumstances, graduating from (supposed) “disgraced, disabled military veteran” to “enslaved cultist desperate to be loved by his loveless master.”

Any moments of happiness are not only relatively brief, they are taken away as quickly as the Princesses’ moments of difficulty are. Hordak experiences love and friendship for the first time with Entrapta, only to swiftly lose her to Catra’s lies and spiraling madness. He finally begins to win the Etherian War (which is bad, yes, I know), only to realize that his victories stem from Catra’s betrayal before the whole affair culminates in Prime’s nauseating violation of his personhood.

It does not stop. Physically, mentally, or emotionally: not until his triumph over Prime in the season five finale does Hordak stop hurting, and even that is marred by Prime taking control of his body in a final act of nightmarish control before, bless him, Hordak is freed and able to begin his recovery.

In addition to being a series constant, Hordak’s pain is conveyed. It is dramatically shown through facial expressions, through body language, through phenomenal voice work, through scenes that clearly depict real anguish.

The purification ritual is one of them; what other character do we hear scream like that, over and over, due to such terrible agony? His reunion with Prime is another; I will never forget how deeply I could sense his fear, how watching him tremble and beg instilled within me a sort of breathless panic because the scene actually made me want to instinctively protect him... but I could not because, y’know: cartoon.

Hordak’s suffering is not only ever-present, it is varied and developed and communicated to the viewer in ways that result in it making a lasting impression. It is never minimized. It is never ignored. It is painful and horrifying with little reprieve, and it has a deep, life-altering effect on him.

That, friends and neighbors, is why I think I find myself feeling so much more compassion towards Hordak than I do towards the Princesses, despite his less-enticing place on the moral spectrum. Hordak is in pain. Consistently, meaningfully. He suffers, and the story takes it with every ounce of seriousness it can muster.

The Princesses, on the other hand, either experience little hurt or, when they do suffer, do so briefly before the narrative shoves it aside in favor of Catradora other things. As a result, they fail to make the same impression. They fail to garner my compassion because, in the end, they just don’t seem to really need it.

Whereas Hordak does.

#hordak #spop princesses

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hysterialevi · 3 years

Text

Hjarta | Chapter 18

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE NEXT MORNING

SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Eivor pried his eyes open to a slit, immediately squinting in the sunlight that hit his face.

His fingers twitched with movement as his body returned to a state of consciousness, and his dreams vacated the stage that once sat in his mind. A subtle itch tickled the surface of his skin due to the strands of hair that dangled in front of his nose, and out of the corner of his eye, Eivor could see lingering smoke trailing from the dead embers of a torch once set aflame.

It was a calm morning, despite the mournful nature of the clan. A light breeze traveled swiftly throughout the empty halls of the longhouse, and distant chatter could be heard from the villagers who had already risen. It was the start of an ordinary day, and yet, Eivor had no motivation to see it through.

He just couldn’t stop thinking about Thora and Ulfar.

Even though he managed to distract himself for a while with Sigurd’s company, the pain was inevitably sinking back in, and it felt as if a boulder had planted itself on top of his chest.

There was no way to fill the new absence stalking his every move; no way he could ever see Thora or Ulfar again. Both of them were gone, and he had been left behind. He was stuck in this realm with nothing but the memories of those he had lost, and the only thing that could help him was the hope of putting Kjotve down for good.

Thankfully, Eivor wasn’t completely alone just yet.

Resting gently over his hip, the young man felt the weight of Sigurd’s arm pressing down on him like a protective shield, holding him close in a world that was constantly trying to separate them. His breath kissed the back of Eivor’s neck at a steady pace, and a soothing warmth surrounded their bodies due to the blankets barricading them from the cold.

It was surprising to see that Sigurd hadn’t taken his leave, Eivor thought. Part of him had been expecting the prince to vanish like he did on the day of the wedding, and yet, he was here, keeping him company without any worry of judgement. His mind remained buried under dreams of war and mayhem, and his eyelids fluttered with the vivid images that flashed in his head.

He looked to be at peace, despite the turmoil brewing inside him. His expression was devoid of any usual disturbances, and Eivor’s comforting presence only helped to bring him more solace.

In addition to the relief Eivor felt upon seeing Sigurd however, the young man also couldn’t ignore the guilt he carried for taking the prince away from Randvi.

Gods only knew what that woman was going through right now. In a single day, she had lost both her blood-sister and father figure -- and unlike Eivor -- she had to deal with the pain alone.

She didn’t have anyone in her chambers to provide her with company or a shoulder to lean on, and Eivor began to wonder if he should’ve been ashamed of himself for robbing her of that.

Perhaps it was a mistake to stay with Sigurd for the night. Perhaps he should’ve simply gone to the temple like he planned, and left the prince to his own devices. Maybe then, Randvi wouldn’t be forced to endure all this grief alone. Eivor may have cherished every moment he spent with Sigurd, but he didn’t wish to do it at the expense of his sister’s well-being.

It was Randvi that Sigurd was supposed to be with, after all. And Eivor couldn’t help but question the morality of what he was doing.

“...Eivor...?” The older man suddenly murmured, causing the Wolf-Kissed to glance over his shoulder.

He came face-to-face with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes, and smiled faintly upon hearing the man’s words.

“Good morning, love.” Eivor said, rolling onto his side. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

Sigurd chuckled, though it came out more like a grunt due to the sleep that still fogged his mind.

“...You didn’t wake me up. Truth is, I barely slept. My dreams were plagued with nothing but nightmares. I hope you had a better night.”

“I’d be lying if I said I did. All I could think about was Thora and Ulfar. About how they died.”

“I know what you mean. I can’t stop thinking about Dag either. It’s been hours since he first went silent, and yet... his final words refuse to leave me. It’s like he’s still here, berating me for everything I’ve done. Every time I close my eyes, my dreams take me back to the Tears of Ymir. Part of me feels as if I never left.”

Eivor snuggled up in Sigurd’s embrace, bringing himself closer to the other man.

“...We will get through this, love.” He reassured. “I know it wasn’t easy, but you gave us a chance at victory when you slew the traitor. Now, Kjotve has no allies within our walls. He’s completely by himself. And we have his son as a prisoner. We still have hope of winning this war... and it’s thanks to you.”

Sigurd raised a hand to Eivor’s cheek, gently caressing it with the back of his knuckles.

“I hope you’re right. The last thing I want is for all our sacrifices to be in vain. We can’t accept defeat now. Not when we’re so close.” The prince sat up from the bed, causing his hair to slip from his shoulders. “But for now, let’s simply focus on honoring our dead. There are many farewells that need to be said before we take things further with Gorm, and I’d like to see Dag off on his journey to Hel. He may have been a traitor, but even he doesn’t deserve abandonment in death.”

Eivor’s mood soured at the mention of Dag’s name. In spite of his agreement to granting the man a place at the funeral, he couldn’t help but feel contempt for him after everything he and Gorm did to Thora.

“Do you think Dag would’ve done the same for you?” Eivor questioned.

Sigurd hesitated, not failing to notice the sharpness in his tone.

“I... I honestly don’t know. Did he even love me in the end? Or did he view me as an enemy? A foe that he needed to eliminate?” The prince combed a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “I’d like to believe that he would stand by my grave in death, but in reality, I suspect he would’ve been the one to send me there.”

Sigurd rose from the bed and reached for his shirt, shaking his head in sorrow. “Gods... how did things go so wrong...?”

He pulled the piece of clothing over his torso, preparing to take his leave.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get dressed. I imagine my father will be awake by now, and I’d like to have a few words with him before we depart. Meet me outside when you’re ready to go. We can walk to the funeral together.”

The younger man followed suit and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, dreading the near-future. He didn’t want to attend the ceremony alone, but he also worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep his composure in the presence of Thora and Ulfar.

“...Alright.” He said plainly. “I’ll find you when I’m ready, Sigurd.”

The prince leaned down and placed a kiss on Eivor’s forehead, bidding him farewell.

“Take care, Eivor. I’ll see you soon.”

~~~~~~~~~~

ONE HOUR LATER

THE DOCKS

Walking along the edge of the ship, Ingrida’s boots quietly thudded against the wooden floor as she tended to the pyres, preparing them for their final departure. She scattered a mixture of herbs and petals at the base of the structures, whispering a series of prayers under her breath.

Her heart ached beyond words to see three of her beloved clan members sharing a ship to the gates of the afterlife. Thora, Ulfar, and Eirik all lay side-by-side in the center of the vessel, decorated with an abundance of gifts that the villagers had left for them. They had axes, shields, food, riches, armor -- every possible boon they could use in the next realm. Their bodies had also been adorned with a handful of sweet-scented flowers, and their hands had been arranged to hold the swords in their grip.

Meanwhile, Dag rested alone in a separate ship docked on the other end of the harbor. His boat had been left barren of any gifts or offerings, and the only attention he received was from scornful villagers who were irked to see his presence at the funeral. His pyre looked about as empty as the frozen sea before them, and it appeared just as cold.

Luckily, despite the animosity the clan held for Dag, Ingrida hadn’t yet forbade herself from saying a prayer for the man. Even though he was directly linked to the death of her son, she still saw it fitting to bless him with one last prayer, as well as the dignity of being sent on a proper vessel. She carried less than no love for the dishonorable traitor, but did not wish to defile his grave, lest she cause Sigurd even more pain.

“Wherever the bridge may guide you,” Ingrida whispered, walking up to Thora, “whatever obstacles you may face, know that your memory has been marked in our clan, sister. Your words, your thoughts, your actions -- they will all continue to live among us even though you have returned to the gods. Your spirit will become as natural as the trees around us, and your name will be shrouded in the honor that was robbed of you in death. May you find peace under Hel’s gaze, and may your axe never thirst for battle. You are free now.”

The woman brought her attention to Eirik, crumbling at the sight of her son.

“Oh, my son...” she murmured, “forgive me. I never thought it would end like this. I never thought it would be me who tended to your pyre. I wanted to watch you grow old. I wanted you to enjoy the life I had given you. I wanted better for--” Ingrida’s voice faltered, causing her to pause briefly, “--you deserved... better than this. You deserved happiness. I only pray that the gods will grant it to you someday, and that we will meet again when death takes us both.” She slid a hand down Eirik’s cheek. “Rest well, my son. Your struggles will not be everlasting.”

Turning to Ulfar, Ingrida cleared her throat and took a deep breath, regaining her composure for one final farewell.

“And my dear friend, Wulfgar,” she said. “I know you were fueled by hatred for many years before you came to us. I know you carried an abundance of regrets. But as the Valkyries guide you to the Hall of Valor, I hope you can find forgiveness for yourself. Even though you were not exempt of flaws, you were one of the best men I had ever the pleasure of meeting. You were a venerable husband to Linnea, and a loving father to many of the children here.”

She sighed, placing a delicate hand over the hilt of Ulfar’s sword. “I do not know whether you will meet the Christian god or be accepted into the Allfather’s arms, but either way, remember that redemption walks with you, drengr. Your faults have been amended, and your shackles have been broken. May your freedom guide you home.”

Stepping away from the pyres, Ingrida said the last of her prayers and decided to leave the bodies alone for now, admittedly somewhat overwhelmed by the grief that was starting to sink in. For days, she had been focusing on the preparations for this funeral, and yet, nothing could’ve fully braced her for the severity of their losses.

The old völva had overseen multiple burials in the past, but she had never attended one with so many familiar faces. Thora, Ulfar, Eirik -- they were all vital people in her life. She watched them grow, she watched them cry, she watched them change. A part of her soul was attached to the three of them, and now... she had to watch them leave.

It was the hardest farewell she ever had the burden of bidding, and she hoped it would be the last.

“Ingrida?”

The seeress whirled around at the sudden greeting, not realizing that she had company.

“Oh, Eivor,” she said upon seeing her guest’s face. “I didn’t notice you were there.”

The young man approached her, keeping his hands linked in a respectful manner.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he explained. “I saw that you were saying a prayer for them.”

Ingrida glanced back at the fallen warriors’ bodies, nodding morosely.

“...Indeed. I just finished saying goodbye to Wulfgar.”

Eivor cocked a brow at that. “Wulfgar? You mean... Ulfar?”

Ironically, his question only seemed to garner more confusion from the old woman.

“He never told you?” She asked, clearly surprised.

“Told me what?”

A look of understanding spread across Ingrida’s face. “Forgive me, young cub. I assumed you knew of this already. The two of you were like father and son, so I simply thought...” she shook her head, returning to the topic. “Anyway. Tell me, did Ulfar ever reveal that he originally came from a Saxon family?”

“Yes,” Eivor recalled. “He mentioned that before.”

“Well, his name was Wulfgar before he was adopted by the Norse. He always asked me to refer to him as that in private. It may seem like an odd request, but I think it helped him preserve some semblance of who he once was.”

“I... I never knew that. Ulfar didn’t tell any of us.”

Ingrida gazed at the raider’s lifeless face, tilting her head out of empathy.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. He had a dark history before he married Linnea and joined our clan. He probably didn’t want to frighten you.”

Eivor’s curiosity got the best of him. “Can you tell me what he did, exactly?”

The seeress fell silent due to hesitance. “I... don’t think I should, Eivor. I don’t believe it would be my place. If Ulfar felt the need to keep it hidden from you, then perhaps that’s because he meant to take the secret to his grave.”

A hint of disappointment sank into Eivor’s mood, but he respected the secrecy nonetheless.

“...I understand.”

Ingrida offered another possible answer. “If your curiosity is truly piqued though, I’d recommend asking your father. Arngeir is also aware of Ulfar’s past, and he was much closer to him than I. I think he would be more suited to tell the story -- if you are willing to hear it.”

“I am. I’ll ask him about it later. Thank you.”

The woman crossed her arms and took a moment to examine Eivor, suddenly switching the subject when she noticed that he was alone.

“But enough about that. Where is Sigurd?” Ingrida questioned. “I expected him to come here with you.”

The inquisitive spark in Eivor’s eyes dimmed at the observation, and he took a slow glance at the nearby longship.

“He’s paying his respects to Dag.” He said, gesturing to the traitor’s pyre. Ingrida followed his gaze, watching as Sigurd said his goodbyes.

The downhearted prince was currently kneeling in front of the wooden tomb with his head hanging low, and a hand over Dag’s wrist. His face was hidden from the world due to his crouched position, and at the moment, all Ingrida could see was a slight quiver shaking the stillness of his shoulders.

“...His eyes burned bright with the heat of Muspelheim itself...” Ingrida whispered in revelation. “Oh, that poor man. I now understand what my vision meant. I understand what it was trying to say.”

Eivor gave the woman a puzzled look, intrigued by her train of thought.

“What do you mean?”

Ingrida brought her focus back to the young man and closed the distance between them.

“The night before Sigurd arrived, the gods sent me a dream about him. Do you remember? It was just before Freya’s statue fell at the temple.”

Eivor nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

A hint of caution took hold of her tone. “...Dag’s death will only fuel the fire already raging in your prince, Wolf-Kissed. I know I advised you to stay away from Sigurd in the past, but now, I suspect you’ll be the only one capable of pulling him back from the edge. Do not allow him to get lost in the dark. He’ll be leading us into battle not too long from now. Please, do what you can to ensure that his mind stays whole.”

“Of course, Ingrida. I--” he stuttered for a second, hesitant to be completely open, “...you know how I feel about him. I’ll try my best to help him.”

That seemed to bring relief to the seeress. “Thank you, Eivor. We need both of you if we’re going to win this war. Take care of yourselves in the storm to come. We’re almost through the brunt of it.”

Bringing their conversation to an end, Ingrida placed a soft hand on Eivor’s arm and guided him away from the pyres, stepping back onto the docks as the clan gathered for the final farewell. A line of archers had already taken their position at the front of the shoreline and set their arrows aflame, preparing for the upcoming ceremony.

“Come, young cub. It’s time to say goodbye.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Standing just beyond the tide’s reach, Eivor and Sigurd watched the funeral from afar as gusts of icy wind danced throughout the village, causing their capes to billow in the breeze. Specks of snow fluttered from the muted sky hanging above them, and in the distance, Eivor could see a number of dockhands pushing the ships away from the piers.

It almost would’ve been beautiful, if it weren’t for the morbidity of their gathering. The ships glided across the glassy surface like swans in a lake, and their hulls split the sheets of ice blocking their course. Ravens soared alongside the majestic sails as if Odin himself were guiding their departure from Midgard, and within moments, the archers had already prepared their first volley of arrows.

“Aim!” One of the warriors commanded, his voice thundering across the beach. A chain of flames immediately rose into the air, pointing directly towards the clouds.

The ships ventured a bit deeper into the ocean, causing waves of white foam to spurt around them.

“Loose!”

Releasing their grip on the bows, the archers sent a storm of arrows flying into the sky as their fiery tips set the heavens aflame, painting the atmosphere with what looked like a thousand suns. Their reflections bolted across the sea like streaks of ember, and soon after, the ships were engulfed in a cloak of fire.

Little by little, the sparks spread throughout the vessels’ entire structure, igniting everything they could touch. They easily latched onto the fallen warriors who occupied the pyres, and consumed their hollow shells like webs of frost crawling across the ocean.

It was a display fit for the gods themselves. The ships wandered like a pair of beacons shattering the dark, and Eivor could only hope that the divines would accept their new arrivals with open arms. These souls had officially traveled beyond the mortal realm, and now, their threads in the tapestry of fate had been cut.

It was finally time for Eivor to let them go. The very same war that had taken these people in the first place still burned with an unbridled fury, and it wouldn’t be long before they had to confront it once and for all.

The only thing they had to do now was get Gorm to talk. His forked tongue hid behind a guise of feigned ignorance, but Eivor knew better than to believe his twisted claims.

That man knew where Kjotve was, and he knew how to lure him out of the shadows. His information was the key to winning this war, and neither the Wolf-Kissed nor the Raven Prince would back down until they got what they wanted.

It was their only chance of survival at this point, and the last obstacle blocking their way.

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

THE DUNGEON

Shoving the barred door open with a firm push, Sigurd ducked under the low frame and slipped into the room, lighting the way with a torch as Eivor followed him from behind. The weathered hinges of the door squeaked sharply in the looming silence, and a soft rattle bounced off the walls as their prisoner struggled in his chains.

Gorm was completely alone down here. Not only had he been deprived of any human contact, but the tight bricks of the dungeon had also sealed out any intruding sunlight. His hands and feet had been tied down by harsh shackles, and a rough cloth had been wrapped securely around his eyes.

Despite Gorm’s recent arrival though, it looked like someone had already visited him. In the flickering glow that radiated from Sigurd’s torch, the prince spotted fresh cuts and bruises littering the prisoner’s skin. Tiny droplets of blood stained the collar of his shirt, and by now, a slick sheen of sweat had formed on the man’s bony chest.

It wouldn’t be difficult to interrogate this man, but that didn’t mean Sigurd would go easy on him.

“Heh,” he said with a chuckle, holding the torch closer to Gorm’s wounds, “looks like someone had a talk with you already. You been having company lately, Kjotvesson? Or were our men just a bit too rough when they dragged you off the longship?”

The prisoner groaned in irritation, recognizing his captor’s voice. “...Gods above. As if my first conversation wasn’t bad enough. Now you’re here too? I’m not going to talk, Sigurd. The jarl couldn’t beat it out of me, and you won’t either.”

“Ah, so it was Arngeir who did this. I should’ve guessed.” The prince paused briefly. “...You’re lucky, you know. Not many people in this world have the same level of patience as our jarl. If it was my daughter you had killed, I would have flayed you alive.”

Gorm scoffed, shifting in his seat. “You? Everyone knows you’re soft, Styrbjornson. You couldn’t even save the jarl’s daughter from being killed. What makes you think you can get me to talk? Just throw your punches and leave me alone. You won’t get anything from me.”

Sigurd knelt down, leaning towards to the man as he spoke. “...We are one step away from winning this fucking war against your father after decades of suffering because of it. This is the closest we’ve ever been to victory in years, and the only thing blocking our path right now... is you. If you think I’m going to walk away after everything we’ve sacrificed, you are sorely mistaken.”

The prince stood up from the floor. “You can either tell me Kjotve’s location, or I can make you scream it. Either way, we’re not leaving this room until you give us what we need.”

Gorm picked up on that. “We?”

Eivor stepped forward, joining Sigurd’s side. “I’m here too, Gorm.”

“Ah, the Raven Prince’s whore. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. I know you follow Sigurd around like a lost pup, always pining for his attention. Word spreads quickly, you see--”

Sigurd threw a quick jab at Gorm’s cheek, silencing the man in an instant.

“Well you won’t hear anymore about us from now on. Your ally is dead, Gorm. We found him.”

That seemed to instill a sense of alarm in the prisoner. “...Ally?”

“Yes. Dag.” Sigurd clarified. “I know he was aiding you. I know he told you about the assault on your father’s fortress. But he’s dead now. You no longer have any friends here, Kjotvesson. There’s no one who can rescue you.”

The pace of Gorm’s breath quickened at the news, and his jaw clenched in fear.

“...So. What is it you want, exactly?”

“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said? Tell me where Kjotve is, and all this comes to an end. It’s that simple.”

Sigurd reached down, ripping Gorm’s blindfold off with a harsh tug.

“We’re running out of time...! I’m giving you one last chance to tell us the information we need, but after that--” he yanked out his axe, “--I start hacking.”

Still, the prisoner resisted. “...Y-You wouldn’t. You don’t have the stones.”

The prince smirked. “Don’t I? Let me tell you something, Gorm.” Sigurd raised the axe to the other man’s face, positioning it right underneath his chin. “Just yesterday, this axe was buried in the heart of my brother. I put it there... after he confessed his treachery.”

It didn’t take long for Gorm to put the pieces together. “...Dag was your brother?”

Sigurd nodded slowly. “Not by blood, but that didn’t mean anything to us. We were still family. We still shared a bond. In the end though... he proved to be a danger to our clan, and so, I cut him down in one strike.” His eyes narrowed in rage. “...I was willing to execute a man I had known for all my life, purely for the sake of protecting this clan. He meant the world to me, and yet, I still killed him with my own two hands. What makes you think you stand a chance?”

Gorm scooted back in his seat, plastering himself against the back of the chair in an attempt to get away from the redheaded viking.

“You’re out of your mind, Sigurd.”

“All the more reason for you to give me what I want.”

The prisoner was quiet in response, leading Sigurd to shrug in a casual manner.

“Fine. If that’s how you wish to do things...”

The prince brought the torch’s flame to his axe, heating up the edge until it was red hot.

“W-w-wait!” Gorm exclaimed. “Wait!”

“Having second thoughts, Kjotvesson?”

“I-- look, I can’t tell you!”

Sigurd removed the axe from the fire and grinned, brandishing its scorching blade to the man.

“What’ll your father do? Kill you?”

Eivor laughed lightly, undeniably amused by Gorm’s squirming. “He’ll be lucky if he’s still alive by then.” His tone hardened. “Maybe we should string him up and leave him outside. Give him the same treatment he gave to my sister.”

Gorm shot him a glare. “Oh, you’ll join her soon enough, Wolf-Kissed. Don’t think this is over. Just because you’ve survived this long doesn’t mean--”

Sigurd pressed the axe down on his arm, causing the man to let out an anguished shout.

“Shit!” Gorm yelled, jolting violently in his restraints. The prince removed the blade after a moment and stepped back, leaving a prominent burn on the surface of his skin.

“If you’re done barking, I’d like to hear what we came for.”

“...You’ve lost your mind, Sigurd...!” The prisoner panted out, still dazed from the pain. “I’ll kill you for this. You and your whole clan!”

The redheaded man grabbed him by the collar, yanking him closer to his face.

“Tell me where Kjotve is! Now. Unless you want me to start slicing.”

Gorm turned away from Sigurd, doing his best to avoid eye contact with him.

“I... can’t!”

“Well, you will. I don’t care what kind of threats your father has made. You will tell us what we need to know, one way or another.”

The prisoner hesitated. “But why should I? You’ll kill me anyway! I’m as good as dead no matter what I do. I may as well keep silent.”

“Because your fate has yet to be determined. Cooperate with us, and perhaps I can grant you a faster death. But if you resist, I’ll have no choice but to keep this going. So save us both the trouble, and just tell me where Kjotve is.”

Gorm trailed off into silence once again, reconsidering his approach. He still appeared reluctant to comply with Sigurd’s demands, but his eyes flicked around the room in a way that made it clear he was slowly changing his mind.

“You... you promise you’ll give me a swift death if I tell you how to find my father? Is that what you’re saying?”

Sigurd looked directly into Gorm’s gaze, taking on a more sincere tone.

“...You have my word.”

The prisoner took the answer to heart and cursed quietly under his breath, frustrated at the dilemma that had been presented to him. He knew he was dead regardless of how the future unfolded, but he wondered if there was a chance he could find mercy in the hands of a proper executioner.

“...Damn it all.” Gorm finally said. “Fine. I’ll... I’ll tell you what you want to know. But you must keep your word.”

Sigurd waited patiently for a response. “Well? Where is he?”

The other man’s head drooped in shame. “...My father is sailing west. To England.”

That took the prince by surprise. “England? What in Hel’s name is Kjotve doing all the way out there?”

“He has allies in that country,” Gorm explained. “And they’re more than just simple raiders. His allies in England are part of something far bigger than you could ever anticipate. They will destroy you if he manages to rally them in time.”

Eivor crossed his arms in thought, suddenly feeling less confident. “...Shit. He must be miles ahead of us by now.”

“Actually, he could still be within your reach. I don’t think my father has officially embarked just yet. He mentioned stopping by an island along the way; to gather food and supplies before making the journey. You could still catch him.”

Sigurd stepped away from Gorm. “Then we need to leave immediately. We can’t allow Kjotve to sail into Saxon waters. If he makes it there, we’ll have lost him for good. There’s no way we could hunt him down in English territory without sparking another war.”

Eivor brought up another subject, slowing the prince down before he could get too far ahead of himself.

“Wait, what do we do about him?” He asked, gesturing to Gorm with a jerk of the head.

Sigurd eyed the prisoner up and down, contemplating how to dispose of the man. When he first set foot in the dungeon, he had originally planned to finish Gorm off with an axe to the chest -- similar to the method he used for Dag -- but now, he was having second thoughts.

“...We’ll let my father decide.” He settled with.

Eivor had to admit, he wasn’t expecting that. “Your father?”

Sigurd took a calming breath, thinking back to his conversation with his lover earlier that day. “He’s right about me, Eivor. I’m too impulsive. If I’m going to inherit the crown someday, I must learn to wield more restraint. Gorm murdered someone from our kingdom, so my father will determine his fate in a trial. Seems only fitting, seeing as how he’s the king.”

The younger man was pleased to see that the prince had taken his advice so seriously.

“A wise choice. We should inform Styrbjorn right away, then. We have no time to lose.”

Gorm jumped back in. “Wait! What if the king doesn’t allow me a quick death like we agreed?”

“I’ll explain to him the deal we made,” Sigurd assured. “My father is a man of honor, despite some of the things he does. He will understand.” He brought his attention back to Eivor, continuing their conversation. “Anyway, could you speak to Arngeir while I find my father? If we’re going to catch Kjotve on time, we’ll need everyone to be prepared. Everyone.”

“Of course. I’ll let him know of the plan.”

“Thank you.” Sigurd walked past the Wolf-Kissed, halting in his tracks to whisper something in the man’s ear. “Meet me on the hill outside the longhouse when you’re finished. There’s something I want to show you.”

Eivor nodded, whispering back to him. “I’ll be there.”

“Then I’ll see you soon, my love. But for now, let’s just focus on preparing for the upcoming battle. This war isn’t going to get any easier in the next few days, but if we’re lucky, it’ll end soon. Kjotve is hiding just beyond the horizon. We can’t let him escape.”

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