#how come adam is far more difficult to draw than the beast???

[kaeeia]

Riding outta the last of my batb brain rot by throwing these here! The Belle of the ball and her not anymore beastly prince hehehe get it??

[swtorramblings]

Sith Science-10: Homecoming

Vaylin disrespecting Darth Malora by @fleeting-sanity. Story for @lord-sutherland

Malora has reason to travel home briefly. She is frustrated that the Commander had her take her prize subject along.

Master list

Malora looked out over the ruined world. She had said she didn’t care, but being here, being able to feel what had been done to the place, it was hard to maintain that detachment. Ziost. Home. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cry.” Vaylin didn’t seem to be sympathetic. “Give me a moment. I didn’t think it would feel quite so painful.” “I did warn you.” She had. She had also said not to come here. It was almost as though she had been concerned, but if so, now that they were here, that had vanished. Of course, being here had to remind her of her history. Perhaps it was a good time to show some grace. “You did.” Then, the more painful words. “Thank you.” Vaylin grinned maliciously. “You’re welcome.” Malora was in pain, nauseous. Ziost was trying to sap her strength. Vaylin, though, appeared unaffected. “You seem to be in good spirits.” She glanced around before answering, the smile slowly fading, then said, “Looks can be deceiving.” “I do need to know how it’s affecting you.” “I don’t feel like picking you out of my clothes. Yet. Maybe we should get on with it.” “You are a trial.” “So I’ve been told.” Well, that would have to do for now. They were both clearly suffering, so it was time to see if the trip had been worthwhile. When Malora had suggested this mission, the Commander had insisted on her taking Vaylin along. She had been concerned that a similar beast to the one they had destroyed on Nathema might be lurking here, as well. Vaylin, for her part, had resisted, believing that it was much too soon to travel to a world her father had recently devoured, but she eventually relented when Malora remained adamant that the risk was worth it. Malora did not want Vaylin here for her own reasons, but at times you simply have to make do. They stepped from the ship and into the dead city. Every step tore at her. Her stomach churned, her head ached. Vaylin put a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe, Dark Lord. I know it’s hard. You are not drowning, it only feels that way.” “How did you ever stand it?” “I didn’t. I broke. You know that. But we won’t be here long.” Malora focused. Her Force senses, weak from general disuse, were muddled, so she began to concentrate on ignoring them, on shutting them down. It was difficult. Images of death, the smell of rot, tried to superimpose themselves over reality, where all was dust. She had thought Vaylin coming along might be a mistake. Now the Empress was the only reason she could keep going. She pulled up the map of the ruins, what the Alliance had been able to piece together from Imperial and Republic records they had access to. It was little enough, but the installation they were looking for wasn’t far. It was just a matter of whether or not anything of value was still there. Between the Emperor’s destruction of the world and scavengers that had raided it so many times since then, it was possible that this trip was for nothing. Still, there were very few in the galaxy that would recognize the value of what she was here for. She estimated that there might be a dozen, including herself, and none of them were likely to be on a pirate crew. It was possible that Sith Intelligence might have already been here, though. That could be disastrous. It felt like much longer, but her chronometer assured her that it had been less than an hour since landing. They arrived at the archive, where the samples she would need might be found. The entrance was still sealed. That was a good sign, at least, but code she had found didn���t work. It didn’t appear that the generators still functioned. She was about to draw her lightsaber when the door was unceremoniously yanked from it’s moorings and flung out into the wastes. She looked back, and Vaylin shrugged, smiled slightly, and waved her on. Even here, she was still so strong. She was incredible. And Malora wanted, more than anything else, to keep her that way. The small lab was dark, so Malora pulled out several glowrods and set them about the room. Vaylin entered and stood nearby, looking about absently. Malora began her search, knowing that from here on she was on here on she was on her own. Vaylin wouldn’t know what to look for, and couldn’t be told. Not yet. The first thing she noticed were racks where biological samples might be kept. What a waste, that could have told her so much. She’d have to consider taking some of them back to see if anything could be salvaged, but she doubted it. Answers were elsewhere. “Have you noticed?” Vaylin suddenly said. She responded, distracted by her search. Part of her hoped Vaylin would stay silent for once. “Noticed what?” “It’s easier here.” She hadn’t, but it was true. Her Force senses were slowly clearing. “Interesting.” “Very. I assume we should find the cause?” “Yes. That would be best.” Vaylin walked to the center of the room, extended her hands to her sides, and closed her eyes, turning slowly in place. She finally opened her eyes and walked to the wall. She gently tapped it with her forefinger. “Behind here.” Malora almost panicked. “Don’t!” Vaylin looked at her and blinked. “Don’t what?” “Break the wall.” “Why would I do that?” “Well, after the door…” “We didn’t need the door. You need whatever is here.” “Yes. Quite.” She was so aggravating. Malora examined the wall, feeling along it for some sign of a hidden catch, some mechanism, but nothing. There was nothing, of course, but it was worth a try. It gave her time, though. She finally felt was she was actually looking for. The Rakata had been obsessed with the Force. She understood, since she would have been, too. And most of the people that pursued their secrets were just as obsessive. It made them predictable, though. Of course the device’s defenses were activated or deactivated by a Force technique, one she had encountered elsewhere. She focused her mind and her hand passed through the wall, allowing her to retrieve the small device that was protecting the installation. “Oh, very good, Malora.” “Thank you.” It was an octahedron with rounded corners, translucent red and blue, about the size of her fist. It seemed to be self-powered, since removing it from its hiding place hadn’t exposed them to the damaged world. “Is that what you were looking for?” “Perhaps. It certainly helps.” “Can we go, then?” Something occurred to Malora. There hadn’t been any records that she could find, but if this place was protected, was it possible that the samples were, as well? She had no way of knowing, her senses were still too muddled. But what of Vaylin’s? “Can you sense anything?” “I can sense my impatience growing.” “Humor me. Is there anything alive in this room?” “Fine.” She grumbled under her breath, something about having done enough, but she repeated her stance from earlier, reaching out and feeling through the room. Finally, her eyes snapped open. “Yes. Not much, but, here.” She gestured, calling a small container to float in front of them. It radiated bitter cold. Perhaps, whatever it proved to be, it was important enough for this self-contained cold storage? The Rakata device protected it from being drained, and being frozen protected it from dying naturally. Good. The solution to Malora’s current problem might actually be here. It had been worth the risk, but she hadn’t really had much hope. She released a slow breath, relieved, hoping the rest of the work would go as smoothly. Vaylin did notice, but said nothing, simply following her back to the ship in silence.

[philliamwrites]

Cor Cordium

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts (3)

Pairings: Riku/Sora, Roxas/Sora (one-sided), Axel/Roxas (hinted), Vanitas/Ventus (Hinted), Aqua/Terra (mentioned)

Tags: #character study, #relationship study, #post canon, #post kh3, #spoilers, #mourning, #multiple pov, #little dialogue

Words: 6.9k (nice)

Summary: O heart of hearts, the chalice of love’s fire, Hid round with flowers and all the bounty of bloom; […] It is not the end of his story, only the beginning, but everyone is too occupied with mourning to understand.

Cor Cordium

Tell me, Atlus. What is heavier? The world or its people’s hearts?

        Sora remembers the phantom feeling of sand under his palms, warm little crystals pressing into his skin. He can’t tell if this is really a memory or just a wish. Lately, it’s been difficult to tell them apart, their lines blurring together. Or maybe since he arrived Here, it’s never been clear from the start, and he’s just clinging to shadows dancing in the back of his mind. He is floating. Or at least he thinks he is. A strange sensation tingles through his body, it feels like thousand ants are crawling on his skin, and yet he knows that his body isn’t really here. Wherever Here is. Sora is passably conscious, not asleep but not quite awake either.

         Darkness surrounds him. He can’t see it— it’s more of a feeling, a gentle brush of air against his mind, but it doesn’t scare him. This darkness isn’t the end, it isn’t the beginning either. It is nothing, this blank space between existing and disappearing, and somehow Sora managed to get caught in there. How is he supposed to explain that to Kairi and Riku? And just like that, the warm feeling dissipates, and Sora thinks of his life and his friends, and how both are so closely linked together. One cannot exist without the other. But with each passing moment, Sora feels bits and pieces of him crumbling into dust, scattering like sand swirled by a breeze on a warm summer day.

         Sora is alone. He is cold. He is afraid. He is dimly aware of pain, but mostly of a tremendous fatigue, as if he has been covered in layer upon layer of impossibly heavy blankets. It takes a moment for him to realise the wet drops on his face are his own tears, and he curls into a small ball, clinging to himself. He would give anything to see his friends again.

         Minutes, hours pass. Maybe only seconds. Time is a foreign concept, a construct not applicable to Sora. Oblivion is grey, it eats at Sora’s mind, at his heart, and he wants to fight it because they can take anything from him but his heart; his heart, a place for so many lives; a prison? A fortress filled with light of hopes and promises he’ll never be able to keep. Maybe now he is paying for the sins he doesn’t remember, for the dreams he’s failed to fulfil, hunting him like hungry beasts with sharp claws.

         He’s always known that his most powerful trait was his heart, and so in the end it was only natural that it would be his demise as well. O heart of hearts, beloved of all beloveds is a line from somewhere Sora can’t remember, but he feels it quite fits. He is the core of a small universe in which everyone stretches their hands out to touch him, to take something from him— and Sora wants to give, to give so much that in the end nothing will be left of him. Somehow he thinks that is quite alright, for he is the heart of hearts.

☆

         When Sora disappears, Roxas bolts awake from a restless sleep, tears blurring his vision and burning like acid on his cheeks. He isn’t just crying; Roxas is wheezing, sobbing as his heart breaks, and he realises Sora is gone. He can’t breathe. It feels like something vital is missing—a limb or a sense, and he wonders if this is how Ventus is feeling all the time since Vanitas’ disappearance. He doesn’t hear Axel’s worried voice calling his name over and over again; he doesn’t feel his long, heavy arms around his waist. Roxas only feels this boiling, parching anger at Riku, because out of all people, he must have known what was coming. And he let Sora go.

         Roxas jumps out of bed, long legs tangled in the sheets, and lands face first on the carpet. His cheek burns from the friction, but the pain is nothing compared to what is raging inside his chest. Ever since he’s become his own person, everything has become a little too much. He remembers his first week back in Twilight Town. When he saw Hayner, Pence and Olette, Roxas was so overwhelmed, he thought for a moment he would die because beside all the happiness swelling inside his chest, there was also some sense of immense grief. He mourned for the hours spent without them; he mourned for the person he could have been if he’d been a normal boy, his own person from the very beginning, and he mourned for all the stories and adventures he’s missed because of that.

         And yet, he’s never felt anything like this—not when Xion crumbled into little shards of light in his arms, not when he learnt he’d have to disappear because he didn’t exist in the first place. Roxas has had a front row view to many dire times in his life when happiness was a foreign word he couldn’t explain. But this is something else entirely, something so overwhelming that Roxas is afraid; he’s one raw nerve, burning and sensible to any kind of contact. He’s unsure what exactly he tells Axel, but it’s effective because he helps dressing Roxas, and they’re immediately off to Destiny Islands where they are greeted by the sun blasting down on them. Roxas shields his eyes, scanning the beach for a flash of silver hair. He knows this place like the back of his hand even though he’s only been here once after their victory over the Seekers of Darkness. But every place Sora has visited is engraved in the back of Roxas’ closed eyes, familiar and a second home to his heart.

         “Maybe no one’s home,” Axel says somewhere behind him. He’s looking out at the sea, watches as the waves curl against the white sand. The sun reflecting on the clear water draws bright shapes on his face, catching in his radiant, green eyes.

         “No. He’s here,” Roxas says with a solid certainty, for Destiny Island was always and will always be the place connecting everything. It’s the knot where all strings come together, where each destiny is carved in some way.

         They follow faint footsteps left on the beach, when Roxas notices movement in the corner of his eye. Near the seaside shack, he can see two figures close to each other, but the voices drown in the sound of ocean waves. Roxas speeds up, and when Riku turns, eyes wide and red-rimmed, Roxas doesn’t think twice. His fist connects with Riku’s jaw and hot pain explodes in Roxas’ hand. It’s enough to send Riku to the ground. Roxas follows him.

         “You knew!” he screams, swinging at Riku for a second time. “You fucking knew, and you let him go anyway?!”

         Distantly, he hears Axel calling his name, but Roxas ignores him. He’s very adamant on punching his fist through Riku’s face who puts insult to injury and doesn’t fight back. It only confirms Roxas’ suspicion: Riku knew he’d come for him. It does nothing to diminish Roxas’ anger.

         “Give me one damn reason why I shouldn’t drop you in the darkest pit I can find,” he hisses, grabbing Riku’s collar. Blood runs from his nose over his mouth and chin, but Riku only blinks. The tip of his tongue darts out to clean it from his lips. When he doesn’t answer, Roxas begins to shake him. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me?” Someone grabs Roxas’ shoulder, pulling him back, but with more vigour than before, Roxas pulls himself free, and lands another good hit in Riku’s face. “Why didn’t you stop him?” Too many thoughts race in his mind, and he can’t grasp any of them; they slip like sand through his fingers. Finally Axel, that traitor, pulls Roxas off, and Roxas fights with flailing arms and legs. His elbow finds its way in Axel’s side, winning Roxas an opening. He bolts for Riku, stumbling and shaking uncontrollably.

         “How could you?!” Roxas’ voice breaks. He’s grabbing again for Riku’s collar, but his hands betray him as well and search for purchase on his jacket, begging to have a grip on something solid, something that won’t disappear like Sora. “Riku, how could you? Don’t just stare at me, say something. Say something, Riku!”

         He’s still met with silence that is so loud it drives him insane, and Roxas doesn’t know what else to do; what else will make Riku talk and explain.

         Someone tugs on the hem of his west, and Roxas feels Oathkeeper and Oblivion seconds away from finding their way into his hands, ready to cut through anyone trying to stop him from unleashing another wave of fury. But when he sees it’s Kairi holding onto him, that rage dissipates, and makes way for a different feeling he is far more scared of: grief. Seeing Kairi standing in front of him only confirms this reality Roxas refuses to accept. He wants to beg her to let him go, to stop looking at him with those big, teary eyes so similar to Sora’s. Instead he collapses in front of her, and wails a small, painful sound so inhuman it tears through his own ears. Roxas cries.

         She can’t take away that anger from him because without it he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel, and feeling itself becomes too much. He knows there is an emptiness waiting for him after all of this, and he’s too afraid to face it.

         Riku’s hand curls around his arm, and then he is kneeling beside Roxas, leaning his forehead against Roxas’ shoulder. Roxas feels more than he hears the sob rolling through his body, and he wants to push Riku away, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s cried himself tired already. Hours pass as they stay like this, holding hands and weeping with rasping sobs, as if trying to force air into lungs crushed by grief, until Roxas passes out at some point.

         The next time he wakes up it’s with less tears, but grief is still a cold hook sitting deep under his skin. His face hurts, but no matter how much he splashes cool water on it, the swelling around his eyes doesn’t go away. He finds Axel outside sitting on the big trunk facing the setting sun. Kairi is beside him with eyes fixed on the red horizon, unblinking. Roxas has noticed it before. Since their arrival, Kairi hasn’t said anything.

         “Roxas.” Riku is standing behind him, and Roxas catches the fruit thrown at him with little elegance. Riku’s face looks awful. A dark, ugly bruise colours his right eye purple, rivalled by another one forming on his left, swollen cheek. He’s too smart to ask if Roxas is okay, so instead he settles on a wordless observation. Roxas ignores him. He feels too vulnerable and exposed in front of those keen, cyan eyes. The fruit explodes with a sweet taste in his mouth, reminding Roxas of how much he loves this place. He’s adopted it from Sora; that and many other little traits he still has to sort out who they belong to. Knowing this place will never be the same without Sora opens up a new, fresh wound Roxas knows no Cura or potion is able to heal.

         “What’s the plan?” he asks, wiping his fingers on his pants. When Riku doesn’t answer immediately, Roxas’ fist burns with the need to punch him again. “You do have a plan, don’t you?” he presses further, feeling his irritation grow.

         Eventually, Riku drags a hand over his face, and sighs. “We’ll talk to Mickey. And Master Yen Sid,” he says, avoiding Roxas’ eyes. “Hopefully one of them knows something.”

         “That’s it?” Roxas barely manages to contain his anger from sipping into his voice. “You just hope they know something?”

         “They’ve always helped us, so yes.” Blatant challenge flashes in Riku’s eyes when he finally meets Roxas’. “We will go and see them.”

         A muscle twitches in Roxas’ jaw. “I don’t remember them doing anything to help me, so maybe revaluate who you’re going to ask for help.”

         Riku gives him a sharp glare. “Careful.”

         But Roxas has had his fair share of depending on old guys who used him for whatever ulterior motive they had, and frankly he can do without it. “Sora needs us now. You can sit around if you want, but I’m going to look for him.”

         He’s almost down the gangplank when Riku calls after him. “And where do you think you’re going? You think visiting world after world will bring you closer to find him?”

         Roxas exhales audibly, and wills himself not to turn around, but he’s always been bad at containing all the rage that’s accumulated over the past years. It is this anger that has always set him apart from Sora; that hate towards people who hurt him always drew the clear line between them. This simple black and white was easy to grasp and understand, and even easier to identify with until Sora plunged Roxas’ world into vibrant colours and complex structures, and brought with him so many people Roxas didn’t know and yet meant so much to him. He hates how this even applies to Riku, despite this envy, a churning black storm hidden in his chest. Riku and Sora are inseparable, and Roxas loathes it.

         The only comfort lies in how he loves Sora, for Roxas has loved Sora in a way only Ventus and Xion might understand; in a way that is so unfair to Axel who’s trying his best to become everything for Roxas. But Roxas doesn’t want this. He wants Sora. He wants the world, the heart knowing every part of him. His home. Roxas remembers when he returned to Sora. Trying to do the right even though he knew it would mean his end, but once he found peace within Sora, Roxas understood the meaning of home, and the meaning of people’s destinies intertwining.

         “If aimlessly searching for Sora will eventually lead to find him, then yes.” Roxas says, voice lacking any heat he’d hoped would burn Riku. Instead a strange resignation shackles every breath in his lungs, and he knows he will only be free when he finds Sora. “I will visit world after world, until the end if I have to.”

         Riku drags his eyes from Kairi and Axel back to Roxas, and considers him for a moment in which Roxas tries to see himself through Riku’s perspective— the boy with Sora’s eyes; the Nobody who long ago took something important from Sora, the little piece necessary to complete something far bigger than all of them. A small sighs escapes his lips, and somewhere in there Roxas hears the unspoken You’re just as reckless as Sora. When he closes the distance between them, all muscles in Roxas tense with intuitive caution he can’t get rid of, no matter how often he’s seen Riku by now.

         “I want to get him back more than anything else,” Riku says, and in that small moment Roxas sees his vulnerability for the first time. Something tightens in Roxas’ chest, and he takes a step away from Riku. “It’s been only a couple of hours since Kairi returned. And still, I already see him in everything, and I try to be kind to everything because maybe …” His voice tears on the last word, a ragged note of grief like ripped paper. Riku turns his head away from Roxas, but he doesn’t miss how Riku’s lips close into a tight line. “Stumbling through world after world might end up losing him even more,” he finishes. His calm mask is back, and Roxas just can’t understand how Riku is capable of that.

         “That didn’t stop Sora from looking for you and Kairi,” Roxas throws back, chin raised stubbornly.

         “No, it didn’t.” Riku looks back at Kairi, and that’s when Roxas understands that he’s searching for the right words to tell her that he will leave the Island.

         “Then forget your pride for a second,” Roxas says. “And let us help.”

         Riku looks like he wants to say something, but then he just gives Roxas a little, tight-lipped smile, and turns to join Kairi up on the trunk. Roxas stares holes into his back. He’ll never understand what Sora sees in him.

         He retreats to the shore until cool water sloshes against his feet. A biting cold settles over Roxas, but he knows that doesn’t come from the ocean. Sora has always said how it is a part of the human experience to feel pain, that it is part of a heart, and how it strengthens you, how it connects you, but Roxas dully registers he’d rather have it ripped out of him if it means he’s spared the missing and longing. When he lowers his gaze unto the water, his reflection stares back at him, showing a pale face and golden hair sticking to all sides. His radiant eyes are a beacon, the colour of the sky. A sharp throb drives like a spear through Roxas’ ribs. Everything hurts, he thinks and waits a moment, but his only companion is silence. Sora was a mirror to Roxas, like Ventus to Vanitas. When Roxas said, everything hurts, Sora whispered, but everything can heal. He’s learnt from Sora that hate is a lazy thing, heavy, a burden; but not as heavy or difficult as love so many carry around but are unwilling to practice. Roxas will try better. It’s the least he can do to pay for everything Sora did for him.

         Under the water’s surface he spies a Thalassa Shell. Roxas picks it up, and hopes Xion is doing okay. They will all go and look for Sora, and they will find him. They’ve all deserved their happy end. Standing in the dawn, Roxas vows it on the shell, closing his hand tight around it until the edges cut into his skin.

☆ ☆

         When Sora disappears, Ventus fears Vanitas is also gone forever. There’s a strange tug in his chest, like his heart knows there is a place he’s supposed to be, and wonders why Ventus doesn’t follow this call. It’s different from when he longed for Aqua and Terra. During his search for them he was constantly followed by this certainty that they’ll be reunited. This is different. This is Ventus closing his eyes to a darkness he knows his keyblade won’t be able to slice through. He’s afraid to fall asleep, the only place where he’s had at least a small connection to Vanitas. If that is gone as well, Ventus would rather not wake up at all. It hurts even more since their return to the Land of Departure because Ventus expected only good things to happen from that point on, admittedly now a naive hope quickly quenched by Sora’s fate.

         Ventus is sitting on his bed, a heavy blanket around his shoulders. Thousand stars twinkle above him like tears, and he wonders if the other worlds feel that Sora is gone as well. He wonders if somewhere Kingdom Hearts is crying, having lost such a pure, eminent light. Out of his window he can see the training grounds. In a couple of months, they could be occupied my apprentice keyblade wielders again. Aqua has shown her determination to become the steward and rekindle the original purpose of the castle, and both Terra and Ventus are as eager to help her; Terra even more so. He’s adamant to repent, ignoring Aqua’s and Ventus’ claim that his return is enough. But Terra had shaken his head at that. “It is a debt I will never be able to repay,” he’d said, standing in front of Master Eraqus’ grave. “But I will try. Until my last breath, I will try to set this right.”

         It was difficult to explain how none of this had been Terra’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. They were victims of a game no one held control over— pieces on a lethal board with cruel rules no one really knew. It’s a wonder they made it out alive, together and unscathed, and still, they paid a price for that happy end, some more than others. Ventus hasn’t heard from Riku and Kairi in a while, but his comfort lies in how Aqua and Terra keep looking at each other. Strangely, now more than ever before Ventus notices how close they are. It is probably true what they say about being separated. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and if Terra and Aqua think he’s too chaste to figure out the meaning behind the dark spots on Aqua’s neck or below Terra’s ears, they underestimate him severely.

         Once he’s asked Aqua about them, but she only gave him a little, sheepish smile before pushing a loose strand behind his ear. “You’ll learn soon enough,” she’d said. Terra had avoided his eyes, his hands busy with pulling on his keychain, a habit whenever he’s embarrassed. Ventus had just looked at Aqua with a careful, blank expression, and let her believe that he doesn’t touch himself under his blanket to quiet whispers of boy’s names. Ever since he woke up, and spent time with everyone else, he’s noticed how certain things jump right to his attention like a beacon. Terra’s muscles moving during practice. Hayner’s incredibly beautiful eyes, filled with wonder and excitement. Riku’s smooth, flawless skin. Then again, he’s spend so much time inside Sora’s heart who grew up beside Riku, and for Ventus to develop his attraction to boys was only natural. Ventus doesn’t want to remember when he saw Riku for the first time. Dozens of images from Sora’s fantasies flashed before his eyes, and he kept his distance to Riku, unsure how to handle the emotions. It isn’t something bad, that he knows. His friends would never judge him for liking boys. They all love each other too much for such a trivial think to matter, and why should it? It is love nonetheless, and every single one of them is just as much starving for it as they are ready to give.

         And still, Ventus is so insecure, because he always ends up thinking about Vanitas. Vanitas is his mirror, reflecting unspoken pieces of Ventus he himself is afraid to face. If Ventus starts thinking too hard about it, he’ll probably stumble upon answers he wouldn’t even know what to do with. And so he tries to turn away whenever he spies glances of blue turning into intimidating gold, and buries the questions deep into his heart where he hopes they’ll suffocate from the silence.

         A soft knock stops Ventus’ thoughts. His body tenses, and he waits for more to come. Instead, Terra’s voice carries through the door. “Ven? Ven, you awake?”

         He could lie and pretend he isn’t but after days of locking himself in his room, Ventus started missing his friends. His only fear is that if Terra sees his sketches of Vanitas’ key chain and the logo of the Unversed scribbled on paper, he will take them away and burn them between his fingers like Aqua did. Behind the door, Ventus hears shuffling, and the fear that Terra leaves bolts like a hot spell through him. He sits up, and tells Terra to come in. The door opens with a soft click. Light from the outside hall streams into the room, casting away shadows, and once Ventus sees Terra’s broad shoulders filling the door frame, breathing becomes easier.

         “Hey, champ.” Terra gives him a little smile. “Thought you might be hungry.”

         Ventus isn’t, but nods anyway, just to see the little hope in Terra’s eyes— the very first sight of progress he and Aqua managed since Ventus’ withdrawal. He makes room on his bed, and turns on the star shaped lamp sitting beside his bed on a narrow table as Terra crosses the room. A plate with fruits, cheese and meat lands between them while Terra takes a seat on the edge, watching Ventus eagerly. Just to make Terra happy, Ventus picks one grape and puts it in his mouth.

         “How are you?” Terra asks, much more straightforward than Aqua with her careful, quiet words. Ventus thinks about how he doesn’t want to get up forever. How this feeling weighs on him like an anchor pulling him deeper and deeper into darkness. He thinks about lying, but Ventus never wants to be separated from his family ever again— physically and emotionally, so he settles with a neutral, “I don’t know.”

         Terra nods. He leans back on his arms, the skin pulling tight where his muscle tense. Ventus looks away, and stares at the faintly glowing star stickers on his shelf Aqua gave him on his birthday. He wonders if Vanitas ever got a present from Xehanort, and has to bite his lip to conceal a laugh because that is just too ridiculous.

         “—us? Hey, Ven?” Fingers pop in front of Ventus’ eyes, making him flinch. “Just where are you with your head?”

         A strange smile pulls Terra’s face into an expression Ventus is unfamiliar with. Another pang of guilt settles in his chest, and he misses those times when he understood Terra and Aqua without a word.

         “I’m thinking about where Sora is,” Ventus lies. Terra frowns. He must know Ventus isn’t telling the truth but decides to go with it anyway.

         “Don’t worry,” he says, stealing a piece of cheese from Ventus’ plate. “We’ll find him. Since Aqua can’t reach Riku or Kairi, they might have left already.”

         Ventus hums, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s the case. What Sora, Riku and Kairi have; how they are is much more complicated. Ventus even doubts the word love can grasp what they feel for each other. At times, he’s jealous of that connection, and the next moment he is afraid of it. He’s felt it in Sora’s sacrifice back then for Kairi, and in Aqua’s never ending believe in Terra, and what is love if not an immense power capable of pushing people to their limits and beyond, a weapon justifying any sort of destruction. Tightening his blanket around his shoulders, Ventus dugs his head and shuffles closer to Terra.

         “You know, I always keep thinking that maybe … we could have done something,” he confesses. “That if Sora trusted us a little more, he’d asked for our help.”

         “Do you really think Sora didn’t trust us?” Terra asks, leaning back until he’s lying next to Ventus, arms crossed behind his head.

         “Well, what other explanation is there?” Ventus hates that he sounds like a sulking boy, offended because a friend didn’t ask him to join the playing. But he’d always thought the connection between him and Sora was something special, something untouchable and set into stone. He’s protected Sora just as much as Sora has protected him all those years, and Ventus hasn’t thought of stopping once.

         “You don’t really believe that.” The sound of Terra’s little laugh snaps Ventus’ head up. “I know you don’t.”

         “Huh?”

         “We’re not that different from him, Aqua, you and I. We all love too much, but isn’t that better than to have none of it?”

         “So better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all?” Ventus remembers this line from a book in the library he’s read long ago, and back then he didn’t quite understand its meaning. Now, he wonders if love truly is Sora’s greatest fault, but that is hard to understand as well.

         Terra sits up, and ruffles Ventus’ hair, just like the old times when everything was simple and clean. It tightens Ventus’ chest, but this time it’s not a bad feeling at all. “You’ve been in there all this time,” he says, pointing at Ventus’ heart. “So you know the answer to that. Now eat up. And think about joining us sometime. Aqua really misses you.”

         Ventus nods, and takes another fruit. Terra’s smile widens. When he heads for the door, Ventus summons all his courage. It’s time to stop running.

         “Terra,” he calls. Terra stops, and turns around. “You really think we’ll see Sora again one day, right?”

         Terra doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Our destinies are intertwined. And besides, you never stopped believing in bringing me back home. Now it’s my time to light someone’s way.”

         “And do you think … I’ll see Vanitas again as well some day?”

         That brings Terra’s smile to a full stop. He isn’t happy. Ventus sees it in the way Terra presses his lips into a thin line, and squares his shoulders. He avoids Ventus’ eyes for a split second, a tiny fracture of time in which Ventus stops breathing and waits for the final judgement. Eventually, Terra quickly turns around, checking if someone’s behind him, and Ventus wonders if he’s looking for Aqua.

         Quietly, Terra finally says, “If that is what you wish for, then I will do anything I can to help you fulfil it.”

         The hot sting behind Ventus’ eyes is a clear indicator for tears waiting to escape, so Ventus quickly hides his face in his blanket, shuddering with a silent sob. Only when he hears the door closing, Ventus dares to look up again. His room is dark, and the glowing stars stick out more after bathing in light, capturing Ventus’ attention. He wonders if Vanitas might like them as well.

         Ventus curls into himself and closes his eyes. Into the darkness, he whispers “Vanitas” three times.

         But nobody comes.

         The missing is the worst. All Ventus wants is to crawl inside Vanitas’ skin and stay there. He wants every piece of him to crush into every piece of Vanitas, and become whole again; to become one. He doesn’t want to keep wondering how everyone just can go on as if Vanitas never existed, not when he to Ventus is the world. His heart is still split, an open door ready for darkness to invest, and yet he knows there will only be one certain shadow his heart will allow entrance.

         Ventus blinks through the wall of tears, looking at the stars. He has to focus on Sora first. If he can’t bring him back, then certainly he’ll fail to guide Vanitas home as well. A shooting star splits the heaven in two, burning on its way down. Ventus closes his eyes. In this endless night, he has only one wish: Ventus wishes a shining light will guide Sora through a starless sky, and hopes his journey home will be soft and peaceful.

☆ ☆ ☆

         When Sora disappears, Riku doesn’t cry because he knows once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.

         His only comfort is Kairi, though she doesn’t talk, and only spends hours upon hours writing letters to Sora, all starting with my dearly beloved. Those lines remind Riku of a bittersweet melody he’s heard in a dream once, each wistful tune pulling at his heartstrings. Back then, it had also felt a lot like a farewell to a story he wasn’t yet part of, and now his chest throbs with a low, persistent rhythm of that song.

         But it’s difficult to believe this is the end. Riku is in a strange, blank space between hope and desperation, where it’s hard to look for the light, but also impossible to drown in darkness. Finding home in both, Riku is an unusual dweller cheating through life. He knows it’s more than most people get, and he’s aware of how lucky he is. Maybe that is why the universe decided he’s run out of it now, and Riku thinks how unfair that is. That they live in a universe that doesn’t want them to be together any more. It’s either him gone or Kairi, and now Sora. And so when Roxas and Lea prepared to return to Twilight Town, and Roxas had asked him, “Do you even believe that we’ll find him?” it wasn’t difficult for Riku to be honest. “I believe in a universe that doesn’t care,” he’d said. “And people who do.”

         After that, Riku started avoiding Roxas, Ventus and Xion even though it is not what they deserve after everything they’ve been through. But he can’t see them, and not think of Sora with how many of his habits they’ve inherited. Roxas carries all the anger Sora has swallowed throughout the years. Just thinking back to how Roxas had punched him, his thumb tugged into his fist like Sora always did no matter how often Riku tried to correct him, hurts like a sudden light striking his eyes in the dead of the night. Ventus is the source of Sora’s broad grins and gentle smiles, laughing at everything— a blazing sun casting away any shadows. They both know the power hiding in being soft and kind, to love and forgive. Xion is part Sora, part Kairi with her love for everything that is bright. She uses everything she can find as bookmarks: cups, little stones, little replicas of everyone’s key chains. Just like Sora she wants to be close to anyone, her happiness lies in those of others and nourishes her. They all love fruits, they all hate carrots, they all can fall asleep in the most uncomfortable places like a cat that finds home everywhere. Riku would rather gouge his eyes out than see another pair of those exact radiant, blue eyes, and so he sticks around Destiny Island, and takes care of Kairi, while she takes care of him.

         They live in a strange dynamic, part symbiotic and part parasitic. Riku tells Kairi stories about Sora both remember fondly, and she pays him with a rare smile that dissipates dark clouds in his heart. But Kairi can never truly tell him what exactly happened when Sora brought her back, and Riku is sure she can read the irritation on his face like an open book. Just seeing her is a reminder that someone is missing, the third party in their strange constellation of two, and yet more than ever before, they stick to each other like two pieces of the same soul dwelling in different bodies.

         Riku misses Sora. He misses Sora so much, it physically hurts him. He misses his easy smiles, the jokes. The reassurance that no matter what mistakes Riku has done, it’s fine. He is a good person, deserved of being a Keyblade Master. He misses how Sora was capable of turning every pain and sadness into something bright. Sora was given the rare gift to make gold out of every pain. A purer blessing doesn’t exist. But it’s not only the words Riku misses. He misses Sora’s soft skin, his parched lips mapping Riku’s body. He misses how in Sora’s arms he felt safe and at home, that there was no past, and no future. Just the present with them both as the sole habitants, a population of two and no one else was allowed between them.

         Riku remembers their first kiss. It was in the Secret Place and they were 15. It was nothing but a chaste, quick peck, lips briefly brushing against each other, and yet Sora had giggled so helplessly, cheeks red and happy like it was the most powerful experience he’s ever felt. He didn’t hide his smile, he’d always been so willing to share it with everyone. Riku remembers the jealousy he’d felt, how he thought Sora’s willingness to open up to everyone was so unfair. He made it look so easy, so effortless, like he didn’t need to think at all who might deserve his smiles. His heart was an open door, never closed, never locked. They’d kept their relationship a secret, or rather they tried. Kairi knew. She must have felt something going on between them. Riku never dared to underestimate a Princess of Light again, but it was like a noose being lifted from his neck whenever she gave him this soft, knowing smile.

         Now he tries to think back to the last time they were alone together without any responsibilities weighing on their shoulders. After defeating Ansem and returning to the Island, Mickey’s letter didn’t leave much time to catch up after the year of their separation, and after that, during their Mark of Mastery exam, Riku was everywhere but beside Sora. Now, Riku tries to ignore the little voice telling him that he’ll never see Sora again because he doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Hope has been his constant companion for the last two years, and he’s grown too fond of it. Leaving it behind means to let go of the only rope of salvation Riku is clinging onto, and no matter how much darkness he’s learnt to embrace, he just knows that he will drown in those dark waves crushing upon him with what he can only describe as loneliness.

         But if life is lonely for him, it is far lonelier for Sora. When he tries to imagine in what place he must be now, Riku is quite simply angry. Martyr lies on everyone’s lips, and yet no one dares to speaks it out loud because that would be to acknowledge everyone’s fault. He knows this anger won’t bring him anywhere, but it is just hard to accept a fate that robbed the universe of someone vital to so many people.

         Sora loved like few ever could love, with all and everything; unrepentant and with a passion that burned holes in anyone’s doubt. The sea and the sky will never stop holding his ghost: in each wave Riku can hear the wisp of Sora’s laughter, in each cloud he can see the remnants of Sora’s eyes. So whenever he waits until Kairi falls asleep, trying not to dwell too long on the tears hanging on her wet lashes like dew in the morning hours, Riku then returns to his room where he mourns with the moon and the stars, and it is a bittersweet feeling to share this grief with the world.

         Five days pass, then six. On the seventh day, when he enters Kairi’s room and doesn’t find her sitting on her bed with a stack of papers resting on her thighs like usual, dread sinks in his stomach and he closes his eyes. If he loses her as well, Riku himself will burn down the Islands and start another war. On her table, Riku finds more scribbles of Sora, Donald and Goofy, all three huddled inside the gummi ship. His fingers shake when he takes the pen and draws Sora’s crown necklace in a corner, just focusing on breathing with each stroke on the paper. When his thoughts start to run in painful circles, Riku pushes the tip hard enough to rip the paper. Trying so hard to stay calm, not to cry, he doesn’t notice door opening behind him, until—

         “Riku.”

         He freezes. Behind him, Kairi looks at him with worry and something else in her eyes, but Riku doesn’t read further into it, too occupied with reaching her, holding her, holding her.

         Kairi takes one breath, then a second. Her small hands on his back feel so warm, so secure, and Riku allows himself to be weak for a moment in her arms.

         “It’s time for us, isn’t it?” Riku starts, and just the approving hum from her draws a shudder from him. “We can’t let him wait any longer.”

         “Don’t worry, Riku,” Kairi says, and just like that, the world is tiled back to its original position. “He knows we’re already on our way.”

         Riku leans back, his arms still around Kairi, and he is astonished that someone looking so fragile is so much stronger than him. Kairi considers him for a long moment. She takes Riku’s hand and squeezes tightly, leaning her head into his shoulder. Riku understands, and presses his lips to her forehead. “We’ll find him.”

         It’s not a promise. It’s an oath.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

         Sora opens his eyes. His face is wet, everything is wet and cold, and he faintly remembers the phantom feeling of something warm against his palm. He doesn’t remember what it was. When he tries to get up, his body is there, not broken, not hurt but somehow he hurts inside, and he can’t explain what it is. All around him, the artificial lights of a city illuminate the streets, but wherever he looks, shadows wait in the deepest corners to plunge on him. Something on his left palm burns, and when he looks down, numbers blink up to him in an angry red, running down.

         Instinctively, Sora closes his hand into a fist, so tight that his nails bite into his skin. His mind is foggy, but there’s a feeling that he needs to be somewhere; that he has to return somewhere he can’t name. The closest thing it reminds him of is home, and he will do anything to return. Sora has to go back, to follow this tugging inside his chest aiming for a place he doesn’t remember, for he is the heart of hearts.

               Most importantly love              Like it’s the only thing you know how              At the end of the day all this              Means nothing              […]              Nothing even matters              Except love and human connection              Who you loved              And how deeply you loved them              How you touched the people around you              And how much you gave them

             — rupi kaur

[avehi-the-adamant]

Justified

((Co-written with @kidcatgemini / @miernethepersevering, and @prancingmad / @nedemus. Ravanhi belongs to cursedkat! Follow her on twitter!))

~*~

The High Vindicator felt largely out of place. His glistening armor, imbued with the Light’s radiant power, stood out all the more so in the conservative and reverent Stormwind Cemetery. He recalled visiting this place once before, laying to rest an old friend from the Northrend campaign. He felt a sense of shame wash over him, realizing he hadn’t visited since; had he really been so busy? Too busy? Even when he was in Stormwind for business… he realized now he’d never come by. His golden glance turned towards the humble grave plot of Marshal Damien Townsend, who gave his life to put an end to the Lich King’s reign. His brow furrowed, resolutely - he would visit him today, after all this.

All this, of course, being hearing out Avehi the Adamant, who had been raising the dead around Azeroth for - based on second-hand accounts - she felt was a just and noble reason. The Draenei’s skin crawled at the very notion. A good reason to raise the dead? He couldn’t fathom one! A part of him had already decided her fate, and wanted to see Avehi locked away for what she’d done. Raising people who deserved rest, like Zaalesh and others. Khanaros’ blood boiled at the thought of such defilement. But the other part knew that justice couldn’t be served without hearing the whole story. Bits and pieces heard from others weren’t sufficient in such a case as this. He wanted to hear Avehi explain herself in person, before making his mind up fully.

“I… appreciate you coming with me, Mierne.” he turned, addressing his partner. “I know you’re here mostly to see that Avehi’s heard out fully and fairly… but I like to think you’re here for me, too.”

He smirked, reaching over to give the shaman’s hand a playful squeeze.

“I am here for you both, of course!”

Mierne leaned into Khanaros’ side with a light chuckle. She’d remained oddly silent, caught up in her own thoughts. She looked up at her partner, her gaze showing the sincerity of her words. It was true, her presence here was to assure Avehi would be fairly heard. While she didn’t know the full story behind the Ebon Knight’s actions, she was most certain they’d been done for good reason. Avehi was youthful and brash, but her heart was always in the right place. 

Khanaros, on the other hand, didn’t have the opportunity to remain neutral on the subject. She understood his difficult position in the matter, and the great responsibility of doing what was best for his people weighing on his shoulders.

“No matter what happens, I appreciate you doing this for her… for me. I realize this isn’t normal procedure, and that you are going out of your way…”

Her arm moved around his torso in a comforting embrace.

“Avehi is many things. She has been through so much. But through it all, she has always been an upfront and honest Draenei.”

"Mm. I appreciate honesty, and being up-front, of course," Khanaros grunted, "but there will be more to it than simply whether or not she tells the truth. If what she hopes to achieve is not commensurate with the Light…"

He cut the thought short, golden gaze cast upward as he beheld a trio of inbound winged creatures. Two were boney, skeletal creatures brimming with necrotic energies. It wasn't hard to guess who commanded those unholy beasts… The third was far more recognizable even at a distance; Argonas and his nether drake, glistening in the night sky. The three of them descended without delay, each landing in succession a short distance from Mierne and Khanaros. The High Vindicator nodded once.

"... I suppose we will learn, one way or the other." he grunted again, before stepping forward to meet the three.

Avehi dismounted Shinigosa promptly, before sending the frostwyrm back up to the sky. The ground was no place for such a creature; already enduring a burial beneath it, Shinigosa was quite keen on flying, and enjoying the freedom she felt in doing so. And Avehi was not one to deny her draconian partner such enjoyment. Her eyes settled on Khanaros, a beacon of Light in the quiet and dimly lit cemetery. One of two, now, as Argonas set hoof on the cobbles with little regard for the clamor each step caused. He had taxed Avehi's patience throughout their journey. Quite a bit beforehand, too. So much so, she couldn't be bothered to spare him a glance.

Instead, her eyes turned to Mierne. A smile graced her lips for what felt like the first time in a long time. Nedemus wasn't lying; he really had reached out to her in this matter. She turned to offer the Worgen an appreciative nod, before she approached her dear old friend. 

"Mierne… I'm sorry you're somehow caught up in this." she dipped her head. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad to see you here."

Mierne’s reply came in the form of a warm embrace. She wrapped her arms around the Death Knight, giving her that motherly comfort she no doubt needed.

“Don’t you worry about me. I’m just happy to see that you’re safe.”

She leaned in to whisper in her ear so that the two Light suffused beings wouldn’t hear.

“I know Vindicators can be exhausting to work with, but give them a bit of patience today, hm? I am here to assure you are heard.”

Placing a soft kiss on her friend’s cheek, she offered an encouraging smile, before stepping back and finally nodding a greeting to Argonas and Nedemus.

“Thank you both for assuring her safety here.”

Nedemus stepped off of Obelisk, as the skeletal gryphon dispersed, burying itself down into the ground away from the cemetery. The worgen made sure to keep ahead of Argonas, already tired of the ridiculous views that spewed from his mouth, as he took his place beside Avehi, nodding to Mierne. “Of course. Though, I think all parties involved-” He glanced towards the brash young Draenei once more. “- myself and Avehi included, should agree no weapons drawn in this place.”

He said, letting out a small snort as he crossed his arms, nostrils flaring a bit in frustration, but masking his actual intent…

“Out of the question!” Argonas interjected. “Should the need arise, I will not hesitate to draw my sword against the likes of you. I think it better that you agree not to give a reason for me to do so!”

“Calm yourself, Vindicator.” Khanaros stepped forward, eyes on the younger male. “Remember to temper your frustrations, yes? Control your emotions, do not allow them to control you.”

He offered a warm, settling smile to his former trainee, placing a hand on his plated shoulder in a welcoming manner. He nodded once, then looked to Nedemus - sparing the worgen such familiar gestures as putting hands on him, but acknowledging him positively nonetheless.

“Argonas, Nedemus, I echo Mierne’s sentiment; thank you both for seeing Avehi here safely.” he dipped his head in appreciation. “That you are able to set aside your differences for a common goal speak well of both of you, and your reverence for seeing justice done.”

Argonas exhaled a sigh, following his mentor’s counsel in calming himself. He could feel the tension manifest in knots along his neck and shoulders - a burden he’d carried far longer than just this mission. The High Vindicator always could read him well. Humbled, he nodded in response, casting a more amicable glance towards Nedemus… then to Avehi. His brow still furrowed, but the expression was much softer than usual. He was trying.

Nedemus glanced towards Avehi, upon realizing that indeed, this ragtag group of Draenei and Dog were alone in the cemetery. His gaze switched back to Argonas, watching him as they spoke.

“And you, Avehi,” Khanaros turned from Argonas and Nedemus back to Avehi and Mierne, “I appreciate you agreeing to meet here - from what I’m told, a more comfortable, neutral setting given the circumstance?”

Avehi, too, had calmed significantly in the presence of an old friend. Mierne was a comfort to her on even the worst of days. It was fortunate, too - without her trusted friend there to quell her bristly, defensive demeanor, Avehi couldn’t imagine this exchange going well at all. She dipped her head politely, amicably, to the High Vindicator as he acknowledged her.

“Mm, it was an appealing enough invitation. In that… the alternatives were unacceptable.” she put as politely as her irritation would allow. “But nonetheless, I’m here. Let’s get this over with, shall we? What do you wish to know?”

“Everything.” came Khanaros’ vague, but direct response. “What has driven you to do what you’re doing? Why would you raise so many people like Vindicator Zaalesh from death?”

Avehi sighed, tail flickering again. For a second time, she found herself justifying her actions to entities she very nearly reviled. People whose judgment was skewed, albeit in different ways. She leveled her gaze at Khanaros, as if appraising him. The Ebon Blade, at least, had some familiarity with the afterlife. But how could he possibly understand? Would he see this all the same as Argonas did; that Draenei, and other adherents of the Light, should be immune to the machinations of the afterlife? Her eyes narrowed for a brief second, in frustration and disgust. Her words would fall on deaf ears here. Just as the Light blinds, it also deafens. All of this would be a waste of time! She opened her mouth to speak… but hesitated, glancing once more to Mierne. 

Mierne was different from these Light-revering Draenei that summoned and brought her here. Different from most other Draenei. She was patient, open minded, and most importantly willing to give the benefit of the doubt in matters she didn’t understand. Above all that… she was here. She made an effort to see that Avehi would be heard out thoroughly and fairly. An effort Avehi couldn’t waste… if Mierne was trying, Avehi could try too. The Death Knight cleared her throat, and began to explain.

“There is a veil between this existence and the existence beyond death. We Death Knights walk both worlds, and therefore can pass through the veil in ways the living cannot. It is… not unlike how the Auchenai would commune with the departed.” she kept her composure calm, and spoke slowly and succinctly. “When a living soul dies, it journeys to an afterlife commensurate with their worth. Noble souls ascend to planes of righteousness and honor. For Draenei, this is joining with the Light. For elves, returning to nature. It differs for different peoples.”

Khanaros nodded slowly, taking in the information. On some level he knew all this; he thought back to his youth, all those millenia ago on Argus. Back then, the Eredar’s concept of the afterlife didn’t include joining with the Light. It was much more… ambiguous. Nonetheless, all this seemed proper and plausible. He motioned for Avehi to continue.

“Less-than noble souls… those of malicious and terrible beings, regardless of the peoples… those souls are dragged down into a place we call the Maw. Their eternal existences there is one of torment and suffering.” Avehi elaborated. “It is a realm of pain the likes of which no mortal can fathom. As a creature whose existence is wrought with pain and torment… trust me when I say the Maw is as terrible as it could ever get. The Legion, the Old Gods… none of it compare to the Maw.”

“I see… Justice permeates beyond this veil, and those deserving of it are punished for transgressions, yes?” Khanaros affirmed - so far, this all made sense to him. “But what does this have to do with your actions here on Azeroth?”

Avehi shook her head, brow furrowing.

“A few months ago, when I was traversing through this veil… I sensed something. A disturbance of some kind. I didn’t know exactly what. A surge of power… and yet an absence of it? It didn’t make sense.” she grunted in latent frustration at the memory. “I took it upon myself to investigate, worried it was some plot of the Ebon Blade’s, happening beyond the notice of the war-torn factions of the Horde and Alliance. But I came to learn even they didn’t know, and shared in my desire to discover what was happening.”

“And… what is happening?” Khanaros pressed.

“Justice… is not being served.” Avehi stated. “For reasons we still don’t know, all souls - even noble souls - are being pulled into the Maw to suffer eternally.”

“What? How is that possible?” came the High Vindicator’s skeptical questioning.

“I said we still don’t know!” Avehi snapped, reflexively. 

She cleared her throat, recollecting herself before continuing. Nedemus stepped to her side, bringing up his hand and placing it on her shoulder, attempting to comfort her as best he could in this situation. The Draenei nodded in appreciation to Nedemus, before straightening. She leveled her gaze to the High Vindicator once more, and continued. 

“That is… it’s hard to be certain. Even to the undead, the majority of processes and machinations of the afterlife are largely shrouded in mystery. We don’t know much at all… but we certainly know more than most living.” she corrected, as politely as she could muster. “This even came as something of a surprise to Exarch Ravanhi of the Auchenai. She and her ilk have sensed this disturbance as well, but lack the capacity to scry beyond the veil that they once had. The capacity the Ebon Blade yet holds, at least somewhat.”

“Ravanhi.” Khanaros repeated the name under his breath.

He was familiar with the Exarch; a fellow Argus-born Draenei, one of few still around. Khanaros recalled Ravanhi as a gentle soul and a curious mind. Her days on Argus were spent as a humble priestess contemplating the nature of existence itself. That passion and wisdom served her well as a High Priestess of the Auchenai on Draenor, and again in more recent days serving as a diplomat to the Kaldorei people. He’d always found her to be polite and thoughtful… yet tormented in a way. Lonely and reclusive, Khanaros got the sense the suffering of their people resonated much deeper with her over the nigh-countless years. But knowing her, she’d never let such despair claim her. Not while there remained others in need. 

He grunted, nodding slowly as he refocused his attention to the Death Knight before him. It was both curious and comforting that Avehi had sought out the Auchenai concerning such a severe-sounding matter. If nothing else, it spoke positively of her intentions; were she raising the dead for some nefarious purpose, interactions with the Auchenai would be the last thing she’d want. And if someone as spiritually-attuned as Ravanhi also felt the strange disturbance Avehi spoke of… that surely lent credence to her story.

“You know this Exarch, sir?” 

Argonas piped up, if only to break up the silence that permeated the cemetery during the contemplative moment. He furrowed his brow, luminous eyes glancing between his honored mentor and traitorous sister. They settled on the latter, scrutinously; this was the first he was hearing of any Auchenai contact! Was she making it up…?

“I know of her, yes.” Khanaros nodded to Argonas, before exhaling a sigh. “So… if I am assuming correctly, Avehi, you’re raising these people as a means to prevent them from being trapped in the Maw?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Avehi affirmed with a single nod. “Until such time as I can discern a better way, raising them is the only means to keep them from being lost forever.”

“And… you are certain that existence in the Maw is a worse fate than an existence of undeath?” he asked, brow furrowed. “How can you be sure of this?”

“I’ve seen it.” she scowled. “Through great concentration and effort, I was able to… project myself, for lack of a better term, to the Maw. I was looking for someone specific… and found someone else instead.”

“Looking for who?”

Avehi glanced to Argonas, and stifled a grunt.

“Sinafay. A Vindicator from alternate Draenor, and a friend of mine.” she explained. “I thought I sensed her, which would’ve meant she had died. I went to the Maw to find her, and maybe ask where she died so I could…”

Avehi shook her head, letting the thought finish itself. No one present had any illusions as to what she was doing now, anyway. She’d been honest enough about it. Argonas’ brow furrowed deeper still as he peered at Avehi. That she would even consider raising Sinafay - Orc-lover or not - was atrocious!

“And… you found someone else instead?” Khanaros asked, keeping the exchange on track.

“I did, yes.” Avehi stated, eyes still affixed, unblinking, at the younger Vindicator. “Sinafay. But from this timeline. Argonas’ wife.”

“LIES!”

Argonas had heard enough! Too much to remain passive anymore! He stepped forward towards Avehi, fists clenched!

“How dare you implicate my wife in your deceit? How dare you even speak her name with your defiler’s mouth!?”

“Argonas,” Mierne was quick to get between the Vindicator and Avehi.

Nedemus retracted, stepping back. He had begun to intercept Argonas’ movements, but stopped as he noticed Mierne step in. His foot slid back to position, his gaze glancing towards Avehi as he waited to see if the shaman could handle the zealous fool.

Her hands came up to his chest in an effort to stop his advance. Even though they were no longer intimate, she hoped their friendship was enough for her words to calm him. Her eyes held nothing but concern for the younger Vindicator. If anyone knew how difficult Sinafay’s passing had been for him, it was her. He’d spent a whole year on her island, in isolation, mourning her loss. She’d seen the devastation in his dealings with the alternate version of her. 

“I understand your anger, but you must keep a clear head, yes? There is still much that needs to be learned before any judgment can be made” she kept her voice soft and soothing. 

“Hmph! There is still much truth to be learned! None of these blatant lies serve to see justice met!” Argonas continued protesting. “This is an obvious attempt at manipulation! She seeks to  establish some personal credibility to her twisted and outlandish tale!”

He stayed by Mierne’s hand, but showed no signs of calming or backing down. His piercing gaze still affixed accusingly to Avehi. The Death Knight returned his scowl defiantly, tail flickering in agitation as he went on his rant. Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s true, Argonas. Your wife is in the Maw.” she reiterated. “And the longer you try and hold me up, the longer she’ll suffer there!”

“SHUT UP!”

With his aggressive outburst, Argonas brusquely pushed past Mierne. Amber Light arced across his plated body, brought on by his unbridled rage. He brought a hand up to reach back behind him for his sheathed blade as he stomped towards Avehi!

Nedemus growled out, placing himself between Argonas and the Draenei, though his own blade stayed holstered on his back. “Stand down, Argonas.”

“Step aside, you accursed dog corpse! Or you shall be the first--”

“--Vindicator Argonas.”

He stopped in his tracks. The Light sparking off of the Vindicator subsided, Argonas almost wincing at Khanaros’ command. The High Vindicator didn’t raise his voice much louder than usual, but his tone struck with authority. Command. Disappointment. Slowly, Argonas’ hand lowered from the hilt of his crystalline sword, as he turned his gaze; an angered and vindictive glare at Nedemus, to a remissive and chastised leer as it settled on his old mentor.

“You brought Avehi here to be heard, correct?” Khanaros continued his reprimanding. “I will be the judge of the merit and intent of her words. Not you. Is that understood?”

“... As you say, High Vindicator.” Argonas replied, tone laced with begrudgement. 

He scowled once more at Nedemus, then again at Avehi, before stepping back - an apologetic glance to Mierne as he passed her by again.

The shaman brought a comforting hand up to the Vindicator’s arm as he moved by her. There was no disappointment to be seen in her features as she looked up at him, only concern. His reaction towards Avehi’s words, while non-conductive to what they were trying to achieve, was understandable.

“I know this is difficult, but we must keep a clear head. I know Avehi well, and I do feel her words are worth investigating, at the very least. If she is right, and the unspeakable has befallen your wife, then there are other ways to verify that claim, I’m certain.”

She glanced to Khanaros.

“I do not have a connection with the afterlife… but another shaman… or perhaps a priest? I’m certain they have a connection with the dead. If you do not trust the words of Death Knights, then perhaps calling on a worthy soul that has recently passed could communicate what they see.”

Khanaros exhaled a sigh, as he looked Avehi over. Pensive, thoughtful… still not entirely convinced. He knew this would be a difficult thing to hear out and pass suitable judgment on, but more so than he had anticipated. There was a lot of new information to consider, to process, and to weigh against the greater good of not just his people, but all people in general. Slowly, he shook his head.

“A difficult claim to verify, seeing as none of us possess the capacity to venture into this place ourselves.” he lamented, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is there any way you can prove that you saw Argonas’ wife? Or… any of this, for that matter?”

Avehi huffed. There wasn’t an easy way to do that, unfortunately. Khanaros was right about that. For a moment, she considered his point of view; would she be skeptical if their positions were reversed? No… no she wouldn’t. She would trust Khanaros, and take his word as truth at face value. A courtesy he apparently wasn’t willing to extend to her. Her nose crinkled, nostrils flaring in frustration. This was a waste of time.

“Allow me to kill and raise Argonas. He can see her for himself. Then come back and tell you all about it.” she snapped, glowering. “If you won’t take my word for it, perhaps you’ll take his!”

“Mind yourself, Avehi. Take this seriously, as I have been. Your indignation is no more helpful than Argonas’ aggression!” Khanaros snapped back, with a scowl of his own. “Given what you’ve been doing, it’s not unfair to ask for some manner of verification of your claim.”

He shook his head, and cleared his throat. 

“I will ask again - if you know of a way your claim can be proven to us, I would hear it.”

Avehi scoffed, eyes trailing to Argonas. She stared at him for a moment, before speaking again.

“I spoke with her. She is lost, and scared. She thought you died as well. And she worried she somehow deserved to be there, and that you separated from her and joined with the Light.” she explained, managing her tone. “I told her you yet lived. And she gave me a message for you. She told me to tell you - in her words, mind you - to ‘stop being a dumbass’. And she said to have some alcohol ready for her when you bring her home.”

Argonas’ scowl remained, brow only knitting further with every word. His hands tensed to fists, lip curling to bare his teeth. He grunted.

“... High Vindicator, you give this thing far too much leeway.” he growled. “I will not stand here while you permit Avehi to besmirch my deceased wife in such a manner!”

“Then… you are dismissed.”

Argonas snapped his gaze to the High Vindicator, in shock!

“--What?”

“You are dismissed, Argonas.” he repeated, firmly. “Your presence is no longer required.”

“B-But… what about her? What is your judgment?”

Khanaros glanced to Argonas briefly, before sighing and looking to Avehi once more. 

“Either she’s fabricated an elaborate lie to buy herself time… or she’s expressing to us a terrible truth.” he stated. “I am choosing to believe the latter, in this case.”

Avehi, too, looked surprised. She hadn’t expected Khanaros to believe her. To trust her. With all she’d seen so far, she wasn’t sure he hadn’t already made up his mind. In affirmation, she nodded to the High Vindicator.

“I… thank you.” she uttered, hesitantly.

“This is outrageous!” Argonas shouted, in anger! “She has been raising the dead! She came here and slandered my dead wife! And you believe her blatant lies?”

“You find error in my judgment, Vindicator Argonas?” Khanaros asked, tone threatening.

He didn’t even glance at Argonas' way. Instead he approached Avehi, arms still crossed before him. His gaze was penetrating, and severe.

“She knows if she is lying, there will be no second chance. If I must send someone for her a second time, it will not be to invite her to be heard.” he replied to Argonas… and cautioned the Death Knight. “I will be following up with the Auchenai to verify these things. Perhaps even the Ebon Blade, if they’ll speak to me. But one way or another, I will find out the truth.”

He dipped his head to Avehi, stern expression softening just so.

“And I hope when I do, I will owe you both an apology and appreciation for bringing this to my attention.”

“Hm! Then I will expect both once you’ve looked into this yourself, High Vindicator.” Avehi smirked, bowing her head in return.

Behind them, Argonas was seething. His face contorted into a hideous scowl, as he clenched his fists so hard as to cause his gauntlets to begin buckling! His face flushed blue, vessels bulging beneath his skin. With an agitated grunt, he turned and stomped off - he had been dismissed, after all… 

Mierne breathed a sigh of relief as Khanaros gave his verdict. She looked over to him as Argonas stomped off, giving him a smile and a nod of approval. 

“I will allow you to finish your business, then. See you tonight,” she informed her lover, before following after the younger Vindicator.

Nedemus nodded softly towards Khanaros. “Thank you for allowing her the chance to speak, Khanaros… Argonas seemed to make it appear that she had no choice in the matter, that you were unreasonable. Doesn’t seem like he was representing you well.”

Khanaros nodded to Mierne as she departed, before looking to Nedemus. He exhaled a heavy sigh, and shook his head.

“Argonas has always been… direct. Presumptuous.” he shrugged. “Despite what you may have seen of him here tonight, he means well. Perhaps not for you specifically, but for the world as a whole.”

“Hmph. If that were true, he wouldn’t work so hard to interfere.” Avehi commented, with a light scoff. “This issue grows worse by the day, and there’s still no clear way forward.”

“Mm, there’s still no clear problem, to many of us. I would not have known any wiser if you had not told me of it.” Khanaros explained. “For Argonas… his reluctance to believe all this shouldn’t surprise you. If not because it is adverse to all he knows, because accepting it means accepting the painful truth that his wife is suffering… and that he’s helpless to stop it.”

The High Vindicator shook his head, as he stepped back from the pair of Death Knights. He regarded them both, appraisingly. 

“We will be in touch. Not only as I follow up on what you’ve revealed here tonight, but I also expect if anything more develops… you’ll let me know, correct?”

Avehi nodded once more, before dipping her head respectfully. 

“We will, Khanaros. It is… a relief… to have your support in all this.”

“Mm. It isn’t support just yet. Not until I learn more of it. But for now… I’ll do what I can to see to it that your investigations aren’t hindered.” he replied, brow furrowed. “I make no guarantees; going around raising the dead certainly doesn’t sit well with a vast majority of people. So being, I trust you’re at least keeping that to a minimum?”

“As much as I can.” Avehi nodded once more. “This existence isn’t any I would wish on anyone. But compared to the Maw…”

She trailed off, shaking her head. Khanaros nodded, understanding nonetheless. He turned from the two, and began to walk the cobbled path - deeper into the cemetery, rather than out of it. 

“Mm. Light guide you, Avehi. Nedemus.” he bid them as he departed. 

“I entrust you to do what is right.”

~*~

[ironwoman359]

"it's my job to protect you!" And what do you think my job is?!" Prinxiety (possibly in the Mario AU if you want)

I’ll Protect You

Summary: This prompt has been sitting in my inbox for awhile now, and at last the perfect scenario has come to mind for it! For @sugarglider9603‘s Mario AU, because it always seems to cure my writer’s block, and I love it so much.

Content Warnings: Arguing, some minor cursing, injury (including head injury and a minor burn),the tiniest bit of blood, being tied up, cartoon violence, cartoon villain Deceit, kidnapping. Pairing: Prinxiety (Logicality also exists in universe and is mentioned)

Word Count: 4,615

To read more of my work in the Mario AU, check out my Sanders Sides AU Masterlist. To read more of my work in general, check out my full Fic Masterlist

Like what I do? Consider buying me a coffee! 

———

Sometimes, Roman wondered how he had managed to fall in love with somebody so stubborn. 

“I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“If you’re going, I’m going too!” 

Roman sighed as he turned away to pull his armor on over his regular orange tunic. There were reports of a piranha-plant attack at the edge of his kingdom;  something that ordinarily would not be too difficult to handle, but people were saying this particular piranha-plant attacking was like nothing anyone had ever seen. It was stampeding through his kingdom, and so far no one had been able to stop it. Roman had decreed that he would go confront the beast, but Virgil was adamant that he not go unless he had extra protection. 

Unfortunately, Virgil was also insisting that he be that extra protection, and Roman was having none of it. 

“I am a prince, I can order you to stay behind.” 

“Oh yeah?” Virgil countered. “Well I’m your boyfriend.” 

“What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“It’s my job to protect you, dumb-ass!” 

“And what do you think my job is then?” Roman asked, his voice rising in volume as he spun around to meet Virgil’s eyes. “I am the prince of this kingdom! It’s my job to protect everyone in it, and that includes you. So there’s now way in hell I’m letting you follow me out there to face who knows what kind of danger!”

Virgil shrank back from the outburst, and a wave of guilt instantly washed over Roman, quenching whatever flames of anger had been building in his stomach.

“Oh, I’m sorry my Stormcloud,” Roman sighed and pulled Virgil into a hug. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.” He kissed the top of Virgil’s head, and the two stayed like that for a moment, just existing in one another’s space. 

After a moment Roman shifted, cupping Virgil’s face and staring into his eyes.

“Virgil, please,” he pleaded. “I can’t let you go. It’s going to be dangerous.” 

“I know,” Virgil said softly, placing his hand over Roman’s, meeting his gaze steadily. “That’s why I won’t let you go alone.” 

Roman sighed, but he was smiling as he said “You’re not going to give up, are you?” 

“Nope.” Virgil shook his head. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Roman said, and he kissed the top of Virgil’s head again. “It’s one of the things I love about you.” 

———

When the two of them reached the part of Sarasaland that had reported the disturbance, it was immediately obvious that no, this was not an ordinary piranha-plant attack. The plant in question was huge, towering higher than Roman or Virgil had ever seen, and its bulbous head was lined with yellow flower petals. Unlike most piranha-plants, it had actual limbs, and somehow the large leaves that acted as its arms also functioned as wings, allowing the creature to move about freely and wreak as much havoc as it pleased. 

“Well, this can’t get any more bizarre,” Roman commented as he and Virgil stared up at the monster flying back and forth through the town. The creature promptly opened its mouth and hacked up a massive ball of some kind of sludge. The goop splatted against a house, whose occupants had already begun to flee, and before you could even blink the structure was swallowed up by the brown muck. 

“You just had to say that, didn’t you Princey?” Virgil asked with a roll of his eyes. 

Roman was about to tease back, but then his eyes widened and he grabbed Virgil and jumped away, just as another ball of goop landed where they were standing moments before.

“You got a plan?” Virgil grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. Roman stared up at the creature, who was preparing to hack up another projectile. 

“We can’t fight it when it’s in the air,” he began, then he and Virgil leapt away from each other as the sludge ball came hurtling towards them. “We need to draw it down somehow!” Roman shouted, and he saw Virgil nod. 

“Be ready!” the plumber called, and before Roman could ask why, Virgil took off running, heading straight for the garden wall of one of the nearby houses. 

In one fluid motion, he jumped and pulled himself up on top of the wall, then used the height from the wall to leap onto the roof of the house. Roman’s eyes went wide again as he saw Virgil run along the rooftop towards the plant, and he drew his sword, preparing to strike. Virgil flew into the air and crashed into the back of the piranha-plant’s head, sending the two of them careening down to the ground.

Roman dashed forward as soon as he had an opening, slashing with his sword. The monster let out a deafening screech as the sword sliced through its vines, but Roman had little time to celebrate. The creature hacked up another mass of sludge, and this time when it connected with the ground, a smaller piranha-plant sprouted up, spitting fireballs at him. Roman rolled away, but then Virgil’s thick soled boots connected with the plant, effectively squashing it. The two shared a quick glance, an unspoken “you okay?” flashing between them before the giant piranha-plant roared again and the two turned back towards the battle. 

They traded blows with the monster for what felt like ages, but the giant plant never seemed to tire, no matter how many fireballs Virgil lobbed at it or how many strikes Roman got in with his sword. The two of them, meanwhile, were running low on stamina. Virgil was down to his last few powerups, and Roman was finding it harder and harder to keep his sword raised.

“How much punishment can this thing take?” Virgil asked, panting as he dodged another swipe of the plant’s massive head.

The creature, when grounded, seemed to attack mostly by either spitting goop or just swinging it’s bulbous head around like a club, though it also could send a tornado of air careening towards its opponents with just a swipe of its leaves. The town square they were fighting in had been reduced to a battleground of toxic sludge and stone rubble, and it was becoming more and more difficult to maneuver away from the plant’s attacks. 

“Too much!” Roman growled, before letting out a gasp and ducking, narrowly avoiding the chunk of stone that had been flying towards his head, courtesy of another tornado. Suddenly, a new sound filled the air, distinct above his own heavy breathing and the grunts and snorts of their piranha-plant foe; a sound he was all too familiar with. 

It was the sound of an airship’s propellers. 

Virgil heard it too, and he cursed under his breath as the two looked up to see Bowceit’s ship hovering above them. 

“Are you still fighting him? How haven’t you won by now?” Bowceit sounded furious, and before either Roman or Virgil could work out what he meant, the piranha-plant tilted his head upwards and let out a frustrated roar. 

“Are you KIDDING me?” Bowceit cried. “That damn plumber, I-” 

“Of course,” Roman spat through gritted teeth as Bowceit continued to scream and shout. “I should have known this was one of his tricks.”

“Roman…” Virgil’s voice was tight, on edge, and when Roman turned to look at him he saw that his love’s eyes were growing wide with panic. Roman looked back towards the airship, which was lowering rope ladders crawling with Bowceit’s minions down towards them. Roman knew what Virgil was thinking, the same thought was flashing through his own mind, though he was trying hard to ignore it. 

There’s no way we can win this. 

Roman opened his mouth to give some empty reassurance, but before he could speak he heard Bowceit shout “aim for the plumber!” followed by the bang of the airship canons. 

“Virgil!” Roman cried desperately, running towards his boyfriend and raising his sword before he had time to really think. He swung at the incoming bullet bill, knocking it out of its path straight for Virgil’s head, but the force of the missile was stronger than he’d anticipated and he cried out, his sword falling to the ground as pain exploded up his shoulder. 

“Roman!” Virgil gasped, dropping to his side.

“I’m fine, Roman grunted, though truth be told, he was not fine. He’d been pushed down to one knee, and his weapon lay on the ground next to him, useless. 

“You’re not,” Virgil protested, then shook his head as he inspected Roman’s shoulder. “That was a pretty stupid move there, Princey.” 

“It’s fine,” Roman said again, but then Virgil cried out and pushed him to the ground as another bullet bill went over their heads. Roman hissed in pain, and Virgil gave him a pointed look.

 “Okay, okay,” he conceded, between gasps for breath. “Maybe it wasn’t the…best strategic move. But I had to protect you.” Virgil’s expression softened for a moment, then they both ducked again as yet another missile from Bowceit’s airship narrowly missed the huddled pair.

“We need to get out of here,” Virgil said, trying to help Roman stand up, but Roman waved him off.

“You need to get out of here. I’d only slow you down.” 

“Are you insane?” Virgil cried. “We have to stick together.” 

“Virgil,” Roman argued, a pained look in his eyes. “It’s me he’s after, not you. Please, just go.”

“I. Am not. Leaving you,” Virgil insisted, and he hauled the prince up to his feet. He wore a fierce, determined expression, and Roman found that he was too tired to protest any further.

They turned to run, but before they could move, the piranha-plant let out an ear-splitting roar, landing in front of them with an earth-shaking thud. The two were thrown back to the ground a few feet apart from each other, and when Roman looked up he found that he was almost directly in front of the monster. It twisted back, about to unleash one final attack, and Roman braced himself for the worst. 

But instead of a rush of air or a ball of sludge, he felt warm, familiar hands grasp his shoulders, and for one split second Virgil filled his entire field of vision. Then, he was practically lifted off the ground and thrown out of the way of their enemy’s attack. He landed, rather ungracefully, at the perfect angle to see the piranha-plant’s head whip around towards Virgil. 

Roman screamed, but it was all he could do as the blow that was meant for him sent his love flying backwards. Virgil landed hard against a pile of rubble, then went still, the tiniest trickle of blood coming from his hairline. 

“Virgil!” Roman screamed again, desperately scrambling to his feet. He started to run towards his fallen partner, but a growing heat behind him made him turn and he narrowly dodged a fireball from the advancing army of Bowceit’s minions. 

Roman glanced around him as he dodged a second attack, and he grimaced. His sword was too far away to reach, and with his already injured shoulder, fighting his way through the army of enemies would not be easy. Roman glanced behind him at Virgil’s motionless form, and something in his stomach steeled. He could keep fighting. He had to, because he didn’t have any other choice. He turned back towards the swarm of Bowceit’s minions and clenched his fists. 

He started to fight, but with every swing he felt his spirits diminish more and more. Ordinarily, this many enemies wouldn’t be a problem for him, but he was already exhausted, injured, and without any form of weapon. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of Virgil laying helpless behind him, but not even that was enough to keep him from being knocked down to his hands and knees after taking out only a few enemies. 

He started to push himself to stand again, but then Bowceit’s booming voice filled his ears. 

“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you, Prince Roman.” 

Roman laughed bitterly, wiping a trickle of blood away from his freshly split lip. 

“Oh?” he asked, as he staggered to his feet. “And why is that?” 

“See for yourself,” Bowceit crooned, and something in his tone made Roman look up. When he did, he cried out and stepped forward, but Bowceit lifted a finger and the Kamek Koopa that was levitating Virgil’s limp body made a motion with their wand as if to drop him off the airship. 

Roman froze, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, his eyes fixed on Virgil the entire time. 

“There’s a good little prince,” Bowceit chuckled. “I must say, I hadn’t expected him to be here with you. I’d rather counted on you coming to defeat old Petey Piranha by yourself, but I guess I should have known that your precious plumber wouldn’t let you go off to fight my big scary monster alone.” 

“I swear, Bowceit,” Roman growled, glaring up at his nemesis. “If you lay a finger on him…” 

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about that, my dear prince,” Bowceit said with a wicked grin. “He’ll be perfectly safe…if you cooperate.” 

Roman grit his teeth, wanting nothing more than to punch the stupid snake halfway to his castle, but even if he was strong enough to fight, he couldn’t risk Bowceit hurting Virgil. 

“Promise me,” he insisted, not wanting to give in until he ensured his love’s safety. 

“I promise,” Bowceit said, but Roman shook his head. 

“Swear to me that he won’t be harmed. Swear it on your children.” 

Bowceit sighed, rolling his eyes, but he agreed.

“I swear on my children, that if you come quietly and do as you’re told, I won’t hurt your precious little plumber.” 

Roman took a deep breath, then nodded, raising his hands in surrender. Bowceit’s minions wasted no time in swarming him, forcing his hands behind his back and wrapping ropes around his wrists before dragging him up the ladder to Bowceit’s airship. Roman kept his eyes glued on Virgil the entire time. Kamek Koopa had finally lowered him back onto the ship deck, but he was still unconscious, and a nasty lump had begun to form where he’d hit his head protecting Roman from Petey Piranha’s attack. 

He couldn’t help the tears that formed in the corners of his eyes at the sight of Virgil lying still and helpless before him. 

“Aw, don’t cry, my little prince,” Bowceit cooed, and Roman tore his gaze away from Virgil to glare at the snake. “After all, there shouldn’t be tears on one’s wedding day.”

———

Virgil woke up to the sound of raised voices and jostling bodies. His head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, sending waves of pain across his entire body. He felt something cold and metal press up against him, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a cage door slam in his face.

“-won’t be able to breathe!” the voice shouting cried, and with a start Virgil realized it was Roman speaking, a desperate edge to his tone. “Please, you can’t, you promised you wouldn’t hurt him!” 

Virgil tried to reach for Roman’s voice, peering through the bars of his prison,  but the cage he’d been squeezed inside was so tiny he could barely move. When he shifted his weight, he felt the whole thing sway, as though it was suspended from the ceiling, and he froze.

“Roman?” he called, hating how small and helpless his voice sounded, and through the thick bars of the cage he managed to see his prince arguing with Bowceit, gesturing as emphatically as he could with his wrists tied in front of him.

“Virgil!” Roman gasped, and he moved forward, but Bowceit raised his hand and the floor underneath Virgil’s cage slid away to reveal a pit of lava. Roman froze, his eyes flicking back and forth between Virgil and the lava. 

“I promised not to hurt him,” Bowceit agreed, his voice unusuallylow and threatening, “as long as you come quietly and do as you’re told. And right now you’re dangerously close to breaking your end of the bargain.”

Roman stared desperately at Virgil, and even as panic due to his tight surroundings threatened to overtake his senses, Virgil felt a stab of anger towards Bowceit. Was no blow too low for him to take? Apparently not, as Bowceit snapped his fingers and the cage suddenly rose further into the air. Virgil yelped, his heart pounding in his chest, and he saw Roman’s eyes widen, his neck craning up in a frantic attempt to keep Virgil in his sights.

“Now, I think that puts a finishing touch on our wedding decorations, don’t you?” Bowceit asked sweetly, and Roman could only nod helplessly while Bowceit chuckled to himself.

In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. Just breathe, Virgil, come on, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his arms around himself. 

“Now that the chapel’s done, I say it’s time you got into your wedding suit, darling,” Bowceit declared, and with another snap of his fingers, the koopas dragged Roman out of the room to be changed for the ceremony. 

Virgil peeked out from under his arms to make sure he was alone, then reached into his pocket where he’d felt something squish when he’d been pushed into the cage. It was difficult to maneuver in the small space, but after a moment he managed to pull it out and examine it. 

One fire flower that had yet to be used from their battle with Petey Piranha. 

Virgil clenched the powerup in his fists, gritted his teeth, and waited. 

———

Roman tried his best to keep his head held high as he was dragged down the aisle of the wedding chapel. Even if he was being forced to do this, it didn’t have to actually mean anything. He’d never let the snake break him down completely. He could sit through whatever hell Bowceit put him through if it meant keeping Virgil safe. He glanced up at the cage hanging from the ceiling. Virgil was sitting very still, watching the wedding processional with those large brown eyes that Roman could lose himself for hours in. 

Their gazes met, and Roman forced a smile. He could do this. He could be brave, if not for himself, then for Virgil. The koopa pulling him along gave a harsh tug to the rope wrapped around his wrists and he stumbled, turning his attention back the ground…and what was waiting for him at the end of the aisle. He glared as he was positioned carefully in front of the alter. The koopa took a moment to make sure he was in just the right spot, then bent down and tied his ankles together, nodding to Bowceit when he was finished.

“You never leave anything up to chance, do you?” Roman grumbled, knowing that he was standing on a trapdoor that would send him down into Bowceit’s dungeons at the pull of a lever. 

“I’ve taken care of one nuisance already,” Bowceit replied, gesturing at Virgil above the lava pit. “But the other one is still out there. It never hurts to be prepared for yet another half-baked rescue attempt.”

“Virgil is not a nuisance,” Roman growled, leaning forward. “He’s smart and strong and brave and kind and wonderful. He’s sharper than a sword and more dazzling than the stars and he is ten times the man that you will ever be.” 

“Yes,” Bowceit growled, leaning forward as well until the two were nose to nose. He let his hand hover above the lever that Roman knew would send Virgil’s cage plummeting into the lava.“And if you wish for him to remain that way, you will read your vows.”

Roman glared at his captor, but then he glanced up at Virgil and he sighed. 

“I, Prince Roman of Sarasaland, do hereby take King Bowceit to be my lawfully wedded husband.” 

———

“I, Prince Roman of Sarasaland-”

Now. 

“- do hereby take King Bowceit-”

All of Bowceit’s attention was focused on Roman, who had begun reciting the wedding vows. 

“-to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

It was time. 

“To have and to hold-”

Virgil opened his palm, and let his body absorb the power of the fire flower he had hidden there. He wrapped his right hand around one of the bars on his cage, then stuck his left out as far as it would go. He only would have one shot with the element of surprise on his side, so he had to make it count. 

“-to…to love and to cherish-” 

Not if I have anything to say about it, bitch, Virgil thought, and he took aim. 

“-in sickness and in health-” 

Virgil fired off two shots in rapid succession. 

Roman yelped in surprise as two fireballs flew down, striking him at his wrists and ankles. The force sent him tumbling backwards, but he caught himself as the fire burned through his ropes, leaving his hands free. 

“WHAAAT?” Bowceit roared, and he spun around to see Virgil shoot off three more fireballs, two at the koopas who were rushing forward to try and grab Roman and one at Bowceit himself. “YOU PATHETIC LITTLE PLUMBER!” Bowceit roared as he dodged Virgil’s attack, and his hand flew to the release lever for his cage. “YOU HAVE DISRUPTED MY PLANS FOR THE LAST TIME!” 

“VIRGIL!” Roman screamed, rushing forward, but it was too late. 

Bowceit pulled the lever, plunging Virgil down to a fiery death. 

In theory. 

In Virgil’s time alone, he’d examined his cage as much as possible, and discovered that the floor was designed to drop away beneath him, presumably to send him to his death if Roman misbehaved. But the cage itself was anchored by a chain to a pulley system, probably so that Bowceit wouldn’t have to build a new delivery mechanism every time he felt the need to dramatically execute somebody.

While Bowceit shouted, Virgil reached up with his left hand and grabbed onto the bar that he still held in his right. When the lever was pulled and the floor dropped from under him, he was left hanging from the cage bars like a trapeze artist. 

Like a very pissed off trapeze artist. 

Virgil started swinging back and forth, building up momentum and firing a few more fireballs down towards Bowceit for good measure, though at this point Roman had the koopa king engaged in hand to hand combat that, despite Roman’s recent battle fatigue, he seemed to be winning by sheer force of will alone. 

Once Virgil had built up enough momentum, he let go of the cage at the peak of its arc, sailing over the lava pit below him and landing directly behind Bowceit. Before the snake even had time to turn around, Virgil grabbed him by the tail and spun him around, slamming him into the altar with a satisfying *thud*. 

“Virgil!” Roman cried again, but this time, it was with joy. The two rushed towards each other, practically flying into each others arms. Roman buried his face in Virgil’s neck, and suddenly he found whatever strength he had left was drained away in his relief. 

“Oh, my poor Stormcloud,” he gasped, tears pricking at the back of his eyes. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine, Roman,” Virgil laughed, but the sound was strained, and Roman knew Virgil was just as relived as he was. “Are you…”

“I’m okay,” Roman answered, and he pressed a kiss to Virgil’s neck. “I’m okay, thanks to you, Stormcloud.” 

Virgil let out a shuddered sigh, and Roman rocked the two of them back and forth, giving them a moment to take comfort in each other. 

After a moment, Virgil drew back, and took Roman’s hands in his, carefully examining them. 

“Are your wrists-” 

“They’ll be alright,” Roman laughed, examining the slight burns on his wrist. “Though next time, maybe come up with a rescue plan that doesn’t involve shooting me with a fireflower?” 

“You’re one to talk, Mr. I’m-going-to-treat-this-bullet-bill-like-a-baseball-and-my sword-like-a-bat,” Virgil said, swatting Roman’s shoulder playfully. 

“That was deflecting an enemy projectile!” Roman insisted. “You shot me yourself.” 

Virgil laughed, and Roman’s heart was suddenly full to bursting with just how much he loved this boy. 

“Okay,” Virgil said, smirking. “Maybe it wasn’t the best strategic move.” 

Roman made an offended sound, and Virgil laughed again, but he suddenly took both of Roman’s hands in his, staring into his eyes. 

“But…I had to protect you,” he whispered, and Roman’s heart became, if possible, even fuller. 

“Thank you, my knight,” he said, leaning his forehead against Virgil’s. Virgil blushed.

“You’re welcome, my prince.” 

The two leaned closer, but before they could close the space between them, the doors to the chapel behind them burst open. 

“LISTEN HERE, YOU SNAKE-FACED BITCH-” Logan stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that Bowceit was out cold on the floor and that Roman and Virgil were standing in the middle of the room, unharmed. “Oh.” 

“Logan!” Virgil cried in delight,and Logan wasted no time in pulling his little brother into a hug.

“You’re alright,” Logan sighed, clearly relieved. “I was worried I wouldn’t make it to you in time.” 

“If it weren’t for Virgil here, you wouldn’t have,” Roman admitted. Now that the whole ordeal was over, he realized that he had come frighteningly close to actually marrying Bowceit. He shuddered, and Logan nodded sympathetically. 

“Well, I must admit that I am pleased to find that my rescuing services were, for once, not needed.” He gestured to the door. “I suggest we go, Patton will likely turn half his palace into a bakery if we do not return soon.”

Virgil laughed, and slid his hand into Roman’s as the three of them began walking back towards home. 

“I wouldn’t mind, honestly. Patton’s sweets are the best.” 

“Indeed they are,” Roman agreed. “Though I must admit I do feel bad knowing that he’s baking them because he’s worried about us.” 

“Extremely worried,” Logan agreed. “He had half a mind to come with me, but I insisted that he stayed behind for his own safety.” 

“There, you see Virgil!” Roman exclaimed. “Patton listens when his boyfriend tells him to stay home and be safe. And his boyfriend isn’t even a prince! No offense, Logan,” he hastily added, but Logan just rolled his eyes. 

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t listen,” Virgil fired right back. “Or you’d find yourself married to Bowceit right about now, or worse.” 

“Which you wouldn’t have even been able to stop if you’d gotten killed by that bullet bill!” Roman insisted. “Or if I hadn’t agreed to marry him in the first place, you wouldn’t have been able to stop the wedding, because Bowceit would have thrown you off his airship!” 

Virgil was quiet for a moment, and Roman shook his head, trying to clear it of the memory of Virgil unconscious, lying limp and helpless to Bowceit’s whim. 

“Well then,” Virgil said, his voice soft. “It’s a good thing that I have such a lovely, brave, wonderful prince to protect me.” 

Roman smiled, and took Virgil’s other hand, turning so they were facing each other. 

“And I wouldn’t be such a brave and wonderful prince without my dark and stormy knight to protect me.” 

Virgil smiled too, and leaned up, gazing into Roman’s eyes. 

“I guess we’ll just have to protect each other then.” 

Roman leaned down and finally closed the gap between them, pressing their lips together in a long, sweet kiss. 

“I guess we will.” 

———

A/N: Oooooh, this got looong, but I really love it! I love me some good old fashioned prinxiety, and to me, one of the beautiful things about this ship is how both of them are such protective personalities, which especially is showcased in this AU, where Virgil is a hero who rescues the princes all the time, but Roman is very much a “fend for himself,” capable type of person who often doesn’t need rescuing unless a situation is drastic or unique. Very often in this AU, Roman only will back down from a fight if he has no other choice, and he NEVER likes doing it, so I really enjoyed putting him in that situation here, as well as putting Virgil in a situation where he could show his resourcefulness, while also still showing that he’s still very affected by things like Bowceit forcing him into a cramped space that heightens his anxiety. I just…I have a lot of feelings about @sugarglider9603‘s AU, alright? XD

To read more of my work in the Mario AU, check out my Sanders Sides AU Masterlist. To read more of my work in general, check out my full Fic Masterlist

Like what I do? Consider buying me a coffee!

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[writeinspiration]

How Long Should Your Novel Be? (The Definitive Answer)

Text of the article pasted below!

Many aspiring novelists ask themselves, “How long should my novel be?” The answer to this question is surprisingly complex. There are multiple issues that need to be to addressed… and I’m going to cover ALL of them in this article.So let’s get it!

My Journey

It took me eight years to craft my debut novel, The Page Turners.

Eight years is far too long to spend writing a first book. Looking back, I cringe at the thought of what I could have created in the time I wasted drafting and redrafting that novel.

One of the many reasons it took me so long to write my first book was that, like many rookie authors, I wanted my debut to be an epic story. I had twenty-five years worth of life experiences, thoughts, emotions, and stories to draw from, and I was determined to cram all of it into a novel that would dazzle readers and immediately launch my literary career into the stratosphere of superstardom!

At one point, the manuscript for The Page Turners was up to 130,000 words, but the published version is a little over 55,000; hardly an epic.

But you know what? Stephen King’s first novel wasn’t The Stand. It was a tight-packed little masterpiece called Carrie.

Once I followed King’s lead by focusing on intimacy and letting go of my aspirations of a sweeping and grand narrative, the project finally become manageable. After years spent struggling with this beast of a story, I was suddenly dealing with a focused and fast-paced narrative that had a clear theme and a nice sense of rhythm and harmony.

Before long, finally publishing the book was no longer a distant pipe dream; it had actually become an attainable goal. In shortening the length of my novel, I made my life as a writer much easier.

The Benefits of Short

It’s easier to redraft and review a shorter novel.

It’s easier to convince beta readers to give it a look, and you get their feedback much quicker.

As an indie author, it’s significantly cheaper to pay for copy-editing of a shorter novel, and the production costs of printing the final books are also more affordable.

Across the board, virtually everything becomes easier and more do-able once you commit to shortening your novel.

A shorter book also forces an author to focus with laser-like accuracy on the story’s most important elements: the plot and lead characters. Tangents, supporting characters, and non-relevant aspects of the narrative are kept to a bare minimum because there simply isn’t room for them in a short book.

Tell an enthusiastic young writer you need them to write a 2,000-word article, and there’s a good chance they’ll return with 4,000 words of mostly unusable material. On the other hand, tell them you need 500 words and not a single word more… and they might just come up with something great!

I’m quite fond of the Orson Well’s quote, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations,” and I think it can be applied wonderfully to word count. Keep the book short, and you’re much more likely to create good art. At the very least, you’ll reduce the chances of creating bad art. (The only thing worse than a bad novel is a bad novel of epic length!)

With all of this in mind, I tell my writing students to aim for a 55,000 word novel for their debut book. A total of 55,000 words is the perfect length for a rookie author. It’s short and sweet, and it forces the writer to stick to the point, something young writers often struggle with. And, of course, as mentioned earlier, it makes the entire project more manageable.

Is a 55,000 Word Manuscript Novel Length?

In his article, “Word Count: How Long Should a Book Be?”, Glen C Strathy turns to The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America’s (SFFWA) criteria for the Nebula Awards to determine his word count criteria.

Here’s how the SFFWA defines the stories they review for the award:

Short story – under 7,500 words

Novelette – 7,500 to 17,500 words

Novella – 17,500 to 40,000 words

Novel – anything over 40,000 words

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) (an annual event that challenges writers to craft a novel within the month of November) identifies 50,000 words as the minimum target for their definition of a novel.

As such, by either the SFFWA or the NaNoWriMo’s definition, a 55,000-word book is certainly novel-length.

That said, if you would prefer to turn to general opinion and/or critical regard to determine the minimum length of a novel, consider The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece is only 55,000 words long, and it’s considered by many – myself included – to be one of the greatest novels ever written.

In fact, a number of my favourite novels of all time are around this length: The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, The Old Man and the Sea by Earnest Hemingway, Lord of the Flies by William Golding, The Catcher in the Ryeby J.D. Salinger, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde, Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, and The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, to name but a few!

As this list clearly demonstrates, despite what many young authors mistakenly believe, more words are not always better. From Kafka to Carroll, some of the greatest prose writers ever to live chose to produce shorter novels.

In Praise of Long

Despite my recommendation that aspiring authors focus their efforts on producing a shorter book as their initial publication, I would be remiss to ignore the variety of well-loved long novels out there.

In her Salon.com article, “Why we love loooong novels”, Laura Miller provides a convincing argument in praise of the epic. She also references the New York Times report that author Garth Risk Hallberg received a $2 million advance for his 900-page debut, City on Fire – a clear indication a shorter debut novel is not always the best route to critical acclaim and financial riches!

Riffing on Miller’s article, Maddie Crum’s Huffington Post article, “An Ode to Unaccelerated Reading” lists ten excellent novels well worth their page count, and I’m sure we all have a beloved epic tome or two weighing down our bookshelves.

In fact, it was likely my love of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and Stephen’s King’s The Stand that got me into trouble with The Page Turners word count in the first place.

I’m not arguing that a novel must be short to be great; I’m simply suggesting that if you want to make the transition from aspiring author to published author in as smooth a manner as possible, you may want to save your epic for your sophomore release.

Industry Standards by Genre

Of course, only a few of the short novels I mentioned earlier were debut releases, and today’s modern writers, especially those looking to break into the mainstream publishing industry, would be wise to take into account industry standards when it comes to determining world count for their work in progress.

In a helpful article written for Writer’s Digest in 2012, Chuck Sambuchino outlines recommended word counts for various different genres of books. His recommended word counts are as follows:

Commercial and literary novels for adults – 80K to 90K

Sci-fi and Fantasy – 100K to 115K

Young Adult – 55K to 70K

In another article on word count and book length, “How Long is a Book? Determine Your Novel’s Genre, Subgenre, and Best Word Count”, Ronnie Smith expands on Sambuchino’s list by adding some additional genres to the mix:

Romance – 80K to 100K

Mystery – 75K to 100K

Thriller – 90K to 100K

Western – 45K – 75K

These recommendations are extremely helpful to keep in mind while working on your book, particularly if you intend to secure an agent and a traditional publisher for your work.

Keep in mind, however, that Sambuchino and Smith’s recommendations are based on the long-entrenched requirements of the traditional book publishing industry. As such, the recommended word counts are largely the result of industrial standards and therefore have more to do with the production requirements of paperback books than they do anything related to storytelling technique, artistic aspirations, or the preferences of readers.

New Standards

In recent years, the rise of ebooks, along with the ever-increasing ease with which independent authors can self-publish their work via web and print-on-demand has completely changed book industry standards in terms of word counts requirements.

With storytelling becoming increasingly digitalized, the very meaning of terms like “books” and “novels” are being consistently destabilized.

Ebooks come in a variety of forms and lengths, and print-on-demand can turn a project of any reasonable word count into a paperback publication. Authors are now free to craft books and novels with word counts that are bound only by the author’s imagination and creativity, and the audience’s receptivity.

Hugh Howey’s hit self-published “novel” Wool was originally released as a series of e-novellas. Authors Johnny B. Truant and Sean Platt are releasing serial fiction that is then collected together into “seasons”, thereby combining 19th century Charles Dickens-like publishing model with that of modern television. Erotic authors, riding the surging 50 Shades of Grey wave, are consistently finding new and innovative ways to get their work into reader’s hands, including bundling books from several authors together to create what is, essentially, an anthology of novellas.

Where to From Here?

If it was difficult to determine exactly how long a novel should be in the past, it’s only going to become increasingly more difficult in the future. As independent authors continue to push the boundaries and test what digital publishing and print-on-demand have to offer, and as the traditional publishing industry attempts to keep up with technological innovations reshaping the publishing landscape, there’s no telling what a “book” might look like in the years to come.

If you’re looking for a career in traditional publishing, educate yourself on the word counts the publishers and agents you’re targeting are looking for. If you are embracing independent publishing, get creative! There’s an exciting world of storytelling possibilities out there, and whether your book is a short jaunt or an epic journey is totally up to you. Remain true to your vision, give your audience the read of a lifetime, and the last thing they will be thinking about is word count.

[7-wonders]

As Above, So Below

Summary: Your average, mundane life as a college student is flipped upside down when the man you thought you knew as your next-door neighbor turns out to be the God of the dead. When Michael lures you down to Hell, everything that you thought you knew about the world is proven wrong.

Word Count: 2234

A/N: I’m so excited to publish my first multi-chapter story! This is a Michael Langdon AU based off of the Hades/Persephone myth. Feedback is always appreciated, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this first chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Hour of Our Departure | Read Ch. 2 HERE | Read Ch. 3 HERE | Read Ch. 4 HERE | Read Ch. 5 HERE | Read Ch. 6 HERE | Read Ch. 7 HERE | Read Ch. 8 HERE | Read Ch. 9 HERE | Read Ch. 10 HERE | Read Ch. 11 HERE | Read Ch. 12 HERE |

The Prince of Hell has a secret.

To be fair, Michael Langdon, the Lord of the Underworld, has many secrets. Those are secrets that he’d be proud to share, ones that would have creatures across all realms cowering at his feet in fear, awe, and envy. If this particular secret was to get out, he would be the laughing-stock of Hell.

Michael Langdon has feelings for a human. He wants to shudder at the mere acknowledgement of that; he’s not supposed to have feelings of happiness, joy, or love. The only happiness he ever feels is when he’s watching the tormented souls of the damned burn in pits. But now, whenever he lays eyes upon this woman, this mortal, he can almost feel his heart start to beat.

It’s ironic, to him, that one of the purest beings he’s ever seen lives next to a Hellmouth. Those who reside on the mortal coil know this particular portal as the Murder House, a structure in which his demons love playing. The house on one side is occupied by dust and rats, the old tenants having moved out when they saw the red skies and flocks of crows. On the other side, a house has been converted to a boarding house occupied by college students. College students are some of the best souls to take as they can be easily persuaded into dangerous situations, which has made for an enjoyable two years for some of his soul collectors working in this area. As far as the neighbors are aware, the so-called “Murder House” is undergoing a very, very long string of renovations.

In all of Michael’s centuries of ruling Hell, he’s seen the Earth change immensely. Civilizations have rose and fallen, wars have been fought, people have been born and people have died. But never has Michael been as captivated by someone as he is by you.

He often wonders what it is that draws him towards you. Is it the bright smile you always seem to have for him and everyone you pass? Could it be your choice of fashion, the pinks and blues and greens that adorn your body, so much different than his usual red and black attire? Your body itself is a whole different story for Michael. He’s seen some of the most beautiful women to ever walk the Earth, and yet they don’t hold a candle towards you.

Michael Langdon can list a million reasons why he thinks that he loves you, which is why he’s hoping that you won’t come to hate him for what he’s about to do. Although the events soon to transpire have long since been prophesied, the idea of prophecies are a very difficult thing for mortals to understand. He stands in front of the ornate mirror, watching as two servants finish dressing him. They’ve decided on his finest cloak for this occasion, beautiful silver fastenings keeping it up around his neck. A simple black suit with a red tie accompanies a swipe of red powder on the inner corners of his eyelids.

“Sire, are you sure that there’s no easier way to go about this?” Hecate, or Madison, as she preferred to go by nowadays, asks from the doorway. Michael glances at his most trusted advisor and longtime friend, shooing the servants away.

“Trust me, I’ve been trying to think of other ways. I just can’t see her believing that I’m the God of the dead without thinking I’m a crazy person. I need to show her.” Madison rolls her eyes, stalking over to Michael to redo his crooked tie.

“Just promise me that you won’t immediately resort to kidnapping a human woman and dragging her down here?” Michael shoots the woman a playful glare, batting her hands off of his tie.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a mean person.” Madison snorts at this, giving him one last glance before deeming him ready.

“Alright, Mr. Nice-Guy, you’re ready.” Michael’s palms break into a sweat, which he didn’t even know was possible until now. Letting out two sharp whistles, he waits for the sound of paws bounding down the hall. Cerberus, the three-headed hellhound, tramples into the room and immediately sits, tail wagging behind him.

“You wanna go up above, buddy?” Michael rewards the dog with a pet on each of its’ heads when he starts joyfully barking.

“Ugh, you’re taking the mutt? That’ll impress her.” Madison scoffs, watching as Michael puts a glamour on the dog. Suddenly, the once-huge beast is now the size of a normal labrador, complete with one head instead of three.

“(Y/N) likes dogs, and she’s met Cerberus multiple times.” When Michael turns his back, he hears what sounds like Madison coughing the word ‘whipped.’ He stiffens, but doesn’t turn around to take the bait. “You’re lucky I’m going to need you, or else I’d throw you in the ninth circle.” It’s an empty threat and they both know it. He and Cerberus make their way to the front of the palace, where there’s already a realm guard waiting to take the king to Earth.

“Good luck. You’re gonna need it with those looks!” Madison takes one last shot. Right before Michael’s form disappears, he flips off the delighted goddess.

You’re sitting under the shade of the large oak tree in the front yard, humming softly and working on some homework, when barking makes you look up. A grin crosses your face when a large dog comes bounding out of the house next door, chasing a red bouncy ball. When the dog sees you, he immediately abandons his toy and charges towards you. Homework is suddenly forgotten when a giant mass of fur and slobber lands on top of you.

“Well, hello there Cerberus!” The dog sits next to you, nudging his head against your chin in an attempt to get petted. “Oh I know, it must be so rough being such a cute dog.” You oblige, gladly scratching behind his ear.

“At least I don’t ever have to worry about him going too far when you’re out here.” You look up to see the man whose beauty rivals the sun. Michael, from what you’ve deduced, owns the house next door and is often over there performing renovations himself. You smile shyly, taking his outstretched hand and allowing him to pull you to your feet.

“Be careful or else I might not let him leave next time.” You joke. You can’t help but to take note of his runway-like attire, putting your plain blue jeans and pink blouse to shame. “How do you renovate a house in a cloak, exactly?” Michael looks down, as if noticing for the first time how overdressed he is.

“I’m actually on my way to some business meetings. I had just stopped by to check on the new paint samples.”

“You seem to be making good progress on the house. Just last week it was new floors, right?” Michael nods, glancing from your face to the house.

“Would you like to take a look around? There’s been a lot of changes since the last time you snooped around inside.” Your face goes red at this. It had been a week after you first moved in with your new roommates. As a lover of the paranormal, it was basically impossible for you to not visit the infamous Murder House. When you had met Michael the following day, he mentioned that it was a delight to watch you ghost hunt through the security cameras, causing you to try and avoid him as much as possible until the embarrassment died down.

“I thought the house was abandoned!” You make your case, taking Michael’s outstretched arm. “You’re always so proper, y’know?”

“How so?”

“I’ve never met a guy who wears cloaks and escorts women like he’s going to a gala, that’s all.”

“I haven’t noticed that. I was just raised in a different time, I suppose.” You laugh.

“‘Raised in a different time?’ Michael, you can���t be more than five years older than me.” He raises an eyebrow, almost challenging you.

“Five years is quite a difference.” He jokes. Grabbing the key from one of his pockets, he unlocks the door and swings it open with a flourish. “Have a look.”

The house really has changed since the last time you were here. Gone are the creepy murals with people dying, the mosaic windows and the wooden panelling straight out of the ‘70s. Now, the interior is clean, with wide windows, a stone fireplace and dark wood floors.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” You say in awe, taking in every inch of the beautiful house. “Think you’ll finally be able to sell it?”

“I’ve actually become rather attached to this house.” Michael admits from the living room, where he’s glancing over some paperwork. Cerberus has settled on a rug, deciding now’s a good time for a nap. “I kind of want to keep it.”

“I don’t blame you.” An impish grin spreads on your face. “The ghosts haven’t scared you off?” Michael groans, playfully rolling his eyes.

“I should have known you would ask about the supposed ghosts that haunt these halls.”

“You’re telling me that with all of the knocking down walls and changing the floorplan of this place that you haven’t disturbed one of the souls that died here?” Michael has always been adamant that this is a perfectly normal house, albeit with a sordid history. “Just money-hungry people making up stories to get their fifteen minutes of fame,” he’s always responded to your questions.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, (Y/N). Maybe they just don’t believe in me, either.” He deadpans.

“Wow, you ever thought about motivational speaking?” You say sarcastically. “Did the city ever come to take away those weird jars with the body parts that Dr. Montgomery left here?” Dr. Montgomery, the ‘doctor to the stars’ in the ‘30s, ran a secret basement abortion clinic, where he also supposedly experimented with reanimation. It was gross, morbid, and a subject you were totally interested in.

“They did. We actually just started on the basement. I’m pretty sure we got all of the creepy stuff removed, but if you want you can help me sort through the items previous owners have left here.” Your eyes light up at this. Getting to look through antiques that each had their own story is extremely enticing. Michael, having already seen the gleam in your eyes, makes his way to the basement steps with his usual hands-behind-his-back gait.

The walk down to the basement is decidedly more creepy than the rest of the house. You’re not sure if it’s the general spookiness of basements or all of the illegal abortions performed down here, but you can feel a dark aura in the cavernous room. There’s an old claw-foot bathtub under one window, a couple of empty shelves, and a rocking chair that you swear is moving on its own.

“Oh jeez.” You whisper.

“Too scary for you?” A voice says in your ear. You jump, spinning and hitting Michael on the shoulder.

“You asshole! You’re lucky I didn’t punch you in the nose.” He looks entirely unimpressed at this, but you pretend to cock a fist anyways.

“Hmm, maybe next time. Most of the good stuff I’ve found is in this room.” Michael takes your shoulders and steers you towards a closed door at the opposite end of the basement. You’re not sure why, but a sense of dread fills you the closer you get to the door.

“Michael, I think I need to get going.” You say quietly, the dread increasing. You try to maneuver out of his grasp, but his grip on you only tightens.

“Just a little look, and then you can go.” Without anyone touching it, the door opens. Wind whips around you, a smell of- is that brimstone?- fills the air, and you can hear screaming from miles down. A cavernous pit stares back at you, its mouth wide and welcoming. You shriek and elbow Michael in the stomach.

He doubles over in pain, allowing you your chance. You sprint for the stairs, tripping over Cerberus, who’s not sure why you’re yelling. You yelp when your palms scrape across the rough wood, ripping open the top layer of skin. There’s no time to waste, so you haul yourself back up and try to remember the way to the front door.

“Help, he’s going to kill me!” You scream, hoping that one of your roommates will hear your calls and save you. The open front door slams shut when you’re mere feet away, startling you. A pair of strong arms wraps around you, picking you up like you weigh nothing and hauling you back downstairs. Michael ignores your screams completely, even trying to hush you.

“Michael, please don’t kill me. Just let me leave and I won’t tell anyone.” You mutter, twisting in his arms to look at his face. He smiles softly down at you, wiping the tears away from your face.

“I’m not going to kill you, (Y/N). I’m sorry it had to happen this way, but I promise I’ll explain everything when we get home.” The wind is howling, your hair getting caught in Michael’s face. You don’t have time to question what he’s saying before he takes a graceful step over the edge of the pit, both of you falling down below.

[taiyang-too-long]

See No Evil Ch4

Easing shut the door to Emeralds room, Taiyang continued the nightly rounds. In every room so far he’d found a familiar lump underneath a blanket.

He stopped at Mercury’s door. The boy had barricaded himself inside since the incident earlier. Tai fought the urge to make his way in and try yet again to reach out to the boy.

But..no..Mercury had easily been the most resistant to the arrangement, even taking into account Emeralds escape attempts. Pushing the boy too hard might have the opposite effect Tai was looking for.

Go at his pace. He’s been through a lot.

He moved onto the final room. Only to find its occupant unaccounted for. Just as the worry had begun to sink in he heard a light sniffle. He looked around for a moment or two but found no sign of his smallest ward.

Noticing the open window, Taiyang leaned out and look around the ground but again saw no one. Another sniffle brought his eyes higher.

Neo sat on the edge of the roof, her legs dangling off the side. After a bit of struggling Tai managed to work his way out the window and sat beside her.

Neo made no reaction to the additional company. Her eyes never left the slightly tattered black hat that rested in her lap. Her hands tightly gripped around its edges.

“Hey..” Taiyang said softly laying a hand over hers.

The young girl instantly withdrew her hands holding the cap protectively against her chest. Her wild eyes filled with tears looked back at the blonde with shock, as if she had only now realized his presence. Taiyang held his hands up defenlessly.

Neo’s surprise faded as her expression shifted to an almost apologetic one. Yet her hold on the hat remained.

“I get it..don’t worry” Taiyang said.

He had only been given minor information about many of his wards, seeing as they themselves were the only source for much of the information but Neo was a different story. He’d heard tales of her less than reputable accomplice.

“It’s hard losing someone you love..I know”

He reached into one of his pockets and with drew a small photo. Neo leaned over to see, even scootching a bit closer.

The photo was one of the elder beside her and even what she could assume was the younger versions of his daughters but along side the family in the photo was a woman in a long white cloak.

Neo looked up to see the sad smile on the old huntsman face as his thumb traced over the photo. She turned over the hat, withdrawaling from the inside band a photo of herself and a tall orange haired man wearing the very same hat. She held the picture up to the huntsman.

“It gets easier...eventually you can start remembering the good times with out it hurting” Taiyang said slowly returning his photo to its familiar place.

Neo nodded solemnly and clutched the hat once more, letting out a soft sob. When she felt an arm wrap around her shoulder she didn’t hesitate to lean against the embrace as the tears came in greater number.

Below, from around the corner of the cabin, stood Mercury looking up at the scene. Finally. The chance he’d been waiting for.

He turned around to see the others impatiently waiting behind him.

“Alright” Mercury said in a low voice. “The old man and the short one are distracted. ‘The warden’ is out on a supply run, and the drunk is three bottles deep and passed out on the couch.”

“What’s all this about?” said Emerald.

Mercury shushed her and pointed up to where the huntsman and his little helper sat talking.

“It’s about sneaking outta this dump” he said.

There was abit of uncertainty amongst the rest that Mercury couldn’t ignore. Even Cinder and Adam seemed hesitant.

“Look” he groaned. “We’ll come back ..if you all really’d rather stay here then I’ll happily go have a good time all on my own.”

A few shared glances between the quartet made the groups decision obvious.

****************************************

The island of Patch was a quiet little place, but it was only a short ferry ride back to the mainland of Vale were a much more rowdy way of living was the status quo. With the help of Emeralds illusions and a handy index card, it hadnt been difficult for the group to sneak their way into the nearest Nightclub.

Adam sat at the bar, wondering once more why he’d bothered coming along. The noise. All the people. How did anyone enjoy this?

His thoughts were interrupted by the grey haired rogue who’d dragged them all out here plopping into the stool next to him, his back leaning against the bar.

“Are you just going to sit here and mope the whole time?” Mercury sneered

Adam crossed his arms and did his best to ignore the loud mouthed youth.

“You see” Mercury said pointing his finger far to close to Adams face. “That’s what I can’t stand about you. You’ve got two moods. Broody and pissed off. “

Mercury gestured to the dance floor swarmed with people.

“Why don’t you go talk to someone” he asked “maybe if you get laid you’ll stop being such a pain in the ass”

Adam continued to ignore Mercury, his view focused on the dance floor.

The gray haired young man followed the others line of sight, finally settling on Cinder. Surrounded by several men and more than a few women, Cinder was exactly where she wanted to be. The center of attention.

“Oh” Mercury said, laughter creeping into his tone. “Oh you have got to be kidding me. You? And Cinder? Oh that’s almost too good. Beast and the bitch”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about” Adam snapped.

The bartender set a tall glass of amber liquid in between Mercury and the man who had obviously ordered it. Unfortunately the man’s back was turned and nothing stopped the young man from down its contents.

“Maybe not” Mercury said with a burp. “But either way, I still don’t care.”

Without another word Mercury walked off towards the dance floor. Leaving the faunus stewing over his words.

“Hey! You’re gonna pay for this aren’t you?!” Came a voice from his right.

The man who had ordered the drink Mercury had downed now held the empty glass angrily towards Adam.

“That son of a bitch” Adam hissed under his breath.

Cinder felt herself being lost in the beat of the music. The warm bodies around her, looking at her, admiring her. Yes..this is what she had came for.

Her jubilant self indulgence was cut short by the sound of several people cheering distantly. But why? When she was over here? What could be drawing attention elsewhere?!

That showboat Mercury. His fighting style seemed just as adept at impressing the small crowd that formed around him as it did at ending lives. His sways and spins drawing more attention from the simpletons that littered this place than her own beauty? She scoffed at the thought.

She softly placed her hand against the chest of a man who had been dancing close to her.

“Why don’t you go by me a drink..?”~ she whispered into his ear.

The eagerness he showed as he rushed away towards the bar helped to shrug off the tempory slight of Mercury’s actions. She let her eyes drift catching sight of Emerald leaning against the far wall.

Emeralds red eyes glanced at Cinder as she made her way closer, silently hoping she’d keep her distance.

“My my” Cinder cooed. “You look so innocent. Yet I wonder how many people here will be leaving without a wallet..”

“I don’t do that anymore”

“Ofcourse not” Cinder said “why would you? Now that you have a ‘home’ and ‘family’ to take care of you? Just like you always wanted...so why one must wonder..are you always trying to get away”

Cinders words were spoken so sweetly as to be taken as mocking. Emeralds glare matched the condescending gaze of Cinder without backing down.

Before Emerald could respond a man hurried to Cinders side, quickly handing her a brightly colored drink with a excessively twisted straw.

“Oh thank you darling..” Cinders said, her words dripping with honey as she traced her finger along the man’s jaw. “Now go away..”~

The man opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the dark haired woman in a tone much less kind.

“Go. Away.”

A bit deflated the man retreated to the dance floor as Cinder triumphantly sipped the beverage.

“You’re unbelievable” Emerald scoffed.

A large commotion drew both their attention away from one another as the sounds of fighting could be heard even over the loud drumming of the music.

[jae-ha]

between silence and sound.  »「chapter two 」

Chapter Index (Ao3) // Chapter Index (tumblr)

.summary ––  [ Road trip // slight AU ] - Once Zack and Rachel leave the strange building behind, they realize, on long stretches of road and under diamond-bright stars, there are so many things to be discovered about one another.

.pairing ––  (slight?) ZackRay –– don’t like, don’t read, don’t comment. 

.chapter two » 「as dark things are meant to be loved.」

「 — sunday : 3 a.m. 」

The roadside hotel is a few steps above seedy yet several steps below refined. It smells strongly of some kind of floral detergent and the walls capture and absorb the muggy summer heat, giving the building an atmosphere akin to being inside a large beast’s mouth. The baseboards are laden with dents, the carpeting bears questionable green stains, and the light take a few tries before it turns on. When it does switch on, it does so with a hiss of circuits, illuminating the room for about ten minutes before fizzling out again.

Neither of them took kindly to the idea of sleeping in the car for the third night in a row, so when Rachel pointed out the sputtering neon sign advertising comfy beds and hot showers, Zack didn’t question it. He swerved into the parking lot and the two shambled their way into the establishment and up to the front desk.

It’s only because this hotel room is just a place to sleep and not to sightsee that neither Zack nor Rachel care about its miserable state. At the very most, the wrinkle-laden bedsheets appear newly washed, the bathroom is fully stocked, and the room smells fresh, clean even. Rachel especially desires to make good on the promise of a hot shower.

Zack knows this, and upon dropping the car keys on top of the chestnut-colored dresser and giving the room a judgmental once-over, he turns to her and says, “You go first.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t take all night.” He punctuates the statement by flopping down on the room’s solitary bed to begin digging through the bag they’ve brought with them. It’s filled with supplies, all of which is stolen: a wallet that contains cash and three credit cards, several rolls of bandages, a handful of snacks, an old cellphone, and a few other small trinkets picked up along the way.

Rachel lingers, processing everything slowly, before disappearing into the bathroom. The light there works miraculously better than the main room’s fixture.

She finds a stack of towels folded in a compartment beneath the sink and turns on the shower’s faucet. After a few moments she checks the temperature, ensuring that it isn’t freezing nor scalding before stepping inside. She keeps her shower brief, not knowing if a slipshod hotel like this has a limit on their hot water. Once the grime of three days on the road is washed away, she steps out, dries off, and pulls on an oversized T-shirt and shorts— the only other articles of clothing she’s brought aside from her floaty white sundress.

She dabs at her hair with a towel as she retreats from the bathroom.

“Zack, you can go ahead.”

He slinks past her in wordless response, body slumped with fatigue and eyes as faded as the overhead lights. Rachel assumes he was searching the supplies bag for the roll of bandages he stuffs into his pocket upon passing her.

After folding the damp towel and setting it aside on a stiff-looking armchair, Rachel also sets her eyes on the bag. She’s been meaning to work on the trip’s budget.

She takes a seat on the bed, tucks her legs beneath her, and lays a notebook, calculator, and pen from within the bag before her. The credit cards within the wallet have been taken from three different people, all victims of Zack’s new scythe. Even with the true owners dead and unable to put halts on the card’s use, Rachel prefers to use them sparingly as not to draw too much attention to the card companies. She also knows that the cards will have to be disposed of and replaced when they begin traversing states.

She calculates the amount they’ve spent thus far on their trip, punching numbers in on the calculator and scribbling down values as they come to her. The hotel has been their largest expense with food being a close second, then gas. She remembers an incident only a few days ago when the car ground to a halt in the middle of a side street, the tank finally giving way to emptiness. Zack swore a lot that day— somehow more than usual. He knew neither how to pump gas nor where the nearest station was. After several minutes of trying to get a stable connection on the old stolen cellphone, Rachel determined a gas station forty-five minutes away. The walk took two hours, and by the time they reached the station, purchased four portable containers of gas (Zack wanted to make sure it never happened again), and made it back to the slumbering side street, it was an hour after midnight. He still didn’t know how to pump gas, but Rachel figured that she could look up a video later if the old phone managed to stay alive. If all else failed, she was sure a stranger would be willing to help them, so long as she was the one who asked.

That memory gives way to others, and Rachel soon finds herself lost in thought. For no particular reason (at least, none that she can pinpoint), those thoughts are all centered around Zack.

It isn’t as if he had done anything differently today. He spent most of the day behind the steering wheel, either smiling like a demon as he sped through a light that was quickly fading to red or grinding his teeth in the face of a three-car pileup. Yes, most days on the road repeat themselves, but the nights are always different.

Nighttime means silence, and there are always unfinished stories sewn within the fabric of that silence.

The previous night, Zack eased the car into the parking lot of a liquor store, deciding that it would be the place they’d settle in for the night. Other nights, they were tucked into a shadowy corner of a truck stop or under the large tree of a grocery store parking lot. All were dark with some semblance of coziness, and since it was long past closing hours, the liquor store was no different.

Rachel curled up on the passenger’s seat and waited for oblivion to find her, as was custom on nights where the car took the place of a comfortable bed and the stars selfishly offered no light. And, just as routine would have it, her sleep was choppy, dreamless, and full of holes. Only forty-five minutes passed before some phantom force roused her awake again.

Her eyes fluttered open to the same night-colored parking lot, the hum of some slumberless insect, and Zack watching the window with a faraway gaze. Perhaps it was the sharp edges of broken glass on the asphalt, the obscenities spray-painted onto the side of the liquor store, or the clashing of distant yet fiery voices that made Rachel start to question the location they chose to settle in.

As she quietly untangled her body from its cocoon of blond hair and warmth, she could feel Zack’s eyes following her.

“Can’t sleep?”

His tone wasn’t one of concern nor comfort, but it danced along the serenity of the night as if it naturally belonged there. In fact, in that moment, Zack blended in perfectly with everything the darkness had to offer, and Rachel thought it might’ve been because he had learned to move with it. He’d spent so much time in environments like that that his limbs seemed to disappear and reappear when he wanted them to and his breathing vanished no matter how much Rachel stilled her own in an attempt to hear it.

If the moonlight was just a tad dimmer, she never would’ve known he was still in the car with her.

She lowered her gaze, noticing only then that he was holding one of the plastic water bottles from the supplies bag. He offered it to her, but she refused it with a small shake of her head.

“It’s dangerous here,” she said.

He scoffed and took a sip. “I’m more of a monster than anything you’ll find out there.” As he turned his face to the window again, the moonlight raced to emphasize the features that not even his bandages could cover up— the rigidity of his jawline, the sharp curve of his neck, the bulb of his Adam’s apple, and, of course, that golden eye that glittered as something strange and bewitchingly colorful on a body of dark shades and drab hues.

“Go back to sleep. I’m keeping watch.”

In the hotel room, as her memories poke and prod at her, it’s then that Rachel realizes why Zack is on her mind. It’s the monster in him that captures her interest.

Monster.

Cathy had said it, Danny had said it, even Zack himself had said it. They’ve carved that word into him, stained his bones with it, made it an irrefutable part of him. The concept of it all touches only the edges of Rachel’s understanding. At what threshold does a human disintegrate into less-than human? She’s asked Zack to explain why he chooses to encapsulate himself behind such an ugly word like that, but his answer is vague and foggy, leaving her with questions rather than contentment.

Perhaps they use that word because of his strange appearance, because of the bandages and what hides beneath them. She hasn’t known Zack for any extended period of time, but because everyone else who’s come into her life seems to bear death’s handprint, Zack is now the person she’s known the longest. Even then, she’s never seen underneath his bandages. At least, not the ones above his waist.

She can hypothesize what he looks like beneath them, but actually asking to see him, actually requesting that he let her in that far, to let her be so close that she can see and feel him as he is — without barriers and borders— seems as difficult as crossing a minefield.

The story behind them has piqued Rachel’s interest in the past. Not long ago he told her that the burns he covers up no longer hurt. Regardless of how widespread and severe they had once been, time had healed them as much as they could possibly be healed. With that in mind, Rachel concluded that those bandages were nothing more than his security blanket, despairingly used to hide his most hated flaw.

When she thinks of Zack, she doesn’t initially place him as insecure, but she notices how he dresses, covering every inch of his body behind baggy fabrics and zippers. She notices the way he disregards any concern she shows for him, the way he turns his nose up when she attempts to care for him, as if he’s unable to accept the concept of meaning something to someone.

He’s tightly rooted in the belief that hatred awaits him beneath every stranger’s gaze, and because it’s all an endless cycle, everyone is a stranger. He scoffs at laws and sneers at restraints, not allowing anything the world labels as ‘important’ or ‘sensical’ to sway the way he lives. But there’s a small part of her that feels that some part of him may actually be soft. Something still breathes gently, still exists tenderly, beneath the calloused shell that’s hardened over him. She’s caught a glimpse of it in the way he smiles at her sometimes, the way the corners of his lips rise effortlessly and his eyes twinkle with a light he hasn’t had since he was much, much smaller— when the world handled him delicately.

She’s so lost in these thoughts, so wrapped up in trying to understand what may never be understood that she doesn’t notice when the shoddy overhead light fizzles out or when the shower shuts off. But all at once her body becomes like glass when she feels a small weight press down on her head. She immediately realizes it’s a dish from the hotel’s decor and that Zack is the one who’s placed it there. Said dish —a stained-glass creation fixed out of blue and turquoise pieces— is a stark, colorful contrast to the beige carpet and dingy wallpaper that greeted them upon entrance.

She can feel his eyes on her, assessing her, waiting for a reaction. He’s done this before, sometimes with cups, other times with soda cans. She’s confused each time he does it, and the only reason her body freezes up during this particular instance is because if it falls, there isn’t money in the trip budget to replace it. Or rather, no money she’s willing to spend on replacing it.

Her outward appearance doesn’t change, save for the second-long pause of her hand in the midst of writing a calculation. Her eyes flitter over to him; he appears amused.

“Zack, what are you doing?”

“Trying to get a reaction outta you.”

Her eyebrows knit together. He said something similar the previous times, too. Typically he aims for irritation or anger, but Rachel’s features only respond with confusion.

“I can’t write like this.” She reaches up, removes the dish from her head and puts it in its rightful place on the nightstand before turning back to the trip’s budgeting notebook. Zack responds with a dissatisfied click of his tongue before collapsing onto the bed beside her, causing the springs to groan.

The flurry of his movements allows a curious scent to reach her nose. A kind of citrus? Lemon, maybe? No, it isn’t that distinct or sharp. It’s mellow, something simple and clean. Hotel soap, but not the one she had used. She looks over, observing him for the first time since he arrived beside her.

He’s dressed in usual attire, though his head isn’t nestled beneath his hoodie. His hair is fully exposed, revealing tiny beads of water from the shower he’s just gotten out of. With his body mostly turned away, he’s winding a roll of fresh bandages. She can see that he’s pretty much finished the entire process of wrapping himself already.

Her black pen scratches out the new string of numbers displayed on the calculator. She doesn’t plan to say anything about the bandages in spite of her curiosity, but the bed jolts and an odd noise between a wince and a gasp hits the air.

“Zack?”

He leans sideways, unintentionally allowing her to see him much clearer than before. Pinched between his fingers is something thin and scarlet that he inspects with an expression that can only be described as nonplussed.

Rachel blinks, a phantom look of surprise swims in her eyes. “One of your stitches… It came out.”

“Looks like it.”

The disbelief gradually leaves his face, smoothing over into that look of irritated curiosity he sometimes has. He’s still seated in such a way that Rachel can see his fingers delicately pull back the stitched skin to inspect the affected area. Her stitching is, in no way, poor or inadequate. On the contrary, something has caused it to come undone. Something powerful that’s led to the entire top stitch shearing and falling apart in small bits in Zack’s hand.

With a curse Zack retracts his hand from his stomach which is now spotted with fresh blood.

Before he can say or do anything more, Rachel nudges the budgeting supplies aside, grasps her black pouch, and removes a needle and thread from her sewing kit. She doesn’t feel complete without having one with her, so before they had traveled even ten miles, she requested to purchase a new one as well as a new black purse to hold it in.

“Zack,” she murmurs, “I’ll fix it.”

“Huh? Now?”

She nods, and because he hasn’t any good reason to say no, he turns around and lays down against the pile of pillows at the head of bed.

The bed is wide enough for her to crawl over and sit beside him, though his position forces him to look up at her rather than at eye-level. She can feel his gaze as she observes the only area he hadn’t had a chance to bandage— the crimson-colored gash carved lopsidedly into his torso. The first stitch is completely torn with a thin remnant of loose thread sitting in a bead of blood. The second stitch is weak, threatening to detach and take the other two with it if enough force is applied or if Zack moves too fast or too hard and accidentally pulls it out himself.

Now that the wound is open again — even if that opening is a small one — she rinses her hands in the water from one of the spare water bottles from the supplies bag.

“What happened?”

“When I was breaking out of that shitty jail, some officer fought me head-on. I guess he pulled it loose and I didn’t notice.” There’s a phantom smile on his face, indicating to Rachel that the officer came out the loser in their skirmish. A faint part of her wonders if that man is still alive, though she doubts it highly. Zack has never shown mercy before.

“I’m going to restitch all of them,” she says. Zack responds with a dissenting grunt which Rachel chalks up to him remembering all the discomfort he felt when she initially closed the wound. She doesn’t have cotton balls, so she uses squares of toilet paper to pat away the blood. The area surrounding the injury remains an irritated red.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not yet,” he grumbles, eyeing her wearily.

“I’ll be gentle.”

He grunts again and turns his eyes away.

The first time she brought her needle to him, there was a tinge of urgency. A fire ignited inside her with the same persistence of a flower fighting its way through the dirt to bloom at the surface.

‘I can’t let my god die.’ Those words spilled over her, driving every movement of her small, steady hands.

Things are different now. Zack is no longer the stumbling mess of blood and chaos he had once been, so she allows her eyes to longer for as long as she wishes on what Zack always strives so earnestly to hide. Blotches of discolored skin and trembling red veins ripple out from the wound. She had sewed the injury shut in four stitches, all aligned in a weaving ‘x’ formation. She intends to replicate her work from back then, but she’ll have to undo the sutures first.

“Don’t move,” she instructs him, knowing that the process takes a remarkably steady hand.

He retorts with a simple, “yeah, yeah.”

She knows he uses flippancy to mask his apprehension. His insecurity spills out in the form of tense muscles and averted eyes. Once again, he’s exposing his wounds to her, and once again he can’t bring himself to look at her directly.

Because the hotel light no longer works, she’s forced to lean in closely which probably unsettles him more. Regardless of his discomfort, she can’t keep her eyes from roving and her mind from wandering. According to Zack himself, he doesn’t remember much about the incident surrounding his burns. He’s wiped most of it from his mind, but the evidence of that man’s sin is Zack’s personal souvenir. On his body lingers light and dark: healthy, pale skin juxtaposed against dark, charred shades. He’s not completely ordinary, but not completely abnormal. An uncomfortable in-between.

It all causes a twinge to seize Rachel’s chest, but she isn’t sure if that feeling can be called sympathy. What she does know is that his scars fascinate her. The blemishes he insists on covering up intrigue her. She assumes that he’s been called a monster ever since childhood, but as he breathes fragilely against her touch, vulnerable and open for one of the few times in his life, Rachel is awestruck. He appears so beautiful to her now. There are no burns, only beauty. No scars, only strength.

So she presses her lips to the bottom stitch, intent on validating that beauty.

And he crumbles.

His breath catches in his throat; a shaking hand clenches the sheets. He becomes a whisper, precariously tottering between rejecting the emotion and allowing it to drown him. He stammers out a fragile protest, but Rachel allows it to evaporate into the air. She can’t see his eyes —it’s far too dark— but she knows he’s completely turned his face away, concealing it in the edges of a pillow.

She kisses the next stitch, then the next, enveloping herself in the feeling she had the first time she sewed him back together. Whatever she brought her needle to became hers, perfect and complete. Her father, her puppy, her white bird. But there’s something different about Zack. He appears to her as a fragmented wish. She sews broken things together due to her fascination with the concept of wholeness and purity. But Zack is neither of those things. He’s the most broken thing she’s ever come across and his shards are scattered so far that she isn’t sure that he will ever be whole again. Not only his body, but everything about him is damaged, shattered, and some times fragile, but she’s never seen him as anything less than strong.

Just as she arrives at the broken top stitch, a hand shoves her away. Zack props himself up, adjusting so they’re now eye-level.

“What the hell are you doing?”

His voice is a touch breathless, but mostly riled. Seeing him so close now, she can’t describe the expression he’s giving her, but it makes her heart shiver. His shoulders, all the way down to his hands, are still trembling as if something inside has awoken and is trying to split him open to escape.

Her eyes are glassy as she asks, “Does it hurt?”

He hesitates, and for a split second Rachel can see all of the ghosts he’s held deep inside almost spill out through his gaze.

“No.”

There’s a weak resolution, a dull fire, behind his murmur, and once again he can’t meet her eyes. His fist clenches, his body tightens, but he says nothing more before lying down again. With an exhale he buries the side of his face into a pillow, just as it had been before.

“Just… hurry up and fix the stitch, damn it…”

Rachel nods. She grabs her needle and gets to work.

[bevendre]

I had a stray thought regarding gnolls last night that kind of spiraled out of control, as such things do.  Look below for a thing if you’re so inclined and not opposed to some TF and TG themes.

20 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

 My companions and I set out for Ahredel early in the day, our wagons full with curious mechanical trinkets, finely carved stonework and masterworks of wood and metal.  As always, it pains me to see the wagons so lightly stocked, but such is the way of trade along the Pathways.  We’ll unload without issue in Ahredel and be full to bursting with fresh goods again within a fortnight, though whether we turn back to Dehrvhat or around the Spine to Zephyrdel is up in the air still.

               With the word of danger on the roads and the trouble that rode into Dehrvhat not a week past I’m a little wary for the trip north. A couple swords and a bowman do not a proper guard make anymore.  I still say that we should have waited another day or two for the group who helped the captain from Ahredel.  I understand the need to move, but still, I’d rather miss our window and arrive safely than end up little more than a bleached skull among the sands.  Luckily there have been no sightings of any danger so far, and we’ve been riding for most of the day already.  With luck, we’ll see Ahredel’s walls within the week.

 21 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 The night came and went without issue, though one of the sellswords says he saw something or other nearby.  He didn’t get a clear look at whatever it was, and his companions are adamant that he has a history of seeing mirages and spirits. Still, I’m concerned.  With luck it was just some stray creature, or better yet nothing at all.  I offered a prayer to Vuriin early today, and may make an offering of part of my midday meal to Qatatan just in case.

               I take back any complaints I may have had about the wagons not being full of goods.  It’s much more comfortable stealing a short rest in the bed of a wagon than trying to sleep in the saddle, and it’s allowed most of the horses to remain at least partially rested through the day.  Even those drawing the wagons seem happy to not have as much weight behind them.  Midday approaches, and already we’re further than I had anticipated.  Should the weather hold we may reach Ahredel well ahead of schedule.  That in itself is a weight off my shoulders.

 23 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 I knew we should have waited.  I knew three men wouldn’t be enough.  One of them bolted at the first sign of trouble, and another turned coward as soon as he took an arrow.  They’re not worth the gold we spent on them.  I’m going to miss the horses more though, they were the first to be targeted.  For savages the creatures that have taken us are deceptively clever.  That they seem near as strong as the horses they slaughtered is concerning though.

               The goods from Dehrvhat are likely smashed and scattered to the winds by now, the savage beasts seemed unconcerned with even the finest of pieces after they’d slaughtered our escort.  They ran down the bowman and cut the coward’s throat, but they ate the other alive.  I don’t know if I should pity or envy the men we hired.  My companions and I have been piled into our wagons, most of us bound. The savage beast-men seem to have taken some interest in me though, and have left my hands free.  They seem particularly fascinated with my journal, and are watching me intently even now.  I don’t know if they can read, or even speak for that matter, I’ve not caught a one of them using a word.

               We’ve been moving almost nonstop since they took us yesterday.  It’s a wonder that these creatures are as tenacious as they seem to be.  I know one of them was injured rather badly during the battle, but seems to be managing without complaint.  I’ve seen it licking the wound, but otherwise it doesn’t seem phased by it.  They all seem content with eating while they walk, though I must say that their diet is appalling.  Those men did not deserve this.

25 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 We reached what I can only assume is their camp or home.  Whatever it is, there are many more of these creatures, and I think I’m starting to find some differences between the members.  The leader of the group that took us captive is certainly larger, and its fur is significantly thicker and more matted than most of the others.  One thing I’m certain about though, nearly all of them are male.  They’re filthy as well.  I’ve not seen any of the creatures bathing with water or sand, and the ones who have been with us are still caked with viscera.

               We’ve been left in some form of hide structure, I can’t in good faith call it leather.  We’ve all been tied to a central pole, and there are never fewer than two of the creatures watching us.  I can hear them yipping and yapping inanely while I’m writing now.  The entire camp is a cacophony of yips and barks, it’s almost maddening.  The grumbling in my stomach isn’t helping either, they’ve not fed us since they took us captive.

 26 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 I saw what I’m fairly certain is a female of the species last night shortly after drying my quill.  The seems to be the only one in the group, at least that I know of, and is surprisingly larger than even the leader of the group that took us. None of these creatures wear much, but she was clothed shockingly conservatively, though it did little to hide anything.  She looked over each of us one by one, and paid special attention to me.  She was pointed to my journal and skimmed through it with the closest thing to understanding that I’ve seen from these creatures, and was very animated in her yipping and growling.  She wouldn’t leave until I started writing again, just a few notes and some rough drawings were enough.

               She took Devin with her when she left.  I’ve not seen him since, but they’ve provided some food.  I fear what it most likely is, but I’m too hungry to care at this point.  Devin, if it is you, I’m so sorry.

 30 Diearanfohr, 809 P.S.

                 It’s festival day, I’m almost positive of it. I might be off by a day or two. It’s hard to tell.  The creatures have been starving us again, though Cedric and Iden have both been taken. I can only assume they’ve been killed or eaten, and I desperately hope it was quick.  They were good men.

               I’ve busied myself with taking notes on the creatures.  They are crude, but clever and seem to worship something, though I’m not sure what. I’ve seen the shadows of them dancing outside the tent at night.  The smallest among them is easily taller than I am, and wiry, but strong.  I don’t doubt that he could break me with ease if he was given the order.  The female looks to be the head of the tribe, all the others defer to her, even the large male.

               At last, it looks like it’s time for another meal. I pray that my friends had peaceful ends, and I pray that the meat these creatures are offering us isn’t them, but I’m almost dizzy with hunger.  Cedric, Iden, forgive me.

 7 Shemhein, 809 P.S.

                 Meals are coming more often, thankfully, though our numbers are beginning to dwindle more quickly now. It’s just me and a couple others.  They’ve been looking at me strangely the past couple days, though I don’t know if it’s from concern or jealousy.  I’m the first one fed, and my portions are larger.  This diet is the last thing that I would have asked for in any other circumstance, but strangely I don’t mind it anymore.  It keeps hunger from gnawing at my belly, that’s the important part.

               I fear it’s having some side effects, however. I’ve had trouble sleeping the last couple of nights, bad dreams, though I can’t recall them once I’ve woken. I’ve noticed some swelling in my hands as well which has made writing marginally more difficult.  I wish I could have some form of looking glass as well, it’s been some time since I last shaved, and my face is beginning to itch.

 10 Shemhein, 809 P.S.

                 There’s definitely something happening to me.  I fear I’m beginning to lose my mind.  The dreams are starting to bleed into day, and there’s always this low snarl in the back of my mind.  I feel like I’m starving too, though it can’t have been more than a couple hours since I last ate.  I find myself craving food, meat, more and more.  The last meal I had I could hardly get through without demanding more, and they’d hardly cooked it!  This seemed to please the guards who were there, and the female.  She’s taken to watching me eat as avidly as she’s watched me write.

               There’s definite swelling in my hands and feet, and I’ve noticed some strange bruising on my fingertips and palms.  I’m stiff too, and there’s a constant ache low in my back.  Strangely, there’s been a disturbing swelling in my crotch, but there’s little sensation. I’m ill, without question, though the creatures seem almost excited about it.

               I’d almost forgotten, I’m the last one left. Tiernay looked half dead when they took him away.  Poor bastard. Hopefully it means the next meal will be soon.

 18 Shemhein, 809 P.S.

                 Good news, I’m not ill it seems. Unfortunately the bad news is far far worse than any sickness I could have.  I’m changing.  These creatures know, they have known, they must have known.  My clothes have been taken away and I’ve had a little time to be reacquainted with my body.  There’s a lot more hair on my chest and arms than I remember and it’s mostly lighter than my usual hair, though I can’t help but notice spots.  Spots like them.  There are a couple of welts on my chest that almost look like bug bites, but I can feel them, and they’re sensitive.  There’s been a growing tightness in my crotch, and I’m a little concerned by how often I’m erect.  The pain in my back makes sense now, I’ve got a tail.  It’s only about an inch long and mostly bare still, but it’s a tail!

               The female seems very excited by the changes I’m experiencing, and is very forward with inspecting them.  I think her fascination is the only reason why I’m still allowed to write like this.  It hurts to move.  Not significantly, but it does.  I ache all over now.

 30 Shemhein, 809

                 My face is in agony.  It’s been pressing out for days.  It hurts to open my mouth, but I’m so hungry!  The female has been feeding me herself, and she’s always smiling. She unbound me and let me stand for the first time in weeks?  Balance is weird, my feet are different.  The tail helps some.  Writing’s difficult since my fingers are thicker now.  More like paws.  The claws make gripping a meal easier though.  Something disturbing happened this morning.  I lost one of my balls.  My scrotum’s been painfully tight against my crotch for days, but there’s only one ball in there now.  There’s been swelling in my chest too.  I’m scared, but the female doesn’t seem concerned.

               I’m starting to figure out their language, or at least meaning.  The snarls in the dreams have been teaching me.  It sounds weird, I know, but they have.

   16 Nurlheig, 809

                 Ulra says I’m ready to leave the tent.  My coat is filling out, and my nose is tingly. Jaw still aches sometimes, but feeding helps.  Ulra helped my other ball migrate inside.  There are so many smells outside the tent, and It’s strange feeling wet there now.  I hadn’t realized how big I’d gotten.  Ulra’s still taller, but now I’m bigger than most of the males.

               The dream voice speaks to me all the time now. He has made things easier.  I feel like I’m forgetting things more easily, but I’m strangely calm about it.

 1 Eirnir, 810

               Ulra says I’m home.  I feel home.  I shouldn’t feel home.  Ulra and males make it easier.  Males bring food whenever I ask.  I’m big. Big as Ulra.  Strong.

               Master’s voice fills my dreams.  Ulra asks if I can hear him.  She was happy when I said yes

 23, 810

                 Words fading.  Hard to think straight.  Males keep calling in night.  They smell me.  I smell them. So warm.  Cock is hard all times, no hole.  Only wet hole now.  Breasts tender.  Hungry. Both holes hungry.

               Master’s voice proud.  Ulra proud.  Says soon be bride for Master. Makes warm worse.

[lumiereswig]

Please do the ENTIRETY of Forgotten! Hahaha I’m joking, pick your favorite part because that fic is v long 😍

happily, this gonna get l o n g

“The ball was flawless. In the garden, the roses continued to reach to the sky, and the storm brushed away; the lights shut off in the palace, one by one, and the music faded to silence. The prince went to bed with one or two or three pretty women he wouldn’t care for by the next day. Up in his room, Lumiere popped open a bottle of champagne.”

I set the opening to take place almost immediately after “Lit By The Sun,” though this time showing the evening Lumiere and Plumette never got—the stolen croquembouche up in their bedroom, the sharing of champagne among the servants. In the original timeline, obvs they didn’t get that—they got fire and feathers instead—but yeah. I am totally alluding to my own goddamn fics.

Plumette, lighting the candles by the bed, grinned at him over the flames. He laughed and raised his glass.

It’s not a lumiereswig post if there’s not a fucking fire reference.

“He’s turning just like his father—the prince’s father was like this, too,” Mrs. Potts explains to the musicians, who know nothing about the palace or its politics. They nod and move closer to each other on the bed. “We don’t know what he’d do without us. He’ll be fine, though; we try not to intervene. D’you only have wine up here, Lumiere? I could use a cup of tea.”

Foreshadowing of future bullshit, and also reminding the readers that Garderobe and Cadenza WERE NOT PART OF THIS PALACE-POLITICS SHIT. They did not deserve to be cursed!! fuck you agathe!!!! #justiceforgarderenza2k18

“If you cannot take a little sparkling wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” laughs Lumiere, and she swipes at his arms and makes him laugh. He eases into a seat between Cogsworth and Plumette and throws his arms around them.

Really trying to remind everyone how fucking close the staff is. The fam. Also, fuck you bill condon for not letting lumiere hug cogsworth every .3 seconds

“Think how long it has been!” he says. “Forty years for you, Cogsworth, but most of my life for mine. Why, I came here as a teenager—imagine me, only a little older than Chip! Fresh out of Paris and still reeking of the apothecary shop.” He grimaces, thinking of his father’s dusty store in a side-street of the city. He had fled, then, looking for the glamor his missed; in his room in Paris he had practiced dance steps, reveled in fashion, adopted the graceful movements of the court as rebellion against the bourgeois facts of an ordinary existence. He had come to this palace, and he had lit into life; dancing and feasting and glowing like gold made Lumiere’s heart sing.

EYYYY IT’S A HEADCANON I TOTALLY MADE UP

but tbh it makes sense to me (and has always made sense to me) that for all his glamor-gold, courtiers-and-candelabras bullshit, lumiere is not from an upper crust background. he’s too extra to have been born to it. That level of golden eyeliner and tequila has to be aspired to.

“We met in this palace, do you remember, mon trésor?” Plumette is close in his arms; her scent—fresh and light, like candy and macarons—right beside him. “I was only fourteen, and I loved you right away.”

“I loved you before I met you,” murmurs Lumiere. “I could never forget.”

Lots more foreshadowing, and also backshadowing. Gotta remind the idiots in the audience which motherfuckers in this story are in love.

The next day is their day off. It is their one day off in the year.

honestly this makes no sense (one day off a year???) but it’s adam. pre-curse adam. i can write him to get away with pretty much any bullshit and be like “””*shrug* uhhh he’s a beast, dudes, of course he banned puppies and kittens from the palace and hates daisies and sunshine”“

also tbh i hate the whole adam dialogue sequence, it’s really badly written

Adam stands in the lonely, empty halls. If he stands in the tower, he can see them weaving their way through the forest and down to the village, to spend their day in the company of each other, in Lumiere and Plumette’s case, or with loved ones, in the case of Mrs. Potts. No matter what, all the servants have each other. And Adam has nobody.

casual evermore references whenever we can’t get in a flame pun

….after all, at least when he yelled they looked at him.

someone told me this line broke them and i am forever pleased. yes mofos!!! relish my very slipshod, mostly shite grasp of the english language!!!!! revel in my poor grasp of human psychology!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Lumiere! The night grows old.”

 The crone grows young.

to make up for the shit in the previous chapter, I really enjoy this bit. the whole bashing-between-the-palace-and-the-village nonsense just makes me happy.

Belle wakes up to a jolt in the road, and the rough wool blanket on her face, and the smell of cheese and paint and horse and wind clinging to her skin. She rubs her eyes and tries to wipe away the sleep. They’re in the wagon, again, and Maurice is hunched up in the bench, encouraging Philippe to trot faster. The contents of Belle’s entire life are jammed in around her, a moving nest of drawings and gear-boxes and packets of cabbage-seed.

aaand we’re with belle. I had to rewrite this chapter about five million times because it wasn’t working—I had planned it out too much in advance, you know, and was just like regurgitating the writing rather than writing it—but I’m happy with the textural detail of this bit. Again, sometimes it pays to use the words around what you’re going for rather than the literal sensation; in this case, cheese and paint and horse and wind, and that rough wool blanket. Home, but also chill, and travel, and being uncomfortable, and the 18th century equivalent of going on a road trip and eating crackers in the backseat while dad’s up front and the crackers making the seat all gritty and reading books in the light of the passing streetlamps, ya feel?

Lilles, Reims, Amiens

i don’t understand french geography

A tiny, delicate gesture from his long fingers; it is a surprisingly sophisticated movement for a man in a yellow peasant’s vest, with candle wax creased in the dirt between his fingernails.

this whole chapter is slightly hard to read because it’s clearly trying too hard, but i hope i got across (or at least, whacked you across the forehead with) the bits i felt were important: lumiere’s current emptiness, but the last imprints of who he ought to be hanging around. i also tend to mention the peasant’s vest too many fucking times, just because the image of lumiere wearing anything that’s not satin & silk is fucking devestating. also, it will be important later, and i need yall to remember that LUMIERE DOESNT LOOK LIKE HE NORMALLY LOOKS

“I am nothing now,” says the man, in a flash of vehemence so sharp it is like seeing a flame in the middle of the forest. He looks up to her—his face broad, and white; and it is an empty face, and beyond the fire in his words there is nothing there at all. It is as if someone washed out all his color, and left him only with his yellow vest.  

you can tell, again, this is a lumiereswig fic because suddenly the language is all about fires and flashing and flickers and flames and there’s probably going to be a reference to the sun fucking setting at some point

also, honestly, this was hard to write because i was seeing it as a fucking movie in my head, and transcribing ‘ewan mcgregor lies on a village stoop looking fucking dismal’ is not what literary writing is made of

He welcomes her to the stoop with the flick of a wrist and a tiny nod with the pipe,

just to remind everyone once a-fucking-gain, Lumiere Is Not Normal, And You Can Tell Because He’s Not Being Very Welcoming. like honestly if you don’t say hello by doing a song and dance what the fuck are you doing

“I knew someone once who treasured books that way as well,” he says, and a smile drifts across his face, homeless. Something in him is sparking up at the story: dim, and faint, but laughing. “He once made me read the whole Odyssey—”

ok yes thank god the fic is finally getting good again

Sorceresses turning people to pigs, and the lily-eaters forgetting their homes, and Penelope undoing the days until her husband returns

ON. THE FUCKING. NOSE

also if i make a literary reference in a fic i am almost 100% of the time trying to make an obvious as fuck connection between the two

Deeply, deeply frightened. Not of the man on the stoop—she has never seen anyone more harmless, to be quite honest; he is such an empty man, with such silent, lifeless limbs—but of the thing inside his eyes when he speaks of his past. It is Other—a thing not rooted in a Parisian background, or the empty face, or the subdued soul. It is a large streak of gray inside the man’s blue eyes, a gray empty and unnatural and as hollow as cold ice. Staring at his eyes, Belle finds herself clutching her arms with fear.

ahhhh fuck subtlty has gone totally out the window. yall are kind and see what i was going for, but i swear this could be better done if i knew shit

It is obvious to Belle that this is a practiced ritual, the sharing of the secret wine.

in retrospect this fic would be sadder if cogsworth or lumiere weren’t friends, but uhh…i just couldnt bring myself to it.

“Oh là là, he acts as if the French accent is difficult,” says Lumiere, puffing smoke….

LIKE YOU CAN SPEAK FRENCH ANYWAY, YOU SCOTTISH DIPSHIT.

“Get off my stoop!” yells the woman. “D’you have wine down there, Lumiere?“

“If you cannot take a little cheap wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” calls Lumiere.

and that’s called taking yourself too seriously and referencing your own fic from a few chapters ago

“Mrs. Potts, the crockery-man’s wife,” says Lumiere, and takes a large gulp of the wine. “I barely know her. Thank God.”

PROBABLY THE BEST LINE IN THIS FIC SO FAR. fucking love the simplicity that does so much more than every labored reference to emtpy fucking limbs or colorless eyes beforehands. one simple line and we’re all fucking realizing THE EXTENT OF ALL THIS SHIT

i gotta head off now but i’ll do the rest later tonight

[send me one of my fics (or a bit from a fic) and i’ll do director’s commentary on it—ask here]

[miraculousstuffwotifound]

Redemption of a sea monster, a ChloNath mer!AU : chapter 1

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218639/chapters/35297069

There, flapping and writhing on the deck was a mermaid.

Its long fish tail twitched in the net as it struggled, strong arms pressed up between the constraining rope and a very muscular bare chest. A flat bare chest.

Not a mermaid, Chole corrected herself, a merman.

Well well, what a catch. Males were even rarer than their female counterparts, which in themselves were as unlikely to be caught as flying bears, and twice as likely to rip your face off. Which she supposed was to be expected considering they literally consumed humans. Despite being viscous beasts, they were worth their weight in gold if caught. At least Chloe hoped so.

She drew her sword.

“Secure it.” she ordered, turning to her first mate, Kim. 

The merman gave another ineffective flop, only succeeding in looping yet another portion of the net onto the blunt hooked spines running along the side of his deep blue tail. The sea monster paused its struggles to glare up at her, blue eyes narrowed with hate.

“Let me go!” the merman’s voice was deep and smooth, but the last note jarred something within Chloe’s soul. Around her, her crewmates seemed to slow, dopey smiles forming on faces.

“Let me GO!” the merman repeated.

A glamour, Chloe realised. His voice was somehow controlling her crew. She had only heard of their magic in legends, but it seemed now to be very real. No one seemed to react as the merman clumsily wriggled towards the edge of the ship. Strangely, her own mind was unclouded.

Chloe sprang forward, pressing her blade to his throat.                                          

“Speak or move again and I will kill you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and Chloe could see that he was doing a poor job of concealing his fear. He glared at her with large cerulean eyes framed with strands of deep red hair. She glared right back, and he quickly broke eye contact.

Around her, there were murmurs of surprise tinged with fear as her crewmates snapped out of their stupor. Kim sprang to her side, sword already drawn.

“Sabrina,” Chloe stated calmly, her eyes never leaving the merman, “go find something to gag him.” Her quartermaster rushed off to fulfil her captain’s order. “Max, Alix, and Ivan, see if you can find a tub to contain our new guest. We will be at port in Bordeaux next week,” she watched coldly as the merman gulped, “I am sure a live merman will catch a good price.”

                                                                ***

They had eventually managed to wrangle the merman into her cabin, which, unfortunately, was the only room large enough in the ship where he was kept away from people who could be affected by his glamour.

He had put up less of a fight than she had expected, accepting the gag with minimal painful prompts, and a few jabs with her rapier had kept him from struggling as they had lifted him. He had bucked only once as they carried him below deck, craning his neck to catch one last glimpse of the ocean.

Chloe had been taken aback by the humanness of the action. It was little wonder so many hapless sailors fell victim to the mer’s imitation of human charm. Chloe would not make the same mistake.

Currently, the merman had had submerged himself in the bottom of the tub with gills extended, still trussed in the net and gagged, and leaving a sizable length of deep blue tail dangling over the edge of the cramped space. Around the tub were Kim and Sabrina, her first mate and quartermaster, and Max, the ship’s doctor and general know-it-all.

Together they were to decide the mer’s fate.

“I say it’s too dangerous. We don’t know enough about mer to pull this off. He has already got us all with a glamour already, and for all we know he could do other stuff as well.” Kim folded his arms, “There is a reason why the mer are known as the ‘angel face sea-demons’. It may look harmless, but if we kill it we know for sure it is harmless.” Kim reached up nervously to his neck to hold onto a blue-and-green lucky charm popular with superstitious sailors, and Chloe rolled her eyes. “And the sooner we do so, the better.”

Max gingerly felt the fish-like membrane of a tail fin, each lobe of which were as large as a man’s torso.

“Incredible.” he muttered, running his hand along the ridged edges. The mer flicked the fin out of his hands. Even underwater he looked faintly embarrassed.

“Max, what do you think?” Chloe asked, rousing the man from his visual assessment of the creature before him.

“Oh��� ah… I don’t know as much about the mer as I would like, but I believe that their scales and skin can be sold for good prices in the Mediterranean medicine market.” He grasped the edge of the tub. “However their saliva reportedly has healing properties, and their venom can be distilled to create a very desirable and expensive recreational drug. They are therefore, worth far more alive than dead.” He pushed his glasses further up his nose, “We must assess the threats as we proceed, but at the moment, it certainly seems best to keep him alive.”

“I don’t really see how it could escape anyway, considering its tail is basically four and a half foot of uselessness on land.” Sabrina piped up, “And if the numbers add up, I am with Max on this one.”

“You’re all mad” Kim gestured wild, “The money is nice, but not if it kills someone, especially if it is sharing a room with the captain.”

“It does seem like a bit of a coward to be honest,” Chloe pronounced, a calculating edge to her voice. “And there is literally no way it can get far out of that tub with that tail, and if it did we would just kill it. We managed to get it here after all.” She casually picked some imaginary lint from the cuff of her honey-yellow Admiral’s long coat.

“They literally drink human blood. If it has lived this long, then it must have killed humans before,” Kim raised his eyebrows. “For that matter, we have a weeks voyage until Bordeaux, what are you going to feed it?”

“We will work something out.”

It would be difficult, but by god would it be worth the prize of the glory. Chole Bougious would surely be regarded as the greatest pirate in the Bay of Biscay, her name spoken in awe. Her face twisted into a self-satisfied grin.

She looked down at the merman, submerged and anxious in the bottom of the tub.

“Congratulations fishboy. Looks like you get to live another day.” His expression did not change, “But remember, there is a distinct difference between alive and unhurt, so try any shit, or just annoy me too much, and I will cut you.” She gave a jaunty smile, but let the coldness remain in her eyes, “Got it?”

***

Max fussed around the tub excitedly, and both Chloe and the merman regarded him with suppressed amusement, with the addition of flashes of nervousness and what appeared to be embarrassment from the merman. She had dismissed the rest of the advisors, but the doctor had stayed to take the necessary measurements for atomically accurate drawings.

The merman’s cerulean eyes never left the man as he poked and prodded, but he did not writhe and struggle as Chloe had expected. She was glad she wouldn’t have to get her rapier wet.

“We should probably keep an eye on his injuries.” the doctor muttered, pressing his fingers to the skin around a large graze of bubbling blue blood the merman had gained in his ill-fated writhe to freedom. The merman bucked, and Max removed his hand smartly.

“Sorry.” Max apologised, and the merman settled again swiftly.

“Don’t apologise to it,” Chloe scolded the doctor, “It’s a sea monster.” The merman rolled his eyes. “How long are you going to take anyway?”

“Nearly done.” Max stuck his hand in the water, searching for a wrist in the tangles of net. “His skin is warm! Fascinating! I always wondered whether mer were cold blooded like fish, or warm blooded like us.” Max found what he was looking for, “And he has a pulse! That disproves the theory that the mer are undead!”

A large bubble issued from the mer’s mouth, and a distorted sound like a huff of laughter.

“See, even the sea monster is laughing at your nerdiness Max.”

The merman’s tail fidgeted as Max took his pulse.

“Done,” Max flicked the water from his hand. “Though the pulse was higher than expected. Maybe I will try again if he ever calms down.” The doctor stepped away from the tub. The merman scowled. “You should undo his bonds though. And I do have some questions if I may.”

“Fine.” Chloe stomped over to the tub.

“You know the drill, mess up and try to glamour Max and you get stabbed.” She addressed the mer. He glowered at her, and she rolled her eyes dramatically before reaching down, dagger in hand to cut the net constraining him. He was indeed warm, and his smooth muscle twitched beneath her hand as she worked on the rope. He did not dare move until the final rope had been cut and Chloe stepped away from the tub.

With a flurry of movement he freed his arms from the remains of the net and tore off the gag, wedging himself upright in the corner of the tub. His pale-blue eyes glared at them. Chloe gave her best bitch-for-captain smile, and Max suppressed a shudder.

“You should let me go.” The merman’s voice was low “What your jacked-up muscle said was right; I do have extra powers. Everyone knows mer can call up storms if they so wish, so if you don’t let me go I… I will sink the ship!” There was a tremor in his voice. Chloe raised a perfect eyebrow.

“If that is true, why would you tell me? Wouldn’t you just do it and swim out of the wreckage?” The man sank lower in the water. “That’s what I thought,” she chided, “Now shut up before I hurt you.”

“You aren’t a very nice person.” he said softly.

“Well you eat people, so forgive me if I don’t take your opinion on what is ‘nice’ very seriously.” Chloe tapped her rapier against her boot in a distracted rhythm. The mer’s eyes followed the swaying tip. “Max, you said you have questions.”

“May I have some venom?” Max asked, “It is meant to have the most unusual properties.”

“Sure. Come over here and I will give you some venom.” the merman glowered.

Max was not deterred.

“Can I examine your gills?”

“Put your hand anywhere near my face…” the merman growled out.

“Now now,” Chloe chided, “You will be staying here a couple of days, so I expect you to stay civil.” She casually swiped her sword in little circles around her ankles. The mer’s gaze returned nervously to the flashing silver.

“Why can’t you glamour Chloe?”

“I don’t know.” the mer’s eyes slid away and he would not look at them. Max hummed sceptically. The merman jerked his tail, splashing water at the ship’s doctor.

“Max, stop pissing off the 7ft sea monster before he ruins my clothes.”

“Sorry captain.” Max took an extra step away from the tub. “One last question then; what do you eat?”

“Human blood.” the merman raised his eyebrows. “It is pretty consistent in the legends.”

“Can’t you drink the blood of any mammal?” Max asked.

“No. I need a human soul for it to be of any real sustenance value.”

“Souls,” Chloe huffed “that’s ripe coming from you ginge.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Lend me your pretty quartermaster and I will prove that superstition wrong,” his voice was low with an edge of hate, “I think I would get food-poisoning from the blackness of your soul.”

“Right then.” Chloe sheathed her rapier and took a hold of Max’s arm. “I hope you can make it until port and…” she gave a malicious smile, “…that your new owners will feed you.” And with that she strode from the room.

As she closed the door she could hear his frustrated growl over the sound of vigorous sloshing.

[samprestonbigbadabruce]

NXT Takeover: New Orleans - Thoughts and Review...

Sunday 8th April has been a very difficult day, due to my having to avoid any and all spoilers for this show. Normally, I’ll either watch the event live, or watch it at a later date knowing the results. But for a show like this, one that could legitimately be one of the best of the year, I wanted to immerse myself fully into the show, not knowing any results at all. Oh, NXT, you have made me your bitch with ease.

Of course, we have Mauro Ranallo (the one and only legend), Nigel McGuinness (who has really grown into the role fantastically), and Percy Watson (who has demonstrated some good commentary when given the chance), who are probably the strongest 3 man team on the commentary booth. My predictions are at this link.

Ladder Match for the inaugural NXT North American Championship.

EC3 (Ethan Carter III) vs Killian Dain vs Adam Cole vs Velveteen Dream vs Lars Sullivan vs Ricochet

The audience already knows who Ricochet is, his name resonating around the arena, and he gets the first major pop with a tremendous Shooting Star Press to the outside on Dain and Lars. Ricochet is so crisp and beautiful to watch in the ring, he’s instantly fascinating. One of the sub-plots of the match was the build-up to Lars and Dain facing each other, bumping into each other a few times, before an awesome tope onto Lars early on. Watching Lars throw a ladder onto his five opponents was a great moment, he’s starting to convince me he may be more than just a big hoss. He took a great powerbomb from Ricochet, Dream and EC3 off the ladder.

I loved EC3 & Cole, the two snakes who will just as soon betray you as use you, getting along briefly, before EC3 stole Cole’s “bay bay” Schtick, and super kicking EVERYBODY’s face off. The next big moment was Dream’s beautiful Elbow off the ladder onto Lars, some tremendous elevation. Bringing the ladders in so quickly seemed like a better method as it allowed them to hit the ground running. Killian’s Vader Bomb with Cole on his back onto EC3 under a ladder was reminiscent of Rikishi flattening Val Venis off the top of a cage. Lars Sullivan and Killian Dain throwing Ricochet back and forth was akin to two T-Rexes fighting over a pork chop, I laughed, but Lars catching Killain was awe inspiring. And then Ricochet beat it with a moonsault off a falling ladder onto Cole & Dain, that’s Highlight Reel material. Ricochet is coming across very impressive in this match, as I expected.

Dream’s rolling Death Valley Driver on Ricochet onto a ladder was terrifying, but looked amazing, then Lars SMASHING EC3 onto Dream THROUGH a ladder, just raised the bar again, only for Dain to metaphorically go for “Hold My Beer” and put Cole & Ricochet through his own ladder! This is insanity and I love it. I love the subtlety of having the two hosses, Lars & Killain, on one ladder, then the two heels Cole & EC3 on another ladder, and then Dream opening up the third, each ladder representing a different style, culminating in Ricochet joining him. Cole took down EC3, Ricochet took down Dream, and STILL the two beasts were on the ladder. And just as Lars was near victory, Ricochet made the save, the competitors continuously nearing so close, then getting knocked off, before Adam Cole stole the title!

I love how the match allows each style to get their own moment in the sun, either Lars smashing people, Killian’s agile destructions, Ricochet & Dream’s high-flying antics and great bumping, Cole’s smarmy opportunist, or EC3’s arrogant smarts, none were underutilised. I was surprised at the choice for Cole to win, I thought EC3 would make more sense as a heel for the others to chase, but Cole has earned the title, he’ll be The Miz of NXT, elevating the second title. Cole won in character, but everybody looked tremendous. Loved this match.

Adam Cole wins the NXT North American Championship.

Ember Moon defends the NXT Women’s Championship versus Shayna Baszler

Okay, first of all, my favourite band Halestorm opened for Ember and it was awesome, such a rocking tune and great voice from Lzzy Hale. I found that a lot more interesting than Ronda Rousey being in the audience. If only Shayna wasn’t involved…I get that some people may like her, but I’ve found her generic and boring, a flat track bully. To be fair, her knee strikes were making ME feel sore, and it was something a little different, expanding her arsenal. Moon still comes across as the desperate champ struggling with the bully, including a dropkick to force Shayna into the ring steps. I have to admit, seeing Ember turn Shayna’s own elbow stamp onto Shayna was so gratifying.

Seeing Shayna trying to pop her shoulder back into place against the ring post was actually impressive, it feels like they are trying to create sympathy for Shayna, who has been a despicable bully so far. Ember’s finisher onto the outside was excellent, a great moment. Ember’s powerbomb on Shayna was even more impressive, I’ll admit, despite having no interest in this match, these two put in some great work to draw me in. And then, Shayna choked out Ember to win the title. I can’t say I’m surprised, and the match was better than I expected, but I do think it’s a mistake to give her the title so soon. I’m also curious about their decision to push Ronda as the babyface, only for her to be friends with despicable heel Shayna, lack of consistency.

Shayna Baszler wins the NXT Women’s Championship.

Dusty Rhodes Tag Team Classic Final: The Undisputed Era (Adam Cole & Kyle O’Reilly) defend the NXT Tag Team Championship against The Authors Of Pain (Akam and Rezar with Paul Ellering) versus Pete Dunne & Roderick Strong

The Authors Of Pain have gone on strength to strength, improving every match, whilst Strong is consistent and tough, respected by the audience, Dunne is a tough nasty bastard, and The Undisputed Era are heat magnets…this match is such a great choice. The Authors Of Pain instantly come in and destroy the opposition, powerbombing Cole straight through the announce table. O’Reilly simultaneously holding an AOP & Strong in submissions was a great image and makes it believable for him to have to wrestle alone.

O’Reilly being German Suplexed, jumping up screaming, then falling out of the ring, was my favourite moment of the night so far. Dunne and O’Reilly are two hard hitters, and seeing them smash mouth each other was great. Dunne snapping an AOP’s fingers to avoid a move is one of those little character moments that add to a match, very in character. As the match continues, I’m starting to feel that Cole may stir from injury in time to steal the win?

Strong using AOP’s strength and speed against them, including into the steel steps, and then WHAT THE FUCK?! Roderick Strong turned on Pete Dunne and helped The Undisputed Era retain? What a twist, O’Reilly’s reactions are awesome. I remember Strong supposedly being a great heel on the Indie scene, I am legitimately shocked at this development, but it definitely makes things interesting. I assume until Fish heals, Strong and O’Reilly will defend the Tag Team titles?

The Undisputed Era win the Dusty Rhodes Classic and retain the NXT Tag Team titles.

Andrade ‘Cien’ Almas defends the NXT Championship versus Aleister Black.

Almas has already been so impressive as NXT Champion, really raising his game for the title. Black is awesome all round, and comes flying out of the blocks. A tremendous moment where Almas flipped out of a sunset powerbomb off the top rope, only to miss the knees, only to lead into a backsault off the top rope and another Moonsault onto Black, great flow to the match. Almas surprisingly matched Black with some great strikes, until Black kneed his face out of place. Almas has scouted Black tremendously, catching him out every time Black goes to his arsenal. And the few times Black did on top, Zelina spiked Black twice with hurricaranas, playing the ref like a fiddle. Third time should surely lead to Zelina getting Black Massed by Black,

When Black did hit the Black Mass, Zelina saved Almas, she does such an amazing job as a heel manager, saving Almas four times already! Several close shaves, including a tremendous Hammerlock DDT from Almas to Black that I thought would end it. But this leads into the perfect finish, as Zelina tried interfering again, Almas catching her, and turning into Black Mass!

Almas may have only had a brief title reign, but it was very impressive, a 5 Star Classic and a great victory, but Black was the right choice, he’d been on track for the title since he debuted, and he offers a different style to some of the previous Champions. Black has earned this victory, but Almas can take pride in his reign, and I cannot wait to see who Black faces first…maybe a returning Drew McIntyre?

Aleister Black wins the NXT Championship.

Unsanctioned Match: Tommaso Ciampia fights Johnny Gargano A story years in the making, two former friends and brothers, now hated rivals. Johnny Gargano placed his career on the line for the NXT Championship, and lost because of Ciampia. Now, in an unsanctioned match, one where you can only win by pinfall or submission, Johnny Wrestling gets the opportunity for revenge. If he wins, he is reinstated to NXT. If he loses...he’s gone. This won’t be a five star classic, it’ll be a fight.

The atmosphere is engulfing. The punches and kicks that started the match lead into Ciampia getting more vicious, slams against the guardrail, and threatening with an unprotected floor. Johnnny Wrestling, the nice guy, throwing Ciampia into the announce team, really helped sell how consumed by anger and hatred he was. They would tease with one act of violence (suplex on the unprotected floor, suplex on the table) and then subvert it with something just as violent (suplex OFF the announce table onto the mat), sprinkling little Chekhov Guns to come into play later. Seeing the top of the announce table used to be suplexed through was something I hadn’t seen before, these little unique moments really add to the match.

There was one uncomfortable bump where it looked like Gargano landed on his neck after he was Irish-whipped into the corner, flipping upside down and landing on his head. A great touch was when Johnny got to the ropes when Gargano had a submission on him, only for the ref to tell him “No rope breaks”, i loved that! Really adds to the authenticity of the unsanctioned fight. So far, the only element I disagree with is that to me, an Unsanctioned match works better if the wrestlers are in street clothes, but I digress.

So far, the weapons being used really tie back to the history of their rivalry, the announce table from when Ciampia first betrayed Gargano, then the crutches from the crowd tying into Ciampia’s injury and multiple attacks with the crutches. The unprotected mat came back in a vicious way, Johnny going for a slingshot DDT attempt, reversed into Ciampia’s finisher attempt, only for Johnny to slither out and powerbomb Ciampia onto the floor - I admit, I let out an involuntary noise at the sound of Tommaso’s back landing on the floor.

The tired tug of war over the crutch really amplified the war these two are going through, and the cathartic strikes on Ciampia by Gargano, who refused to let go of the crutch even when thrown out, leading to a sickening crack on the head. It was only after that and a slingshot DDT, that I think the first pinfall attempt was made, twenty plus minutes into the match, a great detail for such a volatile fight. The reverses keep on happening again and again, showing how well these two know each other, Johnny even willing to pull on Tommaso’s beard.

Gargano locked in his submission hold, and the rope breaks came into play again, almost reaching ironic glory, and then the roll back into the middle of the ring, ala Benoit/Triple-H at Wrestlemania XX, seemed poised for the ending, only for Tommaso to dig at Gargano’s eyes. The desperation of Tommaso was then intensified by using his wrist rope to try and strangle his opponent.such a brilliantly layered story. A low blow, crutch to the back, then powerbomb backbreaker had me convinced it was over, but Johnny Wrestling kicked out again. I have no idea who will win at this rate.

Johnny using Tommaso’s kneepad to drag himself toward Ciampia was such an iconic image, leading into the lawn dart into the unprotected turnbuckle, then two vicious low superkicks, the second eliciting another unexpected noise from me. I know I said this would be a fight, not a five star classic, but these two are pushing close. Ciampia did another powerbomb backbreaker onto his knees for a massive near fall, and the knee brace has taken damage, these two are going all out. And now the final callback, the removal of Ciampia’s kneepad, ala the Cruiserweight Classic, only for Johnny to smash the brace into Ciampia’s knee!

A brief moment with a callback to the sit down in the ring together, lead to an amazing STF on the knee with the knee brace pulling back on Ciampia’s neck, that looked diabolically painful! And Ciampia tapped, Gargano gets reinstated, Johnny Wrestling has done it! He’s beaten Ciampia, vanquished his demon, and he’s reinstated to NXT! What a brilliant match, such layers and story telling, reversals, hard hits, big moments, character moments, emotional and unforgiving, a rollercoaster ride, but the hero has defeated the psycho.

Johnny Gargano defeats Tommas Ciampia

Yet again, NXT Takeover does an excellent job, great matches, fantastic stories, and even my personal weakest match (the NXT Women’s Championship) is exactly that, a personal indifference, but still a solid match. In fact, I probably couldn’t call any of these a weak match. What a brilliant PPV, NXT just keeps getting better and better and better.

[lisab1991]

Beauty and the Beast live action 2017: a character/credits analysis

So, I recently rewatched the Beauty and the Beast live action remake for the umpteenth time (it never fails to amaze me every. single. time), and gosh did I have a hard time trying to rein in my emotions at multiple points in the movie (seriously, I get that not everyone gets as emotional as I do, but if this movie doesn’t bring tears to your eyes at least once, we cannot be friends). I mean, the music (Alan Menken, you genius man), ADAM!, Evermore, “He took me there. I know what happened to Maman.” “Then you know why I had to leave her there. I had to protect you. I've always tried to protect my little girl.”, “Belle? BELLE! YOU CAME BACK!”,”At least I got to see you, one.. last.. time..”, his empty blue eyes as they gaze up, unseeing, the transformation, ADAM!.. Okay, I think you get it, even the ouverture brings tears to my eyes. I was never one to stick around for the credits at the end of a movie. But boy am I a sucker for the Beauty and the Beast credits, especially the first part during How Does A Moment Last Forever?. I admire the credits for their artistic quality and how well the lyrics fit. But then I got to think about the meaning behind it. So I felt the need to plunge into those credits and try to analyse them as best as I can.

Beware, this is a rather large post.

Alright. The Royal Celebration Ball comes to an end, I’m still on cloud 9 and the credits appear. Celine starts singing. How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die? The first character to come into view is, of course, the female lead: Belle. Above her name, the depiction of an open book, the pages turning. A book may come to its closure when you get to the last page and read ‘The End’, but its story never truly dies; the moral of the story lives on inside of you.

Can we just admire how happy she looks? She’s at peace with the world and her happily ever after. She’s wearing her iconic yellow/gold ballgown, a gown which I truthfully had to get used to when the first promotional pictures were released, but I’ve grown to love it and now, I absolutely adore it. It’s perfect and I even prefer it over the 1991 gown. It does suit Belle’s practical nature and still looks sophisticated (especially the bodice!). Plus, her necklace is my favourite piece of BatB merchandise that I own. They could have displayed her in her village dress, but I think that part of Belle(’s past) is already represented in the blue background. I’ll get back to that later. No, instead they show us Belle in her iconic ballgown. It fits the setting, it fits her new beginning and her story. Her village dress would not have fit the promise of a better future, because it stands for the memory of a past she’s eager to leave behind. That does not mean that she’ll never wear (similar versions of) it again, but it just does not fit here. Another option would have been to let Belle wear her Royal Celebration gown. I personally love that gown. I'd buy it if I had the chance and wear it as often as I could. So why not let her wear that dress in the credits, other than the fact that the golden gown is the iconic one? Belle always stood out from the crowd because she was considered odd and too far ahead of her time. And that is not a bad thing. But it can get lonely. You can start feeling lost, like you lost your place in the world. During the credits, wearing her white gown, could have caused her to stand out even more again. Look at the colours in each segment of the credits. They are perfectly balanced, in harmony with the characters. Now you’re probably thinking: But had they chosen to display Belle in her Royal Celebration gown, they probably would have used a different colour scheme for her. That is true. But, the golden gown was also a pivotal segment of Adam and Belle’s story. It made them come to realizations, selfless actions and acceptance of the inevitable. Let us go back to the depicted book I previously mentioned, just for a second. Books teach you important life lessons. Belle learned that being different from others is not a bad thing at all. Adam accepts her for who she is, he delights in it. Merde, the guy gave her a library because he saw how happy it made her. (Note to future significant other: here’s a challenge for you. Try to surpass that. You probably can’t. Unless you do have a personal library you're planning on giving me. Then I’m all yours.) They’re the same on so many things, they complete each other. They’re both sides of the same coin, yin and yang, keeping each other balanced. So at the end of the movie, Belle has learned that it is okay to be different, to stand out from the crowd. She also found where she belonged and discovered a purpose. So she fits in, more or less, but still stands out because she won’t back down for what she believes is right. That is who she is (and I salute her for that). She won’t give up fighting for her cause. Belle is surrounded by a golden blooming rose and a golden baroque ornament (just like Adam!), against a blue background. I’ll get back to the blue blackground when I discuss Maurice. But the roses, that’s something that unites Adam and Belle. The rose stands for so many things. In Belle’s case: her past (the rattle), her love for the mother she never knew and her longing to know more about her. The rose also symbolises her childhood and her childish innocence. But it also brought her a new beginning, a new life, love, and because of that love she can and will travel the world, have adventures in the great wide somewhere, and not just live adventures through her books. Her story is only just beginning.

Then there’s Adam: It is love we must hold unto. Never easy, but we try. Those lyrics were made just for him, I’m telling you! The atmosphere changes; we see a darker image that pans out; it’s the depiction of Beast!Adam, but as the rose blooms, his past melts away and the background changes, lightens, and we see the castle emerge. Adam doesn’t exactly smile, but it’s clear to me that he’s happy. He looks us in the eyes with a confidence that speaks for itself. He’s ready for the future, ready for his life with Belle. And let us not forget: the man had a horrible childhood; he lost his mother and was brought up by his terribly cruel father. Like Belle, the blooming rose stands for his new beginning, a second chance. He’s learned to love, managed to tear down the walls surrounding his heart and step out of his own shadow, a shadow which his father had cast as he “twisted [Adam] up to be just like him...”

On to his outfit. He’s wearing his blue Royal Celebration outfit, one that I absolutely love. It’s pale blue, which stands for the freedom to break free. And boy was he able to break free. Their mutual love is what saved him, and now he’s celebrating life, love and the trust that better times will come. I think the choice by depicting Adam in this suit is striking. Displaying him in his Trash Prince outfit from the Prologue? Nah, not an option. Because like Belle, he’s leaving the past behind. They could have depicted him in the ensemble he wore when he died/transformed into his human form.. But minus the stunned expression, I think..

Ha! As you can see, cloning a background is not really my specialty. But then again, no. His Royal Celebration outfit suits his ‘new me’ far better than that plunging neckline. During the Prologue, he danced with every single girl who was lucky enough to catch his eye. During the Royal Celebration Ball, he only danced with Belle, because all he could see was her. This is character development, peeps. Now if that doesn’t overflow you with feels, I don’t know what does.

Then there’s Gaston. Being the great hunter he is, he has antlers framing his name. Sometimes our happiness is captured.. And.. a mirror appears. “You are the wildest... most gorgeous thing I have ever seen. Nobody deserves you. But at least I know our children will be beautiful.” So.. he is his own happiness? I’m not much of a pro in Latin, but ‘Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas’ sure applies to him, I’d say. Luke, hun, I love you. But Gaston? Not so much.

Papa Maurice! I feel so connected to him, because his fatherly love reminds me of my own parents. Somehow a time and place stands still.. That wistful look, a small smile playing on his lips as he looks down and away.. The world and time did stand still for this poor man, on more than one occassion. First, in Paris when he was forced to leave his dying wife behind in order to safe their daughter and provide her with a safe(r) future. I can imagine that this was, by far, the most difficult decision he’s ever had to make. Then, when Belle took his place as Adam’s prisoner, allowing him to escape. And once again when Belle convinced him to help her get out of the wagon so she could travel back to the castle to warn Adam and be with him for evermore. “Your mother was... fearless. Fearless.” In those moments, Belle must have reminded him of his poor wife, and how much she resembles her. His name is framed by gears, symbolizing his craftsmanship and his music boxes. The background, like Belle’s, is sky blue, and like I promised, here’s my little analysis on that. Blue stands for intelligence and creativity, but also strength, wisdom and trust. It symbolizes openness; the sea, the sky. But I also think an open mind. Maurice and Belle are both openminded, they don’t judge others for who they are. Blue also means being sincere, reserved and quiet, and the dislike to make a fuss or draw attention. That doesn’t necessarily apply to Belle, but I think this does apply to Maurice, especially during the first scenes when he’s in his workshop and preparing for the market. He likes his life to be simple, peaceful, unlike the awful conclusion of his life in Paris. Live and let live.  But as you can see, clouds are rolling in. Some of them white, others darker and ominious. Maurice moved to Villeneuve with Belle to give them a fresh start. The people there are simple, they do the exact same things every day. They’re used to routines and mind their own business (well in theory, mostly). He regarded Villeneuve as their safe haven, a chance to start anew. And like Maurice told Belle in his workshop: “This is a small village, you know. Small minded as well. But small also means safe”. Well until then, at least. Because said small minded people are easily convinced that the unknown is a threat and should be eliminated. Everyone who stands in their way, is regarded as an equal threat as well and deserves the same treatment, leading to Maurice’s imprisonment. As a parent, he’s always tried to protect his daughter. And later on, he realizes he might have been too overprotective. He sees so much of his fearless deceased wife in their headstrong daughter, leading to his fatherly pride battling with his fatherly concern for her wellbeing, wanting to protect her but at the same time realizing he’ll have to let her go at some point. I love how we see Maurice at the end of the movie, during the Royal Celebration Ball. He’s painting on canvas again, a hobby/profession I think he left behind in Paris when he fled. Ignoring the fact that he painted his music boxes, of course. It seems he wasn’t that out of practice, anyway. He looks truly satisfied, a small blush on his cheeks as he watches his daughter dance in the arms of her prince. I think nothing makes him more proud than to see his daughter so happy, and it brings out the best in him too. I think he found his purpose again, knowing that Belle is taken well care of, and that she found her dream.

Love lives on inside our hearts, and always will.. LeFou, my precious! Oh how I love LeFou. Like Adam and Belle, his story is only just beginning. He‘s starting a new life, free from the shackles that tied him to a life of abuse. Yes, abuse. You see the theatre masks above his name? It’s not because his character was meant as ‘just’ some sort of comic relief. The poor guy was keeping up a brave smile while at the same time he was falling apart. Life with Gaston wasn’t easy for him, even though he kept telling himself that LeDuo was all that mattered, thus making himself believe the lie. The dark clouds symbolize that life of darkness, of standing in the shadow of a man who wasn’t worthy of his love and support anyway. Because LeFou is really not a bad person. He is good at heart, we’ve seen that multiple times when he tried to defend Maurice, even though it was to no avail, and later when he rescued Mrs. Potts and switched sides. Mrs. Potts was right: LeFou was “too good for him anyway”. The yoke he was carrying was just too heavy for him to throw off, and can we blame him? I think not. But, dawn is breaking. The promise of a new life, a brighter future. He gets his own chance at happiness with Stanley, and I couldn’t be happier for him. Gone are the times of pretending, of acting like he was fine and it didn’t really matter. He still has a long way to go, but with the help, love and guidance of Stanley and his newfound friends at the castle (especially Mrs. Potts! I can totally see her taking him under her wing) his healing process can finally begin. And I’m already proud of him.

Minutes turn to hours, days to years then gone.. Lumière. Light of my life. I think we all need a Lumière to brighten things up once in awhile. That is why I love the way he is depicted here, alongside his enchanted self, of course. I really like the design, and it does suit his personality. He is a showman, doesn’t do things the half way if he’s convinced it is the right thing to do. His outfit resembles the colour of the sky we see here; a warm soft hue of sunlight, making it appear as if it’s on fire. Lumière means light and it is what he is in every way imaginable. He is the guiding light, he’s bright, he gleams, he shines. Plus, his wig is a work of art. If Adam would be the leader of a secret clubs of dandies, I think Lumière would be his S.I.C. 

But when all else has been forgotten..

Still our song lives on...

Maestro Cadenza and his Diva, Mme De Garderobe. I think it’s only fair to give them a joint analysis, after so many years of being apart. They are dressed in the same ensembles as they wore during the Prologue, and of course they are accompanied by their enchanted selves, their colour palettes and extravagance matching perfectly in both human and enchanted form. Cadenza’s name is framed by music notes and ribbons flow through the air behind Mme. And once again, the lyrics fit like a glove! Gardenza’s music and songs are a major key to breaking the curse. The Maestro's accompanying music to many key scenes, like the Prologue, Days in the Sun, the title song that is actually composed by him, the Finale.. it all gives the magic of this movie an extra dimension. Mme. De Garderobe, as Mme. de La Grande Bouche, was already an opera singer in the stage musical. By introducing Cadenza in the live action movie, thus ignoring the subtle chemistry she had with Cogsworth in said stage version, is a wonderful addition if you ask me. On to the backgrounds. They have hints of purple in it. Purple stands for lots of things, like ambition, extravagance, creativity and grandeur. What other couple applies to these qualities? None, I’d say. They are ambitious and creative, composing and singing songs even during the enchantment, they are extravagant and simply radiate grandeur. It’s not just a plain coincidence that Adam wanted them to perform at his débutante ball we saw during the Prologue, you know? They are the best, and so he had to have the best. Purple also means devotion and magic. Think about it. As far as we know, the only couple to be found within the castle walls who haven’t seen each other in years because of the curse and are still very much devoted to eachother, are Cadenza and Mme. De Garderobe. Talk about relationship goals. The only way they were able to ‘converse’ was through their darling dog FrouFrou or one of the servants. It must have been so lonely for both of them.. (Not that it wasn’t for M. Jean and Mrs. Potts (and Chip), but M. Jean lost his memory of them. He knew he was missing something, or rather, someone aka his family, but he never knew for sure what it was until the curse was actually broken.) 

Maybe some moments weren’t so perfect..

Plumette. What a Queen. I would have liked to see so much more of her. I was so happy they actually gave her a name that resembled her lightness and - of course - her enchanted self. Little Plumeau. So much better than Fifi, Marie or Babette, depending on which previous movie/musical version you’re more familiar with. I’m very  disappointed we only got to know so little of her, other than that she’s playful and graceful and sweet and perfect. And Lumière’s girl, of course.  

Maybe some memories not so sweet.. But we have to know some bad times..

Ahahahaha! That has to be the understatement of the year. Agathe. Our enchantress/village spinster-turned-beggar-turned-medicine woman-turned-life saver. Because yes, Belle professed her love for Adam but it was a) after Adam died and b) after the rose died with him. Technically speaking, the curse was permanent. But Agathe, out of the goodness of her heart, reversed the curse, conquered death and all was well again. She’s dressed in gold and, if I may say so, she has gorgeous hair! The rose and baroque ornament kind of resemble that of Belle and Adam, but hers are white with golden details in it. I wasn’t sure if it was a rose (I’m not that much or a floral expert) or perhaps a white carnation (that’s really a wild guess) or something completely different. But, let’s say it’s a rose for now. After all, Agathe loves roses, or so it seems. The red rose she offered Adam before she cast her curse resembles love. Because there was no love in his heart, he had to find it in himself again and earn it in return. A burgundy red rose stands for a love that has yet to be realized, so I’m going with that explanation for the red rose. But a white rose.. A white rose means a new beginning and hope for the future. Her job is done, Adam learned to love another and earned love in return. By reversing the curse and bringing him back from the dead, she’s given him a new beginning, a fresh start and a second chance at life. He’s no longer the selfish and unkind prince, but a loving and kind man.

The golden details of the flower and ornament, along with the golden colour of her attire stand for success, achievement and triumph. The question if the enchantment and how far it reached was a real necessity is a topic of discussion, but I think we all agree with the fact that Agathe’s enchantment was successful and that she achieved her goal. Love triumphed, saved the day and all is as it should be.

Or our lives are incomplete. Then when the shadows overtake us.. One thing I’ll never understand is why Chip had to be cursed as well. Yeah okay, he was there, otherwise he could have run off and that wouldn’t have been exactly helpful either. That is, if he made it out in time. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t remember his mother, the castle, his friends.. And/Or if he did (or didn’t) his father propably wouldn’t remember him anyway and no one would believe him. He’d be considered as a boy who had lost his mother/parents and was probably making up stories because he felt lonely. That would have made it even more sad. Either way, it all just doesn’t make much sense to me. I get that Agathe cursed the servants as some sort of redemption for them as well for not standing up for Adam to protect him from his father. I’m not sure if they would have been successful though if they had. I’m sure Adam’s father would have fired them on the spot, so I’m not certain if they would have had a chance at all to make a difference. But that was years before Chip was born. Oh, you can't judge people by who their father is, now can you? applies to Chip as well in my humble opinion. You cannot judge him because his mother failed to stand up against Adam’s father. He’s an innocent child. You can’t hold that against him. Now that I think about it, do you remember Mrs. Potts’ frantic cries for her son as she followed him into the ballroom? I mentioned it here in one of my headcanons that was brought to life after reading some old Beauty and the Beast comics. We all know how proud, selfish and unkind Adam was, but according to Mrs. Potts he also had a soft spot for Chip:

In said headcanon I added the following observation which I’m still planning on incorporating in my (sadly currently still neglected) fic:

Is this why the producers decided to have little Chip race into the ballroom as the curse took its effect? Because Chip actually looked up to Adam, and because they were actually friends? Because Adam secretly enjoyed Chip’s company, regarding Chip as the little brother he never had?

It gives me chills every time I think about it. Perhaps Agathe was aware of the close bond between Adam and Chip, and because of that she wanted to prevent Chip from turning into the same man as Adam was, afraid that Chip would see Adam as a (albeit bad) rolemodel. Thanks for breaking my heart in tiny little pieces, Disney.

Just when we feel all hope is gone.. We’ll hear our song and know once more... Henri Cogsworth. Surrounded by cogwheels and the dial of a clock, before the image pans out, revealing his enchanted self. Former military man, current (cynical, pompous yet cowardly) majordomo and head of the household. I can imagine he was rather satisfied that he no longer had serve in the King’s army, but was even happier when he started working at the castle to avoid his wife, Mme. Clothilde, who he left behind in Villeneuve. I think it’s safe to say he’s quite disillusioned with love, judging his far from enthusiastic reaction upon hearing his wife calling out his name and his rather spontaneous wish to be turned back into a clock again. Or his observation that you’ll feel slightly nauseous when you know you have found ‘the one’. Whether or not he once thought that of Clothilde, will forever remain a mystery (in canon, that is). I think Cogsworth is not an easy man to love. You’ll have to approach him in a certain way, be able to break through his stern and cranky personality traits. From what I have seen of Mme. Clothilde, though we do not know any specifics of their life together, she’s not a subtle and easygoing kind of person either. She’s a tough woman, far from a mere damsel in distress. She’s learned to fend for herself, a character trait that would be helpful to any military wife I’d say. They say opposites attract, but in their case they probably clash. Even so, she must love him and has certainly missed him, judging the way she hugs him over and over again, to Cogsworth’s great dismay. By the end of the Celebration Ball however, he’s happily dancing with her and they do look content to be close to each other again. My idea is that he does love her, but is not so fond of her public displays of affection. Even though he is a rather cowardly man in times of danger, he was a military man after all, judging his military awards and decorations he proudly wears on his uniform. It could also mean his eagerness to keep up appearances, always wanting to appear to be in charge and in check of his emotions. He may try to appear being indifferent to love, but I think he does love in his own way, without showing it. Because he doesn’t want others to think him weak? Even now, when the lyrics mention love, he frowns and looks away. Perhaps his cogwheels are in dire need of some much needed oiling..

Our love lives on.

Mrs. Potts, the sweet motherly head housekeeper and loving mama to Chip. And, of course, loving wife to M. Jean, Villeneuve’s potter. Golden embellishments in the sky form the image of her enchanted self. She’s smiling sweetly at us, inviting us to accept a rather adorable teacup that’s in her hands. I’d like a herbal tea, please. No no, no lump. Thank you Mrs. Potts, how very kind of you. *sips tea* Now where was I? Ah yes, Beatrice Potts. She’s a firm believer of love, and is perhaps the only one in the castle who had faith from the very beginning until the very end that all would be well. Perhaps it is because of her gentle nature that she kept believing. Or perhaps because of her love for her own son and husband, eager to be reunited again and be a family once more. Either way, no matter how many years have gone by, she’ll stop at nothing to ensure that Chip will have his days in the sun again. I feel as though she is the mother hen who keeps everyone together. She’s the one to turn to when you need advice, when you’re in trouble or just need a shoulder to cry on. She’ll provide you with the best kind of advice, helping you see things differently, motivating and encouraging you. She’s open-minded and always ready to forgive, like she did with LeFou.  And even if you don’t want to hear it, she’ll sternly confront you to tell you what you need to hear. She’s the voice of reason, has the biggest heart imaginable and has the patience of a saint. She believes Adam can change, has faith in him and tries to help in a motherly way, no doubt seeing it as a chance to atone for not helping him all those years ago by protecting him from his awfully cruel and abusive father. I think we all need a Mrs. Potts in our lives once in a while.. Whoever that may be in your case; your mother (or father), sister (or brother), grandmother (or grandfather) or best friend. And, perhaps, at the same time, you can try to be a Mrs. Potts once in a while as well. Because after all, we all need posivitism, hope and forgiveness in our lives.

That’s it, everyone. You have just read my musings after an entire week of analysing. Thoughts/ideas/additions are more than welcome :-)

[eldbitch-horror]

Updraft: Dragon Riders

Can also be read here! leave a kudos or/and a comment if you liked it :D 

Adam is a gifted dragon tamer, born to be this way.

Nigel is a nobody, feral and living at the expense of others.

Fate has its ways of bringing unlikely allies together in times of need.

A low rumble shook the ground, disturbing the loose stones on the cave floor. A beast hid deep within, size and might that could scare even the bravest of men. Yet here was a young man, in a simple tunic and cloak approaching. Entering the lair. Another earth shaking noise came from the cave. The man didn’t stop, didn’t flinch. Fearless.

Adam smiled when he saw it. A large dragon with deep blue scales, glistening with tiny crystals embedded in them. They twinkled like stars on a clear night.

“Galaeth, it’s time to wake up.” he whispered, and another earth shaking growl, snore, was interrupted. It rose in pitch to a scratchy whine.

“Galaeth, come on. We have to go to the mountains. Just in case that nest is still abandoned.” It just elicited another raspy whine, but the dragon rolled, pushing his hoard in large waves as he got himself right side up.

“Perhaps we could wait to check nests until the late afternoon?” Galaeth did not speak words, but vibrations from his throat. Adam could understand. He was special.

“It’s going to be hot today, and my britches are already bothering me.” Adam explained.

Adam got the riding saddle ready, nothing like a horse saddle. It was specially made to wrap about the neck, and the very base of the wings to keep it secure. He lined it with sheep hide. If he were a dragon he wouldn’t want the leather rubbing against him all the time.

While he prepared, Galaeth tried to sneak a few more minutes of sleep in. Adam would give him a disapproving huff, and Galaeth, sensitive to his emotions, would stir and sit himself up. He perched, like a grumpy cat. A fifteen ton grumpy cat.

The saddle was prepared, and Adam clambered up his friends legs with help from his head and tail.

“Why are you irritated?” Galaeth asked, thin muzzle tilted back to look directly at Adam with a deep green eye.

“My britches are rubbing my thighs and I don’t like it.” He explained, tugging on the fabric as emphasis, and an attempt to relieve the prickly feeling.

Galaeth was quiet in thought. He didn’t know much about human fashion, but he mused perhaps the fleece that lined his saddle might work for Adam? He knew better than to start poking suggestions at him now though. Instead, he took long strides out into the afternoon sun, making sure not to let Adam get knocked on anything.  

Even more stunning in the sun, Galaeth’s wings shifted iridescently, rainbows dancing like the northern lights across the membrane. These too were flecked with ‘stars’. The little crystals throughout his body glistened and reflected light. When the sun hit just right, small rainbows could be traced along the ground around him.

He could feel Adam shifting on his back, bracing for lift off. He didn’t have to ask if he was ready. He broke out into a run. A dragons run is much like a large cats, lunging motions. Surprisingly smooth, and much faster than other gigantic creatures could. His wings spread, and caught the updraft, and they were off.

The climb was a smooth, but slow process. Humans were sensitive little creatures. He knew Adam’s blood needed time to adjust to the changes in atmosphere. Galaeth still had a chuckle every once in awhile at the thought of it. These itty bitty creatures creating bonds with the only creature that was above them on the food chain. Typical human behavior he supposed. He found Adam to be especially crafty. Like the foxes in the woods, conniving, squirming their way into places they shouldn’t be. Like on the back of a dragon.

“Galaeth?” despite their time together, Adam always seemed timid. Not out of fear of the dragon himself, just of speaking in general. “Don’t forget where the nest was.”

Ever patient, Galaeth nodded his head, the spikes along his neck contracting and then stretching with the action. He banked, body going from parallel to vertical of the ground. Adam hung on, leg muscles accustomed to gripping the saddle, feet tucked into the closed stirrups. He refused to use the leg straps. They rubbed too much.

After their sharp turn, they were within the mountains in minutes. High enough that breathing felt more difficult. An elixer kept Adam’s blood accustomed to the lack of oxygen, despite it costing most of the Vfarda he earned. It was essential for his life now.

The dirt was whipped, small rocks flying as Galaeth brought them down for a smooth landing. He helped Adam down with his tail. Adam adjusted his pants, then began walking along the rocky ledge. It was a few square miles, though for a dragon it seemed like a ‘small’ space.

The nest was just a few hundred feet in, burrowed under a ledge. Galaeth kept his distance, but made sure all was well. It was Adams job to find these lost hatchlings. There were no dragon tracks, or evidence besides their own upturning of the mountain sands.

Once he was closer however, Adam saw something beside the nest. Tree? Not even the enchanted saplings grew that fast. A few more steps and Adam stopped dead in his tracks.

“Adam, what is it? You are in danger?” Galaeth asked, still at their landing spot. The voice echoed in Adam’s mind, and he shivered from it. It never stopped feeling intrusive, though not completely unwelcome.

“I don’t know, there’s another human- wait!” Adam was ripped out of his frozen state when he saw the figure picking up an egg, and trying to smash it against a rock.

“Hey! Hey! Stop that!” Adam cried in a voice that didn’t even feel like his own. The figure seemed unafraid, but did set the egg down.

“Adam, think before you act.” The warning went unheeded as Adam was already drawing his dagger from his belt.

“Get away from there!” He snarled. Now that he was closer he could make out features. Long blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, and deep eye sockets. Uneven lips pressed in an unreadable expression. Not that Adam could easily read that anyways.

“Get out of here, kid. These have been here for days. Guys gotta eat.” As he spoke, the man picked up an egg to try and smash it.

Adam shrieked, lungs burning as he covered the ground between them. “No no no!” He snarled, now just a few feet away. This man drew a sword in retaliation, and abandoned his egg to get into a blocking position.

He was too out of breath to say much, but he shook his head, “You can’t do that. They’re mine.” Adam hated lying, and that was not a good lie at all.

“You laid these? Now that I have to see.” The gruff man smirked as he spoke, his eyes not leaving Adam. This made Adam wilt. Not only was his lie bad, but he hated being stared at.

“I didn’t mean that. I mean that they’re mine as in I found them…” He had to stop to take a deep breath, “I have to take them back. Or else they’ll die.” This man seemed unphased. Uncaring. It made Adam’s little rage burn up again.

“I really don’t care, kid. These are mine now. I can live off of these for weeks. What are you even going to do with a fucking dragon? Five dragons? They’ll eat you before you have the chance to give them cute little names.” The man left the defensive position, and into an offensive position.

Before he could follow up his threatening body language, or continue talking any kind of venom, Galaeth came charging in. Adam took several paces back, and the beast put himself between Adam and the rude man. He let out a bellow, every sharp tooth bared, spit flying. The man could feel the heat coming from this creatures belly. For the first time in a long time, the man was shaken. Disoriented even. Galaeths sharp ears were pinned back, and though his maw closed, his lips were still curled back to expose teeth. A deep growl shook the earth beneath them.

Adam was just sitting back, watching. He was quite pleased at this display, and glad for a chance to catch his breath.

“Leave the boy alone.” Galaeth snarled, though Adam was the only one able to understand that.

“These your babys?” The man asked worriedly, “Sorry about that, here you go. Just, I’ll just go, darling.”

“They aren’t his.” Adam chimed in, now getting up to take his place beside Galaeth. Adam alone was just a boy, but beside Galaeth he felt like a hero of the old stories.

“Not his? How do you know?” He realized how stupid he sounded after the words came out of his mouth. He couldn’t possibly be looking at a rider. Dragon rider? Just stories. It had to be.

“This is Galaeth, we are Falder.” Falder was the term for a rider and his dragon. A special bond between the two that went deeper than a telepathic connection. The man seemed stunned by this, still trying to get his wits about him. The strange man decided he would be more careful at who he drew his sword to at a later date.

“Who are you?” Adam inquired bluntly. He was certainly in no mood to be friendly now.

“Names Nigel, could you uh. Ask your friend to quit looking at me like I’m lunch?” The following exchange was bizarre gibberish to him. Mostly gurgles from both the dragon and the boy’s throat. Galaeth did however relent, and Nigel was able to take a deep breath. Now for some smooth talking.

“Would you like some help with these eggs then? I could help carry them. Anything really.”

Adam was going to say now, but Galaeth interrupted him,

“Let him help. I would love to give him a fun ride.” His tone was far too giddy, and Adam picked up that his draconic friend was being devious.

“Fine, yes, you may help.” Adam was still curt, but began gathering the large eggs and putting them in a big satchel. Nigel timidly helped, nervously watching Galaeth just in case a Nigel morsel was due for snack time.

[frankieboy55]

Who can attest for the greatness of a God? Who can affirm the kindness or the cruelness of a father? The gods have been much forgotten in our recent days. They forged and destroyed land we know, both with blood and fire. Yet, who now can recount the tale of the God’s Plague?     A howl pierced through the trees; the swamp was coming alive. Although the sun was setting on the bayou, the beasts were rising. Predators were on the prowl through the black waters.     Lyle knew the dangers of the twilight, but he also reaped its reward. The fish were always hungrier come nightfall. Most fisherman never ventured so far beyond these trees, let alone beyond daylight. Bayou Black, aptly named for the lack of sunlight beneath the thick canopy, was shunned by the residents of Adrianna.     Look for the great cypress where the birds roost. That was what he was told by the elder outdoorsman, Gabin. The man was known in his village as the wisest huntsman and fisherman, and practically family. He knew Bayou Black better than most, but still not nearly well enough.  Lyle was told to follow a small channel that broke off from Adrianna’s central river: the Merillion. There it would lead to the “unmistakably large tree” that many birds made their nests. Their white color would make the already unusually large tree stand out even more so. Gabin had been adamant of only two things: don’t stray from the channel and above all else do not stay beyond dark. Lyle wondered what had frightened the old man. Something in his eyes screamed to leave the notion behind, so Lyle had sworn off going past dark. At least from Gabin. Still he remembered how his wrinkled mouth quivered. What in Vectus’ name had his saggy eyes seen?     He pushed all his questions to the back of his mind. His small pirogue would surely dump him into the dark waters if he wasn’t careful, and he had to look for the channel. It was supposedly unmistakable, but he was searching in the twilight and he was unfamiliar with this edge of the Merillion.     After a sharp bend he spotted the channel. There was no doubt about it. The entrance was adorned with dozens of twig-woven shields. Some shields, carried by old twine, swayed melodiously, barely skimming the water’s surface. Others were hung higher overhead, or tied to tree trunks.      Lyle knew the symbol, as most everyone did. The Shield of Vectus. It was a protective sigil against the servants of Demudeas; a sigil that gave hope against all evil. It had been used for the thousands of years that followed the absence of Vectus: the god of triumph against destruction. Although Lyle knew this symbol as one of peace and safety, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that gripped him. It seemed more ritualistic, he thought. When he crossed the threshold the light quickly faded and he was left only to the dim glow of his shoddy lamp.     Lyle pushed on. The black water seemed to reflect no light, but he was kept steady by the trees that sluggishly passed by. He could see nothing more than a half rod’s distance. Bayou Black consumed all light. He relied on a push-pole to narrowly weave and feel through this endless void. The occasional splash or hiss kept lyle on his toes. Owl’s hoots were amplified under the unseen roof and rang on for several heartbeats. Despite hearing these things, Lyle expected more. More mosquitoes and biting flies. More shrill calls of unseen birds. More anything. Everything seemed to be holding its breath. The calm before the storm.     Gabin sat alone in his home. He lived like most in the swamp; elevated. His shoddy shack hung a few feet above the water, held up by many thick logs that were anchored into the mud. Such was the Adrian style. It was the only way one could live on solid ground in the wetlands.     The shack was toward the edge of his village, or what could be roughly classified as a village. The locals called it the Southern Tribute. This was because the inhabitants' houses lined the southern banks of the Greater Merillion Tributary. It would have been a more lively spot for salt traders or fishermen if not for the distance from the true Merillion.     Gabin was thankful for his neighbors. Many seasons before, the Southern Tribute had few inhabitants; roughly five families. Now it boasted more than twenty. Each night he took comfort in looking out from his front porch and seeing the glow of the smoke-fires within the other houses.      A night fire was the only way anyone in Adriana could sleep without being harassed by the millions of mosquitoes and gnats. He could see six houses beyond, before the bend. All but one had a fire dancing visibly through the open doors and contrasting darkness.     Having known everyone, he knew that one-man shack belonged to Lyle. Lyle the lone fisherman. He had known him and personally taken Lyle under his wing since he inherited the small cabin from his uncle. Gabin had known his uncle for the majority of his life, so he felt it was his duty to take care of him. Lyle reminded Gabin of the man that once lived in that same cabin, the man he spent countless hours drinking with, and he had come to thoroughly enjoy his presence.      Like his uncle, Lyle also was a natural rebel. He took warnings as challenges, and even openly disputed the word of the wealthy land owners that ruled the vast wetlands. This was a dangerous act, but he and his uncle did it all the same.     Gabin, awoke from the dreams of yesterday to the present horror. Only one house was unoccupied, and Gabin knew why. That damn fool has gone to Bayou Black! He rushed to his pirogue but feared he was already too late. Seldom did the swamp show mercy.     Lyle noticed the current slowing. He had been riding the canal for only a short while when he saw something directly off the bow. Ominous white orbs manifested in the darkness. At first they were as distant and dim as stars, perhaps a trick of the eye, but as the fisherman drew closer they grew brighter. Images from stories of specters that prowled the swamp danced in his head. He was still growing closer.     A shiver traversed his spine. He began to paddle backwards but made little difference. The water was stronger than anticipated. Lyle inched forward at a painfully slow pace. Then the ghostly white lights were upon him. Only then did he notice that they were perched in a large tree, scattered across the many long branches. Upon further examination, the white orbs transformed into snowy herons. Vectus help my stupidity. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to ease his nerves. This must be it.     There was no doubt in his mind that this was the tree. The massive cypress towered above to unseen heights, but Lyle guessed it rose well above the canopy. The base of the trunk was almost an arm span wide and the lower branches ran parallel with the still water for several boat lengths. This was only apparent due to the white line of birds that ran its span.     "This had better be worth it" he muttered to himself. His voice echoed through the trees and carried on. Be Worth it… Worth it… worth it… marveled at how loud his voice had been amplified.     Lyle turned his attention to the deck of the pirogue. He fumbled in the dim glow of the lantern for the hook and bait. He grabbed a rancid liver of a fowl and began to slip it onto the hook. As he slumped over to focus, he heard a hoarse whisper in his ear.      "Worth it" said the voice. It bounced off the trees once more. The herons all took wing in unison and disappeared into the night. He turned, frantically looking for the source of the whisper but only found the vast blackness of the bayou.     Lyle was stubborn, even foolish at times, but he was not a complete idiot. He quickly used his paddle to push off the great cypress to turn himself upstream. Lyle paddled as quickly as the bayou permitted. His fear lit a fire underneath him and gave the young fisherman astounding strength.     He heard the chatter of birds overhead. Small branches fell around him. He was being pursued by something overhead. Trees creaked and limbs shook. The swamp came alive with the sounds of animals that sounded almost as frightened as he was. Almost. What in the name of the gods is that.     He was so preoccupied with the invisible canopy that he did not notice the cypress knees on the bank. They stuck out of the water like jagged teeth, waiting for the unwary. He glanced off one, caught another and became lodged between them. The force jarred the lantern loose from its pole and fell into the water. Darkness enveloped, and he still worked to get his small craft free.      Come on! In the name of all things help me! Please! He feared to give this silent prayer a voice or he may draw whatever it was to his location. He knew very well predators were attracted to the sound of struggling prey.      The chatter of birds slowly died out and he was left in silence. The only sound that remained was the thud of the paddle on the cypress knee. He was breathing rapidly. Lyle felt he could not fill his lungs properly and took shallow breaths. With all of his strength he gave a great shove and was dislodged. He almost wept tears of joy.     As he floated backward on a high of victory and fear one thing sobered him; he still heard heavy breathing, but slower and deeper. It came from just behind him. His blood ran cold. Before he had time to turn he heard it right up to his ear.     "Worth it" said the voice in a rasping whisper.     Gabin made exceptional time for his age. The only thing that was more taxing than the rowing was his own guilt. It was his own fault that Lyle went past dark because he had specifically forbade it. He should have known. Fear of Bayou Black had made him abandon reason. How could I have been so blind? I should have known. That boy is too stubborn.     He passed through the mouth of the canal, which he could have only found due to the hanging shields in the lamplight. No light seemed to penetrate the void ahead. He started to scan each bank but found it difficult.      As he peered into the darkness he was struck in the head. He reeled back and shook off his dizziness after a few moments to find a white bird flopping in the boat. It croaked as it writhed at his feet. It flapped its ruffled wings uselessly. More white birds whirled past, flying all around him against the current, croaking sporadically. Some were clotheslined by the lantern pole, or by low branches and joined their friend flopping in the small pirogue.      After Gabin found his wits he began to push the herons over the side with his paddle, afraid to chance their cursed touch. What is happening?     Before he had a chance to assess the situation, a shriek pierced the night. It was so horrid that Gabin almost mistook it for some wild hog or eagle. He knew however that it was human. It was then agonizingly cut short. Lyle! Gods no!     "Lyle!" he found himself shouting. "Lyle where are you?" he called down the canal. He found no answer, accept his own echo.     Ahead he spotted a small boat. It was hard to place the shape or color but it had to belong to Lyle. As he moved closer he realized he was too late. In the canoe, amidst the claw marks and splinters, lay shreds of a light tunic stained crimson.     Somewhere above him he heard a whisper. "Worth it."     He spun, lantern in hand, to barely make out a silhouette of a nearby tree. In it held a pair of large green reflective eyes and a toothy smile glinting in the lamplight.