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sir-silly · 4 years

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The Last War fan review

So, our beloved show has ended. And while I wish things would have gone differently, I did cry with relief when Clarke looked over and saw everyone already waiting for her.

Anyway, I wanted to share some of my thoughts on the finale.

1) Going right into the title sequence kind of shocked me. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but I was just immediately like “oh.” It was a bitch-slap in the face that they left a gap in the credits for Bob Morley. Why you gotta do us like that?

2) Murphy screaming “come on” while they used the defibrillator on Emori was heartbreaking. And his little whispered encouragements were so freaking cute.

3) Clarke rampage? Yes, please! I love me a badass woman. However, unlimited ammo is a sin in writing. The moment Octavia picked up the sword was a big “oh yes.”

4) Did Cadogan not care about his son like at all? Lmao. Why is he so hung up on Callie and not his other kid (who I can’t even remember the name of). I don’t care if they explain in the prequel, that’s still a shitty parent choosing favorites. Along with his wife, like, was she not his greatest love? It was Callie? Kinda fucked up.

5) Why the fuck could Jordan figure out it was a test and not a war in 5 seconds when the Disciples were studying that shit for decades? I know he’s Monty’s son, but he’s not a genius or anything.

6) Thoughts on the test: I think Cadogan would have failed and the human race would be destroyed. Why bother asking questions if you already know all the answers?

7) Why wasn’t Gaia in the finale like at all?? Like, what the fuck. She was hunting??? For what?? That really annoyed me because I’ve grown to really like her and there was no point in her not being involved in the last episode. They seriously couldn’t have thrown her in there? Like, come on! Even Niylah was there! (not saying that I don’t like her, it’s just that Gaia has felt far more important to the story than her).

8) I do think that Jasper and Hope are cute together, and I know they spent the majority of their lives either alone or only with their parents, but GOD I can’t stand how awkward they are. Also, I know ya’ll have feelings for each other and shit, but is now really the time to be making out?? Why do people think that’s okay in literally the worst situations? I know it’s a show, but come on.

9) And how the fuck did Jordan throw and catch that sword? He’s a child who’s never fought a day in his life. Unless they suddenly want to tell me that Harper and Monty were secret ninjas and taught him all their tricks, I don’t believe that.

10) I’m being pissy and bringing up things from the past, but I don’t care. Why the fuck couldn’t Harper and Monty gone into cryo? I know they were happy and shit, but I’M NOT. How the fuck did it take so long for him to get into the files for Sanctum? His ass has done that shit a thousand times before in about two minutes and suddenly it takes him 80 years? Bullshit.

11) I’m still being pissy, but how the fuck does Jordan know what a magician is? “For my first trick, I will make an army appear.” Bruh, no. Monty wouldn’t have known what a magician was either. If they weren’t being taught what a Navy Seal was, there’s no way they knew what magicians were. Calling bullshit on that one as well.

12) I was pretty surprised that the Disciples didn’t start firing on Wonkru immediately. Like, this is the war they’ve been gearing up for forever and they don’t attack as soon as possible? Also, where the fuck did Wonkru get their war paint? Do they just constantly have it on their person? Or did their asses literally spend time making their paint before going to Bardo?

13) I fucking love Miller and Jackson. They’re freaking adorable. Murphy’s flat “I am glad you are safe” was so fucking funny. Also, saving Emori in one scene just to kill her in the next is bullshit. They should have just killed her the first time and done the same thing anyway. Murphy screaming at Jackson to do something and sobbing was heartbreaking. Fantastic acting on Richard Harmon’s part.

14) Octavia putting on Lincoln’s same warpaint again was once again, so sad. I miss that man. He was too good for his own good. And while I do think that her and Levitt are very cute together, I’ll always prefer her with Lincoln. But I think that he would be really happy that she has found someone new to love.

15) Apparently whatever Echo “did” to Levitt was so forgettable that I don’t even know what she’s talking about. Bad writing. I shouldn’t forget that in just a few weeks, I should remember as soon as I see the two of them in the same room.

16) Lexa. Just all of it. There were some suspicions that she would show up for the last episode, but I didn’t really believe them because I didn’t understand how she would be integrated. I’m glad that they did bring her back, but I’m also not. It was amazing to see her back by Clarke in all of her armor and glory, but knowing it wasn’t actually Lexa was just a punch in the face. It wasn’t her mind, so it’s almost like they didn’t bring her back anyway. I honestly would have preferred if they used someone else for her Judge, because that just really didn’t do it for me. Their hug was sweet, but it didn’t even count as her returning. I personally think that her Judge should have been Bellamy or Madi instead, as they both certainly could fill the role of “the subject’s greatest teacher or the source of their greatest failure...it can be their greatest love.” This is just my preference. Believe me, I know how much Lexa meant to Clarke, but as a fan, bringing our favorite Heda back in that way wasn’t the best way to do it. As a writer, it makes sense, but it doesn’t as a fan. The writers can’t just think of what is the best storytelling, they have to think of what those watching will think.

17) I’m confused about the mindspace? Why did Clarke wake up in her solitary room with her memories painted all over the walls, but Emori woke up in the castle with a view of the desert? Why wouldn’t it have been her and Murphy’s cave? Is there a reason it was the bedroom and not the cave?

18) I know this isn’t canon in any sense, but could you imagine if Murphy and Emori fought over John’s body and she won, and then suddenly woke up with a penis? How fucking funny would that be? Just had to throw that out there.

19) Can I just again reiterate how fucking cute Miller and Jackson are?

20) I’m curious about the location of the test. Why did Cadogan’s take place on a pier, while Raven’s happened on the Ark? If it was their favorite place, wouldn’t Raven’s have been actually out in space? Like during a spacewalk? I’m confused about that.

21) I knew that Raven was somehow going to be involved in the test just because of the trailers we got for the final episode. My two guesses for who the judge would be were Finn and Abby. Though I am happy that we got to see Abby again, I would be curious to see if the scene would have played out any differently if it had been Finn.

22) Where was the full line that was given in the trailer? Because that was amazing. “We’re selfish, and we’re violent, and we have destroyed too much, but we survived.” I loved that line far more than what we got instead, which was simply, “Have we made mistakes? Yes. Clarke, me, all of us, but we were just trying to survive.” I definitely would have chosen the former over the latter. Poor choice on the editors’ parts.

23) How the fuck did Octavia and Echo go out to the field and get Levitt with Echo only being shot once? With all the bullets, the three of them should have been torn apart, I don’t care how much Indra could cover Octavia. Calling bullshit on that as well.

24) Bringing this up kind of late because I’m giving my reviews as I’m rewatching the episode, but what they had Eliza do was really fucked up. Her and Bob suffered a miscarriage during the filming of season seven, so the scene of her holding Madi and crying “my baby” is like 10 times more heartbreaking. If they made her film that after having a miscarriage mere days, weeks or few months before, that’s really, really messed up.

25) They really played-up Sheidheda’s bringing back of “jus drein jus daun” in the trailer. In reality, it was far less intense. I would have preferred what I had been expecting, which was him coming to help convince Wonkru that they would be able to win. However, I am super glad that he is dead and Indra finally got to kill him. I love how that bigass gun just turns people into mist lol.

26) The beginning of Octavia’s speech was literally like “what the FUCK guys” and it was hilarious. And I swear to god if I hear her say “we are Wonkru” or “you are Wonkru” another time, I’m gonna scream. I know it was legit the last episode but I’m sick of it by now lol. When Indra was like “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Octavia’s face was just like “omg me too” and it was really funny.

27) Bellamy. His situation was a whole problem itself. He deserved a hell of a lot better and wHY DID HE CUT HIS HAIR I LIKED IT THE LONG WAY. Anyway, you can bet your ass I’ll be writing a different ending where he didn’t die because FUCK THAT. When I do, I’ll be sure to share it.

28) I’m fucking confused about Murphy and Emori both transcending. Because, what the fuck. Emori died. The dead don’t transcend. Her mind wasn’t even in her body, it was in Murphy’s. So how the fuck did she end up alive and in her own body again. I’m glad she’s alive, but I just don’t understand. It would have made way more sense to have either not had her die in the first place, or to have Murphy, Miller, and Jackson keep pumping her heart so she technically “lived” anyway like Echo.

29) If Madi had decided not to transcend, would she still have been paralyzed? I mean, I would assume not because Levitt and Hope’s gunshots were healed, as was Emori, but I’m curious. Also, wouldn’t Raven’s leg have been fixed? Because if they only fix recent wounds and not old ones, that’s stupid.

30) On the point of Madi deciding not to transcend, why did she? Why didn’t so many other people choose not to? Like, not one Eligius prisoner or person from Sanctum chose to live? No one else from Wonkru? Why didn’t anyone else other than the main cast and guest stars not transcend? I totally understand the Disciples transcending, but seriously, nobody else wanted to live? That’s really weird. Madi and her friends really couldn’t have chosen to live on Earth with Clarke and the others? I just think it’s really unrealistic that not one single person outside of the group chose not to transcend.

31) I was really surprised that Murphy and Emori chose not to transcend, because as the Judge said, they would eventually die and not join them in the infinite. It shocked me due to their fear of dying and wanting to be immortal, but I’m really proud of them.

32) I’m disappointed that those who don’t transcend can’t have children. There were suspicions that Emori might have been pregnant (which were never confirmed), but the idea of her and Murphy having a kid together was adorable. They’d have their teeny tiny families with those two, Hope and Jordan, and Octavia and Levitt.

33) This isn’t as much me pointing out a problem as me wondering, what was Clarke going to say to the Judge when she turned around? What else did she have to say or ask? Was it about Madi? Or maybe Lexa? Or just transcending in general?

34) It’s pretty shitty that some of our questions went unanswered due to the fact that there will be a prequel. On the other hand, I live for lore, so I’m just glad that they eventually will be answered. But still, that doesn’t excuse shitty writing.

35) I want to see a stupid edit of Picasso taking the test where the Judge is Madi.

I think we all know that season seven was really not what we wanted it to be. We’ve been really disappointed by the writers and unfortunately, this is what we got out of it. I believe they really could have done a better job, but I am at least glad that everyone ended up together.

The writing was lacking. Too many questions were left unanswered, I don’t care if you’re making a sequel or not. Plot holes. It really could have been a good season if it was done better.

My ranking of the seasons is as follows: 3, 2, 4, 1, 6, 5, 7. Seasons 4 and 1 are kind of interchangeable for me in spots three and four, as are 6 and 5 in the two spots behind them, whatever the order may be.

But I still love the show. I love the characters, their development, and many things about it. It has been quite the journey and I am glad to have been a fan of the show.

May we meet again.

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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If These Walls Could Talk (Ch6)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

(Please note!! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indententaion in some places, and it definitly loses something without it. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!)

Chapter Summary:

“Do you see the Castle?” “Take a look.” “Good. Keep Focused on it. I have to be able to see it to put my intent on it.” “Your intent?” “That’s all magic is, Alucard. Changing things in accordance with my intent. “And my intent is to drag that grotesque thing here.”

Chapter 6: "Burn"

Castlevania doesn’t like being controlled.

Does not answer to anyone but Dracula. However reluctant it may be to obey certain orders, it will always do what its master wishes. It isn’t sure it wants this war, to be an instrument of this war, but it will be damned if it doesn’t fight for him.

Its most base instinct and desire has always been to protect its master. That’s what it was at the beginning; just a shield. Not a home, or a haven, or a cozy place to raise one’s kids. It didn’t always have wants and musings of its own. Once it was just walls. Walls there to keep out the elements—both the cold, and the hot—not to mention the mobs. Once it was just walls; before someone started talking to them. Even if it can’t be a sword in this war, it will always be its master’s shield.

So when it feels intent creep in with jagged, electric claws from all sides, pulling, dragging it somewhere unknown where its master didn’t tell it to go, wrapping around its motor functions with blue-hot fingers—too much like the hand around the Rooms throat—a command that doesn’t belong to its master, it must not, will not obey. Dracula said to stay put, and whether here is a good place to be; whether he was coerced into placing Castlevania there for the sake of a little silence; and if Dracula is in his right mind, are moot points, because it was Dracula who said it.

There has been too much pain, too much betrayal, too many silver words, too many other voices trying to sway Dracula, and too many times the Castle wanted to beg its master to listen, listen closer, unable to do a thing to stop the collapse they set in motion.

Today, today has been too much. Carmilla’s parasitic rhythm fulfilled. Even now, battering rams against the door—but this time it is the vampires, not the humans, who want to tear its king from its throne, the thumping of heavy hearts against the door, and there is nothing Castlevania can do but sit there and hope its door is strong enough.

Her soldiers, a swarm of bees after their queen, and the buzzing is far too loud in its halls, louder than its ever been. The Castle is overwhelmed, so when this other force grasps Castlevania itself, as if molesting it, it is too much to bear. Castlevania isn’t just obeying orders anymore, it is angry.

Blood in the halls and the sound of metal against metal. The buzzing turning to stinging. The war has arrived in the war room.

Isaac runs to Dracula to tell him what the Castle—(and perhaps Isaac himself)— knew all along; that they had been betrayed.

Dracula has so little strength to fight so Castlevania must do what castles are made for: protect him, fight his battles for him, be his sword and shield and armor all at the same time. His reflection, which can better fight for him.

It may not quite believe in what its fighting for, but Castlevania has a will, and has been sick of all this for far too long. Too many motives fighting for control, too many voices winning out over its master. So desperately it wanted to fight, to talk, to beg its master not to listen, but it couldn’t. With everything else that happened it had to sit and watch and beg that someone else would fight.

Castlevania doesn’t like feeling useless, only able to listen.

It’s been feeling this for far too long.

Castles are built to protect their masters. Built to keep the arrows, the fire, the canons, and the worst of words from finding their mark. But Castlevania moves, and the arrows, the canons, the fire, and the words are all already inside. And no one dares try to move the Castle itself.

But this, this time the threat is against Castlevania. Not Dracula—though ultimately it knows, its master is surely their bloodthirsty goal. This is something it can fight. It has never been able to physically fight anyone before; rather than just with walls, with the thing inside it that moves, that obeys. This, this last force opposing its master’s will, is the only battle Castlevania has ever been able to fight in this war, and it will be damned if it doesn’t fight.

“Nobody takes my castle from me.”

The words, in Castlevania’s ears; the battle speech of the war lord, the soothing croon of the father, the encouragement of the teacher. Though he may not yet realize quite how literal the words ring.

The intent slithers down from the walls into the engine room, jumping from beam to beam; a cat with needle-sharp claws. Those claws turn to tentacles running along its gears, caressing it with prickling, stinging, venomous resolve, reaching with greedy talons for the die at the center of its being—the one that serves as its heart and legs at the same time.

When the Castle doesn’t listen, the tendrils don’t give up, rather they grow stronger, longer, intention spreading like infection, the lightning that once brought it to life curling; overgrown ivy on the roofs, and parapets, and halls…everywhere…enough to make it begin to lose its sense of direction.

No. It is a castle after all. It shouldn’t be too hard for it to be an anchor. It digs its feet into the mud.

But the intent does the same, claps down stronger than ever, enough that even before the blue grows around the pillars in the war room—tickling, itching, biting—its master notices—

“Magic.”

Castlevania doesn’t understand—it’s an anchor, stuck in place, a water wheel pedaling backward, gone off kilter, digging itself into the mud. How can this—this thing hold it’s own against Dracula’s Castle?

The two are locked in combat, locked like doors—(all the while many locks on many doors shuddering inside Castlevania, shuddering at the idea that someone could take control with a mere thought)—unable to see the face, the form of their opponent behind each other, just knowing there is only this; picking away at the keyhole until one of them clicks.

Castlevania will never, never give up. It has never been able to fight before, and after all this pain—after all this losing—losing Lisa and Alucard, after the blood of the boy landed on its floor, after the war and the parasites started infesting its halls, and the bitter treachery ended in this brawl—it is going to fight till everything in it burns.

And it does. It fights till, at its core, where its most important parts are—the gears that Vlad once sang to life with a lightning song—it begins to catch fire.

Lightning even erupts from the die itself—the thing the intent is reaching for.

It will not obey.

But…

But—

(But Castlevania’s feet

are

slipping.)

It’s seen magic, it’s protected Dracula from countless intents; human, vampire, and demon alike…but never a will quite like this.

And.

And…

And—

For just a moment....

its strength fails.

And Castlevania flickers.

NO!

It takes hold again, quickly as it lost it. Comes back, just a few meters from where it last was, digging its blistering, bloody heels back into the dirt.

No. It will not lose this battle. They have lost, are losing so much, it will not lose anything else. Not today. After having to sit by and watch all this loss, it will not, it cannot lose.

Castlevania is Dracula’s Castle. Dracula and his Castle don’t lose.

But

——

Castlevania is slipping.

It flickers once,

No!

twice,

NO!

a third,

No no no no NO!

Turning upside down, appears, disappears, the sound of this rending the air like a thunderous heartbeat—Don’t, Don’t, DON’T—but finds its ground, and if it had breath it would be heaving heavy on its chest.

Ground…Though the “ground” is a river, and waves rise up all around like the tongues hungry beasts themselves, rushing, crashing, cackling beasts into the war room where the war is being waged, and the water is holy, and the soldiers are not.

Though it may be in one place again, the intent is not finished yet, and Castlevania revolves in place as it strains against it—(knocking out a good portion of the city)—like playing tug of war with its own heart at the center of the rope.

And the moment it stops still the intent curls around its towers again, whispering sweet words about giving up.

Castlevania, breaking and burning, replies Never.

Blue bleeding like electric royalty to the windows Alucard once opened, the windows Dracula forced shut, shattering them; the roofs they once sat on, howling at the stars and naming the moon, lunging for the die that is Castlevania’s heart, and though they may think it doesn’t, this heart beats.

It’s limbs and lungs are turning to charcoal, but that fight still blazes in its eyes.

But Castlevania is not young…and it has to take a second to breathe.

And in that second, it loses everything.

This heart beats. And now that heart starts spinning out of control. It rages and buzzes in every direction—not like bees and bugs crawling on it, this is a far deeper buzzing within its chest, something more emotional…something like horror. And the gears turn in the fire, and it hurts, it hurts like hell to have someone else’swill running through the deepest parts of you, to fight a thing that’s crawled into your own heart, and stomped on your wishes. It hurts like hell to burn—this fire as hot as it can be; blue, so hot its cold—to burn and wonder if your body is your own stake, until the deepest parts of you are melting.

With a last cry the window behind the die shatters, sending the lightning into the air.

All is still, and it is exactly the intent wanted it to go.

It opens the door, pukes up the holy water, and the not-so holy soldiers, the moon is reflected on the surge, and it is red enough to make the water look like blood.

Castlevania wonders feebly where they are. A forest before it, mountains behind it. But something is beneath it too now…like a dungeon, but a dungeon full of books…a library…a library full of skulls…

The Belmonts. The ones with their whips and scourges. This is where they lived once. And it realizes if it can be here, that this is probably where they died, once. They don’t live here anymore. That the house burned…perhaps similarly to how the Castle is burning now.

Beneath Castlevania now is the hold within which resides all the knowledge to defeat its master and everything like him…and Castlevania, still burning, knows it will never move again, that it has joined to its worst enemy forever in sickening matrimony. And Castlevania knows now that the worst is true, after everything the intent must have belonged to a Belmont—perhaps the last of them— and they are coming now to do what they do best: hunt vampires.

Castlevania knows that, the one battle it could fight, the one battle that could turn the tide, it lost. Castlevania knows that it failed.

Castlevania, sitting on the floor, bruised, burning, coughing up blood, unable to move again, knows—

They are going to get in, whoever, whatever they are. Surely they—with all their whips and scourges and their bloodlust—are going to walk through that door, and add to the grand pile of losses it and its master have acquired lately, perhaps placing at the top the greatest loss yet.

That door. The front door the battering rams forced open today. The front door the mobs through pitchforks at long ago. The front door the stakes crowded around like an audience to a silent, one-man show. The door Lisa banged on with the pommel of her knife.

The Castle closes its eyes. Tries not to look as whoever they are step up to its door, as if burying its face in its hands, both covered in blood, burned and broken.

Just end it quickly.

The front door does open. They don’t even knock. And as it does, something…something which has been holding tight, digging its nails in for far too long, releases its grip.

And the Room—

—the Room which was, once upon a time, brought to life by a vampire king who thought he couldn’t love, and a woman who knew he could, and a couple of paintbrushes; painting walls and sewing toys; the Room, which once housed all the light and life and laughter this place ever contained within it; the Room that held a boy who cried, and carried the stars in his eyes, and the kindest of words in his fists; the Room which once sighed, and smiled; the Room which once waited for its master to return, and now has been waiting for much longer, with a claw wrapped around its throat, denying it air—

—the Room, so long spent waiting, the Room, so long spent gasping, so long croaking, so long clutching at the claw around its throat; the cold threatening to burn it away, the emptiness threatening to swallow it whole, the death animating all its worst thoughts; the Room, always hoping its life would return, but always one step from losing hope; the Room which has been finding everything too funny, if only to save it from how everything was so sad—

Breathes.

And within that breath, so soft, are spoken two simple words:

My boy.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania netflix #dracula #adrian fahrenheit tepes #alucard #castlevania dracula #castlevania alucard #alucard castlevania #dracula castlevania #Vlad Dracula Tepes #castlevania fic #castlevania fics #if these walls could talk #castlevania writing #netflix castlevania

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symphonyofthewrite · 3 years

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If These Walls Could Talk (Ch6)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes:

Please note!! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indententaion in some places, and it definitly loses something without it. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!

FYI for anyone who’s been following the story here ( @symphonyofthewrite ) this is currently the most recent chapter!!

A HUGE thank you if you have, by the way!!!! 😘

If you can comment and/or reblog as well that would make my week!!!

Chapter Summary:

Chapter 6: "Burn"

Castlevania doesn’t like being controlled.

Blood in the halls and the sound of metal against metal. The buzzing turning to stinging. The war has arrived in the war room.

Isaac runs to Dracula to tell him what the Castle—(and perhaps Isaac himself)— knew all along; that they had been betrayed.

Castlevania doesn’t like feeling useless, only able to listen.

It’s been feeling this for far too long.

“Nobody takes my castle from me.”

No. It is a castle after all. It shouldn’t be too hard for it to be an anchor. It digs its feet into the mud.

But the intent does the same, claps down stronger than ever, enough that even before the blue grows around the pillars in the war room—tickling, itching, biting—its master notices—

“Magic.”

And it does. It fights till, at its core, where its most important parts are—the gears that Vlad once sang to life with a lightning song—it begins to catch fire.

Lightning even erupts from the die itself—the thing the intent is reaching for.

It will not obey.

But…

But—

(But Castlevania’s feet

are

slipping.)

It’s seen magic, it’s protected Dracula from countless intents; human, vampire, and demon alike…but never a will quite like this.

And.

And…

And—

For just a moment....

its strength fails.

And Castlevania flickers.

NO!

It takes hold again, quickly as it lost it. Comes back, just a few meters from where it last was, digging its blistering, bloody heels back into the dirt.

No. It will not lose this battle. They have lost, are losing so much, it will not lose anything else. Not today. After having to sit by and watch all this loss, it will not, it cannot lose.

Castlevania is Dracula’s Castle. Dracula and his Castle don’t lose.

But

——

Castlevania is slipping.

It flickers once,

No!

twice,

NO!

a third,

No no no no NO!

And the moment it stops still the intent curls around its towers again, whispering sweet words about giving up.

Castlevania, breaking and burning, replies Never.

It’s limbs and lungs are turning to charcoal, but that fight still blazes in its eyes.

But Castlevania is not young…and it has to take a second to breathe.

And in that second, it loses everything.

With a last cry the window behind the die shatters, sending the lightning into the air.

All is still, and it is exactly the intent wanted it to go.

It opens the door, pukes up the holy water, and the not-so holy soldiers, the moon is reflected on the surge, and it is red enough to make the water look like blood.

Castlevania knows that, the one battle it could fight, the one battle that could turn the tide, it lost. Castlevania knows that it failed.

Castlevania, sitting on the floor, bruised, burning, coughing up blood, unable to move again, knows—

The Castle closes its eyes. Tries not to look as whoever they are step up to its door, as if burying its face in its hands, both covered in blood, burned and broken.

Just end it quickly.

The front door does open. They don’t even knock. And as it does, something…something which has been holding tight, digging its nails in for far too long, releases its grip.

And the Room—

Breathes.

And within that breath, so soft, are spoken two simple words:

My boy.

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ccmagma · 3 years

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I think about my story and think about one word: Disbelief. Not because what has happened to me is something shocking, or worrying, no, nothing like that at all. But upon learning my heritage, what has happened over years… It sounds like something from a tale. I’ve heard the story enough times from my parents, more so my father who came from someplace far away much like other refugees. Perhaps, that’s where this story should start… I can’t say for certain how they felt exactly, experiences are, after all, unique to us. However, putting myself in their shoes… I can’t even begin to imagine what it had been like. To have no information, not knowing what was coming and the inability to prepare for it.

My father came from a planet called Earth, a funny name I thought considering the translation of it had meant literal dirt. It wasn’t the most unique of names when I realized the other planets surrounding Earth and its history with Gods and Goddesses.

Earth. It was a planet already doomed thanks to its human inhabitants. The world was crumbling around them, war was a regular term in their households, little did they know something greater was coming. It’s safe to say things did not end well for them, the residents of my home did what they could and saved what humans they could. There were a lot of casualties… Many families were separated and I am certain not many took a liking to their new life.

Emptying Earth and leaving it to ash happened over the course of years. It wasn’t until recently where portals to that planet were closed off as far as two-way travel went. It would be another dumping ground for the creatures that plagued our lands of Izavyn. That was the root of all problems and the cause for most quarrels throughout our countries and city-states. A plague, a virus, an abomination, there were many words to describe what caused the woe of so many but the term we used for those creatures was a simple one, Demons. Their creation was one out of malice but perhaps when an organization sees too much peace, it craves to shift the balance. War might not have been as common here but it wasn’t unknown.

Demons were once people, our people. Changing them back was impossible, at least it seemed that way. When one combines the magic of the land with dark practices given to them by one of The Arms, the one no one mentions for there is power in a name or prayer.

The Arms were created by The Eternal. Those lucky enough to hear her voice or perhaps catch a glimpse learned she had a name, Divi. The Eternal Divi created what we know, her power flows through all of us, and upon passing we re-join her. All life is connected to her and therefore we are all connected, to every fabric of being. The Eternal also created four to help her, to watch and guide us, The Arms. Any paintings or statues of Divi and constructed so that she appears to have four arms, though now at days older art either scratched out or have removed the fourth arm. The fourth betrayed The Eternal and have been gathering followers and temples of his own, promising a new age and have become a powerful deity in his own right. Whispers of The Ascent Mol is rare, but not unheard of.

The Arms were prayed to just as The Eternal was. Though references to them have changed over time. Sometimes I hear elders sigh out, “By the five!” and anyone within earshot is horrified. We no longer reference them as five but as four. After all, if one divine figure goes rogue and attempts to take all, for the most part, you should be against it. Naturally, that isn’t always the cause.

Izavyn had felt responsible for the havoc that came over the years. There are parts of our world that had been destroyed and rebuilt, taken over, some still fight a resistance or civil war. When those who decided to follow Mol and his trek for power over all, things changed. They gave their lives, prayers, their devotion, and in turn, it made him strong. Everything is connected, choosing to give yourself to something so powerful isn’t wise but not all men are wise. Creatures were created, the dangerous sort that can infect you with a wound and have you turned. Death by a Demon though frightening was merciful compared to the other option. They spread throughout the land, diminished populations, and where they roamed, darkness followed. The neverending night was their home, it’s where they flourished and thrived. No one dared made their way to a patch of dark land when the sun was out, the cold and dead land meant creatures that would kill. At night, everyone would stay in their homes, traveling would be banned for cargo ships and merchants. Those who wished to risk it on their own was another story… Not even our armies would venture to the darkened lands. The dark clouds in the distance were an omen, a promise of destruction to those who sought safety. The only way to destroy the patches of darkness would be to kill the hoard that inhabited it, that was not an easy feat. Upon nightfall, they roamed free, and hope at that point was lost.

There was a point the people of Izavyn thought things could turn around. The numbers of Demons were dwindling, causalities were becoming less and less. However, just as we had access to magic, as did they. There was a practice that had been used for the most heinous of prisoners. Those who did wrong beyond fixing and required justice were banished from the world. A portal would open and they would be sent somewhere desolate and free of intelligent life. What happened after would be up to them and no longer the business of our world. However, it turns out that a portal can work two ways with the right studies behind it. That’s how the numbers jumped up again and other worlds began to get involved in the strife that should have belonged to Izavyn alone.

Since then, most Kingdoms and City-States have decided to get involved, working to have the same ability the opposing side did. Wars were fought on all fronts and refugees were taken in of all races, most sent to camps to fight. We needed armies and they needed an escape… it was a dreadful exchange but I could understand the military aspect of it, it didn’t mean I agreed to it. Those who sought asylum were brought over, checked over by doctors and ailments would be removed. The world here was free of sickness that could kill, our healers and their abilities were both inspiring and wanted. Everyone who came through would be treated, and while the masses were grateful… I knew it was because our world could do more with healthy people than sickly ones. It was a double-edged sword of sorts but perhaps everything that had beauty also had an ugliness to it.

To make joining the military enticing, promises were made and kept. Majikas were crafty and their practices were difficult, so much so that only one of the many elements would be taught to them. They could summon fire at will, hold lightning in their hands, or even practice in potions and the arcana which would allow for many things, endurance, a day without needed sleep, even a change of appearance of them or others. Hallows were the most pampered of the bunch, clothes in white and ethereal looking, elegance was their calling and people were in awe of them and their ability to heal the sick or create barriers of protection without needed enchantments. We then had those in the front lines, impressive warriors who gained respect just by their sheer look alone, there were many kinds. Some with bulky armor and a grand sword, an enchanted shield that could but up a barrier. They were front-line men, giving commands to their squadron and leading the way. Others were dressed more lightly, more agile. Some with slimmer long swords, long twin daggers, bows with arrows that would appear on a whim, all enchanted weapons with their own special ability. It all looked glamourous really and those who were not from this world were given promises of a better life if they joined one of the ranks. A promise of enhanced beauty, so you would look like the most prominent version of you courtesy of a Majika, and those who joined the front-line men were given the option of a complete change and land, an enticing idea for those who liked the material things. The person would no longer have to live in the safe house and would instead be given a cozy room to call their own, a private bath included, and the promise to be able to own land or home depending on their choice of rank to follow as well as being given the status of a citizen instead of being labeled a refugee.

The refugees were put to work but they worked alongside everyone else, everyone had to pitch in one form or another. Those with a specialized trade were willing to take on apprentices and that option was one people sought after because it promised a place of their own in the home of the master tradesman. There was also an option to help in re-building, supplies run, guard duty, and many other things. That didn’t mean that there was no downtime, not at all. People were still able to enjoy time with their families or seek out help and therapy due to the drastic changes. Not all took it well and when death rates began rising within the safety of the barriers, those in higher power took action. It was a hard change, but those who remained were able to make it through and over the years the world has prospered the best it can given the circumstances. However, it seems the Demons have run out of souls to take on for their army and the focus now remains on us, the last standing in their path and our unwillingness to bow makes us targets.

Some know that time might not be kind with what looms. Some choose to just make it by, others wise to live as if tomorrow might be the end and that’s what my parents did. My mother is was born in this world, she comes from across the sea and studied as a tailor. Her studies eventually brought her to the City-State of Verrin where she ended up being the private seamstress to the council. She never did talk much of home but I understood. It was painful… Back in her home of Qisyo things were difficult. It was one of the countries where the royal family had been forced out and armies with the banners for Mol were raised. Some refugees from her country could be seen throughout Verrin but I knew of a settlement by the ocean on a cliff where her people were trying to wait out the war across the sea so they can return home. Qisyo’ko was the name of the settlement and I had only been there once…

My father had arrived when my mother was working in a dress shop, he did not join the ranks and instead chose to live his life in the business of delivery within the city. My mother was someone he came across quite often since he would deliver goods to the shop she worked in and their relationship eventually grew and then they were married. My mother was aware of his status as a refugee and knew marriage wouldn’t secure a future for him but her eventual career opened doors and my father was able to eventually work in the library, much like he had back on Earth. It was a quiet enough life for them, and my appearance made things better for them, something they always reminded me of. I remember spending a lot of time with my father in the library, reading never-ending books, and in the evening bothering my mother beyond words since I had not seen her all day whenever work called for her.

Eventually, I did make friends of my own but there was one I ended up being the closest to. It was around the time the last of the humans from Earth made their way over. There had been a group of orphans but there was one who did not seem as sad as the others. It turned out she had already been an orphan and had been placed in home after home. The events of her world and the drastic change stressed her eyes, but she did not cry over the loss of family like the others and seemed more optimistic, hopeful almost. Her name was Morgan and she and I had a bond that could rival the closest of sisters.

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permanentlyexhaustedpossum · 5 years

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A Snow White Story - Madatobi Fairytale #3

Elements: Runaway children, Failed attempts at pedophilia, Uchihas are not dwarves (but they are), Someone gets roasted

Inspiration: The Messed Up Origins of Snow White | Disney Explained - Jon Solohttps://youtu.be/JRFDbYK1yKY

Music to Listen to While Reading: Snow White And The Huntsman [Soundtrack] Playlisthttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5Mx14ETtC8&list=PLF3FD00884F83D6E2 Heart pounding harder than it ever had in any of the battle's he'd been in, feet bloody and bruised and blistered from the sheer amount of force and distance he'd put on them. Tobirama bounded far beyond his homeland's wilderness, high into the mountains in the winter moonlight. He pressed forward even as his body tired and prayed to the gods above that no one would follow. Because, come morning, she would know. And he had not been wrong.

"He is not here." Madara's voice drawled through the summer afternoon, bristling with agitation at the second time this 'huntsman' had graced their doorstep in four years. Tobirama could see the way the others gathered around Madara, Kou, Togakushi, Kuro, and Izuna from between the cracks in the bedroom door. His older brother had come looking for him after he'd fled his mother's clan. From her twisted grip on him.

-- “Oh my beautiful son, come..." He hadn't wanted to. Hadn't loved her like that. Hadn't given in to her wishes, despite his confusion. Mothers weren't supposed to love their children that way. Weren't supposed to bed them. "Your beauty will be mine!"

For five years, he'd managed to stay out on missions, avoid her, seek refuge with his bothers who would hide him, but at fourteen, she had finally cornered him. Claiming sickness, he'd bounded for his room, Hashirama running after him before his mother could lay hands on his skin. "Tobirama, you have to leave..." "I will kill her before I am cowardice enough to leave!" "Shhh baby brother, don't be so loud." Hashirama hissed, knowing their mother was not easily fooled. "Please. Take your weapon, your armor and run. Please leave!" --

And he had that night. And now, for the second time in four years, Hashirama was at the Uchiha's door, playing his part as the dutiful son, hunting the snow white boy only three years his younger. "My brother is on this mountain! I know it!" "He is not here." Madara hissed again. Would his Uchiha be able to turn Hashirama away again this time? How did Hashirama know of Tobirama? The tall tan warrior pushed past Madara and the brothers, a strange aura about him that Tobirama had never before seen.

"You will hand him over! He must come home!" "He. Is. Not. Here." Madara stomped impatiently, looking as bored as possible hands in the air defeated like. But Tobirama knew better. Knew how Madara's hair stood on edge the closer Hashirama got to the bedroom door. How his stance stiffened, fingers twitching around a hidden blade in his sleeve. Knew the gleam in Madara's eyes. He'd gotten so used to Madara in the past four years of his refuge, the man before him could not deceive Tobirama at all.

"Whoa! Hold on there!" Seventeen and still wiry, Madara stopped Tobirama's movements easily, gentle hands pressing against the fourteen year old's chest. "What's got you spooked, kid?" The pines waved in the snowy breeze. "Move! I must-" "Hey calm down! I can help!" "Madara? What's going on?" Kuro called from inside the small shack on the side of the mountain, hidden in pines. Madara turned his head but not his gaze, dark eyes trained on the snow beauty before him, flushed pink from exhertion, eyes red from both tears and his born disposition. "Just ran into a bit of a snag bringing in the wood! Be there in a sec!" "Dinner's ready, man!" Tobirama had not stopped in his adrenaline rushed flight for hours. It wasn't until he'd stumbled into Madara near this encampment village, that his body began to react.

"Hey. Hey look at me." Red eyes slowly looked up, terror still inside them, chest heaving. "Hey. Yeah. That's it. It's okay. Whatever you're runnin' from, it can't get you here." Tobirama swallowed, eyes locked on the face of a young man that shouldn't look that tired. Shouldn't look that worn. Shouldn't be so kind. The adrenaline began to give out on him, heart still pounding, legs shaky. His armor clanked in the snow. "You.. hungry..? Cold..? Wanna rest for a bit? We're kinda tight in the cabin with five... but we can take you in."

And they had. Tobirama had found peace inside the small cabin of boys like him, although, not quite like him. Dark haired, dark eyed boys like the rest of their people of the mountains. Shorter than his own people but sturdy and hardy folks. He'd grown to love them all as his own brothers. But Madara.. He was something else.

"Hashirama. Leave. You're keeping me from my chores." "Madara," Hashirama sounded so exhausted and for the first time in years, Tobirama got a decent look at him. Tall and handsome, broad shouldered and stout. A warrior indeed. A marvelous Senju huntsman he grew up to be. "I must have my brother back. I miss him!" "Then you should look for him elsewhere! I've told you a thousand times, he's not here!"

A thousand times? Had Hashirama come to Madara more than those two times he knew about? Tobirama felt his heart grow inside his chest. Truly Madara did love him as his own. The pale young man shook his head. No, Madara would never love him like he loves Madara. "I know-" Hashirama stomped around, still looking before slipping and falling against the already worse-for-wear door. Tobirama scrambled out of the way as it shattered into a billion pieces. When he rose, large brown eyes looked stunned, tears leaking from each of them as the stunned Uchiha band stood behind him. "Brother." Tobirama breathed, coming to his feet slowly in the small room that housed them all at night. As he straightened, Hashirama inhaled, "You're..." It seemed he could not find the words for Tobirama's height, for his soft skin like fresh powder, lined with red marks. For his baby face all but gone, hidden by sharp features that an ice queen would kill for. Quite literally. "I am." Tobirama managed to speak, ducking his head for the lower ceilings he'd grown accustomed to. "And I intend to be." He stepped back away from his brother's sword as Hashirama's eyes widened, a spark of something unfamiliar in them.

"Hashirama, I plead with you!" Madara was between them in a moment, startling both. His dark mane flared. "Take this back to your mother." His hands held out forward to Hashirama a sack, dripping with blood. The confused look on the man's face spurred more explanation. "Tell her Tobirama has been killed. This is a heart from my hunt this morning. Do not kill your brother!" Brown eyes looked at Tobirama before him and then back down to the dripping sack. "I was not intending to kill him, Madara. Simply to bring him home." "If you bring him back to that witch, you will kill his soul." That seemed to shake something loose within Hashirama's mind and the tanned warrior's eyes cleared. He took the sack without hesitation and nodded to Madara. "Take care of him, friend. Goodbye... brother." Before the pale young man could speak, his brother was gone, out the door and down the mountain.

"We have to move him." Togakushi spoke first, breaking the silence that'd fallen over their home. Madara looked up at them, still standing with his back towards Tobirama."Yes. I agree. Pack the wagon. We leave tonight." "Madara, where will we go?" Tobirama asked, his savior turning around to look up at him. "Anywhere that is safe. I promised you that she could not get you here. I have failed that promise but I won't fail you." "None of us will." Izuna piped up as the others began to pack their belongings for the trip. "I cannot ask more of you like this." Tobirama's heart was breaking. He didn't want to go back. Didn't want to be alone to be running for his life for the rest of it. Didn't want to be separated from Madara and his new brothers, but something had to give. "Please, forget me, I will leave-"

The words pierced Madara, reflected in betrayal that flashed across his face. "No!" He stopped, stunned by the terrified look on the young man's face. Three years his senior, and yet sometimes, he forgot how young Tobirama really was. "No. We stick together. We're family." "Family." Tobirama echoed, Madara nodding placing a hand on his shoulder. "Family.. I..." Twisted into a state of confusion and desperation, Tobirama fought back tears. "Yes we are but family does not feel this way about another." "What are you on about?" "I'm in love with you, Madara."

The house seemed to go silent. Tobirama's heart crashed to the bottom of his very existence. Family should not feel this way about one another. "I know. I am wrong in these feelings, I must leave. I don't want to be like her." "Excuse you?" Tobirama stopped, just as his gaze hit the floor and he began to move to the door. "No. You don't get to drop that on me and leave. This isn't some fairytale, Tobirama." The boy winced, glancing sideways at the door. "You're not like her. We're not related. It's not the same." "But you took me in-" "Yes." "And made me family-" "And I would make you family another way if I could." Red eyes snapped up to Madara's defiant face, the four others standing incredibly still around the main room. "I would.. if you would accept." "Madara..."

"Pack! Lets hurry. Nightfall will be soon. And I intend to keep my entire family safe." Dark eyes landed on Tobirama. "All of them."

"Madara!" The oldest turned on his heel, looking at Izuna from across the inn's bar. "Come quick!" Startled, he followed the youngest up the stairs, and sunk to his knees when the door slid open, window curtain flowing in the breeze.

"No..." He crawled across the floor, gloved hands pulling Tobirama's body into his arms, smoothing out silvery locks and tracing red marks on his snowy skin. "No... Tobirama..." "Poison.. they made him drink it." Togakushi breathed, crawling from the nearby room, battered and bruised, his leg injured. "They sent.. assassins." "She knows Hashirama deceived her." Kuro coughed, rising from his own injuries and leaning on the window sill. They hadn't come to kill his brothers. Just to incapacitate Tobirama.. "His heart still beats." Madara breathed, his cheek to Tobirama's throat. "There is time!"

"Time for what?! Where will we take him?" Kou looked over Izuna at the wrecked room. "There must be a way. Water... I need.. The river!" Madara lifted Tobirama into his arms in a surge of adrenaline, and exited clumsily through the window, his four brothers behind him.

Quickly, Madara came upon the flowing water, feeling the hair stand on his neck as he did so. There was more to this than meets the eye. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside, pulling Tobirama into the river with him cradling him in his arms. "You'll hand him over now." The icy tone shot through the summer air and they all turned. "Not a chance." Madara snarled at the Senju witch, light hair flowing in the wind around her. He drew Tobirama closer to himself in the small brook. Hashirama was no where in sight, but it didn't matter in the slightest. Madara dunked himself and Tobirama under the water as his brothers launched an assault at the Senju assassins.

You have to drink the water, Tobirama. I am sorry.. Madara held him down as air escaped Tobirama's lungs, bubbling into the water. The Uchiha's heart began to break, holding tightly to the Senju until the boy began to struggle against him in the water on instinct, effectively waking him and drowning him. Yes! Yes! Just a little longer, come on... Wide red eyes looked into Madara's dark, terrified, the water swirling all around them until finally Tobirama looked about ready to pass out. He snatched the boy from the water to the other side of the river, and watched him cough and vomit the liquid onto the river bank as the Senju woman screeched like an unholy terror from the other side.

Kou launched another attack, burning the ground between the Uchiha and the Senju, effectively creating a wall of fire between them. "Run!" He shouted, as the other brothers darted across the water and by Madara's side. Tobirama coughed, hacked, and vomited water and poison from his stomach until he had nothing left, soothed only by Madara's heavy hand as they dragged him away from the river and further into the woods, running for their lives. When he awoke, his eyes trained on the older male. "M..a..dara..?" "Tobirama. How stupid are you to drink poison when someone offers it?" The Uchiha huffed in the darkness, looking at Tobirama. "They... said they would kill you if I did not." A pause. "An idiot decision really." Tobirama would have laughed if not for the situation. "Rest." "No." Tobirama groaned, sitting up, running a pale hand through his hair. "This has gone on long enough. I've endangered you... our brothers enough." Worried looks popped up from the four younger brother and Madara's eyes narrowed. "You promised. You said you would. And now you're going to throw your promise to me away?" "Never." Tobirama breathed, his heart on display for Madara to see. The Uchiha softened. "What then? What would we do?" "Bring me home. I will fight her." -- "This is a bad idea." "Yeah. A really bad idea." "Horrible idea." "The absolute worst-" "YES I KNOW." Madara nearly howled at his younger brothers, all dressed for battle best they could with what they had. Tobirama gave him a soft glance before turning to straighten Madara's collar. "I trust you." "I know." Madara grumbled. "And I know you can do this, I just wish she'd left you alone." "And she will.. when this is over." Tobirama leaned forward, pressing his lips to Madara's for the first time in four years and was greeted with warmth and gentle desperation. His eyes locked with dark ones under the moonlight, and he breathed against Madara's lips. "And then I will marry you." Without another word, the Senju turned, rising slowly from the brush outside the Senju compound, his five Uchiha behind him and rushed the gates, knocking out two shinobi standing guard before making a beeline for the main hall where she was surely waiting.

Kou shot through a group at the entrance, sword gleaming with blood and breathing fire to disperse more arriving at the sound of screams. Izuna set fire to the ground, another barrier between them and the gathering forces outside the great hall. Tobirama took one look at Madara before he burst through the doors, alarming all the shinobi in the room. With lightning speed he was upon his mother's table before her, towering over her, a warrior in dark robes, face as white a snow. Eyes and markings as red as the blood he was about to spill.

The hall went eerily quiet.

"Hello, Mother." Ram. Monkey. Boar. Horse. Tiger. And she went up in flames.

#madatobi #madara uchiha #madara #madarauchiha #tobirama senju #tobiramasenju #tobirama #tobimada #fairytale rewrites

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ren-c-leyn · 5 years

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To Duel a God...

It’s been a while since I’ve done a short story for this blog, thought I might give it a try since I’m still under the weather but want to try to stick to the habit of writing. This is a fusion story that I’ve been squirreling away prompts for for a while. I’m excited to finally have enough pieces in place to write it.

The prompts in question are these 1,2,3,4,5,6 by the always amazing @thependragonwritersguild, this one by @thewholekitandkabobble, these 1,2,3,4 by the lovely @givethispromptatry, and these 1,2 by @humdrummoloch. Thank you all for your hard work to make so many amazing prompts ^-^

Story warnings: This is a fight story, so there is fictional violence. It also mentions death in passing, but nothing in any great detail. There is a little swearing, as well.

It started with an old memory; a tiny cry from the void of hollow emptiness that had been eating me alive since that living nightmare.

Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t have to be any of those things to become a great hero. After all, heroes of legend are not the strongest or the wisest of us. They are those who had the selflessness and courage to do what was right.

But I know I am not one of those people. I had never been one of those people. If I had been, I would have been able to save him. If I am now, I would be able to avenge them now.

Perhaps my first warning that I still wasn’t one of those people should have been the way her face blanched at my statement and argued with me for an hour over it. Or, perhaps it should have been in my statement itself.

I’m going to challenge a god to a duel at sunrise on the anniversary.

Maybe they’d even add a line to the adventurer’s hand guide dedicated solely to warn against my insanity at the end of this: ‘Protip: Don’t challenge gods to duels.’

“You must understand! It was a hard fought victory; a truce that you are threatening to tear apart!”

“I don’t care. I promised nothing and was privy to no truce. I walk my own path and care little for the gods and their business.”

My best friend, my former comrade, the woman I had shed sweat and blood and tears with just searched my face with a lost sort of expression, similar to the one we had both worn that day, the anniversary, as we stared at the piles of corpses stacked up to impossible heights.

Eventually she sighed, shoulders sagging as her eyes closed.

“Why do you always do this?” she asked, voice tired and raspy.

“Why do you always ask me that when you know the answer you’ll get?”

And those dull, rust-colored eyes opened partly again.

“What’s going to happen to everything after you are gone?”

“I dunno. I’ll be dead, my friend. Figure it out for yourself.”

She snorted.

“So you admit this will be what finally kills you?”

“It’s more that I admit that I cannot guarantee it won’t, even with my so called talents. Still... can we really just sit back and say we’re fine with how things turned out in the end?”

“Obviously you cannot, and I cannot stop you. Go then, Payback. Do what it is you do best. I won’t join in your foolishness, but I will stand witness to your duel. I trust it will take place in the usual ring?”

A grim smile crept onto my face as I turned away from her desk and began to stride to the door.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With my friend and queen’s permission, or at least reluctant surrender, on the matter, I set about issuing my challenge. This proved to be the hard part. No priest or priestess in their right minds were willing to send my message to the war god, not even those of questionable sanity wanted to get involved, and several temples threw me out on my ear, quite literally. The last of which was the war god’s high temple itself.

Well, fine then. If I couldn’t get my challenge to the bastard through a third party, I’d just have to do it myself.

I climbed up the pillars, ignoring the indignant shouts of priests and temple guardians as I scaled up the front of the so called holy site, clawed my way through the ornate carvings depicting great battles and heroes, and then finally drug my armored arse over the lip of the roofing to get on top of the building itself.

Standing as straight as I could, I cupped my hands to my mouth and inhaled. Then, all at once, I roared up to the sky.

“WAR GOD!!! I CHALLENGE YOU IN SINGLE COMBAT FOR THE HONOR OF MY FALLEN FRIENDS! COME TO THE HILL OF ROSES ON THE SUNRISE OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DAY YOU BUTCHERED THEM LIKE THE COWARD YOU ARE AND I SHALL HONOR THEIR MEMORIES WITH YOUR HEAD!”

Then, there was silence. A dead silence that was quite out of place for any part of the capital city. I wasn’t even sure if the people who heard me issue my challenge were breathing, but I couldn’t care less. They could hide in fear all they wanted, but I had faced god beasts and their other minions in the fields of battle during our war against the gods. I had looked servants of death in the eye, and even played cards with one during my queen’s negotiations for peace. There was nothing for me to fear from the other side.

Still, I found the silence a bit uneasy. Was I being ignored? Usually, my opponents responded to my challenged rather quickly. For example, you know the wizard accepts your challenge when a crimson bolt strikes. You know a thieves’ guild leader accepts your challenge when you have a knife and a dead snake pinned to the inside of your inn door the next morning.But how does one know when a god decides to accept a challenge?

Blood red lightening shot down from a cloudless sky and shattered an ancient oak that had been on the grounds for centuries.

I guessed that answered my question. The bastard had heard me alright, and it looked like he accepted my challenge. A broad grin split my face. Good, this would be fun.

Two weeks passed with nonstop training and uneasy anticipation. The nightmares of the past came and went in tides, mixing in with the present. Instead of falling victim to them, I used them to motivate myself, remind myself why I had to do this.

Then, the fateful morning came, or rather, the pre-dawn darkness before a fateful morning came. The queen and I stood on my usual dueling grounds, a flat-topped hill crowned with blood-red roses. It was a fitting place to die... for my enemies. Neither of us said a word to each other as we watched the eastern sky, waiting for our old enemy to appear.

Just as the deep blues of night began to turn yellow, and rays of sunlight began to caress the rosebuds, we felt it. That familiar stomach-twisting sickness from raw power. Both of us tensed.

Red lightening struck again, dancing in the center of the ring before us. It balled up, glowing brighter, and then went out entirely, revealing a tall man in strange armor made of heavenly metals and fangs and claws and hides of god beasts. A giant sword rested in his left hand, and a battle ax as broad as the queen’s shoulders rested in his right. Behind him was a cloaked figure I recognized as the commander of the war god’s army. She gave a nod to the queen and I, and we gave a nod back.

“Well, mortal, I believe we have a score to settle. Yes?” the war god’s deep voice growled out slowly, mockingly. “It shouldn’t take us more than a minute.”

I grinned up at him.

“I would think not. I should have your ugly head ready for my wall in thirty seconds.”

He howled out a laugh.

“You think you can kill me?”

“I think I can try and if I can’t then at least I can be an obstacle. I might even be able to make you bleed, or worse. Whose to know if we don’t fight?”

He chuckled darkly with a smirk to match.

“You will be lost in the land of the dead long before you make me bleed, mortal.”

A dark smile of my own surfaced.

“ I’m already as dead as my mercy. Come to think of it, you’re the one that killed me, on the inside anyways. You see, after you lose everything good in your life, all you can do is laugh. Laugh because you somehow managed to die along the way, but can’t remember where. But don’t worry, I have just enough mercy left in me to just make my vengeance killing you, instead of killing everyone you care about and turning you into a living ghost too.”

He sneered at me.

“Bold words for the empty shell of a pitiful creature. Don’t worry, I’ll put you out of your misery today. Witnesses! Begin the proceedings.”

“Yes,” the queen and the general answered instantly.

They both stepped back into the roses on opposite ends of the massive ring. Part of me wondered if they’d be okay, but it was a little late to take that into account now. They ran us through the dueling formalities, asking us to bow to each other, step back the appropriate number of steps, get into our stances, and then they began the count.

“Three, two, one, you may begin.”

They hadn’t even finished saying begin when the war god was bearing down on me, bringing both of his massive weapons down on each of my shoulders. I heard the queen scream, but I could only grin.

Invincibility is a real good time. Whenever someone tries to maim you, they always end up taking the damage. I just wish I had clothes to support that fighting style. Well, the cost of this armor was nothing in comparison to the priceless look of shock on the dumbass’s face when his own divine weapons bounced off my bones and sunk into his shoulders.

“H-how? What sorcerery is this?!” he hissed as he stumbled back.

“Oh, I guess no one told you. What a pity, for you. I’m the last person you want to fight. Every time you hurt me, it just reverberates back to you. My friends call me Payback.”

He laughed.

“I see, I guess I’ll have to stop fighting you like a mortal, and fight you as an equal!”

Lightening struck me and I felt it burn down to my bones. His weapons glowed red and he swung at me. Instinct kicked in and my body jerked out of the way, but the sword still caught my hand, leaving the first wound I had received on a battlefield in years.I retaliated with my own blade, going after joints and thinner spots of the armor. He blocked, dodged, countered, I ducked, rolled, and stabbed.

The longer the deadly dance of steel and lightening strikes went, the more of my blood dripped onto the trampled grass and hardened earth.

Ah. The one person I can’t defeat. Lovely.

And despite myself, I started laughing at the thought. Laughing as I rolled under his ax’s head and came up right in front of him, only to be kicked in the gut by the boot. I went down, and red lightening made sure I stayed down. As I laid there, jerking uncontrollably, I heard the heavily armored boots advancing on me.

Then, there was a bright white light.

“Enough,” a woman’s voice echoed.

“Out of my way, Life, the punk challenged me, not you.”

“The battle has been decided, War, lay down your arms.”

“It has not ended, it was a duel to the death.”

I heard her laugh, laugh right in his face. Had to hand it to her, she had nerve. I respected that. As much as a person spasming in the dirt can respect anything, of course.

“What’s so funny?” War demanded.

“In accordance to the treaty we made with the humans, duels to the death are prohibited.”

“Then why did you allow him to issue the challenge?!”

“I assumed to accepted knowing that you weren’t allowed to kill.”

“And if that mortal were to have defeated me, would you be hovering here in my defense as well?” he demanded.

“Of course, of course, it is my duty to uphold the treaty. Now take your bow, do your boasting, and let us return.”

I blacked out about half way through his big victory speech. Whether it was from boredom or the lightening still working its way through my body, I couldn’t say.

When I woke up, I was laying on the floor in the queen’s office while she scribbled something down with her quill.

“Still breathing?” she asked after a moment.

“Yeah....”

“Good.”

There was a long stretch of silence between the tense good and the end of whatever it was she was writing. When she put the quill down, though, I knew I was in trouble. She slowly turned in her chair, rust eyes narrowing at me.

“You know what? I’m gonna say it: you deserved that. You deserved all of that, including the awful speech he gave at the end of your duel. What kind of idiot challenges the war god to single combat? He’s the god of combat you twit!”

And it was half way through her speech that I realized Life had even less mercy than I did.

#my writing #short story #fiction #fantasy #high fantasy #angst #battle scene #writeblr #writer #am writing #long short story #a story by Ren

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jajko493 · 5 years

Photo

I decided to sketch out my Enderal Prophetess, since I’ve already drawn her twice. While ingame I can’t quite play with her clothes, I kinda see her in this outfit in my head. The background is literally just a scribble, so as to not leave space empty tho, mhhh. More about her in the full post, and spoilers up until the end of the game are aplenty. It’s a long one, I can’t seem to be able to be more concise!

Her name is Rak’hel. Her name, rather than being pronounced as Rachel (sir Firespark would most probably beg to differ), goes like this: rack-hell, with a very hard h. She’s half-Qyranian, obviously.

She’s a particularly tall woman, towering over many. She cut her hair shortly before leaving for Enderal, seeing it as troublesome to maintain while traveling. Three scars are present on her face, gained from a fight with a particularly meddlesome customer, not pleased with his soup. With but a bit of grace and her usual stern expression, she could be perceived as emotionless. Paired with her reluctancy to speak much and sparse shows of being emotional, it is no wonder. One who gets closer, though, gets to experience a range of both quiet and loud feelings dwelling inside.

When worried about you, she definitely would try to stick close to you, to the point of keeping some physical contact at all times, hoping to never have the chance to see something bad happen.

Were you to anger her, by showing extreme lack of respect by walking out mid quarrel, leaving her helpless and unable to finish the topic, she wouldn’t scream - but it’d be visible. With clear rage on her face, she could even slam her fist on the wall, the table (not a person, never!). Afterwards, her glass would be filled with mead and wine until the next day, to empty her head of worries and thoughts. Reason as well.

Goodness, at least she’s strong when it comes to alcohol.

‘That son of a Vatyr is going to regret this’, she spoke into her cup, gripping it as if planning to break it.

When happy, her expression softens, revealing a delicate smile. One blemished with a scar on the left side of her rip, slightly pulling it upwards. Definitely expect jokes, and not just the proper kind! She isn’t squeamish when it comes to physical pleasures.

She doesn’t remember much of her childhood, with her mind repressing the memories due to events related to her house burning down, which she can’t quite forget, due to frequent nightmares making her relive the event in horrible ways. It’s not as if she’s eager to discuss and exactly remember what happened, anyway.

She toiled away her teenage years mostly in kitchens of inns and taverns, training herself to maybe, just maybe, open one of her own in the future - though that prospect became as distant as it possibly could, with Nehrim being swayed by chaos of war after the death of Lightborn. With her workplace burnt down by the time she was 25, alongside her long time friend, Sirius, she decided to look for a new one in Enderal.

There, she quickly picked up alchemy, seeing it as an extension of cooking. Do not let her do both at the same time. Separately, she creates dishes that taste just like home and high quality concoctions. Mix them, and you just might find ghost wrappings in your tomato soup. Or worse - tomato in your stamina poison. She’s willing to take any challenge, there are no impossible recipes - only more difficult ones.

‘There are no negative effects in cures, or beneficial factors in venoms. There are only well- and badly distilled elixirs.’

Though not well versed in contract, she trains her muscle with swords, preferring two-handed to one-handed. Not quite logically, she prefers light armor to the heavy variety.

Suddenly gaining the ability to use magic was initially shocking. Tragically inspired by the two Apothecari, Finn and Carbos, whom she briefly met at the start of her journey in Enderal, she decided to teach herself in the school of Restoration.

If all went well in her adventures, she’d wish to gather enough money from her adventures to open an inn with place for healers beside it. If not as well, then at least she could manage traveling by herself, with potions she made (especially with the ability to recite every combination for health potion and ambrosia) and magic. Any companions she had - she could save.

‘All to not be left alone.’

And yet, after befriending some in the Order and outside of it, finding a soulmate in a certain cynical, yet endearing mercenary, she once again felt alone. Working alongside everyone against the incoming Cleansing, which felt closer and closer with each step towards stopping it. She figured a last-ditch effort would be necessary to counteract it. Learning that not only was she one of the key elements in bringing it to reality struck her deeply. On top of that, she wasn’t even fully real or alive - despite how alive has she felt exploring the wilderness of the Dark Valley, or hiding during a sandstorm close to Duneville. If, as the Black Guardian said, her dear one turned out to not have survived as well, she wasn’t sure she’d bother saving Vyn.

‘Hopeless’, she muttered. ‘Absolutely hopeless.’

But he was alive, and, by the Gods! He was there with her. And what more reassurance could she need? She stood next to him in battles, he survived her fury after running away, he wanted a future with her. But...

From the choices she could take, only one of them could lead to them staying together - and it was the most painful one.

Her decision, in the end, was to sacrifice herself to give this world a bit more time to figure out how to save itself. Shaping a new humanity into better kind was not something she deemed herself to be capable of. What she could do, however, is believe in the one she allowed to fly away on a Myrad before effectively dissolving into nonexistence.

...yeah, no. She wasn’t quite so willing to sacrifice herself. It wasn’t a suicide - it was a challenge, and the name of it was Dreamflower Elixir.

Having brewed it on her own, she wasn’t sure it was done well, and if it would work. She struck the Black Stones of the Beacon without believing she’d make it through. Could she cheat the Death itself?

Surprisingly, she opened her eyes again, after already accepting she was done for.

For all intents and purposes, she’d never again say she ‘woke up’ - and she was right about it. All the traveling and adventures she met on her path, whether alone or accompanied by her loved one, she took as just another chapter of a dream, granted to her as a reward for giving up her chance at fleeting, but real happiness.

Throughout endless conversations, she’d always go back to this very line of thought.

‘It is most probably a dream, but it’s not as if I mind, she declared in the same calm voice as always, despite the protests of her partner. Standing with her back against the railing of veranda with admittedly a dreamy view, in a gown that left little to imagine, she spouted what one could perceive as nothing but utter nonsense at times. ‘I welcome it, in fact. I am with you, and that matters to me. But it could have been different, you know. Maybe not as nice. But goodness... Just, the fact that it is so nice is what keeps me uncertain. Only Malphas would know the truth, I suppose.’

Indeed, she was dreaming. In a split of second, the Dreamflower created a soft cushion of illusion to shield her from reality. And it started showing cracks - it’s no good for it when the dreamer is too aware.

It all had to go deeper.

When she turned around after being met with no response to her monologue, she saw that she was alone. Furthermore, after blinking to make sure it wasn’t the peaceweed affecting her vision, she noticed she wasn’t even on the veranda anymore. Instead, she stood in a pure, white space, with a field of lightly glowing nightflowers at her feet. One more glance around, and she was met with The Veiled--- no, not her.

A veiled woman. But a different one, with a flower attached on the side of her head. By the gods, what kind of sick joke is her mind playing on her?

Then, she presented her an offer, almost too good to be true. Yet, Rak’hel somehow believed in it.

She was given a chance to start anew. Explore a different eventuality. Not leave the dream to experience the future, but try again, and possibly change it?

Utter foolishness. Absolutely unreal.

But, if magic was all about exploring different eventualities... Maybe this was one where that could actually happen?

Swayed by the prospect of seeing Enderal again, she agreed. With a snap of the woman’s finger, Rak’hel blinked and---

She was woken up from a nightmare by Sirius. She sat there dazed for a couple of seconds, before chuckling at her friend’s joke. If they had a penny for all the times he did it, they’d be traveling in their own starship, and she’d definitely have a barber cut her hair beforehand. It’s getting too long and troublesome.

Some people like to create fluffy AUs where everyone is happy, some like to instead torture their characters even more. Guess I’m the second one.

Kinda prompted into writing by this song.

#enderal #Enderal: Forgotten Stories #oc #prophetess #prophet #the prophetess #kind of fanfiction #this writing got out of hand #rak'hel #sasanka sketches #sasanka jajko art

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chibinightowl · 5 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole, Chapter Seven

Almost done! A big thanks to @myfavrobin because without you, this chapter wouldn’t have been whipped into shape!

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six

~*~*~

And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tulgey wood, and burbled as it came!

Well, that’s one thing the poem definitely has wrong. This version of the Jabberwocky doesn’t burble. It cackles, the sound of which makes nails on a chalkboard seem like the finest symphony orchestra.

Jason comes up with a new name for the creature, one that will probably fit better than he cares to think about once he has a chance to see it.

The Jokerwocky.

Abruptly, he stands and heads to the top of the stairs, his long strides eating up the short distance.

“Are you crazy?” Tim-Cat hisses. He follows and manages to snag his claws in the back of Jason’s jacket before he descends. “The Red Knight could be anywhere.”

“Thought you could sense him?” Jason tries to shrug off the Cat, but he doesn’t let go.

“I can’t. Not him. The Red Queen has done something to his aura. He’s like that dark spot you see if you look at the sun for too long. There’s nothing until he’s right on top of you.”

“That has to suck for you.”

Tim-Cat scoffs. “I have no idea who he is, so yes, it does. Anyway, will you just slow down? This is a trap, in case you’d forgotten.”

He hasn’t. But he’s sick and tired of these goddamned games. “Yeah, it is. But is it for me or for you? The Red Queen doesn’t have a fucking clue who I am, so everything that’s happened since I got here has to be directed toward the White Queen, and by extension, you. Or do the Tweedles get kidnapped on a regular basis?” Dick still can’t quite live down his old nickname of Boy Hostage, no matter how old he’s gotten. No one comes even close to the number of times he’s been taken captive, on purpose or not.

The Cheshire Cat’s grip tightens. “What you’re speaking of is an act of war. There hasn’t been one since the Court of Cards toppled and the Red and White factions took power.”

Yet again, Jason marvels over the depth and richness of the world he’s dreamed up. When this is over (it has to be over soon, it has to be), he might just have to write this shit down, if only for his own amusement.

“I’m surprised your Knight’s death didn’t start a new one.”

“The White Queen wouldn’t let me.” Tim-Cat’s tone says exactly what he still thinks about that and Jason can’t blame him. If the roles were reversed and something happened to his Tim… well, it’s not gonna be pretty.

“I’ll lead then,” Jason replies. “No one here expects me. Just watch my back and take any opportunity you see to grab the sword.”

Tim-Cat growls low in his throat and presses his lips to Jason’s in a brief yet fierce kiss, nipping at his bottom lip with those sharp fangs. “I know better than to warn you about not doing anything dangerous, so don’t do anything stupid.”

Jason grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

~*~*~

There’s something missing when Jason saunters into the parlor like he owns it the place. All the hideously rich furniture and presumptuous paintings are there and exactly as he remembers. Even the curtains match his memories. A surprisingly cheerful fire is laid in the fireplace, glowing warmly against the gloom.

No, what has him stopping short is the annoying lack of anyone in the room besides him.

What the hell is going on?

“I thought for sure she’d be in here,” Tim-Cat mutters behind him. “Why else have a fire when the rest of the house is dark?”

“This is Harley Quinn or your world’s version of her,” Jason replies, cautiously stepping further into the room to look around. “I never pretend to understand what’s going on in that head.”

The Cheshire Cat slinks his way around him and stops, planting hands on hips as he frowns. “What are we missing?”

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

It still echoes from everywhere and nowhere, a disembodied voice that, in an odd way, really does burble. If you called sending shivers down your spine and icepicks into your brain a proper burble. Jason would much rather hear a burbling brook in some idyllic countryside than this shit.

He’s had enough. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouts into the void that is the empty house. “No one wants to hear your shitty laugh!”

The silence is even more disturbing than before.

Tim-Cat wheels around and smacks him. “I swear, you must be mad. That’s the Jabberwocky!”

“Who can die just like anyone else with the right piece of equipment,” Jason retorts. They need to find that sword so they can get the fuck out of this nightmare. “I’m sick of this little game. Besides, I think know where they are.”

The Cat pales. “Where?”

“In the cave beneath the house.”

“The what?”

Jason jerks his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

“How do you even know…?”

He places a hand on the door frame and looks back at the disgruntled cat. Tim’s tail lashes wild from side to side, the only sign of his agitation. “Because I know the inside of this place like the back of my own goddamned hand.”

To prove it, Jason marches out of the room, across the foyer, and heads deeper into the house, his steps unerringly heading toward a room that in the waking world is Bruce’s study.

It’s almost annoying that it still is when he opens the door. Doubts he had about this being something other than a dream start to dissipate, leaving behind questions over just how fucked up his head really is.

The study is almost pitch black, the only light coming from a freshly cracked glowstick and the occasional lightning from the storm still churning overhead. But all the furniture is as it should be, and Jason is tempted to take a closer look at the pictures hanging on the wall. Is there one of him, locked in stasis as the world moves on around him? Or are portraits here like in Harry Potter and the images come to life?

He’s crossing enough genres that it’s entirely plausible.

Tim-Cat is cautious as he peers around him, eyes luminous in the eerie blue glow. “What is this place?”

A number of answers come to mind, but Jason picks the most honest one. “A place where, for the first time in my life, I was given magic.”

“You’re a magician?”

“Not literal magic,” he explains. “But at the time, it sure felt like it.”

Call him a sap, but Tim makes him feel the same way and not just because of what he can do with his tongue.

Jason digs through his jacket and finds his actual flashlight. No point in hiding their presence anymore, not that they were doing that stellar of a job anymore. “Here, it’ll probably be pitch black down there.”

Tim-Cat holds it up curiously. “What is this?”

“A light that won’t go out.” It’s got the Batman seal of approval on it, it sure as fuck better not go out because of a cheap-ass battery or shitty bulb. “Click that little switch.”

“Oh wow,” the Cheshire Cat breathes as he complies, the strong beam of light illuminating the far side of the study where an old grandfather clock rests tall and proud against the wall.

“Hold it right there,” Jason instructs, crossing the study in a few swift strides to stand in front of the oh-so-familiar clock and adjust the time.

For some reason, his heart starts pounding, the beat loud in his ears. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, maybe it’s the anticipation of finally getting to punch something. Hell, maybe it’s the fact that this dream quest/hallucination will be over soon. Whatever it is, the adrenaline rush is welcome.

Especially since the Red Knight lunges out of the clock entrance as soon as Jason opens it, sword in hand and ready to make his life fucking hurt.

“Goddammit!”

He ducks under the initial strike, hearing Tim-Cat’s surprised shout and not being able to do a damn thing about it as he focuses on not getting sliced with a sword that’s making a very strange noise every time the Red Knight swings.

Almost like…

Jason dances out of the way again, doing his best to stay out of range of the blade that’s going snicker-snack.

“He’s got the vorpal sword!” Tim-Cat cries out, voice laced with indignation and rage. “He’s using my Knight’s sword!”

The outburst draws the attention of the Red Knight. He pauses, gaze shifting from Jason to the Cheshire Cat. A low growl is heard from under his helmet and he lunges to the right to try and get around Jason.

He’s not fast enough.

“Nice try, buddy.” Jason slams into him, trying to force the man off balance enough to trip him, but it doesn’t work. The Knight recovers his footing but tries again to move past him toward Tim-Cat.

Jason feels rather smug that he called it earlier, that all of this is a trap of some sort for the Cheshire Cat, emissary or whatever he is, of the White Queen. “He’s after you, Cat! Get outta here!”

“Like hell I will!” Tim-Cat shadows his footsteps, keeping the light aimed at the Red Knight as he bounces around the room, as much at ease on the furniture as he is on the floor.

Once again, Jason wishes he had his own hood with him. The protection it provides would even the odds as the vorpal sword gives the Red Knight a much longer reach. He’s at a disadvantage unless he can get in close. Faster than conscious thought, he analyzes the Knight’s movements, his armor, looking for a weakness. He’s good, Jason will grant him that. Very good. What he needs is a distraction, something to make his opponent sloppy.

That gives him an idea. “What the fuck’s got you riled up, huh? Pissed off about your pet kitty?”

Behind him, Tim-Cat makes a strangled sound. “What are you doing?”

“What I do best.” Jason avoids another swing and instantly ducks low, trying for a leg swipe that fails as the blade follows after him. He rolls away and bounces back to his feet. “That was me, fucker. What kind of owner are you, leaving a poor, defenseless Bandersnatch out in the rain?”

The Red Knight doesn’t say a word, but his breathing grows more ragged and his swings more and more erratic the longer Jason runs his mouth. Despite that, he doesn’t provide an opening, his offense seamlessly blending into defense the few times Jason attempts an attack.

And then it's there.

But the opening isn’t there for him. It’s for the Cheshire Cat.

Tim-Cat leaps from his perch on the desk, claws extended, leaving the flashlight behind. He lands on the Red Knight’s back with a feral howl, slashing at the material comprising the Knight’s armor. “Give it back! Give it back!” he growls, sending shreds of metal and fabric everywhere.

Jason is momentarily startled because those very same claws were digging into his shoulders this morning, but then he’s moving, taking that step into the reach of the sword and grabbing hold of the Knight’s wrist, wrenching it wide and away from him.

They struggle for control, the Knight not completely out of the game yet even with the Cheshire Cat still wreaking havoc from behind. The Knight tries to redirect them, crowding closer to the still open doorway leading down into the cave, but Jason plants his feet, adjusts his grip, and sends the helmeted man head over heels.

Tim-Cat jumps gracefully from his back to land on his feet, pivoting smoothly to kick the vorpal sword out of the Knight’s hand. “If this sword belongs to anyone, it’s me,” he hisses, picking it up while staying well out of reach.

Jason can’t fault that logic, but he’s got other things to deal with. He’s quick to follow the Red Knight to the floor, pinning him and making a point to drive his knee into the shredded remains of what looks like a flak jacket. There’s no time to question the material, out of place as it is in this dreamscape, as the Knight finally makes a sound, a harsh grunt that turns into a growl.

The cowled helm turns toward the Cheshire Cat. “Mine,” a deep voice rasps out.

“Nice try, asshat,” Jason replies, digging his knee in harder to force another pained grunt. “But that sword belongs to the White Knight.”

Technically, it probably belongs to the White Queen, but he has no plans to get between Tim-Cat and Babs when they try and figure that out.

“Mine,” the Red Knight says again, this time trying to inch his way along the floor toward the Cheshire Cat despite being immobilized.

“Single-minded, aren’t cha?” Jason comments. He has his hands full trying to keep the Knight still. The big man twists and squirms just like he does whenever Dick or Bruce manages to pin him on the training mats. Dick, the annoying fucker, likes to sit on him.

“He sure is,” Tim-Cat replies. He carefully tucks the sword into his belt and picks up the flashlight, shining it in the Knight's face. “This is the first time any of us have managed to get this close to the Red Knight. The White Queen will be generous in her reward if we find out who's under that helmet.”

“Whatever, just make it fast. I can't secure him without your help.”

“Mine,” the Knight growls, sounding more frustrated than before.

“That shiny piece of metal doesn't belong to you, big guy,” Jason replies, adjusting his grip while contending with a wild buck from the man beneath him. Looks like he's not the only one on an adrenaline fueled high. “This’ll be a lot easier if we tie him up. I got cuffs and zip-ties in my outer pocket. Grab ‘em for me, will ya?”

“I have no idea what a zip-tie is,” Tim-Cat states, but he gamely digs through Jason’s pockets anyway.

“You’re doin’ just fine.” Jason guides his partner through how to use the sturdy, Bat-approved, pieces of plastic. Once the Red Knight’s absolutely wicked gauntlets are removed, his hands are easily secured. However, when the Cheshire Cat tackles his legs, the bound man doesn’t make easy for him.

“We could just kill him,” Tim-Cat snarls after a near miss with a heavily booted foot. “For all we know, he’s the one who killed my Knight in the first place.”

The callousness takes Jason aback as he finally releases the Red Knight and kicks him solidly in the ribs to keep him from moving. The knees of his uniform are wet and tacky with blood. “You mean you don’t know who killed him?”

“The White Queen never told me who it was.” Tim-Cat’s voice takes on a sorrowful tone before firming once again. “Maybe she’ll let me have this one’s head.”

Jason rests a hand on the Cat’s shoulder, forcing him to look up. “Hey. Far be it for me to tell you not to take your revenge, but I just gotta point out a little something.”

“What?” Tim-Cat asks warily.

“Revenge won’t bring back the mome-raths.”

The Cheshire Cat chokes back a sob, brushing away tears that suddenly glisten in his bright blue eyes. “You’re right,” he says after a moment. “You’re completely right.”

“It happens sometimes.” Jason shrugs, then nods toward the Red Knight who has finally stopped squirming. “Let’s unmask him.”

He straddles the broad back and feels around for the hidden catches in the helmet while Tim-Cat holds the light steady. Oddly enough, they’re in the same place he has them on his own hood.

Jason’s guts suddenly feel like lead and his hands tremble faintly as he draws off the Red Knight’s helm. It can’t be. Even his brain won’t do that to him.

Right?

Tim-Cat gasps and drops the flashlight, falling to his knees as his already pale skin loses what little color it had.

The Knight coughs and raises his head, glaring balefully as he tries to buck Jason off him again. “Mine,” he growls, eyes locked on the Cheshire Cat. “My Cat.”

Jason knows without even looking who the Red Knight is, who he’s been fighting since he leapt out from the clock. The irony isn’t lost on him.

He’s been battling himself.

Okay, so his subconscious really is that jacked up because what the fuck? This is so much deeper than Jason wants to explore, not right now when he’s so close to the end.

Tears are streaming down Tim-Cat’s face as he falls to his knees before the bound Red Knight. “What happened to you? I can’t... I can’t sense you!”

Jason shoves his own feeling about everything to the side to deal with later. He’s got an idea thanks to another Wonderland-themed villain back home. “Even without the helmet?”

The Cheshire Cat doesn’t even spare him a glance. “No,” he replies after a moment.

“Hmm...” Jason removes a glove and runs a hand through the Knight’s matted hair. Just above his left ear, he finds a small lump that shouldn’t be there. “Gimme that light, would ya?”

Tim-Cat numbly complies.

The Knight doesn’t like any of this and continues to struggle toward his cat.

“Hold still, would ya? If I’m right, I know why you’re not in your right mind anymore.” Jason angles the light over the bump and pushes away the hair as best he can.

Sure enough, there’s a scar, about an inch long and as thick as Tim’s pinky.

“What is it?” Tim-Cat asks, rousing himself from his grief. Considering what he said just before they unmasked the Knight, he’s probably feeling like a complete and utter ass.

“Something was done to his head. I’ve seen this in my world before, but always with hats.” Jason frowns and runs the pad of his finger lightly over the spot. There’s no give. “I can feel something under his skin.”

“Get it out,” Tim hisses.

“I’m not exactly prepared to do brain surgery, Cat. This could be right under the skin or have wires all over his brain. I don’t about you, but do you really want him to have permanent brain damage if I’m wrong?” He quietly shudders at the memory of Mad Hatter Brucie. The last thing he wants is to turn any version of himself into that.

“Then we need to get out of here and return to the White Queen.” Tim-Cat rise smoothly to his feet. “We have what we came for. Help me carry him.”

The thought of lugging the Red Knight all the way across the garden isn’t appealing in the slightest, but Jason can’t see another alternative. “I don’t want him fighting us the whole way,” he says instead. “Think you can calm him down? He’s reacting to you instead of the sword. I think...”

It’s vaguely reassuring that the Knight won’t take his eyes off his Cat. Even out of his mind, he knows the one he loves most. Do he and his Tim have this kind of bond? That’s actually kind of terrifying now that he thinks about it, but also rather reassuring.

“That’s easy enough to test.” Tim-Cat hands him the vorpal sword. “Now give me some space.”

Jason juggles the sword and the flashlight momentarily and stands, leaving the Knight to squirm around on the floor.

Sure enough, the Knight completely ignores Jason and the sword. “Mine,” he says again and tries to inch his way toward the Cheshire Cat.

“Was his vocabulary more extensive before all this?” Jason asks, trying not to be a complete and utter dick.

“It was.” Sadness etches itself across Tim-Cat’s face as he kneels again and brushes a claw over his Knight’s cheek. The large man presses against the touch as best he can. “He was the finest poet in the White Queen’s court.”

There’s a quiet dig there, but Jason pointedly ignores it. His Tim has no problem with how he speaks, fuck you very much. “Okay, let’s find something we can bind his back with and get the hell outta here.”

He glances toward the still-open clock and the dark abyss beyond. It’s like a gaping maw of nothingness, waiting to swallow anything that gets trapped in its grasping claws. A chill breeze moves the stagnant air in the study, damp and with a metallic tang that he knows all too well.

Blood.

Closing the door seems like a good idea. A really good idea. Keeping the light aimed away from it, Jason lays a hand on the grandfather clock and pushes with exactly the right amount of force learned through night after night of racing Bruce down to the cave after dinner so they could get ready for patrol.

It doesn’t move.

Frowning, Jason shoves harder.

Still nothing.

Tim-Cat looks up from his Knight. “This is the Red Queen’s castle. She can do whatever she wants in here.”

That much is obvious. Jason abandons the door and crosses the room to the window, his strides long and hurried. He’s starting to feel trapped. Trapped in this house, in this world, betrayed by his own mind.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to wake the fuck up.

One of the curtains is ripped from the window, heavy and dusty, but Jason doesn’t think the linen closet off the laundry will be any better and he doesn’t dare venture back upstairs to see if the house morphs back into Arkham Asylum or remains Wayne Manor. The Knight isn’t cooperative unless Tim-Cat is where he can see him, whispering soothing words and lightly caressing his cheek as Jason tends to his back.

There’s an almost childlike quality about the man. Innocent in a way, at least when he has what he wants.

Jason is self-aware enough to recognize he’s seeing a certain aspect of his personality here, one that never has a chance to appear these days. Or does it? He spares a moment to think about their quiet afternoons when they first wake up, where both of their guards are down, still muddled by sleep. Their video games and movie nights. Hell, even the occasional food fight when they both are feeling particularly sassy and are making dinner together.

What’s interesting to see is that each memory has Tim associated with it. Is he the key that fits into the lock that shields and protects that part of himself that had so few instances to reveal itself as a child?

When he wakes up, he’s got a hell of a lot to think about. Maybe he’ll even take the time to do it.

Jason sighs and finishes the quick dressing for the jagged slashes ripped into the Knight’s back by his lover’s claws. Those are going to hurt later and he’s sure the Cheshire Cat already feels guilty as hell. He rips another curtain from the window for the makeshift sling they’ll need to haul his dream-self around in. Considering the distance, they’ll need it, especially since the Cat insists they can take turns once they’re out of here.

“Assuming we get out of here in one piece,” Jason says in a low tone, glancing at the grandfather clock. It’s been deathly quiet since the Red Knight emerged from the stairwell leading down to the cave and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Tim-Cat follows his gaze. “I would sooner die than lose my Knight again,” he states evenly, almost as though he’s making a vow.

Jason frowns, but doesn’t poke. For all that this is just a dream, it’s sure as hell masquerading quite nicely as reality.

The Knight doesn’t like being so close to Jason once they get him into the sling but settles once Tim-Cat shushes him. “Mine,” he repeats, glaring at Jason.

“I know, buddy. I know. Don’t worry, I got my own Tim.”

It’s slow going as they make their way out of the room, even after stripping the Knight of most of his armor and weapons to lighten the load. Apparently even dream versions of himself are heavy as fuck. The vorpal sword is now sheathed and strapped at Jason’s waist. The argument that Tim-Cat should just teleport and take it directly to the White Queen fell on deaf ears.

“She tasked you with returning it, not me.”

Damn logic.

When they reach the foyer, it’s completely dark, the fire from the sitting room no longer burning cheerfully against the gloom. The darkness feels more oppressive than before. There’s a weight to it, one that drags and bites at his ankles with each step he takes. Jason swallows hard and gamely continues on toward the front door, the flashlight illuminating the way.

Something is watching them, waiting. Biding its time. He’s been in the game long enough to know.

Tim-Cat senses it too but doesn’t move from his spot at Jason’s side and keeps the light aimed on the door. His ears are upright, alert and twitching from side to side trying to pick out where the attack will come from.

They’re just a few steps from the door when the house itself groans, loud and low as the very foundations shake around them. Jason staggers, almost falling to his knees as the black and white tile cracks around them.

A voice speaks up, echoing around them so that it appears to come from everywhere.

“Ja-son. Jaaaa-son. Come out, come out wherever you are. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”

Jesus Christ, he’d know that voice anywhere, even without the insane laughter at the end.

“Move.” Jason all but shoves his way forward and grabs hold of the doorknob.

“He’s been released!” Tim-Cat sounds frantic, eyes are wide and wild, neck craning as he tries to look around everywhere at once. “Oh, White Queen, the Jabberwocky is free.”

A second voice joins the cacophony, higher pitched, and no less mad.

“HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE! Puddin’ wants to play!”

Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamned crutch. He’d almost forgotten about Harley. This dream has definitely reached nightmare-level proportions. He tries to open the door.

It’s locked and won’t budge.

“Fuck.” Jason yanks out one of his guns, ready to shoot the damned lock when the Knight speaks up.

“Sword.”

“Huh?” He looks over his shoulder at the Knight. They really could be twins, mirror images of each other.

“Sword,” the Knight repeats, gaze intent and oddly lucid compared to earlier.

What the hell does he have to lose? Jason holsters the gun and draws the vorpal sword instead. “Here goes nothing,” he mutters, silently praying he doesn’t break the sword on the lock. Swords aren’t exactly designed to break down doors.

Another chilling round of laughter echoes through the house and it shudders again. “Jason. Jaaaa-son. Why are you running away? You’re so much fun to plaaaaay with.”

Fuck. No.

Jason swings the sword, the downward stroke cutting right through the door with an audible snicker-snack.

“Again!” Tim-Cat and the Knight both cry out.

Another swing and the vorpal sword cuts through the wood like silk, the snicker-snack growing louder and louder with each stroke.

Jason sheathes the sword and kicks at the warped wood. Thick panels fall outwards, and Tim-Cat rushes through the gap, turning to pry at the loose boards to widen hole for him and the Knight.

The Jokerwocky’s and the Red Queen’s cackles grow closer. Jason can just imagine the Joker prowling the halls of Wayne Manor, rictus grin wide and those yellow eyes sharp with intent. To him, this is when the Joker is at his worst, because there is a keen intelligence behind that gaze, one that knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t give two fucks about it.

It’s the expression he wears when all he wants to see is the world burn.

“I have a crowbar with your name on it, little birdie. Which do you prefer? Forehand? Or backhand?”

Fuck this shit.

Jason takes a couple of steps back, puts his head down, and charges toward the door. The Red Knight shouts with unbridled glee as they crash through and onto the wide portico beyond.

Full night is upon them and the storm has mostly passed, leaving nothing but a full moon and hazy starlight to see by. The cool dampness from the rain is welcome in his lungs after the dry stale air of the house. Everything is still, nature herself cowering in fear over the presence of utter evil.

From outside, it looks like Arkham Asylum again.

Jason breathes deep but doesn’t stop moving. “Come on. We’re sitting ducks out here.”

Tim-Cat lopes down the stairs with easy grace, the flashlight leading the way.

Behind them, the house groans and the Jockerwocky’s cackle turns into a howl of rage.

“You’re not playing fair, bird boy! If it’s a whoopin’ you’re awantin’…”

They’re almost to the hedge when the bolt of lightning comes out of nowhere to strike the overgrown path behind them, knocking them to the ground. Jason struggles to regain his feet, but the Knight is heavy and is fighting against his bonds once again, groaning incoherently in Jason’s ear.

Tim-Cat bounces back up and rests a hand on his Knight. “I’m okay,” he soothes. “We’re going to be okay.”

Jason is seriously starting to doubt that. “Was that the Red Queen or the Jabberwocky?”

“I’ve no idea but get up and keeping moving. If we can make the garden, we’ll have a better chance at escaping.”

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

It sounds even closer than before.

Jason crawls his way upright and glances over his shoulder.

Standing on the wide portico before the broken door is the Joker. At the same time, it’s not as he seems to morph into some demonic hell beast before settling back into the more familiar human form. If Jason were to hazard a guess, it’s almost as though he can’t make up his mind over what form to take. The one from his worst nightmares or the one he expects to see given the situation.

His breath seizes in his chest.

The Joker can’t decide on a form because his own mind can’t figure out which is more terrifying. This hallucination is clearly gearing up for some epic climax and has stalled because his own subconscious doesn’t know what it wants to be afraid of more.

He’s in complete control if he can just make a fucking decision.

Jason strips the shoulder rig carrying the Knight from his shoulders and lowers the man to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Tim-Cat asks as Jason cuts the bindings from the Knight’s feet. “We need to run. Now.”

“Yeah, you do. And as strong as you are, you can’t carry him alone.” Jason gives the Knight a firm look. “Listen to me, buddy. I know you’re in there. I know what it’s like to be trapped with no fucking way out. But there is always a way. Don’t stop fighting whatever it is that’s in your head. You have your Cat back and he’ll do his damnedest to help save you. Listen to him and you’ll soon be free.”

That odd clarity returns to the Red Knight’s, no, the White Knight’s eyes. “Mine,” he says, glancing at Tim-Cat.

“He’s all yours. I have my own waiting for me back home.” Jason helps the Knight stand and Tim-Cat takes his hand.

“You’re going to fight the Jabberwocky.” It’s not a question and they both know it.

“Yeah, I am. He’s been in my nightmares long enough.” Jason draws the vorpal sword and salutes the Cheshire Cat and the White Knight. “It’s been real, Cat. Now go and save your Knight.”

Tim-Cat nods solemnly. “Maybe you’re not quite the asshole you’d like everyone to believe.”

Jason smirks, knowing it’ll get under the Cat’s skin because it sure as hell does with his Tim. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The Cheshire Cat returns his smirk and rises up on his toes to kiss the corner of Jason’s mouth. “Don’t die.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Nodding, the Cat takes a firmer hold of his Knight and together, they disappear through the tunnel in the hedge.

Jason takes a deep breath. He really hopes he’s right about this because if he’s not, then he’s just signed his fucking death warrant for the second time. There’s no waking up from this, not if it goes south, fast. Raising the vorpal sword, he walks back up the path toward the house and the still flickering Joker. Harley is nowhere to be seen, but that doesn't mean she isn't lurking around, waiting for her own chance to strike. No use worrying about it now.

“Okay, you piece of shit. You wanna dance? Let’s dance.”

#chibinightowl writes #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Jason in Wonderland #JayTim

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typhonserpent · 5 years

Text

Dancing In The Moonlight

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Rating: General Genre: Romance Pairing: Fenris/Anders Summary: Cinderella AU. Anders, a poor apostate farmboy living under the tyrannical thumb of his templar stepmother, has his shoe snatched by a passing eagle. The eagle carries the sandal far north, and drops it in front of a rebellious Tevinter prince. Thus begins a journey of romance, betrayal, adventure, and true love.

Notes: HAPPY HOLIDAYS @goatbazaarofdragons I WAS YOUR WINTERSEND SECRET SANTA!!! I’ve been sitting on this puppy for nearly a month hoping it would meet your expectations! I hope I did a good job!

This was for the wintersend event hosted by @fendersassoc

My Writing Tag ✦ Ao3 Link - Please leave me a comment!

Cullen and Alistair were sparring outside the manor when Meredith screeched, “It’s BURNT! You can’t eat it if it’s burnt. Get it out of my sight! Feed it to the pigs you worthless cur!”

They both froze, Alistair’s shield up and Cullen’s wooden sword raised to strike. Both glanced back to the manor to see Anders stumbling out through the kitchen door, a loaf of bread cradled under one arm. Meredith appeared a few seconds later, leaning out the door frame to shout, “Alistair! Come here!”

The pair lowered their training weapons, Alistair left his sword and shield leaned up against the manor wall and headed her way without a word. Anders was already wading through the muck to get to the pig’s pen.

Anders tore off a chunk of bread and tossed it into the feeding trough, summoning a round pink hog from where he had been napping in the sun. Its curly tail wagged as it scarfed down its treat, then looked up expectantly while Anders tore off a second piece.

Coming up behind him, Cullen said, “It doesn’t look burnt to me.”

Anders jumped, swiveling around to meet his step brother. Cullen cocked an eyebrow, then nodded at the loaf in his hand.

“It … she insisted she could smell the burning. I told it was because cake batter had boiled over and the oven was still burning it off but … well you know how she is.”

The smile quickly faded from Cullens’ face. “Yes … unfortunately.”

Anders tore off another chunk of bread and threw it into the trough. The sun shined down on both of them, lighting their blonde manes ablaze and making even Cullen’s dented and mud-caked practice armor glimmer. An eagle screeched overhead, and Cullen covered his eyes to get a look at it.

“Shit.” Cullen whispered.

“Oh no!” Anders dropped the remains of the loaf of bread into the mud, “Is Pounce indoors?”

“You look for Pounce, I’ll check on the chickens.”

They split in opposite directions. Cullen’s boots made loud splats in the muck. Anders took two steps with mud squelching between his toes before he looked down and realized his left foot was bare. Another screech had his eyes on the sky. The eagle was swooping, a blue glint in its eye. It was all he could do to duck, covering his head. In an instant, the eagle sank it’s claws into the mud, and then surged back into the sky with Anders’ sandal in grasped in it’s talons.

He stared back at the bird, jaw agape as he could swear the eagle was looking back at him with glowing blue eyes.

Cullen was already running. “Anders! Are you alright?” He asked as he came to a halt.

“Was that bird possessed?”

“What?”

“I thought I saw ...” He trailed off. It hardly mattered. Demon or not, it had still made off with his sandal and not any of the farm animals. He looked down at his bare foot and sighed, “Rotten bird. These were my last shoes that didn’t have holes in them.”

Cullen half-laughed, half-sighed, and wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead, “Tell you what, I’m going into town next week to apply for a guard position. While I’m there, I’ll buy you a new pair of shoes.”

Anders ran his fingers through his hair and gathered it into a ponytail. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. If she found out-”

“If Mother asks,” Cullen interrupted, “I’ll tell her I bought them for myself and they were the wrong size.”

The words turned Anders’ blush into a smile. “You’re a good brother, Cullen. Thank you.”

x – X – x

Blood splattered across the sand.

Fenris had to admit to having a bit of a sick fascination with executions, but when he was forced to watch them it was another matter. He was lounging in a comfy chair under a canopy, legs sprawled, head resting in his hand, and wishing he were somewhere other than in the hot sun.

The guard kicked the body, and it rolled off of the executioner’s stage. Unfurling his scroll, he shouted out the next name, and a dwarf was ushered towards the block.

Fenris held up his hand. A halt signal. And at once armor clattered as the guards around him rushed to carry out the order. The dwarf was laid with his neck against the block, and Fenris stood, making his way to the stairs which led to the stage. The executioner had only just placed his foot on the dwarf’s back when one of Fenris’ guards came up and tapped him on the shoulder.

Fenris stepped onto the stage, and held out his hand. “Give me the axe.”

The executioner made a confused grunt. “Y-your highness?”

Fenris yanked the axe out of his hands and pushed his chest to usher him aside. “If Danarius is going to force me to perform his duties I will at least practice my aim while I do so.”

Fenris rose the axe, all the while thinking how angry his father’s adviser would be when he arrived to dinner with his velvet clothes splattered in blood.

Then, a sandal dropped onto the dwarf’s back.

An eagle screeched, and six or so arrows were knocked onto bows. It took Fenris a second to actually tear his eyes away from the sandal, and look up to spy the eagle. A glint of blue shone in its eye as it made a sharp turn, and grew smaller by the second while it fled the scene.

Dumbstruck, he turned back to the sandal on the dwarf’s back, and stared.

“Sire, are you alright?” One of the guards ran forward, and stopped in his tracks when Fenris held up his hand again.

Leaning the axe upright, he knelt, and brought himself down to face the prisoner, “You, dwarf. What is your name?”

The dwarf turned, revealing a crooked nose that suggested he had at some point been punched in the face, “Varric Tethras, your highness. To what do I owe the honor?”

“What charges have brought you here?”

Varric wheezed a laugh, “That’s a story for the ages. How much time do you have?”

Fenris cocked an eyebrow, and waited. After three seconds, Varric took the hint and continued, “Look, you piss off the wrong people while gambling and they wind up thirsty for blood. Nobles pull strings. You know how it is.”

“Yes ...” Fenris hummed.

After another two second of silence, he stood, and thrust the axe back into the executioners hands. “Untie the dwarf and escort him to my office.”

“Y-yes, your highness.” The executioner stammered, and sprang to work.

Fenris picked up the sandal and descended the stairs.

An hour later, Fenris was lounging in his desk chair turning the sandal over in his hands, when there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” He called.

In came Varric, cuffed and escorted by two guards.

“Uncuff him and leave us.” Fenris ordered.

Albeit slowly, the guards obeyed, and shut the door behind them.

Fenris had not taken his eyes of the sandal in his hand the entire time. When they were alone, he finally held it up, and looked to Varric. “Do you recognize this sandal?”

Varric chuckled, “Trust me, if I could take credit for what happened out there, I would.”

“The eagle that dropped it … I’m sure I saw a glimmer in it’s eye. Like a spirit.”

Varric whistled, “A magic bird leaving you a shoe. Doesn’t happen every day. You think it means something?”

“It has to. Or at least, that’s what I’m going to tell people.”

“Pardon?” Varric cocked one eyebrow.

“You said you were a gambler, correct? Tell me, how is your acting?”

x – X – x

Anders was scrubbing the floors when Meredith approached him, her feet making an echoing stomp on the newly polished floor.

“Tell me something,” She said, “Why is it Cullen mentioned you were more concerned with your worthless cat than you were about our own livestock?”

Anders sighed, dunked the scrub brush into the bucket of soapy water, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes while he worked. “Cullen was checking on the chickens, and Pounce means a lot to me. He knows that, so-”

“So you let him take care of your duties when he should have been saving his energy for training.”

He took a deep breath. There wasn’t any arguing with her when she got like this. Setting down the scrub brush, he turned so he was facing her on his knees. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’ll see to it that it doesn’t. I want that cat out of the house by tomorrow morning or else I’ll tie it up in a sack and throw it in the river.”

He jumped to his feet, heart in his throat. “You can’t be serious. Father loved Ser Pounce. I can’t-”

“Karl is dead.” Meredith snapped, her lips pursed into a thin line, “I didn’t marry a cat. See to it that that animal is gone or he’ll be fish food by this time tomorrow.”

x – X – x

Fenris knew who was at the door before he even heard the knock. “Come in!” He called without looking away from his wardrobe.

Danarius threw open the doors, robes flapping with the force, his face pinched into a scowl. “What’s this I hear about you going on a quest, Fenris? Why are my guards reporting that you freed a prisoner sentenced to the death penalty?”

Opposite Fenris, Varric was lounging in a chair and reading a scroll twice as long as he was tall. He gave Danarius a small wave.

“Your guards?” Fenris asked, raising one eyebrow, “I appear to have missed the portion of my father’s will that granted you ownership of the castle calvary.”

For a brief second, Danarius’ lower eyelid twitched, and Fenris took immense pleasure in watching it happen. Danarius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, obviously I didn’t mean it literally. But as Adviser to the Throne it is one of my duties to command the castle guard.”

“Not for much longer.” Fenris yanked a shirt off of its hanger and swiveled, “I am engaged.”

From the look on Danarius’ face, Fenris may as well have said he was turning into a dragon.

“T-to who!?”

“To the owner of this sandal, of course.” Fenris gestured towards the table Varric was sitting by, where the mud-caked sandal sat in defiant opposition to the silk pillow it had been placed on.

Varric tapped a line of the scroll he’d been reading, “There’s no law saying you have to have met your fiance in order to marry them. Hell some cultures encourage that sort of thing.”

“That is … true.” Danarius crossed his arms, glaring daggers at Varric while Fenris folded his shirt and stuffed it into a bag, “But I … doubt the people will trust a prince who bases his marriage off of a dirty shoe.”

“I will be King by the time they object to it.” Fenris continued, “Nevertheless, should they hear about how we met thanks to the blessing of a sacred eagle, I should think they wouldn’t hesitate to rally behind their new leader.”

“Sacred … eagle?”

Varric hopped off his chair and rolled up the scroll, “The bird that dropped that shoe was spirit-possessed. Ask anyone who was there. A couple meeting because a sacred bird stole a maiden’s shoe and carried it miles away to land in front of her true love? It’s a union blessed by the maker himself!”

“Almost storybook, wouldn’t you agree, Danarius?” Slowly, Fenris turned to meet Danairus’ eyes, “Don’t worry. In a matter of days you’ll be able to retire knowing that the kingdom is finally in the hands of its rightful heir.”

Danarius clasped his hands together and took a deep breath. “It’s … a very beautiful notion. However I am … concerned that you may not find your new spouse in time. Do you really have time to scour the globe before your next birthday?”

“Scouring the globe will not be necessary.” Fenris selected a few more shirts from his wardrobe and draped them over his arm, “I already had my tailor analyze the sandal. From the stitching and position of the straps, he swears it must have been made in the Free Marches. I intend to travel south to Kirkwall and send out word from there.”

“No maiden would turn down the chance to appear before a prince.” Varric added, “He’ll have people lining up for miles in no time.”

“Then ...” Danarius continued, “Please consider it my duty to accompany you on this quest.”

Fenris paused in his packing and gave Danarius a hard stare, “That will not be necessary. I am sure your duties here require far more attention.”

“Nonsense!” He scoffed, “I insist. After all, this is the kingdom’s future we’re talking about. No, I will appoint a member of the magisterium to command in my stead so that I may help you on this Maker-sent quest.”

There wasn’t room for another word. Danarius was already out the door, slamming it shut behind him. They remained silent until the sound of his footsteps disappeared.

Varric whistled, “You weren’t kidding about him.”

“Danarius will stop at nothing to take my birthright away from me. If I am not wed by my next birthday, he will convince the Magisterium to allow him to take my place.”

“Nothing like a deadline to light a fire under your ass, huh? What are you going to do if the person who owns that sandal doesn’t want to marry you?”

Fenris hummed while he stuffed his clothes into his bag, “I am hoping it will not come to that. If it does, I hope they will understand my position. As soon as I have been crowned king, they will be free to stay or leave as they please.”

“Well … best of luck, your Highness.”

Fenris gave him a warm smile, “You can call me Fenris, Varric. When this is over I’ll see to it that your crimes are pardoned.”

x– X – x

Two weeks had passed since Meredith’s threat, and Anders had seen to it that Pounce didn’t make an appearance anywhere near the house.

Not that it had been easy.

He was adding the finishing touches to dinner. Sprigs of parsley atop the roast, a splash of cream in Meredith’s tea. He pocketed the cream bottle, then added two sugars.

The tea was delivered to the dining room, in the midst of yet another of Meredith’s lectures. “I just don’t see why you want to waste perfectly good skills with the city guard all things.” She scoffed, not even looking up when Anders set her cup down.

Cullen sighed, “I’m tired of being a Templar, Mother. The lyrium and the constant in-fighting are … exhausting. The guard is a way I can use my abilities while helping people.”

“How is guarding the circle not helping people?”

Anders left the room before Cullen could respond, and with a platter bearing three dishes. He set it in front of Meredith first, then Alistair and Cullen.

“It looks lovely, Anders. Thank you.” Alistair said. Anders managed a baggy-eyed smile in response.

Meredith picked up a fork and prodded at the pile of vegetables. “Are there onions in this? You know I hate onions.”

“No onions.” Anders replied, “Potatoes, celery, peppers, carrots. Garlic and salt for taste.”

Cullen continued even as the plate was set in front of him, “I’m constantly accused of receiving special treatment because you’re my mother. I can’t perform a single duty without someone whispering, ‘oh, he got off easy because the knight-commander is his mother.’ but if I accept hard labor suddenly they’re saying, ‘he must have done something at home to anger mommy’.”

“So ignore them! That’s what I do. Your abilities should speak for themselves.” Meredith replied.

Anders left and returned later with a cake and three plates. “I have to put out the fires in the stove so I’m setting out desert now. If I leave it in the kitchen, it will freeze.”

“Thank you, Anders.” Meredith sneered through clenched teeth, “You are dismissed.”

He couldn’t leave the room fast enough.

He put out the fire in the stove, served his own portion of food on a wood plate (Meredith didn’t permit him to use the silver dishes), tucked a water skin under his shirt, and ducked out through the kitchen door.

Past the pig’s pen and through the cattle field, into the woods and past a series of trees with ribbons tied around them, rested a clearing where Anders still had memories of holding picnics and playing with his father. Now it held only a grave.

They’d buried him under his favorite tree, marked by a gravestone with lovingly carved words.

KARL THEKLA

HUSBAND – FATHER – FRIEND

And behind the grave, in a little alcove at the base of the tree, Anders had set out a bowl of water, a little saucer, and a plate. He’d lined the base of the hole with old blankets, and drove a nail into one wall where he tied a string that led to a homemade harness that wrapped around Ser Pounce’s chest.

He’d tried it without the leash at first, but Pounce had showed up in his room the next night. It was only by pure luck that he’d managed to get the cat back out before Meredith saw. He couldn’t risk that happening again, so here Pounce was. Tied up and no doubt hating Anders for it.

The cat didn’t even look up when he poured cream into the saucer, or filled up his bowl from the water skin, or tore up his portion of the roast into bite-sized chunks and set them on the plate.

“Pounce?” Anders tried, but there was no response. Just the silhouette of the cat curled into a ball inside it’s makeshift shelter.

Anders sat back on his haunches and sighed. His plate was still next to him, a measly serving of roast vegetables that he couldn’t even look at without feeling a pit in his stomach. Why shouldn’t Pounce hate him for this? He didn’t understand that it was for his own good … all he knew was that his master had left him tied up outside with winter fast approaching.

A shadow was being cast by Karl’s tombstone, but that was never where he felt Karl’s presence anyway. When he looked up, he could see a ribbon on one of the branches. Karl had to hold him on his shoulders to tie it up there. The tree had grown with him, and as Anders grew up the ribbon only grew further away.

“What am I supposed to do?” He choked.

He hugged himself, shivering against the cold breeze that swept through the clearing. Holding up shaking hands, he summoned a little fire in his palms. Meredith didn’t permit him to have a staff. This was the most he could do without anything to use as a focus point.

Magic made him feel closer to his father. Even if they had to hide and practice their magic deep in the woods, even if Meredith complained loudly about the indignity of marrying into an apostate family, Anders felt immense joy in casting spells whenever he could. He mended wounds the chickens got from pecking one another and more than once erased the evidence of Cullen and Alistair’s rougher training sessions.

His father used to dance with magic. Oh, how they both loved to dance.

Anders rose, and made his way to the center of the clearing, flame still in hand. Unwrapping his arms from himself, he summoned a flame in the opposite palm.

He danced.

When he moved his arms, it drew shapes in the night air with the fires. His feet stepped to the beat in his head. One-two-three, one-two-three, while his hands drew swirls and waves in the air.

A bush rustled.

He jumped, extinguishing the flames right away. “Pounce?” He whispered, then ran to the far side of the tree. Another fire in his palm had his eyes widening in panic. His worst nightmare come true. The lump he’d mistaken for Pounce’s silhouette was a fold in the blankets. The leash led only to a chewed-through end.

Pounce was gone.

“Maker no.” He breathed, rising to his feet and swiveling towards the tree line.

“Pounce!” He called, summoning a wisp of fire to his palm.

Another shuffle came from the foliage, and Anders darted towards it. “Pounce!”

When he pushed past the bushes, he saw an elf.

The fire in his palm illuminated snowy white hair and dark skin. He was wearing armor unlike any Anders had ever seen, spiked gauntlets and pauldrons custom-cut to fit his body. His arms were bare, revealing swirling tattoos that matched the ones creeping up his neck.

He had an orange tabby in his arms.

“I … apologize.” The elf said, then held out Pounce, “Is this your cat?”

“Pounce!” Anders breathed, extinguishing his spell so he could take the cat. Pounce gave an indignant mrow as he was hugged, “What am I going to do with you?” Letting Pounce settle into a crook in his arms, he nuzzled his fur and stroked his neck.

“I have never seen a leash-trained cat.”

Anders was pulled from his little world by the mystery elf’s words. The elf glanced down at the harness on Pounce’s back.

“Oh, he’s not-” Anders felt his cheeks grow hot, “He doesn’t walk on the leash he’s just … on it. Right now.”

“A bit cold for him, is it not?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine … should be. I hope. He can’t be at home right now, I don’t have … much of a choice.”

The elf tilted his head, summoning to mind the image of a curious bird.

“If … Pounce, was it? If Pounce is in need of a place to stay, I may be able to accommodate. If only for a little while.”

Anders felt a tidal wave over emotions over the span of one second. Relief that this stranger would offer to care for Pounce followed by realization that he didn’t know this person, then fear, suspicion, and guilt.

“I couldn’t ask that of you, we only just met.”

“Well then, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fenris.”

Fenris held out his hand. After shuffling Pounce to be in one arm, Anders accepted his handshake. “Anders. You already know Ser Pounce-a-Lot.”

“Yes. He greeted me during my nighttime stroll and led me to a rather beautiful dance show.”

That made Anders turned a shade of strawberry pink. “Oh you … you saw that?”

“I didn’t mean to spy.”

“It’s not that, I ...” He trailed off. He felt his heart in his throat. Had he seen the magic? Why wasn’t he saying anything about it? Was he biding his time so he could report Anders in the morning? Why not just get it over with now? He’d be thrown in the circle, Meredith would be disgraced, his father’s estate would be sold, and his step brothers would be thrown in the street by this time tomorrow.

“Never have I seen it’s equal.” Fenris continued.

In his panic, Anders had squeezed his eyes shut. When Fenris’ words sank in, he opened them to meet forest green eyes, glistening in the moonlight.

“In Tevinter, magic is a source of power. My father always found it tragic that I was not born a mage. His adviser suggested the use of these.” He removed one of the gauntlets and ran his hand over the tattoos on his arms. They stretched all the way across his hands to the tips of his fingers, “They were the most painful experience of my life. The process burned away my memories. The first thing I remember is being told that my father passed away while I was recovering.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Fenris shrugged, and replaced the gauntlet on his hand. “Apologies. I shouldn’t burden you with my life story. What I wanted to say was … I’ve never seen magic used to create something so beautiful. Would you show me again?”

Anders hadn’t looked away from those eyes, though now he noticed the subtle way in which Fenris’ cheeks had darkened. Was he blushing?

“Well … alright.” He decided aloud.

Going back to the clearing, he set Pounce down next to his dinner. Once he was satisfied that the cat would stay there and eat, he moved to the center of the clearing, and summoned a flame in either hand.

Fenris leaned against a tree, watching Anders’ light dance draw shapes in the night air. Twists and swirls of light, illuminating dust motes so that it looked like the stars had descended to dance with him. Anders could hear the tune in his head. His father’s humming, counting one-two-three one-two-three so his feet would move in time to the rhythm.

He only stopped when his hand was snagged, and the flame extinguished as Fenris pulled him close, their hips flush.

“May I cut in?” Fenris asked.

Fenris dipped him, and Anders let his weight fall onto Fenris’ arms. He realized now, as the muscles in Fenris’ arms bunched to catch him, he must be an accomplished warrior. Fenris took the lead, swinging Anders around and stepping him into a silent waltz. Anders knew the beat even with neither of them saying it. One-two-three, one-two-three. The way Fenris’ armor was built for him allowed for very little space between the two. They could feel one another’s body heat.

Hands on Anders’ hip, Fenris lifted him into the air, and set him back down on his feet. Anders found himself grinning as he was dipped again, fingers interlacing with Fenris’. In one smooth motion, Fenris leaned down and kissed him.

Sighing, Anders gleefully allowed Fenris to capture his lips. Fingers tangled into blonde hair, Anders’ hand cupped Fenris’ cheek. Their lips parted to a hair’s width apart. They could feel one another’s breath.

Then, a dog barked.

It didn’t phase Fenris, but Anders recognized the sound of Alistair’s mabari, followed by shouting. He couldn’t make out words, but the pitch and tone were none other than Meredith’s.

“Oh no.” He breathed, then pushed Fenris off of him, “I have to go!”

Fenris spent a moment dumbstruck, enough time for Anders to push away and start running. As he went, he only barely made out Fenris calling, “Wait, when will I see you again?”

But he couldn’t turn back. He had to keep running. He left Fenris alone in their clearing without another word.

x – X – x

Fenris was laying on his back, with Pounce on his stomach. His eyes drifted in the general direction of the ceiling, but every time he closed them he could see the starry sky that bathed Anders while they had danced. Every so often, he would absentmindedly stroke the cat. Anders cat. The cat with a name as cute as Anders’ little button nose.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He ushered the cat off him, and opened the door to Varric.

During their trip, Danarius had complained loudly about the prison rags Varric was stuck in after his sudden departure from the headman’s block. A representative of the royal family should look the part, after all. Varric seemed to have take the advice, as he stood before Fenris in laced leather pants and matching leather gloves, a red velvet jacket lined with spun gold, and a wool tunic that was just a little too unbuttoned.

“What do you think?” Varric asked, holding his arms out.

Fenris stroked his chin and nodded, “I can see why you managed to rub elbows with nobles.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what kind of people I can rub elbows with, Prince Broody.” Varric winked and nudged his side, “But we’re getting off topic. Adviser Control Freak wanted me to fetch you for the meeting.”

“Best not to let Danarius hear that nickname.” Fenris fetched a cloak off the hook, and then shut the door behind him. He tied it on and tugged the hood up while he walked.

“Trust me, I’ve heard the staff call him worse on a daily basis.”

They both snickered, then quickly fell silent as the left the cabin. Danarius was already in his private carriage at the front, arm resting on the window sill and fingers drumming impatiently. Fenris nodded to him as he passed, then stepped into the carriage behind him. With a mock salute at the adviser, Varric followed suit. Danarius signaled the driver, and the caravan was off.

In their efforts to keep a low profile, they’d rented a cabin in the castle’s shadow where they could easily post as many guards as they wanted. Fenris didn’t see much of a point in it if the entourage was going to announce their presence anyway. Already, common folk walking along the side of the road stopped and gaped at the ornate carriages and warriors on horses which bore saddles in the colors of the Tevinter flag. The city gate opened for them, and villagers stretched their necks out of their windows to catch a look at the procession.

Fenris found himself searching the crowd that was gathering, hoping to catch a head of strawberry blonde hair. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could clearly picture Anders’ face. High cheekbones, whiskey warm eyes, dimples at the edge of his smile. He was sure he could pick him out of the crowd.

“Why your highness, you look positively … glowing.” Varric said, “Something on your mind?”

“I was just looking for someone.”

“Someone special?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I highly doubt you can get a good look at their feet from in here.” Varric said, making Fenris’ ears droop. It suddenly sank in that they were looking for someone specific. Whoever fit the sandal was meant to be his new spouse. Even if he found Anders … what would he say?

He sank back into the carriage, and stayed there until it came to a halt in front of the castle. The driver opened their door to an entourage of guards surrounding a man in green velvet who could only be Kirkwall’s Viscount.

“Prince Fenris of Tevinter!” He shook Fenris’ hand, then turned to Danarius as he stepped out of his carriage, “And you must be Adviser Danarius.”

“I am.” Danarius replied, shaking his hand, “I trust you received our message?”

“I did, but you must be exhausted from your trip. Come inside, we can make arrangements over tea.”

Fenris followed, keeping a close eye on Danarius all the while. A smaller group of guards cut themselves off from the rest of the group and accompanied them, two of them even positioning themselves along the wall while the trio of nobles (and Varric) settled into a sitting room.

“First, I believe introductions are in order.” The Viscount said, “I’m Viscount Marlowe Dumar, this is my captain of the guard, Aveline, and her trainee, Cullen.”

The red-haired guardswoman bowed, and the blonde man behind her scrambled to follow suit.

“A pleasure.” Fenris said, nodding at him, “Has Viscount Dumar told you why we’re here?”

“No, sir.” Aveline replied.

Fenris gestured at Varric, who produced a silk-wrapped package from his jacket pocket. Untying the folds unveiled the sandal, almost as dirty as it was the day he’d found it. Cullen gave a tiny gasp, then stood at attention.

“This sandal was given to me by a spirit-touched eagle. I have taken it as a divine sign that I am to wed whoever it belongs to, even if I have to try it on every foot in the kingdom.”

“Say no more!” The Viscount said, “I’ll send word to the town criers at once. We shall organize a formal ball where you can-”

“That will not be fast enough.”

In complete unison, Danarius and the Viscount gaped at Fenris. “I’m sorry?” Danarius said with a cough.

“A formal meeting would take too much time to organize. Tell the town criers I intend to visit every house myself. If I do not find the sandal’s owner here, I will move on to the next town. I won’t stop until I find them.”

x – X – x

Cullen came home and went directly to the kitchen, where he found Anders doubled over the sink scrubbing out a frying pan.

“Anders!” He called, and Anders turned with a start, revealing a dark half-circle under one eye.

Cullen stopped halfway through the room, covering his mouth.

“Oh, Anders, what did she-”

“It’s fine.” Anders interjected, “My fault. I shouldn’t have snuck out last night. You heard her. That coyote wouldn’t have gotten into the chicken coop if it weren’t for me.”

Anders flinched when Cullen set a hand on his shoulder, head down so that his hair was covering the bruise. “You need to get out of here.” Cullen whispered, “It’s not safe for you.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“It might be. I met with the visiting dignitaries today. Once of them is a prince. He’s looking to make a spouse of whoever fits the sandal he found.”

Anders cocked an eyebrow, lips pursed. “Why not a ring? Seems a bit unromantic to use a sandal.”

“It’s your sandal, Anders. Prince Fenris is looking for you.”

That left Anders’ eyes wide as saucers, blood rushing to redden his face. “Prince Fen-” He covered his mouth.

“Yes, so if you just go to him-”

“NO!” His breathing grew heavy.

“Why? I saw the sandal. It’s the same one that eagle made off with, and Prince Fenris even said an eagle dropped it on him.”

Anders made an incoherent squeak. How was he supposed to explain that he couldn’t meet with the prince because he’d spent last night dancing in the woods while the chickens were being slaughtered? Meredith would kill him. “I just can’t, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Yes, Anders, why not?” A sly voice hissed from the doorway.

Cullen swiveled to see Meredith, leaning on the door frame with hard eyes glaring daggers at Anders.

“Tell me, Anders,” She repeated, stepping into the room, “Why can’t you meet with your prince?”

“It …” He struggled to find the words, shaking more and more with each agonizing step she took towards him, “Just wouldn’t be proper. I’m not worthy of a prince.”

She snagged his chin, sharp nails digging into his cheeks, forcing him to look at her.

“You’re lying.”

Without warning, she grabbed his neck and slammed his back against the wall. “Mother! Stop it!” Cullen called. Anders’ hands shot to her fingers. He reached for a spell, only to find his mana rapidly draining under her templar abilities.

“Don’t let him fool you!” She spat at Cullen before turning her attention back to Anders, “I found the tracks leading out to your father’s grave and the boot prints there. How long have you been conspiring against me?”

“I … haven’t.” Anders choked, eyes watering.

“Liar! I don’t know what you and that accursed Tevinter prince are planning but you won’t get away with it!”

Fist in his shirt, she dragged him out of the kitchen before Cullen could react further. Anders could barely hear Cullen calling from the bottom of the stairs as he was dragged up to the second, and then third floor, and then was finally thrown into his bedroom at the top of one of the manor towers. He landed ungracefully against the dresser. A throbbing pain in his back would leave another bruise later. Throwing himself to his feet, he barely made it to the door in time to hear the click of the lock from the outside.

x – X – x

Fenris spent the whole of the trip to the cabin with Danarius seething. Not that he had stopped seething all day, but when their search turned fruitless and night had fallen, he grew disturbingly fidgety. Fenris had never been more grateful for the fact that Danarius insisted on a private carriage.

When Fenris stepped outside, there stood Danarius, arms crossed and foot tapping. Fenris did his best to ignore him and retreated immediately to his room, Varric following not far behind him. He was just hanging his cloak on the hook when Danarius threw the door open.

Fenris steeled his face and stared while Danarius spat, “Just what is the meaning behind embarrassing me in front of the Viscount!?”

“Now, Adviser,” Varric said, “There’s not need to be angry-”

“Silence, dwarf! You should have been worm food by now!” He turned back to the dead panned Fenris and jabbed a finger into his chest, “Refusing a noble’s offer for aid, bending down in front of every commoner’s dirty feet, dragging the royal procession into the most disgusting parts of town. Just what in Andraste’s name do you think we are? Immigrants from a savage tribe of foot-worshipers?”

Fenris had his lips pursed tight. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before replying, “The time it would take to plan and execute a ball would be ultimately wasted. Even if it managed to attract anyone other than nobility, by the time the party would be held, my birthday will have already passed, meaning-”

“Meaning I would assume control of the kingdom, as it should be!”

Fenris turned to retort, and was immediately struck with a mind blast spell that sent him flying backwards until his back hit the wall opposite the door. Dazed from the attack, he didn’t react to Danarius approaching him until the adviser reached into his shirt’s inner pocket and pulled the sandal out.

“A shame you couldn’t find your love before the accident.” Danarius growled, “I’ll be sure to let the viscount know his town criers should spread word of Prince Fenris’ tragic death.” Fenris looked on in terror as he walked away. Varric, also hit by the spell, was on the ground just two meters away. Fenris jumped to his feet as the door was closing, and reached the doorknob in time to hear the click of the lock.

Danarius pocketed the key and made his way to the cabin’s living room, where one of their guards was standing by the entrance. “Our prince wishes to be left alone after today’s failure. Tell your men they have the night off to explore the town, and don’t return until morning.”

Without question, the guard left, Danarius following close behind him. He waited on the porch until the guard had disappeared. A quick fire spell lit the silk covering the sandal like a torch, and he tossed into a leaf pile beside the house, where the dry autumn leaves quickly caught aflame.

With that, Danarius left.

x- X - x

Anders threw his dresser over and kicked it until. Once, twice, and on the third kick with a loud CRACK one of the boards broke off. Picking it up, he whacked the door knob with all his might. Once, twice, thrice, until the board cracked in his hands. Scoffing, he threw it aside, then pounded on the door.

“HEY!” He screamed, then jiggled and yanked the door knob again, “LET ME OUT!”

His pounding slowed as his arms grew tired, fists red and sore, “ALISTAIR! CULLEN!” He cried, slowly slumping against the door until eventually, he sank completely, defeated hands flopping to his sides.

“… anyone?” He choked.

There was an eagle’s screech outside.

Kicking aside a pile of clothes as he went, Anders ran to the window and leaned outside. Barely visible against the stars, he spied the eagle’s shadow high above him. “Hey!” He shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, “You got me into this mess! Your job is to get me out!”

The eagle passed over the full moon, a perfect silhouette with a tiny glimmer at its feet. As it passed above Anders, he watched the glimmer drop from its talons and rapidly fall. Leaning a little further out, he was just barely able to catch the clear crystal.

“That … was not what I expected.”

He ducked back inside. It was a largely raw, unpolished piece of quartz with a flat bottom where it might have once been been stuck atop a staff. His eyes widened with sudden realization. The primary component of a staff … what helped mages focus … was the crystal. He couldn’t exactly use it for melee like he could a staff, but maybe …

Crystal in one hand and opposite hand flat on the door, he focused his mana, and cast a fireball spell which burned a massive hole in the center of the door. The fireball dissipated against the staircase wall, scorching the stone.

Anders made it two steps out the door before he stopped, turned back into his room, and reached under his bed to grab the lone sandal there. After pocketing it, he ran downstairs.

He passed Meredith’s room first, stopped, and tapped the lock with one finger. A layer of ice gathered starting at the doorknob, eventually freezing around the frame. As he turned to continue down the hall, he was met face-to-face with Alistair. Anders froze, clutching the crystal close to his chest, eyes widened.

Alistair’s eyes darted to the crystal, then the door, then back to Anders.

“Go.” Alistair said, jerking his head to the hallway behind him, “Cullen told me everything. I’ll keep her off your trail.”

If there was time for a thank you, or a hug, or any exchange between them, it wasn’t allowed, as Alistair quickly stepped behind him and pushed him further down the hall. Anders didn’t need any more coaxing, and took off in a sprint.

He was intent on running into town, to the castle, and made it to the edge of the property before he stopped at a familiar sight. Pounce padded out of a thicket and stopped in front of him, meeting his eyes. After a second of staring, the cat turned and padded away, making it a few meters before stopping again and looking over his shoulder at Anders.

Unsure of what was possessing him, he followed Pounce.

x - X - x

Varric was kneeling in front of the door, and cursed under his breath when the lock pick broke in his hands. Fenris was pacing from one end of the room to the other. Varric reached into his pocket and produced a second pick. “He sure doesn’t mess around with locks, does he?” Varric grumbled.

A scent made Fenris pause his pacing. Tilting his head up, he sniffed. “Do you smell smoke?”

Varric sniffed the air. “He wouldn’t ...” Looking down, he discovered tendrils of smoke already creeping up under the door.

“Of course he would!” Fenris balled up his fist and punched the wall, “Fasta vaas … I can phase through the walls, but-”

“Phase through, then. Better than burning to a crisp.”

“I’m not leaving you here!”

He made his way to the window and gave it a yank. It was jammed with only a tiny gap, which had been barely enough room for Pounce to squeeze through and escape. It stayed stubbornly stuck. Orange light was cast on the trees outside.

Footsteps outside the door made Varric pause and Fenris turn around. A fist pounded against wood. “Fenris?” Anders’ voice called.

“Anders!” Fenris ran to the door, pressing his palm against it.

“Thank the maker … step away from the door, I’m getting you out.”

Fenris and Varric did as they were told. A black mark formed in the center of the door and quickly spread, burning red in the center. Fenris spent a split second terrified that the fire had reached them until the door burst open and Anders stepped through, his shirt collar tugged up over his mouth. The second the couple laid eyes on each other, they fell into each others arms. Fenris tugged Anders’ shirt away to give him the most passionate, grateful kiss he’d ever had, pulling back only so he could admire the most beautiful person he’d ever seen in his life. Anders wore a huge smile, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

Varric cleared his throat, “Uh, boys? Think we can save that for later?”

Anders had carved a tunnel with ice spells, but it was rapidly melting. Crystal clutched tight in his hand, he led the way back out with bursts of frost extinguishing any fire in their way. They stumbled out gasping, none of them stopping until Anders doubled over coughing with his hand braced against the fence. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Anders?” Fenris asked, patting his back.

“I’m fine,” He gasped, “Too much smoke, that’s all.”

A shadow passed in the corner of Fenris’ eye. Danarius came up behind Anders, and Fenris barely shoved him out of the way in time for an ice spike to lodge into his arm. Fenris cried in pain, clutching the arm, while Danarius approached, staff in hand.

“Why. Won’t. You. DIE?” And with the last punctuated word, he cast a cone of ice spikes which spread out from where he stood, stopped inches away from Fenris by a barrier.

Anders stood, hand out, glaring at Danarius as the ice cracked and fell off of the barrier. “I don’t know who you are.” Anders said, “But you stay away from him.”

“Who I am?” Danarius shouted, “I’m the greatest magister who ever lived! I’m the future king of Tevinter!”

“Hey, future king of Tevinter,” Varric called, drawing a dagger, “Catch.” And with that threw the dagger so that it lodged itself in Danarius’ arm. He staggered, giving Anders the opening to cast mind blast and knock the staff out of his weakened grip. While Anders scrambled to take the staff from him, Fenris stood, and approached Danarius. The markings on his arm activated, turning his hand a ghostly transparent blue. In one smooth motion, he thrust it into Danarius’ chest and hoisted the magister into the air.

“You,” He growled as blood bubbled out of Danarius’ mouth, “Are no king.” And with a sickening crunch, Danarius’ heart was crushed in his hand.

Danarius fell into a crumpled heap on the ground. Fenris flicked the blood off his hand, and turned to face Anders.

Anders ran up and embraced him. “Oh Fenris,” Anders breathed, “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“As I am for you, Anders.” Fenris returned the embrace with a tight squeeze, “How did you find me?”

Huffing laugh, Anders pulled back just enough to look at Fenris, “It was Pounce. He led me here.”

With a mrow to announce himself, Pounce rubbed up against Varric’s leg, and Varric gave the cat a scratch on his neck. “Smart cat.” He mused, “Shame about the sandal, though. So much for your Maker-sent fiance.”

“That’s … actually why I’m here.” Reaching into his pocket, Anders produced a familiar shoe. The second half to the one Danarius stole, “I have the other sandal.”

Fenris stared, green eyes wide, mouth agape. It took three seconds for his mouth to tug upwards, and a few giggles escaped while he ran his hand through his hair. “Maker ...” He breathed.

Anders’ cheeks turned bright red, “W-was it wrong? Cullen told me-”

“No, no!” Fenris set his hand on Anders’, covering the sandal, “It’s perfect. It’s meant to be. It’s just not what I was expecting.”

Fenris closed the gap between them for a quick kiss, and Anders’ eyes fluttered shut to bathe in the moment. When they parted, Fenris brushed a lock of hair behind Anders’ ear.

“Anders, I would be honored if you would marry me.”

Smiling, eyes glazed with tears, Anders choked, “Yes! Absolutely.”

“Hey now,” Varric interrupted, nodding at the sandal between them, “Make it official, Prince Broody.”

Taking the sandal from Anders’ hands, Fenris knelt. Anders lifted up one foot, allowing Fenris to remove his shoe and fit the sandal on in its place. It was the perfect fit. When Fenris stood again, they embraced and kissed.

Their wedding was held the following spring. With the threat of Danarius gone, they had more time to plan a proper ceremony. Anders had sent an invitation to his old home, receiving back a letter of congratulations and the news that Meredith had perished while performing her templar duties. Cullen and Alistair attended the wedding, bringing with them several assurances that they were taking good care of the old estate. The kingdom sang praises of the holy couple, brought together in the holiest of ways. Pounce spent the rest of his life in the lap of luxury, free to wander the halls of Fenris and Anders’ castle.

And they all lived happily ever after.

#typhon writes #long post #wintersend 2018 #fenders #fenris #anders #fanfic #fanfiction #dragon age #dragon age 2 #au #cinderella au #things i am incapable of doing:#keeping it short #following canon #writing anything that doesn't end in fluff

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eeveevie · 5 years

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Shadow and Light

Nothing in Varric’s life ever goes as planned, but he’s damn good at improvising with the hand he’s dealt.

Varric introduces Hawke to the Inquisition, and with Garrett Hawke comes Bethany, much to Varric’s surprise. And there was much rejoicing. (Monty Python jokes not included).

Chapter Summary: Adamant: taking the phrase "I have a bad feeling about this" to a whole new level.

Varric Tethras x Bethany Hawke

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5478 words (chapter) | Ao3

Chapter Five: L’appel du vide

The siege on Adamant would be one for the history books, or better yet, Varric’s book—if he ever got around to actually writing down all the shit he was seeing. In an incredible show of strength, the Inquisition showed up in the Western Approach in full force, literally throwing everything they had at the Warden fortress. All of the Inquisitor’s inner circle were there as well, split up and in charge of their own battalion of soldiers during the battle. Lucky—or unlucky—for Varric, Aurelie kept him with her near the front lines. Right where the bulk of the action was.

“You’ll be less likely to make up the details later on,” she had joked when the decision was made back in Skyhold.

Now, as he watched another catapult launch a fiery missile towards the battlements, Varric wished he had never boasted about being an eager story teller. Couldn’t she just recap the event later on? No doubt there would be a detailed report from Curly that he could elaborate on. It wasn’t that he was scared—he was terrified—but that was beside the point. No, for Varric he had a dreadful feeling that something awful was about to happen, a feeling he couldn’t shake. For better or for worse he kept it to himself, focusing on Aurelie as she led them through the thick of the fighting.

The army had worked to destroy the front gates, creating a way for foot soldiers to flood into the stronghold. With them came the Inquisitor and her companions, Dorian cloaking them all in protective barriers as the corrupted Wardens attacked. Blackwall had charged ahead with Aurelie, the two taking on the enemy at close-range. Varric lingered back near the mage, careful to watch his flank for friend or foe. Cullen was there now as well, his presence a force of inspiration for his soldiers—he wasn’t afraid to fight alongside them. Also with them was Ser Stroud, his compassioned pleas towards his brethren falling on deaf ears.

Through it all, however, Hawke was nowhere to be found. It made Varric only slightly nervous, uncomfortable with how many crazed Wardens were running around. The enemy was unpredictable, not to mention there were demons literally popping up from the ground as they fought at the main gate. He only hoped that wherever his friend was, he was fighting like his life depended on it.

The loud crash of another Inquisition missile crashed against the walkway above them, punctuating the fall of the last enemy in the area. Whatever Wardens that survived quickly retreated, leaving the infantry team some time to regroup. Cullen approached Aurelie, not bothering to sheath his sword.

“Aur—Inquisitor,” he quickly corrected himself in a breath. “You have a way in, best make use of it. We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can!”

Aurelie seemed amused by that. “That’s a worrying lack of specificity, Commander.”

“There are more of them than I was hoping,” Cullen explained.

“What exactly were you hoping for? A tea party?”

Varric would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the fire and screaming around them. She really had spent too much time with Hawke. Cullen only shook his head, displeased, and regarded their Warden ally.

“Stroud will guard your back. Hawke is with the soldiers on the battlements, assisting until you arrive.”

Finally, an answer for Varric. Their conversation was interrupted by a body falling over the edge of the ramparts, which were crawling with demons. The sight only unnerved Cullen further. “There’s too much resistance on the walls!”

“We’ll clear them out,” Aurelie assured.

Cullen seemed to hesitate before moving away, running back to the gates where his men were awaiting further orders. Varric sympathized with the man, understanding how difficult it must be to throw Aurelie—somebody he cared about—into the fray. For a brief moment, he thought of Bethany, her place in all of this an even bigger mystery. He hadn’t seen her at Griffon Wing Keep on the way to Adamant, and he hadn’t spoken to her since...Bianca. The thought of Bethany being there now only added to his concern.

They fought as a group through the baileys, encountering possessed Wardens and demons the whole way. Miraculously, Aurelie and Blackwall had convinced some of the Warden warriors to stand down, a large group of them falling back to safety. Eventually they made their way to the battlements, where Varric found a familiar sight. Two, actually.

“You wouldn’t consider dying, would you?!” Hawke had just chucked a dagger a considerable distance, the thick silverite blade finding its home right between the eyes of some poor Warden.

At his back was Bethany, her hands alight with magic as she expelled a firebolt from her staff, it easily wiping out a pair of shades. “I think there’s a lesson here about the dangers of magic!”

Her appearance nearly gave Varric a heart attack—her words too—what was she doing here? He didn’t have time to comment as their group joined the fight, Hawke moving to team up with Aurelie. They had really perfected the art of double-dual-wielding rogues, working in tandem to flank their attackers. At least there were more allies than enemies now, Varric watching his aim as he shot dead a rather annoying despair demon. There was a rumble beneath his feet and the all-too-familiar guttural laugh of a pride demon.

“Big guy incoming!” he shouted. He felt a strange sensation wash over him, the hair on the back of his neck rising. It felt almost like another one of Dorian’s barriers, except Sparkler was too far away. Suddenly, Bethany was standing next to him, looking rather worried. So that’s what it was. He hadn’t felt Bethany’s magic in what seemed like a lifetime—not that he could feel it as well as he would’ve liked. His nerves calmed momentarily. “Thanks.”

She moved past him after that, fire on her fingertips as she engaged another shade. Varric cursed under his breath. Thanks? That had been the first time he had spoken to her in weeks and that’s what he chose to say? He grumbled to himself as he took out the frustration on the grouping of green wisps. Before he knew it the pride demon was vanquished, the battlements clear for more Inquisition soldiers.

“Inquisitor! Always a pleasure!” Hawke laughed as the last demon disappeared. Aurelie smiled briefly, gripping the man’s forearm in a shake. He patted her on the shoulder in kind.

“Good to see you in one piece, Hawke,” she nodded. “Bethany, surprised to see you here.”

“Two Hawkes are better than one,” she said coyly. She was even dressed in a similar fashion to her brother, red dragonling leather accenting her mage armor. Hawke regarded her with pride before glancing to the only one in the group with a scowl.

“Don’t look at me like that, Varric.”

Had they all forgotten what was happening? “What is she doing here? Didn’t the whole brainwashed mages make you think—”

“I can take care of myself,” Bethany stopped him cold. She crossed her arms, brow furrowed in frustration. “I wanted to fight.”

“There’s no arguing with her,” Hawke suggested, ignoring the way Bethany rolled her eyes at him. “You of all people should know that.”

“Not all of us are susceptible to corruption,” Dorian added, reasonably.

Varric decided it wasn’t worth to disagree. He didn’t doubt Bethany’s ability, but the circumstances had him worried about her well-being than ever before. That sinking feeling returned, but again he remained silent. Nobody ever reacted well to ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’

“There are still more demons on the western battlements,” Aurelie explained, the group following her line of sight were Inquisition soldiers were struggling. Her silence told them she was contemplating what to do next. It was in the opposite direction of the main courtyard where most of the Wardens were held up. Hawke took that as his cue, and grinned, ready for another fight.

“Surely you can handle the rest of the demons without assistance,” Varric spoke, somewhat sarcastically. His sense of humor was barely hanging on. Might as well use it while he could.

“Of course I can,” Hawke replied, brandishing his ridiculously large daggers. “And don’t call me surely!”

He ran off towards the opposite end of the battlements. Bethany lingered to give Aurelie some reassurance.

“You go on ahead, Inquisitor, we’ll catch up in no time.”

Varric wanted to stay with them, but as Bethany turned to follow her brother without another word, he took that as a sign to keep with Aurelie. They ran through the lower floors of the fortress, quickly cutting down any opposing force they ran into. The sight in the courtyard was enough to stop them all dead in their tracks. The magister Erimond, and what they could only assume was Warden-Commander Clarel, holding the attention of the brainwashed Wardens as they completed some sort of ritual. In clear view was a large, closed fade rift. Aurelie’s shock was momentary as she ran forward, too late to stop the Commander as she slayed a Warden in sacrifice.

“Warden-Commander Clarel!” Aurelie shouted. Even though she had her companions stand back, Varric readied his crossbow, unwilling to trust this could end amicably. “If you complete that ritual, you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants.”

The magister argued almost instantly. Varric was sick of that tool and the sound of his voice.

“Do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!” Erimond yelled. Clarel blindly agreed with him, which only enraged Stroud.

“What do you think your Tevinter ally is doing? Binding the mages to Corypheus!”

His exclamation gave Clarel pause. The shock on her face screamed of betrayal. “Corypheus?”

Erimond was already at her side, his words too quiet for Varric to make out. His trigger finger was itching to shoot down the man now and hope it would end the madness. Clarel was conflicted as she stared between the Tevinter mage and the Inquisition forces. If they could delay this any longer, the Wardens would soon be outnumbered.

But suddenly, Clarel’s expression hardened. “Bring it through!”

“Oh, shit,” Varric muttered.

The Warden mages complied without question, using their magic to tear open the fade rift and bring forth…something. Stroud’s continued appeals went ignored as the Wardens stood ready to defend their Commander to the death. Aurelie shook her head, still determined to find resolution without further bloodshed.

“I’ve spared what Wardens I could,” she started. “See reason! Do not fall victim to this man’s corruption!”

Varric almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw some Wardens, including Clarel, staring at Erimond now with suspicion. The deception was crumbling—even with the indoctrination, she was now hesitant to continue. Regardless, her resistance only irritated Erimond. So much so that with a few taps of his staff, a resounding screech was heard from above.

Andraste’s ass—Varric hated when his intuition was right.

Within moments, Corypheus’ dragon was in the sky, barreling down towards the courtyard at an alarming rate. The red lyrium it expelled exploded a few feet ahead of them, the shining red of the blast nearly blinding. If Erimond’s intentions weren’t apparent before, they certainly were now. Clarel attacked him and the dragon in vain, and addressed her Wardens as the magister scrambled to run away.

“Help the Inquisitor!” she shouted as she gave chase.

Chaos ensued. The Wardens that did listen to her command immediately engaged the demons that had been brought through the fade rift, including another pride demon.

“I am so sick of seeing these bastards,” Varric called out to nobody in particular.

“That’s not a very nice thing to call someone!” Hawke’s voice echoed around him, his body moving past Varric in a flash of red as he practically dove into the fray. “Did you miss me?”

Even with Hawke’s typical confidence, Varric was not convinced, or even slightly relieved. Shot-for-shot, his fear was harder to swallow. The demons wouldn’t stop coming, and no matter how many times Aurelie or Hawke stabbed at the pride demon, it would not weaken. It was quickly turning into the worst thing he had ever witnessed, more than the fall of Haven, more than the near destruction of Kirkwall. In his distraction, a Warden mage knocked him over with the end of his staff. If he had used magic, Varric couldn’t tell—his one solace. There was fire in the man’s fist, primed for his target.

Guess this is as good of a place as any to be cooked alive, he thought. When he heard screaming, he wondered if he was having an out of body experience. It wasn’t until he felt a hand grabbing at his coat that he snapped open his eyes, unaware he had them closed in the first place. All he saw was Sunshine.

“Bloody hell, Varric.” Her eyes were wide with panic. She pulled him up by the collar with one arm, the other using her staff to set up another barrier. She quickly followed it with a few fire mines to keep enemies back as she helped him to his feet. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you think you can die on me?”

Varric blinked hard, wondering if he had hit his head. Was she…teasing him? Why was everyone joking at a time like this? Before he could respond, a flash of green exploded into the night sky. Aurelie had used her mark to expel a large amount of magic, the blast instantly killing the pride demon and the few enemies that lingered.

“How do we get out of here?” Her voice was laced with determined anger.

Stroud gestured towards the stairs that led to more battlements and a large stone bridge. “She went that way!”

Most of the group quickly made their way up the stairway, Bethany and Varric trailing behind.

“No, no, no!” Hawke quickly turned on his heel, stopping Bethany in her tracks. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking his head as she immediately made to protest. “You are not following me this time.”

“Excuse me?” she hissed. “Now you don’t want me to fight?”

Hawke groaned, throwing his head back in frustration. “That’s a dragon, a scary, lyrium-breathing dragon, and I’m not—”

“We don’t have time for this!” Aurelie interrupted them both and pointed to where more Wardens had made their way to the courtyard. Inquisition soldiers had followed, with their Commander leading them, but they would need help to keep the enemy at bay. “Stay here. Help here.”

Varric could tell that Bethany wanted to argue, but her mouth snapped closed, jaw set tightly as she nodded once. Hawke didn’t say anything as he simply grabbed her hands for a moment, squeezing them in a silent goodbye before he ran up the stairs with the Inquisitor. Blackwall and Stroud chased after them, but Dorian lingered when he noticed Varric was still standing there, just staring at Bethany. He didn’t know what to say—or if saying anything was the right thing to do.

“Varric?” Dorian called for him. He hesitantly stepped backwards a few paces before turning to follow.

That sickening sense of uncertainty returned, settling deep within his gut as Aurelie led them away. Before he rounded the corner, the last thing he saw was Bethany looking straight back at him. He prayed it wouldn’t be for the last time.

Bethany stood breathless amongst the carnage, her blood rushing and mana pulsating through her veins. She hadn’t had a fight like this in years, hadn’t been able to practice her offensive magic so freely in nearly a decade. It made her feel alive, but the circumstances filled her with a sense of dread all the same. She had been in the Western Approach for more than a week, away from Skyhold for a completely different matter when Leliana’s crows came with word that the Inquisition was marching to Adamant. Hawke and Stroud gladly joined the fight, and surprisingly, it didn’t take her too much persuading to be brought along as well.

The battle gave her something to focus on—as of late, her mind had been troubled with something much more delicate. Her heart. Ever since she had discovered Varric’s letters, she found herself confused, unable to deal with the level of embarrassment—jealousy—that she felt. Was she a fool to take their relationship, be it romantic or not, for granted? The appearance of Bianca had only made matters worse. She wondered if she had over-reacted or not.

So, she went to Griffon Wing Keep, thinking the distance would help. It did not. She found herself missing Varric, going back to read the carefully preserved letters she carried with her. She wanted some kind of answer to a question she wasn’t even sure how to ask. Did he still have feelings for her? Did he love her? Maker knew she still loved him, despite everything. That much she could admit, at least to herself. It was a dilemma she had never dealt with before, and somewhere within her very soul, she knew the outcome would affect the rest of her life. Her brother had tried to help, but she discouraged him, knowing the resolution had to be brought on by them alone. Too bad the end of the world didn’t stop for just two people.

“Bloody timing,” she muttered under her breath as she smacked her staff against an attacking Warden.

“What?” Cullen was behind her, his head turning slightly to look at her. She shook her head, willing a bolt of electricity from her fingers to knock the demon attacking him back. “Thanks,” he grunted, before moving away to attack another enemy.

Bethany grumbled at that, reminded of the exact and only word Varric had spoken to her since their reunion. Granted, she wasn’t expecting a full-fledged conversation in the middle a battlefield, but she wasn’t expecting a silent treatment either. He had no trouble talking about her, after all. It wasn’t until he left the battlements that she understood that it came from a place of concern. The same reason why she kept looking for him in the crowd of enemies, wanting nothing more than to keep him safe. When she and her brother eventually made it to the courtyard, she reacted in an instant, not knowing how injured Varric was when she found him flat on his back. This time he was dumbfounded, no doubt by the words she had chosen to speak. She was frazzled—the ridiculousness of the events unfolding around her had terrified her beyond the realm of rational thought. All she knew was that she did not want to leave his side. Not now, not ever.

Her brother had other plans.

“Damnit, Garrett!” She released the frustration she felt in a fiery blast, exhaling as her magic flowed out in a dramatic flair. The demons around her scattered into ash.

A deafening crash snapped her attention towards the stone bridge where the Archdemon had landed. A large portion began to crumble as huge arcs of lightening flashed upwards. Bethany could immediately sense the powerful magic being used. Powerful and dangerous. The ground—even the walls—rumbled with an intensity that nearly toppled her over. Cullen was at her side again and braced her, his expression slowly turning to one of fear as the bridge began to collapse at an alarming rate.

“Pull back!” he shouted, tugging on Bethany’s arm to ensure she followed suit. The only thing she could think was that the Inquisitor had been headed in that direction with her brother—with Varric. The ground troops fell back as far as they could, large groups of stone falling all around them.

“What was that?” Bethany was astounded. It looked just like—

“A tear in the veil,” Cullen breathed out next to her. His eyes were wide in disbelief as a large streak of green lingered in the sky. “They must’ve fallen through.”

He shuffled them to where Inquisition soldiers had commandeered a large room. Wounded lay on the ground, the few healers they had brought with them for the initial assault scrambling to triage. They would be safe here, for the time being. Cullen dispersed commands to his men as he passed, assuring that the fortress was well on its way to being taken. She clenched her fist, regretting that she wouldn’t be of much help here.

“Monitor the fade rift in the courtyard,” Cullen instructed a soldier. “Watch for any sign of—” His tone wavered momentarily. “The Inquisitor.”

“Do you really think they’ve gone through the veil?” Bethany asked. She watched as more soldiers rushed around them. Cullen didn’t answer her, distracted by his men’s movements and the general chaos of the room. She hesitantly reached out to grip his wrist, something she would’ve never dared to do in other circumstances. Regardless of his current position with the Inquisition, she still remembered his role at the Kirkwall Gallows. “Cullen.”

He shook his head, looking down at her hand. She pulled away, but looked at him expectantly. “It’s the only explanation that brings us any hope that they’ve survived,” he finally answered. His voice dropped dramatically as he closed his eyes and pressed his hand to his brow. “It’s the only thing that brings me hope.”

Bethany pursed her lips, slightly uncomfortable. She knew that there was some kind of relationship between the Inquisitor and her Commander, but his body language and expression spoke volumes to how serious it really was. It seemed Bethany was not alone in her worry of a loved one. They stood there silent for a few moments, just observing as more wounded were brought into the room. Suddenly, Cullen sighed, shaking his head again.

“I haven’t told her yet,” he spoke softly. Bethany looked at him curiously. He glanced back, and seemed ashamed of his sudden words. As awkward as she felt, Bethany knew that any conversation would help keep them distracted until more news arrived. Until they were needed.

“The Inquisitor?” she prompted.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, nodding once. “Aurelie. Yes,” he continued. “I haven’t told her that…that I love her.”

Oh. Her mind froze—she was in no mental condition to offer relationship advice. “I’m sure she knows…” she trailed, hoping she could offer even a little comfort. “What, with the way you two are.”

Cullen regarded her, brows furrowed as if he was still unsure. He seemed to hesitate before speaking again. “Does…Varric know?”

“What?”

“About you,” Cullen clarified. “Rather, how you feel about him?”

Bethany could feel her face running hot, mostly because this was not a conversation she thought she’d be having with anybody, let alone Cullen. Garrett, maybe, but here? Now? Was it really that obvious?

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tried to deny, but as she heard her own voice even she could tell it wasn’t very convincing. Cullen raised a brow at her and she groaned, closing her eyes tight until her vision became fuzzy. “Maker, you’re just like my brother.”

Cullen gave a short laugh. “Maker, I hope not.”

Bethany opened her eyes and the two shared a similar, amused smile. It was brief. She shook her head in disbelief, beside herself with how clear her mind was. That answer she had been looking for was just within reach.

“I struggle to wonder if it’s worth the risk,” she explained.

“The world is burning, we’re at war,” Cullen responded. “Considering the circumstances, I think the potential reward is worth the risk.”

“Says you,” Bethany didn’t mean to sound so abrasive, but the Commander only shrugged. They were both fools, but at least Cullen and Aurelie were already together. He had already taken that risk. “I don’t want to have any regrets.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Flying nugs. Bethany almost laughed at the sudden image that came to mind, but it was her quick thinking that gave her another answer. She took a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over her. It didn’t last. An Inquisition soldier approached, his expression grim. Bethany’s stomach instantly dropped.

“Commander,” he paused, as if the next words were a struggle to report. “The veil in the courtyard has opened. The Inquisitor appeared only shortly after the explosion. She’s saved the Wardens and—”

“Everyone has returned?” Cullen asked, interrupting his soldier. The runner shook his head.

“Not everyone.”

The Fade. To say Varric was displeased would be the understatement of the entire Dragon age. What was this now, his third trip? First with Hawke, second with King Alistair, and now? He really needed to stop associating with people who brought him here.

“Why is it you never take me anywhere nice?” Hawke was frowning, or at least Varric assumed he was. It was hard to tell from the rogue’s upside down position as he stood on a nearby rock. Nearby, Stroud stood sideways, equally confused. Varric only wanted to lay down and wait for it to all go away.

“Fade shit here,” he mumbled. Nearby, Dorian looked at him, perplexed, and Varric just shook his head. “I’m thinking about just writing a giant footnote for this part of the book.”

“No details? How boring,” the mage replied. At least he was standing the right way. Maybe.

Varric looked around at the green and floating rocks. While the Fade looked different from when he was last forced here, it was similar enough that he didn’t feel like memorizing the specifics. If he had any say, he’d hope to forget this ever happened to him in the first place.

“This isn’t really how I remember the Fade looking the last time I was here…” Hawke trailed.

“It’s because we aren’t dreaming,” Dorian explained. “We’re here physically.”

Varric could feel his eye twitch at that. “No shit.”

“Was it like this when you walked out of the Fade at Haven?” Hawke asked next. He was looking at the ground, above him, clearly upset with his current position.

“I don’t know,” Aurelie spoke softly. She stared at her hand, the anchor quiet. “I still can’t remember what happened the last time I did this.”

“What if we found another rift to escape through?” Stroud pondered aloud. “There was a rift nearby, in the main hall…”

“Possibly.” Aurelie looked off into the distance, a large tear in the sky resembling the breech. “Let’s go.”

Hawke and Stroud were now standing on the ground where they should be. Varric blinked hard, wondering if they had even been askew before, or if it had been his imagination. He rubbed at his head as they walked, periodically glancing out across the landscape. The eerie darkness had him snap his focus back to Aurelie as she guided them. There were a few demons that patrolled the area, easy enough for them to kill.

The unexpected came when at the top of a hill stood a figure. Somebody, or something that looked exactly like Divine Justinia. Her appearance gave everyone pause, even as she greeted them individually. Varric hated to admit he was even remotely religious, but the sight of the most holy had him questioning his beliefs all over again. Their conversation with the Divine centered on the debate on whether or not she was real—it was hard to believe that she could be alive. No, it had to be a spirit. Especially when she began to discuss events that the real Divine would have no way of knowing.

Instead, the figure decided to explain the Fade and the enemy that lingered there. The Nightmare. How it had stolen away the memories of the Inquisitor, helped Corypheus brainwash the Wardens with the false calling, and was now working to keep them trapped there forever. Wherever the Nightmare was hiding, Varric couldn’t wait to introduce him to Bianca.

They battled the demons as instructed, and as promised, their defeat revealed that the mark of Andraste wasn’t really from the Maker’s bride after-all. Plot twist, Varric thought grimly. He could already sense Hawke’s fury as he engaged Stroud.

“The Warden’s actions led to her death!”

The Warden took it in stride. “I assume they had taken their minds, as you’ve seen done before.”

“We can argue after we escape,” Aurelie warned.

Hawke took that as a challenge. “Oh, I intend to.”

Varric still had his doubts, not wanting to believe anything he saw while he was here. That was the tricky thing about the Fade, it tricked you. He didn’t want to think about a monster that took people’s memories away. It would only lead to fear, which was exactly what it wanted. He focused on fighting, keeping his mind as clear as possible as they made their way. He tried to focus on Hawke, the Champion’s scowl so unfamiliar it rattled Varric’s bones. A voice dug into his brain—loud and abrasive.

“Once again Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric.” Must be the Nightmare. “You found the red lyrium, you brought Hawke here. Both Hawkes. They will both die, Varric. And it will be your fault.”

Despite the gab at his heart, he braced himself. “Just keep talking, smiley.”

The grim expressions of the others told him they had also been talked to, Aurelie pausing as she was momentarily caught off guard. Varric didn’t want to imagine what the Nightmare had conjured for her. Hawke looked at him, despondently for a moment. It looked as though he was about to say something when he shook his head, snapping out from the Nightmare’s grasp.

“How charming,” he grumbled with the faintest of smirks.

Further on, the Divine Justinia finally revealed her true nature. Well, sort of. Varric was still confused on if it was a spirit, a memory, or something else. Regardless, it was helping, leading them towards their escape. Except it wouldn’t be easy. It was never easy. In front of the glowing fade rift that would be their escape stood a towering spider—at least it was a spider to Varric. Judging by the looks of the others, it may have been presenting itself in any number of horrible ways. A different, towering demon that he could only assume was the Nightmare stood guard as well. The Divine spirit engaged the demon, sparking it to summon more.

Within minutes, they were overwhelmed. The Nightmare figure moved sporadically, vanishing after only a few swipes of Aurelie’s daggers. It had cast a spell that entranced Stroud and Hawke, the two struggling to help the fight in any way.

“Help for the mage, please!” Dorian was leaning his weight on his staff as he attacked with his free arm.

Varric shuffled over to him, tossing the spare healing potion that he had. He had already gone through several in the short time they had been fighting, with no end in sight. And then he was on the ground, the thump to the back of his head echoing in his ears. He hadn’t even seen what had knocked him out. The lack of Dorian’s reaction told him the mage had been hit too. It was painful, but only for a moment. More than anything, he heard ringing—the clashing sound of metal and magic. He struggled to open his eyes, and when he did, his vision was blurry. He thought to move, but a voice in his head told him that wasn’t the best idea.

Another explosion, Aurelie yelling out as she used the full force of her mark to literally tear the Nightmare apart. Varric imagined what it looked like, smiling briefly to himself as he heard the whispering scream of its defeat. It didn’t seem to be any kind of victory, however. He could hear Hawke and Stroud discussing something urgent.

“…I’ll cover you!”

Was that Hawke? Varric furrowed his brow in a lame attempt to hear.

“…A Warden must—”

Their words grew quieter. Despite Varric’s desperation to want to speak, he was unable. He closed his eyes, wondering if this time he really was about to die. If so, he wasn’t afraid—or at least, the fear he had been carrying with him was now gone. He was calm, almost aloof. Maybe that was the blood loss, or the concussion. All he felt was arms surrounding him, somebody picking him up with little effort.

Please don’t toss me, he thought. At least his sense of humor was determined to hang on to the bitter end. And then, his mind went blank, and he panicked to think of something else. Something better. If he had a choice of a last memory, it needed to better than that.

As the darkness finally surrounded him, he thought of the sun.

Sunshine.

Bethany.

#crab cakes #dragon age #varric tethras #bethany hawke #varric x bethany #oh i'm in danger #a crab writes #fanfic #and there was much rejoicing

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simplifyingforces · 7 years

Text

Prepare to Interface [AO3 link]

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Red vs. Blue Characters: Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons

The Temple of Procreation has an algorithm. Simmons doesn’t understand it.

Simmons' HUD vitals flashed ominously at the edge of his vision as he stumbled down the hallway toward the base's storage wing. It wasn't supposed to end this way. Years of waiting, hoping, wishing -- all undone by something as monumentally stupid as this.

He stopped for a second to catch his breath, slamming his hands against the wall. If he could just make it to those sweet, solitary, air conditioned storage units, everything would be fine. Perfectly, forgettably fine. Like he wasn't about to lose his virginity courtesy of an alien-made, planet-wide aphrodisiac fine.

God, he hated Blue Team sometimes. Stupid Tucker and his stupid alien sword, casually activating temples without even entertaining the possibility of something so minor as actual, real life consequences.

Statistically, the number of pregnancies alone would put the planet under a level of strain so severe that it could cripple the entire infrastructure before they even had a chance to rebuild. He'd said that at least twice, along with a lot of other good, solid reasons backed up by peer-reviewed empirical data. He just couldn't remember them all at the moment.

"Never thought I'd see someone so set against losing their virginity," Simmons whispered to himself mockingly. That had been Tucker's only response to his perfectly sensible objections. Like it was all personal for him.

Like anyone wanted their first time to be someone coerced into wanting them.

And there it was. The other main reason for his concern, otherwise known as consent and immediate impact on individual, familial, and communal dynamics! Just because it sounded like the subtitle to a scientific study didn't make it any less true.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t open to the potential merits of the temple. He’d conceded that Chorus might benefit from a jump start to the reconciliation process, and it made some kind of weird sense on a macro level to give everyone 24 hours of ”ravenous sexual frenzy” as a means to accomplish it. He supposed.

But his own micro level life didn't need that bullshit.

Forget what Santa had said about sensitivity to the intricacies of consent as plotted into the temple's algorithm, too; if someone had been interested, they would have spoken up by now, what with him being a war hero and all. Tucker had made that perfectly clear. Tucker had also been much more of an asshole than usual lately.

Simmons absently rubbed at his collarbone. Even with the slightest pressure from the armor bearing down on it, he imagined the stitches pulling against his skin and drew his hand away. They'd been so lucky, again. Again and again, and hopefully they would no longer need to be. Church wouldn’t need to, at least.

He violently pulled his thoughts away from the Staff of Charon and started back down the hall. The heart rate monitor in his HUD placed him at 142 BPM and rising. What would happen if he didn't fuck? Santa hadn't even talked about that. He could already see the headline: War Hero Dies, Determined to Remain a Virgin.

Grif would love it at least; assuming Grif wasn't also dead from a decided lack of temple-induced fucking. He hadn't even been there to know that there was temple-induced fucking to worry about. Grif had shown zero interest in showing up at the temple today -- or for any other mission lately, for that matter. Maybe if he had been there, they wouldn't be in the position they were currently in. Grif could have-- could have-- well, probably not done anything at all, if Simmons was being perfectly honest, but at least he'd have been aware. At least he wouldn't be on his own, wondering what was happening to him right now and why.

And how would Grif be taking all this, exactly? His physical fitness had always been notably well below par. The effects of the temple already felt like the slow grip of imminent death to Simmons and he was at least ten times healthier.

It was also impossible to forget just how much Grif had completely disregarded his own safety on the Staff of Charon. His chest had absorbed countless hits of enemy fire, just because he’d insisted on taking point with the Grif Shot halfway through. The exact sound of Grif’s small grunts of pain had played in surround sound via comm as Simmons bled out through his armor. It wasn’t until the end -- Tucker surrounded by dead and dying and the room suddenly horribly quiet -- that Grif had stepped down, armor burned black and smoking.

He didn't need to contact Grif. Grif was probably absolutely fine. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Usually. At least forty percent of the time. When they weren't in a crisis situation.

It wouldn’t hurt to check on him. Just a casual hello, maybe a little update on the temple.

Simmons switched over to their private channel and signaled in. Grif almost always picked up there.

No answer.

He swallowed drily and started walking faster. What if Grif was with someone? What if he wasn't and was already dead? What would Sarge say if sex (or lack thereof) literally killed half of the Glorious Red Team?

Anxiety roiled in his gut, and he groaned in irritation. Ugh, he couldn't think about Grif right now! It wasn't like he could do anything for him anyway.

The storage wing doors came up on his left and he keyed in the entry code. A couple of lieutenants ran past him as he went through the doorway, completely oblivious to his presence as they giggled and tripped over one another on the way out. His eyes followed them as they passed, face warm and heartbeat racing as he took in their roaming hands. Jealousy was stupid. Who would he even want to fuck on this planet, anyway?

He closed his eyes as a deep shudder ran through his entire body. Fucking someone, anyone, right now sounded incredible. He was actually amazed at how good it sounded. He'd put a lot of effort into not thinking about sex for so long, circumstances being what they were.

Did it matter if he thought about one person over another? Say, Tucker versus Donut, or Carolina versus Kimball?

As if on cue, images started flowing in. Very graphically.

He slapped a hand against his helmet hard enough to sting.

Focus, Simmons. Keep moving.

Around the next corner, he finally spotted the individual unit doors and let out a sigh of relief. One of them had to be available.

He yanked on the handle of the first one and let out an angry noise when it didn't budge. It wasn't like he wanted to fuck all over the canned vegetables! He just needed space and time alone, where he didn't have to worry about running into anyone and embarrassing himself for the rest of his military career. The thought of actually seeing Carolina, Kimball, Tucker, or Donut right now made him want to throw himself off a cliff.

"Let me in, come on, one of you, any of you," he demanded as he went down the line, pulling at each handle. Locked, locked, motherfucking locked. Sweat was starting to form on his brow. Heart rate at 155. He was steadily ignoring anything below his waist.

Focus.

His eyes finally lit on a door wedged open with a broom handle in the far right corner. "Thank you, god," he whispered as he bolted in, kicked the broom away, and let the door swing shut, darkening the unit almost completely. He unclasped his helmet and let it fall to the floor as he leaned back against the wall. Cool air blasted from the ceiling vent onto his sweaty hair, pushing it downward.

If Simmons had been himself, he would have checked his surroundings on entry. As it turned out, intense manufactured arousal made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything other than...well, being aroused.

And in that time, someone else in the unit had noticed him.

"Simmons?" that someone else called out from behind a wall of opened, empty cans of food. "I think there's something wrong with me." The voice paused. "Like, really, really wrong, dude."

Simmons' eyes shot open in panic.

"What the -- Grif?!"

Most of the people Simmons had met over the course of his enlistment held the same ideas about the existence of a higher power. Sim troopers, freelancers, and the people of Chorus had no reason to believe some omnipotent being looked after them from behind the scenes. Not with everything they'd been through.

Simmons had never been in that camp. No, he was confident that God existed -- in fact, God had always had it out for him specifically. He'd known that since his fifth birthday, when his dad made him cry in front of his entire kindergarten class for getting last place in Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Moments like this just continued to confirm it for him.

"Why are you in here?!" He pushed off the wall and gestured angrily at Grif's canned food wall. Grif was just on the other side of it. Close enough to touch, if he just took a few steps forward. Not that he wanted to or anything.

"I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass! Why are you in here?!" Grif responded in kind, and maybe if Simmons had been thinking straight, he would have thought about the likelihood of Grif holing up here with endless amounts of food and dark space and silence. He would have just assumed Grif's laziness for not answering a comm instead of being dead or in the middle of orgasm. But he didn't, because half of his blood was no longer in his brain.

"God damn it, Grif!" He kicked his helmet away and slid to the floor. If he held his arms against his cheeks, he could cool himself slightly off the armor metal. It helped him focus well enough to hear Grif's indignant, irritating response.

"What the hell, dude? I tell you I'm sick -- after you barge into my space, by the way -- and you get mad at me?" Grif began to haul himself up and make his way over to Simmons' side of the room.

"Stay back!" Simmons scooted away hurriedly, slamming his back against the door. Grif didn't know. He didn't know anything, and that was dangerous as hell.

"Okay, chill," Grif said, taking an exaggerated step backward. Simmons saw his head tilt down slightly, taking him in. "Wait. You look like how I feel, which, by the way, is really, really shitty. What's going on?" Grif picked Simmons' helmet up off the floor, sweaty skin shining off the dim light of the HUD as he peered into it. He clicked the headlamp on and set the helmet on a shelf so that they could see each other more clearly.

Simmons slightly hated him for that.

"Well, if you had bothered to come to the meeting today, you would know." Simmons rubbed his temples, looking away. Of course Grif would hang out in the storage closet in his undersuit -- why wear full scale armor anymore? The war was over, and Grif's bruises probably felt a lot better that way. Unrestricted beneath breathable fabric and open to the cool, cool air. Simmons swallowed thirstily.

Silence reigned for a moment, until --

"Seriously, that's all you're going to give me? I'm trying not to die of heat exhaustion and--and-- whatever this is," Grif said as he flailed his arms in confusion, "and you're going to hang missing a meeting over my head? Cut the shit, Simmons."

"I am trying," Simmons said measuredly through ragged breath, "to focus." He clenched his fists tightly before setting them to work on his own armor. Grounding himself in simple tasks could work. Plus, he was just so hot. Maybe if he could cool off a bit, he could warn Grif. Grif needed to know.

"Focus here then, Simmons, and tell me what's going on," Grif said shortly. Simmons could see his fingers tapping against his folded arms in stiff, agitated motions in the lamplight. It was very un-Grif-like. Simmons could grab them, just for a second, put them where they'd be of better use, and --

With shaking hands, he pulled his chest piece off and placed it on the floor. Santa's algorithm was clearly bullshit. He took a knee and started methodically working on a leg, staring intently at the ground. Cool down, Simmons. Cool. Down.

"Simmons," Grif ground out impatiently, and fuck his voice, honestly, for sounding so beautifully gravelly deep.

"Grif," he said hoarsely, fumbling with the clasp on his calf. "Stop." He'd never thought of Grif's voice as beautiful before. Once he got out of this mess, he was going to write these reactions down just to prove how right he'd been.

"Stop what? You stop! No, wait; you start! Tell me why I woke up feeling like I have the biggest case of blue balls known to man!"

"Fine!" Simmons yelled, and it felt good to do it, like the smallest, greatest release. He stood and pelted the wall with the rest of his armor, satisfaction growing with each loud rattle to the floor.

"If you had gone to any of our meetings since the battle, you'd have known that conducting alien tech research is a top priority for Chorus right now." He paced as he drew on his anger to maintain his train of thought. "And Tucker's sword makes us the perfect candidates to do it. Not like you care, since you've been MIA for every mission." He paused for a second to let that truth bomb sink in, a bomb so full of truth that he actually wanted to hear Grif's inevitable excuse-laden reaction.

Instead, he got nothing but silence. "Are you even listening to me?"

And then, he made the stupid, stupid mistake of looking at Grif's face. It was unnerving how intently Grif was staring at him. Grif's body had lost all of its usual studied calmness and looked ready to spring. At him. Imminently.

Simmons let out a long, shaking breath and felt himself sway slightly, the room closing in on him and Grif in the small beam of light. Was he getting lightheaded? What was his heart rate right now?

"Forget it." Grif's voice cut through the quiet, hurried and high-pitched. "You're totally right, Simmons. I don't care enough, so you should just go ahead and take your nerd explanation somewhere else. Yeah."

"Um," Simmons responded eloquently. His anger had dissipated, leaving nothing but wanting in its wake. He should turn around and walk out. He should stop staring at Grif. He should move his ass, immediately. Right now. Any moment --

"Look," Grif continued, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. "You can tell me later, okay? I can't do this right now, with you -- I mean things! Being, you know --" He trailed off and fluttered his hands in Simmons' general direction.

The thing was, Grif had never really been the type to tell Simmons what to do. That had always been more of a Simmons-to-Grif dynamic. So Simmons should definitely go. It would be reasonable to leave. If he could bring his body back online, he would honor Grif's request, because he was someone who did the right thing. Really, he was. He didn't want to do this to Grif. He didn't. He just needed a second. Just a second to --

Without warning, Grif lurched towards him. Simmons fell backwards as Grif gave him a graceless shove, almost as if he were undecided between pushing Simmons or falling down himself. And then, inexplicably, Grif's hand clamped down hard on contact, and he pulled Simmons back towards him, making their heads bump together in the whiplash.

Simmons hissed through his teeth. Grif's touch burned through the fabric of the undersuit, and Simmons felt every part of himself radiate toward it.

"What the hell," Grif whispered, wide-eyed and half-shadowed from the narrow beam of the headlight. This close, Simmons could see one iridescent eye, and it was the clearest he'd seen Grif maybe ever. As long as Simmons had known him, he'd been awed and slightly jealous of Grif's uncanny ability to maintain the most dull and uninterested stare, regardless of person or situation. To add insult to injury, Grif's eyes were so dark that his pupils were practically invisible, giving him an added layer of immunity from the betrayal of any instinctual reactions.

Simmons had actually thought for an embarrassingly long time that Grif's eyes were black. It hadn't been until after the surgery, when Sarge had shined a flashlight in Grif's face during an implant check-up, that he'd finally realized they were a deep, warm brown. Hidden depths, he'd thought ridiculously at the time, but it didn't make it not true.

Now, Grif's closeness had let Simmons see everything, and it was so much. Too much.

"Grif," he said, and it was whiny as fuck, so annoying, he hated everything about it. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't equipped to handle this. Grif didn't know. It wasn't his fault. It definitely will be Simmons' fault if he lets this happen.

Grif released a heavy breath through his nose before releasing his grip. The loss of contact felt like losing a piece of Simmons’ own self, and it was...sad? How could a body be sad? What was the temple doing to him?

"Simmons, just...leave." Grif paused. "Please." His hand was now running through his hair, fingers agitatedly pulling at the strands as if to keep it from flying forward onto Simmons again. But he looked more at ease now. That was good. Safe.

"Well," Simmons tried to say lightly, "if you're going to bust out the niceties." He fumbled blindly for the door handle behind him.

"It might help to turn around," Grif said absently. He dragged his hand down to rub at his cheek. "Just a...just a thought."

Simmons tore his eyes away from Grif's hair, which now looked really well-tousled instead of like its usual greasy tangle. "Right." He spun around clumsily, banging his shoulder against the door.

"Fuck," he breathed, jiggling the handle. His arm still burned where Grif had touched him. "It's locked." He paused. "Wait. Why is it locked from the inside?"

Realization hit him like a lightning bolt. I've been coming here for weeks, dumbass. Weeks in which Chorus leadership had noted in meetings -- meetings Grif had skipped! -- a concerning drop in food supplies and begun creating fail-safes against smuggling. Grif's exceptional fatassery had finally gone a step too far. Why hadn't he thought for one second about the purpose of that goddamned broom handle.

Simmons stared at the door as if he could will it to open. There was nothing else to do. If he turned around, though -- if he looked at Grif -- his body sang at the thought, and he pushed down on it, hard.

"Simmons," a voice suddenly whispered against his neck, because Grif was shorter than him and holy fuck when had he gotten so close? "Simmons." Grif's exhaled breath tickled his skin, and he shivered. All he could think about was Grif touching him again. Why hadn't Grif touched him again? Grif couldn't touch him again, or it would all be over.

Simmons braced his hands against the door to stop his knees from shaking. There had to be another way out of here; all he needed to do was find it. Then he wouldn’t even have to explain the temple. It would be the most sound, practical solution to this...problem. For the best, really.

"Something's wrong with me," Grif muttered against his neck. "Talk to me, Simmons, come on, you always talk, say something, give me anything--"

Okay, Simmons, think. No other exits, no windows, nothing but Grif and his helmet’s headlight shining on their backs.

Wait. His helmet?

"I'm sorry," he said to the wall, and then pushed back hard, sending Grif sprawling with a yelp of surprise.

Simmons turned and leapt forward, fumbling for the helmet, the light careening wildly against the walls. "Come in, hello? We're stuck!" he cried out as he jammed it on his head. His hands itched to touch Grif's skin. "In here. Alone. Anybody?"

Comms couldn't be down, not for all of Chorus. That was impossible. He scrolled frantically through his HUD until he got to the alerts screen and read:

COMMS SHUT OFF FOR DURATION OF TEMPLE EFFECTS BY ORDER OF PRES. KIMBALL

"Right," he sighed, shoulders drooping. "Of course. Privacy is important, and," he let out a short, defeated laugh, "who'd be able help us right now anyway?"

He pulled the helmet off and dropped it on the floor. The light faced somewhere left of them, leaving them in semi-darkness. Below him, Grif was concerningly silent.

“Grif?” He looked down, heart pounding. “Did I kill you?”

“No. Not yet at least,” Grif muttered. Unlike the unnerving panic attack from earlier, he’d seen Grif like this before. You know, relatively calm, but also bright-eyed, slightly flushed and...wriggly, for lack of a better term. It had never been personally directed at him. Some things you just couldn’t avoid after sharing a room for long enough. Especially when your roommate decided to look at porn with you in the room.

This still wasn’t personally directed at him, Simmons reminded himself firmly.

“Look,” Grif said from the floor, "can we be real for a second?" He bit his lip and let out a soft, frustrated noise as he shifted restlessly. "I need to get off. Like, now."

Simmons could actually feel the flush that spread across his cheeks as he took Grif’s words in. This is happening. This is happening. This is happening, his brain supplied helpfully. His body stepped in to painfully remind him that it was completely and totally on board.

Grif glared up at him. "Come on, dude. Throw me a bone here.”

Simmons swallowed. Grif was proposing it, so it was fine, right? Or the algorithm made it okay for Grif to propose it. And for him to accept it, if he was understanding it correctly. "Me...me too. I guess.”

Grif nodded in satisfaction, and squirmed on the floor for a bit longer before settling on an apparently slightly more comfortable position. "So, obviously neither of us are happy about it or anything. But I -- we -- gotta do it, man."

"Right, okay.” Simmons paused. “Do what exactly?"

Visions swam in his mind of what Grif could say. What he wanted Grif to say. Correction: what the temple wanted him to want Grif to say. Obviously.

"Uh, the bare fucking minimum. Also, losing your virginity like this would be pretty awful, so. Win-win."

"Win-win," Simmons echoed, voice cracking slightly.

He was going to touch Grif, and they were going to get off. Together. Grif was going to touch him and he wanted him to. He could admit that, right? It was the temple, after all.

"Okay," he said, heart in his throat.

"Okay," Grif repeated, and it was so anxiously giddy, Simmons felt himself grimace. It wasn't Grif's fault. It wasn't Grif at all actually, so Simmons might as well make it easier.

He knelt down next to Grif. "Uh." What came next, exactly? He made an aborted motion towards Grif's chest. “Should I...?”

Grif reached out and pulled Simmons on top of him by his undersuit.

The effect was immediate. "Oh god," Simmons breathed, eyes squeezed shut. He could smell Grif's sweat. Only two layers of undersuit separated his suddenly embarrassingly hard dick from Grif's leg.

Grif let out a pained sound before his hand landed on the back of Simmons' head, sifting through his hair in a way that would have been soothing under literally any other circumstance. He reflexively bucked against Grif instead, scalp tingling from Grif's fleeting touch.

When Grif pushed back, he felt hardness against his hip and moaned. Actually moaned, like a horny teenager. Jesus Christ. The sound of it rang out disgustingly in the almost silence.

Almost, because of Grif's loud breathing, which Simmons had attributed to Grif's general state of health until he actually listened to it. He'd never made anyone respond like Grif, not in almost thirty years of living. It's the temple, his mind whispered at him, as he hitched a thigh between Grif's legs, craving another breath, another sigh, another anything at all.

"Fuck," Grif choked out, chest vibrating against Simmons. He slid his hand down to rest on Simmons' neck. The heat of it felt like jumping into a hot tub on a cold day, scalding water that made his skin break out in goosebumps.

He clenched his jaw tightly to suppress a new wave of noises from escaping into the room.

And now he sounded like a duct taped hostage. How incredibly sexy. The temple was a miracle worker if Grif’s libido survived all of that intact.

Wait, why did he even need to sound sexy? Simmons shook his head, planted his hands on either side of Grif, and pushed up and away for better leverage. It was so much easier to remember how things stood from here. They had been forced into this, Grif was the least intimidating person he knew, and so if it had to happen, who better? Just two guys helping each other out in their time of need, totally casual and mutually rewarding. So what if Simmons could still feel everything: Grif's fingers digging into his wrist and Grif’s stomach expanding outward to brush against his arms and Grif’s dick grinding on his leg, gradually making his undersuit wet? That was fine. He was just the most convenient option.

Simmons closed his eyes and concentrated on the steady, agonizing slide of pleasure until it began to lead to a rhythm that made his mind go hazy. Below him, Grif kept taking in long, shuddering breaths. It was the perfect spot, perfect pressure, more euphoric than any jerk-off session.

And then Grif did the worst possible thing. An unforgivable thing. He started fucking talking.

"Holy shit, Simmons," Grif whispered frantically, bringing him completely out of the moment. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit." Simmons felt Grif's hands on his hips, patting him as if to convince himself that Simmons was actually there.

"Simmons, ah --" His breath hitched and he arched up, hands gripping tightly. "That's good, so good, it's perfect -- you're perfect --"

Simmons jerked forward roughly enough to move both of them a good foot across the floor. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

"Simmons? Do you like it?" Grif babbled beneath him. "Does it feel okay, or good, or --"

"Shut up," Simmons said tightly as he pressed down against Grif's leg. He desperately fixated on Grif's Adam's apple, ears prickling. It wasn't Grif. It wasn't him. It felt so good, though, hearing his name that way.

From Grif. His mind stuttered and came to a halt.

The lazy back-and-forth that had been so mind-numbingly good before was now woefully inadequate. He felt impatient with need. It burned him from the inside out, and he leaned into it.

“Okay.” Grif’s voice broke and wavered. Simmons jumped slightly at the sensation of Grif’s fingers running against his stitches. It was a weirdly gentle gesture. “Good.”

Simmons sniffed loudly as the pressure mounted under his skin. Grif’s irritating, insistent touch made him want to scream. Why were his eyes watering?

And then, Grif’s soft, shaking fingers slid away and upward to stroke his cheek, less delicate than clumsy. He could look up; it would be easy enough. Grif swallowed hard, the Adam's apple slid downward, and Simmons felt his stare, but kept holding on and away, grinding down hard and fast and panting. He was close, so close, fuck.

If Grif would just stop talking, they could finish getting off and forget this ever happened. But Grif had never listened to Simmons, not once in all their years together.

"You -- your face -- Simmons," Grif stuttered, and it was wobbly and wanting and full of unspeakable things. Grif pushed up hard and let out a startled sound from deep in his throat before falling limp, chest heaving.

"Goddamnit, Grif," Simmons gasped. "I'm gonna -- gonna --" He went taut as he shuddered into climax. "Nnnngh."

He let himself lay on top of Grif for a moment and tried to catch his breath. He had never even hugged Grif before, and now he felt like he was falling into a chasm, dark and terrifying.

He needed to get up.

"Uh, Grif, about the temple," he started haltingly, before he lost his nerve. "It causes --"

A rumbling snore interrupted him.

Simmons sighed and shifted slightly over to Grif’s side. There was come drying in his undersuit and Grif shouldn't have this much pressure on his bruises. But he was warm, and there was nowhere else to go. Also, sex with another person had been a lot more tiring than Simmons had thought it would be.

For awhile, he lay in a state of sleepy semi-panic. Should he get up? Would Grif think it was weird that he hadn’t gotten up earlier? Who cared what Grif thought anyway? Did he care? The algorithm had clearly been all wrong -- it had made two people who couldn't even procreate fuck, hadn't it? So neither of them should care about any of it, least of all some post-coital napping.

But what if Grif did?

"Shut up," he murmured to himself as he concentrated on Grif's even breathing. Eventually, he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Simmons woke to bright light flooding behind his eyelids.

"Oh look, Freckles, we have found more best friends laying down together in the dark!" Caboose's helmet stared down at them, framed by fluorescent light. "Santa says you can come out now."

Simmons pulled away from Grif so fast, his head hit the floor. "Caboose! Uh..." He looked up from the ground and groaned when he saw pink armor.

"Heyyyyy, guys! I can't believe it! I mean, I can believe it -- well, we all can, really --"

"Fuck. Off. Everyone," Grif's flat, tired voice came from behind Simmons. Simmons sat up abruptly and discreetly checked himself for decency. Somehow, Grif had found the time to put his own helmet back on. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Fine, Mister Grumpy Pants," Donut pouted. "And here I'd thought you'd be a little more happy." He stared meaningfully at Simmons before following Caboose down the hall, leaving Simmons scrambling to catch the door before it closed.

He cleared his throat as Grif made his way back behind his canned food wall. "Do you, uh, want to talk about it?"

"Did you or did you not hear me the first time, Dick?" Grif said, voice devoid of anything beyond irritation.

"Oh, thank god." Simmons grabbed his armor and fled, propping the long-forgotten broom handle in the doorway on his way out.

Simmons never directly tells Grif about the temple. He knows Grif knows when he joins Simmons at the lunch table the next day and says, "Fucking Santa and fucking Tucker," and they leave it at that.

When Donut and Tucker come in and ask for a million details, Grif threatens to gut them with the Grif Shot, and Simmons is infinitely grateful. It’s honestly better than any other conversation they could have mustered up on their own.

Simmons is also infinitely grateful that Grif doesn’t bring up his terrible sex noises or his pathetic almost-tears.

No one mentions the algorithm at all.

Simmons sees Grif in the showers later and locks eyes with the wall until he leaves. No one says anything to anyone, really, since most of the room's got their own horror stories and the scars to prove it. Thank god he has his own quarters. He has no desire to see anyone else out of armor for the foreseeable future.

That night, he jacks off and thinks of Grif's voice, just to see. Simmons, you're so good, Grif-in-his-mind says, you're perfect. He thinks of how Grif's open face might have looked, his gasps, all the things the temple made him do.

It fucking sucks.

#dexter grif #dick simmons #rvb #grimmons #red vs blue #fanfic

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squirenonny · 7 years

Text

For Want of Yeast

Andie requested some Hunk and Sal and burgers, and this got a little bit out of hand because, I mean. Come on. That’s one of my all-time favorite Hunk moments. I had to do their second meeting justice!

My Ko-fi

[Read on AO3]

Hunk spent a solid three months trying to make a passable burger for the other paladins. When he’d first started he’d thought (naively) that it wouldn’t be too hard. Ground meat grilled up in a patty with some assortment of condiments on a bun. Easy, right? It wasn’t like trying to recreate the perfect texture of ice cream or the heat of a good salsa. They’d found plenty of edible alien meats over the course of their travels, and the condiments all came down to experimentation.

The problem, he soon realized, was the bun.

Bread was hard to find in outer space. Good bread, even harder. Most planets didn’t seem to have anything equivalent to yeast, for one thing, so while flatbreads and crackers and even something like tortillas were plentiful, real bread was not.

And then there was the grain. Once he’d given up on finding bread, Hunk had set out to make it. He had a whole array of flours in his kitchen—this one with the right taste but far too coarse a texture, that one okay texture-wise but bitter. He’d made plenty of passable flatbreads, and once when he’d found something like baking soda he’d managed an imitation banana bread. But yeast breads? Sourdough? Out of the question.

It was amazing how many comfort foods you missed out on when you didn’t have access to Earth microorganisms. Grilled cheese, burgers, pizza. Hell, they didn’t even have yogurt they could trust not to make them all sick.

It figured when he finally found real, genuine, eat-it-with-butter bread, it would be at Vrepit Sal’s.

The paladins had returned to the space mall to resupply, and Hunk had only gone because, frankly, he didn’t trust Coran not to come back with three tons of inedible nutrient sludge. Pidge had happily volunteered to distract Coran with their tech needs, Shiro and Allura were on “miscellaneous necessities” duty, whatever that meant, and Lance was supposed to be helping Keith pick out the best lasers for Pidge’s new castle-defense plan. Hunk had a feeling they would return with the bare minimum of lasers and an overabundance of facial creams, sewing supplies, and assorted 80’s junk from the Earth Store.

Though, to be fair, most Lance’s haul would probably be less self-indulgent than Pidge and Coran’s.

The trip had started out okay enough, despite Hunk seriously considering heading back to watch the castle-ship with Kolivan and Slav. His head was constantly swiveling in search of the mall cop, Varkon, or anyone else who might recognize the “space pirates” from their last misadventure, and he avoided the foot court like the plague for as long as possible, but there was no way to get around the fact that that was where they were supposed to meet up.

Hunk was the first one there, of course. No one expected Keith to be able to drag Lance away from his fun, and Pidge and Coran, together, were the worst sort of enablers. But he’d expected Shiro and Allura to be on time, at least.

He found an empty table on the far side of the food court from Vrepit Sal’s and sat down with his purchases, but the pillars and fake plants hiding him from Sal got in the way of his search for his friends. After five minutes, he sighed, grabbed his bags, and cautiously made his way into the open.

That was when he saw them: a dozen beautiful, flawlessly golden buns. Hunk watched between the leaves of a hot pink shrub as Sal called out orders to his assistant—not the old lady from last time, but a lavender Bytor whose eight arms were tending four skillets and a saucepan simultaneously. They actually looked like a proper kitchen staff, and the line of customers said that at least some of Hunk’s instructions had stuck.

And, okay. Hunk had to be a little bit proud of that, despite the simmer of resentment he felt at the sight of the guy who’d literally tried to kidnap him.

The question was how to sneak a taste of those roles without letting Sal know he was there. Maybe once Allura got back, he could convince her to go Galra and buy a few. Shiro would be on Hunk’s side, probably. He’d once said he’d trade his right arm for a dinner roll—and, yeah, it had been with the same wry smile he always wore when his dark humor reared its head, and, yeah, he’d laughed it off afterwards, always quick to assure Hunk that whatever he was cooking sounded perfect.

But Hunk could hardly forget that that was the one and only time Shiro had ever actually expressed a preference for any particular food. Nor could he ignore that Shiro was particularly quick to devour any kind of carb Hunk set before him—flatbread, pasta, the lumpy orangish tuber they’d dubbed space potatoes.

It would be better if Hunk could surprise him with the bread, but he’d rather ask for help then end up chained to a stove for the rest of his life.

He shifted to get a better view of the restaurant, but his bags slipped, disturbing the shrub he was hiding behind. Hunk froze as Sal’s gaze swept toward him, shooting a plea toward every corner of the universe that Sal wouldn’t spot him.

No such luck.

Hunk yelped as Sal’s eyes widened. Then, as Sal turned to bark something at his line cook, Hunk snatched up his bags and made a break for it. A harried alien surrounded by half a dozen kids stepped into his path at just the wrong moment, and Hunk spun, wishing he’d come in his armor, incognito be damned, just so he’d have something more than a grayish sausage link to brandish in Sal’s direction.

“Stay back!” Hunk called, fumbling with the rest of his bags. “I’m armed.”

Sal stopped, holding up his hands, and Hunk would have laughed at the scene if he weren’t already playing out a lifetime of serving mediocre food under the watchful eye of the Worst Cook in America while Zarkon’s Number One Fan patrolled, muttering to himself about nabbing that pesky pirate just as soon as he had his proof.

“Hunk!” Sal cried, beaming. “Vrekt, kid, it really is you! How’ve you been?”

The greeting—twice as friendly as Hunk had been expecting and at least three times as familiar—caught him off guard, and he slowly lowered his sausage sword. “Uh… fine…?”

Laughing in delight, Sal reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. Hunk yelped, nearly dropping the sausage, and frowned.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Okay? I’m a lot better than okay! The way this place has turned around since you were here? You’re a real life-saver, kid, you know that?”

Hunk only blinked. Quite suddenly, he found himself being steered back toward Vrepit Sal’s, his babbled protests handily ignored. Hunk could already feel the manacle snapping shut around his ankle.

“And this,” Sal said, blissfully ignorant of the freight train of fear careening through Hunk’s head, “is Luks.”

The Bytor wiped one hand on the towel at their waist and held it out for Hunk to shake while the other seven kept at their tasks: washing vegetables, chopping tubers, searing meat.

“Wow,” Hunk said, shaking Luks’ hand. “You’re… you’re pretty good at that.”

Luks fluffed their tail—legitimately fluffed it, like a frickin’ bird fluffing its feathers—and muttered a quiet thank-you as Sal bundled Hunk off for a tour of the stockroom. Gone were the tubs upon tubs of mush and the freezer-burned odds and ends. This new stock room almost rivaled Hunk’s setup on the castle-ship.

Hunk whistled. “Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. I’m impressed.”

Sal beamed. “It’s all thanks to you, kid. And I mean that. You wanna stick around a while? I’ve been trying to expand the menu, you know. I could use your advice.”

“I don’t know, Sal. My friends...” Hunk trailed off as his eyes fell on several more crates’ worth of bread. “Sorry. Is that bread?”

Sal’s ears swiveled, and he followed Hunk’s gaze to the crates. “Bread?” he said slowly, as though he’d never heard the word before. “They’re called food sponges. I give ‘em out with the special. Good for soaking up the extra sauce, you know?”

“Could I…?”

Hunk barely waited for Sal’s nod before he snatched up one of the buns and lifted it to his ear. It crackled when he squeezed, and it smelled enough like bakeries back home to make Hunk’s mouth water. There was no reason for his heart to be beating against his ribs as he tore off a small piece and popped it in his mouth, nor for his knees to go weak when the bun tasted wonderfully, flawlessly like he’d hoped it would.

“Oh my god,” Hunk moaned. “Where did you get this?”

“Uh… I dunno. My guy bought it off some deep space trader. Never seen anything like it.”

Hunk resisted the urge to scarf down the rest of the bun, his head already spinning with plans for that night’s dinner. Grilled cheese for Pidge, burgers for Lance and Keith, garlic bread and French toast and stuffing and fondue and anything else Shiro could possibly hope for.

“How much?” Hunk demanded, reaching for the credit disc Allura had given him and performing some quick mental math to figure out how much money he had left. Two thousand GAC at the butchers, another fifteen hundred on spices and other kitchen staples…

Hunk grimaced.

“Okay, forget GAC. Would you be willing to part with one of these crates if I showed you another use for these, uh, food sponges?”

Sal seemed confused, but he nodded. “Heck, after last time I’d give you just about anything, but if you don’t mind teaching me a new recipe...”

Hunk grinned. “Awesome. You’re gonna want to take notes on this one, Sal. It’ll revolutionize this food court—mark my words!”

Sal was clearly skeptical of Hunk’s claim—even more so when Hunk selected only a single pan and a spatula. He found some ground meat from the cooler that he recognized as lenna. It tasted a little gamy—more like venison than beef, but wonderfully juicy. It cooked up into a nice patty with just a little bit of salt for seasoning. (Salt was a nearly universal constant, a fact Hunk had learned early on and for which he was still eternally grateful.)

The restaurant was a little thin on condiments, so Hunk went for a minimalist approach, topping the burger with a sharp, cheddar-like cheese, something like mild barbecue sauce, and a leafy vegetable with a taste unlike any Earth food.

He presented the burger to Sal on a freshly sliced space bun, then crossed his arms and sat back for the show. Sal picked it up, considered it for a long moment, then took a bite.

Almost at once, his eyes lit up, and Hunk bit back a laugh as Sal took a second bite almost before he’d swallowed the first. He hollered to Luks and offered them a taste, and then the people at the front of the line were tripping over each other to get a look at the new dish the cooks were so clearly excited about.

Grinning, Hunk clapped Sal on the shoulder. “Well. I think I’ll leave you to your customers.”

Sal was already snatching up ingredients to demonstrate for Luks, but he spared a wave over his shoulder. “Thanks a million, Hunk! You really are a genius.”

Flushing, Hunk turned and headed for the door, a box of buns under one arm, bags dangling from the other. He was barely out the door when he caught sight of a familiar Segway cruising through the crowd.

With a yelp, he dove back into the kitchen. Sal frowned at him, mouth open to ask why Hunk was huddled under the counter like a spooked cat, when Varkon rolled up.

“Security,” Varkon barked. “Clear the way. You!”

Hunk cringed, catching Sal’s eyes as he turned away from the grill. “There a problem, officer?”

“News bulletin,” Varkon said. “Straight from high command. Priority one. The paladins of Voltron have been spotted in the area.” Hunk’s heart dropped as the cold blue glow of a holoscreen washed over Sal’s face. From his hiding place, Hunk couldn’t see the image, but he had a front row seat to the shock and recognition in Sal’s eyes.

Hunk really should have worn his armor. He gave the buns a longing look as he set the crate aside; it was too big, too bulky, and he’d need at least one hand free to push through the crowd.

Then he closed his eyes and got ready to run.

“Haven’t seen ‘em.”

Hunk jumped, biting down on his tongue to keep from gasping aloud, and stared up at Sal. The shock was gone, replaced with bored disinterest. He crossed his arms as Varkon scrutinized him in silence.

“You sure about that?”

Sal snorted. “Course I am. What species is that, anyway? I think I’da noticed if something that funny-looking walked up to my counter.”

Cursing under his breath, Varkon revved his engine. “Curse those paladins. You keep your eyes open, you hear? Let me know if you see them.”

“Right away,” Sal promised dryly. He watched for a long moment, unmoving until Hunk made a break for the door. Sal caught his wrist, holding him in place. “Give it a minute. I’ll tell you when the coast is clear.”

Hunk gaped up at him, but didn’t dare speak. It was a miracle none of the customers had sold him out. Though… none of them were Galra, as far as he’d seen. Just Varkon and Sal and a couple other shop owners. Huh. Hunk had never really stopped to consider the implications of that before.

Sal whipped up a few more plates, never once glancing at Hunk, then shrugged out of his apron and let Luks know he was taking a break. As he headed for the door, he gestured under the counter for Hunk to follow.

“You helped me,” Hunk said, slipping out the employee entrance behind Sal, holding tight to his box of buns. “Why?”

Sal tipped his head to the side. “You know why I named this place Vrepit Sal’s?”

“Uh.” Hunk frowned. “That’s Zarkon’s motto or something, isn’t it? Vrepit sa?”

With a shake of his head, Sal chuckled. “Zarkon’s motto. Kid, that’s a Galra saying, and a lot of us don’t like what Zarkon’s turned it into. You know what it means?”

“No,” Hunk said. “I don’t.”

“It means making yourself better, all the time, every day. It means not settling for something just because it’s always been that way. Which is ironic, because that’s exactly what I was doing—settling. I’d stopped trying before I met you. Why put the effort into something no one’s interested in anyway, right? I mean, who ever heard of a Galra chef?”

Hunk glanced over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for Varkon. And for his friends—they had to have finished by now. What if Varkon had found them? “You saved me because I taught you to cook?”

“I saved you cause you taught me to care. You ain’t like most people ‘round here. I figure if those other paladins are anything like you, then maybe I don’t want Zarkon to find you. Maybe I want you out there shaking things up.” He paused, then smiled. “I guess what I’m saying is… vrepit sa, paladin Hunk.”

The smile caught Hunk off guard, and he had to choke back tears as he shook Sal’s outstretched hand, albeit clumsily. “Vrepit sa, Sal. I’ll try to come visit you sometime, okay?”

Sal’s face softened. “I’d like that. Take care of yourself, you hear?”

Hunk nodded, hoisted the groceries, and backed away. He felt like he should say something, but he couldn’t find the words. Sal smiled knowingly, inclined his head, then turned and vanished into the crowd.

#voltron #vld #hunk #hunk garrett #vrepit sal #ko-fi request #fic #thank you!

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