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soranihimawari · 1 year

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A Curse is Cast

A Gojo Satoru x (f!) reader

companion piece to Hope in an Office Crush

Word Count: 3.0k

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Rating: GSA (angsty and sad undertones, but no one truly dies); kind of hopeful ending

Warnings: someone falls into a coma & eventually wakes up; the nanami & reader from HiaOC hatch a plan to have their friends fall “in like” with the other…

Pinterest Link for image below

Pls tag me if you know the og artist! Thanks!

Poem: Have a Coke with You, Frank O’Hara

You were getting ready for another early dinner date with your newly about a month old boyfriend from accounting. You’re currently on the phone with your best friend who is freaking out on her end because you had decided to set your friend up with someone who was close to your own boyfriend once upon a time. You tell your best friend that there is nothing to worry about and through a coffee run earlier this week, you sat her down with your new beau and for whatever reason, your friend was skeptical about the existence of this fabled ‘pretty eyed playboy.’

You’re putting the finishing touch on a simple glam look as you hear her exclaim:

“You set me up?!”

“You were being skeptical about him and when Nanami talked to his friend last time, he mentioned a blind date would be best…I gotta go. Good luck Friday night though!”

You hang up as you smile when a familiar chime goes off from your phone:

Meet me in the lobby, starshine.--Nanami, K (19:44)

***

[FRIDAY, XX/XX; 18:09||Rose Roof Restaurant, Tokyo]

Your friend does her research on both restaurant and even tried to bully you and Nanami about finding the name of this friend on the blind date. At this point, on another side of the city, a six foot, platinum blonde is dressed business casual, in a flower shop. His eyes are covered behind his darkened polarized eyeglasses as he floats between two bouquets.

“Your significant other’s best friend? You set me up with her?”

Walking to the counter, he pays for a small bouquet of gardenias.

“Listen Gojo, there is a lot of evils in the world, the least we could is give these two is a sense of knowing what it feels like to be loved and to an extent safe,” Nanami withdraws a cigarette and as he lights it, he observes you turning in your sleep. A warm smile on his face as the blonde notices the peaceful look you have while you shuffle in his sheets.

“You’re in love,” this sunglass wearer teases his friend as he steps into the next available taxi.

The man on the other line inhales and exhales as he extinguishes his cigarette.

“And may YN’s love protect me,” the wind blows from his dwelling as his blonde streaks tickle his face. He wishes his friend good luck on his upcoming date.

Several minutes later, your best friend waits in the lobby of the restaurant. After many over-thought-out outfits, you help Haru choose formal capris and loose fitting blouse with low heeled wedge boots in case of inclement weather.

Gojo Satoru, in all his years alive, has never been starstruck by a stranger’s modest appearance. The plastic which the bouquet is wrapped in, crinkles a bit as a set of nervous energy leaves his fingertips.

She walks by him twice before he works up the confidence to say her name and she pauses, not believing her luck. The first thing she notices is his playful smile, then his slight tremble when he offers the bouquet.

“These are gorgeous,” whiffs the violets and flashes a smile to him. “Thank you…”

Gojo clears his throat before extending his arm to her: “Shall we Haru-san?”

The host at the doorway to the restaurant calls for the Gojo party and the pair enters.

They did say, “love looks not with the eyes, but the mind,” and here two closed off from love people crack the window to let the other settle in the sun a bit. .

Over dinner, Gojo entertains your friend with international travel stories and your friend, secretly as bookish as you, seems to be able to quote Shakespeare; your friend texts you an update right before dessert arrives. This date goes as pleasantly as one may think, smith the dreadful eyes of several creatures invisible to those around him, begin to whisper just how pretty the ‘strongest sorcerer’s date’ would be with their organs ripped out of them…so, Gojo just smiles as your friend tells him about the time they almost drowned in rip current on a day with no rip current warnings near their grandparents’ beach side residence.

“I was nine,” their voice says so casually. “I hit my head against some coral stone. Luckily there were no starving sharks nearby.”

“Luckily indeed,” Gojo says as he reaches across the table and a quiet, “May I?”

Across from him, your friend simply nods when he tilts her face up and to the side with his fingertips and there above her brow and close to the hairline is a scar of a clawmark. The coral wasn’t a coral after all…a warning at best is what Gojo thinks this story is. Perhaps there is more to your friend than either you or Nanami might know, but for now, considering they can’t see the mayhem about to surround you, Gojo decides to banish them all with a flick of his wrist.

The flowers rest on the table as a lemon tart with blueberries is delivered.

“So, Satoru, on a scale from one to ten,” spoon in hand, the first bite is taken. “How likely is it that you'd ask me out again?”

He has this pondering look on his face, before he clears his throat and answers with a clearer mind as he helps in eating the dessert.

It’s not until the bill is paid for and your friend is escorted by him back to the lobby where he kisses her burning blushed cheek:

“Morikami Gardens is holding a tea party,” his voice is low in a whisper before he gives her the day and time to meet. Gojo grazes his thumb over the moon lit cheek of his date contemplating whether or not this feeling in his chest is excitement or foreboding. He has lost the one person so precious to him, will he be able to handle that grief again?

“A tea party?”

The flowers in her hand sway in the wind.

“I’d love to go…Never been to the gardens at night.”

Hailing a cab, your friend looks over her shoulder at the handsome, not so much a stranger after this one date, “Pleasure to to have met your acquaintance, Gojo Satoru.”

“Such a formal goodbye, Haruka,” he pouts a bit as he ushers her into the taxi.

Although she smiles up at him, Gojo was not prepared to see such a cheeky glimmer in her eyes.

“Pick me up early and I’ll give you a better hello at my door,” she winks at him before the driver pulls away and back into the busy night streets of Tokyo.

The once labeled strongest feels his knees go weak at that.

***

Nearly a month later, you visit your friend and find her in a darkened state. She doesn’t know why the guy she went on a date with would be leaving the country the same week and not tell her anything. You tell her to sit on the couch with your help and you’ll make some coffee for the two of you.

Surely there had to be a reason, work maybe? Is all you seem to think as you trap the send button to Nanami who’s heading out for some light groceries. He calls you instead and as you finish putting the rest of the pot into your friend’s mug, Nanami tells you the truth.

“YN, don’t let her know just yet, but Gojo’s been severely injured on the job: he’s got these nasty looking injuries…”

“What?!” You whisper yell into the receiver.

Nanami pinches the better of his nose as he sighs right before he makes a call for his better judgment and informs you he’s at the hospital right now too (getting stitched up after another fight with a different curse this time).

You drink your coffee as calmly as you can and you tell him to stay where he is—

“I’m coming to get you, stay there.”

You hand your friend her mug of coffee and she asks you if everything in your paradise is alright.

“No, it’s not, but before I elaborate, Haruka, go take a shower and change into something comfortable: we’re going to Ropongi General.”

“The historic hospital? Why?” She inquired.

“I’ll explain when you’re out, just please,” you don’t mean to sound so parental, but she does listen to you.

Twenty-five minutes later, on the drive there, with you behind the wheel, you inform your friend of her date’s sudden ‘disappearance’.

“…you’re kidding.”

You focus on the road ahead silently shaking your head.

Scoffing, “You’re serious? A-and the same people attacked Nanami? But he’s one of the strongest people we know.”

Aggravated, you shift gears as you go uphill to the building with the flickering green and red lights. The red indicates where the parking garage is and the green is for the entrance. You rush first to the Emergency Entrance and are greeted by a rather portly nurse who tries to get you to sign in, but you, instead, cause a raucous bellowing out Nanami's name.

Haruka, thankfully arrives and takes the sign in sheet and signs both your names.

Nanami eventually pokes his stitched head out behind a curtain and he sees you being kindly dragged back to the nurses station so your visitors' badges can be printed.

Calmly, you bare your teeth at the nurse who hands you and your best friend the temporary sticker badges you peel and stick on your clothes, revealing how your bite is most definitely worse than the words you’re about to hurl at your blonde boyfriend from accounting.

“Curtain 13,” the nurse calls out from behind the station.

You growl a thank you and stomp off.

“Sorry about her…she usually has a decent personality,” your friend says as she follows behind.

Inside, Haruka sits in the corner where the extra chair is and you sternly look at the stitches on your boyfriend’s face.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” Your cup his face when he won’t look at you. His face goes from cold to warm when you speak to him. He’s half undressed as you noticed the bruises that had begun to form on his side.

“Bruised ribs?” you whisper and he winces as he nods.

“Y’know on the phone I thought you were here to see your friend,” you continue. “Haruka is here to see him too.”

She rises from her seat, looking dejected yet an odd sense of hope shines in this fluorescent lit room.

“Suite 111, ICU,” Nanami said.

Your friend nods and leaves you two alone.

“She may not want to hear it, but I do. Nanami, what happened?”

Nanami rests his head on your shoulder and although you’re quite smaller than he is, he just breathes, ragged, and slow. How much of the truth about the sorcerer world does he want to let you in on? How many more fights does he have left in him if the whispers the curses said to him are true: Kenjaku is looking for a fight and if it means threatening those close to the small community that is left, then you’re directly going to be in the line of fire…and so is Haruka, so Nanami leads with a bit of truth.

“Gojo’s family is a bit out of touch: they’re old Japanese money rich. Satoru’s name is synonymous with playboy antics and little responsibility—his job, his ‘real’ job involves being in dangerous conditions 99% of the time.”

“…and this is the one time he’s been injured this badly?”

Nanami’s silence is all the answer you need.

“A month, yn, he’d been medically comatose for a month,” Nanami’s voice is serious and strained. He’s had lost one too many friends in the past, it’s why his social circle typically included you, your best friend, and occasionally the menace that was his ‘Senpai’ in high school.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You pull the chair around to sit and rest your hands against his knees.

“Because I didn’t want them to follow you,” his answer makes sense.

You nod and let him know you’re glad he’s alright.

Elsewhere, your two closest friends are in another room entirely. The sound of a machine helping the once proud Gojo Satoru breathe becomes ambient background noise. Haruka reads the bracelet on his wrist. The admittance date on it reads the Thursday before your affixed garden date.

His vitals register above his head; you finally see the reasons being his long sleeved preference. Scars, keloid ones at that too, from either previous fights with dangerous people or attempts to end it all, litter his arms in every angle. Someone wanted him dead, but the patient hangs on like the quite charming stubborn man he is.

“You can come closer,” a nurse says in a gentle voice.

Footsteps lighter than begin to propel her forward, closer to the bed. The nurse continues to change the wires of the various IV drips he is on.

“Talk to him, who knows? It might be what he needs, isn’t that right Mr Gojo?”

You chuckle at her loving demeanor for an older nurse who seems like she was his mother.

“The violets you gave me finally entered away…,” she begins to say. He’s in really bad shape, the nurse notices how his head is bandaged down and around his eyes. The nurse carries on and right before she leaves, she looks at the two of them.

“…Tragedies and miracles happen everyday…”

The nurse closes the door of the suite to grant them privacy.

“Excuse me?” Haruka turns around to just hear the door close. The whirring of the machines draws her attention back to where his chest rises and falls.

Upon hearing the door click, your friend whispers against his peach-fuzz cheek. She chuckles at the haphazard beard he grows in his unconscious state before inhaling a nervous breath.

“You were supposed to pick me up for the garden tea party about a month ago…now I see why you weren’t able to come,” Haruka isn’t an emotional person really.

She isn’t known to be soft and delicate; quite the opposite really. Loud, rambunctious, funny, those were all a cover to hide the anxious wreck within.

“Normally, no one would be upset going to hospitals to visit those who were knew, but with the increase in tsunamis and the occasional landslide, Haruka doesn’t fair all too well with hospitals overall,” you confess to Nanami when he pulls you up to sit next to him. “She lost so much before we met in college, I think seeing Gojo will either be cathartic or traumatic for her.”

You exhale a deep breath, after he kisses your forehead, yet in the ICU unit, Haruka attempts to calm herself as she peers over Gojo’s bed. She reaches over to hold his hand.

“You’re still warm,” she laughs a bit. “I thought you stood me up you know, but never, never in my wildest imagination would it be because you’re in a coma. If you ever wake up, I’d give you one chance to tell me the truth, ok?…”

There are a million thoughts that go through one’s mind when in a hospital: some are positive and aligning to the living and healing; others are negative, full of grief and despair through the trials of keeping the people alive. Alas, here in the ICU of the notoriously historical Roppongi Hospital, one powerful sorcerer’s willingness to walk back to the world of the living makes him croak out a dry, “ok.”

Haruka, for all intents and purposes, should have screamed for help or at the very least pushed the call nurse button, but she didn't. She looks at the hand holding hers now and breathes a sigh of relief. Friend or not, this was not the way anyone ought to be spending a second, yet highly recommended improperly timed, date and she lets him know that head on.

Several minutes later, nurses and doctor on duty visit the room and do their own tests, conducting a series of “which IV we keep and which we can discard” conversations. Haruka steps outside for a bit of a breather and slides down to the floor with the wall of the hospital as her support. Her hands shake as she texts you about her once blind date waking up within the hour. You tell your boyfriend of the development and help him into his clothes after the discharge papers are signed.

Several glasses of water later, you’re back in the room, Gojo sits up with a relaxed smile on his unwrapped face; the scratches by his eyes are just that, scratches. His eyes are still that brilliant, lightest shade of iced sapphires when he looks at Haruka who just stands at the foot of his bed.

“For what it’s worth,” Gojo scratches his cheek with his free hand. “Hearing you scold me is refreshing.”

He beckons her forth and she obeys, choosing to sit on his right side.

“I suppose you’d want to hear how I got in this bed, injured and all,” he says.

Haruka, for whatever it’s worth, shakes her head to decline.

“Later, Satoru,” and his cheerful demeanor lessens until she walks up to him and pushes his hair back a bit to place a kiss above his brow. “Tell me when I come back after I get something to eat.”

As she glances at him, she notices the flushed color of his cheeks before waving a swift ‘bye for now’ when she steps out the doorway.

However, with her presence gone, Gojo’s mind replays a voice he hasn’t heard in a very long time: “I cursed you a little at the end too.”

#🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora after hours #sora scribbles 2023 #🎋jjk. gojo x reader🎋

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interact-if · 3 years

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Day 10, 1/2 of A/PI Heritage Month featured authors interview! The amazing Crysil, everyone!

Crysil, author of Dual Chroma

A/PI Heritage Month Featured Author

A thousand years ago dark magic destroyed half the world. Now the Ashen Lord rises again to destroy the rest.As Prince Keldran’s adviser, your council will be indispensable in saving the world from ashen creatures that once again threaten his empire. But the Galens’s family’s past is more entwined with the Ashen than historians admit – and Keldran’s destiny is darker still. Will you help him save the world or allow it to be destroyed so that a new one can be reborn upon its ashes?

(INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT!)

Q1: First of all, introduce us to your project! What is it about?

Dual Chroma is an epic fantasy VN focused on political intrigue and romance. You play as a royal advisor descended from a legendary sorceress to determine the fate of the empire. It has a role-play system where you can determine your personality based on choices and an rpg battle system to further involve you in the world of Aradal.

Here is our synopsis:

“A thousand years ago dark magic destroyed half the world. Now the Ashen Lord rises again to destroy the rest. As Prince Keldran’s adviser, your council will be indispensable in saving the world from ashen creatures that once again threaten his empire. But the Galens’s family’s past is more entwined with the Ashen than historians admit – and Keldran’s destiny is darker still. Will you help him save the world or allow it to be destroyed so that a new one can be reborn upon its ashes?”

Q2: If it’s not too spoilery, what are you most excited about your project?

The most exciting part of the project is to bring the world and characters I’ve been developing since I was a kid to life. That said there are so many other things I’m excited about too, like the animatic fable-like series of CGs I will be working on for the opening and the future casting calls I will do for my characters. I actually cast Keldran recently and it’s just unreal to finally hear your character SPEAK and I can’t wait to have the same experience for the rest!

Q3: What inspired the current project you’re working on?

In one word, Keldran. He’s just such a fascinating character with a long history behind him and his family and circumstances just grew and grew until the base of the game was formed.

Q4: Do you pull from your own identity for inspiration? How has that been reflected in your work?

I’m half Asian and half European and it's funny because I think that really reflects in my art style. I have something between anime/manga and old master’s paintings like Michelangelo. You can also see how some of the game is inspired by Chinese imperial dynasties such as there being many princes and polygamy with the emperor and some of the characters tend to have this very Asian mindset. You’ll probably know who once you play. Quite a few elements in the game are also inspired by xianxia stories.

Q5: What’s been your experience so far? With writing, with the IF community…

I joined the if community quite recently so I haven’t had much chance to interact yet but everyone seems lovely and I hope to do so in the future once my workload settles down a bit more :)

My experience with writing has generally been really intense and I’ve had lots of ups and downs. Dual Chroma just kept expanding and now we’re looking at something between 100-200k words!!

Q6: Do you have any future projects in the works?

Yes I am actually directing another smaller visual novel for a game jam called Deliver Us From Evil. It’s a supernatural mystery where you play as a young guardian angel and you have to find out the source of the recent accumulation of dark energy on Earth. There will be two love interests (with a third one perhaps being available later as DLC), the Archangel Michael and a mysterious man known as Ace (you’ll learn who he really is once you play).

Apart from that I have a literal pile of other ideas that will hopefully slowly see the light of day :)

Q7: Finally, what piece of advice would you give to fellow authors?

There is one really important thing I wish I knew before I embarked on Dual Chroma: Manage Scope. Go for an MVP first, make sure to thoroughly analyze and create a plot outline and bulletproof it a bunch of times with different people before committing.

Also if it ever gets too much - give yourself a break. I’ve had some months where I was just creatively blocked and made no progress at all and that is completely okay.

Final thing - if you’re not feeling a certain character, don’t force yourself to write them just to have a higher number of LIs/ROs, it's perfectly fine to have less or to add more in later once you’ve got something finished <3

#if: events #Happy Asian and Pacific Islander month!!#Asian/pacific islander month 2021 #a/pi month #a/pi month 2021 #aapiheritagemonth #aapi month #interactive fiction #authors of color

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legendcrown · 3 years

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hey yall, since its. uh, a lil wordy + more story-like the anything, i’m gonna put this under a cut just for the dash’s sake (if you’re on mobile i’m so sorry), but, this is my full hc for ralsei and his family’s history!

once upon a time, there was a bright and lively kingdom that stood tall within the darkness, such the beacon of light it was, they called it hope. the kingdom of hope. ruled over by the family of er’ivatarn, a deck of playing cards; each member of the family bore a different suit of their people, ruling side by side, hand in hand.

uqste er’ivatarn, the king of spades, someone of softness, and compassion, yet strength and action, a want to protect, to help. opvet-wini er’ivatarn, the queen of diamonds, someone of ad -venture, and energy, music, yet hard-working, and determined.

anlire er’ivatarn, the prince of clubs, someone of intellect and wisdom, something of wit and smirking mirth, but curious, and open-minded. and young ralsei er’ivatarn, the prince of hearts. someone of imagi -nation, and belief, and dreams, yet responsible, and courageous.

years before either son’s birth, a problem arose within the king’s knightly guild, a rogue renegade. █████ █████ was his name. a simple squire, bitter in attitude, envy and selfishness hung themselves heavily over his mind since he was a child, a lonely existence his was. respect is what he wanted, power is what he wanted, control is what he wanted. but, have these he did not.

one day, having slipped away from his royal duties without detection, the squire set out searching for the long fabled witch, the witch of lagown kiln. a small feeble old woman who’s said to dance and twirl along the outskirts of the kingdom. with the magic within her fingertips, she stirs her honey-laced tea with golden spoon, a knowing smirk sat across wise features. she would listen to your worries and pleas, and she would grant a single wish.

“ oh, witch of lagown kiln, witch of lagown kiln… please, won’t you listen to my tale? ” the squire says. “ of course, dear squire, what is it you dream of at night, that you see in your minds eye at wishing tide? what is the thing that aches most within your heart? ” the witch says.

“ oh, witch of lagown kiln, witch of lagown kiln… i dream of the throne, i dream to rule, to be remembered. please, won’t you help me? ” the squire states. (the witch falls quiet.)

“ say, do you see the darkened skies that loom in the distance, squire? do you see it too? ” the witch replies, “ do you see it too? ” “ …witch of lagown kil, shall you help me or not? ” the squire only lowers his head, and questions.

(the witch contemplates this for a moment, before finally, she nods.) “ …very well, then. if you so wish, then it is granted. ” and, so it was.

the squire climbed the ranks of knighthood: he earned his place amongst the best, the highly decorated. he was brave and noble, honorable and trusted. the plan he had concocted was to dethrone the family from the inside, and after all, who would suspect such a loyal subject as he? it was all going smoothly, every -thing was in it’s place. all, but one problem. the powerful magic the knight now held buried its talons deep, slowly seeping its way into every dark corner and faded street lamp of his conscious, unable to keep his control…

█████ █████ eventually lost his mind. or, what was left it, anyway.

due to his disordered thoughts, he acted on a impulse, one wrong move–and the knight was outed for his plans to overthrow the royal family. uqste and opvet still tried to find harmony with the ex-guard, ex-friend; unfortunately, in the end, it see -med like nothing would change the mind of the man they no longer knew. he was sentenced and jailed that very evening. however, due the power that now consumed him, the knight could not be properly contained by normal means. thus, the ‘crystal of ilences’ was formed: a prison, created with a boss monster’s magic, crafted specifically to stop him from doing any further harm, to others, to himself.

years passed without issue, yet underneath the castle, an evil brewed. a slow churning force, laying dormant, like a predator waiting for just the right moment to strike, with drooling maw, sharpened teeth, and hissed tongue.

soon, his chance came.

███ █████ was a new page in the knight’s guild, young he was, only seven years of age, naive, gullible, and soft-hearted. when he heard the knight’s singing whispers through stone floors, and wooden walls, at first, the page turned his back and stuck up his nose. the knight could give him nothing that would make him willing to work with the likes of him! but, the page was just a child, after all.

that childish-type of greed was something easily taken advantage of by the knight’s sugary words. at the hands of the page, the crystal was shattered.

the knight, now set free of his glittering cage, was sure to leave a path of destruction and dusted remains in his wake. if his anger wasn’t something to be feared before, it now would certainly make you flinch at the slightest flicker of its light.

the royal family didn’t survive the attack brought. as didn’t most of the country, for that matter.

the somes that were left behind were thrown into an era of disarray and heart -ache, to, with shaking hands, stitch together the seams of normal life again. eventually, the country did manage to rebuild itself on its broken pieces.

but, unfortunately in the process, due to their differences, the land decided to split into four kingdoms (the four suits), rather then continue as one

castle town was abandoned from that day forth.

the people of the dark kingdom struggled to remember what lay behind the great doors, while it teeters on the tip of their tongue, it’s swallowed back up by their eventual frustration. it’s something that’s always just always out of reach, a fuzzy, blurry thing. so, it must not of been that important anyway.

or… maybe it was forgotten purposefully? some came to joke that maybe what laid behind the doors was haunted. or maybe, it was nothing at all.

and so, the knight, finally satisfied with the apparent bitter end of the er’ivatarn family, the people that caused so much of his anger, he went into hiding, and he waited. because as much his mind screamed and cried out to take the chance, to frighten these dreadful commoners into their senses, of their true king.

good things come to those who wait, don’t they? that was his mistake the first time, and he wouldn’t be doing such foolish things again, not this time. he knew while powerful, he had no true control of his power, and if he went through with this his plans now, it would only be a matter of time before they were ruined again.

so, instead, he waited.

he was there, in the shadows of the dripping dark alleyways. he was there, in the low rumble of a kingdoms unseen underbelly. he was there, in the dancing shadows of a winding forest that beckons you closer. he was there, he was always there–always here, i should say, pulling the strings behind the scenes.

but, unfortunately for the knight, the heart of the hope kingdom still beats to a steady rhythm.

it’s faint, but… you just have to listen for it. for it waits, too. ♡

#* && OOC #* && RALSEI /// AND A PRINCE FROM THE DARK .#LONG BACKSTORY POST GO BRRRR tbh this is. pretty old? but i'm still rlly proud of it. still very much the vibe y'know........... so yeah!#familial death tw #death tw #long post tw

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animus-inspire-archive · 3 years

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❣ for a caught in the rain kiss // early ScarReeve kiss in the rain HUH

He was still finding his footing in the Executive Board, twenty-two years old and perhaps too idealistic, Reeve nonetheless has found sanctum in the most unlikely of places. His relationship with another young Director across the table should not have come as much shock. Once folks got past the ‘she’d absolutely eat him alive’ assessment, that is. Scarlet was an engineer like him, was one of the few people who could grasp what he thought about, not to mention how he thought about everything. She could even build upon his visions and challenge him past his usual boundary lines, just as he could do the same for her.

And whilst it was true that their creative outputs could not be more different - where he dealt largely with construction, she mostly crafted weapons of destruction - their workstreams nonetheless regularly overlapped. Whether it was for discussions of defense of the main Shinra cities, or the intricacies of lifestream viabilities and its use in both mako and materia production. It had been natural that they had been assigned to work together at times, and work they had. Long, hard days. Sometimes into the mako nights. Theirs was the kind of effort that Reeve would claim not to wish upon his worst enemies but which he actually coveted, for they usually came out of the toil as if born anew; flush with a breakthrough or drenched through with sweat, throats hoarse from all the possibilities.

Yet he was still finding his footing in the Executive Board, and was most definitely not used to this. He is not sure he ever wanted to be. Talk has turned from their standard reporting, the sensical and rational, to the supposedly scientific. But Reeve hears no rigors of scientific merit currently spewing from the mouth of the Professor, as he once again goes over the loss of one of his most precious specimens just two years earlier. Now he is restating his attentions onto a mere child, the daughter.

Hojo sneers, clearly not pleased, but concludes that Aerith is at least worthy enough. In carrying some DNA of the Ancients she is better than nothing and maybe of use as some kind of breeding mare when she is of reproducible age. He drips a fable from his curled lips, a promised land before the President. And President Shinra, despite the fact he used to be an engineer himself and being well aware that the Professor cares little for infinite energy except what is needed to power his own experimentations, laps it up. Aerith is to be found and brought back to Hojo.

Reeve feels nauseous for so many reasons, but his eyes are fixed firmly ahead. Not looking at the Turk Director, nor the woman who has become his lover. He tries to ignore how her tapping - usually their secret, playful code within the meeting - is fracturing desperately out of rhythm. When the meeting ends, the President calls him over to clarfiy some points and by the time they are done, all the other Executives are gone and only Veld remains. The Turk Director accompanies him out of the room and down the corridor, silence hanging over them like the status effect; a straining ‘ ... ‘ lingering in the air. When they reach a particular junction, Reeve whips round on his heels, breaking the hush.

“Where is she?”

Veld shakes his head, “I thought you’d know that better than me, kid.”

“Hellfire and damn it!” Reeve hisses and clenches his hands at his sides, “It’s a child, Veld, a young girl!” He wants to find Scarlet but he is struck into place by the Turk’s almost apathetic cool calm. Felicia would have to be four years old by now? As a man with a daughter, how could he stand there so impassive, not when he knows-

“Reeve.” Veld’s voice cuts through in clear warning not to even go there, and Reeve shudders in spite of himself, exhaling out of his nose sharply.

“’right, okay. Ah get it. Ye’re not bleedin’ psychic.” Accepting bitterness drips from his tone but he still has to fight back the inadvisable impulses that are clamouring up his insides. Veld has already told him that Scarlet did not want to know. She felt it would be safer that way.

Reeve paces then shakes his head again, “I can’t just stand here doing nothing...” He’s already five steps away by the time Veld has said he would text if he hears anything. A grunt is all the Turk Chief gets in reply.

It takes him the better part of remainder of the day to find her. The gloom of a Midgar night falling heavier as the forecasted storm hits right on cue, punctuated only by the occasional burst of lightning and the venting plumes of green high above. Most other nights Reeve would still be in the tower, and if it had been one of the nights he occasionally gives himself off, he would most definitely have remembered his umbrella. He had only just read the meteorological report before the Executive Board meeting after all - a standard safety precaution for Mako reactor functioning.

At this moment in time however, he is drenched through to the bone, all thoughts of umbrellas and work cast aside as blinks through the rain at the scarlet clad figure stood at the building’s ledge. Arms curled in around herself. Over her stomach.

This was a rooftop they had shared a picnic upon, on a day far sunnier than what was streaming down from the heavens right now. Scarlet had pretended she could see Junon, far off into the distance, and had drawn him a remarkable rendition of the coastal town, replete with her Sister Ray dominating the horizon. He had praised her eye for detail and had joked he could secure her a part time position as a junior in the Architectual department.

It takes Reeve far too long to realise why Scarlet was here right now, thoughts of her surprisingly soft laughter and golden hair in the sunshine his predominant memories of that time. But this had also been the place she had first told him of Anya. Her daughter.

He steps forward, not afraid of the height or the shallow distance to the edge upon which they are both standing but instead what might happen if he does or say the wrong thing. Scarlet turns to face him, head tilted slightly up towards the sky. Any moisture from tears indistinguishable from the rain. Reeve cannot think of anything he could possibly say so instead he reaches out and holds her face in his hands, drawing her closer towards him. Pressing his forehead to hers first, he hears a hitched breath escape her still painted lips, her other makeup having all but run off but for certain smudges here and there. Her lashes are thick with moisture, not mascara, and her violet eyes are hazy instead of bright as they look back at him. She looks more lost than he has ever seen.

Still no words come out. Drawing her in by his palms, he presses his mouth against her own. A communication of everything he wants to say, offered up in soft, deseperate movements of lips, like a prayer whispered. His own breath is shaky, as hers is utterly wracked, and the rivulets of the rainwater is spilling in through the gaps. It tastes like his city and the salt of her tears. Reeve swallows it all down, then kisses her once more, folding her tight into his arms against his chest

“I love you, Zaria.” Reeve does not know if Scarlet can even hear him from within protective bracket of his body as the storm still rages overhead, but he whispers it into the night nonetheless, “C’mon. Let’s get you back to Sector 7, inside and dry.” They can deal with the rest afterwards.

Provided they were together, he thinks, they could face anything...

@madamdirectcr

#Scarlet || alone but loaded; you and me #hoo boy #this took on a life of its own #and I had the gym in between #*huff puff*#he's so naive bless him #abubububu #sinday special

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the-sparrow-sings · 4 years

Text

TIMELINE FOR MY SPARROW’S HEADCANON

I want to write a LONG fic series about her life going into the Hero of Brightwall’s life; but I do not have the time/energy to commit to that right now, so here’s a vague timeline since I REALLY want to talk about it anyway lol

Pre-Game

• Her parents were infamous Pirates, Rayven(her father, Hero blood), and Catarina

• Reaver knew them as friends before the girls were born; even held Rose once as a baby(somewhat uncomfortably)

• They were forced by foul weather to dock near Bowerstone some time after Sparrow was born; Rayven was captured and hanged, Catarina escaped momentarily with the girls

• Catarina hands baby Sparrow(around 1 year old) to Rose and tells her to RUN, and SURVIVE; she is then captured; but no one is looking for the children so little Rose escapes with Baby Sparrow

Post-Childhood, Pre-Main Game

• Teresa has a hard and fast rule that Sparrow is not to leave the valley, and specifically not to go to Bowerstone. She is concerned that Sparrow will have her parents’ natural desire for adventure and sign onto a crew for a life of piracy

• Upon reaching Adulthood, Sparrow is frustrated by Teresa assuming she still makes the rules for her; and she sneaks off to visit Bowerstone for the first time since her childhood

• She spends the day/night having a gloriously rowdy time with a man she only knows as Captain/The Captain(Spoiler Alert, it’s Reaver) and she fully intends to join his crew

• He has no idea who she is, though he is immediately reminded of his old friends; and unknowingly recounts tails of her parents adventures to her. He is more than a little astonished that someone drew out the urge to discuss something other than himself

• They spend the night together above Bowerstone’s bar; waking up at the crack of dawn to Teresa standing in front of the bed

• She all but drags Sparrow home with her, leaving Reaver both disappointed and a bit relieved; he was not sure he liked that she stirred up something in him

During The Game

• Sparrow is a Rowdy Girl with a love of fine women, dangerous men, and banditry. She loves the rough&tumble bandit lifestyle, but is good hearted enough that she tends to change towns for the better; this is why she loves Bloodstone, it’s a hard town that never changes

• Feels pressured to marry Alex, and feigns happiness for his sake; trying her best to be busy with quests to avoid being near him

• The Spire all but wipes out her formally sweet nature; seeing her adopt a much darker world view; this is where she transitions to pure evil, and becomes much more direct with her wishes and underhanded with her plots

• At first, she flat out refuses to see Alex after The Spire; she doesn’t see the point of it, and figures if he had any good sense he’d have moved on, since she was never in love with him in the first place

• When Alex eventually catches up with her, she attempts to let him down very concisely, but his entitled behavior toward “his wife” ends with a knife in his gut, and a disgusted sneer on Sparrow’s face

• She recognizes Reaver right away, though she has changed too much for him to recognize her. Her heart aches for the innocent young woman she was when she last saw him

• He puts the pieces together of who she is when he first fights by her side; reminded of fighting alongside her Hero father

• The pair share a moment in that cave, seeming to begin something before the collapsing rocks urge them to keep running

End Game/Post Game, Pre Fable 3

• Reaver steals her kill from her, and she is devastated; her sad state only compounded when Hammer reacts harshly to her desire to bring back her own loved ones

• At the end of things, she finds herself alone again, Rose off who-knows-where, her dog her only companion

• Having grown up in exceeding poverty, she spends her time and her gold buying up property left and right, putting former greedy landlords to death

• On a whim she purchases Reaver’s home, keeping it clear of squatters for him

• She finds his first journal entry, and promptly seals them all away in a locked box, not wishing to invade his privacy

• By the time Reaver returns, Sparrow is Queen; and he is more than thrilled when he sees her summons, an elegantly tied scroll left on his bed; concise in her own handwriting, “Captain, I expect a visit when you return, I’m sure you don’t need my address; Sparrow”

• Now, Reaver is both intrigued and mildly frightened

• He enjoys the prospect of having a shag with the queen (and, though he won’t admit it, he has missed more than her body); but he knows she was...a bit cross with him for leaving so suddenly after that business with Lucien was sorted out

• He is concerned that she may kill him/have him put to death, but ultimately decides that the potential rewards far outweigh the risks (with a healthy dose of understanding that it could prove unwise to ignore a direct summons from the Queen)

• On first glance, Queen Sparrow is hardly the girl he remembers from the tavern, or even the shoot-first-talk-later hero who sauntered into Bloodstone a year ago

• Her rise to power coupled with her emotional isolation have left her bitter; a fair yet harsh ruler. She was loved by many for her low rent prices and the protection she offered; but she kept the nobility on a very short leash, and had little patience for those who would waste her time

• That said, she did seem to be focused on keeping up appearances; at least, Reaver could scarcely believe all the exquisite finery and pompous ceremony was her doing

• Had he not been so gifted with perception, Reaver would have failed to pick up on the tiny cracks in her collected facade upon their public meeting

• She declared him her newest advisor, citing his heroic blood, worldly knowledge, and instrumental role in Lucien’s downfall as credentials enough

• When she received him in her private chambers however, the public mask of Royalty slipped away as she all but pounced him

• After a while, Reaver playfully tosses around the idea of them having a true public relationship; and Sparrow turns him down flat; refusing to make a toy of her heart

• Reaver does not quite understand why he feels disappointed; after all, he’s got a position of High Power in Albion now, and he gets to warm the Hero Queen’s bed with very few strings attached...he should be thrilled

• Eventually, Sparrow faces pressure (both domestic and foreign) to marry

• Reaver offers his “services”, talking of what a good king he would make, but Sparrow refuses on the grounds that his former life of piracy did not amuse every foreign power, and making him king could potentially amount to a declaration of war

• She marries some nobody from the aristocracy; the relationship, as well as the king’s power, being little more than an elaborate puppet show

• Reaver absolutely loathes the king; “Sparrow only has room for one pompous, arrogant, bastard in her life; and it sure as hell isn’t this spindly Lordling”

• The marriage certainly complicates Sparrow and Reaver’s cladenstine appointments; and his unexpected negative feelings almost push him to leave Sparrow’s Court

• Until she comes to his quarters one night, looking frantic and desperate; like she had been pacing around and pulling at her hair

• The king has demanded children, and old Albion Royal Law/Tradition demands she comply; Sparrow however, absolutely refuses to birth that man’s weak and “noble” offspring

• She asks Reaver to give her a child in secret; she assures him that he will have absolutely no fatherly obligations; but if she must bare children(which she knew from her vision of the future was inevitable) she wanted them to be strong with the blood of heroes

• Eventually, Reaver accepts, and Sparrow is sure that the child inside her is his

• Reaver does his best to avoid spending time with her, he has spent centuries avoiding these connections for a reason, after all

• But he can’t shake the hate in his heart each time he sees the king look so prideful of his impending heir

• The Baby is born with a thick tuff of black hair, and thankfully, is Sparrow’s spitting image as he grows

• Reaver does his best to avoid Logan, truly stepping in for the first time when the boy comes up missing

• Sparrow puts together the ransom at once, not willing to risk her child’s life with her usual bravado

• At the same time, Reaver uses his underworld connections to easily sniff out the kidnappers; going in secret to collect the boy before Sparrow even has a chance to leave the castle

• Reaver holds his son for the first time as he ends the lives of the scum who took him with a vengeance

• From that point on, Reaver is focused on watching over the boy; if from a distance

• He becomes prone to undermining the king when he is trying to teach some bullshit Strict Lesson to young Logan; cutting the king down with remarks of how Reaver has SEEN tactics like his in action...and they never bode well

• Reaver does not truly admit to himself his fatherly feelings however, until Sparrow accidentally becomes pregnant

• A little girl with beautiful brunette curls, who stares back at him with his own eyes; when he holds her for the first time, she squeezes his finger tight, and he knows he would move the earth for this child

• Princess Ophelia is a happy girl, running around the castle with very few unpleasantries like “rules” or “structure”, thanks to her intimidating “Uncle” Reaver pushing around the king and anyone else who would dare stifle her

• The King however, does not take kindly to Reaver’s increased intrusion on “his” family; becoming obsessively strict with the children each chance he gets

• Reaver doubles down on his mischief, often making a point to whisk the children away to festivals and other fun outings

• He is overcome with pride when little Ophelia proves to be a crack shot at the carnival’s various shooting games

• Once, a tiny Ophelia ran to him crying because she wished Reaver was her father instead of the king

• Sparrow has to intervene more than once when Reaver decides he wants to outright murder the king

• The king tries to put his foot down with Sparrow; demanding that Reaver be removed from Court and sent away

• Sparrow laughs at him, before recounting the tail of her first husband; and reminds him of the very strict limits to his own power

The Death of Sparrow

• Some time after Logan reaches his teenage years, the Queen is mysteriously assailed by a sudden and dire illness

• In my personal timeline-The Sickness is actually a curse laid on her by Teresa for refusing to follow her directive any longer; but this isn’t revealed until my Post-Fable 3 Plotline

• Reaver sits by Sparrow’s bed as she lay dying- truly and wholly distraught for the first time in centuries

• She grips his hand suddenly, with all the feeble strength she can muster, and the look in her eye tells him that the time he has dreaded is upon them

• She begs-orders him to watch over their children

• He pulls her into his arms. “Sparrow, I need you to know, I love-”

• “No,” she hisses, faint as a breath. “You don’t.”

• He is devastated by her final words. For the first time in perhaps centuries, he has decided to open his heart and admit those words...and she didn’t believe him...and now it’s too late to prove it

• He spends much of his time in the days following her death obscenely intoxicated-more than usual, trying to wipe away the regret he feels for not making her feel loved while she was alive

• Reaver comes to her balcony often, to look out over Albion in the cool night air-and consider hopefully-perhaps foolishly- that the wind ghosting his hair against his cheek is more than just an act of nature

• One night, he arrives to find the king standing in his usual spot; and perhaps it is his own melancholy that moves him-but he actually believes the king has come to mourn

• Until he speaks to him of course. The king is only in the room to decide how he wishes to redecorate it for when he takes a new wife to be queen

• Reaver is enraged by how casually the king speaks; how quickly he thinks to replace Sparrow. His mind fills with the image of some power hungry political climber marrying this idiot for the crown

• Reaver was no stranger to political intrigue. How often did new royals arrange for the tragic deaths of their stepchildren, so that their own children might have a better chance of inheriting the crown? Reaver could not take that chance

• One bullet, ringing off into the night, was all it took to send the King’s corpse crumpling unceremoniously to the ground

• Eventually, Reaver is captured, and Walter(as chief among Sparrow’s advisors) personally orders(and intends to carry out) his execution; however he is stopped by the arrival of the young-now king-Logan

• Ignoring everyone, Logan crouches down to where the guards have forced Reaver to kneel, and simply tells Reaver that he knows, before ordering everyone to leave them in private

• As it turns out, Logan had taken the task of sorting through his late-mother’s things when he stumbled upon Reaver’s journals-and an entry that makes note of his feelings for her

• Following that discovery, Logan had done diligent research and digging; and had come to the conclusion that he and his sister were almost definitely the result of Reaver’s long term affair with their mother

• He demands Reaver tell him everything, and surprisingly, Reaver does. He comes clean about it all-everything from the Court of Shadows to Sparrow’s dying wish

• This is why Logan trusts Reaver to remain his advisor

• The secret of their parontage is kept from Ophelia however. After all, it was a secret for a reason, and she was so young at the time that she could hardly be counted on to protect such a secret; she doesn’t learn Reaver is her father until breaking into his home in search of information

• No longer in danger of execution, Reaver feels he has no choice but to down a bottle or two of fine wine, and write to his former companions of Sparrow’s death

• He keeps it very short. He wasn’t their friend-he wasn’t even on good terms with them

• “She’s Gone; R.” Is all the letters say, and they think him callous and uncaring for it; but they cannot see the waste bin of crumpled papers where his writing had been shaky in his grief or the tears stained the pages

OKAY THAT’S WHERE I AM GOING TO STOP BECAUSE BEYOND THAT WE START REACHING INTO FABLE 3 TERRIROTY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR READING THIS

#fable 2 #fable ii #fable reaver #mypost #my timeline #sparrow x reaver #longpost #long post #spreaver #reaver x sparrow #fable 2 reaver #fable #fable 2 sparrow

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kayteewritessteve · 5 years

Text

Love and War - 15/16

Description: In a harsh medieval world, you set out on a perilous quest that will lead you onto a forbidden land. A land ruled and controlled by a ruthless Warlord King, one who does not look favourably upon trespassers of any kind, and punishes all with an iron fist. You may not know exactly where this quest will end, but what you do know is you will forever be altered by it. And that knowledge alone is what truly terrifies you the most.

Catch up HERE.

Word Count: 5,900 ish.

Pairing: Medieval!Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Violence. Curse words. Mentions of fears and potentially brutal medieval tactics. Most likely more to come down the road. Please don’t let these warnings scare you too much, give the story a try before you judge it.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader either, so I do proudly own all these errors and this story, so there’s that.

Sam’s wolf continues to race through the forest, and every step he takes closer to the King, the more your heart rate picks up. You aren’t sure of what your next actions will be, but you knew the outcome for which you strived to reach. The outcome for which your heart and mind yearned for. You have to reach the King, and then in turn you could located Ari.

But at least in this moment, your one saving grace is you know exactly where he is hiding, though reaching him won’t be so easy, and you have no clue where to even begin on that front.

Trees continue to whiz by at an alarming rate as you glance back momentarily to Wanda and Pietro, who are still behind you, clutching to Sam’s fur for dear life. Once you reach the castle, you’ll quickly consult with the siblings on a plan moving forward. Maybe one of them will know how to approach this whole situation, maybe one of them has some ideas for you. Some way to reach the end you so desperately want, need, and yearn for.

To be reunited with your one true love, your husband, your Ari.

The wind whips passed you, causing your hair to fly all which ways, surely you’ll look a mess the second you slip off Sam's back. But in this moment, your appearance is the least of your concerns. No more than a passing thought in a moment of eerie serenity. As if you now find yourself in the calm before the storm.

That’s how you feel, as if you are standing on the precipice, watching as the storm rolls in. Slowly coming closer with each passing second. You can see it nearing, you know it will reach you shortly, but you can’t move. You can’t run for cover. You have to face it, head on. You have to withstand it. You will.

Though, even with that said, you are terrified. Your heart is hammering in your chest as your Fate continues to play out before you with no regard, or care, for your wishes. With no consideration for your wellbeing, mental state or future.

You know the end of your momentary tranquility is fast approaching, but you choose to stay blissfully ignorant to that fact. You choose to take this small reprieve to steady both your mind and heart, and focus your energy instead on a plan of action. On how you want this all to play out, but yet you know deep down that no matter how much you plan, or how intricate that plan is, Fate had its own ideas. And nothing you said or did would change that. But in this moment, you need to feel as if you have some control over your circumstances. No matter how fleeting that control may be.

As you watch the Castle walls finally start to appear in the distance, you take a sharp, shaky breath in. It’s almost time, this is all almost over. You are so close.

As Sam’s wolf enters a large clearing, he abruptly comes to a grinding halt. His paws digging into the soft grass covered dirt and skidding his large form to a stop, as if the clearing was a cliffs edge that you are about to plummet over, should he not cease his forward momentum in time. The unexpected shift in his bodies position nearly sends you flying clear off his back, had Wanda and Pietro not both grabbed ahold of you in the last second. Both using their positions further back and down to secure you in your place.

Curious as to why Sam has halted so rapidly, and having made sure you aren’t going to meet the ground, you glance up and see large bodies coming out of the dense tree line. Lot’s of large forms, though your eyes only seek out one. The largest of them all, with piercing blue eyes and golden blonde hair.

The King.

Without another thought you release your death grip on Sam’s fur and slide from your place, not even allowing Sam to lower down to aid your dismount. You are on a mission from the Gods, and you only have one thing running through your mind now. You land rather ungracefully but quickly right yourself only to then scurry forward at an alarming pace, closing the distance between yourself and the large man.

Before you can think further about it, you throw your arms around his waist and bury your face in his chest. He seems slightly caught off guard for a second but quickly recovers and leans down to wrap you comfortingly up in his warm embrace. Tingles spread deliciously throughout your whole form as your body involuntarily melts into his.

And in an instant you feel at home, you feel safe, warm and happy.

But that moment is quickly broken when the King pulls back, kissing you lightly on the forehead before he fully releases you. You nearly whine out until you remember what is coming, and more importantly, what you need to do. However, before you can give that a second thought you are scooped up in large arms and then dropped into another set of large arms. It takes you a second to realize that the King has picked you up like a baby and handed you off to his second in command.

“Get her back to the castle. Now, Buck!” He orders his second in command.

You squirm and try to break free of his hold, “no! I can’t leave!” But his grip only tightens as he spins around and starts to run towards the castle walls. “Put me down this instant!”

The large man just ignores you as he continues to run. You huff and cross your arms as you come to the conclusion that your efforts are futile and you stand no chance in changing this man's mind. You know him far too well to believe he’d ever go against his best friends commands, regardless of who asks or how nicely that request may be.

However, then you instantly remember exactly who you are, and just what you are capable of.

You lock eyes with the brute, and he tries fruitlessly to avoid it, however you are successful in the end and once your eyes lock with his, he stands no chance of breaking it. He comes to an abrupt halt, and you smile slyly at him as you trial a finger slowly and softly up his chest. “You should release me,” you purr as you lean forward to whisper in his ear, “it would please me oh so much, if you did.” Your hand moves up over his shoulder, to then slide languidly down his arm as you pull back to lock eyes woth his entranced ones again. “And you want to please me, don’t you?”

He nods dazedly and gently lowers you back down to your feet. You patt his chest approvingly as you walk around his large form, cooing, “good man.”

You make a note that you’d need to apologize to him and his wife for this, but later, right now you have only one thing on your mind. You hike up your skirts and break out into a sprint back towards the clearing.

When you reach it, Sam has shifted back into his human form, donning a new set of clothes. He is speaking quickly to the King, no doubt filling him in on the goings on. You glance to the side, seeing Wanda and Pietro huddled together, you catch their eyes and mouth out, “what do I do?”

They both furrow their brows but then shake their heads slowly, informing you that they have no ideas either. You sigh deeply then hastily make your way towards the King, inserting yourself between him and Sam.

“Y/N,” the King quickly mutters, sounding both soft yet concerned. “What are you—where is Buck!? I gave him a direct ord—“

“You need to remember,” you cut him off, locking your eyes with his beautiful blues. How could you have not remembered him, his beauty, the history and love you both shared. Who you both truly are. You lift a hand to his cheek, “please remember.”

He furrow his brows, confused by your words but subconsciously leaning his face more into your hand. “What are you—“

You cut him off again, softly whispering, “we are Gods, Alarick. You must remember me, why can you not?” You shake your head, trying with all your might to figure out why he can’t remember you, how he could forget the love of his life, his world, his wife.

He stiffens, clasping your wrist and removing your hand from his face. “That is not my name,” he growls out quietly. Not in a menacing way, just as if his wolf was slightly offended that you’d even refer to him as someone else.

“But it is, can’t you remember that,” you grab his hands in yours. “What have you done to yourself, my love? Why do you have no memory of us? Of what we share?” You ask sadly, your heart deflating at the notion that he may never remember you, he may never recollect that you are Y/N, the Goddess of Love and he is Alarick, the God of War, and that you are both already married and very much in love.

The Gods from Sam's fable, they are in fact real, and you are very much those two Gods.

But then your mind drifts to how did he get here? You were stolen away in the night and brought to the mortal plane by force. To then only be locked away in a deep sleep for Gods knows how long. Had he come to find you? Had he fallen from the Heavens to search for you? He must have, for he now stands before you. But then why can’t he remember any of it? Why can’t he remember you?

“Ari,” you plead softly, your eyes filling with tears, “please, come back to me—“

“What did you just say,” he cuts you off, his eyes searching yours intensely.

“Please come back to—?”

“No! Not that,” he adamantly cuts you off then commands, “before that.”

You straighten up, squaring your shoulders and speak with more vigor, “Ari.”

There is a deafening silence that rips through the clearing, not a single sound reaches your ears for a moment before Ari and all of his men fall unceremoniously to their knees. You gasp as your eyes scan the area, taking in the sight of every person now crouched down and clutching their heads, silent screams upon their lips.

You spin around to see Sam in the same position, your eyes moving passed him as the glimpse of bright red off near the tree line. Premala, or as you had learned, she went by Natasha here. Your trusty attendant, how could you have not remembered your best friend all this time? Clearly Medea’s spell was a potent one, if she had been able to erase everyone you ever knew and loved from your mind.

A loud groan off in the distance makes your head snap back forward, your eyes searching for the familiar sound. Seeing Harlin, or Bucky, crouching near the tree line opposite his wife. Reminding you that you owe him an apology for using your gift against him, but you had good reason, and if he could ever remember who you all are, he’d understand and know that you had no other choice. You knew he’d forgive you, as it wasn’t the first time you had to bewitch him for the greater good, or in some cases, without even realizing it. He was usually a good sport about it though, besides you all have gifts that you can't always fully control.

Your eyes wander over to Wanda and Pietro again, they are the only other people still standing, as yourself. You catch their wide eyes, and they both look so unsure of what is happening around you currently.

You glance down at Ari in front of you, he looks miserable, his eyes clenched shut, his long fingers digging into his head, he is shaking all over from what you can only assume is the immense pain currently coursing throughout his whole form. It remind you of what happened to you and the siblings in the cave, and a small blossom of hope grows within you. Maybe they are getting their memories back as well, maybe they will finally remember?

You shake your head, you refuse to allow that hope to worm through you so easily. If they didn’t remember, if he didn’t remember, you’d be crushed. You’d have no ideas how to fix this, moving forward.

You want to reach out and touch him, you want desperately to take his pain away, but you know nothing you do or say will. They just have to work themselves through whatever this is. Though you pray they will sooner, rather than later.

After another few moments, which feel like lifetimes to you, the men slowly begin to relax, one by one. No one stands yet, but as they fall to all fours, you can see the pain has passed and now they just need a moment of reprieve to regain their breaths and senses.

A low groan before you, has you looking down to see Ari resting on his hands and knees, you sigh in relief as you fall to your knees to clutch him to you. Your hand slowly rubbing his head, as you murmur soft words of love in his ear, telling him it is all over now. That you are here, he is okay. You have him, and you aren’t going anywhere ever again.

He lifts his hands to your cheeks, softly holding you in place as he shakily moves away from you, his eyes locking on yours. There isn’t much room between your faces, as he just lovingly stares into what felt like your soul, though you know you didn’t actually have one. No God does, you are divine beings, with no need for a soul.

“My Moon,” he finally utters quietly in awe, an elated yet wistful smile slowly taking over his lips, and then your whole body stiffens upon hearing Ari’s nickname for you. “I finally found you,” he whispers with so much emotion and love in his voice that you nearly begin to sob uncontrollably at his words alone.

Though you manage to hold yourself together, for the moment. “You remember?” You ask, and even though you are currently able to hold yourself together, your voice cracks unattractively through your soft question.

“Everything,” he whispers and nod slowly, as he gently pulls you towards him, his forehead resting upon yours. “All this time,” he breathes, “I searched for you, I had begun to lose hope that I’d ever find you. That I’d ever lay eyes upon you again. I couldn’t live on without you, but as an immortal, we can’t die.”

He took a deep breath, pulling back enough to look into your eyes once more as he continues to speak, “please forgive me, my Moon. I was weak without you, I couldn’t go on when you weren’t by my side. I’m sorry I sought out to forget you, I had hoped for this outcome though. It’s why I made sure your nickname for me was what would break the spell. I figured that if I ever found you, you’d have called me that straight away and every memory would return to me. Every moment would be remembered instantly,” he sighs deeply, lowering his head. “You have to believe that I'd never callously forget you,” his eyes flick back up to meet yours. “I searched this plane tirelessly for you, for centuries, before I couldn’t go on as I was any longer. I made a selfish choice, and all I can ask now is that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for that?”

You take his words in, though you need no time to think them over, you know this man, this God, better than anyone else. You know he wouldn’t have given up on you so easily, not that you saw it that way, but regardless, you know that even though he believes he had forsaken you, you didn’t see it as such. Therefore, “you have nothing to be sorry for, my love,” you shake your head vehemently. “You need no forgiveness from me, I understand why you choose to forget. I can also say without a shadow of a doubt that had I been where you were, I would have done the same. You are not weak, my love, not even close. You are stronger than you could ever know,” you caress his cheek lovingly as he leans into the action. “And we have finally found each other, that is all that truly matters now.” You smile blissfully at him, knowing your eyes are telling him that every word you speak, you believe to be true. You wholeheartedly stand behind every one.

“I hate to break this moment up,” a familiar feminine voice whisper regretfully near you, and you glance over to see Premala standing there. “But we have company,” she quickly adds.

And then the slow clapping reachs your ears, as if breaking the little bubble Alarick and yourself had been hiding inside. You feel Ari tense under your hands, your eyes snapping back to his, only to instantly notice his attention is now locked on something behind you. He abruptly stands, pulling you up with him and then quickly tucks you behind him. Using his large form to shield you, to protect you.

“Aw, how sweet,” a sinister voice coos, mockingly. “The lovers, reunited at last.”

“Hepha,” Alarick growl, menacingly, but then to your surprise and slight dismay, he begin to laugh deeply, softly, which only stands to confuse you immeasurably.

However his next words enlighten you. “You have failed, Hepha,” he lets out another soft chuckle. “You may have been successful in getting passed me once,” his voice then takes on a deeper, more stern timbre, “but I can promise you, that won’t happen again. You will never lay a single finger on her, ever again. She is my wife,” he growled, “and I will defend her with more vigor than you could ever possess in your small, weak form. Give up, Hepha, you have lost.” He grins, “Or do you not remember what I am the God of, or why?”

Then it is Hepha’s turn to chuckle, you glance around Alarick’s large body to see Hepha sporting a sly grin of his own as he steps closer. Though he is still many yards away from you both, you glance to see every one of Ari’s men, and women, at attention, all ready to attack at the first word for their King. You then glanced over to the siblings, noticing that they are now standing near you, also fixated on the enemy in your midst.

A flicker of red catches your eyes, and they snap down to see a red glow flickering around Wanda’s outstretched fingers. The flicker is so quick, you figure no one but you has even noticed. Your eyes snap back up to hers, seeing her looking back at you, a warning and promise within them. You nod, understanding to not draw any attention to her or her actions, and turn back to the scene playing out before you.

“Oh, I remember, alright,” he chuckles again. “And those are big words for a man,” Hepha spits the word like a curse, “to say, when he was fooled once before by this said ‘small, weak form’. How does it make you feel to know you were beaten once before by the likes of me? That you failed her once already. Pray tell, what makes you think you won’t again, hmm? Will you keep eyes on her at every moment, never allow her out of your sight for even a second? Because I can promise you, the moment you do, I will strike. I will take her back and hide her away once again, but this time,” his eyes snap to the siblings, narrowing, “no silly humans will be able to save her. No one will ever find her again.” He turns his glare back to your husband, “and that is my promise to you, oh dear Ari,” he sneers the nickname. “That one day, sometime, somehow, you will lose her all over again. You will fail her for the second time, and there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it. If Fate desires it so, then it shall be so. And I have a wonderful feeling that Fate is smiling upon me, that I will be victorious over you yet again.”

Alarick growls deeply, taking a menacing step towards Hepha, “I may not be able to kill you, but mark my words, Brother,” he spits, “you will wish for death. You will be begging for the true end, when I am finished with you. And just as your will has finally broken, and you believe the true death is near, that you couldn’t withstand another second of my treatment, I will merely start from the beginning. I will force you through every second of anguish, all over again.”

Despite himself, Hepha’s stone exterior cracks, just slightly. Enough to notice his eyes widen momentarily, and his hasty, be it small, step back. He is frightened by the threat, and involuntarily makes that strikingly clear. As clear as a cloudless, sunny, summers day in June. But then he quickly corrects himself, steeling his nerves and putting up his stone exterior once again. “Then may the best Brother win,” he grins ominously as he raises his hand in the air, and before your very eyes, the entire tree line behind him is instantly swarming with men.

“Yes, may he,” Ari chuckle, seemingly unfazed by Hepha’s vast army. You quickly remember that he is the literal God of War, this exact situation, standing is this very spot, is what he is made for. What every fibre of his being yearns for, because without War, there is no need for the God that symbolizes it. He is happily, and perfectly, at home on the battlefield, and his immortality allows him great peace of mind and freedom. And though you can not kill a God, per se, you can trap one, as you know all too well.

Then as Ari raises his own hand in the air, signalling for his men to ready themselves, an idea strikes you will full force. However a slew of loud creaking sounds rings out around you, and you watch as every man, and woman, begin to shift into their wolf forms. All except the King and his Second and Third command. Hatlin and Premala who have now come to stand on either side of Alarick, shielding yourself and the siblings with their broad forms.

Hepha’s men seem to all step back at what they see happening before them, but none choose to run, even though the shock and horror on their faces is unmistakable. Clearly they were unaware just what they were signing up for, and what they’d be going up against before this exact moment, yet they refuse to take the cowards way out. You have a small fleeting moment of fear for the men, Ari’s Lycan’s will easily tear them limb from limb, in mere moments, as if they are nothing more than some simple sheets of parchment.

They don’t deserve that end, they only fight a battle for Hepha, who has most likely acquired them under false pretences and now they are all swore to fight, regardless of if they actually want to or not. As the tension in the air mounta, you know you have to do something, you have to figure out a plan, and with great haste. Time is quickly running out.

But before you can do anything, Alarick’s wolves begin to charge, as if by a silent cue. And then Hepha screams, “charge!” And his men, too, advance onto the battle ground, a gasp ripping from your lips as both sides met in the middle and the fight commences.

You spin to face Wanda, “we have to stop this, we must do something!”

She nod quickly, “I have an idea.” And then you see as her hands become fully engulfed in a red mist, resembling the movement and characteristics of fire upon her skin. She directs her attention to the clash and raises her arms up in front of her, and then you realize all sounds of battle have ceased. There isn’t a single noise in the clearing and your eyes flick over to see every body and form, frozen in place. Not a single soul moves so much as an inch. She has halted everyone, and with a quick glance, you realize she has even halted Ari, Harlin and Premala as well. Everyone, save for herself, Pietro and her, are currently frozen in place. Including Hepha.

She continue to move her fingers in a strange, yet entrancing motion as she steps around the 3 large forms that had once been shielding you from the fight, and advances slowly into the centre. You and Pietro following closely behind as she goes. When she reaches Hepha, she grins victoriously at him, “who’s a ‘silly human’ now, hmm?”

Even in his frozen state, you can’t miss the glare he shoots her, clearly only having control over his eyes in this moment. But Wanda seems completely unfazed by his deadly look, and you’ve honestly never been more proud of her then in this exact moment. Nor had you ever realized or grasped just how powerful she truly is, but you assume she had no idea about the strength for which she wielded within her either. At least not till recently.

“I will not allow you to make threats towards my family, nor will I stand by and allow you even the slightly chance to turn those very threats into actions. But how will I ensure that?” She seems to ponder for a moment, the silence taking over once again before she appears to come up with an idea. “Oh, I’ve got it!” She sets her sights on the foolish God once again, “what if we served you the same Fate for which you so happily promised Y/N? What if we hid you away in some cave, asleep and alone for the next few centuries, hmm?”

His eyes widen slightly, but no other piece of him so much as moves, still being completely halted and vulnerable to Wanda’s wishes. She turns to glance at you, not ceasing her hands movements for a second, “how does that sound to you, Y/N? We return the favour?”

You smile, nodding your head, “yes, I believe we owe it to him, to show him what it feels like to be locked away and entirely alone.”

She nod, humming her agreement, as she turns to look at him again, “though, the only difference for him will be that no one will be searching for him. There will be no one to free him from his prison,” she grins again, “which in my eyes, is exactly as he deserves.”

Then she snaps her fingers, and both Wanda and Pietro, along with Hepha, vanish instantly before your very eyes, and every person and wolf comes back to life. As if snapped back to reality abruptly.

The fighting does not pick back up, and everyone seem slightly dazed and out of it. But before anyone can clue in and reignite the battle, you speak up loudly, drawing the attention of every ear in the clearing to yourself. “Hepha is gone, and he will never return. Put down your arms, your contracts and vows to him are no more. You are all free men, return to your homes, your families and your lives. Or wherever you hailed from originally, the fight is over.”

All of Hepha’s men seem relieved by your words, they all, one by one, drop their weapons and begin to leave the clearing. Alarick’s men all sit back on their hunches, looking either relieved and shocked by the outcome of this all, and awaiting their next commands. “As for the wolves, you are also all free to return home. The battle is done, go enjoy what’s left of your evenings.”

As they all start to stand and walk away, you speak once more, “good work, everyone. You made your kingdom proud, and served her well.”

You slowly turn to face the three Gods behind you, all standing stock still with wide eyes. You giggle softly to yourself and move towards them, coming to stand before Harlin, or Bucky, first. “I apologize, Harlin. You know I’d never use my gifts on you if it weren’t for good reason.”

He smile down at you, then abruptly wraps you up in a bone crushing hug, thank the Gods—or I guess yourself?—that you are and immortal, or the hug very well might have killed you. “No apology needed, Y/N,” he pulls back, “it’s wonderful to see you again.” Then you notice a mischievous glint in his eye as he slapped the back of the tall blonde beside him, “now maybe he will let us finally rest for a while, and hopefully he won’t be so bloody cranky anymore.”

This earns a playful glare from the blonde, but then he chuckle fondly and nods his head, “alright, alright, so maybe I was a little pushy and crabby at times. But can you really blame me?”

Harlin glances at you, then lovingly at Premala, before he shakes his head, “no, I’d have been the same way, if I were in your place.” Your husband only nods once, as if to say ‘that’s what I thought.’

“We missed you, Y/N,” the tall brunette quietly adds. “It wasn’t the same without you around.”

You smile fondly at him, all the history between you two playing through your mind's eye in this moment. “I missed you as well, old friend.”

Then you sidestep passed Alarick and over to Premala, “I also owe you an apology for bewitching your husband.”

She smirk at you, then laughs, “he probably deserved it.”

You laugh with her, nodding your agreement, “oh, he most definitely did. He was trying to foil my plans to return all of your memories, thus saving the day.” You grin cheekily and then upon hearing Harlin’s loud scoff beside you, you giggle a little more.

“Then no apology needed,” she shoots him a smirk then laugh a little more as well. Before pulling you into a warm and loving hug, “I, too, missed you greatly. I knew there was a reason I liked you so much when you arrived here, I just never figured out exactly why. But now it makes perfect sense,” she pulls away and smile at you, a real, genuine smile. Which are rare for Premala, you know that first hand. “I believe something in me knew exactly who you were, and what you truly meant to me.”

You nod, a smile playing on your own lips to match hers, “you were always the more intuitive one in the group.”

She laughs again, then fully releases you, “damn straight, and don’t any of you ever forget it,” she jokingly points a finger at you all, before turning to Harlin. “Let’s give them a moment,” she says, sending you a sly wink before she drags her husband off, back towards the castle.

You turn towards where Sam had been, but find the space empty. You quickly spin around to search for him, seeing him near the tree line. He glances back and give you a nod with a beaming smile, though the look in his eyes tells you he’ll find you later and you can have your moment then. So with a smile and nod in return to your new friend, you take a deep breath and focuse your attention on the love of your life. Who has just been standing there, waiting patiently for his moment with you.

The smile on your face grows as you move towards him, his arms opening up to welcome you home. You snuggle into his warm and familiar embrace, instantly realizing this is exactly where you needed and wanted and yearned to be. In the arms of the man you love. You’d been through so much to reach this exact point, this very moment, and honestly, you would willingly gone through it all over again, if this is always the outcome.

“I missed you fiercely, my Moon,” he murmur into your hair. “I can’t believe I have you in my arms once again.” He pauses, and you can currently hear and feel, the rapid beating of his heart, “I had lost all hope of ever reaching this moment. And now that I have, I will never let anyone take you from me ever again. So be warned, you’re stuck with me, for eternity.”

“I can think of far worse Fates then that,” you shrug playfully, turning to look up at him as he chuckles softly. “What happens now, my love?”

He lovingly stares down at you, and you can feel the tenderness and adoration coming off his large form in intense waves. Then his lips curved up just slightly at the edges, a deep emotion flicking through his gaze so fast you didn’t catch it. But if you know this man at all, which you thoroughly do, then you know exactly what that emotion was. Even before he spoke his next words, comfirming your thoughts, “well, first, we have centuries to make up for, my Moon.” He gives you a cheeky grin, the spirited action contradicting the gentle, loving way he tucks some of your fallen hair behind your ear. “Then, once that is done, we live out eternity here, in the kingdom I build for us. In the very realm I designed to be ours, for when I finally found you. I wanted to give you a home to return to, a place that was just ours, where we could be happy and surrounded by the ones we love.” Then he pauses, looking uncertain all of a sudden, “I mean, if that sounds good to you. If you wanted to return to the Heav—“

The memory of the tale of the Gods that Sam had told you resurfaces again, playing through your mind’s eye. How the God had located his long lost love and they had then lived happily ever after in the kingdom. You quickly silence his ramblings with 2 fingers over his lips, “that sounds wonderful to me, Ari. Everyone I love is here, there is nowhere else I’d rather be.” You smile up at him, slowly removing your fingers from his luscious lips. “Plus, I do so loathe the gossip of Mytikas Court. Gods are so fickle and catty, I’d much rather never return if I needn't do so.”

He chuckles, nodding his agreement, “then it’s settled, we shall stay here.”

And then before you can even blink, his plump lips descend upon your own and you sigh out in contentment at the familiar and delicious sensation.

How you’d longed for this exact moment, how even when you had no recollection of Alarick, or Steve, or Winderbourne, or even a place called Mytikas—the Heavens and plane of the Gods—you knew you were missing something.

You were longing and searching for something—someone. And you knew deep down that you were only half complete, only a small portion of your true self. And finally, finally you feel whole again, you are once more fully intact. You’d found your long lost love, your husband, your Ari.

And with that, Love and War are joined once more. Because without Love, there can be no War. And without War, there is no Love.

Eeek!! Finally I got this chapter written and posted, the Epilogue will be up in the next few days and will hopefully answer all your current questions! Fingers crossed this all makes sense, please feel free to comment any and all questions or explanations you still wish to know. I will be going into detail about Steve AKA Alaricks side of things, returning the siblings to the story plus detailing their sides of it, and the. giving Sam and Y/N a small moment to themselves. So stay tuned lovelies!

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@caps-lockdown @tfandtws @boxofteenageideas @wangdeasang @giggleberts @casuallydarktiger @theonelittleone @agentbadbitch @ratwrites @starrystellars @bandsandanimefreak @rockyroadthepastryarchy @lovvliies @cuffski @icesoccerer @alwaysright4 @lilsthethrills @steeeeverogers @zombiepotterfour @ledandan1244 @straightforwardly @denzmallows @xremember-me-notx @gwynethjodie @lollipopdomination @capstopavenger @jemimah-b99 @rcvenqers @justkending @alagalaska @silent-loucidity @sabertooth-potato @pies-wands-and-more @interstellarmess @gabriella69816 @phantom-soilder @wordlesscaptain @captain-hammer-of-asgard @starstucknature @viarogers @pixieferry @kaithezaftig @the-kinkiest-goblin @hysterically-original @heyiamthatbitch @zlixlle @capsicledoll @givemehopenfandoms @pretendingandpreposterous @frozen-phoenix17 @emotionallysalty @atomicsludgedonutbiscuit @saturngirlz @ivannagotthebeat @bohemian-barbie @marvelous-capsicle @ivoryhazlewood @steverogersxreader @cjhorseback @secondstar2disney @jessiedaeum @betsynodak @sister-of-stars @wiserebelpartypie @patzammit @cs-please @troublermalik @moonlightimagination

#au fanfiction #fanfiction #long post #long read #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #medieval!steve rogers x reader #medieval!steve rogers #medieval au #fantasy!steve rogers x reader #fantasy!steve rogers #fantasy au #love and war #chapter 15

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ohmightydevviepuu · 5 years

Text

happy birthday!

for my twin separated by a time-slip, my very favorite sexy librarian @shireness-says

please enjoy this lieutenant duckling-flavored persuasion drabble as a sign of my affection. i hope your day is full of friends and wine and macaroni and cheese as you embark on the next quarter-century!

(also the amazing @profdanglaisstuff chiming in with emma’s side of the story)

no two hearts AO3

Coming here was a mistake.

Killian Jones--Captain Killian Jones--knew it the moment he found himself staring into an extraordinary world anchored only by the green emeralds that were her eyes. His breathing hitched; his posture faltered. He forgot everything: Where he was, who he was.

When he was.

He had never believed in destiny until that moment, the moment when Killian Jones--Cadet Killian Jones--stumbled upon her.

Or, perhaps, the moment she stumbled upon him. It had been much the same, the desire to run his fingers through his hair, wondering if he had somehow hit his head. Her eyes widened and he had forgotten everything until she’d just as quickly looked away, her lips parted slightly--

Her hand was on his arm; she jerked it away as soon as she realised, giving him a small shove as she did so. And yet something inside of him prevented him from stepping back, from moving as she so clearly wanted him to; as if he had waited his entire life for exactly this.

“Your hand is cut,” he’d said. “Let me help you.”

And, without waiting for an answer, he’d lifted her hand in his, pulling his handkerchief from his uniform pocket.

“It’s fine,” she’d said, but he was already wrapping the cloth around her palm, memorising the feel of her skin and the lines that marked her hand. “There’s no need for you to--”

“I am a gentleman,” he’d said, but he’d stepped toward her as he said it and her eyes responded to whatever she saw in his face. “A gentleman would never leave a lady in distress.”

“Who says that I’m a lady?”

He still held her hand in his, could still feel the warmth of it and the quickness of her breathing.

“So who are you, then?”

And she’d smiled; a smile that felt brighter than the sun. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He’d bowed, brushing his lips just against her knuckles. “Perhaps I would.”

And she’d curtsied as she’d said, “Emma. Emma Swan.”

In the intervening eight years--when he had allowed himself to think of her--he saw her as the girl he had known. In his mind, only his life had carried forward since the day he’d left, broken pieces of his heart in his hands as he carried them off to sea. He couldn’t allow himself to imagine the life she might be living--without him--when she’d taken the ring he’d offered her and then changed her mind.

He hadn’t known her at all; that was now obvious.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

Unfortunately, a captain of the Royal Navy was not in a position to say no to royalty when summoned. He owed his career to their grace and good fortune--and, though it pained him to admit it, to her.

If he had stayed--no matter.

Killian Jones, Captain, had no choice but to obey the commands of the king and queen he served; to accept the honor of this audience with them, and with their daughter, the crown princess. King David and Queen Snow, the sovereign rulers of the corner of Misthaven referred to by its residents as the “Enchanted Forest”.

(“My grandmother used to say there’s always a bit of magic in these parts,” she had said, and though Killian had spent the better part of the last decade denying it, he still remembered the amusement in her tone and the sparkle in her eyes as she had said it.)

The trumpets faded; Killian could only remark to himself how drastically they understated the importance of the evening.

He hadn’t known she would be here.

How could he?

He hadn’t known that Emma Swan was Princess Emma, not until this moment, standing upright from his formal bow and recovering from the world he saw in her eyes. The small wedding she’d claimed to have wanted. Perhaps, someday, children. He had never known he wanted those things before her, and he had spent eight years and a half convincing himself he had never wanted them at all; it was a world of regrets and might-have-beens and a career that never would have happened if he had stayed.

Killian had not been born in this realm, but had found himself left shipboard--at a very young age under circumstances best left forgotten--in Misthaven. And the Enchanted Forest spilled out into largest port not controlled by the maritime kingdoms. Better, the laws of indenture were less severe in this portion of Misthaven than in some of the neighbouring realms, and he had been granted the opportunity to better himself by means of a naval position.

(That had been her reason, her plea to him. “This is your best chance,” she had whispered through her tears. “Let me give you your best chance to live the life you deserve, that you’ve fought for. Go to the sea, Killian, and maybe someday--” She hadn’t finished. She hadn’t needed to. He knew her, knew her in all the ways that mattered. “Come back to me,” she wanted to say, but he wouldn’t let her, couldn’t let her.)

Killian had once believed that in all of the realms, there were no two hearts so open as theirs; no feelings so much alike. He had been lost until he met her, and he had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal.

A bow, a curtsy passed--he heard her voice.

“Captain Jones,” she said.

“Your Highness,” he said.

Now they were strangers; worse than strangers, and they could never become acquainted. Emma Swan had deserted and disappointed him, and Killian Jones had not forgiven her; Princess Emma could never lower herself to consort with a mere naval captain, no matter the secrets of their personal history, the tears on her side and the anger on his. He was nothing more than an inferior officer.

Somewhat belatedly, Killian realized that the King was speaking to him. Words, words, words; words that he had fought and sweat and bled for, in service to king and queen and realm against the Dark One, and now he was to be rewarded with their favour. When Killian and Emma met, he had nothing, but was confident he would soon be rich. Fortune had already favoured Killian Jones and he meant to make something of himself; he was full of life and energy and he knew that he would have a ship.

All of his expectations--all of his confidence--proved justified, and The Jewel of the Realm was now returned to port, and he to her.

“Come back to me,” she had very nearly said, and now he had. He searched her countenance for a hint of recognition and saw nothing but the barest flash of relief, well-hidden in the depths of her irises; Killian did not know how he knew, but she had been, somehow, expecting him--waiting for him, and for this moment. Her hand went absent-mindedly to her neck and Killian felt his fingers twitch as he remembered the feel of the skin there, following the movement of her hand with his eyes.

A necklace.

Queen Snow stepped forward, a gentle smile on her face. Slight lines at her eyes and mouth suggested it was a habitual expression for her, and she looked kindly between Killian and her daughter.

Killian did not hear a single word that she said.

It was a necklace, and it should not have drawn his attention; it had nothing to do with him, for he had left her with only memories. The piece was small and unassuming, and nothing like the quality of jewels worn by Queen Snow, for it bore the patina of constant use.

“Captain Jones?” The princess’ voice was cool and polished, polite and full of ceremonious grace as she held her arm out to him.

He bowed again as he slipped his hand under hers, grateful for the gloves they both wore, and for the second time that night, he faltered.

The figure she wore on a chain around her neck was a swan.

---

Being here was a mistake.

She should have found some excuse to give her parents—illness, cramps, maybe thrown herself down the stairs, anything to get out of this, to postpone this awful moment she knew was coming. What she’d always known was coming. It was too late now, though, far too late for escape and… oh, gods she’d forgotten how blue his eyes were. Or no, not forgotten, just that her memories could never be more than a pale reflection of the reality of him.

She’d been raised on tales of true love, but even as the fabled child born of it had never quite believed the tales were real. Until that long-ago day, that young cadet, the gentle touch of his hands on hers and the warmth in his gorgeous eyes as he’d tied his handkerchief around her hand. Warmth for her, for Emma, not for the royal princess, heir to the throne of her kingdom. The shortness in her breath and the pounding of her heart as she’d exchanged with him those fateful words.

“So who are you, then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would.”

She’d thought of him since, oh yes, every day of eight interminable years. Every storm that rolled in from the sea was agony to her, her greatest fear that he would be lost in the waves and that she might never know… for who would report the death of a simple naval captain to the Princess of Misthaven?

And now that he was here, whole and safe and in her throne room, she realised that her greatest fear was for him to look at her as he was doing, with cold indifference in those blue eyes that had once shone bright with love. Until the day she broke her promise, returned his ring to him and sent him on his way.

They should never have met, this she knew, and she almost wished they never had. Perhaps then she could have been content with the weedy princes and dukes her parents tried to foist on her—but once a woman has known the touch of Killian Jones, she doesn’t go back.

He’d never said this to her, she thought, though it was something he would say, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow to make her laugh. No one had ever made her laugh as he did, teasing the lighthearted girl out of the over-serious princess, by simple virtue of not knowing that she was the princess.

Well, now he knew. And though his face was blank, his posture straight as was befitting his rank and station, Emma fancied she could see the betrayal she knew he must be feeling in those eyes.

It wasn’t because of who you are, or who I am, she wanted to cry, wanted to take his hand in hers and beg him to understand. It was for you. To give you your best chance at success. What would you have been if you had stayed with me? What could you have been, if I denied you your destiny?

She’d allowed herself the indulgence of fantasy, of the simple life they had built together in their minds. The intimate wedding, the cottage by the sea. The children, she thought with a piercing ache; the little blue-eyed girl that she could see so clearly in her mind. She’d allowed herself to think that maybe, maybe such happiness might be possible for her.

She’d been foolish, and she’d paid a bitter price.

And now, watching him bow formally to her parents and then to her, she felt the pain of that price as sharp as it had ever been. Once she had believed that in all the realms there were no two hearts so open as theirs; no feelings so much alike. She’d been so lonely until she met him, the lonely princess adored by all but loved by none.

He bowed to her, and her voice was breathy as she acknowledged it.

“Captain Jones,” she said.

His was gruff, and deeper than she remembered. “Your Highness.”

Now they were as good as strangers except far worse. Emma knew that she had wronged him and he had not forgiven her. Strangers could become friends but the chance of that for them had long since passed. Princess Emma could not have friends of his station, and Emma Swan he now knew to be a lie.

Her father began to speak and Emma sighed in relief as Killian’s eyes moved to rest respectfully upon his King. Hers were free now to feast on him, to enumerate and catalogue each change the years had wrought upon the boy she once knew. He was no taller but he stood straighter and with his shoulders squared; the proud stance of a man accustomed to command. His jaw looked sharp, the beard upon it thicker, and his hair was short and tidy in the military fashion; Emma’s fingers itched to muss it up as she had so freely done before.

Come back to me, she’d nearly said, that awful day when she had sent him away, away from her but to the life he deserved, the fortune and riches that Blue’s prophecy foretold would come to him. Come back to me… and now he had.

Her fingers were restless, unconsciously they reached up to caress her one memento of him, that foolish indulgence she’d not been able to resist. They toyed with it where it hung around her neck then froze when she realised he had seen them.

Her mother drew his attention away again and Emma fought to calm her racing breaths. Her necklace was small and unassuming, easily lost among the finely wrought metals and glittering stones of the royal jewellery. Surely there was no way it would catch his notice.

Queen Snow nodded at her and Emma, with her mask now firmly back in place, stepped forward to perform her royal duties.

“Captain Jones,” she said again, pleased that her voice this time was cool and polished, with all the polite and ceremonious grace the occasion required of her. He bowed again and then his hand slipped under hers, setting her heart racing and making her for once grateful for the stiflingly hot gloves that were an indispensable part of Misthaven’s formal attire.

They had barely moved a step when she felt him falter, heard his sharply indrawn breath, and realised far too late that in her earlier confusion she had not tucked the pendant on her necklace into the bodice of her dress, as was her custom, but left it out for all to see.

For him to see—the only other soul alive who would understand precisely what it meant.

#the dev collective #cs fic #talented shipmates

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jadekitty777 · 5 years

Text

Fall For You

*Runs in screaming and slams this down with forty minutes left to go*

I will not lie that this one is not my best. Time crunch got to me and I kind of rushed this one. Um, but... I finished? 8D

Thank you everyone who has taken the time to read, reblog,or comment on my stories this week! Your support has been greatly appreciated and encouraging. Another thank you goes out to the many of you who inspired me to write some of these stories; they wouldn’t exist if not for you. Finally, a thank you to all the other participants who made such great fics and art this week; you all are awesome!!

Day 7: AU

Dedicated to: @tama-negis (I formally apologize though; you deserve something so much better than this)

Rating: K+

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Word Count: 2.7k

Ao3 Link: Fall For You

Summary: To Qrow, there was no greater feeling in the world than the sensation of flying through the air, nothing but the bar and Clover to rely on.

That's why the fall was so devastating. [Circus AU]

“Net check!”

Qrow rolled his eyes as Clover fell backwards off the trapeze platform, saluting as he went. He looked over the edge just to make sure his partner hadn’t died, before shouting down at him, “You know, after two years, that’s decidedly less impressive.”

“Don’t lie. You love it just as much as you love me.” He was too far to actually see if he was winking, but Qrow knew he definitely was.

Rather than respond, he just continued on with the safety check. He gripped at the bar, pulling on it. No give, no worrisome noises. Rigging seemed secure. He took another step back, before doing a running leap off, holding on tight as he traveled over the net until he came to a stop at the center of their stage.

He twisted his body upwards, landing on the top of the bar and swung back and forth lazily, listening carefully to everything above him. During a performance, over the roaring crowd and blasting music, it was impossible to hear any of the small, subtle sounds of the cabling above. So, any out of place screech or worrisome clonk that could imply something was about to give would go completely unheard. But in the near silence of the empty Big Top, he could hear even the tiniest creak of the frame as it bore his weight.

Nothing out of place.

He slipped his feet off the bar, freefalling for a fraction of a second before his arms caught it. Everything held. Just as it had the last two times they’d done the check throughout the day. He thought it was a little excessive, but James was a stickler for routine, and after taking partial ownership of the circus, had immediately enacted the three-check rule.

There were a lot of those kinds of changes the performers of the former “Marvelous Circus of Oz” had to put up with when they officially became partners with James’ “Fabled Ace Ops”. Higher demands on performance training, complete restructuring of acts and teammates, stricter guidelines on fashion. Qrow wasn’t even allowed to wear nail polish anymore.

“You got to be fucking kidding me!” He remembered shouting at his new boss. “What do you think’ll happen Jimmy? Is my polish gonna eat through the bar?”

Ozpin had to pull him aside after that one, practically pleading for him to cooperate. It was hard to continue being pissed off when he had to face his old friend’s weary, desperate eyes. He knew this was a shitty situation, for all of them. But it was either this or all of them be out of a job. So, Qrow let it go and tried his best to play nice.

Though, he supposed as he turned around on the bar to face the platform Clover was once again standing on, not everything that had resulted in the merger was terrible. Sure, he’d been downright hostile when James had first reassigned Raven with Summer’s act and appointed his own star trapeze artist to him – but it didn’t take long for Qrow to warm up to the other man. Clover was like a magnet of good qualities: friendly, confidant, encouraging, honest.

He was also ridiculously attractive, so that was a plus.

Qrow rocked his body, gaining momentum until he could swing himself back over to the platform, securing the bar down. “Alright, we’re good.”

“No, you missed something.” Clover spoke up.

“What?” He looked around, doing a mental catalogue of his checklist. “No, I didn’t. Wha-ah!”

Strong arms wound around his waist, pulling him in and a big, wet sloppy kiss was planted right on his cheek. “You forgot the kiss for good luck.”

Qrow snorted. He didn’t believe in superstition, especially with names like theirs. He had to of gotten every good luck-bad luck comment probably known to the universe. Didn’t mean he wasn’t above teasing about it. “You’re disgusting and a heathen.”

Clover gasped loudly, before whirling them around, letting him go. “Oh Qrow, my love! How could you wound me this way?” He backed up the two steps it took to get back to the edge, hands crossing over the center of his chest. “The pain, it’s just too much to bear! Goodbye cruel world.”

And with another wink, he went back over.

Qrow tried, he really did, but even biting down on his lip didn’t stop the guffaws that escaped as he looked down again. “You’re an idiot!”

“Joke’s on you,” He hollered back triumphantly, “I’m yours!”

Even with the distance between them, he was sure Clover knew he was smiling.

The night was going spectacularly well. The audience was receptive and easily emotive. They’d gotten loud cheers for Summer and Raven’s silk dance and wows for Elm and Vine’s high-wire act. It had been a while since they’d had a crowd this good and the rest of the crew was feeling it too, all of them buzzing to get on stage and feed into the energy.

“Alright, Marrow and the kids are finishing up. Qrow and Clover you’re up. Robyn and Tai, get ready to follow.” Oz called as he snaked his way between the teams, popping his top hat back on his head as he went.

“Ah, what a shame that your act will be completely overshadowed by ours.” Robyn taunted. Though she lacked malice, her pride wasn’t unwarranted.

When people thought of circuses, they thought of all the typical acts: animal taming, clowns, trapeze work. No one really thought of fire arrows. It was the only act of its kind in the world, and one that had happened by complete mistake.

Robyn, from James’ crew, was an extremely precise archer – able to split her own arrows and even bounce them off other obstacles and still hit a target’s bull’s-eye. Tai, from their circus, was their fire performer, his talents ranging from being able to spin and juggle batons that were ablaze on either end to swallowing lit torches and breathing plumes of fire upwards like a dragon. Early on into the merger, the two just happened to be practicing by one another, showboating and trying to one up each other on their skills. One thing led to another, and Tai ended up challenging Robyn to shoot through his flames and still hit her target.

It was when she pulled it off, that the idea to combine their acts was born.

Qrow wouldn’t deny it made for a hell of a sight – but that didn’t mean he’d let her get away with her ribbing without giving back a bit of his own, “Please. Ours will be so good, they won’t be able to get it off their minds long enough to pay attention to yours.”

“Hah, you wish!”

Clover, smug as can be, threw an arm over his shoulders as he added, “Now Robyn, you know wishes are for stars, of which Qrow and I happen to be.”

“And they say I blow a lot of smoke.” Tai intervened with a wave of his hand, “Get on outta here you two before you end up holding up the whole show.”

Anything more that they might have said was interrupted by the sound of laughter floating in with Marrow, Ruby and Yang as they returned backstage. The three were propped up on each other’s shoulders like a human Leaning Tower of Pisa. Qrow and Clover were quick to assist the younger man bearing their combined weight, helping the younger girls down on their feet.

He didn’t have a lot of time, but Qrow still took a second to ruffle Ruby’s hair. “Good job kiddo.”

The eight-year old gave him a tooth-gaped smile, saying, “Break a leg Uncle Qrow!”

“In thirteen places.” He promised, before following his trapeze partner out into the darkness of the stage.

“And now, it’s the moment you all knew was coming. Introducing our Flying Aces, Qrow Branwen and Clover Ebi!” Ozpin’s voice boomed from where he stood in the center of the stage.

Qrow linked his arm with Clover’s just as the spotlight moved to capture them, both of them raising up their free hands up high as if catching the applause from the audience. So close, it was obvious how similar their clothing was – himself in a black leotard that blended into red and Clover in a complementary white to green one. Though turned from the crowd, on their backs was a design choice Qrow himself had insisted upon: Wings to follow the color gradient.

They were the Flying Aces after all.

Oz continued with his announcement, but having heard it so many times before, he mostly tuned it out as he and Clover split from one another, each of them climbing up the ladders to the platforms opposite each other. As the final words from their ringleader faded, the lights below went out, bringing all the attention skyward.

Qrow unhooked the bar that he’d secured only hours ago. The music started to roll, but the moment he went swinging off the platform, it was as if everything else faded. There was nothing except him, the bar and the sensation of wind and weightlessness as he turned his body around, hooking his knees around the edges and hanging down free. As his movement slowed, he eased his grip, gravity bringing him down into a short drop before his ankles caught onto the edge instead. After another few moments, he unhooked his left, all of his weight now on just the right leg as he let his free limbs spread out wide like a taxidermist’s greatest prize.

Mostly he was a distraction, performing small tricks while Clover got into place, throwing himself off his own platform to gain momentum so he could prepare to catch him. He knew his partner was ready when he signaled him with a salute. Qrow pulled himself up so his legs could dangle once again, pushing himself into motion once more. At the apex of their swings, he let go, Clover gripping his wrists easily. They flew together briefly, before he returned him to the bar, Qrow doing an easy spin midair to catch it.

It was his second leap that earned them applause, this time somersaulting twice in midair before being captured. Even over all the white noise in his ears, he could make out Clover’s exhilarated chuckles and a breathless laugh left him as well. This was something they shared: The excitement of the flight, the adrenalin born from hanging freely nearly thirty feet in the air, the thrill brought on with each completed trick as their routine built together.

The joy of doing it all with someone he loved.

Without question, it was that last one that made him do what he did next.

Qrow’s hands clasped onto the bar as he was thrown back to it, swinging his legs up and fitting them between his grip so he could hang upside down again, this time prepared to grab the other man so they could move into the second part of their act. Clover took his turn to fly over, doing a flip of his own.

But Qrow didn’t move into position for the catch.

Hours later, when asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone precisely what it was that warned him – maybe he heard something snap. Maybe he noticed a change in his balance. Or maybe it was just a feeling in his gut. But somehow, he knew.

So, for the first time since they’d perfected the move, Qrow missed.

Clover went flying one way.

As the rigging broke above him, Qrow went the other way, further and out of control.

The freefall sensation wasn’t unfamiliar to him – he’d dropped thousands of times before. On those rare cases it was unintentional, he was usually even talented enough to make it look like part of the act.

The white-hot agony that laced through him as something impacted his side with the force of a bullet was new though, unexpected in its ferocity.

It was all his mind could grasp at until he was bouncing off the edge of the net and the ground rushed up to meet him.

Incessant beeping roused him.

His first thought was he immediately wanted to go back to bed. Whatever the hell he had been doing must have been brutal, because his body ached all over, particularly centralized in his shoulder and hip and his stomach was especially throbbing.

Qrow made a noise in the back of his throat, trying to raise his arm to shut off the alarm, only to find it oddly weighted. His head flopped to the left and he grumbled, “C’ver, ‘larm.”

Suddenly the weight lifted, still there but entirely focused on his wrist. Oh, it was a hand.

“Qrow? Hey babe, you awake?” Clover’s voice coming from above him rather than beside him was what finally got him to open his eyes.

Immediately he realized he wasn’t home in the trailer when instead of just more bed and a window, there was a machine next to him and a wall a few feet away. The machine was the thing making the noise. His gaze rolled around, taking in the IV stand next and gathered a pretty good guess on where he was.

A shift made him look towards the figure hovering over him. His partner looked like a wreck, expression pale and drawn. Dark circles were laden under sleepless eyes.

“Hey.” Soft as his voice, Clover’s hand brushed through his hair, “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Qrow replied, swallowing around his tongue which felt oddly swollen. “Heavy.”

“Yeah that’s probably the anesthesia wearing off.”

“Anesthesia?” That didn’t sound promising.

His partner took a moment to pull the chair behind him closer, sitting down right at his bedside. The hand still holding his squeezed lightly. “Do you remember what happened?”

Shifting through his own head, vague memories of spotlights and soaring through the air came back to him – as well as a stomach-dropping sensation that wasn’t meant to be there. “I fell.”

Clover’s voice shook a little, “Yeah, you did.”

There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask, but the most important one came out first, “How bad am I?”

“You’re gonna be okay. You, have a few fractures but, nothing major broke.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Your stomach’s a mess though. When the cabling gave out, part of it snapped back and hit you. It ripped right into your intestines. You were in surgery for six hours.”

Qrow took that in sluggishly, focusing mostly on the first part. It meant he could still perform. The rest of it could wait for more thought another day.

So, he moved on. “What ‘bout you?”

“Hm?”

“Where were you when I fell?”

“I, uh,” Clover’s laughed, but it sounded a bit wrong. “Down on the net. I was uh, flying over to you and you just didn’t catch me. I think you knew something was wrong, ‘cause Summer said you never even reached for me.”

The significance of that hit him instantly. There were a few universal rules any trapeze worker knew – the topmost being just how vital it was for the flyer to swing after a catch. The human skeleton was a surprisingly delicate thing, and the arc of motion that followed alleviated all of the pressure the body underwent from the flight and drop. But, if the flow of motion was hindered or stopped all together, say by a snapping cable line, all that pressure suddenly didn’t have anywhere go and instead the force would compact onto the body.

At best, the sudden whiplash would have injured Clover’s spine, maybe bruised an organ or two.

At worst, it would have broken his neck.

His partner lifted his hand, lips pressing against the back of his skin as he whispered reverently, “You saved my life.”

Qrow let out a slow breath, mouth pulling up in a smirk. “Nah. I just took falling for you real literally.”

This time, when Clover laughed, it was much more genuine, even as tears finally flowed from his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

His reply was a victory: “Joke’s on you. I’m yours.”

With no distance between them, neither of them could miss the other’s smile.

#qrow branwen #clover ebi #fair game #fairgameweek2020 #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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sjjms · 4 years

Text

a hundred times

pairing: jacksonxreader length: 2.3k words genre: romance & mentions of the supernatural warnings: reference to suicide summary: based on Jackson Wang’s 100 Ways. If you had to reunite with your soulmate each and every one of the hundred lifetimes you lived for eternal love and peace, would you do it? This follows one of those times... notes: this was a requested fic “can i request like a jackson au based off his 100 ways m/v?”

The wind grew gently in strength as you knelt beneath the tree, you glance to the solemn moon above you, the tree branches intercepted your vision. You take a deep breath filling your lungs with the night’s air and finally pick up the candle beside you. A rustle in the leaves causes you to turn around. Your maid was here.

“My lady, it’s time we leave.” Her words spoke with caution.

“Just a few more moments, please,” You say, you don’t hear another peep out of her allowing you to carry on.

“Are you watching over me?” Your voice becomes a whisper placing the candle into your lap. Your maid was aware of who you were talking about, but still, it didn’t feel right for another person to overhear these words.

Casting your eyes downwards away from the light brought by the lantern your maid held, your eyes begin to fill with tears as you say, “You made a promise to return to me… you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Twice. The number of times you said goodbye to the man you were in love with two times, each one more painful than the last. Those two moments would be vividly staining your heart for as long as your spirit ventured in this world.

“Do not go.” You capture his fingers before he could escape from you. Whether he had planned to leave without saying goodbye to soften the blow is one thing you did not want to discover, but you ask anyway.

“Were you planning on leaving without saying goodbye?” You muse with a soft tone hoping he would turn around and face you.

His head dips down towards his chest, and after a moment of composure, he faces you. There was no need for you to hear his words his sorrowful eyes said them for him. Jackson curls his fingers around yours and presses a delicate kiss to your hand.

“I’ll come back... I always do,” A weak smile forms on his lips, it doesn’t appease either of you.

“How many times will I have to say goodbye to you before you realise I don’t want to leave my side… ever,” Your voice becomes a strained whisper. Soon, the tears held back by your own sense of grace, as a woman, a part of a family who held honour over emotions would no longer remain silent. His eyes clenched shut in an attempt to speed up the parting, if he stayed, he feared he would never be able to take his leave.

He slowly opened his eyes, his hand brushing against your cheek one last time, he took his time cherishing you. The two of you may have been able to have married for love, but you had suffered bruises and batterings that would cling onto the retelling of your love story for years to come.

"I'll return to you before the leaves hit the ground." The promises you two made each other throughout the years, you were able to keep through pure luck or coincidence. You took those words pledging your new life to them.

“Let him leave,” Your father’s dominant voice surfaces at the entrance. With no hesitation, his fingers let go of yours as he turned away. Trying to rebel against your father’s orders, you grasp the ends of his fingertips.

You allow your fingers to run against his harsh hands, all the wars he'd fought as a brave soldier had done this to his hands. His fingers were once the softest things you'd had touched, but time and multiple wars get the better of people.

“The leaves are starting to fall…” You continue to murmur in a reminiscent tone. You couldn't help it if this was your only way of communication. Wasn't it better to look back on all the moments you did share? Despite your last moments together being of sorrow, you at least had the chance to say your farewell to one another.

“I forgive you.”

A shift in the wind sends cold shivers through your body, you tug on the shawl covering your shoulders and pull it closer to your heart.

“My lady, we should head inside, it is growing colder.” Your maid’s voice gains in sound as her footsteps come closer toward you. You let out a quiet sigh, if you were to linger any longer, you feared either your father and mother would chase you back to your quarters.

“I won’t keep you waiting much longer. We’ll meet each other soon,” You whisper into the candle. You light the candle from the nearby lantern. The flame flutters with the wind, despite its growing strength, the light was still there.

A good omen.

You lift the bottom of your dress as you grew in height before the candle. You were never much one for fairy tales and fables, but you wished the guidance of the candle would bring Jackson back home to you in his new form.

"Let us go back inside," You smile and lead the way across the courtyard to your quarters.

“Do you think it worked?” The soldier pesters the group of soldiers gathered, the four of them hover over the general. Bruised, battered and bloody were most of the likes of these four soldiers and the bodies that surrounded them on the battlefield.

“If you’ll just be quiet!” The leader of this newly assembled group spoke through his gritted teeth. His focus returns on the general’s body below just below his feet. “Let’s try one more time,” He says, holding on to those words like it was the only hope he still had.

Once again, the four men lifted their hands up, focused all their energy into awaking the body below. Jackson awoke before them. His eyes took a few moments to adjust as he glances to the figures overshadowing him.

“General!”

“I can’t believe this actually works,” One of the soldiers mutters.

“What did you do?” Jackson asks. He stands up, only to start patting himself down excessively.

“General. It’s time to go home,” The interim leader of the group proudly announces. He mentally had resigned himself as leader of the group because the true leader had risen.

“Has the battle ended?” Jackson was curious about so many things that his mind began to spin in loops. Until he found his focus. You. He wondered whether you were alright, whether the news of his death had reached the household yet and whether he would be able to go home.

He steadily looks beside him, enveloped by the bodies of fallen men, hundreds all dead because of a measly war. Some of them he had killed himself and others were his men, but the men beneath him all had equally fought with bravery until their own demise.

“If we were to talk of the truth, you fought until your last breath and died from the injuries you sustained. You’re alive because we performed the Lovers Resurrection, the power of love is keeping you alive right now until you are able to reunite with your wife." Jackson’s mind began to whirl again, the what?

Cultivation was known and practiced in this world. However, the families that did usually were in hiding. There was an outcry of fear towards what danger the cultivation world would be able to do to the people. Regardless of the secrecy, cultivation practices were still spoken about and performed when there was a willing cultivator. And yet, four of them stood before Jackson.

“The Lovers Resurrection?” He mutters to himself, scrabbling through his thoughts to find any piece of information that he might have heard or read about.

“Yes… There’s one downside to this though.” Jackson meets the soldier’s eyes waiting for the answer, “The connection that you and your wife have is crucial. Her love for you is what brought you back to life.”

“How long do I have…?” Jackson’s words stained the back of his throat as they struggled to go down.

“That’s the thing… we don’t know. If she’s alive and her love for you burns strong, you’ll stay alive until you can meet again. But..” The soldier hesitates.

“But?”

“If your wife is dead… you’ll die when her spirit leaves this world. This could either be a day from now, a week or even a month from now.” Time was ticking away as sand was falling through an hourglass. A question still on his mind is what would happen you were alive and you could reunite, wouldn’t it be cruel to die in your arms? The unnecessary pain he was about to bring you…

“Let’s go,” Jackson whispers. How could he be thankful for the soldiers in front of him right now? They should have just left him for dead and let his wife grieve for him.

Walking through the forest was just as treacherous as the battlefield littered with dead bodies. Foliage at their feet rustled and would stir at the slightest movement. If bandits were on the same trail they were, the men would stand no chance of making it safely through. The soldiers heard movement that didn’t belong to their group in a close perimeter. The leaves couldn’t quiet themselves down as the men used trees for cover.

Jackson’s fingers graze the rough bark clinging on to it in silence, his breath caught in his throat as he brashly glances between the branches. He squinted into the distance locating the source of enemy noise. A bird is found where Jackson’s vision takes him, he passes a silent sigh before signalling to the other soldiers of his findings. The sooner they were out of this forest, the percentage of dying would significantly reduce.

A sharp pain swiftly tore through his heart. He grabbed the fabric of his clothing, tugging it while he struggled to breathe. His fingernails dug deep into the tree. What was happening? Was this the side effect of the resurrection? Was this the way the world was trying to rebalance itself out by trying to kill him again. The pain bit by bit began to falter, allowing Jackson and his men to reach the end of the forest. However, it still lingered enough to cause him discomfort.

As night fell upon the courtyard, Jackson’s laborious footsteps dragged along the cobblestones. His men followed equally as tired as he was behind him. He spotted candlelight burning brightly in front of the oak tree, his eyes settling onto the leaves that had yet to fall, he’d kept most of his promise.

A startling gasp along with a crash led to Jackson turning his head to the side. The poor maid had let the pot she was carrying fall from her grasp.

“My lord…” She whispers in horror. Was Jackson that terrifying to look at? He didn’t have the chance to glance at his appearance when they had stopped off at a nearby river during their journey. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Ah.

“Where is my wife?” The wait was over, he could finally say the question that had consumed his thoughts.

The maid hesitates, her eyes lower from Jackson's piercing gaze. She composes herself, she begins to recall the last week to him until reaching the most vital part. She had not been sworn to secrecy, but her lips fail to move when prompted to say the words.

“Tell me, is she alive?” Jackson dryly swallows.

The maid shakes her head with reluctance, her words start to tumble out, “I found her this morning… a bottle of poison was discovered in her room not too long ago.”

“She’s dead.” He whispers, trying to accept the hard truth. The maid nods and starts to carry on with her duties for fear she would be caught for the mess she had made.

Jackson’s eyes slowly close as his knees smack onto the cobbles. He was too late. A thought never crossed his mind during this journey home that his wife could have died. Yet, he had been the cause of her death. She wasn’t able to cope living in this world without him.

"The two of you can still reunite, you just need to call upon her spirit," He gladly took the guidance from his men and thanked them for their service. Jackson wasn't a cultivator himself, however, his men taught him the necessary gestures that any human could perform to summon a spirit.

Jackson sent away his men. He questions whether they would lend their cultivation skills to another person, or would they also depart from each other? The leaves began to fall as he raised his hands and used up the last bit of strength he had within him. Summoning your spirit here would be the right place. It was the last time you saw each other and Jackson knew you were the one that had left the candle out, to guide his own spirit home.

You appear in front of the tree, you open your eyes slowly and find the man who called you. “You’re here.” You mutter quietly, unsure of the strength of your voice. Jackson’s eyes soften as you approach him.

“I’m home,” Jackson muses. Both voices gently speak to one another, welcoming each other home from the torments of their sufferings.

"How lucky we must be that fate took pity us," You share a small smile with him. Not being able to hold back any longer, your arms and his, wrap around each other.

A mutual promise was made.

Jackson’s thumb runs across your cheek despite the rough texture; to you, it was the most delicate touch he’d ever laid upon your skin. You clasp your eyes shut leaning your head against his chest. The drum of his heartbeat lulls your own, at last, the brewing storm settles into a wave of peace.

Jackson brushes his lips against your head and takes a last look at his surroundings. If he had to go through a hundred lifetimes, each time getting to fall in love with you all over again, he would choose you. His eyes close, and finally, your spirits descend from this world, ready to reunite in the next one...

#i hope it's okay!#jackson #jackson wang #got7 #got7 au #got7 fanfic #got7 scenarios #got7 imagines #imagines #scenarios #fanfic #au #request

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whitefoxed · 4 years

Text

Little Wonders

Starter for @algrimthestrong | Written to this | Chapter 1

1991, August 10th. Rock Creek Park. With summer coming to an end and fall just starting to begin, the air was much cooler and dryer than it had been the whole season. Yellowing greens and the sounds of soft footsteps muffled by the fallen leaves and insect song imprinted strongly into the young boy’s eidetic mind. Lise had taken in a deep breath, scenting damp and the nature around him.

His family had came to Washington, D.C. a month before his birthday, to fulfil some father-son bonding ritual Daniel was intent on having since he was allowed to take a vacation from his work, so this was the boy’s first time experiencing this change of season in America. His mother had remained in the city to do her shopping, while his father - Daniel - brought him to the park to teach him its history and how to recognise the tracks of the different wildlife here.

Or at least, that was how it was supposed to be.

Daniel had went to secure horses for them both, leaving Lise to his own devices. Bored, the young child found a secluded corner and started playing with magic. Though his mother always told him not to do so without her supervision, he truly couldn’t resist satisfying his curiosity about whether or not there would be a difference using his ability in a different land. Besides, he made sure there was no one else around. Gathering energy, Lise threw little spells without a sign of fatigue, seemingly unlimited by how much energy he could collect from his surroundings. It was crude, blunt even, but that was only because the boy was untrained still.

But in an instant, without being aware of anything, Lise had already lost consciousness.

The next time he woke, he found himself dangling by his shirt in some dark hallway. His mind felt heavy, as he listened to two people talking next to him, one of them being the person holding him like this. Then, that person’s hand came closer, drawing his attention and causing him to look up at it as it covered his small face and also reveal that he had already regained consciousness. Lise’s big grey eyes shrunk to silver pinpricks, sensing his natural glamour shatter and his half form brought to light. Tiny white ears peeked out of white hair bleached from brown and nine tails spilled out from his pants behind him. His fingernails too, sharpened slightly into small, slightly dangerous, opal claws. But throughout all this, he felt like lead, unable to feel fright like he thought he would. The hand holding him shoved him into the other man.

“… Where am I?” Lise clutched onto the cloth, concerned about falling to the floor. His pupils had dilated back to its original size as he looked up at the one holding him this time. Again, he felt calm, but as the footsteps of the one who shoved him over went further and further away, the fear that made his heart beat harder started bubbling up, adding a light of confusion and worry to those bright silver eyes.

Dark eyes pinned the child with wary intrigue, watching as what had been hidden was forcibly brought to light. Vulpine ears, as white as snow. Nine tails, agile and sleek. The claws, while still tiny and short, seemed sharp enough to open a man’s throat. Not quite a hound but not a hunter either. A strange hybrid, a cross between man and beast, his small body heavily saturated with magic. A part of Algrim felt sorry for the boy, who had been taken from his world, snatched from his parents, thrust into a foreign world with no choice but to surrender to fate, the life he’d known forever barred to him.

Midgardian lore was rich with tales of babes stolen from their cribs, swapped for a changeling to spy upon the guileless parents. When the boy’s father would return to collect his child, he might, perhaps, notice an air of wickedness surrounding his offspring, a glint of malignity in the little one’s eyes that had not been there before, and yet he’d take the wretched thing home and treat it as his own flesh and blood.

The Accursed, Algrim knew, desired no son to follow in his footsteps, no heir who might threaten his reign. The boy was not meant to be a successor, but a slave. A tool. A puppet on strings to do the king’s bidding. A new and prestigious addition to Svartalfheim’s fabled bestiary.

The Lord of the Hunt, however, had neither the time nor the patience, let alone the emotional aptitude to rear a child, and so the mantle of raising the boy had fallen to Algrim; Algrim, whose children had perished in ice and snow, leaving the aggrieved father to live on in a world darkened by loss and sorrow. The boy was a burden and a blessing. A millstone round his neck to remind him of everything he had lost, and a precious gift to lighten his heavy heart.

He held the young whelp gently in his arms, watching his lord depart and disappear into the gloom of the castle. “You are in Svartalfheim, child.” Algrim’s tone was soft, gentle, comforting even as he turned his gaze back on the boy, watching large, innocent eye peer up at him with confusion and fear. How long had it been since he’d last held a child in his arms? An eternity, it seemed. A different life. The eyes of his children had been black, unreadable, the colour of obsidian just like his own, but the eyes of the boy were silver, shining as bright as starlight.

Algrim’s fingers splayed on the child’s back, adjusting his hold on the boy as the slightest of smiles graced the elf’s lips. “You are home.”

“Svartalfheim?” Repeated the child with perfect intonation, as large silver eyes took in the elder’s face. The smile and better support holding him helped soothe Lise’s mounting fears and the way he immediately started looking around them and back over his shoulder at the man leaving after being told he’s home, showed his quick understanding of the situation despite his age.

He had never heard of Svartalfheim, nor seen people like the one holding him, his gaze flitting at those pointed ears and hair as white as his against dark skin. Young as he, Lise couldn’t help trembling while he looked around again, as if searching for something. The quivering on his tiny tufted ears was most obvious, along with his tails which all curved downwards, tucked tight to his body. When those bright orbs returned to those dark ones, large with hope, another question fell from his lips again. “Is A- are.. my parents here?…” He asked quietly, changing how he addressed them to something more appropriate for people who weren’t family nor familiar with the language he used.

While Lise was still too young to hear of tales about changelings - his mother having started with stories originating from their homeland and gradually spreading from it - he had long been taught to be wary of being kidnapped. Recalling that he had been playing with magic just before this and how he was not supposed to - it was against the rules, his mother had once told him bad people would come take him away if he was found - the child was immediately both worried and regretting having done so earlier. He was wrong, he broke a rule and now he was taken away!

The boy was truly frightened now, even if the man holding him hadn’t done anything to harm him. He wished to see his parents, to tell them he was sorry for playing with magic and for his mother to scold him not to do it again, because that meant she’d be around to protect him. And that was why, he still clung onto the hope that they were here, enough to ask it aloud.

The flawless pronunciation with which the foreign word rolled off the boy’s tongue earned a look of approval from Algrim. “Svartalfheim,” he confirmed, “the realm of the Dark Elves. One of the Nine Worlds nestled amidst the roots and branches of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, of which Midgard – ‘Earth’ as you call it – is but one.” He lapsed into silence, granting the boy a chance to process what, without a doubt, was a lot to take in. He felt the child tremble in his arms, shaking like a leaf in the wind, distress and confusion reflecting on his young face.

The boy’s next question had Algrim’s features softening with sympathy. It was the bane of all children to think themselves invincible, to believe their parents would always be there to shield them from the evil in the world. Coming to realise their misconceptions was one of life’s hardest lessons to learn, and experience could be a cruel teacher. The little fox was still young, though. Young and pliant enough to be shaped and moulded to fit into his new life. “I am afraid not.” Algrim shook his head, carefully watching the boy for his reaction. He could easily relate to the child’s plight, the pain of separation and the despair that came with it as life as he had known it was torn asunder from one moment to the next.

There was, of course, the option of plying the distraught child with stories of uncaring parents who gave away their unloved offspring or traded the little one in for ample riches. Algrim, however, thought it best to tell the truth, to let the boy wail and grieve rather than risk building his fealty upon lies and deception.

“You are special, little one. So special that the king of the elves himself came to spirit you away.” He offered another smile, lightly rubbing the boy’s back. “Surely you heard about elves before? I heard our kind became quite popular on Midgard in the modern age.”

Gently, he set the boy down on his feet, both of his hands coming to rest on the young one’s shoulders as he stooped to speak to him at eye level. “The Accursed King sees great potential in you. You are to live with us and be taught the ways of the fae. I was appointed your guardian and mentor. You may call me Algrim.” Placing his index finger under the boy’s chin, he gently tilted the little one’s head up to look him in the eye. “What is your name, child?”

Dark Elves. Nine Worlds. None of those meant anything to the little fox, though the name Yggdrasil caught his ears in a familiar way. He remembered then, a short excerpt about western fables in the book of mythology his mother gave him. And it wasn’t wrong to say that elves were very popular back home either, what with them appearing in every fantasy game and how famous the Lord of the Rings were worldwide. But all Lise could hear was that his parents weren’t here and he clung onto that little hope just a few heartbeats longer as he fought the tears welling up in his eyes.

He was scared and clinging onto the elf who held him, trembling. For all the little boy’s pride and effort not to cry, his face soon scrunched up as crystalline tears ran down his delicately soft cheeks. He was wrong… he’s sorry… but his natural ability to sense truth that he himself did not yet understand ebbed strength out of the pup as he visibly wilted, ears and shoulders drooping and tails curling tighter. It was as if he was trying to make himself smaller and without a doubt, be hiding if he wasn’t held. The elf’s smile did little to soothe the boy’s grief, though the rubbing helped keep him calm as he started sniffing, a pup-like whine escaping from what little control he managed to have.

Lise didn’t want to be special. He already knew he was. That’s what his Eomma always said. And that was why he shouldn’t practice magic outside on his own. But he did.

Tightly curled fingers clutched the elf’s robes tightly even as he was placed down on the ground, reluctantly letting go to grab onto the front of his own shirt instead, a hand raising to wipe his sleeve over his eyes again and again. Both his blurry sight and sleeve couldn’t obscure how intent and kind those dark eyes were looking at him as his shaky sniffles gradually ceased. “Al-Algrim.” He repeated after the elf, pronunciation only marred by his weak voice and stuttering.

It took the boy a moment or two longer before he visibly made effort to gather his wits back together after his head was tilted up to look at Algrim properly. Blinking away his wet and sore eyes, Lise tried to stand taller, straightening his back even while his tails twisted together.

“Lise… my name is Lise…”

Compassion was in Algrim’s gaze as he watched the boy’s eyes fill with tears, feeling the child’s hold on him tighten with the strength of desperation as the elf’s words wormed their way into the little one’s mind. He let him cry. At times, crying was the best of medicines; to flush out the shock and sorrow, to wail and grieve, to let it all come out in a rush of tears and relief so acceptance could follow in its wake. The small, soft sound of distress that slipped past the young fox’s lips tugged at Algrim’s heartstrings with a poignancy that triggered a flood of memories. This time, he would not fail to protect the young life entrusted to his care. This time, he would keep the precious child safe from harm.

Giving the boy a moment to get his bearings after learning of his fate, Algrim stood back a little to watch him, noting the way he endeavoured to face his future with courage and dignity as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve before straightening his back to make himself look taller in the face of the tumble his life had taken. This one was strong. Proud. A fighter. Algrim could already tell that much. He could not keep the smile on his face from growing a fraction as the child repeated the name of his mentor to-be, testing its sound on his tongue, attempting to adapt to the situation rather than succumb to despair and cry for his mother to come take him home. Admirable.

“Lise,” Algrim repeated in turn, enjoying the ease which with the name flowed past his lips. He nodded approvingly at the little fox. “A beautiful name.”

He spent a moment carefully deliberating how to best introduce his protégé to the new environment he was to live in before reaching for little Lise’s hand, his fingers curling gently around the boy’s. There was no need to rush things. A well-fed, well-rested child would be far more susceptible to his teachings than a stressed one. “Well then, I suggest we get you a new attire, yes?” He paused to consider the child’s Midgardian clothes with a sceptical glance. “And then you can rest a little. How does that sound to you?”

Prompting Lise into tagging along with a gentle tug on his wrist, Algrim began leading the way through the castle’s labyrinthine passages, passing grim-looking guards and busy servants as they advanced deeper into the Accursed King’s realm. After a while, they arrived at a heavy wooden door which Algrim pushed open to usher the boy inside. “You will be staying with me for a while until I deem you ready to occupy your own quarters.”

The room was spacious and lavishly furnished. The dwindling light of the day filtered in through the gauzy curtains that framed several large, arched windows. The room was equipped with a bed, a heavy, elaborately carved desk, a smaller, lighter but no less intricately fashioned bureau, a table with several chairs, and a divan in front of a fireplace. Well-stocked bookcases lined the walls along with several cabinets, a dresser, and a full body mirror.

Letting go of Lise’s hand, Algrim turned to face the boy and gave him another warm smile. “Are you hungry, Lise?”

Lise. A beautiful name. The fox child latched onto the elder’s soothing baritone for comfort, white ears twitching in the dark Svartalfain halls. For a boy whom normally liked open spaces, the place suddenly felt too large and foreign. Lise huddled closer to Algrim’s side, clinging the moment his hand was taken.

Wide, soaked eyes peered up at the elf from near his hip, nodding to that suggestion merely in attempt to please. Honestly, Lise didn’t know what he should do. He wanted to try and get home. But fear and confusion reigned his little heart and mind and all he knew was this man was kind to him. So he followed the tug and through the many twists and turns, cataloguing the pathway and encounters in the back of his mind.

Ever the curious child, he couldn’t help stealing glances at the guards, servants and decorations, despite how they terrified him and sent him hiding into the skirts of Algrim’s robes with his little ears trembling. By the time they had reached the wooden door, the boy’s tails were all firmly tucked between his legs.

Into the new room he went with the elder and for the first time since he had woken, Lise found some form of security in his surroundings. The windows provided sufficient light unlike the shadowed hallways and there were no grim faced guards nor terrifying decorations. Unnoticed shallow breaths and rapid heartbeats gradually slowed and Lise loosened his tight grip on Algrim’s hand, just in time for it to be released.

Swivelling eyes which were looking around the room and soaking in every detail returned to the elder when he was addressed, pink lips parting slightly as his guard dropped even more at that smile. Even a child could recognise the elder’s beauty. Then his gaze fell and flitted back shyly, about to shake his head out of instinct to not be troublesome, when he felt his stomach gurgle.

His father had promised to bring him to the forest restaurant after the horse ride before he found himself here, not even knowing how long ago that was. Lise simply assumed the same amount of time passed was from the morning he was last awake on Earth to the coming dusk he now saw beyond the window.

Finally having a purpose instead of simply feeling lost, the boy squared his stance and looked back up at Algrim with determination and hope. “Yes!… Please!” He added after a second’s thought, remembering to be polite despite not having been offered food yet.

Curiously, Algrim watched the boy for his reaction, pleased to find Lise looking about the room with budding curiosity rather than trepidation. The younger they were, the better they adjusted to their new surroundings; the sooner they forgot about their old lives. His own heart ached with sympathy for the boy’s parents, who would have no choice but to live on, trapped in a never-ending cycle of grief, despair, and foolish hope, never to know of the fate that befell their little one. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, banishing the thought from his mind. This was neither the time nor the place for regrets.

He observed the young fox carefully, glad to see that Lise had lost some of his initial fear. Even his tails, which had been tightly twisted together and tucked between his legs in distress, seemed to have relaxed fractionally, he noted. A brief chuckle trickled past the advisor’s lips as little Lise’s stomach beat its owner to an answer, and he nodded approvingly as the dear boy made an effort to be polite.

As if on cue, the door opened and two servants came striding in, bearing silver platters with food and drink. None of them spared Algrim’s little guest a glance as they marched past. They set to work without preamble, dutifully laying out plates and silverware on the table and lighting the torches mounted on the walls, turning to bow low to their superior before departing again.

Algrim turned towards Lise with a smile. “Well then, dinner is served.” Taking the boy’s hand in his own, he led him to the table and helped him climb on one of the cushioned chairs. He went on to pour them each a drink, blackberry juice for Lise and wine for himself before taking the chair on the opposite end of the table.

Algrim had deemed it best to stick to dishes the boy might already be familiar with, saving the more exotic cuisine for when Lise had properly settled in and adjusted to his new life. On the table, a selection of roasted meats, steamed vegetables, baked potatoes, and sweet desserts was waiting to be enjoyed by the pair.

Now this was the crucial part, for only after the boy had consumed the enchanted faerie food would he truly belong to the realm, unable to ever leave. “Eat,” Algrim prompted gently, nodding encouragingly at Lise.

Not expecting to have his wish granted so soon, the little fox jumped with a startle and hid back into Algrim’s skirts, bolting behind him faster than he knew what he was doing. Staring at the servants coming to and fro, their appearance still so foreign to him, Lise couldn’t even pay attention to the food they brought in until he had made sure they left the room. Only then did his tension loosen and let himself be led to the table and helped onto a chair. He could jump on it, but he was also on the smaller side and Algrim’s aid meant being less clumsy and avoiding accidents.

Once there and able to see the spread on the table, his eyes brightened as he found comfort in familiar sights and scents, recognising the food offered. He was still making sure that he somewhat knew what meats and vegetables they were when Algrim spoke to him again, making him look up from the food and remember that he was hungry. With the faintest, hesitant smile, both in hope and ingrained manners, Lise nodded and answered as he picked up the utensils. “잘 먹겠습니다.” Jalmukesumneda. I will eat well. Such were the words to say to be polite at the table.

Still, he didn’t start eating. Holding his fork and spoon, he looked and waited for the elder to start patiently, ears starting to twitch left and right slowly along with his tails’ swaying, idling movements to help pass the time and hunger. Even though the child was very hungry, he naturally observed the customs his mother taught stringently. Subconsciously, the boy buried a newborn fear deep down in his heart, afraid of disobeying a rule again.

Algrim granted Lise a moment to take in the variety of dishes on the table, noting the look of bright-eyed wonder on the boy’s face at being offered what could well pass for a small feast.

The advisor caught himself smiling. This sweet, gentle-mannered child was very special - and that had nothing to do with the fact that Lise was a magical being. The boy was a rare gem, a diamond among pebbles, that only needed to be cut into shape and polished to brilliant perfection.

The wish to please was obvious in the boy’s demeanour, the phrase he uttered when picking up the cutlery a product of his strict and meticulous upbringing. Algrim moved his head in an almost imperceptible nod of approval. In a way, young Lise reminded him of— Algrim smothered the thought before it could blossom to life. If he began to view Lise through the eyes of a father, he’d throw objectivity to the wind, and this was something he could not permit himself. The boy was his responsibility. A task he had been charged with. An asset to groom and raise into a loyal follower of the Accursed, not a foster son to fill the void inside him.

“You may eat,” Algrim told the boy, seeking to dispel Lise’s hesitation (misgivings?) by offering a reassuring smile. “You need not be afraid.” Noticing the way Lise glanced at him, he realised the little fox was waiting for his host to start eating first despite his gnawing hunger. Whether such hesitation was born of fear, uncertainty, or politeness, Algrim could not say for certain. Reaching for a bowl of potatoes, he heaped some on his plate before proceeding to add spoonfuls of braised vegetables and a slice of venison. Algrim began to eat without hesitation, keeping his eyes on Lise to see whether the boy would follow his example.

Witnessing the elder eat, Lise started too. Though Algrim verbally gave him permission to do so, it simply confused the child even more when he was keeping so strictly to the rules he was brought up with. Thus he hesitated until he saw the given cue, almost pouncing on the food and helping himself to a share of them onto his own plate. Only his ingrained manners kept him from making a mess, naturally preferring meat over vegetables and other forms of food. He did take his greens however, just not as much as the other.

Digging in, the boy chewed as quickly as his tails wagged, eager to fill his grumbling stomach. The act of eating was comforting and the familiar food reassuring. It was with keen instinct that Lise focused greatly on his meal, to keep his fear and sorrow at bay, innocent to its true intent to chain him to this realm. Perhaps if he had known, he would not have wolfed down as fast as he did.

By the time he was done, though he had eaten more than he usually did, the amount was still not much. Yet it was also enough to give him a small contented belly. Sitting back in his chair and drinking water, Lise finally had the leisure to study Algrim and his surroundings once more and his large watery silver eyes rolled this way and that doing so. Of course, he was also waiting for the elder’s next instructions, not knowing what to do after meal when he was neither dismissed nor told to help wash the dishes.

#algrimthestrong #t.algrimthestrong #t.algrim.little wonders #t

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snowbellewells · 5 years

Text

Face to Face in the Broad Daylight /// Chapter Seven

Hello Everyone! I feel truly awful to have left you hanging on my @cssns werewolf sequel for so long. I’m hoping that all of you who were enjoying it haven’t completely forgotten what was happening. Anyway, finally I come bearing an update that ties up a lot of the story threads, and after this there is only the happy epilogue left! I never meant to string it out like this, but you should have the last installment by next week!

Thanks once more to my artist @branlovestowrite for the beautiful fic cover!

I’m including the story summary and link to it from the start on AO3, especially because it has been a while and readers might need to refresh their memories on where we left off!

Summary: Here we have a sequel to my werewolf, alternate season two and beyond fic from last year’s CSSNS. You probably want to read that story "Run to Me (in the Dead of Night)" first, or it might be a bit confusing in places. This second story in the same universe partially exists just because I wanted to revisit these couples and enjoy a bit more of their fluffy happily ever afters. However, we may also see them get into some new surprises and challenges, and of course we need to see if Rumplestiltskin is still under control or back to his usual scheming and plotting....

From the beginning on AO3

~ chapter seven: what once was mine

“Emma! Help her, please!” Graham’s frantic voice pulled Emma back to focus on the present crisis. He was crouched at his love’s side, gathering her tiny form as close to him from off the cold, bare ground as possible - clearly torn between brushing her hair from her slack face, trying to watch for further danger, and being sure some help was coming all at once.

Emma was almost startled to see her boss and friend in his familiar human form, all wiry limbs and curly hair once more instead of the russet wolf he had been when placing himself between Morgana and the woman he loved; the woman carrying his unborn child. Instead of noting when he had switched back to the genial sheriff she knew, all her focus, all her attention and power, had been trained on the huge flash and buzz and humming pull of energy both to and from the villainous beings before her. For a truly frightening, paralyzing stretch all of the gathered magic of Rumplestiltskin, and each and every Dark One who had come before, had been contained within Morgana, forcing all of them to shield their eyes and stumble back at the sheer wall of power surging outward from where the sorceress had stood, suddenly seeming to tower over them, her long shadow stretching out to encompass every visible inch of ground in view. With sickening clarity, Emma had known as their adversary tranformed before them that this double cross had been Morgana’s intention all the time. While she might once have been Gold’s ally and pupil, she had intended to take his power for herself rather than helping him be rid of the dagger. And she had so very nearly succeeded that the horrifying vision of a monstrous, unstoppable witch harnessing her own powers and those of every Dark One who had come before her, reigning over the fabled kingdom of Camelot and their own world with a iron fist of cruelty, destruction, and terror had been all too real in Emma’s mind’s eye. She could see castles crumbling, kingdoms bowing, and ordinary people enslaved to Morgana’s twisted will with no hope of release.

Now however, beyond her knowledge or understanding - she hadn’t even had time to try - the evil sorceress was gone, vanquished with a roar of fruitless rage and flash of light. There had barely been time for her stunned eyes to take in the smoky dark cloud of sinister residue swirling into the thick tome where Belle had embedded the dagger, blinking in staggered disbelief, before Graham’s panicked voice and the librarian’s harsh gasps for breath jerked her back to the present.

Emma wasn’t slow on the uptake, now that her focus was on the remaining crisis rather than their foe. It was clear Belle had been sent into a frighteningly early labor; her body in intense physical distress as a result. But, as much as Emma did possess magic and anxiously desired to help, she had no idea what to do. A wave of helplessness and panic swamped her momentarily, before she surfaced again, realizing exactly what she could manage.

Reaching a hand to rest on Graham’s forearm, trembling with fear for his beloved, she drew his worried eyes to her serious gaze, willing her certainty to infuse him with some sort of confidence in their course. “Hey, hey… Graham,” she pressed seriously, making sure she had his understandably torn focus, coaxing him back. “Are you with me? Listen, okay? I don’t know a whole lot about delivering babies - magically or otherwise - but I do know that Belle ought to be in a hospital, not out here lying on the cold ground. Let me transport us there, and you’ll be in clean surroundings with people who know what they’re doing, alright?”

The sheriff gave her a curt nod of either agreement, understanding, or both, but she could see the dark cloud of worry and self-recrimination gathering on his brow. Though he was clearly bracing himself for her proposed magical travel, and making his best effort to shield and cushion Belle at the same time, Emma could read his fearful churning thoughts almost as plainly as if he had spoken them aloud. Babies, yes, Storybrooke’s small hospital and capable staff had probably managed the births of many just fine, but a human-werewolf hybrid pup? It had been anybody’s guess what that delivery would look like anyway - and that was before the situation had become even more difficult.

Still, Emma knew better than to let the pressure and panic overwhelm her again. She was determined to help them all she could. One task at a time; it was the only way she was going to get anywhere.

Crouching next to her boss, Emma clutched Belle’s clammy, quivering hand, thinking just how tiny her bookworm friend’s petite frame really was. She couldn’t help another nervous flutter of the heart wondering how big the baby was already with its accelerated gestation, and praying Belle wouldn’t be torn apart by something she had wished and hoped for so fervently; that she should live and thrive in. Belle would be such a wonderful mom, and she deserved her chance. She deserved so much happiness after all that she had weathered; Emma figured she had survived enough herself to know.

Thankfully, though it was light, she felt Belle manage to press her fingers in return, once more centering her in the present and what she needed to do first. The grip was tenuous, but as their sprightly little librarian squeezed Emma’s hand in return - still fighting and hanging in there every step of the way, Emma felt hope rekindle that Belle would battle through. With that, she tightened her other hand’s hold on Graham, willing herself not to tremble and broadcast her fears to him any more than she could help. Relief flooded through her as she felt Killian’s large, solid hand rest on her back, linking them and letting her know he was with her, wordlessly soothing and strong. She was going to need him once they arrived at the hospital, Belle was wheeled away, and the rest of the delivery was out of her hands. She didn’t really know how to do anything more, but the waiting, the flagging adrenaline, and coming down from all they had just seen - she knew that she would be a mess if he weren’t there. And she was thankful all over again that he seemed - as always - to simply know and understand that, just as he always had. They were made for each other in a way she’d never even believed in enough to realize what she’d been missing. But she wouldn’t ever want to do without him again.

Remembering what little she had figured out about her magic for certain (and it wasn’t much, with the only magical experts in town evil or the Blue Fairy - whom her mother trusted implicitly, but who strangely unnerved Emma - Emma had been attempting to teach herself as best she could) Emma forced herself to slow her breathing, close her eyes, feel for those she wished to protect, and picture nothing beyond where she intended them to go. Pushing that gathered swell of energy outwards, she sooned sensed dizzying movement beyond her closed eyelids. And when she opened her eyes, they had made it - all of them - in one piece, to Storybrooke General.

They had barely landed and gained their bearings when medical personal rushed toward them, their need clear from the agonizing wails now leaving Belle’s mouth all too clearly. Soon a whole phalanx of nurses and orderlies were whisking her off on a stretcher, Graham clutching her hand and keeping pace beside it until they forced him to let go and stay behind. Emma and Killian could only watch as he trudged back to where they stood in the open reception area. There was nothing else for them to do but wait...

~~~**~~~**~~~**~~~

Back in the lakeside clearing - suddenly empty and eerily, starkly, silent - a single person remained, barely standing on his own two feet in shock. The man’s breath rasped weakly from all-too-human lungs, in a way it had not done for centuries. Rumplestiltskin was frozen, shocked and surprised; a state that had become completely foreign after ages of premonition and foreknowledge made surprises rare indeed. The twisted, maimed and spindly legs which magic had made immaterial all these years were barely holding his weight, and he sunk slowly to crouch on the rocky ground at the water’s edge.

The events of the last hour were still sinking in it seemed. Some corner of his brain was already crying out in horror; the rest of his senses struggling to catch up and comprehend his utter ruin. He had become so reliant upon - so addicted - to the immense powers of all the Dark Ones within his puny frame, that the weight of his vulnerability, weakness, and fear seemed near to crushing as the long-forgotten feebleness crept back into his conscious like monstrous shadows across the floor.

Rumple made to stand up again, but found his limbs quivering and drained. Without thinking, he flourished the hand that would summon him his heavy, gold-topped cane, but nothing happened. No cane appeared, not a trace of magic raced through his fingers… only emptiness remained.

It was then that the full consequence of his devious grasping and false alliance struck home within his breast. Morgana had double-crossed him; he could see now in clear hindsight that it had been her intention from the start to siphon the forces of the Darkness into her own being to at last wreak her own revenge on her half-sibling and claim Camelot for herself - a frighteningly magnificent dark Queen. He had been blinded by his need for vengeance, his believed invulnerability, and not seen the deal that had brought downfall until it was too late. She had paid with her freedom and her very being, now trapped - for all time, as far as he knew - within the book by Belle’s saving action. Yet, the swift retribution on the one who had betrayed him was cold comfort in the wake of his own punishment.

Rumplestiltskin, the poor village spinner still at heart, was once more what he had vowed never to be again: a crawling, weak, pathetic coward, left to his own pitiful devices to be trampled beneath the heels of those stronger than himself. The fact that Hook and his other adversaries, along with the woman he had once loved, were gone as well, rather than staying to torment him, gave little peace. He was not sure he could even drag himself back to his shop and in from the elements - nor what the point would be in doing so.

It was an interminable amount of time before he could even gain enough support from a stout tree trunk nearby to pull himself to stand. Stooped and wavering, Rumple broke off a large enough branch to use as a sort of crutch and help him hobble forward before collapsing with panted breath on a large rock. Did he even wish to return? Or should he wait for some wild animal or new threat to put him out of his torment and misery at last?

A howl of desperate rage escaped his lips as he let his head fall back in exhausted defeat. The fact that he was finally reaping what ages of his own crooked dealings and treachery had sown was not lost on the former Dark One, but it made the collapse all the more bitter to swallow. He might have even felt the sting of true regret as he began to hobble from the forest… but it was too little, and much too late.

~~~**~~~**~~~**~~~

Somewhere in the halls of Storybrooke’s hospital, as Whale and the rest of his most capable personnel fought for the life of both the tenacious young town librarian and her first child, Belle floated hazily beyond awareness of what was happening around her. Though the moments preceding her descent into unconsciousness had been fraught with fear and horror - the deep desire to prove her worth, to stop her maniacal former love’s quest to destroy all those she held dear - she was ignorant of all that worry and trauma now. It was a fitful state, far from the bliss of perfect rest, but she was no longer aware enough to be troubled by the many cares and concerns which had been weighing on her.

Unfortunately, she was also oblivious to the fact that she was very much in labor. She and Graham’s little one was on its way whether she was awake to push or not, whether it was time or not, and whether or not her body was ready or capable of delivering it safely. As she continued to lie helpless and unaware on the operating table, it became clear that an emergency Caesearean section was the only way to go - and immediately at that.

Whale was snapping out orders with a speed and fervency that most of his staff had never yet witnessed; generally seeing minor falls, broken arms or legs, and stubborn coughs and colds as their main health issues in Storybrooke’s sleepy environment. The fact that in another realm and long-gone life he had been a brilliant and pioneering scientist as well as an accomplished physician - if also an eccentric and a bit disturbed - became more abundantly clear as he continued to fight for the woman on their table, her life in their hands.

Graham, for his part, was going nearly mad outside in the hall where he had been forced to wait with the rest of their friends and family. His rapid pacing and clutching at clumps of his hair, even more curling and unruly than normal from his distraught mistreatment, was nearly enough to make Killian wince and try to warn his new friend to calm down. However, the other wolf managed to bite his tongue and hold the words back. For one thing, such a suggestion would almost certainly be useless. Clearly the sheriff couldn’t relax until they knew that Belle was out of danger. Not only that, but Killian felt it was not his place to tell others how to handle grief or strife (he had never been a very good model of it himself) and beside that simple truth, it would be incredibly hypocritical of him, seeing as how if it were Emma lying where Belle was, fighting to survive bringing a pup of his into the world, and he were in Graham’s place, he would be faring no better, and quite possibly even worse.

Time seemed to trickle by at first, as if the clock in the waiting room were taunting them, the two hands moving at a crawl, just when they most needed them to hurry along. Eventually, Snow, who had arrived with David and Henry in the midst of their wait, accompanied by Ruby, who had already been at the hospital to report on the diner to a recovering and once again tart and no-nonsense Granny Lucas, to help her carry, went down to the hospital cafeteria to fetch some sort of breakfast for them all. David sat in the chair in the corner, looking resolutely calm, as if he could will things to fall into the proper place simply by projecting assured confidence with enough certainty. He couldn’t very well do much else, as his grandson had fallen asleep sometime around two a.m. and Henry’s dark mop of brown hair was still resting on his shoulder gaining what sleep he could. No one wished to take peaceful rest away from the preteen, whom they still wanted to shield from the worst if possible. No matter how helpful and mature he tried to be, he was still a kid with a child’s innocence and already more involved than they would have preferred.

Yet, as slowly as the minutes had seemed to crawl all through the long night and early morning, just as the stars were beginning to fade in the sky outside the large windows at one end of the waiting room, those minutes also appeared to jolt into motion and rush forward once more when Dr. Whale at last entered the room and made his way toward them. Emma genuinely felt as if her heart was crowding up into her windpipe, stoppering her ability to breathe and pounding against the roof of her mouth. The notorious physician looked exhausted; his shoulders bowed and dark circles beneath his eyes; he seemed disheveled, his hair stood even more wildly on end than usual, as if pulled at or run through in anxiety and frustration so many times it could no longer lie still, and the residue of blood and other materials Emma didn’t even want to consider too closely stained a swath at the front of his scrubs.

He came to a stop before Graham, and Emma tried to mentally prepare herself for whatever his report might be. Watching Graham as closely as she was, she could see that though he was mastering a sort of stoic, calm patience as he stood to receive news of Belle’s condition, his body swayed the tiniest bit - as if the awful words he might hear could knock him off his feet, never to rise as tall and straight again. His whole world rested on what the doctor was about to say, and as steady as he might appear, everyone else in the room with him knew it.

“Sheriff Humbert,” Whale spoke up solidly, reaching out a hand to shake Graham’s, “you’re the proud father of twins. Fraternals - a boy and a girl.”

He paused briefly as the other man’s face positively lit up - joy, relief, pride, anxiousness and love all coming together in his expression as it transformed from the frozen mask of worry and fear it had held for the past several hours. The sheriff returned Whale’s hand clasp, shaking enthusiastically for several seconds before looking over his shoulder at Killian and Emma, and then to David on his other side. “Twins…” he repeated in a stunned sort of awe. “Can you believe that?”

Whale nodded in rather unnecessary confirmation, not seeming at all surprised by Graham’s excitement, nor his immense relief. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get out here with the news, but I wanted to make absolutely certain that Ms. French’s vitals had stabilized and that she was resting comfortably,” he continued seriously, giving Emma a nod of acknowledgement over Graham’s shoulder. “We’re honestly very lucky you had Miss Swan with you, to get her here quickly without allowing any more precious time to pass than it did, nor for Belle to exert herself any more than she had to for the delivery. As it was, those two bundles of joy took almost all she had. It was a lot of strain on such a small frame - and in such a wildly shortened timespan. I had feared I wouldn’t be able to give this promising an update, but she seems to be rebounding better than I could have expected. She’ll need to be careful to allow her body time to heal, take things slowly…”

By that point, Graham was nodding along in agreement with such attentiveness that Whale grinned crookedly; the expression both a bit unnerving and knowing, but which was nevertheless part of his eccentric charm. He chuckled easily and concluded, “But I think I can count on you, Sheriff Humbert, to make sure she does just that.”

Without wasting more time, he gave a few cautions and warnings, and assured Graham that he was free to go and see both his offspring and his partner, as long as he didn’t agitate or overexcite Belle. It seemed that the feisty woman who had completely captured their Huntsman’s heart needed more rest than she even now wanted to admit. Shaking his head with the sort of amused and doting affection that was clearly going to become habit if they were to spend the rest of their lives together, Graham fervently thanked Whale for all he had done - shaking the doctor’s hand once more, so enthusiastically that the other man’s teeth clacked against each other loudly. Then he took off down the hall toward the elevators at a trot, too anxious to see his little ones and to reach the side of his lady love once again to be able to hold himself back.

Whale shrugged to Emma and Killian, a sort of ‘I expected as much’ expression on his face, and they grinned in return, largely just relieved to know for certain that the worst was over. Offering their own thanks as well as the sheriff’s, Whale nodded to each in turn and then spun on his heel to go back to his other patients and chores.

As his wiry form disappeared around a corner at the end of the hall, Emma at last released the tense breath she had still been holding. It was almost as if she had needed to know that Belle would pull through and there was nothing more she could - or should - have done differently before she could completely relax. Looking up into Killian’s clear blue eyes as she leaned into his side, Emma could see his affection clearly - and drew even more assurance and strength from him. For once, they had gotten the best possible outcome instead of their worst case scenario, as often struck them in the dealings with villains and magic that Storybrooke seemed to instigate. Everyone was going to be fine, and Emma couldn’t be happier - even if she did feel like she needed to hibernate for a month to regain the adrenaline now vacating her body and recover from the fear and shock that had gripped them all from the moment they arrived at the standoff until Whale affirmed that the crisis was over.

“Come, my brave lass,” Killian murmured gently into the downy-fine hair at her brow bone, gathering her closer still and taking the weight she let him bear as she leaned on him more fully. “Let’s go home.”

Emma nodded blearily, already feeling hazy and half-asleep. They paused momentarily to make sure that David and Snow had Henry with them and would bring him by later. All three seemed determined to see Belle and the new arrivals before they left the premises. Emma was excited too - as she knew Kilian was - but they could wait until tomorrow. Right now, she was practically sleepwalking and not functioning well enough to string together congratulations which would make sense. She wanted to transport them instantaneously to her bedroom, but was afraid she might make a mistake in her current state.

Instead, she focused on merely putting one foot in front of the other and let Killian steer her forward, out the doors of the hospital entrance and into the grey pre-dawn light.

Tagging a few who may enjoy: @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight @laschatzi @spartanguard @gingerchangeling @resident-of-storybrooke @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @darkcolinodonorgasm @ilovemesomekillianjones @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @searchingwardrobes @lfh1226-linda @linda8084 @branlovestowrite

#cssns19 #cs ff au #cs mc fic #cs werewolf au #face to face in the broad daylight #chapter seven

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ffxivimagines · 5 years

Text

dona nobis pacem | minific

Warnings for: character death, SHB spoilers, angst, references to unhealthy coping mechanisms, the result of a multi-century fixation ending in the worst way possible, character injury, blood, canon-typical violence, mild body horror

100% inspired by @surfacage ’s Bad End piece. Thank you for making me cry. (I hope this is to your taste ;;w;;)

Ao3 Link

Here’s your cue to scroll past and avoid spoilers or otherwise triggering content! Beware!

They do not have a paper, nor a crier or any other newsfolk, but everyone still knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not have a paper in the Crystarium, nor a crier or any other newsfolk with which to deliver assorted information to all. However, despite this and all other underdeveloped facets of the bastion city, everyone knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not need headlines in sharp-smelling ink to believe it, having been haunted by fanciful offers of adventure the moment they rest their heads for nigh on a fortnight. There is a whisper of promise carried on the wind that they can taste. It is heady and familiar as if wrought from worn scripture. Whenever someone says they know it, recognize it, there is a note of terror to their confession.

The Warrior of Darkness has fallen. They who speak in tongues and borrow his voice are but a ghost built from desperation and aether. The Exarch knows it is madness to reside hand in hand with a facsimile of godhood, but he does it gladly, hood ever up and obscuring his face. They need not ask him why—not when they can see the edges of shimmering, blue tear tracks beginning to blend into the steadily spreading crystal of his curse—and seek to avoid doing so for fear of finding themselves face to face with a broken man.

There are no sightings outside the Tower, the Exarch and his little toy god happily locked up together in the recesses of Allagan royal suites, but the people know. They grieve for the man they knew and the love that killed him.

There is no adoration for their half-savior, not when his demise has brought their only hope for survival down to his knees in prayer. With every word that rings hollow in the air, their hatred grows.

“The Exarch is recuperating,” they have been told by the guard. “His strength was sorely tested.”

“By who,” they ask, “and how? What could prove so taxing to a man who leapt through time?”

And though there has been no spoken answer, they know. From the moment the Tower flickered, aether sputtering and flickering in protest to an invisible strain, they knew. The sky simply agreed with a blinding rush of neverending Light.

The day the Warrior of Darkness fell, so too did their Exarch’s heart shatter. His Tower, the symbol of his life and blessing of protection, had nearly faded from their sight. They felt the echoes of battle in the groaning and creaking, worried for his health when fissures rained flakes of crystallized aether down upon them, but he had returned. He was not hale, but they had assumed he was whole. What an oversight, that.

They learned quickly that the Exarch is mad over love. What an end for such a visionary, to be tempered so (though, for some, they say it is not separate from his adoration. That devotion is one and the same). The creature he calls by name and laughs with is volatile in how it smiles and jokes back, an old friend come home, with far fewer scars and none of the trauma from the time after the Crystal Tower’s doors had shut back on the Source. He has built his own coffin and proceeded to tuck himself in as if comfortable living within a blue-gold bubble of fable and falsehood.

For those who have known him, it is nauseating.

For those who knew the one he lost, it is infuriating.

“Stop this,” Alisaie pleads, voice muffled through the doors of the Ocular. “You know better than most that this is not what he would want.”

She has been there every day for a month. Alphinaud has visited, but it is Alisaie’s persistence that has run her ragged where all others have stopped. Teleporting between the Inn’s aethertye and that of the Crystarium has eaten away at her Gil same as her energy, but still, she persists. Behind the locked doors, the fake that wears her friend’s face leans his head against the Exarch’s own with a dull thok.

They do not answer.

(A little part of her is jealous that the Exarch can turn off his cares for the rest of the world so thoroughly as he does for the sake of his fabricated hero. What she would not give to be so singlemindedly greedy.)

The Scions wish to grieve. They have his body, the casket, knowledge of the badly penned will left in his inn room to the left of his aetheryte earring, but they lack the person they know the Warrior would most love to send him off. Alisaie is not the only one waiting. However, no matter what they ply the Exarch with, he does not allow them the concession of allowing their friend to rest, or releasing the (for all intents and purposes) Primal who has been made to wear his face.

They were there when he fell and in the moments after. Ryne could not stop the Light, Alphinaud’s magic too feeble to seal the wounds torn into being across the Warrior’s body, and the Exarch... what could he do so far from the Tower? And so they had watched, helpless, as Emet-Selch brought his grand fury to bear against their faltering aegis. Watched him shatter and collapse to his knees time and time again until it becomes a mercy when he does not yet rise.

But it is not his last stand.

With axe in hand, he leverages to his feet once more. There are no defined steps, no head held high, no righteous fury. Where stories had said he was indomitable, terrifying, untouchable─this person is not him. This bleeding, dying warrior is mortal and just as flawed as all the rest and yet the world is stacked upon his shoulders as if his bones will not be ground to dust in the shadow of its magnitude.

He takes one step and then another, feet slipping and scuffing along the ground, and then stops. He hefts the axe, palms sticky-slick with blood, but can do no more.

Hades laughs at his struggle and the sound reverberates in the cage of his ribs. What bitter mockery it is to see his friend-turned-enemy struggling to stand. Hydaelyn’s Champion is nothing but a husk at his feet, soul sundered and aether long since spent. He reaches out and very carefully snuffs out the overflowing Light with a practiced hand. This will be his final victory against Her Champion.

This is his final elegy for a friend.

And then, in a show of pity, he allows the body to stay whole. He rescinds his darkness, the many, many masks and names and memories he carries, and steps down to pay his respects. The Exarch does not allow him that liberty, for the moment his feet all but brush the ground, the aether of his domain shivers.

He had not designed the Allagans to have such comparable power to that of his creation, but (then again) he had not accounted for the mistakes of late royalty nearly turning his plans to cinders. The Crystal Exarch fumbles his way toward his fallen friend and pulls his body into his arms, hands trembling but face blank. He calls to him, desperate. His voice cracks.

Emet-Selch smiles. At least, for once in all his ages and eons, something just as wretched as he is mourning their loss. He waits and he watches. Detached.

(A part of him resents the hand that suffocated that Light, but that is the same part of him that has been around since Amaurot rose around his ears. He is not so willingly naive, anymore.)

The aether trembles and shakes in fits and starts and the crystal creeping its way up the Exarch’s cheek slides a little further outward. He holds the Warrior close to his heart, a hand resting on his head as if to protect. What could he do for a body that is devoid of life, truly? No matter how tightly he holds him, no matter the silent prayers he devotes tot he Twelve, it will all be for naught.

Sitting there with the bloodied crest of the Warrior’s head tucked under his chin, the Crystal Exarch cries. The entire First follows suit.

The crystal lances up and onto his yet untouched cheek and spiders outward like cracks on fine china. It does not consume him in full, but there is a dullness to his grief mirrored in the wide-eyed wildness of his disbelief. The Warrior cannot be dead. There is no way.

But the body in his arms gives no sputtering breaths, no soft whispers of stubborn aether. It is empty.

And every effort he has made turned to waste.

There is no clear shift where his mourning turns to rage, but by Hydaelyn’s will it is felt. The quaking becomes pressure and a crushing embrace that screams in intrinsic tongues, “You will never have atoned enough for this sin.”

When the might of the Crystal Tower is brought to bear, there are few who could oppose it. The cost is great, though, and there is a hardening of more than feet and back and hips, but even that of heart.

If the Warrior of Darkness has died, so too has the man called G’raha Tia.

And so, the Crystarium mourns. The Scions mourn. The false god ever lives.

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bluesunsdusk · 4 years

Note

✏️ Any particular reason for the names you used for your ocs?

–// I have a lot of ocs, so I will pick some. It’s going to be long either way… ))

Overwatch

Najma (Najma Daher)

When Naj was first made, they had Prima as placeholder name and their kit was based around light, but I struggled to really place them in the universe. They were still based in Oasis, with sumerian aesthetic, and they were an AU for a fandomless oc. I was still trying to pick where the heck they were from. I added Najma as possible name because it means star and is Arabic. As they finally developed to suit the universe more and be an own character, the name stuck, because I like it and they are a warm person and the sun keeps us alive, and Naj was made to help keep someone alive. Dunia, their owner, was named to reflect her meaning in Naj’s life. Dunia was their whole reason for existing, their world, their life.

Najma coincidentally also works for…other reasons.

Najma’s code name, Nazar, comes from that their abilities are most effective when looking into their lights and optics, which flare up when they use their ult as well. Their optics are also blue.The evil eye, which causes harm upon those who have been struck by it.

I think Daher meant clear. Najma does’t actually have a surname, as they are not a member of the family rather than just property of said family. However, I still wanted the surname to be something with a tiny bit of a fitting meaning. Rather than doing it by naming conventions used with Mamun, I went with them just having just a family name, much in Europe and the US. I also kept it to just two names this time.

Mamun Wasif Said

Mamun had a long list of names on his hero sheet. See, the given name is an aspiratory trait, the second the father’s name, and the third the grandfather’s name or family name. In Mamun’s case, Said is his grandfather’s name. So, that means Mamun’s dad is called Wasif. Gien names he could have been Majdi (commendable, praiseworthy), Marwan, Naseer, etc. His surname could have been Assaf, Kassar, Al-Mansur (the victorious), or Nasrallah (god’s victory). Now, I am not at all close to being an expert on arabic naming conventions, so I was like let’s keep it simple.

Now, Mamun is supposed to be a tank hero and his character design was made to emphasise that he is a soft and huggable man who deserves the whole world. He needed to look sweet,warm, trustworthy, and dependable. Mamun is a name that feels like it has soft edges. It’s gentle. There’s no hard tones in it. Mamun means dependable, which is something he wants to be and his parents would have wanted him to be as well. A good son, brother, and eventually (if he so wished) husband.

I forgot what Wasif meant… I think I just liked how it sounded with Mamun compared to the other names listed along with it. I matched several names that were listed on his hero sheet behind Mamun and they didn’t sound nearly as good with it as Wasif did. It means ‘one who praises’.

Said was just a good name to follow Mamun Wasif with. It just wraps it up nicely when I wanted three names in there. It means happy.

Spigel

Spigel’s name is explained in his bio, I think. The name is given because he’s able to copy the appearance of a person and uses this after eliminating them to blend into a faction he’s trying to infiltrate or wipe out. It takes observation of mannerisms, appearance, speech patterns, etc. to do a convincing guise, and once that is done, it will be like looking into a mirror for the target.

He was always called Spigel because that’s Luxembourgish for mirror. Sure, it’s not smart for the assassin to take a nickname from his own personal origin, but…it’s fine if a guy from Luxembourg gave him that nickname rather than him giving himself said nickname.

Roland Marie Schroeder

Roland is a pretty common name in Luxembourg, and Marie is a common middle name. I liked Roland as a name, because is seems warm and strong, and Roland is a quiet dude at times, but even though he’s pretty small as well, he can take up a lot of social space just by being a little… dramatic. He would have liked the name because it is, as Monty Python would say, woody. At least, I think it was Monty Python, I’m not sure anymore and can’t find it.

Michael Abatangelo

Michael was the general of the archangels, and putting Michael together with Abatangelo makes it sound close to Michelangelo. Though, the latter was on accident and I was like yep that’s his name now. I went through several names I don’t really remember. Michael was a strong name that also sounded pleasant.

Fable

Aidan Fawkes

Aidan is an Irish name that means fire. I didn’t know quite what to call him. I didn’t want a name that was just big strong man large energy. It needed to sound not too thick, in a way, maybe a little light to suit his personality. He also had a lot of energy growing up and was a sweet guy.

His father’s name is actually Mac Lochlainn. That’s a reference and not chosen for the meaning because it’s not used on Aidan. Also, it’s just really nice sounding surname. His grandma on his father’s side’s surname was Kelly. A very common surname where they were from. Anyway, Aidan’s dad didn’t want his kids to have the disadvantage of having a foreign surname. The given names, however, weren’t too odd, and both of his parents did want to give him a link with his father’s heritage in their names. Furthermore, he was born with red hair.

As such, Aidan was given as his name, and he was bestowed with the surname of his mother, Fawkes. I picked Fawkes because 1) It sounds good with Aidan 2) it means falcon, making his name fire falcon 3) Guy Fawkes.

Duncan Reynold

I know the hero in Fable 2 is called Sparrow. However, that is a title/nickname, not a legit name. Surely, his parents, whom Sparrow canonically knew, gave him a real name. I wanted him to have a legit name. I wanted him to be of scottish-type origin. Now, Duncan has tanned skin from being out and stuff and dark hair. He’s also a brawny guy. He would have picked himself a pretty awesome name that feels strong, also… it has can in it, because he can do it. I jest.

Duncan is a mix of two parts. Together, these parts form a name meaning dark-haired warrior or dark warrior. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He just thinks it’s an awesome name.

Reynold is a carry over from trying to give king Logan a surname. It’s also a mix or two elements, advice and rule. English meaning is wise/powerful ruler (or something like that. It can also be advice from a ruler or king’s advisor, but let’s ignore that). While Duncan was that, Logan eventually proved not be.

Mass Effect

Medesa Adrestis

It’s actually from Medusa, because she’s a bit of a protector who gets spun into a villain because of the methods she uses to protect herself and others, which is often violent and rather fatal, since slave traders deserve no rights. I think there was something else, but I forgot… Oh, right! Her surname, Adrestis. I saved it in my drafts and idk if it’s still there…

I looked it up to jog my mind!

It’s from Adrestia and Adrasteia, and I didn’t want to name her exactly after that despite Asari names looking painfully ancient Greek inspired and very feminine.

Adrestia is a figure from Greek mythology, she who cannot be escaped, venerated as a goddess of revolt and just retribution. Adrasteia, “inescapable”, was a nymph charged with taking care of a child Zeus. Medesa was charged with taking care of Toreg.

Vicarius Hzzek and Lictor Kgrln

So, I won’t explain their names, because I assume Kett names are either just ID codes or can’t be easily changed into a more human tongue. I will go for their titles, though I believe I have explained it in a hc post before. Kett ranks seem based on Roman Empire influences, as is a part of their culture in general. They have Cardinals, Archons, Anointed, Ascendants. These seem religious. A Vicarius is a word that means substitute or deputy. It’s the root of the English word “vicar” as well and is used in things like vice-president. Anyway, Hzzek is a secondary to a Cardinal, making her vice-cardinal of an exaltation facility.

As for Lictor, this comes from another Latin thing. A Lictor is a type of bodyguard to a magistrate. Kgrln is one of Hzzek’s Destined, who is also assigned with escorting and guarding her. He does this together with other Destined who would also be of the Lictor role/title.

Dragon Age

Kata

Kata used to be an arvaarad and he considered himself the death of many a saarebas. That, and he is an assassin type, like a katari. He brings death to those who try to oppose him with violence, so basically he’s still death, just to other people now that he’s no longer in the qun. It’s sort of a method of intimidation. If a qunari is told they’re about to meet death, they might reconsider their current course.

Kost

Kost had another name, aban, which probably means sea, when going by “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.” Which means “The tide rises, the tide falls, the sea is unchanged.” He chose it, because the sea is unchanging and also clam. He was the same after leaving the qun as he was when he left.

Eventually, however, he changed his name to Kost, after staying with a group of Tal-Vashoth who helped him become less stuck in his qun ways and more able to see himself as a person. He came to be at peace with himself and took on the task of assisting some other new Tal-Vashoth in the process. As such, he took on the name Kost, “peace”, to reflect this.

#ooc #ask #long post #wow i look really long on this #Anonymous

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this-nightmare-doesnt-exist-yet · 5 years

Text

Living on a farm upstate where the flowers used to grow [part 1]

Warning: this is a cosmic horror short story series. Be prepared for death, blood, and strange themes of children, growth, and motherhood, ect. It’s a work in progress.

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It started in the spring. It is not too uncommon for an animal to be born with defects but this was different. At noon on a Saturday, a live five headed calf with twenty-three eyes was birthed from an average healthy cow, on a family farm at the edge of town. When word spread weeks later our small town was flooded with scientists and reporters alike. They all wanted a glimpse of the fabled ‘calf of end days’.

Every man, woman, and child knew well of the words the bible spoke, supposedly straight from the very pursed lips of God. With such sayings as ‘the horns of Satan grew in woven tandem with humanity’s wrath and ignorance’ and ‘flesh and bones of the dark in lay the tilling of the earth in a rotting harvest’, the sight of the beast was underwhelming enough that we didn’t think much of it. Sure it was unnerving at best, but to say the truth it was not any worse than what a person could find in one of those bazaar shock magazines with the hoaxes mysteries. For what most people thought it might as well have been faked. Ripply himself carried more ‘dark energy’ than what this veal had. Then again we were blind.

Days came and went, six months later the farm and the calf fell out of style, and the farm was left bankrupt. The owner was seen less and less.

The second part came five years later. The town had been experiencing an alarming wave of people going inexplicably missing. It wasn’t like it was too small but the place was noticeably getting smaller. A kid by the unfortunate name of Richard Handy, came running home like a man on fire after having broken into the then abandoned farm with his friends. He fell screaming and crying at his mother’s feet, a nasty gash down his leg. Richard’s parents called law enforcement upon hearing that some of his friends were trapped at the location. the little information they were able to decipher from Richard’s terrified babbling was not enough to prepare them for what was at the farm.

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Mary, the wife of Nathan the local butcher was the first of the mothers to have fallen prey to the curse. At midnight she birthed not a human child, but a live rabbit. Five more such births occurred on the following weeks. Fear stricken and ashamed the couple slaughtered the young and sold the meat as any average rabbit would have been. It was only when Mary gave birth to the first malformed animal did the news break. Laying between her legs was a dying rabbit, gutted and twisted as if it had been mauled by a house cat. The Doctor was perplexed to say the least, and given the evidence provided, he assumed it was a hoax.

Every woman who ate the meat from the shop got pregnant like this and the animals birthed became more monstrous each time, until it was all just writhing fleshy mystery parts and the mothers died.

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I was called out to investigate claims of a squatter at one of the houses on the outskirts of town where an old lady lived. She was in her eighties and on her own inhabited this place.

She was a stingy woman that had a sneer of curdled milk. To put it frankly: she was a bitch. I would not hesitate to hesitate on calling a hospital if I found her injured on the ground.

If I haven't mentioned this already: I am a cop.

So I drove up to her house and tapped on the door, immediately I my gut tells me something is off. But I push the feeling aside.

She opened the door and just stood there. I asked her if I could come in and she hissed a no. Confused on why I was even sent out here, I asked if she had called. Something in the air changed and the elderly gateway goblin let me in.

The place was freezing. It was relief from the sweltering heat outside.

The house had one level and five bedrooms, and no fucks given about tornadoes. The walls were covered sporadically with blank sticky notes.

We sat down across from each other.

I questioned “What am I doing here?”

“There is somebody in this house. I need you to stay the night to catch them when they come out from their hiding spot. They have been poisoning my food and water.” she stated crankily.

I stayed the night.

On any other day I would have left after she did and act as if I had stayed, but something was telling me I needed to be there.

Once she was gone I took some time to look around. Two of the rooms in her house were filled to the ceiling with unused baby items like diapers, food and clothing. This only got more concerning when I entered a different room that was an actual baby room with a crib. I peek into the crib and there was a large grotesque doll in place of an infant.

I can say I left that room unsettled.

In the kitchen the only food was junk. The cabinets were packed with chips and sweets. It was as if she had never even heard the word 'vegetable’ before. I have insulin problems so I didn't have any of the so called food. I instead sat on a couch in the living room. Everything was coated in febreze spray, not an inch was spared. I thought for a moment that she may have just been poisoning herself with all the nonsense I had seen, and been imagining things loopy on air freshener.

That was until it hit midnight.

The clock struck twelve.

The first thing I noticed was a change in the air.

The once cool and floral air had turned into a hot and humid dredge that smelt of rot.

I pulled my shirt up over my nose and mouth in an attempted to block it, but it didn't help all that much. It was like something large had died in there and the cooling was broken.

I got up off the couch and sped to the exit. It was locked from the outside. The door knob was on the wrong side in the way that I would need a key to open it. I pounded my fist on the door to test if it was real. Suddenly all of the sticky notes flew off the walls and swirled in a cyclone. Eye balls opened out of the structure of the house, chipping the paint away to reveal a red fleshy mucus membrane beneath. Angry that I had awakened them from their sleep.

The flipped entry got sealed over by a meaty layer at the whole space shifted.

I was panicking. Soon it's entirety had me trapped in a beating flesh cube. I was frozen with terror. After an indeterminable amount of time a pucker formed in the muscle of the ceiling where a light had been. There was a squelching noise as sludge seeped out of the divot. I stared disgusted as it did this for a while before a large mass covered in slime was shot out and hit the ground. The eyes still watching me, I walked cautiously towards the mass.

I was the baby doll from the crib now face down into wetness. Not knowing what else to do I reached for it.

I know now that was a bad move.

No more than two seconds after picking it up it swiveled it’s head round back to face me.

I screamed and chucked it away.

The thing stood itself up and slowly opened its mouth. This was made worse by the fact that it was not a toy made for this and it had razors in place of teeth. It then spoke.

“You should never have come here.”

It's voice sounded old and distant like a scratched record player.

I had gotten to a point of fear where I was now numb to everything happening and I wound up yelling “Don't you think I fucking know this already!?”

The toy spoke again now slightly hesitant.

“You were never meant to exist. Humanity is a lie.”

The message didn't get through to me because I had become really pissed off “DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A SHIT!? I didn't want to come out here in the first place! The person you should be doing this how speal to is not me, it's that old bitch who lives here with all the dusty candy! Jesus Christ! I would not even be here if it weren't for my damn pay check!”

We stood there in silence for a moment before it said a soft and frustrated “Get out.”

The flesh peeled away and showed a fixed door.

I shouted a thanks for nothing as I walked out while simultaneously flipping off the place with an arm raised in the air.

That was not my proudest moment.

After I got out of the house the exit was forced shut. Everything was relatively normal outside.

Back at the station the woman called to tell me that she wished I would die because I left before she came back. I hung up the phone. She was never heard from again.

#original writing #my writings #horror #cosmic horror #loafuswtfutg #part 1 #short stories

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