#if nothing else he should have torn up the tunic and used it to tie four’s legs together

[undertheopensky]

Life First

Whumptober Day 23: Alt #12 Broken

Characters: Four, Sky

Trigger warnings: Broken bones, violence to a child, (if you personally consider Four a child)

Read on Ao3!

Merry fucking Christmas.

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It sounds like a stick snapping beneath a thick layer of mud.

Four’s back arches, a high, wavering shriek caught behind his teeth. When he slumps, gasping and whimpering, only the whites of his eyes are visible below half-closed lids.

If there wasn’t razor steel at his throat Sky would have already lunged. As it is, he can feel his lips peeling away from his teeth in a snarl, and the tension running through him is definitely making the Yiga at his back sweat a little.

Good. They deserve much worse.

In a flash of red smoke the two grunts pinning Four down vanish. The blademaster, boot still pressed to Four’s thigh, remains, surveying his handiwork. “It’ll do,” he says at last, and steps back.

Four keens combined relief and agony. Sky twitches; feels hot blood run down his collarbone as the sickle grazes skin.

The blademaster laughs.

“Worry not - this is merely insurance. You’d never leave your friend behind, but there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up with you now. If you choose to carry him, you won’t be able to evade us, nor fight should you happen to come across your weapons. Can’t have you leaving before the real Hero shows up.”

Behind the featureless mask, the blademaster gives the impression of a self-satisfied smile.

“And if you do choose to abandon him… well. At least one of you will live to regret it.”

The next instant, he’s gone, along with the blade at Sky’s throat.

The choking clouds of scarlet don’t slow Sky down in the slightest. He ignores their acrid tang in favour of getting to Four, dropping to his knees so fast he nearly skins them, and fumbles for his hand, for some way of helping when he knows there’s nothing he can do.

Incredibly, Four clings back.

“It’s okay, I’m not leaving you, I won’t, we’ll be fine,” Sky says, over Four’s harsh panting.

Four opens his mouth, maybe trying to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled whimper.

“It’s okay,” Sky says again. Useless isn’t a feeling he appreciates; the Yiga had taken Fi, his bags, everything he could potentially have made a splint out of. They’d even taken his fucking sailcloth. “I’ll figure something out. You’ll be okay.”

Scanning the cell, he has to hope he’s not making a liar of himself. Unadorned stone blocks and heavy wood don’t offer much opportunity. Even if it didn’t look like it weighed as much as Koloktos, the gate had ‘clunked’ into place with the resonance of a lock sliding home, and Sky doubts either of them could fit through the narrow spaces between its palings.

He’s not gonna let that stop him, though. He squeezes Four’s hand again. “It’ll be alright. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you to - whatever the fuck these fuckers -”

“Wha-wha-what’s stopping them, stopping them from doing it anyway? You-you-you need to get-get out of here, S-s-sky.”

Sky ignores this completely in favour of pulling off his overtunic. The white face, the chattering teeth, the stammer - was Four going into shock? Wasn’t there a massive blood vessel right by the bone in the leg? Fuck, he hopes Four isn’t bleeding out right in front of him, Sky thinks. Laying the tunic over Four’s torso as a makeshift blanket, he glances fruitlessly around the cell again, praying for inspiration.

“R-rope.”

Heart lurching, Sky quickly turns back to Four. “What’s that? I’m sorry, did I pull on you?” He starts trying to disentangle his hand, but Four’s tight grip doesn’t falter.

“N-no. The rope. Cut - cut the c-crossbar free.” Four points with one shaking hand.

The crossbar - on the gate, of course. The palings are held together by a long beam near the bottom, if Sky can cut it loose he might be able to force a gap wide enough to escape. Except -

“I don’t have anything sharp, they took all my weapons.” He scans the floor for loose rocks he could shape into a cutting edge.

“I - I do. Boot knife.”

That’s honestly not surprising. The smithy keeps half an armoury tucked away in various pockets; it would have been weirder if the Yiga hadn’t missed one. It sure as hell works in their favour now. “Where is it? Which foot?”

“Luh-left.”

Because of course the knife has to be in the boot on the broken leg. Sky grimaces. “Okay. I’m gonna move slow, okay?”

Sky definitely jostles him more than once working the knife free, though Four doesn’t so much as squeak through Sky’s whispered apologies. Sky squeezes his hand one last time before turning to the gate.

The rope is coarse and heavy, but any blade owned by Four is kept razor-sharp, and Sky makes steady progress sawing through key points. Near the edge, so the shadows half-hide it, in case of someone walking past - not that there’s been anyone since they were first dumped here. It seems like this area of the Yiga’s base isn’t well-travelled. Lucky for them.

Sky gets two logs free of the bar and starts wedging his foot and leg between them. If he can just work them another couple of inches apart -

But they’re thick and solid and not particularly given to movement. He has to stop, gasping for breath, before trying again, the force of it burning through his calf and his hip where his leg is cocked awkwardly out to the side. “Who designed this thing,” he hisses to himself, and braces for another go.

“S-sky,” Four gasps, and he abandons the attempt immediately in favour of scrambling back to him.

“What’s wrong, are you okay -” how can I help, he means but doesn’t ask, because how can he help, with no potions and no supplies?

Four takes a moment to gather himself, breathing shallow and hitched. “Luh-leverage. Y’need… leverage.” Struggling for words through the haze of pain. Sky takes a moment to check his pulse - a little fast, still strong, not too bad. “Th’ crossbar - use it - as a pry. Too strong.”

Sky considers. He’s making no progress as it is. And if he keeps enough of the rope intact -

Aha. “Got it,” he breathes, and moves back into action.

It’s a damn good thing no one’s come down here, because there’s no way they’d miss the mess that he makes of the gate - crossbar down, shreds of rope everywhere, and one serious trip hazard poking out the bottom while Sky wrestles it into place. At one end of it he’d left the rope and bulky knots attached so he can do what he’s doing now: throw his whole body weight into the other end of the rope, looped just once around a paling further down. As Four had said - he needed leverage, and this makeshift pulley system is going to give him that leverage.

Apparently he’d picked up more from Groose than he’d thought.

The rope groans worryingly. Sky hadn’t been entirely successful in leaving it undamaged as he pried it out of its knots; a couple times he’d had to shave the edges a bit to convince it to come free. He can only hope it holds long enough. It’d be a pretty useless pulley system without a connecting line, and he’s not quite ready to sacrifice his belt to the cause.

(He will, if it comes down to it. He’d just rather keep his pants on if at all possible.)

There’s another groan, and then a crack. Swearing, Sky falls back on his ass as the tension goes out of the rope - fuck, he’s gonna wind up doing this escape in just his tunic, isn’t he -

Wait, no. The crack had been the paling giving way. Eager and apprehensive in equal measure, Sky studies the new hole.

It’s… not ideal. The log had broken low, less than a foot off the ground. If he crawls, gets his shoulders low where the gap is widest, Sky can just make it through. But there’s no way Four will be able to do the same, not with his leg busted up. Sky will have to drag him. But would he survive that?

In truth, Sky’s been trying not to think about it. As he worked on the door he’d been wracking his brain for what he remembered about broken legs, and it had just made him more anxious. He’s sure that Four is okay right now - he’s in pain, but breathing steadily, shock staved off temporarily - but that’s going to change as soon as he moves him. In fact, without a splint or something to keep his leg steady, moving him could well kill him.

(But leaving him here would be worse.)

“Four,” Sky says, slipping back to his prone form and taking his hand, “Four, I cracked the gate, there’s a hole now.”

“G-good. Get out of here, S-s-sky.”

Despite his stubborn words - Four’s frightened. It’s in the white of his eyes and his gritted teeth and his knuckles where he clings to Sky’s hand. As his mouth says leave me and everything else says don’t leave me.

“Four, I need you to listen to me, and listen all the way through,” Sky says, unyielding. “Can you do that?”

If Four’s in too much pain to focus – if Sky has to make this decision and then live with the consequences –

Four grunts and cracks one eye. Still clear, still alert.

“Your leg is bad, but holding for now. If I move you, it could kill you. If you don’t want to risk it, and you can swear to me that’s the only reason, I’ll leave you here - briefly - and come back with healing supplies as soon as I can.”

Four opens his mouth, probably to argue; Sky ploughs on.

“If I carry you out of here, it’s a straight run to the exit, as fast as I can make it - we’ll have to come back for our gear, because as soon as I disrupt whatever’s going on in there –” he waves a hand at Four’s leg, disconcertingly swollen – “we’re on a time limit. And if we don’t make it out within that time limit, and find help, you’re going to die. I won’t do that to you without your say so.”

“S’not safe,” Four says. “I’ll just – s-slow you down. Be quicker – if you run without me – an’ get help.”

“There is no option that involves me leaving you behind in this hellhole,” Sky says frankly.

Making a frustrated noise, Four thumps his head against the floor. “Why not – jus’ carry me – t’our gear – an’ heal up there? I know – I’ve got – ‘nough potions – t’ deal with this.”

“Because I remember the way out, but I don’t know where they took our things,” Sky says. “And I don’t know if I could find them in time before –” his throat closes over. Before you bleed out.

Four grunts again. He doesn’t say anything this time, though, and seems to be genuinely thinking it over. Heart in his throat, Sky waits.

He tries one last time to convince him. “S’not safe. Y’d have a – better chance – if y’left me – behind.”

“You know damn well that’s not gonna happen.”

Four whines and flexes his hands like he’d like to strangle him. Then, finally:

“F-fine.”

He takes another shuddering breath; Sky squeezes his hand.

“Take me with you. Let’s get the f-fuck out of here.”

“You got it, buddy,” says Sky.

First is the awkward operation of getting them both out. Sky has to move Four to the exit, as close as possible, then wiggle through himself before reaching back to drag Four through. “This’ll hurt,” Sky warns him.

Four’s already shoving his leather-covered forearm in his mouth, so his response comes out slurred. “Jus’ ge’ on wi’ it.”

Sky grits his teeth, makes sure his hands are secure in Four’s armpits, and heaves.

Four’s howl is muffled by the bracer.

It’s not far to go, thank the goddesses. Sky tries to make it happen in one smooth motion and doesn’t quite manage. But he gets Four’s shoulders close enough to the gap, then very awkwardly crawls over the top of him to wiggle through first. Four’s too preoccupied with trying to breathe to notice Sky doing his best not to knee him in the face.

Time or even Warriors would not have fit through the hole – even Sky had had to worm his shoulders through at an uncomfortable angle. It’s a good thing Four’s even smaller. Sky rolls out his shoulder, grimacing at the twinging complaints – nothing pulled, just cranky. He’s fine.

Now for the hard part.

Sky gets back down on his belly – there’s no other way to reach in – and touches Four’s shoulder. Damn, how is he going to get a decent hold from this angle? “Hey. Brace yourself.”

Again, Four’s scream of pain is stifled in thick leather. Sky cringes, both at knowing he’s causing his brother such agony and at the way the noise echoes off the stone. They can’t stay undetected forever, but the longer they can go –

No use worrying about it. They’re both out of that cell, even if Four’s weeping through gritted teeth at what it took to get them there. Sky gently tugs Four’s wrist free of his teeth to start pulling him over his shoulder.

Shuddering, Four tries to wave him off. “S-stop, wait, gimme a minute –”

“We don’t have a minute,” says Sky, implacable, and hauls Four up.

This time, his shriek weakly peters out. He’s still breathing – Sky can feel the unsteady puffs against his shoulder – but that last effort had been too much for Four. He’s out.

In all honesty, it’s probably best this way. Sky can pin Four’s broken leg against his chest to minimise jostling, without worrying about if it was hurting him.

He just hopes he stays unconscious until they’re well clear of the hideout.

With Four’s body locked in place over his shoulders Sky sets off. He doesn’t know what’s down the corridor to the left and can’t risk it being a dead end, so he heads right, back the way they’d come. Even then, his anxiety rises – he can see the end of it from here, blank and shadowed and featureless, but he swears they’d come this way, there has to be a door or something.

Then, as he comes level with it, a gap in the stone opens up. There’s nothing – magical, or mechanical about it. It was just hidden by perspective and the careful shadows. If it’s all like this he’s going to have to be so careful –

At the peak of the stairs, Sky pauses.

Here the passage turns from stone to wood, wrapping around the second floor of a cavernous room like a balcony – and he can hear metal on metal and grunts of exertion. Cautiously, he peers over the railing.

Down below, half a dozen Yida foot soldiers are sparring. They’re using the sickles Sky is already familiar with and another, full-circle spiked razor of a thing to practice lethal-looking strikes. Even as he watches, one of them muffs a parry and yelps when blood is drawn.

None of them are looking up, and he’d like to keep it that way.

There’s no way they can look like they’re meant to be here, so their best bet is to not be spotted at all. Fortunately the balcony is heavily shadowed, and by sticking to the far wall and moving in a low profile, Sky can avoid attracting notice. He creeps along the edges, trying not to flinch at every crash and ‘ha!’, and nearly has heart failure when an archer teleports onto the top of a nearby platform. Luckily, their back is turned, and they just fire off a few arrows for their fellows to dodge before vanishing again. Sky breathes a sigh of relief and slips out the door.

This next set of stairs, he remembers, open up straight onto the floor of another room. A single, central pillar built up out of wood sits in the middle. He has no idea what it’s for and also doesn’t care, except that he can’t see if the room is clear, and he can’t exactly stand around waiting. Sky gets as far as the pillar itself and cautiously peers around it – and scrambles back just in time to avoid the huge katana that slashes down.

Sky backs away as the blademaster rounds the wooden tower. “You know, I was just thinking to myself,” he remarks, almost conversationally. “If we’re being technical – we don’t even need you alive, really. Your bodies will make a good enough lure.” He raises his weapon for a strike.

Sky can see the path the greatsword will take – observes the ripple of magic along the blade – sidesteps, and lets the razor’s edge of both blaze past him. He doesn’t give the blademaster a chance to recover – as soon as the blow passes he’s racing forward. If he wasn’t carrying Four he’d use the solid force of his shoulder to drive the wind out of them, but instead he sidesteps a grab, feints back, and as he darts back the other way to get past he slams his leg up.

He’ll have a bruise later – his shin had made contact with something too solid to be anything except a protective cup – but for now it doesn’t matter. The blademaster crumples and Sky has a clear shot to the stairs.

No point trying for stealth anymore. Sky takes them two at a time, feeling the burn in his thighs, and hits the landing at a dead run. Round the corner, over the bridge, flashes of colour through the railings –

Hanging floor to ceiling, a tapestry blocks the corridor. For a second panic wells – had he forgotten a corner, gotten turned around, were they lost trapped captured again – before Sky spots the edges fluttering in a breeze he can’t feel and the faint glow of firelight from behind it and remembers –

He doesn’t hesitate, just ducks to the side so the brocade can’t tangle around them, and they’re in a circular room lined by stairs and identical tapestry-covered passages and which one which one he remembers a shift to the right and angles left and thank the goddesses the first tapestry he pulls aside has dunes of gathered sand and the taste of desert ozone.

Scarlet smoke and laughter. Out of time. But – if it had to be anywhere –

Sky leaps back from the exit in time for the heavy fabric to flap back in the face of an archer who’d just teleported in. Others poof into existence, strips of paper fluttering down, and start to circle, to cut off any escape. Backing up, step by step, Sky passes through the line of braziers, and hesitates on the central pedestal as if realizing he had nowhere to run. The raised platform gives him a good vantage point, lets him count masked faces peering up at him – at least eight, maybe more, jeering gleefully as they crowd closer.

Sky waits, tense and ready, until one draws their bowstring back – then he whirls, one leg extended, and sends embers scattering all around the room.

There are screams of surprise and pain. The effect is the same: every Yiga scrambling away from the bite of the flames, while Sky runs through them, unafraid.

The base itself is hewn from stone, but there are enough flammable objects in the antechamber alone to keep them busy. Sky’s gone to the chill place in his heart where only the next few seconds matter, the place that had kept him alive when all he wanted to do was lie down and die. It doesn’t matter that the fire is a short-lived distraction, doesn’t matter that they’ll catch up all too soon – for the next few seconds, all that matters is there’s no hands reaching for him, no weapon’s edges near enough to harm.

The searing heat of desert wind has never felt so much like triumph.

Stone floor gives way to sand. Sky takes a moment to be thankful the Yiga had left them their boots – they’re not even in the sun yet and he can feel the heat of it even through the leather.

Though burning hot, the sand’s not as deep as he’d expected. There’s even bare patches where rock’s been blasted clean, presumably by the wind screaming through the canyon. Darting between them gives Sky a brief reprieve from trying not to slip on the sand, gives him a solid platform to push off from and gain a few precious yards of distance.

As the canyon narrows and closes in Sky’s showered with grit from above – more sand, tossed off the peaks by the wind. He’s got no hands free to shield his eyes so all he can do is duck his head and run through it. Then the path diverges and Sky has to hesitate because he doesn’t remember this, the trip had gone in nauseating flashes of teleportation but he only remembers long and near-featureless stone walls so which way which way –

Down, it had to be down, the left is too open and flat and he’d remember passing quite so many creepy frog statues on their way in, and there’s the slim possibility of cover in the various ledges and outcrops. Up til now the canyon’s offered nothing, and while Sky can’t risk stopping and hiding, he’ll take the opportunity to break line of sight.

He heads down.

Four stirs as he passes the first ledge. His head tilts against the pull of gravity as Sky stumbles.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sky whispers, and his footing fails again and they both jolt with it. “I’m sorry, Four, we’re nearly there, just a little longer –”

He just makes a noise too soft to be a groan and goes still again.

Sky wishes he could spare a hand to check Four’s pulse.

There’s no bare spots now. The sand’s gotten deep, caught between the tall stone walls, and it’s real work for Sky to keep up the pace. At least this is mostly downhill, he thinks, though the slope is too shallow for – oh, nice, as they pass under an outcrop the rock walls start to drop away, and the sand does too. There must be a supporting shelf underneath that the cliffs spring up from, and without it, sand tumbles away in a steep dune that would be awful to climb in this heat.

But Sky’s not climbing today. Making sure Four is still secure, still breathing, Sky steps forward onto the looser sand. One leg stays loose, to push and to steer; the other he locks at the knee, and slides down the sand like his own foot is a sled. The more distance they can get the better – without supplies, the heat of the desert will wear him down fast. Not to mention the still-pursuing Yiga.

A flash of smoke; Sky’s duck sends him skidding forward and the sickle aimed at his shoulder misses completely. The sand makes him fumble. He tries to stand, slips and falls to one knee, stands, takes two sweeping strides and almost falls again. Fuck sand.

Fortunately it’s also hampering the Yiga. The one he’d dodged is still tumbling down the sand dune some fifty yards away now, and a second who’d teleported in had, after firing a poorly-aimed arrow, immediately fallen over with a shriek when gravity reasserted itself.

Sky would probably find it funnier if not for his brother potentially bleeding out over his shoulders.

Still, their inability to find their feet means they’re following the slope of the dune. Sky angles off, pointing himself in the direction of a stone pillar-monument looking thing. Even a few seconds out of the sun will help though nothing can be done for the way his heart is thundering –

He’s far too close when a silhouette separates itself from the shadows at the base of the pillar. Sky kicks up a whirl of sand, hoping to blind them for a few precious seconds –

His eyes catch on blonde and indigo and his brain goes !!!

“Wild!” he blurts out, coming full circle and blinking in disbelief. Wild isn’t wearing the heat-resistant silks – it’s a dark-coloured bodysuit similar to the Yiga, which was why Sky’s instincts had reacted the way they did. His silhouette is near-identical, except his hair is pinned in a bun instead of a scruffy topknot. “You, what, how did you find us? No, wait, nevermind, we need to get to Hyrule now –”

Say what you wanted about Wild’s recklessness and mischief. In an emergency, he’s all business, and quick on the uptake besides. He hooks an arm around the spot Sky is gripping Four’s wrist, so they’re both in contact with him, and taps at the Slate.

They dissolve into blue light.

[flashthescalesian-art]

Through a Shiny’s Eyes

Just a little backstory for my sweet boy Sunny since I don’t plan to go into detail with his backstory in Saving the Light, and this doesn’t contain any spoilers for StL either. I figured I’d post something today since I posted part 4 early. 

Warning: Blood and death are both described here. This is not a happy ficlet, you have been warned. I made myself cry while writing it.  —————

Sunny had been trained to fight droids. That’s what he had learned to fight on Kamino. Droids were the enemy, after all. B1s, super battle droids, commando droids, crab droids, spider droids, and even vulture droids. But Umbarans were not droids. Umbarans were sentient beings that could adapt and think and feel. Sunny had not been trained to fight other sentient beings. Sunny had not been told that he would be fighting other people. Hostile people, but still people. He felt sick every time he shot down an Umbaran. “Sunny, watch your left!” Quinn cried. Sunny jumped sideways just as a cannon blast exploded next to him, knocking him off his feet. Someone hauled him to his feet as his ears rang. 

“C’mon, we gotta keep going, we’re not leaving you here!” Trip yelled, dragging Sunny along. “Not hurt, Trip,” Sunny managed to say. “I’m not hurt.” He got his feet under himself and kept going, trying not to feel so horrible about killing so many Umbarans. I have a job to do. The Separatists are evil, and the Umbarans betrayed the Republic. Those thoughts didn’t help much. 

After what felt like years, the cannons and blasters stopped firing. Sunny followed his squad toward where everyone was regrouping when he tripped over something and fell, his helmet falling off and rolling away. “Sunny, you alright, vod?” Burnout asked.

Pawing around for his helmet in the shadows, Sunny nodded and grabbed what he thought was his helmet. “Yeah, I’m f-“ His glove became warm and wet, so he pulled his hand back and squinted at the thing he just touched. White armor stained inky black in the darkness. White armor mangled and twisted, just like the body it was attached to. 

Sunny threw up, coughing and choking as his nose and throat burned. The last gag turned into a whimper. Someone pulled him to his feet again, holding him close and guiding him along. “Here, Sunny, drink some water,” Burnout encouraged, putting a canteen against Sunny’s lips. “We can’t stop now, vod. The sooner we can take the capital, the sooner it’ll be over.” Sunny took a few gulps of water, which settled his stomach somewhat. “I’ve got your helmet, Sunny,” Rain said. “You want it back?” “Please,” Sunny managed to reply. Keeping his blond hair covered was probably wise. It could distract the other clones, even if his squadmates said it wouldn’t. He felt more than saw his helmet being placed on his head, then the ground slanted downward so steeply that he slipped and would have fallen had it not been for Burnout’s arm around him. “Any injuries over there, shinies?” 

“Nothing serious, Sergeant,” Burnout replied as he lowered Sunny to the ground and sat him against a solid object. “Quinn’s got a burn on his side, but it’s not severe.” “What about him?” 

“Sunny isn’t hurt, he’s just a little shaken up,” Trip responded. Sunny felt someone sit next to him. “Easy, vod, easy. I’m shaken up too. You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Trip asked gently. Sunny nodded, trying to take deep breaths to calm his racing heart. “Okay, just breathe. I think we’re gonna get underway again soon, so try to get your bearings before we need to move.” Sunny didn’t want to keep going. He wanted to go home. Sure, the Kaminoans hated him, but at least home wasn’t this. There wasn’t death at every turn, or screaming, or explosions, or chaos. After a few minutes, he heard General Kenobi speaking, his calm, commanding voice floating through the shadows. Trip stood up, so Sunny followed as they headed closer to the Jedi. “If we can push through this last line of Umbaran defenses, we will have control of the capital. General Plo and I will lead the assault, and Commander Kitsune will be defending the rear. Keep pushing forward. We need to take this capital.” Sunny watched as a medic stepped up next to the General, the telltale lightning bolts on his helmet marking him as the infamous Captain Volt. Sunny didn’t know how much the other battalions had heard, but Captain Volt was notoriously headstrong and commanding within the 212th. Rumor had it that the medic even scared General Kenobi a bit. Volt said something to General Kenobi, gesturing to the Jedi’s side where his tunic was burned, revealing the glimpse of a bandage underneath. Kenobi nodded and clapped his hand on Volt’s armored shoulder. 

The General is injured? That was worrying. But Sunny was reassured when the medic nodded sharply and jogged away. Kenobi must not be too hurt if Volt seemed to just be checking on him. A shout rose up as the clones charged forward. Sunny swallowed his reluctance and ran forward alongside his squadmates as the whole world exploded in cannon and blaster fire. Screams and cries of wounded filled the air along with the explosions. 

It felt like hours of battle. Sunny wanted it to be over. They were inside the city now, so civilians were in danger of getting hurt in the crossfire. But they kept pushing forward. Forward through the enemy fire. Forward through the screams. Forward through the dust and debris. Suddenly, the building Sunny and his squad were using for cover exploded, throwing them to the road. Sunny’s ears were ringing as he shook his head and looked up to see the building falling toward him. He knew he should get up, but he couldn’t make his limbs move. Someone dragged him to his feet, and he looked to see Burnout, his helmet dented and blood dripping from his chin, staining his white armor shiny black in the darkness. 

“Sunny, come on, vod, run!” Burnout snarled, obviously in pain. Sunny started running until he knew he was out of the way of the collapsing building, then he looked around for Burnout. He gasped when he saw how much farther behind his brother was. There was no way Burnout was going to make it out, he was limping so badly that he could barely move. Sunny began running toward him, but Burnout started shouting. “Sunny, no! Stay put! Stay there, you hear me?! Do NOT come to me! You can’t-“ He was cut off by the building crashing down, sending up a cloud of dust and blocking everything from Sunny’s view. “NO!” Sunny screamed. He forgot about the battle, forgot about the enemy. All that was on his mind was finding his squadmates. “BURNOUT!!” As the dust settled, Sunny began climbing over the debris to the last place he saw Burnout. He saw a glimpse of white between the hunks of metal, so he started trying to pull things off the pile. “Burnout, can you hear me? Burnout?!” Sunny cried as he shoved beams and pieces of wall out of the way. Then he found Burnout’s upper body, so he pushed one more hunk of metal away, then knelt next to Burnout and gently took his dented helmet off. “Burnout?” 

Moaning, Burnout stirred, then coughed harshly, blood spraying from his mouth and running down his chin. He opened his eyes halfway. “Sunny?” His normally bright eyes were dull and glassy. Sunny wasn’t a medic, but he knew that was an indicator that someone needed immediate medical attention. “I’m here, Burnout,” Sunny choked out. “Can you move?” Burnout tried, then gasped and laid still. “No. Hurts. Leg’s stuck,” he mumbled, eyelids drooping. 

Sunny looked around for a medic. For anyone who might help. No luck. “Burnout, stay awake. I’m gonna go get help. You’ll be okay, but you need to stay awake. I’ll be right back.” 

“Sunny,” Burnout wheezed. “Stay.” No. No this can’t be happening. No. Sunny still had to find his other squadmates, and he needed to get Burnout help. But the look on Burnout’s face said he’d given up. He was accepting death. “Burnout, you can’t leave me! I don’t even know where the others are or if they’re still alive, please don’t leave!” Sunny was sobbing now. “Please don’t leave me!” He tried to contact someone, anyone. No luck. The transmissions might be jammed or maybe his comlink was broken. “Burnout, come on, stay with me!” Sunny cried desperately. Burnout seemed saddened by Sunny’s plea, but the light in his eyes was fading fast. Sunny felt as though his heart was being torn to shreds as he could only watch his friend take his last breath. After closing Burnout’s eyes with shaky fingers, Sunny stood and looked around. He needed to find Trip, Rain, and Quinn. He found Quinn first, but his brother’s broken body was beyond any shred of hope. Sunny closed Quinn’s eyes and kept searching, his ears dead to the sound of battle around him. Trip was next, but his body was in no better condition than Quinn’s. Sunny felt like the fire inside him was going out. He was cold and numb, but there was a tiny flicker of hope that maybe Rain was around somewhere. Maybe Rain was still breathing. 

“Rain?” Sunny called, scanning the rubble. “Sunny?!” 

Snapping his head toward the voice, Sunny saw a hand waving in the air. Frantic, Sunny scrambled toward the hand, finding a very much alive Rain, his left leg pinned under some rubble, but he didn’t seem to be too injured anywhere else. He was laying in a pool of blood though. “Rain!” Sunny gasped, nearly hysterical with relief. “Kriff, Sunny, you have no idea how happy I am to see you!” Rain breathed, a shaky smile on his pale face. “I’m stuck and either lost all feeling in my leg or my leg is no longer connected to any nerves, not really sure which. The feeling is going from my fingers and good leg too, which probably isn’t a good sign,” he rambled. 

Rain is never this talkative. “I can try to get you out,” Sunny offered. He looked at Rain’s crushed leg. “Might wanna tie that leg off though. You look like half your blood is on the ground right now.” Rain frowned, looking almost thoughtful. “That would explain why I’m lightheaded and want to throw up...” “Yeah, no throwing up right now, I need to tourniquet your leg,” Sunny replied, trying to stay calm so Rain wouldn’t get worked up. 

After using what little he had for bandages to tourniquet Rain’s leg, Sunny gripped the hunk of metal pinning said leg. “I’m gonna try to get this off. You might have to drag yourself backward to get out of the way. Think you can do that?” “I can try.” Rain tucked his good leg up and braced it against the ground as he shakily pushed himself up onto his hands so he could try to scoot backward. “Kriff,” he breathed, staring down at his crushed leg. “Ready when you are.” Sunny lifted, groaning with the effort. “Can you get your leg out?” He asked through gritted teeth. 

Rain was screaming in agony, then he stopped long enough to choke out a response. “I’m out.” Sunny set the metal down again and looked at Rain. He had fallen back against a twisted beam, panting and crying as his mangled leg laid stretched in front of him. “Sunny, I can’t- My- my leg! It hurts!” Rain wailed. Sunny knelt next to him. “Can I pick you up, vod? We need to get you to a medic.” Rain didn’t agree, but didn’t object either, so Sunny scooped him up carefully, earning another scream of pain. “Hang in there, Rain. It’ll be okay.” 

They hadn’t gone far when blaster fire erupted around them. Sunny started running. He couldn’t fight back with Rain in his arms, but he wasn’t about to set him down and let him be an easy target. Suddenly, Rain seemed to thrash in Sunny’s arms, sending them both crashing to the ground. Sunny yelped while Rain made no noise, which was worse than hearing him scream. Struggling back to his feet, Sunny smell melted armor and burned flesh. He hoisted Rain back into his arms and started moving again, glancing down at his wounded brother. It felt like the world stopped. There was a smoking blaster wound in Rain’s chest, right where his heart was. Sunny ducked into a dark corner under a roof and sunk to the ground, cradling Rain in his lap. “Rain? Rain, don’t do this.” It was no use. Rain was gone, likely dead the second the blaster bolt hit him. “Rain, I’m so sorry!” Sunny whimpered, curling around his dead brother’s body. “I’m so sorry!” By the time Sunny bothered to move, Rain’s body was cold. The only reason Sunny moved was because he was cold too. So, so cold. He gently lifted Rain’s body, determined to make sure at least one of his brothers made it to the mass cremation that was done for the dead clones. That was the last coherent, memorable thought Sunny had for a while.

[apictureofspace]

endless list of Good Omens AUs (5/?)

“Of Fallen Angels & Faith Forsaken”

Anthony J. Crowley loved living in the city, and he loved his job – but he often found that he hated all the noise, and he hated his coworkers even more.

Being a defense attorney at a prestigious law firm in London had its perks, obviously; he was able to live in a posh flat, he could afford ridiculously expensive electronics that he rarely used (and that was if he could even figure out how to get them to turn on), and – thankfully – having copious amounts of money earned by getting sleazy, corporate criminals off meant that he could afford to take a week for himself, now and again. He wasn’t sure he would stay sane otherwise. Working alongside slime like Hastur and Ligur, who kept a running tally of who got the most murderers off despite knowing they were guilty, tended to give one a dreadful headache. Crowley was a firm believer in giving everyone a fair trial, no matter how heinous the individual - but those two blockheads didn’t need to enjoy it quite so much.

Yes, no matter how much he enjoyed his upper-class London lifestyle, Crowley still enjoyed the peace and quiet of the country every now and again. It left him free to sip wine by the fire; to skim thin, stylish volumes of complicated poetry; and to have his thoughts entirely uninterrupted by Hastur and Ligur’s potentially contagious idiocy or the honking and/or shouting of impatient London drivers. Not to mention, his country cottage had a garden that he was really quite proud of; he’d tended the rose bushes and the hydrangeas for years and they were really coming along rather nicely this season.

That is, they were – until suddenly his peace and quiet was rudely interrupted by the sound of something smashing into his garden with enough force to shake the cottage and everything in it. Crowley’s sunglasses – which he wore indoors, even at night – fell askew when his leather sofa jolted from the impact.

His first thought was that a meteorite had fallen; what else could have hit the ground with that kind of force? Jumping to his feet, he’d tossed his poetry volume on the glass coffee table and sprinted toward the back door, visions of crashed alien space ships dancing in his head. What he found when he hurried outside was not a meteorite, nor was it otherworldly.

It was more… ethereal than alien.

The first thing Crowley noticed was that his rose bushes were utterly destroyed; whatever had fallen had hit the ground at an angle, tearing the bushes from the ground entirely while also ripping up a great deal of the lawn – before crashing, limbs akimbo, into the hydrangeas.

Crowley had cursed and let out a miserable groan at the sight of years’ worth of hard work ruined before his eyes finally landed on the culprit.

The way he tugged off his sunglasses was not un-Alan-Grant-like, which may have had something to do with the Spielberg marathon he’d had yesterday while day-drunk but likely had a great deal more to do with the fact that what had crash landed in his garden, clearly from very high up, was man-shaped, glowing, and had wings.

The figure, presently unconscious, was surrounded by a golden, rather Heavenly light, and its wingspan was massive – although both wings appeared to have been painfully damaged in the fall. It was then that Crowley realized other parts of this… this creature could be damaged, as well, which finally propelled him into action. Springing down off of the deck, he hurried over his torn-up, still-smoking lawn to where the creature – which, for the most part, looked like an ordinary, if beautiful, man – was sprawled out.

Its eyes were closed, but the face was covered in scratches and abrasions and a trickle of blood was leaking from the nose; likewise, the right shoulder looked to be dislocated while the left leg was very clearly broken. It was only the barely discernible rise and fall of the creature’s chest that assured Crowley it was even alive after such a fall.

What was he supposed to do? He could hardly call an ambulance for a fallen, battered creature with broken wings (which had left a trail of feathers all over the garden), nor could he call animal control for something so clearly man-shaped. There was only one logical possibility for what this creature could be, but Crowley – who had been a lifelong atheist – had a difficult time coming to terms with the word and its weighty implication.

This creature, with its white wings (presently spattered with blood) and ethereal glow (which seemed to be fading the longer it lied there) was… an angel.

A fallen angel.

An angel had fallen into his garden, which meant it was all real; God, Heaven… Hell. That thought made him feel terribly uneasy, so he pushed it aside, absently giving the broken angel another once-over. He wasn’t exactly dressed like an angel; there was no flowing white tunic or robes, but instead mud-stained and tattered tan trousers, an equally torn tan jacket, a tartan sweater vest (that seemed to be terribly soaked with blood and slashed near his stomach), and a truly horrid tartan bow tie. Angels dressed like his grandfather? That was unexpected.

Also unexpected was for the angel’s blue eyes to open, prompting the light surrounding him to flare almost blindingly before it snuffed out completely. The wail that followed was nothing short of agonized – rightfully so. The blood-smeared wings tried to flap, failing miserably and drawing a pained, breathless sob from somewhere deep inside of the wounded angel. Crowley was instantly reminded of a moment in his childhood when he’d come upon a dove that a group of children had mangled on his way home from school. He recalled the way it had struggled with its broken wings to fly, terrified he was going to inflict more torture upon it; troubled, young Crowley had tucked the bird into the breast pocket of his school uniform to keep it warm and took it home where he could nurse it back to health.

The bird had been relatively easy to help. An angel? That was going to be harder. Much harder. But he had to help, didn’t he? It had fallen into his garden, and his cottage was the only residence around for miles. He preferred seclusion for his holidays. If he didn’t help, no one else would – and if he wasn’t already going to Hell, he certainly would be if he let an angel die.

“Don’t try to move,” he spoke without thinking, functioning largely on auto-pilot; in truth, he was still having trouble processing that this was actually happening. “You’ve had… a fall, it would seem, and you’re a bit… er… banged up.”

“I can’t fly,” the angel babbled, panic clear in his bright blue eyes. “Why can’t I fly? Where am I?” and then, after a beat: “Who am I?”

“Your wings seem to be broken. No surprise, given the damage you did to my garden,” Crowley intoned, with just a hint of bitterness, before explaining, “You’re in South Downs – and I’m afraid I can’t help you with that last bit.”

“South Downs?” the angel asked, breathless with pain, panic, and obvious confusion. “That can’t be right. I should be… I should be in… Oh, I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember-?!”

“If I had to take a guess, I’d say you knocked your head about,” Crowley suggested, absently reaching a hand out to graze the angel’s bloodied curls in search of any pressing head trauma. The angel flinched away from his touch like a frightened animal – which, in truth, he sort of was.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Crowley sighed, letting his hand hover, unsure of whether he ought to proceed or draw it back. “I’m trying to help. You crashed in my garden and there’s nobody else for miles, so you’re stuck with me. Unless you want me to leave you here, lying in my hydrangeas?”

The angel eyed Crowley with clear uncertainty which slowly melted into resignation. What choice did he have?

Read the full fic on AO3 // PLAYLIST

[trashpanda-13]

Suit and tie

word count:1926

You attend a masquerade ball in asgard in honor of lady Sith and prince thor but end up catching someone else's attention...

Warnings:smut,swearing and I think that's about it. P.s if I've read this before on wattpad that is because I also have an account there.

Please don't copy my work thank you.

You walked into the grand ball room, your big ass dress trailing behind you this was annoying the living shit out of you and you couldn't wait to get home and remove the god damn thing you were only at this bloody ball because of your high status and your family thought it would be most improper for you not to attend especially as it was a royal ball. this however meant that the King, Queen and Princes were going to be there. The ball was supposed to be for the engament of Lady Sith and Prince Thor but we all knew that that was bullshit and was infact thrown for Prince Loki to try and get his royal ass engaged so the King and Queen wouldn't have to look after him anymore.

Personally I thought Prince Loki was incredibly sexy but I also knew I had little to no chance even talking to him. this ball was also a masked ball which was my least favorite type of ball because you never know what kind of psycho you could be having a conversation with so I think I'm just going to sit this one out. 

Your outfit consisted of a long black dress covered with silver glitter around the edge. The dress had a black hood fitted to go over your head and you wore a brown leather plague doctors mask. This outfit had you stand out from most people as there outfits consisted of bright oranges and other earthy colors. Only you wore black outfit you and one other person who was wear a outfit that came from Midgard you knew this as most Asgardian outfits for males consisted of long tunics and robes but this man was wearing a black suit with a emerald green tie his mask was a 1/3 face mask made from black velvet but with a gold pattern swirling up oneside. From what you could see of his features was he had emerald eyes and gorgeous high cheekbones.

You wanted to go and speak to this man and find out more about him but it seemed that you didn't have to go and talk to him as he had already spotted you and strode over. 

"Whats a pretty lady such as yourself doing all on her own at such a time and where is your date may I add?" His words where soft and his voice has slick and sexy.

"I'm by myself because I dislike people and as for my date no one likes me so I don't have one." I replied simply.

"Well if I may could I possibly be your date." He asked cooley.

"One, I don't even know you and two, why would you want to be my date." something inside me told me I shouldn't have said that.

"one i wish to be your date because you are exceedingly beautiful in my eyes I've always loved a girl who's different." He then leaned in close to my ear and whispered "I can't believe you don't recognize me after all I am burdened with glorious purpose."

Suddenly I realized who it was and he could see you knew so he took your hand and bowed as he said "Loki of Asgard and God of mischief." Before kissing the back of my hand with his soft silky lips. "And who might you be."

"(y/n) (l/n) goddess of wrong doing." I tried to sound calm but my heart was doing back flips. Standing upright again Loki holds out his hand and says.

"What do you say we leave these bunch of bickering assholes and go up to my personal quarters." You gently nod and place your hand in his before walking up the grand staircase and into the living quarters of the palace. 

Once you were in his room you took a chance to look around and took in the sights. His large four poster bed was made up incredibly smart and there was bookshelf's lined with books mainly on magic but there were a few books from Midgard that he must of picked up as I noticed a book called 'A Game of Thrones' and a few others like that. 

He removed his mask showing of his beautiful features. He then walked over to you and gently puling your hood free and also removing your mask so he could see you better. Placing the mask down on a desk that we were standing next to and then placing his hands on on your face, cupping your cheeks as he looked down at you. Your heads slowly came together as he pulled his face came closer to yours. 

Sparks flew in your mind as his lips met yours and he kissed you making you kiss back. Your hands came up behind Loki's head and your fingers entwined themselves with his slick raven hair.

The kiss became deeper and more hungry as he licked your lip begging for entrance which you quickly accepted. His tongue entered your mouth and he started to explore every inch of it before you both pulled apart gasping for air as a single string of saliva still connected you both.

Loki's hands started to undo your dress as your hands started to take of his blazer. Once his blazer was off you moved on to his shirt.  He slowly slid your dress off leaving you in your bra and panties. He took a moment to look at you and him.

He gently picked you up bridle style and placed you on the soft moss colored sheets then removing his trousers he crawled on top of you in nothing but his boxers. You slowly traced a finger lightly over his abs and any scars that were on his chest. He chuckled lightly as he noticed you being almost hypnotized by his chest so he leaned in close to your ear and whispered.

"See something you like?" He then leaned down further kissing, sucking and nibbling on your neck and collar bone until he found your sweet-spot. When he found it you let out a light moan so he kept attacking that one area of your neck. 

The feeling of his tongue dancing across your skin was pure ecstasy and had you squirming under him lightly - a smirk came over his face as he continued to make you writhe under him with the simplest touches and licks. A light moan was torn from your lips, eyes falling shut as you felt him slowly kiss and bite his way down your body, leaving a trail of dark marks in his wake.

Your (h/c) hair ended up in a messy tangle under you, strands and wisps coming over your shoulders as he finally reached where you oh-so-craved for him to be. Feeling the first teasing lick to your pussy you writhed again, the sheets wrinkled under you now as Loki lifted his face away from your cunt. 

"Would you like something sweetheart?" He growled out softly, the deep rumbling  tone he used doing nothing to lessen your arousal.

"Please Loki, stop being an ass and please fuck me or something." You begged, messy hair now damp under you.

"Good things come to those who wait darlin'," he growled out softly to you, vanishing from your sight for a few moments you felt the smoothness of silk against the skin of your arms, tying them tightly together before tying them to the headboard.

"Trying something new are we?" You teased softly, earning a disapproving tut from your God as you felt his hands trail over you, almost touching where you desired him to but never actually doing so. Trailing his hands over your stomach he moved his fingers in minute circles, whimpers of need and annoyance coming from you as he did this.

"Don't annoy me at the moment darlin', I'm in control, I'm always in control and you should remember that before I leave you here." He threatened her with a soft smirk gracing his divine and annoying mouth. Muttering out a few choice swear words you stilled on the bed, to aroused now to argue, it would serve you no purpose, there'd be plenty of time for banter after this. 

"Good." He growled again "you're learning small one." He added, a triumphant grin, he knew you despised that pet name. Backing away for a few moments he watched you, your wide (e/c) eyes pleading as your raised your head, spreading apart your legs in a silent invitation Loki let out a semi-feral growl.

"Don't tease, the longer the tease, the longer you wait." He told you, a lustful gleam now in his eyes though - it did something, he wouldn't hold out much longer you knew that much. Moving forward you let out a breath of relief and felt his hands trail down, dipping towards your dripping center and brushing over it. A shuddering moan came from you as your head tilted back and you felt something pushing at your virgin pussy.

"Gods, please, slow down, I haven't done this before." You admit, a scarlet blush blossoming over you (s/c) cheeks,

"Gods? No, that's something for an entirely different time beauty although remind me of that later." Behind the joke it was obvious that he was somewhat surprised at your confession as his hands drifted over your body more gently, disarming you as you relaxed under him - until pain blossomed in your pussy as he shoved in almost entirely, making you let out a scream of pain.

"It'll fade soon beauty, it'll fade, just wait, you'll feel better in a few minutes." He promised although it didn't feel like it to you at all. Sure enough what he said was true and had you rolling your hips against his in an attempt to get more friction. Seeing that grin on his face and him feeling your frantic attempts of getting him to start thrusting into you he obliged, watching you pull at the binding in an attempt to escape it.

Your head fell back, eyes shut as a warm coil snapped inside you and with a cry you came, Loki continuing to piston his hips in and out of you with no regard to what had happened, prolonging your orgasm because of his thrusts. Flipping you over you were down face down on the bed he continued to thrust in, each one more vicious and feral than the last. With your clit rubbing against the bed you let out more moans, the stimulation becoming to much as you clenched around him again and heard a deep moan from behind you as Loki hit his climax, hard. His heat spread deep within you as you felt him envelop you as he flipped out over, still inside you.

Waking up with a jolt you looked around, your bed chambers were still, black silken sheets bunched beneath your hands. It was dark, you were alone and... and none of that had happened. Realizing this your shoulders slumped, breathing still erratic from the dream as a dark figure emerged from the shadows, a wolf like smirk plastered over his face.

"Have a nice dream?" The dark haired God asked you "I could hear your moans from the other side of the palace." He growled as the bed dipped under him and he joined you, emerald eyes glittering and hand sliding down - Gods, maybe dreams like that weren't so  bad after all.

"Gods? No, not yet, remind me of that later though."

Note: if anyone wants a tag for future work feel free to ask and also if u have any requests but be lenient as I don't get a log free time to write but I'll try my hardest.

[zolanhras]

restless; ill at ease

“Andraste guide me, Maker take me to your side.”

She kept her eyes closed and hoped the sounds would dissolve into silence.

“You move and and we all die!”

Her hope was in vain. 

Dorian gripped her shoulder and she jolted to full consciousness. He pulled at her to come towards the amulet, but Ellana’s eyes were fixed on the scene playing out before her.

“No!”

An arrow had struck Leliana’s chest and she was sent staggering back. Ellana ripped free from Dorian’s hold on her and ran towards the demons ahead. She took her staff from her back, whipping it in front of her, killing the Venatori and evil creatures equally quick.

Quiet fell upon the hall as her last spell fired and the Venatori died. As soon as he fell, she ran and dropped to her knees before Leliana. Her hands hovered above the blood. The arrows still protruded from various places on her torso and she had gained more as Ellana fought.

“No, no, no...” she said, bringing green magic to her fingertips, spreading the glow along the length of the damage.

Leliana’s eyes flickered and she looked up at Ellana with a lucidity that startled her. Ellana spells blinked out and blood spread across Leliana’s torso.

“Can’t you see, Ellana?” she coughed, her words choked. “You stupid girl, you couldn't have saved us.”

“Leliana—”

“There are no excuses here. You weren’t enough,” Leliana snarled, showing blood filled teeth. “What? Did you think so?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but faltered. She blinked and Varric’s corpse appeared standing beside her; His red lyrium haze burnt into her as he spoke.

“Do you believe anything I tell you, Hazelnut?” he said. “Believe nothing. Look at me. This is your work.”

“Ellana.”

She flinched. She had never heard him say her name like that before, so full of bitter ire.

“Ellana, look at me,” he said, and she turned her head.

His face was unusually pale and his eyes, like Varric’s, burnt red. The scant torchlight bounced off his skin and gave him a dangerous look. She would’ve barely been able to handle the rest, but a dark hatred creased in his face. It took her back to the day when he strode forward, killing the mages that had tortured his friend. It was difficult to see then, directed at someone else. But now it drove into her, searching, devouring, disgusted.

“You think I could ever care for you?” he asked. “Look at me. Look! There is a reason I have not gone any farther than flattery.”

She stepped away and put her hands over her face, trying in vain to close out all else, like she had as a child during a particularly scary nightmare.

“What? Did you tire of me? Decide that I should die for spurning you?” Solas said. “Did you even try to save us?”

“I tried,” she said, balling her fists. “But you were already dying, there was a chance—”

“You couldn’t save us here, how long before we die again?” Leliana said, color draining from her face, eye sockets deepening. “How long before you make a decision that kills us in your world?”

She choked, not able to speak as her friends decayed around her. Leliana’s flesh rotted, turning a sickly white as her skin bloated. She scrambled back and watched Solas’ skin turn black, his blighted eyes shriveling in his skull. Varric toppled, worms eating his skin and jacket alike.

She was stuck to her place in the floor, shaking, unable to turn away as she saw her friends, her dearest friends, wither.

It continued, their skin blackening completely. Then, all manner of creatures came to tear away bit of skin or organ until nothing was left but bone.

Those are my friends!

Rats scurried back into the cracks in the wall, a pair of vultures took off into the other hall, a fennec ambled away, blood staining its mouth.

She wanted to growl, scratch at the animals, if only to keep them from Solas and Leliana and Varric.

There was a blockage in her mouth though, preventing her from speaking, just as it prevented her from moving. She sat motionless as the last rat ran off, the last chunk of Varric’s rib muscle in its teeth.

A scream built in her throat, but it was stopped like all the other exclamations she had tried to force out. It was worse to watch, to be able to do nothing, not even to speak as they suffered, than to have caused it in the first place.

A breath of wind touched her cheek, making her shiver and sink back on her calves.

“Just let go,” Solas whispered.

She gasped, leaning away from the bones in front of her. They shuddered, lying on the ground and connected and made due where cartilage and tendons should be. The remains of their clothing and armor, shredded and torn by the animals, readjusted itself over the bones and lifted the skeletons with them. They stood above her, the skulls angled down where she sat.

“None will miss you,” Varric said, his jaw moving with his words. “We will be just fine without you. In fact, it might be easier without you screwing things up, getting us killed.”

“Let go, child,” Leliana said.

They each stepped closer, closing in on where she sat, again unable to move.

She trembled, tears stinging at the rim of her eyes.

“No, this isn’t real, this isn’t—”

“Ellana.”  

Solas. She stopped short and her eyes darted to his skeleton, but she knew it hadn’t come from that. This voice was richer, urgent, laced with concern.

“Ellana.”

“This isn’t real,” she said and stood up. The skeletons blurred.

But no, the skeletons continued and marched toward her faster as the room drew out of focus. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.

“This isn't real.”

She closed her eyes, and opened them up. Solas hovered over her, his hand firmly gripping her shoulder. If he had hair, it would’ve been mussed. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes flashed, looking over her with a concern that shook her out of the last reaches of the Fade. “There was a disturbance in the Fade,” he said, his voice gravelly from sleep. “I did not desire to intrude, however… I believe you wished to be woken.”

The images of her dream clashed with her reality and she struggled to keep her thoughts in line.

“I, uh, yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

He opened his mouth as if to say more, but instead brought his hand back, and she pulled back and sat up. He turned to go, but she reached out and tugged on the arm of his tunic. He paused and looked back at her.

“Ma serannas,” she said, holding his eyes and took the moment to relish in their untainted blue.

He nodded his head and gave her a weary smile.

“Of course, lethallan,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Ah, Solas—”

Mythal, what was she doing? He turned back to look at her again, but his expression betrayed none of the impatience he must feel. She hesitated, but a rat scampered through her mind, its teeth filled with blood.

“Could you— I mean, could you stay here?” she said. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked to the ground. “I just— It’s fine if you don’t, I was just—”

It was like this sometimes, when they had a large encampment. There was a spare tent and the soldiers and scouts expected the Herald to remain separate. She couldn’t stand it.

“Ellana,” he said, cutting her short. “I will get my bedroll.”

She closed her mouth, and watched him disappear behind the tent flaps. She laid back, twisting her fingers between her hands as she waited. He returned soon with his blankets. He set up and slipped into his blankets, and she found peace in the rhythm of his breathing.

She drifted into a quiet place in the Fade, where no visions of death haunted her. She shifted through moments of forest and glade, full of birdsong and trickling streams.

She relished the cool grass beneath her feet and she matched her step with the paw prints that led the way. Some part of her whispered that this way was wrong, but how could a path in the forest be wrong?

Something flickered at the edges of her vision, but always farther away, always dodging out of sight. Hadn’t she been afraid of something? Should she be? She shook her head and continued on her path.

She watched squirrels scamper up trees, while she picked daisies for a necklace. She wandered over and sat against a great oak and stained her fingers green making a chain of flowers. She leaned her head against the bark and sighed.

She awoke the next morning, Solas still asleep, but obviously close to waking. She looked at his calm features for a beat, a soft glow settling in her stomach. The darkness haunted at the edges of that glow, but she banished it. She put her hair up in a tie and pushed the tent flap aside, the chill morning air crisp to her senses.

Solas exited soon after her, none awake yet, though they were soon joined by the others. Someone shared the bread and salted mutton, and everyone accepted a cup of tea except Solas. Varric cracked a joke, hair not even in its tail yet and they all laughed.

She breathed in through her nose and took a tentative sip of her tea. She watched as Varric patted Cole on the back, grin still tugging at his face, the boy obviously confused as to the nature of the wisecrack. Solas ate quietly and caught her eye as she looked them over. She gave him a reassuring smile and drifted her gaze over to Harding and the newest scout, who was fumbling trying to repeat the directions that Harding had given him.

They were fine. They, besides the poor scout, were happy.

This peace, such as it was, was fragile, prone to cracking. Yet, as she sat around the fire, mirth still coloring everyone’s faces and two kinds of warmth filling her belly, she couldn’t find it in herself worry.

[crtaylorbooks]

Deep Water

Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany | Luke 5:1-11, Isaiah 6:1-13

We don’t know what Jesus told them. A story centered on Jesus sitting in a boat and teaching a crowd, and we don’t hear a word of what was said. That’s odd.

We do hear from Peter, a fisherman willing to let this wandering teacher use his boat as a platform, the water’s edge as an amphitheater. More than that, Peter is willing to take their nets, the ones they were washing out and putting away, and drop them back into the Sea of Galilee. (Yes, same place — Gennesaret, Galilee, Tiberias.) Whatever Jesus had been saying must have made an impression.

When tired fishermen pull in two boatloads of fish, that makes a bigger impression.

Peter’s reaction is the most interesting part. That is where this gospel story is focused — not on the teaching, not on the miraculous catch that’s so large we’re still telling the fish story 2,000 years later, but on how Peter responds.

If Peter had no depth of character, he would have asked Jesus to come back and repeat the miracle the next day. If he had been a religious man, Peter would have questioned Jesus, his claims of authority, this sign of his miraculous power. If Peter were a little bit more religious, he would have asked for blessings — not fish, but other gifts. Power. Something to be gained from the divine.

If Peter were extremely religious, carrying around the guilt that religious folk specialize in carrying around and handing out, he may even have asked for forgiveness. He doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he asks Jesus to leave.

“Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”

Maybe that’s what Jesus sees in Peter. Not his sins, likely as plentiful as our own, but his heart. His lack of self-deception. His focus on what he himself lacks rather than on what someone else might do for him.

“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord….” That is the beginning of the matched passage the lectionary gives us from Isaiah. King Uzziah had been king for over 50 years — since long before the prophet was born, it is thought. A father figure, a symbol of authority and stability, a personification of national identity, is dead. It’s a crossroad, a moment of change, and the prophet has a vision of God.

“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!”

Sound familiar? It’s the same kind of heart. Peter might have said the same thing, given a better vocabulary.

Today, it’s popular to focus on the other person, but not in a good way — here’s why she’s wrong, why he’s not like us, what they should be giving us, why we think God is going to condemn them and love us. Peter and Isaiah are self-centered, but not in a bad way — here’s what keeps me humble, what makes me understand that the universe does not revolve around me.

Peter saw everything clearly, and he found it to be a humbling experience. May we learn from his example.

There were other similar stories in the gospels, of course. Here’s a re-telling of one set later in John. It’s from my novel, I,John.

I was left remembering all of it, at least I was left remembering those days. They were in my mind with the vividness of dreams, the ones that somehow seem more real than memory. Not that all of it was the same. Some moments stood out more than others, as with any memories, and not always the moments that I would have thought. One might think that the crucifixion was my most vivid memory, but it was not. Oh, I remembered that day, certainly, but it was not what haunted my dreams or crept into my waking thoughts. I remembered blind men, and Mary. I remembered Peter’s great bobbing head as he made his way through the crowds. I remembered the bread that Jesus gave us.

Most of all, I dreamed of that morning at the shore.

Smoke was rising from a small fire on the beach, and I saw him standing next to it. He was looking over the water toward us as we made our way to shore. I thought I knew him, even from that distance, but I couldn’t place him.

No one was talking. Peter’s boat was creaking, leaking slightly from having seen little use for the last three years. Maybe it was good that we had caught nothing. We probably would have torn the nets and sunk the boat with us in it. A fine bunch of fishermen we were. Perhaps we had forgotten how to fish, forgotten how to live like regular people, make a living.

Peter was mending a hole in the net. He dropped the netting shuttle, and I could hear him muttering and cursing as he felt around in the coils of rope for it. He had a curse for everything, all manner of language rearranged to suit the target. When his muttering died down, the only other sound was made by waves gurgling on the side of the hull.

“Friends, have you got any fish?”

I heard his voice over the water. Friends, he said. Something about the voice was like it was speaking inside me instead of from the beach, a crazy idea.

No, we told him. Nothing. No breakfast here. Go away.

“Throw the net on the right side of the boat, and you will catch some.”

All of us stared over the water at him, at the small fire, the smoke. That voice, I thought. We each turned and looked over the side of the boat. Nothing, no ripples, no flash from fish swimming in the morning light. We looked at our nets, piled in the bottom of the boat, wet and empty. Nobody spoke; we just started moving, pulling a net up, throwing it over the side.

The ropes pulled tight right away. We must have snagged something, I thought, and I leaned over the side to see into the water. Fish, schooling, a flashing churning shoal of fish, were filling the net, drawing it down. The others started pulling on the net ropes, straining against the weight. I was holding a mast tie, leaning out the other side of the boat for a counterweight, and I looked back to see him on the beach. He stood perfectly still, watching us, and I thought he smiled. That was when I knew him.

“It is the Lord,” I said, leaning out over the water. The boat lurched as Peter grabbed his tunic and jumped into the water, swimming for the shore. The rest of us struggled to get the net into the boat, fish piled gasping at our feet. As we made for shore I again held a mast tie and leaned out over the water, this time at the bow to listen and watch. It seemed to me that their voices murmured across the water, Peter and Jesus, but I could never tell what they said over the sounds of the oars and of the others talking in the boat before letting their words die as they also looked to the shore and to the one sitting with Peter on the beach.

There was a bump and the sound of sand dragging against the hull, and we were ashore. We left the boat and the fish, not bothering to cover them with our net or to wet them as was our wont. We stepped onto the sandy beach still unbelieving but wanting to believe, waiting for our vision to clear or the moment to resolve itself into something other than what we perceived.

Jesus was sitting by a fire, his arms around his knees as though simply sitting there was natural, was what he always did. He is dead, I thought to myself. I watched him die, slowly, crucified. Most of the others had run, not that I blamed them. I stayed. The women were there and somehow I could not leave them, could not leave him.

“Mother, behold your son,” he had said. I thought he meant himself. “Son, behold your mother,” he had added, and I knew he meant me, though at first I thought he meant to call me his son rather than Mary’s. Later I was not so sure he did not.

In years to come it was the sea that I thought of, blue green at the surface that day, black in the depths and shoaling with silver fish unseen from above.

Deep Water was originally published on C R Taylor

[salt-is-a-terrible-currency]

Keeping promises 12

Link to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivartheboneme/works

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11

Warnings: rape mention, abuse mention. Torture scene. Will get more explicit in later chapters.

Author’s note: the timeline is a bit different from the show. Here, Ivar was born long before before Ragnar made the deal with King Ecbert about starting a settlement. I’d say he was about 5 years old when the settlement was established. Also, the timejump in the middle of season 4 lasted long enough for the relevant characters to reach whatever the age of consent is in your country. Where I live it’s 15, I don’t know about other countries. Sorry in advance for any spelling/grammatical errors, English isn’t my native language.

Chapter 12

Ylva struggled with tying her ripped shirt together so that it would offer at least some cover.

“Why do you bother with that? Let them stay free.” Ivar said, and leaned in to place a kiss on her exposed breasts.

“Because it will be cold. And I don’t want the entire camp being able to ogle me.” She shooed him away and resumed her efforts.

“They are perfect, you shouldn’t be ashamed to show them.” He started digging through the pile of clothes, looking for his pants.

“Ivar, do you want me to parade myself naked before your brothers, or any other man for that matter? Would you be truly comfortable with someone else looking at me half-naked?” Ivar grinned at her.

“No. But I would like for them to understand that we fucked.” He found his pants and started pulling them on.

“Ubbe already thinks that, unless he is blind.” She retorted. His jaw tensed.

“Well, Ubbe isn’t the one that I want to shut up.” Ylva paused and looked at him.

“Was it Sigurd that started the rumours?” Ivar nodded.

“And since he wasn’t exactly kind to you either, I was hoping that you would like to provoke him a bit.” He tilted his head to the side and smiled devilishly while lacing his pants. Ylva started to say that Sigurd had apologized, but she quieted down again when she realized that his words still hurt. Yes, he may have been drunk but why did she have to be the target of his rage? She was tired of being the person everyone took out their anger and cruelty on.

“So, what do you say?” Ivar picked up his shirt from the floor.

“I’m not opposed to proving your brother wrong, but I am not riding into camp half-naked. My tits will have gone blue before we’re there.” She finally managed to tie her shirt together. It showed off most of her stomach and had somehow ended up with a rather deep cleavage but at least she wouldn’t be completely bare from the waist up.

“We should have some new clothes made for you.” Ivar remarked. Ylva looked up at him.

“Really?”

“You can’t keep borrowing from everyone else, especially if they’re going to continue being torn.” A wide smile spread over Ylva’s face. For so many years of her life she had only worn tattered tunics that offered only the bare minimum amount of warmth and comfort. Ivar continued.

“You will need clothes for the winter as well, I won’t have you freeze to death. Pants that actually fit you…”

“Can I have a dress too?” Ylva interrupted. Ivar furrowed his brows.

“I suppose so, but pants and a shirt will be more comfortable when we are travelling.”

“I would only use it on special occasions.” She said eagerly and took his hands.

“Where did this sudden obsession with dresses come from?” He sighed. Ylva pecked Ivar on his cheek.

“Am I not your companion?”

“Of course you are.” He rubbed his thumbs over the back of her hands.

“And as the companion of a Ragnarsson, shouldn’t I show my status? Don’t you want everyone to know that I am with you?” She pressed on.

“I think you made that clear when you smacked Björn and told him that you are loyal to me in front of half the camp.” Ylva sighed at his incomprehension.

“Ivar, do you remember what you said to me that night when you cut my hair?” His eyes lit up as he finally started to understand where she was going with this.

“Yes, I told you that you let it stay unkempt because you wanted to look the way you felt.”

“Exactly. But I don’t want that anymore. I’ve felt like shit for more than 10 years, now I want to feel good again, and I want to look good.” Ivar pressed her hands to his warm cheek.

“A dress then, for my princess.” They let go of each other and finished putting on their clothes. They had been in the hut for hours, and the sun was long gone. The only light came from a torch that Floki had left for them.

“It will be near dawn before we are back at camp. Do you want to stay here tonight?” Ylva shook her head.

“I want to go back to our tent. I’m sick and tired of sleeping on a cold floor, even if it certainly would be an improvement to have you next to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Björn woke to someone calling at him. He sat up in his bed and saw a young Viking man standing at the tent’s opening.

“Ivar has returned, the girl is with him.”

“Are they in their tent yet?”

“No, but they’re headed there.” Björn stood up and rubbed the drowsiness away from his eyes.

“Thank you, Erik. Now go get some rest.” Erik bowed his head and then hurried away. Björn strode outside, determined that he would have a talk with Ylva this time. It was late, and only a handful of people were still awake. Björn pretended not to notice the people that shouted and raised their cups as he walked past them, thinking that they must be either fools or very tenacious since they were still up drinking when it was almost morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been up this late, aside from Ælle’s execution. Björn continued past the tent where the patients had been isolated during the brief fever outbreak, and in the light from the torches in front of it he finally saw Ivar and Ylva. He clenched his fists and sped up. When he had almost caught up with them he raised his voice.

“Ylva?” They both turned to face him. Ylva looked hesitant, while Ivar looked as if he was ready to pull his knife. Björn took another step towards them, noting her torn and blood covered shirt. What the hell had Ivar done now?

“I would like to speak with you, alone.” Ivar bared his teeth.

“She doesn’t have to go with you.” Ylva reached her hand down to touch his shoulder.

“It is all right, Ivar.” She turned to Björn before continuing “I will come with you, if you promise me that I will be allowed to leave afterwards.” She had suspected that Ivar’s brothers would make another attempt at talking to her, and she only hoped that they wouldn’t resort to violence in order to keep them apart.

“That sounds like a reasonable agreement.” Björn said, confident that she would see to reason and choose to stay. Ylva gave Ivar’s shoulder a reaffirming squeeze.

“Don’t worry, I’ll come to bed soon.” She took hold of the crutch again and walked over to Björn. Ivar stared after them until they were too far away for him to see. He crawled inside the tent and laid down on the bed, fully dressed. He wasn’t going to sleep until Ylva came back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sit.” Björn had pulled out a chair for her in his tent. She sat down and waited for him to speak.

“Here, you must be hungry.” He pushed a platter of bread and cheese across the small table before pouring himself something to drink. She tore off a piece of bread and started moving it back and forth between her hands.

“Ylva, I understand that you feel the need to exact revenge from these men, but you’re headed down a dangerous path.”

“What path?” She avoided looking at him, still playing with the bread.

“You’re letting Ivar take over. We were already going to kill these people, there was no need for him to get involved in this way. I can help you out of this situation.” Ylva let out a cold laugh and finally looked up from her hands.

“You were going to kill Ælfric? No, you weren’t even going to bother with sending a few warriors there to get supplies. You would have let Cenric and Cynebald be too if it wasn’t for them having so many soldiers. Your plan would have given me nothing.” Björn’s eyes flared.

“These little excursions of yours could lead to the army splitting, and we need it to stick together if we are to defeat Ecbert. You are being selfish. Ælle is already dead, Ecbert will soon be dead too. Does it matter that much if a few of these other men live?” Ylva snapped at him.

“Does it matter? You say that you understand but that is a lie. I’m still afraid of what I might see when I close my eyes, and I know that they are alive and could be doing this to someone else. Floki and Ivar have shown me respect...”

“What happened, did Ivar do that?” He gestured at her clothes. Ylva stroked the fabric absentmindedly.

“Yes, he got a bit carried away.” She didn’t see what this had to do with anything.

“Ylva that is not respectful of him. He shouldn’t have done that to you.” His words confused her. Björn paced back and forth, holding on to his cup.

“My brother, he is not shaped like other men and so he gets aggressive when he can’t lie with a woman.” Ylva sucked in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes at Björn.

“You think he raped me?”

“It must be difficult for you to grasp what relationships should look like, given the unfortunate experiences…”

“Your stupidity knows no bounds, Björn Ironside.” Ylva spat out the words as she rose to her feet. Someone entered the tent. Ylva looked over her shoulder and saw Ubbe at the opening.

“Am I interrupting something?” He looked at Ylva, whose knuckles had gone white from clutching on to the table, and on Björn’s face that was slowly turning red with anger.

“What are you doing here?” Björn grunted.

“I heard that they were back, and I wanted to check up on them. Ivar told me that you had taken Ylva with you.”

“She agreed to talk to me, so now we are.”

“Not anymore.” Ylva growled and picked up her crutches. Ubbe stepped aside so that she would be able to leave.

“I have not given you permission to leave!” The oldest Ragnarsson roared and slammed his fist down on the table. Ubbe stepped forward, ready to stop Björn if he tried to grab Ylva again.

“You promised that I could go after we were done, and I am not going to spend another second talking to you. That means we’re done.” Her face had morphed into the same expression that Björn had gotten a glimpse of when she struck him with her crutch. And now he realised why it felt so familiar; she had the same cold predatory expression that Ivar did when someone uttered an ill-conceived comment about his legs. He almost took a step back due to the unpleasant realisation, but instead he lifted his hand and pointed at her.

“Ivar is manipulating you, making you feel like you owe him something so that he can take you without you fighting back. He wants someone that will stay by his side and never question him.” Björn’s voice grew in volume as he spoke, he was tired of her unwillingness to heed his well-meant advice. Ylva bared her teeth at him and let out a strange noise.

“Stop talking to me like I’m a slave. I am a free woman and Ivar did not take me, I gave myself to him.” She hissed. Ubbe intervened before the discussion could go any further.

“Ylva, I think it is best you go to bed. It is very late and Ivar is waiting for you.” She shot Björn one last look before leaving. After she was gone, Ubbe sat down at the table and helped himself to some of the food.

“Why did you have to interrupt?” Björn snarled.

“Are you saying that if I hadn’t arrived she would’ve agreed to stay away from Ivar?” Ubbe said with a half-hearted chuckle.

“You telling her that Ivar is waiting for her hardly helped.”

“She was on her way out when I came, Björn. I merely tried to stop you two from butting heads again, you could’ve broken her bones if it had gotten out of hand.” Björn placed his hands at the table and leaned in towards his brother.

“Is there something you want to say to me, Ubbe?”

“Yes. You’re doing a shit job of keeping Ylva safe.” Björn scoffed at him and stood up again.

“It is not my fault that she won’t listen to reason.”

“I did not hear your entire conversation so I might not have the whole picture, I’ll admit that. But it sounded like you tried to tell her that Ivar is the one who is going to hurt her and you are going to protect her.” Björn looked at Ubbe like he was an idiot. “Did you ever stop to think that in her mind it’s exactly the opposite? Ivar cared for her when she was sick, he defended her from the men that attacked her, and he listened when she opened up about what she has been through. He’s even teaching her how to defend herself. You on the other hand have yelled at both of them and showed that you are not afraid to resort to physical violence when she protests.”

“So you suggest that we just leave them be? Don’t you remember what he did to your wife? Ylva is going to disappoint him sooner or later, and then she will end up dead.” Ubbe looked furious at the mention of the attempted murder on his wife.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten what he did to Margrethe.” He snapped “But Ivar was sad and in shock. Ylva could make him better. I have had time to think today, and I have spoken with Ivar. It is time we accept that we won’t make life any less shitty for either of them by trying to separate them. Maybe the best we can do is keep an eye on her.” Ubbe swallowed the last piece of bread and got up.

“I am the leader, I decide how we handle this. Don’t forget that, brother.” Björn said as Ubbe motioned to leave.

“That you are. But right now you’re not being a very good one.”