#in the name of obedience he would carve his heart from his chest present it to her on a platter and apologize for making her wait. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

slytherinsnekxvii · 3 years

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i've been thinking about sirius black and grimmauld place and how much he hates it. so, here have this little fic i wrote about my take on that, just to get myself back into the swing of things now that real life has let up a little bit. warning for awful parenting that might hit a little too close to home before it goes off the rails, walburga and orion saying some really horrible things, and a stinging hex:

By the time Sirius gets his Hogwarts letter, Regulus has mastered the art of performing. He's much better than Sirius was—is—and Sirius wonders how much of that comes from Regulus seeing him make the simplest of mistakes and face the consequences. He wonders when he realised that he's being made an example.

He draws a knee up to his chest, idly twirling a quill between his fingers as his stomach grumbles. He ignores it. He's been sent to bed without supper enough times now that it hardly matters. He scratches two more lines of I will be obedient into the parchment and he thinks about Regulus some more.

He doesn't like the kid, sometimes. Envies him, even. There are things he does that Sirius finds maddening. Regulus has never spoken an original thought his life, follows every instruction given to him, willingly backs himself into corners and he refuses to put up a fight, unless he's the one who started it and knows he can finish it. What makes it worse is that these are lessons that Sirius taught him and couldn't learn himself.

Keep your innermost thoughts close to your chest and if you must speak them, do it aside, address no one but yourself.

Follow orders. Let yourself be manhandled and coerced into position by those who can see the bigger picture.

Never turn your back to your audience.

Turn the other cheek and follow through.

It's bothersome. They have a perfect little heir right there, but they ignore him just to try and force Sirius to be what they want him to be. It's a waste of everyone's time, since they all know that round pegs do not fit into triangular holes. It's suffocating, since they try to do it anyway, shaving away at the bits and pieces that won't fit, hacking at the parts of him that don't mold to fit the shape that they've carved for everyone carrying the Black name. It's unfair, that he's stuck here like this, going to bed without supper, writing lines, of all things, and riding out the effects of a nasty session of "Occlumency training", which he is certain is just an excuse to rifle through his mind and give him a headache.

I will be obedient. I will be obedient. I will be obedient.

His hand moves on its own, the letters appearing on the page ever-so-slightly wobbly as he writes without bothering to look at the words. It's infuriating, the way they echo in his head over and over, and over, again.

He lifts his head when Kreacher appears before him with a crack, his horrid little house-elf face twisted into that familiar, ever-present cross between a grimace and a scowl. "What?" he asks, and somehow, the elf's expression sours even more.

"Mistress wants her lines," Kreacher says. "Mistress says Kreacher is to collect them from Master Sirius."

"I'm not done yet," Sirius snaps, and bites his tongue when the house-elf turns up his mouth in disapproval. He takes his time carving the last few sentences into the parchment, and while his penmanship is probably the greatest it's ever been, he still scowls at the paper even after it's been handed over.

Kreacher scowls back at him and disappears. Sirius rubs his ears and wonders if the elf Apparates that loudly on purpose.

I will be obedient. I will be obedient. I will be obedient. The stupid words spin around in his head, and he scowls harder as he considers that he could probably fill an entire sheaf of parchment in his sleep.

See if I ever turn out like the bloody show dog you want, he thinks, vehemently, and shoves aside the bits of stationery on his desk so he can collapse face-first and not think. There's another crack, and he startles, forcing himself upright as Kreacher stands before him, with his little, twisted house-elf face and little, twig-like house-elf arms crossed.

"What?" he bites, again, and when the elf's expression takes a turn for the worse, he leans back in his chair and doesn't bother shaking off the vindictive satisfaction that crawls up his spine.

"Mistress wants to see Master Sirius in Master Orion's study. Master Sirius is a bad boy," Kreacher tells him, and he fights the urge to slam his fist on the desk, or worse, into Kreacher.

"Why?" Sirius asks, and he knows exactly why, they only ever want him for one reason, they never call on him for anything else, at all, ever, but he still asks. He's not actually expecting anything different, but he does it, just to be difficult.

"Master Sirius has been a bad boy," Kreacher says.

"Right, yeah. Thought as much, really," Sirius tells him, and makes no move to get up from his seat.

"Mistress wants to see Master Sirius in Master Orion's study," Kreacher repeats, and Sirius scoffs at him.

"And what are you going to do about it?" he taunts, and the elf Disapparates. Sirius sneers a bit at the wall, sticks out his tongue as he mocks, "Master Sirius has been a bad boy." He scoffs, idly kicks at the leg of his desk. "Master Sirius has been Sirius. Master Sirius isn't Regulus."

He collapses onto the desk again, lets out a quiet, frustrated scream as his leg picks up the speed and kicks even harder. He takes a deep breath as the woods shudders beneath him and eventually gets his limbs back under control. "Master Sirius doesn't want to be told what to do," he mumbles into the wood. "Master Sirius is a person. Master Sirius doesn't want to be controlled," he continues, quiet, and is glad that his moping is drowned out by the sound of Kreacher Apparating into his bedroom once again.

"Mistress says Master Sirius is being difficult. Maater Sirius must come to the study at once," the elf says, and Sirius doesn't even bother to lift his head. "Master Sirius must come! Mistress insists!"

"Or what?" Sirius asks, tone as bitter and spiteful as his little eleven-year-old tongue can manage.

"Mistress says that Master Sirius must come to the study at once! Master Sirius is being a very bad boy! Horrible boy! Spiteful child!"

Sirius feels his eye twitch as he listens to the elf slowly dissolve into histrionics, wonders if he's listening to Kreacher, or his mother. "Master Sirius is just fine!" he says. "Master Sirius doesn't have to listen to you or be obedient or anything!"

"Master Sirius must go to the study!"

"No!" Sirius exclaims, and he does bang his fist on the desk, noticing far too late that Kreacher has gone silent. The realisation strikes him when his hand leaves the desk and a hand circles his wrist, grip ice-cold. "No..." he says, quiet, and horror takes him as he involuntarily tries to tear away from the hold. If anything, it tightens.

"You would disobey your parents, Sirius Orion?"

"I—" Sirius gasps, and forces himself to be as still as possible, as steady as he can manage even though he still finds himself shaking by the time he finds it in himself to continue. "No, Father, I—"

He won't hit you, Sirius thinks. He would never stoop so low, and he isn't holding his wand. He wouldn't hit you. He wouldn't. He would never. Not with his bare hands. Not without his wand.

His trembling ceases a little, and he starts to speak again. "No, Father, I—"

"Quiet. Your mother is calling for you, you wretched child. Why have you not attended to her?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Apologies mean nothing without action, young man. Do better," Orion stresses, and Sirius bends, head bowing as he prepares to reiterate his apology.

"I—"

"That was not an invitation to speak, Sirius Orion."

"Yes, Father. S—" he bites his tongue and tries not to listen to his heart slowly beating its way out of his chest.

"This is no behaviour to be exhibited by my heir. You will get up, and you will come with me to attend to your mother."

"Yes, Father," Sirius says, and swallows the fire building behind his tongue and under his fear.

The grip around his wrist loosens, and he moves it a little, just to make sure it's still there, still attached, still working and prepares to get up even as he hates himself for listening and his father for making him.

"Quickly, Sirius Orion. Your mother is waiting."

"Yes, Father," he says, and in his mind, he kicks himself for the meekness in his tone.

When he stands up on marginally less shaky legs, Orion moves to clap a hand on his shoulder to steady him and the sheer anticipation of the touch forces Sirius to stand at attention. He straightens his spine until it can go no further without snapping, and when Orion's hand actually lands on his shoulder, he has to concentrate to avoid flinching under the touch.

Orion taps his shoulder once, twice, and then grips it with the same force he'd used on Sirius' wrist. "Go on, then."

Sirius starts to move. Orion does not let up, steel grip still locked in place as it directs Sirius throughout the house. They pass Regulus' door, and Sirius fights the urge to sneer at it, with its stupid, pretentious sign protecting his stupid, pretentious baby brother who's probably asleep with a full belly and not a care in the world with Kreacher at his bedside to bend to his every whim. Stupid, lucky performer sticking to his script... poor little contest crup doing tricks for the judges.

Orion's grip on his shoulder tightens and Sirius hisses as he bends under the pressure. "I said, quickly, Sirius Orion. You would make your mother wait even longer for you than you already have?"

"No, I—" Sirius continues, tripping over his own feet as the his own movement ceases while his father continues to push.

"She's been patient all this time and you would leave her to sit alone and unattended to?"

"Father—"

"Ungrateful child," Orion rebukes and Sirius chokes.

"Yes, Father."

They enter the study quietly, Sirius standing at attention once more while Orion rounds the large desk to take his seat. Walburga crosses and uncrosses her legs in her nearby armchair, and clears her throat. She sits up, handa placed carefully atop each other in her lap and it's an image he's familiar with. She elegantly rolls her wand between her fingers and Sirius reminds himself to tread carefully, don't make a mistake, she's armed, even if this the most demure he's ever seen her.

"Siri."

"Yes, Mother," he answers.

"Why did you not come when I called?"

I didn't want to, I hate you, I hate you both, he thinks. I was scared, he thinks. "I don't know, Mother," he says.

"That isn't an answer, Sirius Orion. If you didn't know, you could have done as I asked of you and inquired it of me when you arrived."

You didn't bother to ask. You ordered, he thinks. "Yes, Mother," he says.

"Why did you not come when I called?"

I'm here, anyways, aren't I? "Kreacher was annoying me," he lies, or well, sort of. Kreacher had been annoying him, but that wasn't why he'd disobeyed. He bites his tongue when he watches their expressions shift.

"Kreacher... was annoying you," Walburga asks, tone flat.

"Yes, Mother," Sirius says.

"So, rather than banish him and do as you were told, you chose... to disobey me?" The uptick in her voice is dangerous, but her position remains the same and Sirius falls into the trap.

"I—sorry, Moth—agh!" The Stinging Hex hits his hand and he shakes it the appendage rapidly as he waits for the pain to abate. "Yes, Mother," he croaks, when his hand graduates from acute pain to slight numbness.

"Do better next time," Walburga tells him, rolling her thirteen inches of elm between her fingers. "Apologies are worthless, I know your father would have told you that much."

"Yes, Mother. I won't keep you waiting again, Mother," Sirius forces. You'll drag me kicking and screaming next time, he thinks.

"Words, again. Powerful, yes. Useful, yes... but that's only in the hands of those whose actions are able to prove it. You've not done so, Siri," Walburga continues, quiet, and this is how Sirius knows he's gone and done it.

His hands move to clench on their own, and his aching left convinces him to clasp them behind his back instead. His legs itch to move, to run away, to go anywhere but here. He wishes he had his broom.

"You disobey. You refuse to listen. You ignore our teachings. You blunder and stumble and do all manner of upsetting things, Siri. We feed you and clothe you and we provide a bed for you to rest your head when the night comes, and yet... you continue to act so horribly. You speak out of turn, you do everything in the exact wrong manner. If I didn't know better, I would think you were doing such awful things on purpose. To spite your father and I." Her eyes meet his and Sirius can't help it, he looks away. His father's lip curls and still, he refuses to look at her.

"You are a horrible child, Siri. Wicked and ungrateful and awful. You aren't worthless, though. You're the product of your father and I, after all. And you aren't incompetent or stupid. You can be taught, Siri. All you must do is listen, and obey. You can be trained and we will make you the wizard you were meant to be as our heir. You need not do anything but obey."

Sirius takes a breath, the cool air sticking in the back of his throat as he feels the hackles on the back of his neck raise. "I—You don't—"

"Don't... what, Sirius Orion?" his father asks.

Nothing, he thinks. "It's—I'm a person! You want an heir that you can teach and train and make, have Regulus! I don't—" he starts, and his eyes widen as he listens to the words spilling out of his mouth with no permission of his and no control over them at all.

"You are a wretched, horrible creature! Awful boy! Spiteful child! How dare you?" Walburga screeches, and Sirius winces, his own mouth clamping shut. "We are your family, your parents. You would disgrace your own blood in such a way? Horrible, awful child! Incompetent! Lazy! Stupid! Never learns! You are an awful creature! Terrible boy! Unworthy! I can hardly believe you came of my loins! We have been nothing but good to you! Awful child, waste of blood, Sirius Orion, how dare you?"

She's sprung out of her chair, elm wand held high in her hand as a weapon, and Sirius ducks even as he shouts.

"I didn't mean it! I didn't, I didn't, I was only angry," he pleads. "I won't do it again," he tells them, quietly, and as his mouth quivers, he tastes salt.

"See to it that you don't," Orion says, frigid even as he rests a hand on his wife's waist to steady her and glares at his firstborn. "I'll not have such an outburst taking place again."

Tell that to your wife, Sirius thinks bitterly, sniffing as quietly and unnoticeably as possible to stave off the rest of the tears he hadn't realised he was crying.

"Yes, Father," Sirius says.

"Get out," Orion tells him.

"Yes, Father," Sirius says, and with that, he turns around and leaves. Quietly, with some sort of dignity so they don't have another thing to hold over his head.

He passes Regulus' stupid door again, kicks it and watches as not even the sign shakes.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," he cries, quietly, as he continues down the hallway, with his voice warbling and his fist pounding against the wall as he goes. Regulus' face flashes through his mind, and then his mother's, his father's, his own. Coward, he spits, inaudible, and the word is coated in every bit of venom he's capable of. "I hate you," he says to the empty air, and not even he can tell who he's trying to address.

#sirius black #fic #ive been thinking abt the unhinged dog man and like #we were talking abt him in the discord and i've been meaning to write and now ive got time again so i did #and now we have this #hp #i needed smth else between my other fics and idk how refreshing this is but i needed smth different #i love my necromancer lily au but ive got 10k on it and the break was necessary #snape's been in a coma for about 8k words now he needs to die but i've been trying to figure out how actual necromancy works when you arent #yk #a dark lord with a bunch of followers and just one teenage girl who probably wouldnt kill a unicorn #probably #but anyway #yeah #orion and walburga definitely strike me as the type to avoid hitting thwir kids physically #since it's #beneath them or whatever #but they will use magic #not anything that leavss evidence tho #and 100% they don't care how it goes as longs the brats do what they need them to #sirius is basically a wild horse that needs to be broken in to them #and regulus is basicslly a puppet if you ask sirius #who isn't sure if he's sorry for reggie or mad at him for not having to put up with the same shit #idk man the blacks are fuxked all the way up #walburga black #orion black #regulus black #kreacher #harry potter fanfiction #sirius orion black

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jojo-reader-hell · 4 years

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Kars x Pillar Man!Reader: Beautiful Boy

“Take it away! Take it away! I don’t want to see...!”

The way your friend mourned, you would have thought the baby had been born dead. Her wailing was just as loud as his.

“You have to stay calm.” hummed the medicine maker to your friend. “He’s still attached.”

“He’s defective!” She screamed, red staining the birthing cloth below her that your father had made.

“Be still...”

“He’s defective! He’s deformed!”

This was wrong. Birth was supposed to be exciting. A rare opportunity for your species to give life to a being made by two mated pillar people deeply in love with one another. The second birth of the tribe was just as anticipated as the first. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion.

It wasn’t supposed to be this painful.

All you could do was hold the infant to your chest, this squalling pink creature only a few minutes old and swaddled in skins, as Sepultura screamed from where she was kneeling. The medicine maker had to remove the organ that attached the child to her, even after birth the baby would continue to absorb her flesh from the inside with this particular organ. Any pillar woman would have let her child absorb the energy from her body a few extra minutes or even hours to let the child grow stronger, but the moment Sepultura’s child emerged bathed in the melted parts he took from her, he screamed bloody murder and sealed his fate. The extraction of the organ was brutal, the wise old medicine maker emerged with crimson coating his arm up to the elbow. Because you were so curious about infants and how they were born he had agreed to let you stay with your friend as she labored, and as he worked he explained to you what was happening.

Now, you wished with all your might he would shut up.

“Crying means he will have a stunted growth, the infant is too weak to live...” Eisidisi whispered in your ear as he cleaned his hand on an animal skin.

“Why?”

“Look at his neck there. The cord binding him to his mother was strangling him up until the moment he emerged. If he wanted to survive, he had to continuously take from her. It was enough that he lived through the birth. I’ve shown you what normal infants look like, you helped deliver Whamuu and saw how big and silent he was and how strong when he clung to you. For this one to get to that point he’d need to feed far longer. Your friend... She’s far too weak to give any more. This infant will be lucky to find anyone willing to let him feed from them.”

But how was he any less than the other child you helped to deliver? To you, this one was just as perfect. There was a soft dusting of your friend’s fine red strands on the soft crown of his head, little fingers and toes spreading like stars as you cradled him in your arms, even the way he opened his mouth to cry was absolutely fascinating. It wasn’t wrong to you. There was no reason for Eisidisi or Sepultura to recoil from him as though he was a disease ridden member of the Others.

“What do we do with him now?” You asked innocently.

The way he looked at you, you knew you wouldn’t like the answer.

“I need to take him to the altar.” was his gentle reply.

“Why?!”

You sounded like a child because you knew there was only one altar anyone ever talked about. Desperate, high pitched whining, wondering why the little one couldn’t just be left be. It might have sounded to the uneducated that you were totally naive to the ways of life in the tribe, and to the uneducated outside observer they would be surprised (and a bit pleased) to find out they were right. But not for the reasons one might expect. For an artisan, someone as low on the caste as you, matters of procreation and intimacy were withheld purposefully. Even though you were mated, the knowledge of reproduction was shrouded in mystery. Why allow you to add unnecessary mouths to feed to the tribe when already there were plenty? Such was the case regarding your match. Kars had it in his favor that he detested procreation of any kind, he kept you appeased with the most minimal of affections and nothing more.

There was also the rule among the tribe to keep the numbers in check: If you should desire to add to your hearth, a member of your family had to die. Kars wasn’t an artisan, but any offspring would theoretically be trained to take the place of one of the artisans in your caste, just as you were born to take over your grandfather’s role of carving the tribe’s stone death masks of the ancestors. Your father had his place among the weavers, your mother was the armorer, there would be no place for your offspring unless one of your parents willingly gave their life. It wouldn’t be logical to have a child for the sake of having a child.

But hadn’t this infant been given a role? Sepultura and Megadeth had already buried one of theirs, you helped dress Sepultura’s mother for her funeral, the old priestess named Opeth weeping with joy to be reunited with her mate and wishing her grandchild a long and happy life. You yourself made Opeth’s death mask, even helped Megadeth place it over Sepultura’s face as she labored.

The child even had a name... His grandmother had whispered it in your ear, and you had intended to name the child when it was presented to your dear friend.

“... Santana...” you whispered to Eisidisi.

He looked at you curiously, brown skin capturing the glow of the tallow lamps as Megadeth rushed to the side of his screaming mate, holding her tightly and hushing her as she screamed that her offspring was trying to kill her.

“Opeth named him. Before the sun took her.” You murmured. “It was her mate’s name. He’s supposed to be Santana...”

A large hand dwarfed your head, smoothing down your locks of disheveled hair away from your horns as hot tears dripped down on the quieting infant. The baby, Santana, wore himself out with crying and had stopped to open his crimson eyes, training on you and reaching out as though you were his parent. You cried ever so quietly, Eisidisi ushering you from the hearth as he attempted to soothe the distraught mother and her equally broken mate.

Obediently your legs took you through the tunnels and into the familiar surroundings of the sunfasting antechamber. During the glow of the moonlight, it looked peaceful. The air from above provided a cool breeze that whistled softly through the tunnels, sounding as though it was singing, and as you placed Santana gently on the altar where months before you and Kars sat, you knew you were doing something horribly wrong. Santana was calmer now. Drenched in tears and remnants of rusting blood, he cooed delicately at you. His lips formed a smile as he reached out to touch your calloused hands. Such a beautiful thing to see, but it broke your heart to know that you had to leave him here.

They’d know if you tried to save his life, and they’d kill both of you. Kars would certainly volunteer to do it himself. There was no hope for the infant except to return him to the sun, that his parents might try again for the normal, strong child that Opeth sacrificed for.

It must have been a long time you were gone for your mate to come looking for you. When he found you standing at the altar with Santana, he was unusually quiet. His steps towards you were tender, his touch soft as he enveloped you in his arms.

“It’s not fair...” you told Kars.

“I know.” he murmured into your ear.

“It’s not fair... just because he cried when he was born.... just because Sepultura’s cord was strangling him, he has to die for something that wasn’t his fault to begin with. It’s not fair. Why... why can’t they just let him feed and grow stronger? What if from an evolutionary standpoint he’s got so much more to give than his parents ever will? Would they be sorry then? Would Eisidisi feel ashamed for encouraging me to leave him here to die?”

When you looked up at your mate, bitter tears dribbling down your cheeks, you noticed he was looking at the child strangely. He reached out a gargantuan hand, dwarfing the child’s little foot as he stroked it thoughtfully.

“Perhaps...” he murmured. “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it? To be so wasteful. Negligent in evolutionary potential.”

This wasn’t like him, but you only cared that for once in your life, your mate was agreeing wholeheartedly with what you said.

For the first time since this birth things looked hopeful. The expression on Kars’ face meant he was plotting, as he usually did, and you hoped whatever it was that it would work in any way that allowed Santana to live.

Santana... sweet, beautiful little Santana.

In a moment of weakness, you wished Sepultura would be brought to justice for violently rejecting her son, unaware that in a short amount of time your wish would come true.

#jojo’s bizzare adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure battle tendency #jjba kars #kars #kars jojo #eisidisi #eisidisi jojo #jjba eisidisi #santana #kars x reader #jjba santana #santana jojo #baby #tw birth #tw gore #pillar men #pillar man #pillar man!reader

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thinkyoureholy · 4 years

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Fragile Figure [22]

[A/N : I lied. The next chapter will be the last]

Paring : Choi San/ [Fem] Reader

Genre : Angst, Violence, Language, Fluff, Smut, Character Death?, Mafia!AU

Words : 3.1k

Previous Chapter. - Next Chapter.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

[idk if y’all noticed but in chapter 19 I put these few paragraphs in before switching to Y/N’s p.o.v an hour earlier. so everything that happened at the end of 19 and all of 20 and 21 was before....so it all lead up to this moment]

-San’s P.O.V; present time-

I let out a loud cry of pain, being dragged out of the memory I was reliving. I clenched my teeth as I raised my head off the table. Mei had dug her scalpel into the still tender flesh of my leg, carving around the new scar had begun to form. I squirmed around on the table, pulling at the restraints harder than before. If she agitated it even more then the small chance I had of walking around without a limp could disappear forever. I knew her well enough to know that she’d completely mutilate me to get what he wanted, not like she hadn’t done so before. All the scars I had on my body were given to me by her at one time or another.

“Stop! Please! Mei, I--I can’t-” I cut myself off with another cry, this one louder than before.

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll stop,” She said calmly, digging the scalpel further into my leg, ignoring my pleas, “You have the power to stop this. Tell me their weaknesses! Tell me all I need to know to completely crush them! Tell me how I can take the control she has over the city!”

I shook my head violently, slamming it back onto the table to distract me from the searing pain shooting up my leg. She let out a grunt of displease before pulling away, throwing the scalpel down onto the table. She ran her blood stained fingers through her hair, pulling at the roots in frustration.

“Kei! Bring the bitch in!” She yelled, the doors swinging open.

I watched with wide eyes, pulling at the restraint holding me down helplessly. Kei’s rough and bloodied fingers were gripping her hair harshly, dragging her seemingly lifeless body behind him. My heart sank at the sight of her, the fire that had died in my chest the moment I was brought here was re-lit. A rage I had never felt before filled my body, the chains keeping me in place rattled loudly. I almost growled when Kei threw her at Mei’s feet, Y/N’s head hitting the cold ground with a loud and unsettling thud.

“Y/N! Y/N, can you hear me! Y/N!” I called out to her without thinking.

I needed to make sure that she was still alive. If she really went up against Kei and was left like this I wouldn’t put it past him to actually kill her. But she can’t be dead, no, please, God no. She--she has to be alive, she just has to be. In my panic I heard Mei’s laughter, the sound of it making my blood churn. I’ll kill her, I’ll kill them all!

“Even when I have her like this those bastards refuse to turn on her! Just what is it about her that makes everyone so loyal to her!?” She yelled, unable to hide that desperate look in her eyes.

“I’ll kill you for this! I swear I’ll rip you all to shreds!” I shouted, pulling against my restraints.

Just a moment ago I was too weak to even lift my arms up properly but after seeing the state they had Y/N in my strength seemed to grow, the adrenaline pumping through my veins the cause of it. Mei sneered down at me before tossing the scalpel she had in her hand aside, grabbing my chin forcefully to keep me in place, “You’re in no place to threaten me, Sannie.”

“As much as I enjoy watching you torture him I’m going to head out.” Kei said, speaking up for the first time since he walked into the room.

Mei shoved my face away from hers, my head hitting the table with a loud thud, “I didn’t excuse you, Kei.”

I watched silently through narrowed eyes, my head spinning from the blow to my head. I could barely make out Kei’s face as he glared over at Mei, his jaw clenched as he spoke, “I was thrown out of a window, had a dagger lodged into my arm, and had my face beaten to a fucking pulp...and you’re telling me I can’t leave to relax for one damn minute?”

I had never heard Kei talk back to Mei like this. He was always so obedient, never talking back or questioning her orders. I don’t know what happened to him while he was out but something in him had changed.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Kei.”

I watched him clench his hands into fists at his sides as he took a menacing step towards her, “I am covered in blood. I can’t even tell which blood is my own or hers. All I want to do is clean myself up and sit down for one fucking minute!” He growled low in his throat, looking like he was going to lose it any second now.

“And I’m saying no!”

“And why the hell not!? You don’t fucking need me anymore! I’ve done what you ordered me to do so let me rest! Please!” He cried out, begging her with tears in his eyes.

But I knew Mei, she wasn’t going to back down, she never backed down from anything. I tore my eyes away from the two who continued to argue, looking down at Y/N who had not moved an inch since Kei had dumped her on the cold hard ground. The only indication I had that she was even still alive was the slow rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled. I called her name in a soft whisper, careful not to draw the attention of the two arguing. I knew that wasn’t going to be enough to wake her but I don’t know if I dared to risk speaking any louder. I glanced over at Kei and Mei to see they were still arguing and I noted they had gotten more intense about it. As I watched them continue to yell at each other I tried to think of a way to get out of my restraints. I had tried pulling on them before but that didn’t work. I looked around for anything to use to cut through the rope but again I found nothing. I was about to give up until I spotted the figure cowering in the corner of the room.

I furrowed my brows at the figure, how had I missed this? I squinted as I tried to make out the shape. They were small, below five feet, skinny but not malnourished...a child? I looked closer, getting a glimpse of his face when he glanced over his shoulder at us before hiding his face again. A boy...what was he doing here? Now that I think of it why does it feel like I know him? My eyes went wide in surprise as the memory replayed in my head. He’s that kid! The one Kiri and Kei had with them when Kanda handed me over! Was he Kanda’s son? No, Kanda is far too young to have a child that age...then...could it be his brother? It had to be that. Their hair and eye colors were the same, they even had the same mole under their lips, they must’ve inherited these traits from one of their parents. But why was he here? No, don’t tell me...has he been here this whole time while Mei- I couldn’t even bring myself to finish that thought. This kid had seen way too much than he needed to at his age. What the hell was she thinking having him in the same room? Mei truly was the devil incarnate.

“Ugh…”

My ears perked up at the sound of the groan, already recognizing it. I looked down to the floor to see Y/N had begun to stir. I pulled on my restraints harder than ever, the rope digging into my skin hashly, new blood joining the blood that had dried from prior attempts to escape over the last few days

“Y/N!” I shouted before I could stop myself.

I froze the second I did, looking over to where I last saw the twins halfway through their screaming match but was surprised to see that they were no longer there. I scanned the room, thinking they had just moved when I wasn’t looking but they were nowhere in sight. I strained my ears to try and figure out if they had gone far and to my disappointment I was still able to hear their yelling but it was muffled and I wasn’t able to make out any of the words. They’re not far...probably just down the hall...I had to get out of these damn ropes and I had to do it now.

I looked back down at Y/N only to see she had begun to push herself up off the floor but her arms gave out pretty quickly. I frowned when she cursed out in frustration, pounding a fist against the ground underneath her. My frown deepened when I heard her sniffling, squinting my eyes to see her tears fall on to the ground, mixing with her blood. Why was she crying? Just as I opened my mouth to say something I was rendered speechless by the look she was now giving me. She had raised her head up to look me in the eyes and what I saw in her eyes took my breath away, and not in a good way.

“This is all your fault.” She said in a voice barely above a whisper, a bitterness to her voice I had never heard before.

“W-What..?”

“This is all your fault!” She cried out, biting down on her trembling lower lip to keep herself from breaking down, “Hongjoong is dead because of you. Yun--Yunho is dead and it's all because of you! If you hadn't been so weak in the first place then you never would’ve been taken in the first place!”

I inhaled sharply at her words, feeling a painful burning sensation spread out from my chest but instead of feeling sad about it I turned to anger, “I allowed myself to be taken to save you! If I had done nothing then Kanda would’ve killed you!”

“And you should’ve let him! I would’ve gladly died protecting you! Me dying for you and my friends dying for you are two completely different things! I don’t care what happens to me so long as the people I care about are safe then I don’t care if I die! But I-I’m still here and they’re dead!” She paused to suck in a deep breath, her face twisting in sorrow as the tears fell from her eyes, “They’re dead...and I’ll never get them back.”

“You could’ve just left me to rot then.” I said, my tone flat as I stared down at her, “If you were just going to regret it then why..?”

“Because I love you! Nobody--Nobody told me that loving someone so much would end up costing me everything!” She cried out, the emotions heavy in her voice.

-Seonghwa’s P.O.V-

I heaved out a sigh, my legs buckling underneath me but I held myself up by resting my hand on the nearby wall. Yunho had helped me by knocking a few of them out but before he could continue to help I sent him out here to find Y/N. I didn’t think it would take so long to fight off the remaining four but it did. And when it ended I was slapped back into reality. The moment I had knocked out the last one I was met with the sight of Mingi propped up against the wall, his head hanging forward limply. I ran over to him only to find his eyes wide open, lifeless as they were glued to the floor. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and looked around for the other three. Wooyoung and Yeosang were helping Jongho up to his feet, holding on tight to him as he winced in pain. My eyes scanned their bodies to see them covered in injuries, blood staining their clothes. My eyes then went to Kiri and the pile of bodies that surrounded her. I felt nothing as I gazed down at her dead body, her face covered with blood, cuts all over her face. Jongho must’ve held nothing back and I didn’t blame him, not after what she did to Hongjoong.

“Are you alright?” I asked as soon as they got close.

Jongho nodded, wincing with every step he took. I glanced over Wooyoung who had stopped walking to look down at Mingi, a frown etched onto his face, “We need to get them out of here...we can’t just leave them.”

I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, “I’d never leave the behind. Dead or alive they’re coming home with us.” I gave him a reassuring smile but the smile vanished as soon as it appeared, “You think you can carry him on your own?”

Wooyoung nodded without hesitation. He left Jongho to Yeosang and bent down to pick up Mingi, slinging his body over his shoulder. He stumbled back at the added dead weight but when I reached out to help him he shook his head, refusing my help. I let my hand fall back to my side, watching him walk towards the stairs with a frown on my face. I signalled for Yeosang to get Jongho out of here. I watched them follow Wooyoung out, all of them walking around Hongjoong’s body that was still splayed out on the stairs. I heaved out a sigh, the second one in a span of five minutes. I looked down at Hongjoong body, staring directly into his lifeless eyes. Tears blurred my vision but I refused to let them fall. I could stop myself from crying but I couldn’t stop the pain I felt at seeing him like this. I grit my teeth and balled my hands into fists at my side as I continued to stare down at him. Hongjoong and I had joined at the same time and we had become friends almost instantly. I cared for all the guys and Y/N but Hongjoong...he was the brother I had always wanted. Even though we were the same age he was the only big brother figure I had in my life and now...he’s dead. I didn’t even get to repay him for saving my life all those years ago. I had always wanted to do something to show my gratitude but he always told me to forget about it and now, I’ll never get the chance to show him just how thankful I was for having him around.

I crouched down at his side and pulled out my knife. I cut away at a piece of my shirt and tied it around his head, covering his eyes. I would’ve liked to close them but it's been awhile since he died so rigor mortis has set in. Once I was done doing that I hoisted him up onto my shoulder and walked down the stairs, leaving all of this behind. When I walked outside I could see that the others were waiting around by the cars, looks of confusion on their faces. I waited to ask what was wrong until I set Hongjoong down in the back seat.

“What’s wrong?”

“We don’t see Yunho or Y/N anywhere…” Yeosang said, trailing off as he worriedly looked around.

I furrowed my brows as I took a look around myself, “Woo you go look over there, Yeosang check the back of the house. I’ll go check over here.”

They both nodded before running off in the same direction, Yeosang going that way to the back of the house. I jogged over to the side of the house, a big oak tree in the distance. I called out their names but I never got an answer. I began to worry when I couldn’t find them, hearing the others’ shouts for them as well. I was only a few minutes into calling for them when I slipped on some mad. I flailed my arms out to keep me standing and looked down and the sight that greeted me had me falling to my knees. I reached out tentatively but pulled away. No...no, not him too. He had been hidden by the unkempt grass so I hadn’t seen him until now and the mud I had just slipped on was a mixture of his blood and the dirt that lay underneath him. The tears I had been holding back, that I had refused to let fall until everything was over gathered in my eyes once more. This can’t be happening. We’ve lost Mingi, Hongjoong, and now--now Yunho is dead too.

“Fuck!” I wailed out as I reached over, clutching his blood stained shirt in my hands.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears finally escaping. I inhaled through trembling lips, feeling my whole world collapsing. Three people, three of our people are dead. Y/N could be dead too and San, we haven’t heard anything from him in weeks, he could be long dead for all we knew. Just like that we were reduced to almost nothing, our group falling apart. I could hear the other run over to where I was, their steps slowing as they took notice of Yunho’s body.

“Yunho…” Yeosang let out in a voice no louder than a whisper, kneeling down on the other side of Yunho.

“I-I couldn’t find Y/N…” Wooyoung trailed off, trying to keep it together, “ But I found--I found tire marks on the dirt. Kei... must’ve taken...her…”

I huffed out a huge breath of air as I looked at the two of them through my tears, “Yeosang take Yunho to the car and drive home, take a look of Jongho’s wounds when you get there. Wooyoung you’re with me, we’re going after them,” I ordered in a strangely calm voice, the two nodding their heads resolutely.

I won’t be able to follow any trial Kei lift but I didn’t need it. Before this whole thing started Y/N had installed something on my phone, telling me to use it if she somehow got taken from us on this mission. I was confused at first but now after opening up the app she installed I finally understood. I don’t know what it was but something she was wearing was chipped, her location now known to me when I turned on the GPS. I gripped my phone tightly in my hand, staring at the screen with nothing but rage in my eyes. I was going to string those bastards up by their ankles, slit their throats and watch them bleed to death. The Choi twins die tonight.

Tags : @choisofty @woosanville

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january3693 · 5 years

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Someone We Used to Know - Part 35

(This is a Marauders Era AU about what might have changed if Sirius was expelled after the Prank. Here’s the Master List if you’d like to start from the beginning or find a specific part)

James manages to avoid Albus Dumbledore for two days, which is practically a miracle given they both live in the same castle. Granted, at one point he did have to turn into a stag and spend fifteen minutes eating grass while Dumbledore chatted with Professor Sprout near the greenhouses.

The map helps, but they never did get it working perfectly. There’s still a glitch in the spells that sometimes makes it show people in places they were three hours ago rather than where they are presently.

That’s how Dumbledore finally finds him.

The map tells James the headmaster is up in his office, but James rounds a corner of the broom shed and Dumbledore is right there, smiling serenely.

“Hello, James,” he says, like they’re old friends.

“Hello, Professor Dumbledore,” James says in return, because they’re not old friends.

These days Lily calls the headmaster Albus when they’re not in front of students, but James just can’t bring himself to think of the man with that level of familiarity.

“It’s a lovely day,” Dumbledore says casually. “Would you join me on a short stroll?”

James bites his tongue. He can say no. He can make excuses. He can’t avoid Dumbledore forever though. The headmaster has a way of getting what he wants.

He shrugs, and Dumbledore’s smile widens.

It’s not that James dislikes or even distrusts Dumbledore. He wouldn’t have joined the Order if that was the case.

James trusts Dumbledore…but he’s never quite forgiven the headmaster for expelling Sirius.

It seems an almost silly grudge to bear now that he knows Sirius is alive, but James’s feelings haven’t changed, revelation or no.

Perhaps it’s more accurate to say James trusts Dumbledore to handle big picture issues, like the Order and the war and Hogwarts as a whole. He’s not sure he trusts Dumbledore with people though. Not as individuals with different wants and needs and problems. Certainly, he doesn’t trust Dumbledore with the lives of his friends and family. Not completely. Not without question.

After all, it’s only been seven months since James had to intervene with the missions Dumbledore was sending Remus on. Secret, solo missions to the werewolf packs.

He still wonders what Dumbledore was thinking there. No werewolves, not even Fenrir Greyback himself, were trusted with enough information to make spying on them worth the toll it was taking on Remus’s physical and mental health.

“Hagrid’s pumpkins look exceptionally robust this year,” Dumbledore says as they begin their walk in the direction of said pumpkins.

James just nods. He’s the direct sort. Never been one to beat around the bush himself, and he doesn’t appreciate it from others. Dumbledore has to know that by now, but he still holds a mostly one-sided conversation about pumpkins and the approaching Halloween festivities for another five minutes.

The headmaster does manage a very slick segue though, sliding the topic from food at the upcoming feast to asking if James had a chance to partake of the food during his visit to the Pendragon Club. “I’m told their elves make an excellent tarte au citron,” Dumbledore says.

James bites his tongue to keep from sighing in relief. They’ve finally reached the point. He also feels the flutter of nerves in his stomach. Even if he isn’t blindly obedient to Dumbledore, he’s still reluctant to lie to the headmaster’s face.

That’s part of his deal with Regulus though. James had to fight tooth and nail for permission to tell Lily who he was whispering with through the mirrors. Telling Remus just sort of happened in the middle of their argument, and he still hasn’t actually told Peter.

Telling Dumbledore is absolutely out of the question. James’s small reservations about Dumbledore are nothing compared to Regulus’s. He’d toss his mirror in the fire before he’d knowingly work directly for or with Albus Dumbledore, and James refuses to lose Regulus completely to the other side. Both for the information he provides, and for Regulus’s own sake.

“I wasn’t there long enough to eat,” James says dryly. “I just needed to check something in the library.”

Dumbledore raises a mildly inquisitive eyebrow. “Something the Hogwarts library doesn’t carry?”

James shrugs. “It was nothing, a dead end.”

Dumbledore nods, like he understands perfectly. James doesn’t trust it.

They stop at the edge of Hagrid’s vegetable garden so Dumbledore can personally check on a few of the enormous pumpkins. James waits anxiously for the other shoe to drop.

It doesn’t come until they’ve turned back toward the castle.

“Are you aware that Alastor Moody thinks we have a mole within the Order?”

James stops in his tracks, nearly stumbling over his own feet. Hurt and anger and fear all flash through him like firecrackers.

“Are you implying I might be a traitor?” James asks. Frankly, he’s fucking offended. “Should I roll up my left sleeve for you, Headmaster?”

Dumledore just smiles patiently, like James is still a student throwing a tantrum over losing a Quidditch match.

“I’m implying no such thing,” Dumbledore assures him. “I trust you, James, but you can see how going to a place like the Pendragon Club while not on Order business might raise some suspicions, can’t you?”

This is where James is supposed to fall over himself to clear his name. He’s supposed to tell Dumbledore everything, like a good, loyal soldier would.

He grinds his teeth together.

“I’m glad you have such unshakeable faith in me, sir,” James says instead. “If there’s anything I can do to help you look for our supposed mole, please let me know.”

Dumbledore seems almost amused by his response.

“Of course, and please let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist with your…research,” Dumbledore replies. “Thus far it has given us many valuable insights.”

He may not know about Regulus specifically, but Dumbledore isn’t stupid. James comes to him far too often with good, actionable intel not to have a secret source.

For now though, he seems content not to press. He seems to trust James.

Which is still almost obnoxiously gratifying.

And that’s it. Or so James believes.

They walk in semi-companionable silence all the way to the front doors of the castle. James is about to make his excuses and leave, but Dumbledore stops and glances up at something above the doors. James looks up too.

Only there’s nothing to see. There’s nothing there but stones and a bit of moss.

Unless you know exactly where to look.

Before they left school, all believing they weren’t likely to ever return, James, Peter, and Remus had carved their mark into the stones directly above Hogwarts’ front doors. “Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot & Prongs Were Here” it reads.

Both a small boost to their egos and an intended memorial to Sirius.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever told you how sorry I am about what happened with Mr. Black,” Dumbledore says.

He looks back down at James, genuine sorrow on his features, but his eyes are as bright and keen as ever.

James looks away.

He’s an open book. He always has been. He wears his heart on his sleeve and if Dumbledore sees his face now, he’s going to know. He’s going to know everything.

That’s not something Sirius wants. He didn’t want anyone to know he was here. Not even his friends. Seems like a very safe bet he wouldn’t want the man who kicked him out of school knowing either.

James might be angry with his old friend, but he’s not going to betray Sirius’s trust.

He clears his throat, coughs. It’s awkward.

He thinks of Sirius in that hotel room, charming and glib, hiding his scars behind smiles.

So different and so similar to the boy he remembers. The boy he loved like a brother.

He feels something tug and give a little in his chest.

“Thank you, sir,” James says. “I’m sorry about it too."

(Part 36)

#someone we used to know #someone we used to know story post #marauders au #harry potter au #first war with voldemort #james potter #albus dumbledore #for the most part james is expressing my opinions about dumbledore

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sabraeal · 5 years

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All That Remains, Chapter 3: A Little Boy and a Little Girl (Part 2)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Written as a birthday gift for the incomparable @nebluus! As you can see, had this been written as a whole chapter between these two parts...it would have been nearly 14K. SO ENJOY A LONG BUT NOT RIDICULOUSLY LONG CHAPTER.

It has been a while since we talked about the troll, about his mirror. Since we spoke of its broken shards and the Snow Queen that wields them. How strange it is that we forget these things when not so long ago, they were important, they were the crux of this tale. It is these things, after all, that made the boy who he is, that left the scar on his heart, that left the poison in his veins.

It’s easy to think all is said and done now; the boy removed the shard from his heart, and all that remains of it is a scar.

That is the way of life, is it not? We grow beyond old hurts, we leave our childhood monsters behind. Fear and pain no longer touch us as they once did.

Or so we believe, up until the exact moment they do.

“Hurry,” Miss urges him, as if it weren’t her legs that were shorter, that caused her to take two steps to his every one, like a lady’s lap dog trying to keep pace with a hound.

“Strange,” he remarks idly, hiding his smile as she tries to match his strides. “That sounds familiar. Almost if I had been saying it an hour ago.”

Miss’s mouth juts into a stubborn pout, cheeks flushing delightfully pink. “I was almost done!”

“Ah-ah,” he hums, too pleased. “That what you said when I told you we needed to come back to the palace an hour before that.”

“Well,” she mutters, red marking the tips of her tiny ears. “There’s no use debating who said what--”

“Oh, of course, Miss.”

She frowns; apparently a purr is too transparent a vessel to hide his sarcasm. “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

“We?” He lets a grin curve his lips. “I think you’ll find that you are the one late to her princess lesson, and I am merely the wallpaper.”

Her pout grows more pronounced. “Firstly, it’s protocol, and second --”

“You’re late.”

They both stutter to a halt, drawn up short by the forbidding expanse of starched wool that encases Lord Haruka’s shoulders. Miss noticeably leans back, counting the doors on the hall before she reaches the grim realization that this is, in fact, the proper room.

“Lord Haruka,” she says, drawing herself up to her full height. “I was told that I would be -- that there would be -- ah...lessons? Here?”

“There are.” His gaze runs up her, assessing. “I am to be your teacher in this. Unless there is some problem.”

“N-no!” she squeaks, casting him a helpless look. Obi shrugs, half frozen himself. It’s not as if he has any idea what to do with this either. “I was only -- surprised. I would have thought you had...other duties that were more, ah, pressing.”

“I do.” His breath passes out of him on a dissatisfied grunt. “I’m doing this as a favor to His Majesty.”

The don’t let me regret it hangs unspoken in the air.

“Come,” he says in his forbidding way; something Obi remembers all too well from their brief partnership. “This has already taken up enough time. You need not waste any more of it gaping like a bumpkin in the hall.”

He gives them his back at that, striding farther into the room with the confidence of a man who knows he will be obeyed. Miss stares for a long moment, cheeks flushed an angry red and jaw set the way it does before she gives someone a good-old fashioned what-for, and Obi braces himself --

“Lady Shirayuki.” The way Haruka’s inquisitive tone skirts with censure, the way his knowing, long-suffering expression betrays that he already knows the answer -- it’s all too clear who was the man who raised Clarines’ king. “Forgive me for asking, but did I see dirt underneath your fingernails?”

Obi is so close he hears her breath catch, sees the way her body goes stock still.

“I know this cannot be,” Haruka continues, his back still to them, hands resting on the carved wood of a dining chair. “For I am certain that His Majesty informed you that you were to constrain your work at the pharmacy to only social or medical encounters.”

That was one way to put it. Forbidden entirely was another.

“I fell.” There is a reason Miss never lies, and it is this: she’s terrible at it. Obi is embarrassed for her. “That’s all.”

A silence stretches between them, broken only by the harsh pull of Miss’s breath and the firm drum of Haruka’s fingers.

“I see,” he says finally. “Then please take this as your first lesson -- a princess is best late and presentable rather than punctual and in disarray. Next time, stop to wash your hands.” He spares her a warning glance over his shoulder. “Now please, take a seat.”

Miss’s fists clench at her side, and he readies himself, waiting for the barrage of scolding --

Instead, she lets out a sigh. In one breath, she goes from his brave Miss to obedient princess, both the color and the fight leeching from her face. Her shoulders round, and with chin ducked demurely, she steps into the room.

“You may close the door, Sir Obi,” Haruka says with an absent way. “You are not needed here.”

He looks at Miss, her eyes wide in her bloodless face. “I...”

“If you are worried about your mistress’s safety, I have, of course, told the royal guard that Lady Shirayuki is here with me, and that they should allocate their men accordingly. Which should handle the whole of your duties, where her ladyship is concerned.” The marquis turns, brows arched as his gaze shifts pointedly between them. “Unless I am mistaken?”

Obi may not see His Majesty’s long fingered hands in this room, but he feels their work all too well.

“No,” he grits out. “My lord.”

Obi is not a man who storms, not anywhere -- a man who needs to disappear at a moment’s notice should never become too comfortable with making any part of himself a spectacle -- but he knows he wears at least some of his irritation on his face from the way every man he meets between Haruka’s solar and the yard spins right on his heel and remembers some important duty in the other direction.

The fourth in as many minutes brings him to a stop, taking a moment in the empty hall to just -- breathe. He scrubs a hand over his face, the barest hint of stubble scraping against his palm. It won’t always be like this; His Majesty is testing Miss, pushing at her boundaries, seeing if he can make her crack like one of her planting pots. As soon as he accepts Miss is serious, that she can be as regal as any royal, he’ll ease off, let her breathe. They just have to wait for it to happen.

It’s a conscious effort to unclench his teeth. Already, the pulse behind his eyes eases.

Ah, he just has to make it that long.

He catches Sir and Miss Kiki in the hallway bare moments later.

“Mister.” He waves his arm wildly at the shoulder, and both of Master’s aides look like they’d rather pretend they didn’t know him. “Miss Kiki! What a happy occasion.”

Sir grimaces as he whacks him on the back, but returns the gesture with a hearty pat, as any red-blooded knight would. Obi knows far better than to attempt the same on Kiki and settles for a dignified nod.

“What do you mean?” Sir asks, wary. “Are you up to something?”

He’s used to those sorts of accusations from Sir -- after all, he’d spent the first six months of his service with Master prodding at him, devising the best points to add pressure -- but for once, unexpectedly, it stings.

It’s been years since he joined Master, since he was raised from messenger to knight, but there’s something about those words that makes him wonder if all the days between that moment he first leapt up to the balustrade and now have meant nothing. That all the trust he’s earned, all the loyalty he’s shown has been forgotten for no other reason than that he’s in Wistal, and in Wistal, the name Obi has always been synonymous with trouble.

He has been a knight, a commander, the lord of Lilias’ right hand --

Ah, but who is Obi to disappoint expectations.

“Me?” he drawls, pressing a scandalized had to his chest, right over where his heart clenches. “I would never.”

Sir frowns, darting a wary glance over his shoulder, as if he expects a trap to fall at any time. Miss Kiki, for her part, stares fixedly at him, the corners of her mouth curving down, her brow furrowed, as if she’s caught the scent of a particularly unpleasant stench.

“I was only going to tell you I’m on my way to the yard,” Obi continues, gesturing to the hall behind them. “I thought you might be heading the same way. Two birds with one stone, you know.”

Kiki sends a wistful glance over her shoulder. “I’m afraid not.”

“Izana wants us overseeing some arrangements for a summit,” Sir explains, with an equally longing look. “Since Earl Seiran--”

“Ostensibly, my father is going to be in attendance,” Kiki interjects, matter-of-fact. “And thus our involvement is seen as apropos. But it is quite transparent that this is also our...audition for handling the wedding’s security.”

“Wedding?” he chokes out, wondering where all the air in the room went. He shouldn’t be so surprised; Miss is doing all this for an engagement, and weddings notoriously follow such things, but -- but still. “His Majesty is that certain?”

“Of course,” Sir laughs, face rucking up with good-natured confusion. “All this is just a formality. That Shirayuki will pass Izana’s tests -- well, everyone is certain of that!”

Kiki tilts her head, fixing him with an unreadable gaze, and says, “Aren’t you?”

“O-of course.” The truth shouldn’t burn so harshly in his chest. “Everyone knows that Miss has never failed a test!”

Sir’s jaw sets, brow furrowing. “I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything to you. You’ll be with Shirayuki, after all.”

Kiki’s steady gaze burns into him, and he can feel her thoughts as well as his own. Izana would plan for him -- unless he had some reason for thinking Obi wouldn’t want to stick around for the happy nuptials. Unless he thought --

Obi bites his cheek. No use thinking these sorts of things; it only brings them into being. “Well, he already knows I’m good at my job. It’s you two he has to worry about.”

A shiver goes through him. Sir and Kiki may not be married yet, but he’s already got that Seiran stare down.

“Enjoy using those quips on the quintains,” Kiki deadpans. “You’ll finally have a rapt audience.”

Obi only grins, waggling his eyebrows as he passes. “I live for the day where you two are finally good enough at your jobs to join me.”

It is said that a scar -- even an old, knotted, gnarled thing -- is stronger than the skin around it, that a man can never be hurt in the same way twice. He can never feel pain in that place again, the nerves dead beneath that twist of flesh; an ugly bit of mercy.

You wish to know if it is the truth, if a thousand scars might make you stronger, might make you invincible to hurts long past, to the things you lived through once but could not again.

Perhaps it is; perhaps we can never be injured again where our wounds were worst, perhaps our bodies spare us that one, awful fate.

But even if a scar is strong, the skin around it is just flesh. A man may never be stabbed in the same place twice, but oh, he can take a wound right beside it, so close he could never tell the difference.

We may never be hurt the same way, but we can come close, so close, a thousand times over.

What is it they say about a hundred cuts? So close together, they feel like the same one.

Only weeks have passed since their arrival in Wistal, since a storm chased their heels and another one brewed in His Majesty’s study, but Obi rarely sees his Miss. So often he enters one room that she has just departed for another, as if they are ships passing in the night, never destined to meet.

He catches glimpses of her, of course, sneaking sly smiles when he is on his rounds and she is taking lessons in comportment in the gardens. At dinner he sometimes passes the dining room and gives her a wink as she uses the wrong fork.

Still, he’s not used to this, not used to the empty place at his side, to the silence that dogs him at every turn. Even wrapped up in a book she makes noise -- heavy sighs, hums of interest, grunts of disapproval. Before he’d met his Miss, he’d been a solitary man, but --

But it doesn’t feel right, not anymore. Less like losing a person and more like -- like losing a limb.

He shakes himself at that. The sun may have set, but if he knows his Miss, she’s still awake. His Majesty may account for all her daylight hours, but these moments in twilight -- these are his.

It’s nothing to launch himself to the rooftops, all his old handholds right where they should be, fitting into his palms like a long-lost glove, and for a moment he’s that boy he was when he first arrived, long limbs and feral grins, free when the law wasn’t chasing him down. His future had spread out before him as far as the horizon, every day a new possibility --

And in none of his imaginings would he have guessed this: a knight of the royal circle, friend to princes, companion to Clarines’ next princess. A man whose every step bound him deeper, further to the people he loved.

She’s easy to spot on her balcony, red hair burnished in the moon’s light, but it’s not until he drops down, prowling up next to her that he notices -- she’s asleep.

Her hair fans out like a corona around her, spilling over the open pages of her book. Her breath comes softly, smoothly, and he knows she’ll despair when she awakes, mortified by the stain she’s left in its pages. If he’s told her once, he’s told her a thousand times -- a drooler should never study late, unless they want to pay the library’s fees for repair.

He cannot help himself; he steps closer, and with a single finger, gently curls her hair behind an ear. The sight of it is so familiar, so dear that his heart clenches in fondness, and he nearly doesn’t wake her, content to let her sleep under his watch save --

Save that it looks far from restful. Her brow is wrinkled in a painful furrow, and her mouth hooks down at its edges, as if some unpleasantness has followed her into dreams. Miss lets out a grunt, and it sounds -- uncomfortable. Distressed.

“Miss.” He puts a hand to her shoulder, firm. “Miss?”

She jolts awake with a gasp, hand clutching the edge of the table. Her knuckles are white, bones stark against the parchment of her skin. With a blink, she turns to him, twisting so that his eyes can meet hers, wide and white around the edge.

“Oh, Obi!” She presses a hand to her chest, and he swears he feels her heart race beneath his own. “You surprised me.”

“You were sleeping,” he reminds her, teasing. “It’s the opposite of being on your guard.”

A laugh flutters out of her, and she slants a grin up at him, too sly. “Not for you.”

He returns it. “No, not for me.”

Obi hooks a foot around the chair next to her, dragging it out and over so he might sit, might kick up his legs and survey her kingdom. “Now what’s all this?”

“Protocol. History. Everything,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair. Her hair dangles down the back, and he can’t help but wonder at it’s length. When they’d met it’d been shorn straight off at the shoulders, and now --

Now it must be as long as when she left Tanbarun. Longer, maybe. A testament to who she was, to how she’s grown. Proof that time heals all wounds, that it is possible to surpass even the greatest expectations.

She will be a princess. Miss probably never thought of that, back in her little shop.

His heart groans in his chest. She deserves this, more than anyone.

“Obi.” His gaze snaps to hers, and in her eyes he sees the desperation, the despair that is so plan in her voice. “I like learning things, but even this is...a lot.”

She says it so soft the crickets nearly drown her out, as if she’s telling him a secret, as if even now she thinks His Majesty might be waiting around the corner, or just under her balcony, eager to strike at her while she’s weak. Eager to strike when she’s hopeless.

He presses his lips together, so hard the taste of copper lingers on his tongue. Miss isn’t like this; she’s never daunted, even in the face of certain defeat. There’s never been a day where she’s known how to take no for an answer, not if she wants it badly enough.

“You’ve just been at this too long,” he tells her with a grin, squeezing her shoulder. “Let’s take a break. We can walk down in the market--”

He stops himself too late; the words are hardly out, but already her face has fallen. “Or never mind that, Miss. We can just go to the kitchens, and--”

“No, it’s -- it’s fine,” she insists, head bowing over her book. “I don’t mind, I’m just -- I’m too busy for breaks anyway!”

Obi stares down at her, half risen out of his seat, and -- and Miss has always been short, but there is not a place in his memory where she has not stood tall, where she has not filled the room with a presence twice her size. But right now, right here, he looks at her and all he can see is how small she has become.

“Don’t worry, Miss.” He gives her a smile he only half feels. “I’ll talk to Sir Zakura and get permission to go out. You’ll feel right as rain once you get to stretch your--”

“No!”

He blinks. Miss stares owlishly back at him, cheeks flushed, as if she’s surprised herself too. “It’s only...I don’t have time for things like that now. Maybe...maybe after...”

Silence sits between them, filled with all the words they cannot bear to say. This is a test, a small taste of what will be her life as a princess; there is no after.

Obi lifts his hand, reaching out for one of her pale hands. “Miss --”

It skitters away, tucking itself into her lap. “I think I just...want to study for now. Alone.”

“Oh.” He gets to his feet, and the world spins, off-kilter. “I...of course, Miss.”

He takes a step and nearly staggers. He hasn’t had a drop to drink, not in ages, but he feels drunk as he walks away from his miss. Drunk in the worst way, like the moment before he heaves into a bush.

Her head bobs up as he leaves her, mouth slack, arm reaching out just a moment too late. “No, wait -- Obi. I didn’t --”

“Don’t worry, Miss,” he says as he climbs up onto the balustrade, feeling like he holds all the shards of his heart in his hands. “I know how entertain myself until you’re done.”

He lets out a laugh, harsh and bitter. “I’m used to waiting.”

It has been years since he’s been to this part of the castle.

Their last few visits had been quick, perfunctory -- Miss would return for a week to report to His Majesty, only to find that they had just missed Master. He was always off to see to his brother’s interests elsewhere, days away from the city. It had never been enough time for him to explore, to retread all his old haunts. Even still, the barracks is the same as it’s ever been, gleaming from the elbow grease the rookies put in for oversleeping.

That’s easy to do here, in this eternal summer. There’s no cold to wake a man, and the birds sing siren songs that lure the unwary to sleep. He’d missed it in Lilias, in the mornings when his burner had gone out and he’d been driven to timeliness by his freezing bed. Now he wakes up at dawn regardless, with only Sir for company.

Ah, how this place has ruined him.

The barracks had never been his home in Wistal -- he’d spent a handful of nights in the cot assigned to him before Master insisted on private chambers to keep his comings-and-goings less noticeable -- but he’d spent more evenings than he could count in the common room, playing the royal guard under the table. It seems like a fine way to spend another.

Especially since he didn’t have anywhere else to be.

“Halt!”

There’s not enough power behind it to draw him up short, but Obi does slow his step to a slow swagger, arching an inquisitive eyebrow at the rookie who decided to call out.

The boy quails.

“D-do you have business here?” he squeaks, shrinking under the pressure of Obi’s gaze, eyes darting over his face. They catch on the scar on his forehead, on the smaller nicks on his chin and neck. “...Sir?”

“Just wanted to see if they’ve got a game going on.” He offers the boy one of his less feral grins, the sort he’d give to the recruits at Lilias when they clustered around him. “Got some money to lose, you know.”

Obi makes to step past, but a spear blocks his way. He blinks, following the pole back to the guardsman, who is now stoically quivering in his boots. “I’m -- I’m afraid those games are for the guard only, s-sir.”

He stares. “I am a guardsman.”

The boy squints, stooping to search his face. “I don’t recognize you, sir.”

“Well,” he says, pushing through, “someone will, and--”

His eyes sweep the room, and he doesn’t recognize a single face in there.

“Oh!” one man exclaims, clambering up from his seat. “Isn’t that the knight for His Highness’s mistress?”

Mistress. Obi might as well have been struck. That is what they call her here, now.

“His Highness?” The guard’s reaction is immediate and profuse. “I’m so sorry, sir! I didn’t realize that you -- that she -- ah, please feel free to --”

“It’s fine.” Obi’s stomach churns, and for once, he wishes he was well and truly drunk. “I just realized I have somewhere else to be.”

If only the scar was the mirror’s only legacy, this would be a different story. A boy would overcome his wounds, be left with only the proof he survived it. A point of pride, a point of shame, but still and always, a point in the past.

But we cannot forget the poison that lingers, that has sat in his veins and never left him, that even now grows ever closer to his heart.

There is so much to say of that poison, but there is only one part that matters: it is in its nature to spread. It is in its nature to kill.

And left unchecked, a poison always succeeds.

Things are tense in the castle: Miss buried in books, Sir and Miss Kiki buried in details, Master buried in politics. At times, it seems like the only one without an occupation is him, though Master finds ways to use his time -- provided Sir Zakura doesn’t get to him first.

It’s nearly a month after they’ve returned before Obi finally catches a moment to himself -- or rather, that he makes a moment for himself. It’s dinnertime, technically, but princesses don’t cook spicy shrimp with their bodyguards, nor do they have private dinners with their aides; they eat in the formal hall with the rest of the court, despairing over which spoon to use with the soup course. Master had informed him that his title -- as meager as it might be -- afforded him the same luxury, but --

It was hot here in Wistal, and those dress blacks itched. At least, that was the excuse he tried to use, before Miss Kiki told him it wasn’t a work event, that he would be expected to provide his own dinner finery in the latest fashion.

A better excuse, overall. He had a handful of nice costumes, and he wasn’t going to waste a single one on a dinner. Besides, he wasn’t really hungry.

That had been happening a lot as of late.

Still, it was an unexpected windfall: an hour to himself with no expectations of how to use it. It had taken him little more than a breath to decide.

“Little Ryuu!” He waves at the dark head bobbing over the other pharmacists, heart lifting as wide blue eyes meet his. He sees a spark of recognition, of excitement, and then --

Nothing. Ryuu’s eyes slip off him like he isn’t even there. Obi has to walk across the whole of the pharmacy floor, laying his hands down on the desk with a thump before his eyes lift, before he’ll acknowledge him.

“Little Ryuu,” he repeats, gaze fixed to his. “Hi.”

“Oh,” Ryuu murmurs, eyes darting guilty. “Hi, Obi.”

“I called out for you,” he says, though he doesn’t know why. He’s not someone who pushes, not when it’s so clear what happened. Not when he’s so firmly being ignored.

The Cut Direct, Kiki would call it. It doesn’t make it any better, knowing what it is -- not when he just wants to know why.

With all the austerity a man who could hardly even spit at twenty could offer, Ryuu says, “I wasn’t sure if it was for me.”

Who else he would call Little Ryuu, Obi could not guess, but he’s known this kid too long to assume there’s no reason. Ryuu hardly ever gets upset, but when he does, well -- it looks just like this.

“Is there someone else I would be looking for in the pharmacy?” He makes a show of craning his neck, taking in the view. Even Higata is out of sight; either off shift or posted somewhere more prestigious, who can say. Too many things have changed here for Obi to know up from down. “Has Miss wandered in here, and I just haven’t seen her?”

He means it as a joke -- he knows full well that Miss is suffering through a fillet of sole with white sauce right now, trying to keep her elbows off the table. But Ryuu -- Ryuu doesn’t take it as one.

“No,” he sniffs, sullen. “I think she must have forgotten the way.”

Obi blinks. On anyone else, he would have been tempted to call that sarcasm, but Ryuu.. “What?”

“I only meant that she hasn’t been here since --” Ryuu waves his hand, attempting to look disaffected and failing miserably -- “you know.”

“I know?” he echoes, at a loss. The last time he had see Ryuu with her had been -- “Since we got here?”

It doesn’t seem possible -- he’d never quite made it to the pharmacy, but Obi had found at least a few moments to catch Ryuu outside of work, sometimes hopping into the gardens as he made his rounds, or at least nodding to him as they passed each other in the halls. It wasn’t much -- wasn’t enough -- but he’d assumed that Miss would be doing much the same.

Though with the way she’s been working, Miss could hardly find time for his impromptu visits, let alone ones she would have to orchestrate herself.

“But, well...” Obi searches for words, grasping for something to make this situation make sense. “She’s seen you, right? Maybe not here but -- but elsewhere?”

“I’m always here,” Ryuu huffs, mouth pressed thin. “I just thought when you said you had come back that I -- that you...” He hesitates. “Never mind.”

It’s so strange how everything seems to be slipping through his fingers. “Little Ryuu--”

“If you’ll excuse me.” Ryuu stands, tall as a man, but shoulders bowed just as they been as a child, weighed down by expectation. “I have -- things to do.”

“Right,” Obi laughs dryly as he bushes by, shaking his head. “Of course. You’re busy. Everyone is busy.”

Somehow, everyone except him.

“Obi!” Miss breaks away from her instructor, silks rustling as she dashes across the ballroom floor. Her smile breaks wide across her face, eyes bright, like the sun viewed through a leaf, and --

And it’s hard to remember why he’s here when she looks like that, when she looks just the way she always has; brilliant and bright and free.

It comes back to him when she skids to a stop just before him, suddenly wary. She’s close enough to touch -- he would only have to stretch out an arm and his fingers would rest easily on her shoulder -- but she mains the distance so carefully it hits him like a slap.

“Miss?” His gaze flicks towards her instructor, who is at least not clutching at his feet even if his face is the very portrait of despair. Obi smothers a smile; it might as well be years ago, back when Miss was preparing herself for her mission in Tanbarun. Back when this ache in his heart was new, was painful, when the edge of it hadn’t yet dulled to become a part of him.

It’s not the only thing that’s dulled; even looking at the man, he misses that sly look, the furtive glimpse from the corner of the eye. It’s only once he straightens, watching them with barely concealed curiosity that it strikes him: this man is paid by His Majesty.

From the stiff way Miss holds herself, from the fixed away she is not looking over her shoulder -- she has not missed than fact either. This carefully maintained space between them is for appearance’s sake.

He doesn’t think about how only weeks ago, she would not have thought of it. Or rather -- she would not have cared. And now she does.

“You have perfect timing,” she says, breathlessly pleased. It’s the first time he’s heard her speak without strain or stress for weeks now, and it’s not hard to keep the smile on his face, even with His Majesty’s eyes upon them.

“Oh?” he hums, raising an eyebrow. “Did I manage to catch you on a break, Miss?”

“Oh.” Her glee snuffs out like a candle, and she shies back a step. “No I don’t --” her mouth pulls thin, brow furrowing -- “I have to keep practicing. But you’re here just in time to help me.”

Her hand reaches out, grasping his, and -- and it’s been so long since she’s touched him like this, since they have even spoken that it stops him dead, heels digging into the floor.

Miss blinks, turning back to him with furrowed brow, and -- and he’s just as confused, just as concerned that his heart doesn’t leap as it should, that he doesn’t feel his usual joy at being useful.

“Obi?” she ventures, weaving close.

Instead, he just feels used.

“Shouldn’t Master be helping you with this, Miss?” Every word creaks out of him, protest foreign to his lips. “You’re supposed to be learning to dance with him, after all.”

“Oh...” she murmurs, staring at where their hands meet, cheeks a painful red. “I...I thought you might...”

The smile he turns on her is sharp, pointed. “Isn’t it said that no wife dances with any man besides her husband?”

“Yes. I just...” A breath shudders out of her. “I hadn’t asked, since he’s so...busy.”

Too busy for me, she doesn’t say, she never says. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s time she should.

“But I guess I should,” she says suddenly, decisively. “Sorry to, um --”

“It’s all right.”

She smiles so bright it’s blinding, and something settles in his chest, and something soars, but --

But it’s only because he’s not longer used to this, to living in her light. In Lilias, he had been a flower in full sun, basking in the glow of her attention, but now --

Now he’s a plant in a closet, straining to grow toward an inconstant light. His time with her has been so sparing he can’t even say if it’s because she isn’t shining, or because -- because --

She’s shining for someone else.

He pulls his hand gently from hers, and it feels like nothing more than tearing apart two roots that have grown together.

“I’m afraid I have other business to attend to, Miss,” he lies, because if there’s one thing he’s always been good at, it’s saving himself. “I just thought I would check in, see how you were doing.”

Like she somehow hadn’t for Ryuu.

“Oh.” She sounds so lost, so bereft. His hands clench at his sides to keep from reaching for her. “Right. Yes, of course. I’m --” she peers up at him, and the smile she gives him is dimmer, forced -- “I’m fine. Thank you, Obi.”

“Glad to hear it.” He can only hope his smile looks less broken than it feels.

“My lady!” the instructor calls out, a note of censure in his tone. “If you’ve caught your breath, we must continue.”

“Right.” Her hands clench in her skirt. “G-good luck. With whatever you’re doing.”

He turns away, and with every step, he cannot shake the feeling that he’s left something important behind.

And now it all comes full circle: the tale, the scar, the poison. That is the way of it -- a boy might try to escape his past, but that which is not laid to rest always returns, a specter that can’t be shook. There is more to leaving than simply looking away.

Let us come to the heart of it: A troll makes a mirror, and all that is beautiful is made ugly in its sight.

Obi steps into the hall, door closing behind him, and he nearly collapses against the wall. His breath pants out of him hard, like he’s run a marathon, and -- and --

What has he done?

Miss’s face haunts him; the way her smile had guttered when he pulled away --

“Obi! There you are.”

He snaps upright, blinking as master hurries down the hall to him, his gait brisk and business-like.

“Master?” His stomach churns as he speaks, threatening to rise up, to choke him, but he pushes it back down. “Are you here to help Miss?”

Master blinks, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Does she need help?”

He lets out a soft sigh, something like relief weighing heavy in his gut.

No, not relief. Resignation. How foolish he is to have thought her light was for him, when he was only standing in the way. What does Miss need with him, when Master is here to attend her?

“She’s having her dancing lessons,” he explains, letting his words hop jauntily out of his mouth, letting a smirk curl his lips. There’s no need to act as if anything has changed, when nothing truly has. “And if her instructor is any indication, she needs a better partner.”

“Oh, no.” Master says it so easily, as if he were just shrugging off another one of his jokes. “I don’t have time. I’m on my way to Izana right now.”

Obi blinks, stymied. “You don’t have time.”

“Izana is keeping me busy,” Master tells him, tone taking a defensive edge. “Besides, I thought you handled that sort of thing.”

“I handle this?” he echoes hollowly, body heavy. He had encouraged Miss in Lilias, had helped her walk this path when it was all she could do to not stumble, all of it done out of friendship, knowing that had Master been beside her, he would have done the same, but now -- now --

Has Master thought that a part of his duties this whole time? Was bringing Miss to this point just another part of his job?

Master lets out a sigh, casting a longing look toward the practice room. “If I know my brother -- and I do -- he doesn’t want me to help her with any of her...tests.”

Obi stills, hands clenching at his side. There’s so many thoughts that bubble through his mind, and he knows if he moves a muscle, if he does anything besides just breathe they will spill out of him, words he can never take back, but --

She’s learning to dance for you, sits at the tip of his tongue. Good thing he’s well practiced at biting back the truth.

“I didn’t realize His Majesty had forbidden you,” he says instead, tone buoyant, even as he feels himself sinking deeper.

Master flushes an angry red. “He - he hasn’t! I just assumed...”

He knows what he’s supposed to do, what he would normally do -- Oh Master, he would tease, prowling around him with a grin, you know what they say about assumptions --

But he doesn’t feel like that just now. Instead he lets the silence mellow, lets Master be the one that feels the weight of it, the burden of knowing he must be the one to end it.

Master coughs. “You’re right, Obi. I should just ask him.”

All at once, like the clouds shifting before the sun, the weight lifts from his chest. A heavy breath falls from him, and Obi pushes himself off the wall with a smile. “Sounds like a plan, Master.”

It is dangerous to lower one’s guard in the presence of His Majesty, but -- well, his meetings with Master are always so boring. The only thing that keeps him awake is when His Majesty tries to rile, and Master obliges in his usual spectacular fashion. Still, it’s rote by now -- plans for the summit interspersed with thinly veiled jabs at Master’s preparedness, sometimes even a short joke or two --

“That should handle preparations as they stand,” His Majesty says, knitting his fingers under his chin. Here it is, Master’s chance -- “Is there anything else to discuss?”

Master hesitates, silent. Obi stands tense at the door, willing the question into his mind.

“No,” he says finally, uncomfortable. “Nothing.”

The edge of his vision blurs, tinted red at the corners, and oh, oh, it has been so long since he’s felt this anger, this betrayal --

“If that’s all then.” His Majesty sends a pointed glance toward the door.

Still, Master hesitates. It’s what he’s best at, after all -- meaning to yet never doing --

“No.” A breath shudders from him, his hands flexing at his side. “There’s -- there’s one more thing.”

His Majesty sits back, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“Shirayuki, she...” Master clears his throat, shifting nervously in front of the king. “I mean, I was wondering if I could -- could help her. With her lessons. Sometimes. Since she’s -- I mean, since I...”

Words abandon Master, leaving him routed before the battle is even joined. Obi’s teeth grit down, and he -- he wishes Master had more confidence in this, that he wanted it more. That he was ready to fight even when defiance wasn’t driving him.

“I suppose so.” Already the king’s mincing tone sets him on edge, makes him wonder at what terrible cost this concession will wring out of Master. “I only put conditions on her behavior, not yours.”

“Oh, right.” The tension drops out of him, as if he cannot hear the exception hovering in the air between them. “Of course. Thank you--”

“It’s only that I thought this was a test of her confidence,” His Majesty continues, every word sinking in like a dagger. “After all, you seemed so sure of her from the start, though I had never heard Shirayuki speak of marriage until...well.” He shrugs, offering Master a bemused smile. “But I suppose if you think she needs help believing in this...”

“No!” Master doesn’t even hear the jaws of the king’s trap close around him, too busy shaking his head, the spindly fingers of a flush creeping up his neck. “I don’t -- I don’t need to help her. I only thought...”

His Majesty sits, waiting, too-innocent expression upon his face.

“Shirayuki can handle this,” Master decides, standing defiant before his brother. “She doesn’t need my help.”

The king’s mouth curls into a smile. “I’m so glad you have such confidence in her, Zen.”

Obi’s fists clench, but there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say while they stand here, trapped in His Majesty’s web. Master bows his head, turns on his heel, and strides out the door.

There’s nothing for him to do but follow. Obi pushes off the wall, turning toward the door --

“Sir Obi.”

Ah, but he knows better than to turn his back on this king. Slowly, so slowly, he turns back.

His Majesty’s teeth are bared in a smile. “I do hope you found this meeting...illuminating.”

His bones crack from how hard he clenches. “I did.”

Its is harder, this time, to watch what he loves rot, to feel all his happiness turn to ashes in his mouth. When the boy was young, he had not known things such as this, had not know joy or trust or love. What things had turned were petty, small; a child’s cares.

The boy is now a man, and as the poison seeps into him unknowing, spreading the troll’s curse, every loss is a wound pried open, a scab torn. He is left bleeding, a body main only of hurts, and --

Well, you know what they say about a wounded animal, don’t you? With their back against the wall, there is nothing they won’t do to survive.

It’s nothing to find his old stash again, hidden beneath a floorboard he’d had to pry up himself. A first, for him; he’d never lived some place that wasn’t already falling apart.

It’s not easy going, not like he expects; the wood’s swelled in the years since he left, in the even longer since it’s been used. He’d stopped preparing to run years ago, and once His Majesty had heard about his proclivity to liberate unloved wines from the cellar, he’d found a nice cabinet moved into his room. An off-putting change, to say the least, but he’d shook off the feeling of eyes on his back to discover that none of the suggested vintages were poisoned.

But it’s not something aged fine that he need now, not something to go down smooth and rock him gently. Oh no, he wants oblivion; he wants something that rots, that might get this festering taste of disappointment out of his mouth.

There’s plenty of time for second thoughts as he levers it up, as he wedges his fingers and eventually his knives in the gaps about the board. There’s every chance for wisdom to prevail, for tempers cool --

But Obi just doesn’t care, not anymore. His chest is open and bleeding, and this is his anesthetic.

It’s ironic; he wouldn’t know that word if it wasn’t for her. It doesn’t stop him from popping the cork, though, and drowning that thought in bitterness.

Even though the vinegar, it tastes sweet. Knowing that all this will just...stop for a while. The thinking. The feeling. Just for now.

It’s enough.

The alcohol hits his stomach hard; it’s been too long since he’s done anything besides savor wine at a night banquet or nurse a pint over an evening. He can’t even remember the last time he drank from the bottle, strangling the neck like it’s his only lifeline, his only hope.

No, that’s -- that’s a lie. Or at least a half of one. Years ago, when he’d stumbled off into a forest, alone, bleeding out. He’d torn the cork out with his teeth, taking a swallow before he poured damn near half of it over his wound, the pain so acute it felt like living.

Miss would call that sterilization. He calls it a waste of booze.

With each swig he feels hot, like he’s running a fever. The walls close in around him, tight like a carriage, like a coffin. He’s trapped in here, buried under his promises, his duty, and worst of all --

Worst of all, his love.

Obi lets out a laugh, harsh and bitter. There was a reason he never stayed. He should have remembered sooner.

He can’t stay in this room, not when there’s only his mistakes to keep him company. So he doesn’t.

There is no destination set in his mind, just tiles beneath his feet and stone beneath his hands as he flings himself into the night. The cool air envelops him as he falls, and for the first time in days he’s at peace, his mind far and away while he trusts his body to catch him, to take him where he most needs to go --

A stupid choice. He knows where his heart will lead, every time.

Her balcony looms below him, and for once he’s glad she isn’t there, glad she’s at whatever dinner or soiree that keeps her from being at her table, books fanned around her. The last thing she needs is to see him like this, three sheets to the wind and too many truths sitting so precariously at the tip of his tongue.

Truths she might need to hear, if the state of her balcony is any indication, but -- it’s really too late now for second thoughts. For her or for him.

“Obi?”

He startles, hands slipping on the tile, but there she is, dressed in her nightgown, shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. He can’t see her eyes like this, but he sees their shine, knows the concern that must be in them. “Miss.”

He’s safe, at least, if he stays up here.

“Are you coming down?” she asks, hesitant, shoulders rounding shyly beneath her shawl. “That doesn’t look comfortable.”

More comfortable than the conversation we’ll have if I come down, he nearly says, but instead the words come out as, “Yes.”

He’s an idiot. The jolt of his heels hitting the stone remind him of that well enough. So does the wobble when he tries to stand.

Miss takes a step toward him, concern etched on every feature. It fades when she’s close enough, when her nose wrinkles and brow furrows. “Have you been drinking?”

He pulls himself upright, flinging out his arms. “Celebrating, Miss! It’s called celebrating!”

Concern turns to confusion, to wariness. “Celebrating?”

“You’re finally going to marry Master!” His mouth pulls wide, and he knows by the feel that his smile isn’t right, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Aren’t you happy?”

Something happens to Miss’s face, a dozen expressions one right after the other, but he’s too far gone to catch them, to find any meaning.

“You’re drunk,” she decides, mouth bowing into a frown. “Obi, I know that--”

“You don’t know anything about me, Miss.”

A breath huffs out of her, like she’s been punched. He doesn’t know what possessed him to say that -- he would never say that, not to her -- but all he can do is stare at her, staring back at him with the betrayal so fresh in her eyes, and --

And he’s ruined everything.

“I’m celebrating your impending nuptials,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to stop, because there’s a venom in him, a poison, and if he doesn’t spit it out, it’ll kill him -- “I thought at least one of us should be enjoying ourselves.”

“Obi...” she breathes, and he can’t do this, can’t face this, not now --

He leaps off the balcony and trusts that his body will catch him. There’s only two things he’s ever been good at, and this is one of them.

The other is knowing when to run.

It is the nature of stories to be poignant, to pull out a single moment and frame it as the greatest tragedy, the most painful agony. If it does it well enough, it is used again and again, told as a truth to bring a tale to life.

They would have you believe that it is the moment a poison kills you the greatest agony, but there is one far, far worse:

The moment you realize you have taken it.

Obi cannot cry.

He’s broken in that way; he could try for hours, for days, but no tears will ever come to him. He left that sort of grief, that sort of suffering far behind him, where the wind smells of spice and air clings to skin like water.

But still he sits in Wistal’s wood, in the same ruins where Master and Miss first confessed their love, and heaves. There may be no tears in him, but for once, he wishes there were.

“Oh, my little monster,” purrs a voice that turns his veins to ice. “What have you done?”

The Snow Queen comes to him as she always has, when the boy is alone, when he is most vulnerable to her wiles.

Why do you tremble? she asks, curling her fingers in his hair. Here, creep into my warm fur.

The boy knows he shouldn’t. The boy knows the danger he is in.

Knowledge may be the greatest power, but familiarity? Oh, that is greater still.

It’s not possible. It can’t be. He remembers the blood, impossibly hot on his hands; remembers the moment the life fled from her eyes --

“You’re not real,” he murmurs. “You can’t be here.”

Her fingers thread through the bristle of his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. Her touch sickens him, makes his stomach lurch against his knees, but still, still -- he closes his eyes.

She leans her body against his back, and even through the layers of clothes that separate them, he can feel the bone of her ribs, the sharp spike of her knees. “Can’t I?”

“No. You can’t,” he insists, though he knows she is. His mind may conjure her touch but never her warmth. “I killed you.”

He can feel her smile, sharp as a blade against his throat. “I got better.”

“No.” He can’t move, can hardly breathe. “No.”

“I’ve been looking for you, little monster.” Her hand tightens in his hair. “And now I’ve found you.”

Are you still cold? she asked the boy. She kissed him on the forehead, and he forgot he had ever felt warmth. He forgot he was ever cold.

All he felt was numb.

“What did I tell you?” Tevta whispers in his ear, voice coiled about him like a noose. “You were born broken.”

He’s frozen in her hands, unable to move. “And everyone who looks at you knows it.”

The Snow Queen kissed him again, and this time he forgot the little girl, the roses, everything he had ever loved, and who had loved him in return.

“You ruin every good thing you touch,” she tells him, nails scraping along his scalp. “Come away with me, and you’ll never touch anything good again.”

Now you must have no more kisses, the Snow Queen said, for to kiss him a third time was to kill him. It did not matter, he was her creature. He had always been her creature.

“Yes,” he chokes out, the taste of bile creeping up his throat. “I’ll come with you.”

Here is a truth a tale will never tell: sometimes the boy pulls out a shard, only to put it right back in.

It’s strange how we tell stories, isn’t it? We’re always rushing to know the end. Even when we already know it, deep in our hearts of hearts, from the first page.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #all that remains #my fic #ans #snow queen au #strong allusions to childhood abuse #welcome to 8.7K of steadily increasing angst #i feel like the only thing I can say is that this hurt me to write as much as it hurts you to read it

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mirrordoppelganger · 6 years

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[Drabble]: Stone Mother

It was the dead of night as Corven approached the temple doors. He wore a heavy cloak, hiding his wings away under the fabric to avoid people’s eyes. His jewelry had been tucked away as well, making himself look as small as he could. The from knocker was clacked to the metal three times as he waited, hoping someone would answer. But he wasn’t expecting for anyone to, it was so late.

So it was a surprise when a young woman did answer, peeking out from behind the heavy door. Her robes were a familiar deep purple, her dark hair in an unbound braid over her shoulder. “Ehm, hello child,” She began, “What brings you to the Temple of Medusa at this hour..?”

“Sanctuary and prayer.” He said, as he’d recited it earlier, though it made him gag to say he’d be offering a prayer of all things. “May I enter, Priestess?”

The door was tugged open, the woman waving him in. “Of course, please enter!”

Corven looked about the stone temple--a structure half carved into a cave, with torches filling the whole place in a warm, lavender glow. Perhaps that was the goddess’ touch on this place. He wouldn’t know; he never cared much for temples. Eyes looked onward, where he could see a statue missing it’s head, with near completely missing wings. Seemed to have been a woman by the body, as he stepped closer.

The priestess closed the door, adding on an iron slat that covered it over. She approached the teen, hands folded close to her chest. “...Her statue wasn’t like this three decades ago. It was once quite glorious, I’m told…” She appeared to wipe the beginnings of a tear from her eyes. “She is still with us, but she was...her form was destroyed in battle a short while ago.” Her hands met again, “Give her time; she shall answer your prayers, even in her weakened state.”

Corven just nodded to the woman. A show of understanding. “Right,” She went towards the area behind the statue, with a gesture to follow. The angel did so at his own pace, tailing towards a more…”homey” room, he supposed. Fewer flames, yet it was just warm enough to sleep comfortably. There wasn’t anybody else present.

Except for the snakes, and statue of Medusa.

Corven looked just a little concerned. “Ah, don’t fret--they’re all non-venomous,” The priestess plucked an awake one from the ground. It flicked it’s tongue at him. “See? Harmless.”

She began to leave, letting the snake down. “As there’s just yourself and I tonight, please make yourself comfortable. If you require food, there’s jars in the corners. And if you need any assistance,” She gestured towards a bit down the hall, “Just come and knock, alright?”

“Of course.” Corven looked around the room. “...Thank you.” Was added a moment after. The woman just smiled, closing the door as she left. Now he was all alone, here in the temple of a goddess.

Corven let examined the statue before him. He knew it was Medusa. Though unlike the stone fixture in the front of the temple, this one still had her head--bowed, with a soft smile as she looked out over the room. Thin “strands” of marble obscured a bit of her face. Her arms were placed on her lap. And, too, just like the front, her wings were broken.

He took a seat next to the statue--as if he would ask to be seated--and he let his dark wings stretch out as he pulled his cloak off, folding it in his lap. Corven’s lips pursed as he tried to think.

“...I...don’t know why I came here…”

What was he even doing here then..?

“...I think it’s a closure thing. Or…”

Maybe it was deprivation? Like he was deprived of something important.

Corven put his face in his hands, taking a few deep breaths. His wings shook a bit.

Why was he letting himself open up? To a statue of all things?

“I…” He turned his head, shining eyes looking at the marble face beside him.

“...I don’t hate you.” He knew he didn’t--he didn’t hate the goddess who had a hand in his very being. “...I hate…” Unwavering obedience. Obeying. Pit’s unwavering obedience and blind, directionless life. “...That name. ‘Dark Pit’. And...Pandora…And that you...expected me to obey you. Both of you did, and...” He hate it. He hated Pandora.

They were who put that name in his head. Medusa put the history in his head. Pandora injected her expectations in his head.

“...I’m Corven,” He ran his fingers through his hair while staring down the statue, “not a Pit.”

Vague memories of angels long past.

“...Your angels were rebellious and free. Is that why you didn’t hunt me down..?” He looked at one of the torches. “...Pandora tried to make me just like Pit. A parrot. Did you want that..?”

He was gutsy, asking all of this. But what did he have to fear? She couldn’t do anything if she wanted to, if she was even there; her body was destroyed. Her powers were reduced.

Besides, Corven had never been afraid to be upfront. Why start now?

The dark angel squinted his eyes as he started to feel tired. The warmth of the room was getting to him, and he’d been awake for a while, traversing here on foot. It hadn’t felt necessary to call Phos and Lux. He was regretting that a bit now.

Corven leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath as he tried to let the tension out of his body. He was tired. Tired of today. And tomorrow would be even more tiresome. Approaching Viridi and becoming a Force of Nature...it made a knot form in his stomach just thinking about it. He didn’t want to be in service to her. He didn’t want to be in service to anyone, and yet…

The angel brought his legs up close while his head went back. A few tears burned his eyes before they rolled down his cheeks, drifting off to sleep between silent sobs.

…. …….. ……………..

“Fly me to the moon~ Let me play among the stars~ Let me see what spring is like~ On Jupiter and on Mars~”

...The voice was soothing. As gentle as the hands that brushed through his hair, as he’d imagined a mother would to her panicked child to bring them ease.

“Fill my heart with song~ And let me sing for-ever more~ You are all I long for~ All I hoped for and adore~ In other words, please be true~ In other words, I love you~”

She was humming to him, a break in the song. A thumb lightly pressed against his cheek, wiping away traces of tears. He felt so tiny, yet...safe.

“Fill my heart with song~ Let me sing for ever more~ You are all I long for~ All I wished for and adore~ In other words, please be true~ In other words, in other words~ I Love You…”

……

Corven slowly was roused from sleep, feeling stiff as anyone would be by sleeping on stone.

...Or in his case, slowly rising and realizing he’d ended up on the statue’s lap at some point in the night, his cloak a makeshift pillow. Had...Medusa willed him to there..?

Was that who sang to him?

...Made sense.

The angel got to his feet, moving about and taking a bit of the food the priestess had mentioned. Must have been offering food they’d preserved.

Wings were tucked down once again as Corven slipped on the cloak, feeling the Lightning Whistle dangle under his toga. Viridi. Off to Viridi. It felt like a death march, like he was going to get stuck, maybe he wasn’t going to be allowed the freedom he sought as soon as he entered. What if Viridi turned on him. What if…

Red eyes darted around as anxiety and dread filled him. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, find a focus, something, he was going to, and he didn’t--

He met eyes with the stone statue. Calm eyes that suggested patience. Be calm, they said. I’m watching, they said.

Corven slowly steadied his breathing. Cracks had long since formed across his skin. Repair before he went to Viridi. He would be alright. He would be alright.

He began to step towards the doorway, pausing immediately to turn to the statue of Medusa. He...hesitated, before lightly, barely touching the statue’s arm. “...Thank you.” Was said quietly before the angel hurried off, saying a brief goodbye to the priestess. When outside of the city limits, the Lightning Chariot was summoned, streaking across the early morning skyline.

#Drabble #Mun Writes #V; Ascertain (Post game)#it is 5AM as i post this and ive been at this one all of tongiht so sdkfhasuerhkjhv #just #barfing up ideas and drabbles #good fackin' night

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tkwrtrilogy3 · 6 years

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Chapter III: Doriath (Pt. II)

As we walked toward the distant tree line, I noticed the world around us. It seemed to change before my eyes. The colors were more vivid than ever before as the starlight burned brighter. Shapes became shadows as we passed by figures of nature. I felt things unknown lingering in the darkness. I felt a tug on my robe.

“Ada,” Oropher chimed as he struggled to keep up. “I am afraid.”

I picked him up and he put his arms around and buried his face into chest. Mîrwen looked at me—her eyes filled with fear. She took hold of my other hand tightly as the low hum of voices began their familiar tune. The closer to our destination we came, the louder the voices.

We walked together slowly—every step anticipating a remarkable moment that would reveal paradise or send our souls into darkness. I could feel my heart rising into my throat and my thoughts failed me when our march ended abruptly at the edge of the forest.

“Aúrion,” Eäros called as he came forward with another of his kin. They stood quietly before us looking or listening for someone. Suddenly several elves came out of the trees armed with strange accoutrements I would come to learn were weapons of war.

They whispered among themselves briefly before one elf emerged. He was nearly ethereal—his long golden hair framed a shocking face as strong as it was delicate. He bowed to Elmo and Orowen.

“We have been expecting you,” the elf began. “Your brother the king awaits you. I am Daeron. If you will, follow me.”

Elmo nodded and we followed him into the forest. In an instant of crossing the threshold, there was an overwhelming feeling of calm. There was an enchanting beauty far different from when we came. I wondered if we had finally come into Eldamar. There were creatures I had never seen wandering beneath a canopy of mystical treetops. Higher still, the Heavens seem to shine brighter for the light of the stars were as countless lanterns of endless light.

Beneath our feet the ground was soft; we walked on air. Our journey seemed worth the years of unknowing. Before long, I noticed a familiar face.

“Greetings, my friend,” he said joining me. “It has been quite some time.”

“Denethor,” I said. “You are here?”

“I am,” he answered. “I wished to see you to King Thingol.”

I was happy to see him again but I felt there was something he was hiding. I said nothing—I did not want to alarm my family.

“How is Arethuil,” I asked.

“She is well,” he began. “We have little ones of our own. Who do you call your son, if I may inquire?”

“He is Oropher,” I said proudly.

Oropher looked at Denethor—inspecting him carefully. When he approved, he nodded.

“Oropher. What a noble name,” Denethor said. “Fit for a king.”

I smiled as we continued on our way. Mîrwen said nothing—her mind elsewhere. When we came upon a long stone bridge over a powerful raging river, two guards stood ready to lead us across to the magnificent gates that secured all that lived within.

Slowly we mad our way across—a band of wanderers hardly prepared to meet anyone, much less a mighty king. As we moved closer to the gates they were opened to us. The halls were dim—lit by lanterns throughout save the Great Hall of Thingol. It bore the light of lanterns with the natural light of the stars high above. The breath-taking elegance was made greater by the appearance of Elwë known as King Thingol.

He wore a robe of sliver and white. It was in this light I could see the beauty of my kin around me. He came to us joyously.

“Elmo,” he said embracing him. “How I have missed you. Orowen.”

She smiled and paid obeisance as the rest of us did obediently.

“It is good to you again,” Elmo said. “If not in Eldamar where our brother resides. I must ask what reason have you found to stay?”

Thingol motioned to Daeron. He left us as Thingol’s smile grew wider. He turned a glance to his left as Daeron returned escorting the most beautiful creature anyone had ever seen.

“This is my wife and queen, Melian,” Thingol said taking her hand and kissing it.

“Welcome to Menegroth,” she said. Her voice had a sound from eternity that rang from a knowledge of time. She had long dark hair and eyes of a color that could not be described as they defied all things earthbound.

“You must be tired and hungry,” Thingol continued. Daeron, show my brother and his court to their living quarters. Once you all have rested, we shall feast.”

Daeron once again led us away. The few of the court—made up of Iarûr, Êlengolas, Valdôr and their households—came with us. In that, I felt better about making this my new home. After traversing through endless stone paths, we were shown our quarters. Guarded by two elves, they opened the doors and we entered. The ceilings were vaulted—carve with such detail I wondered how the artisans found the time. There was a very large hearth and fireplace beside a wardrobe. To our delight, a door beside our bed let to another room for Oropher.

“Shall I take Oropher to bed,” I heard Amareth say.

I looked to see that Oropher had fallen asleep. In all the enchantments I hardly felt him in my arms.

“Thank you, Amareth,” I said handing him to her. When they were gone, I turned to Mîrwen. She was sitting at the end of the bed looking into the hollow fireplace.

“Talk to me, Mîrwen,” I said joining her.

“She is quite beautiful,” she began softly.

“Queen Melian,” I said. “She is.”

“She is not one of us,” she said.

I did not say a word to her. I touched her face gently. She looked at me. I could see she wanted to speak but I shook my head. I kissed her lips.

“We will speak after dinner,” I whispered. She nodded and put her head on my shoulder. Before long, servants arrived and dressed us for dinner. When we were ready, we left our room and made our way through the winding paths to the banquet hall that was even more magnificent than the throne room.

The table was the length of the room and elegantly dressed with plates and utensils of the finest craftsmanship. Everyone was present—including Denethor and Arethuil. We sat near them as well as Galadhon and Celebriel who was visibly with child.

“When are you due,” Arethuil asked her.

“Quite possibly after dinner,” Galadhon teased.

“That would be far too much to wish for,” Celebriel said as she sat down. “But I know he will come into this work inside the safety of this palace and for this I am grateful.”

Before another word could be said, Thingol and Melian entered the hall with Elmo and Orowen. We stood for them. Once they were seated we sat down to be served. Galathil and Nárwen found themselves near us.

“Where is Níndi,” Mîrwen asked Galadhon. “I have not see her since we came into Doriath.”

“I suspect she is with Eäros,” Galadhon answered. “She thinks her father is unaware of her love for him.”

“So you approve of him,” I asked as Êlengolas, Valdôr, Finëar and their wives joined us.

“Do I have a choice,” Galadhon asked. “I have little control over the heart. I think her too young to marry but her mother thinks otherwise. I am not fool enough to disagree with my wife. I must live with her for eternity.”

“You are wise,” Celebriel said smiling.

“Tell me, Denethor,” I began. “You have children, you say?”

“Yes,” he said. “A boy and a girl. They are young; not quite old enough to be betrothed.”

“Be thankful,” Êlengolas said. “I have girls and I wish nothing more than for them to stay as they—repelled by boys. Though I believe my Nimeithel has found a friend in Orothôn’s son Oropher.”

Mîrwen laughed for the first time in a long while. That made me smile.

“I am curious as to why you are so far from where we last saw you,” Galathil asked Denethor. “What brings you into Beleriand?”

“Something lingers in darkness,” he said softly. “I cannot say what it is but for the safety of my people I asked for refuge and King Thingol gave it willingly. For that, I am indebted to him.”

“What darkness,” Valdôr asked curiously. “What else is out there but elves?”

“Not just elves,” Thingol said from end of the table. I wonder how he heard us. “There are many things out there beyond these caverns. Some are harmless and some wish to do harm. The world is changing and it grows darker. But for better or for worse I remain here for there are some things in this world greater than fear.”

He took his wife’s hand and kissed it. I turned to Mîrwen—she was no longer smiling. Everyone at in silence.–TKWR Trilogy Book I: The Epic of Eryn Galen by Jaynaé Marie Miller 10-27-2018.

#book i #the epic of eryn galen #the official tkwr trilogy #the kingdom of the woodland realm trilogy #orothôn and mîrwen #elu thingol and melian #doriath #beleriand #denethor and arethuil #galadhon and celebriel #galathil and nárwen #little oropher #menegroth #based on tolkien #in honor of jrr tolkien #for my father

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pauldron-pieces · 4 years

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Destrier Revel: Light And Home

Fandom: Dungeons And Dragons (5E)

Pairing: Destrier Revel/Illeria Stennas (F!NPC)

Rating: Holy shit tame.

AN: This is a hypothetical scenario featuring original characters in a world created by my Dungeon Master. As usual, this is non-canon and I own nothing aside from intellectual properties specifically attached to Destrier Revel. This installment is mechanically unsound in a multitude of ways and ignores certain important lore facets. Trigger warnings are listed inside. Enjoy!

Taglist: @sporadic-fics and @cookiethewriter!

Inspired By: Peder B. Helland: Bright Future

Destrier Revel’s Backstory: Burn The Wicked

For Leofore

[Kulls are a monstrous race created by crossbreeding urgals and hill giants. They are the size of hill giants, with large tusks.]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional duress and doubt/self-worth issues. Stay safe!]

Thranrok had promised to meet him later that evening at Maplecrest, though Destrier had known the actual likelihood of that happening was incredibly slim. In the city around him the festivities carried on, civilians and nobles alike celebrating the safe return of the prince, queen and Leofore.

It had been a very good night, and an even better day prior to that.

Revel's face was a bit sore from all the grinning he was doing, but it had been too long since he'd smiled so much. After all the grim events that had led up to this celebration, the months of doubt and self-loathing…

He sighed, shaking his head at himself. It would do him no good to linger on such thoughts. Everything had worked out in the end, truly better than anyone could have anticipated.

The blond man tarried a while outside Maplecrest, absentmindedly studying the familiar structure. He could recall when the inn had simply been a bar, back when he was nothing but a faceless squire in the king's army. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

Destrier heaved another heavy sigh, undoing the stiff folds of his ascot. He should have known that Thranrok would be chest-deep in merrymaking, perhaps he should return to the castle as well-

"Knight Revel?"

Illeria's voice startled him out of his staring contest with the ornate moulding over the door and he flinched, turning towards her. "Yes, Illeria?"

"What are you doing out here all alone?" She inquired, raising an eyebrow. Destrier's words escaped him for a moment. She always looked lovely to him, but she seemed to be especially so tonight. Whether it was the relief of returning alive or just a trick of the soft starlight overhead, Destrier found himself hard-pressed to take his eyes off of her.

Ganymethios and Leofore both had teased him relentlessly for his mooning , even while Thranrok begged for details, " strictly for research purposes, I'm reading another romance and I could really use a human's perspective. " It led to the knight's endeavors being tinged with wistful glances and foolish thoughts of presenting prodigious bouquets of roses. Gold, or perhaps vibrant orange to compliment her warm skin tone.

"Thinking." Revel replied finally, flushing a little when he realized how long he had been gawking. "Memories are closer tonight, I fancy. I er, I was recalling our first meeting. The circumstances were...less than ideal."

"To be fair, you and your battalion friends should not have upset my horse." She chuckled, giving his shoulder a light tap.

Destrier cringed, recalling the racket his armor had made when the old Clydesdale donkey-kicked him through the barn door. And of course, what had transpired shortly while he laid on his back in the mud...

The barn exploded outwards in a hail of splinters and clapboards. Squire Destrier, acting on instinct, grabbed the infuriated young woman's arm and yanked her down to the ground with him.

A massive truss beam sailed by overhead and the bellowing call that followed threatened to shatter Destrier's eardrums. The woman, who moments before had been brandishing a truncheon and threatening to finish the job her horse had started, went still against his chest. "Goddess." She breathed. "What is that? "

"Kull." Destrier whispered in reply, squinting through the rain to catch a glimpse of the hulking beast. He carefully tugged at the laces of his oilcloth cloak, sliding the durable fabric off over his head. "I need you to put this on." He instructed her, still keeping his voice soft. "Once I have gotten its attention, I need you to run."

"Once you've what?! " She hissed even as she obediently pulled on the cloak.

"They have terrible eyesight but a keen nose. That cloak will mask your scent as well as your form." Destrier rolled to his feet, starting to scrape some of the mud off of his breastplate. The ground shook with the Kull's approaching footsteps. Where there was a Kull there were bound to be Urgal ground troops, though the longer legs of the ponderous brutes always outstripped their smaller kin. "Run to the barracks. Find Knight-Captain Leofore."

She tilted her head when she looked up at him, her eyes wide in the darkness. "But what will you do?"

Squire Destrier, spotting two of his comrades struggling out from beneath the rubble of the stables, permitted himself to smile briefly. "I will distract the creature until aid comes. I am counting on you."

Her hand squeezed his briefly before they parted...

"What came afterwards though...it may sound nonsensical, but I am glad we decided to encroach upon your stable's hospitality that night. If the barracks had not been full-up of wounded, we might not have arrived until it was too late." Destrier mused, troubled by his vivid recollections.

"True enough. I suppose I should be grateful for your breaking and entering?" Illeria teased back in the here and now, tilting her head when she looked up at him.

Destrier's heart thudded painfully in his chest at the memory and he broke eye contact, clearing his throat. "Even if you are not, I am."

"Hm, I suppose I should be. After all, you and your friends brought me plenty of business over the years." Illeria allowed grudgingly. "Despite Thranrok always lighting the drapes on fire," She paused and gestured vaguely at her rebuilt stables, "I had coin-over to fix the barn up right, and expand Maplecrest into a proper inn."

"Could have gotten a new plow horse." The knight suggested, only partially serious.

"I should think not. He survived a Kull attack, after all! Few people can say that about their horses." She retorted proudly, fishing around in the many pockets of her ornate waistcoat until she found her keys. Beckoning the Knight-Captain to follow, she unlocked the heavy door and entered Maplecrest.

Destrier tapped the lintel of the doorway as he passed beneath it, his fingers lingering on the carved insignia that had given the establishment its name. It depicted fans of samaras flanking a single, expertly-rendered maple leaf, and the lower half of the piece was worn a smooth honey-brown from locals touching it. Those who frequented the inn seemed to trust that it would bring luck or safety, and that was where Destrier had picked up the ritual. Every time he felt the sturdy maple leaf beneath his palm, he knew that he had returned.

Home . He had been so bold before, taking her into his arms to all but admit his affections! He scolded himself roundly for it afterwards, blaming the relief of their return for his lapse of judgement and propriety. Believing that she had any sort of future with him was a fool's game, and there was no greater fool than Destrier Revel.

Illeria busied herself with coaxing the embers of the common room fire to life, leaving Revel to light the lantern that graced the bar. He could feel her eyes on him as he leaned against the bar counter, but he chose to focus on the flicker of the lamp instead.

"So, Sir Knight Revel ." Illeria's inquisitive tone caught his attention and Destrier found that he was smiling unintentionally as he glanced up. Her gaze was thoughtful, more so than he had expected. "You are the King's Elite. As such, you are afforded certain liberties. You have the choice to stay wherever you wish for free." The young woman tapped her chin, pantomiming deep thought as she continued to study him. "Should you want a house, it will be provided. Yet you keep coming back here."

Anticipatory dread slowly began to curdle whatever warmth Destrier was experiencing at her presence, his smile fading. With his friends beside him he had managed Urgals, Kulls, liches... Leofore . He was a wielder of an ancient and terrible power, one that hailed from beyond the stars and time immemorial. Yet somehow he knew, marrow-deep, that this diminutive woman was about to raze his achievements to the ground.

Illeria's voice softened. "Why?"

The question was like a death knell. Destrier felt as though someone had punched him in the gut, butterflies turning to lead in his stomach. He tried to weasel out of it, the flush creeping up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears as he mumbled, "Illeria, you…you have to already know why. You are incredibly intelligent. I refuse to believe you don't know why."

"I have my suspicions. However, I would appreciate hearing your explanation." She was relishing his panic, the fiend .

His doe-eyed fondness for her softened his indignation at being teased without mercy, though it was still present. This seemed almost too cruel to bear. Destrier raked a hand through his messy blond locks, inhaling deeply in an attempt to steel himself.

"I cannot offer you anything you don't already have. I can do naught to enrich your life, Illeria." He began helplessly. "You have thrived here. You are a creator , a builder. I am...I am not that."

It pained him to speak so bluntly, yet he knew that honesty was the only thing that would see him through this discussion. Her silence was not overly encouraging, but he soldiered on.

"I did not think I would survive the war. I did not dare to dwell on what would happen afterwards, because I did not believe I would be there to see it." Destrier was uncertain if he should even be admitting such things. No person would want a partner so dour and despondent. "Somehow though, somehow we managed to return and I now find myself at a loss. I have to carefully consider the future I did not believe I would have."

Illeria put a hand on his arm. "This world has as much of a need for people like you as it does for me, Destrier. You're too quick to sell yourself short." She chided.

"I destroy , Illeria. Much more than a few gold's worth of drape cloth." Destrier replied dejectedly, taking her hands in his own. They were so small, yet her knuckles were nearly as scarred as his. It was a strangely comforting detail. "Your place in this new era is assured. Someone like me, though…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I am a product of times which are now over, nothing more. I would not ask that of you."

"You wouldn't ask what of me?" Illeria sounded frustrated, her hands squeezing his tightly.

When Destrier brought himself to meet her gaze again, he was startled by the way she was looking at him. His words died in his throat and he just stared dumbly, knowing in the back of his mind that this was his moment and he was squandering it! "T-To ask...I would not ask you to share your...um, life with me." He managed to stammer, muttering a curse under his breath at how foolish he must sound.

"And why wouldn't you ask that?" Illeria asked sharply, stomping her foot. "I refuse to believe that all you can do is bumble around and ruin things, Desty ."

The childish nickname got a quick chuckle out of the knight before he mastered himself. "Illeria-"

"No, hush. You've said your piece very prettily, but you're still wrong." The young woman interrupted firmly.

" How? " Revel protested. "I've spent so long thinking about this, Illeria. Nights upon nights I've laid sleepless, mulling everything over. Someone such as I cannot make you happy."

"I think I'll be the judge of that." Illeria murmured. "I have survived on my own for long enough. Watching you set out every time with the King's Elite and your battalions, never knowing whether you would come back, I..." She rested her forehead on his chest, her hands coming up to grip the fabric of his shirt with surprising ferocity. "I don't want you to leave ever again, but I will not beg. I have a reputation to uphold, you understand." The young woman said frankly.

"So you do. Far be it from me to tarnish that." Destrier could not keep from smiling. He knew he must look like a fool . "You wish for me to stay with you? Truly?"

"I wish for much more than that, but it's a start."

Her wry response had him laughing until he was breathless and he cupped her face to tilt it upwards. "Illeria," Destrier said softly, his eyes searching her own. "You have always been what I come back for. As soon as my fingers graze the crest on the doorway I breathe a sigh of relief, for I know I am home ."

"Your flattery falls on deaf ears, Revel." Despite her dismissive words, he felt her hold on his shirt tighten.

" You are my home, Illeria." He said plainly, entirely enamored with the way her brown eyes widened in wonder. "Forgive my boldness, please, but I-"

"-need to stop being so polite before you accidentally light the rug on fire again." Her hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into the touch dazedly, almost certain he was dreaming. Illeria, precious Illeria, looking at him like that even while she teased him-! This had to be a dream.

Destrier prayed he would never wake.

Let me have this brief moment of ever after, with the kingdom saved and the woman I love at my side.

"Are you alright, Desty?" Illeria asked softly.

"Aye." The knight sighed, utterly content. "I daresay I'm a fair sight better than that."

Part Four: So Little Time

#destrier revel #illeria stennas #MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE #the way this played out in game was so fn cute I DIED okay I died #I love. affection #a paladin and his love #and then I proceeded to scream about them forever #I'm not apologizing #my big blond himbo #he loves his lady a lot #i like wholesome stuff ok #female npc #non-player character x player character #npc x pc

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durnkskyrum · 7 years

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Memories - An ESO RP Fic

DA: http://fav.me/dbyzj93

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13283295

This week, we had to write a few characters out of our ESO RP saga, as their player decided they no longer wanted to be a part of our group. While this was easier for some of their characters than others, my character Vee ended up losing a great deal as we had to remove their husband from the narrative, and they had too much plot together to pretend he'd simply never existed. So I ended up stream-of-consciousness-ing this out the other night, wrapping up the arcs we'd started with the characters and working in a few scenes that I'd been looking forward to we never got to play out, tweaking others to fit the new narrative. Vee (full name: Evessa Maryon) is my former incarnate of Nerevar who ended up losing their soul (and Nerevar's) to the Planemeld. They managed to fetch it back by delving through Coldharbour, and Azura admitted She hadn't foreseen the chicanery the other Daedra would be pulling when She sent the soul back out into the world and took Nerevar's destiny back to save it for a time better suited for it. Vee's the sibling of my darling Teleri Maryon, who will be a delightful midwife and aunt for her impending niece and nephew. Vee will be fine someday, I promise. ;3

Note: Vee prefers they/them pronouns, so I will use them throughout. I've done my best to limit the use of said pronouns strictly to them to reduce confusion.

Content warning: This fic is decidedly a rough one. The death of a romantic partner is the crux of the story, and it also includes descriptions (none of the acts themselves are explicitly depicted) of sexual assault and slavery, both work-based and sexual.

Memories wash over them as surely as the silence of the empty house. Their footsteps echo in the cavernous hall of the tower, the wolf padding silently beside them. They’re no poet, but they know a metaphor when they feel one. They bid the wolf stop and wait, and it does so, obedient as a hound, its rosy eyes following as they mount the steps to the portal to the upper level, whining softly as it catches sight of the tears glinting on their cheeks in the blue light as they ascend. The bedroom is too much, and they’d known it would be. They fight to keep their eyes from settling on any one thing as they cross to the dresser and open the top drawer, fishing through the clothes they try not to look at as they search. Their grasping fingers find it eventually, fumbling as they’ve forgotten the weight of it. Another sob catches in their throat, but they withdraw the object anyway, turning the heavy black crystal over in their palm. They’d brought him home in this once, bargained for his soul from the Daedra of life in exchange for their service to her, returning from Coldharbour, battered and triumphant, for their promised forever. They press a kiss to the gem and set it atop the dresser, turning to the wardrobe beside and bending, despite the ache of their back, to retrieve the small chest and a satchel that sat at the bottom. They set both atop the dresser and run their fingers over the carvings on the lid of the small wooden box: Breton knotwork, since he’d gotten it in Evermore to present their necklace properly. Their hand finds the pendant through the fabric of their shirt as the night he gave it to them washes through their mind. They’d been preparing for their journey to fetch both his soul and their own back from Coldharbour. They stood before the mirror, streaking their eyes with the black warpaint of their tribe when he’d come behind them and fastened it around their neck, asking them a question that should have been a promise. They’d made love together in front of the mirror then, basking in each other’s joy. Their eyes find to the mirror now in the dimly lit room, and they hardly recognize the reflection as the same person who had celebrated here all those months ago: no warpaint, their eyes raw with tears, the shaved sides of their head left to grow in with dark fuzz, their fringe hanging against their cheek in a tangled, tear-matted mess, and their belly heavy with six months of hope, expectation, and anguish. They turn away as another sob tears at them, tucking the soul gem carefully in the velvet-lined chest and placing the chest into the satchel, slinging it over their shoulder and returning to the portal. Their heart pulls them to turn back for one last look at the room where so much good had happened, straying over the bed and over to the pile of pillows and blankets on the floor. They’d spent their last night together with him there, as the pair did whenever he shifted, leaning back on the bearskin rug as he’d rested his great furred head against their belly, each with the taste of the other still lingering sweetly on their lips. They ran their fingers gently through his dark fur, humming softly as they lounged in their afterglow, until his tail set to thumping zealously against the pillows, and he’d turned to them, wolfish muzzle curling into a joyous grin as he’d pressed sloppy kisses ecstatically against their lips.

You have too many heartbeats.

They drop the satchel by the portal and all but fall onto the bearskin rug, burying their face against the fur, sobbing and hunting for his scent with their now damnably weak senses, the gift given up for the safety of their child...children...Their twins who would never know their father. He’d left the next morning before they rose, setting breakfast beside them with a note. One last contract. A personal one. A messenger from the Morag Tong had arrived, offering him pay for a kill he’d been slavering for.

I’d have told you, but you’d have tried to talk me out of it or to come along. I want to close this chapter for us all before the children are here, and you’re in no condition to come along. I’ll be home before you know it. I promise.

And he was. His old friend from the Tong arrived three days later with an urn, the sobs ripping at him saying more than enough. They invited him to stay and let him drink for the four of them.

They’d badgered the truth out of his friend the next morning: the target, the plan, who’d paid for it, and what happened, and they’d screamed in anguished rage when they’d heard who’d taken another from them, their old slavemaster haunting them once again.

They’d been bound at twelve years old, their family alongside them for a debt their father had owed. The man who purchased them bought their mother and father too, their sister sold off to her own horrors at the hands of another master. At sixteen, they were offered a proposition in exchange for freedom: bear three children for him and his barren wife, and he would free them and their family.

At eighteen, the night they first bled, he came to them and again every night after until they started to show. They birthed a daughter, and he began again the next day, every night until they showed, though they produced a stillborn son.

Heartbroken, they begged the master to let them have respite, but he refused, setting their father to work the fields until they again let him have his way with their battered body. The next day they relented, but the master did not, and their father was worked to death in the fields before they’d again conceived. A healthy son and the cycle repeated, a second loss, a stillborn girl, and their mother stood up to him. He struck her, and she fell; she didn’t get up.

He forced them again, the cycle seemingly unending until they began to show once more, praying every day for one more success, one more for their freedom. But when they produced the third healthy child, another son, he rescinded his promise and put them for sale to remove the threat of discovery, a spent and battered thing at only twenty-two years old.

Their life improved from there, though, freedom with the aid of their long-lost sister, a home and a would-be destiny found among the Zainab Ashlanders, and, eventually, him.

But above and behind it all always loomed the shadow of the abuse, the nightmares and the fear of enduring a pregnancy again, always the threat that he would abandon the children to the life of House-less bastards if his use of his slave ever came to light, the children that were just as much theirs as the pair now within them.

They’d told their husband of this, and the ache for vengeance never truly left him, no matter their assurances that, so long as the old master provided for them, the children were living a better life than they could provide.

They pull the arms of the bearskin around their shoulders, the cold pelt no substitute for the warmth of him, the coarse fur not soft enough to be his nor smooth enough to be the scarified patterns of his arms that their fingers know by rote. They sob into the fur until their tears are spent, something they feel they’ve been doing hourly for weeks now.

Finally, they straighten up, keeping the fur wrapped around them as they gather their satchel and head back downstairs where the waiting wolf is sitting patiently for their return. They’d wanted to do this alone, but their sister insisted that they have some company and aid as they retrieve their things, a watchful eye should they need support, one full of compassion yet free of judgement. The beast gives them what passes for a kind smile, exactly the sort their sister would give them in a moment like this.

For the first week after his death, they’d hoped for the same. This wolf was formerly the spirit that had shared their sister’s body when she too had the gift. The beast had escaped the Hunting Grounds to return to her side after she’d sought the cure, hoping for a better afterlife someday. They’d known it was possible and hoped to no end that his wolf would return to them in the same way, but day after day, night after night, nothing, until they couldn’t help but resign themself to the fact that he was properly gone.

Their eyes wander over to the urn, still sitting on the table where his friend had set it as they tie the satchel to the wolf’s saddle and drape the bearskin over the seat. They wrap their arms around the big wolf’s neck, the creature that’s all but their sister tucking its chin against their back in the closest it can give to a hug. They wipe their tears against the wolf’s fur before pulling away and uncinching one of her saddlebags, walking slowly toward the north wing, the wolf settling back down to wait for them again.

They keep their eyes down as they enter the shrine, the great statue of Azura before which they’d once said their vows looming against the far wall. The Queen of Dawn and Dusk didn’t hold their faith any longer. Once, the Prince had shown them a destiny, given them hope, but they’d given that back when She’d discovered that the conniving of Her fellows had left the world unready for it, and She’d told them they could have the life they were dreaming of instead. Goddess of prophecy though She was, She didn’t tell her favorite that that life would only last a few more months.

They cross to the alcove with the candlelit altar with four small containers arranged atop it: two chipped ceramic paupers’ urns and two smaller filigreed canisters no bigger than their palm. The master’s wife had seen to it that they’d gotten the ashes, their parents in the urns, the two stillborn children in the tiny boxes.

They’d loved her once. Or thought they had. The pair of them both at the same man’s mercy, both yearning for a compassion neither never found except in each other. They knew now that, no matter what, nothing would befall the children as long as the mother was there for them, and even if it did, clearly it wouldn’t for long.

She was the one behind the contract, his friend had told them. The master’s cruelty had turned back onto her once they’d been sent away, once her affair with them had come to light, but she endured for the children, for the family’s image and the stable future that the vision carried with it.

But then she discovered what that future entailed. Their eldest, a girl of barely more than nine years old now, was already having a future arranged for her. The mother had spotted the contracts one night when he’d bent her over the desk, the girl all but signed over as a someday-wife to one of the master’s business contacts, a mer ten times her age.

She resolved herself that night; she knew how her own arrangement had turned out, knew the profound pain of a marriage without respect, of a hard-hearted man who only valued her for what he could make from her and do with her. She knew too that the will that would be opened in case of his death under suspicious circumstances cut her and the children out of his holdings completely, but anything was better than this. She would find a way.

And she did. The Tong were never far and seemed to know when there was a problem they could attend to. They took her payment and told her it would be done.

The Tong had assigned him the contract. He’d spoken with his Master of the situation in the past, of the vengeful fire that burned in him, and so, when the contract came, he was the logical choice.

He’d shifted when he’d gone on the attack, the friend told them. His wolf’s hunger for the man’s throat overwhelmed his reason, the great snarling beast, still fresh and foolish, on the hunt for prey too well-guarded. He went down fast and hard and sudden, and that was the end of it all.

If he had just asked, they’d have told him. They knew every back-way, every blindspot, every creaky floorboard in the house from all their years of servitude, and all he’d have needed to do was ask, but he was always too brash for that.

The knowledge was useful, of course, when they’d resolved to finish it themself. They’d dressed in comfortable clothes with a tattered hood to pull over their head and false tail pinned to their skirt. A pregnant Khajiiti slave didn’t draw notice as they crept through the dark holdings and into the house, walking with a silent familiarity through the old halls. Before they’d approached his room, they visited the wife’s instead, leaving a single leaf of aloe on her nightstand. They knew she’d remember: those nights balming each other’s wounds with the plant that they’d sneak out and gather together.

They left her to her sleep and paid the master his visit. Beside his bed, they’d thrown back their hood, their fringe of hair falling around their face to frame it as it used to. When they slashed his wrist with the blade coated in a paralysis poison, he awoke, frozen before he could scream, face locked in stunned recognition at the ghost of his slave looming out of the darkness of his room.

You have taken everyone from me. Again, I am left with nothing. But now I can leave you with less.

They buried the knife into his chest, striking true for his heart, watching the life bleed out of him before leaving as silently as they’d come.

They stash the urns in the saddlebag, grateful at last to know their losses are avenged, tucking the small boxes safely in alongside. They heft the bag and return to the wolf, no second-glances for the Mother who’d turned Her back on them. Back in the main chamber, they heave one last sigh and cast one last look, before settling his urn into the other saddlebag and guiding the wolf back out to the steps to wait.

The will was read yesterday, the mother and her children left without a home, the master’s holdings passed to a cousin of scant relation. As the four of them had crossed the gate to leave their home for the last time, a messenger had found them, presenting the mother with an unsigned note, a pouch of coin, and the deed to a small island south of Sadrith Mora. He offered to guide them there the next day, stating that the coin was for food and lodging for the night. The mother would have doubted him but his charming manner put the children at ease, just as the aloe leaf peeking pointedly from his pocket and the knowing wink from him when she spotted it did for her.

So, now they wait, their husband’s friend guiding their children and the mother alongside to her new home, where they’ll explain that they’re providing the future for their children that they’d always been unable to provide, dealing their family a better hand than the one the master could offer.

They know, for now, that they’ll find other things. They always have. It will be agonizing for a good long while, but they’re resilient and strong and have plenty to live for. Loved ones known and yet to know. The past hurts, and it always will, but they’ve been turned on the wheel enough to know that, someday, they’ll find themself on top again.

The gate opens then, and as it closes, they feel in their heart that the next chapter’s begun. Well...they’re no poet, but they still know a metaphor when they feel one.

#ESO RP #Elder Scrolls Online #ESO #Evessa Maryon #DurnkSkyrumOriginal

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manascoundrel · 8 years

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Trophy- Chapter 5

by Yarking Fandom: Dragon Age (general) Summery: Two troubled children meet at the Minrathous Circle. One is a magister’s heir, groomed to be the blood mage general of Seheron, without fear or mercy. Hopefully, that will keep people from noticing how very much an elf he is. The other is last born, least loved and most of his emotions involve academics and cadavers. They love each other, even if they’re not terribly good at it. Warnings for this chapter: implied auditory hallucinations AO3: here

The assembly of apprentices in the large, lofted lecture hall was intimidating. Tertius was a shy child, made doubly so by his father's insistence that he speak only when necessary (to the enchanters, or when asked a direct question by another student). In the sea of children surrounding him, all of them chattering away to their neighbors, he felt distinctly lonesome, and for not the first time today he wished that he was home, wrapped up in a blanket and reading with his mama.

The thought left him sullen, looking at the tips of his shoes while they waited for the speaker to arrive.

After too long a time, a woman approached the speaking podium at the front of the hall, face aligned with the shining fuscia crystal mounted at the podium head. When she spoke, her words reverberated throughout the entire room, mana residue from the projection enchantment dusting the air invisibly around them."If you would all be silent, we can begin," she said, sternly. The chatter quickly grew to a murmur and then just the sounds of robes shuffling and someone coughing from the other side of the room. No one wanted to be the first to fail to follow directions. Tertius wondered if everyone who attended was given the same speech by their mother or father or nannies about how important it was to behave and reflect well on their family, or if the obedience came naturally to them in a way that Tertius hopelessly struggled with, despite best efforts.

The speaker continued. "Thank you. Now, classes from here on will be divided into smaller groups that you will be assigned to by your Dorm Master for the next five years. After that point, your classes will be assigned based on your capabilities, availability, and personal preference, in that order. The Minrathous Circle is filled with examples of excellence, and our great Imperium's strength lies in our commitment to the meritocracy and honoring the best among us with the responsibility to lead. Exceptions will not be made for those who do not earn a position. I suggest you work hard to make sure and take advantage of this spectacular opportunity and resources around you and rise to each of your individual potentials."

Tertius glanced away from the speaker, distracted by the movement out of the corner of his eye. A few of the apprentices had already lost interest and were whispering to each other, while one apprentice a bit further down was bouncing on her heels in boredom. Tertius focused back on the speaker, scoffing to himself. Those apprentices wouldn't be much competition if they couldn't even get through this without getting distracted. He had endured longer lectures from his nanny for eating with his elbows on the table.

While Tertius prided himself for being a particularly disciplined five-year-old, the speaker paused to let her words sink in. Then, she began again with a lighter tone. "Today is a very special day for you all, however. Our head of Formari research has finished assessing the staves that have-"

The speaker paused again, waiting for the sudden burst of excitement that manifested in gasp, squeals and more chatter to die down before continuing. She seemed to expect the children's wildness, as she was smiling as she continued, "Has finished assessing the staves that have been commissioned and submitted for some of our students. Those without a personal staff submitted will be assigned one by our Formari senior enchanters. Senior enchanters, please raise your hands."

A handful of mages arranged in a line along the side of the room raised their hands, looking welcoming out at the new faces.

Tertius froze.

One's first staff was special. An honor. It was a symbol of becoming part of something important, of being worthwhile. His brothers' first staves were kept in their estate's library, mounted alongside a collection of their family's history of first staves and decorated with other family accolades. Tertius had often stood in front of them, admiring the craft and wishing with a fluttering heart that he had one of his own.

It only occurred to him now that he might not get anything special here. He was born third, neither heir to the Danarius house nor next in line. Tertius looked at the ground, keeping still so that his tears might remained walled over his eyes instead of spilling over and the speaker called name after name to retrieve their staff. He tried not to be preemptively disappointed. The Circle assigned staves were perfectly serviceable, with a entirely adequate foci embedded in their plain, smooth wood. It was really just looks that made a commissioned staff different than any other. It didn't matter.

"Gaius Tertius Danarius?" she called, and Tertius came to life as if shocked. He slipped between the rows of apprentices and scurried down the aisle at the side of the audience, directed gently by one of the speaker's assistance towards the row of children already called.

Tertius swallowed, craning to look past the row to where one of the Formari enchanters handed a beautifully carved staff with a silvery swan to one young mage that cooed as it was placed in her hands. Beyond, he saw the scarce few apprentices who hadn't be deemed worthy of a personal staff, holding the common-looking staves against their chest abashedly. Tertius could feel his heart in his chest, knew that's where he was going. Knew it.

Finally, the apprentice before him was granted his staff (a lovely mahogany thing with gems set in its head) and Tertius stepped forward. He braced himself, jaw tight and lip wibbling.

But the enchanter did not send him swiftly away.

"Gaius Tertius Danarius, yes?" the enchanter confirmed, reading over his list carefully. Tertius nodded once, still stiff and waiting. The enchanted smiled and turned, reaching out for a staff as he spoke. "Congratulations."

Tertius stared. The enchanter presented him with a staff- a beautiful thing. The wood was stunning white and gently carved with smooth, rolling waves that patterned out from its grip as if rippling, whorling up to the head of the staff, where it's foggy glass foci peeked out from the carved wood. Curled atop that were three intricate snakes, their scales rendered beautifully in pearl and lines of gold with sparkling peridot glinting at their eyes.

Tertius ached. It was magnificent. Better than he could have ever dreamed, and the tears spilled over at once as he reached for it. When his fingers closed around the cold leather wrap of the grip, Tertius held his breath.

He felt at once constricted, a pressure pushing around him that made it harder to breath. The sound of rushing wind roared in his ears and dissolved into momentary voices, a whole cacophony competing to speak over each other, and the silence. But, no, not silence. The distant, indistinct whispers susurrating from strange places, past the walls and below the floors.

Tertius looked at the audience out of the corner of his eyes, thinking for a moment the bizarre sound had come from them. They were the only people present, after all, but there was nothing that seemed to account for the sudden deafening rush and lingering impossible whispers that floated in the air the same as the mana residue of before. He looked down at the staff, wondering at the shining peridots as they seemed to wink at him.

"Run along, Apprentice Danarius," the Formari enchanter urged. "We have a lot of students to get through today."

Tertius scurried as he was told, momentarily setting aside the unexplainable phenomenon so as to not be impolite. As soon as he reached the other children who had already received their staves, most of them bragging and comparing the personal touches, some of them fawning over other's, Tertius inspected his more closely.

There didn't seem to be anything wrong with his staff. It was as glamorous and exquisite as he had initially thought. No cracks, no chips. Not even fingerprints on the pearlescent surface of the snakes' twining bodies. No sign at all that it had been tampered with. A new, unexpected fear rose up in Tertius at how unexplainable it is, spurred by how distracting and uncanny the murmurs fell on his ears.

He should tell someone. Should he tell someone? What if the problem was with him, some new fault hidden inside of him to be brought out with a touch of magic. Tertius swallowed, wincing as he held his beautiful staff away from him just a little. He couldn't tell anyone. He wasn't even supposed to talk to anyone unless it was very important. He could manage this fine. It was just some voices. They weren't even loud anymore.

The remaining ceremony passed slowly, Tertius starting occasionally when a voice whispered almost intelligibly, sounding as if someone was whispering right in his ear. He lacked the focus as much as the undisciplined children he had just earlier scoffed at by the time the speaker made her closing statements, and her words were lost beyond Tertius' own spiraling thoughts.

As soon as Tertius and the other children were finally lead back to the dormitories, Tertius shuffled silently to his bed and placed his staff on the blanket beside him, resting the ornate head on his pillow revrently.

The whispers quieted further, nothing more than a soft hush that could be mistaken for a light draft.

While the other children entertained themselves for the rest of the evening proudly parading their staves, Tertius slid off the bed and to his trunk tucked beneath him. He rummaged through the contents, pulling out books and clothes and a case of charcoal before he found a blanket. His yellow blanket.

That sight of it made his sad, and his throat tight.

Tertius pulled it from his trunk slowly, laying out out on his bed over the staff and carefully wrapped it in the blanket, swaddling it like a baby. The voices grew quieter still, lowering to near silence. As he slid the staff beneath his bed alongside the re-packed trunk, Tertius resolved to learn something more.

The library, as it turned out, had a few books on staves. If you considered "a few" to be an entire section, several dozen massive tomes lined up with thick, intimidating spines and words too long for him to ever hope to pronounce. He had managed to ask one of the librarian's assistants to help him find the section to begin with, but after he had ushered Tertius to one of the tall bookshelves and explained with a sweeping gesture that "anything in this row" would be pertinent, the assistant had left, and Tertius didn't feel confident in summoning him back for more help. Not only because he worried about speaking too much with the complication of his stutter, but also in concern at revealing to a stranger the sudden whispers plaguing him.

The advent of the youngest apprentices getting their first staff just the other day gave him an excuse to want to learn more, even made him look like he had initiative, which his papa would have liked, Tertius would like to think, but he didn't want to press his luck too far and arouse suspicion. While he didn't know what exactly the cause of the voices were, he instinctively suspected that it was something he'd want to know about himself before anyone else did.

That was something of a running theme when you were from a magister's house.

As for the whispers, they remained distant, but more obvious in the library, when there was little ambient sound to distract from their presence. They no longer disturbed Tertius as they did yesterday when the strangeness was new and unexpected, but it still forced him to read the names of the books out loud to himself to be able to focus on what they said. The voices weren't as great a distraction to his own thoughts as they had been either, but it would take some time still to get used to.

None of the books seemed particularly more relevant to his predicament than any other, so he finally settled on one to pick by the shade of the book's cover and how nice the font on its spine looked. He pulled a green-spined book with golden lettering from the shelf and grunted when it fell into his hands, nearly tipping him over. It was a bit heavier than expected.

Tertius carried it over to the open study desks lining the edges of the library and let the book thump heavily against the surface. On either side, the sparse students dotting down the row of desks in either direction looked up from their books scathingly at the noise, and Tertius bowed in apology, bashful. Still, he slipped into the seat (feet dangling from the height of the chair meant for older students) and peeled the pages open, the flapping and crinkle of the old paper sounding loud.

When he looked down at the page, he panicked. For a moment, Tertius had thought that whatever strange event had occurred yesterday when he was granted his staff had stolen his ability to read as well, as when he looked down on the page the text was wholly gibberish. He scanned the page and finally relaxed when he picked out a few smaller words he recognized and could read, and realized his problem was just a matter of the book being too advanced for him. Most of the words on the page were long concepts he hadn't yet heard of, and though he managed to sound out a few of the longer words just to prove to himself he was capable of doing so, it seemed like his "pick whatever book looked the nicest" strategy wasn't a reliable way of finding something helpful.

Tertius huffed, heaved the book back off the desk and tottered precariously with it back to the section on staves to put it back and try again.

This cycle continued for three, four, five more books before Tertius found one that was more his speed. It was thinner, newer and a bit less impressive than some of the more interesting looking books, but it approached the subject simply, explaining even the most simple concepts patiently.

Tertius began reading voraciously, mumbling the words under his breath as his did to focus over the constant murmur of voices that drove him there to begin with. It was slow going. He could read well enough, but the book was still more difficult than he was used to. The pages turned at a frustratingly slow pace. When Tertius finally shook his head and arched his back to stretch out the ache of sitting for too long, he had only managed a few chapters of the book, far from even halfway. He was usually done with books by now.

Tertius stood, discouraged by how little progress he had made and even more so by the complete lack of anything relevant found so far. He decided to take a break and get a sip of the conjured water provided near the library's door. As he walked, he took solace at least in knowing that his stutter had hardly cropped up at all when he was just reading to himself. Perhaps he could get better at it by practicing like this? He knew he was to take classes with a tutor to fix how he spoke, but didn't know when those were to begin, and though he was shy and liked the quiet and peace of reading and drawing by himself, he still missed the option of talking to the other apprentices if the opportunity arose.

Tertius was heading back to his desk and book when he passed by one of the other student's abandoned desks, its owner probably off to get another book or refill his inkwell or something like that. It normally wouldn't concern Tertius, but as he passed by, the color and lines of the books illustration drew his attention and at once enthralled him.

It was a picture of a cat, but Tertius didn't recognize it as such initially. The illustration was expertly done, and the silhouette of the animal was clear, but as Tertius approached the book closer, lured by the colors (reds, pinks, blues) he didn't expect to see, he saw the form filled with strange shapes. Lines pointed to the unusual blocks of color, labeling things (stomach, intestines, heart) and Tertius was instantly enamored.

The whispers, he realized, had gone quiet.

Shyly, glancing around and prepared for the book's owner to come and shoo him away, Tertius furtively slipped into the desk's chair. He had never seen a picture of inside something like that before. It never even occurred to him that there were something inside people, even if he knew intellectually of blood, bones and where his tummy was from when it was upset. But it had always just been.

Seeing it now, before him, laid out... it was pretty. His fingers brushed the page lightly.

"Excuse me?"

Tertius started, stumbling out of the chair and a few paces away to give the older student her desk and room back. She looked down at him. Not mad. Not annoyed. A flat, amused expression, one that didn't quite chase Tertius away.

He looked at the illustration in the book and then back up to the student, want swelling up in him keenly. He wasn't supposed to speak. He's not supposed to. He's…

"Like what you see?" she asked, sounding playful.

Tertius' eyes widened in surprise before he nodded emphatically, raising to his toes and bouncing in excitement. He gave a high-pitched squeak from his throat in the affirmation.

"There are other anatomy references in the fourth row. You wanna grow up to be a healer too?"

A healer? Tertius stopped himself from laughing out of politeness. Healing was not a beloved profession in the imperium, perhaps because so many of the magisters used blood magic like his papa, and there were no easier way to tell if someone had been casting with blood than trying to heal them with magic. The two disciplines didn’t play nice together.

"I-" he began, and stopped himself so swiftly his little teeth clicked together. The bashfulness returned as his words left, and his hands curled over his chest meekly.

"Ah, I see!" the apprentice suddenly said, sounding triumphant. She reached forward and Tertius froze as her hand got close, but she only grabbed his hand, his fingernails blackened with charcoal messily. "You're an artist. Well, that's something, I guess. I had to take painting lessons. It was so boring, but I guess it's not for everyone."

She released his hand and he brought it back to his chest, cradling it as if it had been scalded, and scowled behind in loose, scraggly hair. She didn't seem to notice or care, attention returning back to the book with the picture in it, and Tertius sulked away.

It was only then did Tertius truly notice the whisper's retreat to nothingness, appreciating the peace and quiet with a sigh. He had no luck finding any useful information on the dry, unforgiving manuals, but there had to be some reason the whispers had left him. Tentatively, he counted out the rows until he reached the fourth.

His finger rested on the top of one spine that read "Anatomy of the Modern Equine". Equine meant horse. He liked horses. He liked the color and mystery of squiggles and lumps of colors that were apparently inside people. He slid the book out, opening it there on the floor before bothering to drag it back to the study desk and flipped through the pages.

Text, text and more boring text, and he was prepared to give up when he reached a page of a skeleton, illustrated carefully and lovingly there across two pages. This whispers were utterly silent, and in their place a curious alertness, and excitement that matched his own. Amazing. Was there more?

He flipped forward, pausing at every page with a closer look at bones in certain parts of the body, how the legs were shaped and the mesmerizing pattern of the ribs and bones in the back.

"Lum-bar v-... vertebrae," he managed, his stutter only a small snag. He kept turning pages, eyes sparkling in delight when he was introduced to an diagram with partial musculature.

It was far past dark when the spell was lifted, Tertius sitting in the aisle of the bookshelves and blinking against the dimness that made reading difficult. Hours later, and the slew of books he had pulled out cluttering the row. He stretched, rubbing his eyes, and chalked the entire endeavour up as a resounding success.

The whispers hadn't bothered him all evening.

#dragon age #trophy #yarking writes

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krakensofpyke · 7 years

Text

The Secret City

Euron visits the city of Braavos.

“You will not be making port here.”

The customs officer of the Chequy Port looked up at the captain from the faded wooden dock. He was as thin, hard and brown like an old stick. His accented Common did nothing to flavor his flat affect, for he had the voice of a man who had spent his entire life telling people no.

“You have not even searched my ship,” the Crow’s Eye retorted, annoyance creeping into his tone. “On what grounds do you deny me entry?” For two years he had answered to no man, and he was not interested in starting with this old pile of gull shit.

“We know your Silence, ironman,” the Braavosi official replied, “by sight as well as repute. You are a renowned slaver, Euron Greyjoy, and we are not having you enter our city. I am wagering that these men on your deck do not receive pay for their toil.”

“You’re welcome to ask them,” he offered, smiling with blue-lipped derision. The authority only grimaced. His tolerance for the man was wearing thin. “Tell me, what happens if I simply ignore you and sail into Braavos?”

That, of all things, elicited the ghost of a smirk from the man. “Those who do have died a fool’s death,” he responded, apathy flowing into arrogance. “The arsenal is behind you, reaver. We are needing only to light a fire and the Sealord’s warships will break you into ugly, red pieces.”

I should tear your tongue from your miserable mouth, he thought, but a bolt of frigid pain struck his temples before he could reveal his ire.

Do not be a child. Leave now and return quietly. This man is nothing. All men are nothing.

He took a deep breath and donned his casual smile once more. “Very well,” he acquiesced, placing two fingers over his patched eye, “you shall not see my sails pass this way again.” He turned his back to the man and ordered his thralls to turn the ship back through the Titan’s legs.

They sailed out of the bay of Braavos, circling backward to drop anchor near one of the many rocky islands that formed the city’s natural barrier. By then, the captain had decided to wait until cover of night to slip between the lesser entries on a rowboat. The city is not as well-defended as the wretch would have me believe, he knew, and they know only my ship, not me.

When the sun had sunk below the Narrow Sea, he called the strongest of his thralls into the captain’s cabin. They were both of Ibbenese descent, squat and hirsute and muscled like an aurochs. “You have the honor of accompanying me to the city of Braavos,” he announced. They stared at him with empty obedience.

The Ironborn gestured to an oaken chest beside his bed. “Carry this into one of the skiffs,” he commanded, “and we shall enter the city beneath the reproach of its bloodless guards.” Soundlessly, the thralls did as they were bid, lifting the heavy container to the deck.

The moonless night turned the quiet seas of Braavos into an inky void as they rowed between its outer isles. The mutes had set a tireless pace by his command, yet the first watchtower had come into view in the last moments before the dawn. It had been build on an exposed patch of bare rock, rising fifty feet in the air. The post was made of pale stone, ringed with torches and crawling with alert men. “Keep rowing,” Euron murmured to them, “they will not stop us.”

A jet of wind raced past them as they drew nearer, extinguishing the flames and bewildering the guards. The night is my ally, he thought with satisfaction as they arced toward the mouth of the Green Canal.

The night is your god, Greyjoy. You owe me fealty.

They had passed under the bridge that led to the Palace of Truth when the oarsmen began to slump in the boat. “We are nearly to our destination,” he spat, “you can rest when we arrive.” They had been spent, however: one was barely tipping the paddles beneath the surface, while the other had nearly dropped his into the canal.

“Fine,” he sighed, resolving to whip them when they returned to the Silence, “regain your strength.” He reached out and took hold of a wooden pole that jutted out before the stone borders of the canal. Bringing the skiff to a stop, he waved at the rope beneath the benches. “Tie it up, I am off to a tavern.”

To his surprise, it was a long walk inland to find the nearest winesink. Dawn light crept over the cramped streets as he walked into a tall, thin building. A clean, wooden sign hung above the doorway, presenting the tavern’s name in sea-green print. It was painted in the city’s dialect of Valyrian, one he had never bothered to learn. Inside, candles illuminated a sparse, yet well-kept public house where a spindly man in charcoal-grey clothing was tidying a table and yawning.

“Valar morghulis,” the owner greeted. He looked at the Greyjoy expectantly as he seated himself near the door.

“Wine,” Euron replied curtly in Common. The Braavosi frowned, growling incomprehensively and gesturing toward the morning light coming through a window.

“Wine,” Euron repeated, paying no heed to the vendor’s reservations.

“Westerosi,” the other muttered, and spat. All the same, he withdrew into a curtained passageway and returned with a bottle and cup in hand. He stood in front of the captain and glared down at him. “Coin first,” he grunted.

Euron reached into a pocket in his breeches and drew out a glimmering piece of gold. He flicked it with his thumb at the host, hitting the man in the chest before clattering to the floor. He fumed, but poured the wine anyway. Afterward, he bent down to pick the coin up. Euron sipped at his wine and watched a shadow pass over the tavernkeeper's face upon inspecting the imprint on the gold.

“What is the matter, my friend?” His voice was slick with derision. “Surely, that more than covers the cost.” He knew the man could not understand him, but it made no difference. He looks as though he wants to toss the coin at me, and pour the bottle over my head as well, he mused, but he is too greedy to pass it up.

His mutes were still haggard by the time he returned, but they managed to pull the boat into the small archipelago at the confluence of the Long Canal and the Canal of Heroes. Once more, the boat was fastened to a small dock, and Euron stepped onto the cobbled surface of the isle, the Ibbenese crewmen lugging his chest behind him. They were panting from the exertion by the time they reached the high doors of the island’s only structure. He took a moment to admire the fine, contrasting woods of the door, as well as the exquisite carvings, before pushing them inward.

An impressive stillness awaited Euron inside the temple. Hundreds of candles burned before nearly as many idols, and robed figures padded through the dark stone halls, but nary a sound could be heard. A place after my own heart, he observed, treading further into the fane.

One of the caretakers broke away from his duties to approach the visitors. Beneath his hood, the face of an innocuous, old man smiled up at him. “Valar morghulis,” he opened, “welcome to the House of Black and White. Have you come seeking the gift of the Many-Faced God?”

“No, no,” Euron responded, thinking nothing of the fact that the man was speaking the Common tongue. “I am here for an assassin. Lead me to the man I would speak with to hire a Faceless Man.”

The greybeard looked over his shoulders and brought his voice to a whisper. “We will not discuss such things so openly, not here among those here for the gift.” He turned around and beckoned the Crow’s Eye to follow him. Euron told his men to remain where they were and guard the chest, then left with the priest.

They turned several corners, more corners than seemed possible for a building of the temple’s apparent size. Finally, they stopped at an open room. There was a stout wooden table with two chairs, and two lamps of black iron and pale tin cast wan light above. The old man took a seat near the terminal wall and invited Euron to sit opposite him.

“Now, my lord,” he began politely, “why have you sought the Faceless Men so brazenly? Who would you have killed?”

If the man was attempting to coax shame out of him, he would be disappointed. “My brother,” he answered confidently, “Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.” I am not afraid to name my desires.

The grandfatherly fellow offered him a thoughtful look. “Why spend precious gold on a catspaw, I wonder? You have killed two brothers before, Euron Crow’s Eye, what stops you from killing a third?”

The reaver felt a cold hand squeeze his bowels. How could this man know such things? He struggled to quickly regain composure.

“Is it the custom of your order to turn away gold so quickly?” His exposed eye narrowed, shielding his doubts with a dark mood.

The priest only widened his grin. “I ought to turn away your gold, my lord,” was his response. There was no bitterness or condescension in his voice, only a calm, matter-of-fact lilt. “Braavos itself is repulsed by the wealth you brought here from the ruins of the Valyrian Freehold. Many in the city would tell you that the coin of the dragonlords is as offensive as it is accursed.”

"How do you know-,” he sputtered, but the man continued.

“I, however, am not so proud as that. Who is served by pride? I will take the gold from doom-shadowed Valyria. We shall give your royal brother the gift, Euron Greyjoy, though it will take time. I shall send for one of the Many-Faced God’s servants presently.”

Deliver me from the gods and the mummer’s shows one must perform to appease them, he thought sourly. He was beginning to feel his lack of sleep press down on him like a layer of ballast. “Good,” he uttered tersely. “I shall have my men move the gold where you need it.”

The elder rose and shook his head. “That is not necessary,” he answered, “nor is it possible.” His eyes shimmered warmly, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice. “Come with me.”

The man led him back to the chamber where they had entered from and Euron followed in frustrated confusion. “I have given you a great sum of money,” Greyjoy remarked through clenched jaws. “You could do me the favor of speaking directly, old man.”

His guide paid no attention to the disrespect. “Look over here, my lord.” He pointed to one of the man alcoves that pocked the hall. A large, hideous statue of some foreign god. Two oil lamps burned on either side of the shrine, filling the nook with the fetid odor of burning blubber. His thralls stretched supine before the grotesque deity, peaceful and still.

“They accepted the gift,” the priest whispered, placing a hand on Euron’s shoulder for a heartbeat. He swung around, attempting to strike the old fool, but his open hand met only air.

Save your rage, they are meaningless. The darkness rumbled in his ears like distant thunder. Make your way back to your ship. It is time for you to go home.

#The Crow's Eye [Euron POV]#euron greyjoy #pour one out for those thralls though

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