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floof-writes · 1 year

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wwrr breaks my heart; you're very good at writing hurt no comfort! could i please request a fic about the palace of the four sword? whether that be legend going through it after the adventure (with his memories unlike wwrr), him recognizing the four from it and his reactions, the chain getting dropped in the palace, or the colors discovering their fate in some other manner, i can never get enough of the legend and four/legend and colors dynamic. ty in advance!

Hurt no comfort you say, anon? This ask touched on some old meta I’ve been thinking about for a long time about how in Zelda, sometimes a reflection means a perversion and sometimes it means a painfully accurate depiction. Literally I love thinking about it so much so thank you! I may even make this longer and post on Ao3 someday.

Title: Reflection

Words: 1165

Legend had known it would be a bad portal the moment he saw it sparking and crackling, but he still hadn’t expected to wake up in a body that was only his own on a technicality. Still groggy, he tried to get up, but his elbows weren’t bending the right way and his shoulders were in the wrong place and his hands weren’t even the- Godamnit. He’d have to wait for his hair to fade out all over again.

For a moment he thought that Twilight’s pendant had somehow found him during the switch, but his first deep breath revealed the undeniable signature of the Dark World. He curled his ears and wrinkled his nose at the bitter magic thrumming through his skin and electrifying the tips of his fur, forcing his body to morph into an embarrassing reflection of his soul.

It smelled like he was underground somewhere, and the echoes revealed he was in a large, mostly empty room. Legend inched forward, trying to find his bag and the Moon Pearls inside. His paw landed on a leather strap and he eagerly hopped forward, sticking his entire head through the flap.

And well, that one hop changed everything because he’d just ripped open the pouch of pearls when the floor beneath him slid aside with a metallic shink, dumping him, his bag, and all of its contents unceremoniously into the abyss.

Legend snapped a pearl out of the air just in time for his hylian spine to slam into a web of hanging chains and snap his jaw shut right on his tongue. Less than a second later he heard several bottles shatter and his ring box bust open on the floor beneath him.

Legend jerked, coughing the Moon Pearl into his hand before it could choke him or he somehow managed to swallow it. “Ugh, fuck!”

“Legend?” someone said, their voice drifting down the hallway, and it took him a second to recognize it as Four because it sounded nothing like him. Gone was his usual quiet confidence, the controlled tone, slight smirk, and unreadable eyes that made it seem like he always knew something you didn’t. Seeing your soul for the first time could do that to a person, so Legend wasn’t too concerned. He stilled, letting himself dangle there for a moment as he stared up at the hole he’d come from, kind of wishing he could put this whole day in reverse.

This room was well lit at least, and monster free too. He could clearly see the stonework, golden skulls, the single purple tile in the- Fuck.

Legend surged upright but mostly just succeeded in throwing himself at the floor. He landed in a crouch, nearly ending up on his back again when his ice rod slipped out from under his heel.

“Legend,” Four said again, a terrified question and a desperate lifeline all at once, a call for help and a clear show of vulnerability. Legend had the sudden, vivid thought that the secrets Four carried were now pecking at his lips and eyelids like a cucco until he admitted he was falling apart at the seams.

Fuck, of all the places they could’ve ended up, it just had to be the Palace of the Four Sword, didn’t it?

Legend reached down and began stuffing things into his bag, even though it was dripping with a dangerous magical cocktail of spilled potions and shattered glass. Legend slung his bag back over his shoulder and jogged down the hallway. “Four?” he called. He didn’t know what he expected to see when he reached the doorway of the Four Sword room, but this was the Dark World, and at first it looked pretty normal.

Four was standing in the middle of the Four Sword room, looking painfully, hopelessly lost. Legend blinked, trying to focus on his friend when he realized his eyes weren’t the problem: the outline of Four’s body was fuzzy, undefined, as if trying to separate from itself. Legend recognized the magic of the Dark World trying to force his form to match his soul. It was insane that he’d held out this long already.

A long time ago, in the absence of a pedestal, Legend had simply laid the restored Four Sword on the floor to rest. He almost regretted it now, seeing its gleaming twin on Four’s back compared to its own dirt, rust, and chips.

But Four wasn’t looking at the Four Sword, at least not anymore. He was looking at the back wall, at the mural there that echoed the story told throughout the palace, carvings and inlaid color that must’ve been searing when it was first placed, because even now it was bright.

In the mural, Legend was depicted in white, probably due to lack of options, and the darks were clearly shown for what they had been: the souls of the sword twisted and corrupted by the Malice in the Dark World. Some darks were simply reflections, Twili-born, undefinable without a counterpart in the light and intending to do nothing more than oppose them. But some were intentional perversions, Malice-wrought, caricatures of evil, intending to proactively sabotage a Link’s every goal in order to accomplish their own.

The Four Sword darks had been the second kind, and that’s how Legend knew that Four was more literal of a name than anyone thought. Because he’d fought darks with Four’s face and seen multiple people opposite in existence, not just in action.

Later he’d gotten dopples of his own, but he wore those bodies like a pair of shoes, each was just as much him as he was. He knew that with Four, it was deeper than that.

Four turned to look at him, and Legend took a step back when he realized Four was not as whole as he seemed. His eyes were a kaleidoscope of pain, confusion, a tetrad of color harshly divided, even more vivid than the mural. “Do you know what this place is?”

Legend swallowed and took a half a step forward. “It’s called the Palace of the Four Sword. We’re in the Dark World. The Sacred Realm was corrupted by Ganon in my era.”

“Did I- we…?” Four gestured helplessly at the mural behind him.

“The spirits of the sword were corrupted by the Malice here. They attacked me. They… they looked like you.”

Four dropped to his knees, hand clamped over his mouth. His body fuzzed even further until he was barely recognizable and Legend surged forward, digging around for another Moon Pearl.

Four grabbed his arm, looking up again with divided, teary eyes, but for a moment purple seemed to dominate. “How many were there?”

“How many what?”

“How many darks?”

“How many do you think?” Legend asked, trying not to let his fear show on his face. “Four, obviously.”

Four sobbed loudly and Legend threw himself back from the flash of light. When it faded, Four was divided in much more than eye color.

#linked universe #lu fic #ask response #palace of the four sword #lu legend #lu four

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cannedcrow · 2 years

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Arbitrary Darkness (Hermitcraft AU) - Part I

Inspired by @p1neapplerum’s wonderful artwork and @mojo-chojo’s spicychicken AU! I absolutely fell in love with the concept of Monster Hunter!Grian and thought 'hm, I don't have enough unfinished fics going yet' (Sorry for tagging you guys; hope it's not annoying ^^;)

Vague Summary: New Hermiton is a city rife with danger - monsters and nonhumans lurk among the population and few are suited to combat them. Grian is known for his talent at uprooting and disposing of parasites.

AO3

CW: Blood, weapon use, violence.

The man crept down the alley, the fingertips of one hand guiding his way along one of the slimy cobblestone walls on either side of him, his other arm weighed down with a heavy crossbow. It was a damp and derelict place, and he found it difficult to stop his boots scraping on the grit or splashing water with each footfall. His breath was shallow and fogged the air in front of him, lit by a thin moon whose light was obscured by the clouds stretched over it.

As he neared the end of the alley where it widened into a small courtyard, he heard heavy, animalistic snuffling and the sound of trotters on stone, and he halted, dropping to a crouch. Peering around the corner, he spotted his quarry by its hulking silhouette - a zoglin, illegally brought into the overworld. The beast was huge - built for power with a hunched back, a massive head and thick muscle in its neck and forequarters - and engaged in ripping apart the carcass of some poor creature with its sharp teeth.

Grian almost felt sorry for the creature - the overworld atmosphere had clearly taken quick effect, eating away at and rotting the creature's skin so that when it tilted its head, he could see that half the flesh of its face had succumbed to necrosis and divested itself, leaving one side of grinning teeth exposed beneath a dark, hollow eye socket.

Poor bastard, he thought, but positioned his crossbow nonetheless. A monster was all the more dangerous when it was in pain and scared, not to mention half-blind. It was still aggressive, hungry, and stacked with enough muscle to drive those tusks right through him if given the chance.

One hand wandered to his belt to flick the catch off a long netherite hunting blade. He levelled the loaded crossbow sight to his eye. It’s a mercy.

A squeeze of the trigger should’ve sent the bolt flying into the back of the zoglin’s skull, but at the last moment, the creature shifted its head, sending the arrow through its single eye instead. It let out a squealing bellow and stumbled back, a torrent of blood bubbling at its eye. It shook its massive head in agony, spattering droplets of blood like falling berries, and charged blindly at Grian.

Grian had reacted just quickly enough, snatching an ender pearl from a pouch at his belt - but in his haste to fling it, it hit the wall behind the zoglin and he fell about five feet to the ground. The zoglin was still squealing and huffing, growing more deranged by the second as it continued to bleed profusely. Damn it all, this was supposed to be quick! Grian thought, gritting his teeth and trying to reorient himself. But the zoglin had turned at the sound of his body hitting the ground and it was charging again. He stumbled to his feet, unsheathed his knife and stepped quietly to the side. The disoriented zoglin crashed headlong into the wall. He hadn’t a moment to lose. He drove the knife into the back of its skull, as easy as topping a soft-boiled egg.

The zoglin didn’t have time to repeat its ghastly scream. At this final assault, it’s body gave in and collapsed.

Grian crouched beside it with his back against the wall, quite out of breath. “Sorry, mate,” he said to the corpse beside him with genuine remorse. Waves of heat still emanated from the body. Froth bubbled at the zoglin’s mouth and mixed indiscriminately with the blood that pulsed from its wounds, collecting in the scores of the cobbles beneath them. It wasn’t the zoglin’s fault it’d been brought into the overworld, after all.

The already damp, stale air of the narrow alleyway was growing thick with the smell of blood and the saccharine scent of rot. Grian wiped his knife on his trousers and sheathed it. He’d clean it properly later.

Looking back to the dead zoglin, he had a flash of nausea - but it wouldn’t do to waste good weapons. He braced one boot against the skull, grasped the shaft of the crossbow bolt and wrenched it out, letting free a fresh stream of blood. That too would need cleaning. He cast a final vague eye over the body, but couldn’t be bothered to harvest any part of the broken, ragged creature. Thankfully, there’s a guy for everything these days - He’d ask if Tango was interested. Dragging a few old planks over the body, he called it good and set off for home.

Grian sat at his desk, absently cleaning dried blood from his netherite hunting knife with a handkerchief. He couldn’t call himself the most organised person, but he prided himself in his work and made an effort to keep his tools and weapons pristine.

The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the room. It was a small space, mostly occupied by a bed, desk, and chair. An identical one housed his partner, and the shared ‘office’ joined the two, the only room other than a small kitchen and bathroom that was shared. The ‘office’ was the largest room and served as something of a front for business - it was thus the only room that was generally tidy. Grian’s desk and bed were liberally scattered with books, papers, pens, cups of forgotten tea, glass bottles, various weapons, and other bits and bobs. It was an organised mess and he knew where everything was, he protested, even when one discovered half a jar of marmite under the bed.

“Tea?” Came a shout from the other room, breaking Grian from reverie.

“Yes please,” he returned, adding, “I told you that Tango’s gonna pop in, yeah?”

There was the clink of tin and china from the kitchen, a sound which usually meant one was striving to clear the counter space necessary for a mug, a task that generally proved futile.

“Where’s the tea?” Came a plaintive call from the kitchen. Grian shook his head in disbelief.

“In the cupboard, presumably.”

“But it’s not! Where on earth do things go?”

Grian sighed and made his way to the kitchen, saying as he went, “You do realise that offering to make someone tea then proceeding to ask them to come help you make tea defeats the nice deed.”

"It's the thought that counts, Grian," chastised the other reproachfully.

The kitchen was, as predicted, a mess. Plates and mugs were stacked everywhere, several crossbow bolts were drying on the counter after being cleaned, and it seemed neither had considered the option of using the cupboards for their intended purposes, considering the almost surreal amount of things on the counter. Mumbo stood in the midst of the familiar chaos with a nonplussed expression, his immaculate suit and composure as oxymoronic as ever to the surrounding disarray.

Some god must’ve been looking down on Grian because at that moment, the doorbell rang. He fled the scene in remarkable speed, putting on his boots in record speed and moments before shutting the front door shouting, “Be a lamb and clear up the kitchen!”

The caller, naturally, was Tango. The two had known each other for a long time now - their businesses went hand in hand, after all. Grian killed monsters on commission, and Tango paid for their remains, scavenging for valuable parts to resell on the black market. He was a sharp-looking man, tall and slight as a birch switch with sharp eyes and curiously pointed canine teeth. His spiky hair was an unusual bright yellow-gold, and though it was often combed back, never quite under control. He wore dark jeans with his red shirt, and a grey vest whose pockets held an arsenal of contraband. He always wore red-tinted glasses thanks to sensitive eyes, and dark leather gloves (Grian assumed this had to do with not leaving fingerprints). About his shoulders was a dark grey capelet that reached his waist.

Grian was glad to see the sky darkening as the two made their way towards where he’d left the remains of his latest job. The cobbled streets were scarcely populated, everyone intent on getting home and into the warmth of a fire. The two traded stories as was their habit, Tango talking about his encounters with the law and customers, and Grian of his encounter with the zoglin.

They were not friends. Mumbo and Grian were friends; Tango was an ally, an acquaintance. He was charismatic, but he was not a man one could be friends with - he spent far too much time snaking his way around the law thanks to his illicit dealings, and Grian knew better than to let his guard down around him. He was a respected individual and made for enjoyable company, and that sufficed for both.

They made their way down the alley, eventually emerging into the intersection where Grian had left the body. Tall brick and stone walls hemmed in the network of alleys, sky visible far above. The place had an air of perpetual dampness and algae grew on the uncared-for walls. Spotting the heap of rubbish he’d been looking for, he hauled aside a couple of old planks to reveal the dead zoglin. Flies had congregated on its flesh and blood still stained the cobbles around it.

“Very nice!” Tango said happily, crouching to examine the huge creature and pulling up a cloth mask. Grian, who was feeling quite nauseous and wishing he’d remembered a mask of his own, was as stunned as usual at the enthusiasm in Tango’s voice upon seeing a corpse. He leant against a wall and watched as Tango took from inside his cape a few instruments. With one hand he reached into the zoglin’s mouth to pry apart the jaws, and with the other grasped a pair of pliers, intent obvious. Grian closed his eyes in distaste, but couldn’t block the sound of teeth being wrenched free of their place. Tango was humming Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee.

Tango moved on to the tusks, prying them loose with another nasty looking instrument.

“Who the hell buys this stuff anyway?” Grian asked, watching the process.

“Oh, crooked alchemists mostly,” Tango replied airly, transferring the teeth to a small bag and tucking the tusks into an inner pocket. “Sometimes collectors.”

He seemed to consider the body for a moment more, then decisively reached once more under his cape, withdrawing a large carving knife.

He began the process of estranging one of the zoglin’s hind legs from the body, remarking as he did so, “The meat might still be good for something.”

Grian shook his head, knowing he didn’t want to ask questions.

Tango wrenched the leg away with a sickening wet ripping sound. He must’ve thought his face not visible to Grian, however, because he did something peculiar. He drew down his mask with one hand, held the bloody knife to his mouth, and licked it.

It was only a moment, but Grian had already seen - his tongue was forked. He remained still, not meaning to alert Tango, but one hand strayed casually to the flintlock at his waist.

Tango had stowed the zoglin haunch in a leather bag slung over one shoulder and straightened, wiping his bloody gloves on a cloth.

“How much for that then?” He asked cheerfully.

“You’re a demon,” Grian stated, impassively.

Tango looked mildly amused. “I- what?”

“Take off your glasses,” Grian demanded flatly, feeling anger blossom in his chest.

“No thanks,” Tango returned coldly, amusement gone, “You know I have sensitive eyes. How much do I owe you?”

“An explanation would be nice. Give me physical evidence that you’re not a demon. Should be easy enough, providing you’re not trying to lie to a professional hunter.” Grian drew his flintlock and let it weigh heavy in his hand.

“That's a pretty serious accusation to make,” Tango said softly, taking a few steps towards Grian, “If I'm a demon, you should be more careful.”

Tango was much taller than him and clearly trying to emphasize his height for intimidation. Bad idea, Grian thought. He suddenly swung a fist and knocked the glasses from Tango’s face, at which he stumbled.

Grian levelled his gun at Tango, half knelt on the ground. The gaze that rose to meet his was red; dark crimson sclera with lighter irises. As Tango got to his feet Grian fired, and Tango hissed in pain as the bullet pierced his shoulder - but he’d clearly been prepared. He tossed an ender pearl with his good arm and began to streak down the alley. Grian began to run too, then tore off his jumper to free his wings and leapt into the air. But Tango had vanished. He'd be streets away now, wherever the pearl had landed. Grian landed, knowing he couldn’t risk flying above the buildings.

Idiot. He thought bitterly, returning to his jumper, What kind of idiot is the monster hunter who regularly talks to a monster and doesn’t even know it?

He was tired, frustrated, angry. He should’ve known. It was his job to know and he didn’t. Didn’t know, and you didn’t even kill it. It ... he realised his choice of pronoun with discomfort. Tango was an acquaintance. It was right to shoot him, wasn’t it?

Yes, he decided. Demons aren’t people; they eat people. He’s just another monster to be taken care of. He’s a crook, you always knew that, and a vicious bastard.

But you're not human either, are you?

He shook his head in annoyance. That was different, of course. He didn’t hurt anyone. Grian clenched his fists, feeling his talons prick his palms even through the gloves. It would be time to file them again. He began his way home, exhausted. Perhaps he could still take up Mumbo's offer of tea.

Part II

~ Reblogs & notes appreciated! <3 ~

#grian #tangotek #hermitcraft fic #hermitcraft au #crow writes things #hermitcraft fanfic #harpy!grian #hermitcraft tango #hermitcraft grian #hc mumbo #hermitcraft mumbo #mumbo jumbo #hc grian #Arbitrary Darkness #imp!Tango #hermitblr

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milkmynk · 3 years

Text

2Ha’s Confession Scene

Translation for a friend, spoilers under the cut.

>>> SPOILERS

(Shizun has a fear of heights, but he requested Mo Ran to teach him how to fly on a sword.)

Chu Wan Ning, seeing that he hadn't made a sound for some time, turned his head and prompted, "What's wrong?"

Mo Ran didn't reply, his head was spinning. He longed to possess him, to hold him, to kiss him.

Involuntarily, he moved closer.

And then, suddenly, he realized that after putting up the barrier [to help Shizun feel more secure], even though Chu Wan Ning had relaxed slightly, his lips were white and compressed into a tight line, and he looked very pale. His arms were folded against himself, his slender fingers unconsciously clutching his forearms, twisted in the cold fabric.

Even when he was afraid, Chu Wan Ning didn't grab onto someone else, only himself.

Mo Ran was stunned for a moment.

Then, the aggressive light in his eyes faded, shattering into a million twinkling fragments.

Extremely gentle.

Those lips that were about to rashly kiss him, slightly upturned, becoming a soft and wry smile.

Those arms that were about to abruptly embrace him, stopped, and after a moment, touched his chilled hand.

"You......" Chu Wan Ning was startled, a flush flooding into his pale face, but warned him in a low voice, "What are you doing."

He wanted to withdraw his hand, but Mo Ran was gripping it, and refused to let go. Chu Wan Ning felt like his frozen fingers had fallen into a large, extremely warm hand, tightly enclosing his palm all the way to his fingertips.

"Stop relying only on yourself," Mo Ran chided, "I'm here, you can rely on me."

If Chu Wan Ning had still been able to be calm before this, after hearing that, no matter how dense he was, how hesitant, he could not fail to detect the affection in it.

What's more, those jet-black eyes were watching him, gravely and seriously, gently and tenderly. In an instant, Chu Wan Ning's heartbeat became as agitated as a torrential storm, pattering against his soul.

He dared not to look at Mo Ran's eyes, and turned his face away violently, lowering his gaze.

Too hot.

Why was the air a hundred feet above ground, so hot.

He had always been haughty and composed, but at this moment it was as though he had suddenly stepped into a completely unfamiliar territory, his entire body stripped of all armor, his sharp claws blunted. In front of Mo Ran's sudden frankness, Chu Wan Ning's usual tactics seemed to become useless.

The man pried open his oyster shell heatedly, and with his straightforward gaze, looked upon the trembling flesh within. No matter whether it was the luminescent pearl, or that sweet flesh, were completely bared to his gaze.

This haughty and composed person, having lost his defenses, suddenly felt flustered and at a loss.

What should he do...

What should he say?

What...

He realized that his hand was still held within Mo Ran's, closely twined.

He didn't know what he should do, and was both agitated and nervous, his eyes had even turned slightly red, subconsciously he tried again to withdraw his fingers.

But he had only moved a little, when Mo Ran tightly held onto him.

The man's palm had a sheen of sweat, and was slightly damp.

"Don't pull away."

"......"

He was strong, both stubborn and insistent. He didn't know why, but Chu Wan Ning suddenly felt like in his words, there seemed to be some sorrow.

Mo Ran's gaze was heavy and fiery, after staring at him for some time, he said in a low, hoarse voice, "Chu Wan Ning......"

"...... What did you call me?"

"...... My mistake."

Chu Wan Ning's entire body was even more tense than before, his heart racing even more than when he was practicing his sword-riding. He was not used to this, completely not used to this.

He strove to regain his composure, struggling one final time before falling into this chasm.

He lowered his eyelids and said, "Mmm, if you know you made a mistake in your words, then you're not completely hope......"

Mo Ran's heart was very hot, and finally without thinking about it, it slipped from him. "Wan Ning."

... -less.

Chu Wan Ning hadn't managed to say that last syllable.

When he heard that gentle, husky voice carrying a hint of a sigh, his mind was filled with buzzing, and blanked out for a moment.

That last word, could no longer be said.

Hopeless.

Hopeless--

They had floundered at the edge of the swamp of desire for so long, and finally couldn't resist stepping a foot in, sinking into it, henceforth being ensnared in it, seeping into their bones.

Mo Ran's voice was deep and hoarse, he watched him intently. "Wan Ning, actually, these few days I had something, I always wanted to ask you."

"......"

His heart burning madly, Mo Ran tightly gripped Chu Wan Ning's hand, his fingers trembling, "No, I won't ask you anymore."

Chu Wan Ning had just breathed a sigh of relief, when Mo Ran continued.

"I won't ask anymore, I only want to tell you."

Mo Ran went straight to the point, never turning back.

In a single breath, he used the entirety of his courage.

"I love you."

His heart shook wildly.

"I love you, not that of a disciple's for his master, it's... I'm too audacious, I..... I love you."

Chu Wan Ning closed his eyes, his fingertips enclosed in that person's boiling, damp heat, from trembling, they slowly, slowly stilled.

How could it be.

How could it be......

He definitely heard it wrong, he was so ugly, so fierce, so bad at talking, so uninteresting, he was a pathetic idiot with not a single good point to him. Who would love him?

"I love you."

Chu Wan Ning was dazed for very, very long, he really didn't know what he should say, his heart was in turmoil and completely at a loss. He even felt bitterness, he even felt fear, his mind was practically a blank. He wanted to, as usual, draw his sleeves and scold, "nonsense", "idiocy", he thought of many things, but they all got stuck in his throat.

After freezing for a long time, Chu Wan Ning finally, hoarsely, nonsensically, said, "...... I have a horrible temper."

"You're very good to me."

"I, I'm old."

"You look younger than me."

Chu Wan Ning was nearly agitated, at a loss and helpless. "I'm so ugly......"

It was Mo Ran's turn to be stunned, his eyes went wide as he stared at this extremely handsome man before him. He could not understand why someone as good-looking as him, would think so poorly of himself?

Chu Wan Ning, seeing that he didn't make a sound, became even more flustered internally. He lowered his head, "I'm not good-looking."

"......"

"Not as good-looking as you."

As he quietly murmured, suddenly a warm hand cupped his cheek. He heard Mo Ran sigh, even gentler than tonight's moon. "Are you willing to look into my eyes for a while?"

Chu Wan Ning said, "Your eyes......?"

Mo Ran's gaze was warm and tender, reflecting a white-clad man, and he said, "Do you see it? That is the best-looking man in the world."

Chu Wan Ning stared at him, even though his heart was like a violent storm, his cold face still did not show much emotion.

Mo Ran held his hand, it was sweaty.

Again, he said quietly, "I love you."

Chu Wan Ning felt like he was pricked, his fingers trembled, after a moment, he lowered his head. "I love you" was like a sharp knife, stabbing into his heart and making his blood race hotly, there was no going back. Chu Wan Ning's eyes were red, perhaps he had really waited too long, he had no idea that he would have this kind of reaction from hearing these words. He was very agitated, almost to the point of crying, as he said, "I'm no good. I... I've never been liked by anyone before."

I've never been liked by anyone before.

There was never anyone who, because they have me, would feel happy, feel proud, feel blessed.

It had been thirty-two years.

Never been liked by anyone before.

When Mo Ran heard this, when he looked at this man who didn't even want to lift his head, he suddenly ached and ached. He ached till his heart felt like it was splitting apart, like his bones were crumbling to dust.

This was his precious treasure, yet it had been buried in dust for half a lifetime.

He ached till he didn't know what to say.

In the end, all he could do was stupidly grip Chu Wan Ning's hand tightly, and repeat endlessly, "There is someone. There is someone."

Someone loves you. I love you.

Someone wants you, someone wants you, so don't look down on yourself anymore, don't be so silly, making such a wonderful you sound like you're worthless. Stupid.

Stupid Chu Wan Ning.

I love you.

After very long, Mo Ran asked, “And what about you?”

“...... What?”

Mo Ran lowered his eyelids, his lashes shivering, “I… I’m so stupid, so inconsiderate, so unreliable, I… I even did many unforgivable things.”

He paused for a moment, then continued in a small voice, “Will you like me?”

Chu Wan Ning had originally already lifted his face, but when he heard him say that, when he met those gentle black eyes, incredibly, he became flustered again. With a strength he didn’t know he had, he jerked his hand out of Mo Ran’s, and turned his face away.

He did not nod his head, nor did he shake it.

He did not confirm it, nor did he deny it.

But Mo Ran clearly saw Chu Wan Ning’s ears turn red, the flush spreading to his graceful neck.

“That pouch……”

[Some context here, Mo Ran found a pouch CWN carried on his person, that contained the locks of hair both of them had cut off during the ghost marriage god incident, that was a symbol of their “marriage”]

“Don’t say it.” Chu Wan Ning suddenly said dully, his entire face now fully red, “You’re not allowed to say it.”

Mo Ran gazed at Chu Wan Ning’s expression of unwillingness and embarrassment, of anger and disconcertment, light and shadow flowing in his eyes, entwined with moonlight.

He inched closer, reached out his hand again, and captured Chu Wan Ning’s fingertips.

Chu Wan Ning was quivering, Mo Ran’s fingers were also lightly trembling, he covered Chu Wan Ning’s slender fingers, and then-- One by one, overlapped them with his own, and in a fashion never before--

Their fingers entwined, one palm against the other.

Chu Wan Ning’s entire face was flushed, and he turned his face away even more.

But, this time, he did not pull himself free.

Hence, Mo Ran held Chu Wan Ning’s hand, and at last, finally, he understood, confirmed it nervously.

Chu Wan Ning...... also liked him.

He finally, found out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To Chu Wan Ning, this was his first time entwining his fingers with Mo Ran’s, their palms overlapping.

He felt that it was enough, it was too much, thank goodness Mo Ran didn’t do anything more, or he probably would really leap down from a hundred feet in the air, and flee.

It was really fortunate.

But to Mo Ran, this was his god-knows what time he entwined his fingers with Chu Wan Ning’s, their palms overlapping.

He felt that it wasn’t enough, it was too little, but thank goodness he didn’t do anything more, otherwise after holding hands he would want to kiss him, and then demand even more, to thoroughly taste him.

It was really unfortunate.

But even so, Mo Ran could still detect that Chu Wan Ning seemed to be running away.

That day when they descended from the sword, Chu Wan Ning didn’t say a word, and turned to run. He ran for a couple of steps, felt like he was too hurried, and immediately slowed back down.

After he slowed down for a couple of steps, he heard Mo Ran following himself behind him, and spurred by his embarrassment and agitation, he began to run again.

“……”

Mo Ran watched him striding quickly, his heart tender and ticklish, hot and soft.

When he saw that Chu Wan Ning was striding, head down, straight towards a large tree, Mo Ran immediately warned, “Watch out---!”

“Bam!”

But he still hit the tree straight on.

He hurried over and asked, “Does it hurt? Let me see.”

Chu Wan Ning pressed his forehead wordlessly, and after a while, continued walking.

Mo Ran wanted to follow him, but heard him say, “Don’t follow me.”

“I… also need to go back and rest, right.”

“Stand there and let the wind blow at you for a while, come back after you’ve cooled down.”

Cool down?

Mo Ran smiled, how am I supposed to cool down?

After holding your hand, this night, my heart will always be hot.

But he still obediently stopped following. He stood under that cold moonlight, watched Chu Wan Ning walk away, and watched him until he disappeared behind the wall. Only then did he walk to that tree Chu Wan Ning had carelessly walked into. After being silent for a while, he pressed his forehead against the tree bark.

The bark was rough, he closed his eyes.

Chu Wan Ning……

Likes him.

Dancing flowers flowing like water, the lonely island seems like spring.

The brilliant moon glowing in the sky, the serene clouds shading the sun.

The tide surging wordlessly, the water and the sky of a colour.

No matter how wonderful the mortal world was, nothing could compare to those words, Chu Wan Ning likes him.

Even though his vocabulary was so poor, his talent so dim, at this moment his heart still swelled, poetry welling like a spring. Love could turn a simple, straightforward idiot like Mo Wei Yu into a poet, Chu Wan Ning likes him, Chu Wan Ning…… Chu Wan Ning likes him!

He ground his forehead against the tree bark, he wanted to calm down, wanted to restrain himself, wanted to “cool down”, wanted to……

It’s no use, he couldn’t do it.

He could no longer calm down, he couldn’t restrain himself, he couldn’t cool down, his closed eyes were trembling, his lashes drenched in gentleness and crazed joy. The corners of his mouth curled upwards, the dimples in his cheeks growing deeper and deeper, the sweetness in them overflowing.

Chu Wan Ning likes him.

Likes him.

It’s… It’s that person he was heads over heels in love with, it’s that most wonderful person in the world, it’s that person he wanted to hold in his embrace for the rest of his life, it’s Chu Wan Ning…… It’s Chu Wan Ning……

Unbelievably, the great ex-Taxian-jun, current Mo-zongshi, on this deserted, pristine beach, leaned against a large tree and with his eyes closed and head lowered, he laughed, his shoulders shaking.

Because Chu Wan Ning liked him, the wind he smelled was sweet, the sound of the waves in his ears was sweet.

Chu Wan Ning, likes him.

He laughed with his eyes closed, but as he laughed, suddenly, he began to cry.

Like a madman, his lips were stretched in a smile, but tears flowed from his eyes. It was so sweet, and yet his heart hurt so much.

Chu Wan Ning……

Likes him.

Ever since the Butterfly Town incident, he had secretly kept the pouch holding their twined locks of hair.

Likes him……

He suddenly wanted to know, when was it that Chu Wan Ning started standing behind himself, staying by him silently, waiting for him silently, waiting for him to turn his head, waiting for him to stretch out his hand, waiting for him to turn towards him.

How long had Chu Wan Ning waited?

This lifetime, the lifetime before.

All together, twenty years?

Even longer than twenty years.

He, Mo Wei Yu, had seen through the dust of the mortal world, and knew that the world’s most precious thing, was time.

With power and influence, you could be all-powerful, every kind of treasure or honeyed words would come to you without ceasing. But only time, once lost, could not be regained.

If a person was willing to redeem you with ten thousand taels, that was lust.

If a person was willing to redeem you with their beautiful future, that was love.

And if a person was willing to use twenty years, their best years, to redeem you, to wait for you.

Without a word, without asking for repayment, without asking for a result.

That was foolishness.

Really, really, it was too foolish.

Mo Ran’s throat was tight and sour, the bitterness climbing up his tongue, surging like the tide, and he thought---

Chu Wan Ning, you’re really…… too foolish.

Why? How?

What good deeds or attributes have I, Mo Wei Yu… That I could let you be like this to me.

You are the world’s best person, but me?

My hands are filled with blood, I’m better off dead, I’m reviled by thousands, I’m unworthy of reincarnation.

I bullied you, hated you, failed you, I killed you.

You don’t even know what I’ve done……

You don’t even know!!

Mo Ran hugged that tree, his sobs falling into the whistling ocean breeze. What has he done……

With Chu Wan Ning’s gaze on him, he chased another person’s back.

With Chu Wan Ning’s gaze on him, he stupidly waited for another to look at him.

In the Jincheng illusion, with his own mouth, he told Chu Wan Ning, Shimei, I like you.

He sliced Chu Wan Ning’s heart with a knife!

But, Chu Wan Ning?

He was as steadfast as a rock, an unmoving rock in the river current, even with his heart stabbed through, as though he were untouched, he continued taking care of him, tolerating him, accompanying him.

Until death.

…… Until death.

He laughed out loud, he wept, in the moonlight there was only himself, nobody could see him turn crazier and crazier.

Chu Wan Ning, in two lifetimes, in two lifetimes even until death, he didn’t let Mo Ran know of his feelings. The most humble thing this proud man had done in his entire life, was to fall for someone.

For that person, he did everything he could, but in that long wait, he clearly understood that that person’s eyes would never hold himself. Under the clear understanding that that person would never love him, he chose not to bother, he chose not to alarm that person, he chose not to give even a single bit of trouble to others.

He chose, to keep the last of his dignity.

In their past lifetime, till death, he only ever said a single sentence, it was I who treated you unjustly, I do not grudge you whether I live or die.

This lifetime, he confessed his love for him, yet such a wonderful person, such a proud person like Chu Wan Ning, said, “I’m no good. I’ve never been liked by anyone before.”

Taxian-jun…… Mo Wei Yu…… What…… have you been doing……

What have you been doing!!!

Was he blind, or stupid?

How could he be so blind, how could he fail him so.

#2ha #husky and his white cat shizun #spoilers #i love this confession so so so much

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ravenwritesstuff · 4 years

Text

Wandering Hearts (31/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (for real) A/N: Was going to only write 2,000 words for this part. But then I drank three bottles of wine and wrote 6,000 instead. LOL FUCK A DUCK if I am going to die young I better finish these stories (if that offended you don’t even think about reading this)

DAMN THE HORSE THAT BROUGHT YOU TO THIS PAIN

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ] [ part twenty-nine ] [ part thirty ]

The air had been still and warm that first night she slept under the stars. She had walked for what felt like years, her feet blistered in the delicate slippers she wore from the palace. She did not know where she was or where she was going or how to get there. Her stomach growled and her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth. Despite the exercise she took daily in the palace, running empty halls and such, it would seem that hiking through small wooded paths was very much a different experience.

All that considered: she still slept better that night than she had in years.

….

The second day, despite her sound sleep, she picked herself up off of the ground with a foggy head and aching limbs. She didn’t know where she was for a moment, confused by the grit that was in her mouth mirrored by the grit in her eyes. She stretched, spine bending as much as it could in the confines of her corset and overdress, and tried to make sense of her garbled thoughts.

It wasn’t quite light yet, but the birds tittered in the trees above her, and she could see just enough to remember crawling under this bush the night before just as the moon had crested the horizon. She had crawled under a bush the last night to sleep because she did not have her bed. In a flash, perhaps the first or truest understanding of what she had done struck her.

She left the palace.

She left Arendelle.

She left Elsa.

This was the first moment she truly realized what she had done.

Any giddiness she may have felt at the idea of freedom, release, is squelched near instantly by the sobering price of her realization.

She, a crown princess, had walked of her own free will out of the city of Arendelle without the slightest hiccup.

She left and no one had stopped her. No one had found her. Had they even searched? Did she mean so little?

This was the first moment she truly considered that she had never expected to succeed at her plan, or lack of it. She had had such little success in any area of her life that this notion is entirely foreign. She had escaped. So why did she only feel worse?

Her stomach growled, her throat dry. She had not thought of provision, only escape. She hadn't been entirely sure what that meant so the satchel she wore contained impractical items: a ring her mother had given her set with a freshwater pearl, a ornately carved wooden music box, few hair pins and ornaments, a miniature portrait of them all. There also was a small ration of tea cakes she had wrapped in her handkerchief, but they would not last long and her stomach protested.

The firm realities of her escape started to take hold. She had left and while she could return she was not certain she would be welcome. Perhaps they had wanted her to go. She had served no purpose, no function, besides breaking rules and bothering the queen. Who would miss her?

Still worse would be the other possible consequence. If she returned she would never leave the palace again for the rest of her life. She was certain between the two options of eternal imprisonment behind closed doors and windows or ultimate rejection and humiliation at the hand of her sister that both would destroy her entirely.

She knew well enough that despite her lack of preparation, her discomfort, that she had no desire to turn back. There was nothing for her back in Arendelle and even if she was discovered, even if they searched for her, she would fight. She would hide. She would escape.

It was a strange fire that lit within her that morning burning up from the deepest part of her soul.

She would run as far as she could. She would walk until she could not walk any further. She would board a ship and sail. She would go as far as she could before she would go back to a life of always waiting to be rescued. She would rescue herself.

So as the sun brightened the sky she stood on aching feet, stretched once more, and walked.

….

She can only wonder just how far she had traveled the past three days before and where she was now.

She had no compass, no map, no sense of direction. She had avoided the main roads and paths choosing instead to pick her way through the underbrush. The second day had brought rain and she had laid on her back with her mouth wide - parched. The individual drops wet her tongue and throat but she was fast learning that she would need to find water, find food.

She’d happened upon a cloudberry patch in a marshy section of her journey and she had eaten until her stomach cramped. The tart juices dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Once her hunger had been stated she had plucked any remaining berry she could find and stuffed them in her stachel with her precious things.

Things.

She was quickly learning that that is all they were - just another thing to carry, to tie her to her past. Still she cannot quite let go of them. She will carry them.

They may ground her in the past but only until she knows her future. When she knows what is coming then she can let go of where she has been. She wants to let go of where she has been, but she doesn’t quite know what that means yet. So she shoves the berries into her satchel and lets the press and crush of her movement ruin the miniature she had so carefully chosen.

She hadn’t known, hadn’t mean to, but when she scoops out the remaining berry mash from her small pouch for her dinner as the sun fades - she realizes her error.

The fluid and fibers had stained and marred the tiny image of her family with red splotches and she thought of blood. Their features were disfigured, smiles tainted. She could not even make out her mother’s face for a particularly terrible splotch. Her father’s face was blurred, the canvas crumpling with the excess moisture and pulling from the frame. Her own countenance was entirely lost in a wash of muddled colors from her mother’s dress - but Elsa was still there. Elsa remained. Her face was slightly stained, but Anna still saw the only friend she had ever truly had. A friend who despised her.

A friend who had wished this upon her.

She does not hesitate as she throws the spoiled portrait as far from her as she can and finishes her berry mash dinner without tears.

….

She smelled smoke.

It was distant at first but she followed it. It had been four days since she had seen another soul and she knew it was a risk but she was weak with hunger, the tea cakes and cloudberries long gone. The woods were vast and wild and if she was honest at all she had no idea if she was any further from Arendelle than she had been the first day she left. She needed guidance, someone who could tell her where she could find a port so she could sail to where no one even knew of Arendelle.

The smoke took her to the edge of what was barely a village on the edge of a fjord. There were only a dozen or so buildings, houses. It was clearly a tight knit cluster of homes . She did not know where she was, only barely understood what she had to lose, still she stayed on the outskirts for nearly a quarter of an hour to watch and understand.

Precious little happened.

A spare child or adult might meander between the wooden structures, but they were not what catches her noticed. What stuck out mostly was the lack of the Arendelle flag required to be flown in all supporting provinces. Still also there was no symbol of national association of any kind. She hoped maybe she had moved far enough away that it would not matter if she approached anyone.

This world seemed idelic, peaceful, connected. It seems like everything she has ever wanted. No one looked at anyone else in a way that suggested some sort of other-ness that she had grown so accustomed to seeing in the palace.

All she has ever wanted was to belong.

So near midday (she guessed for she slipped into a troubled, hungry sleep) she stepped out of her hiding place and came to what seemed the center of this little township. The streets were quiet then and she thought perhaps for the noonday meal. There is no single main street but several strange paths that all seemed to converge on one central building. It was not constructed with stone as many of Arendelle’s buildings were, but rather with wood bent in aches unlike anything she had seen before. It seemed as a boat turned upside down, the hull jutting to the sky with pride.

The door is on the front as she expected, but she hesitated. She had met closed doors before.

What if this was a mistake, a trap, or worse? What if she knocked only to be met with spite and denial? What if it led only to more pain and isolation? What if this was not where she was supposed to be?

She had not met with anyone in her journey to this place, but that could be for many reasons. The timing, the place, the size of the population… she readily makes excuses as she also realized that she is uncertain if knocking is what one does in this place. How does one request the opening of a door if not to knock? She had always knocked with Elsa but seldom had that produced much fruit - so instead she stood in indecision before -

“What’s this?” The soprano voice is not as soft as it is exacting. “Why are ya at my door?”

Anna whirled at that to find a woman near ten years older than herself with a wash bucket on hip and a babe on the other. Her dirty blonde hair was braided without ornament down her back. The child she carried was old enough to hold itself up and gleam a few sharp teeth in Anna's direction.

Anna was caught off guard. Her mind scrambled.

She had wondered where the people were but now as she turned she saw several women with similar baskets and children slung on the hip. Some had more younglings clutchings their skirts or staying close beside them. Anna did not understand what that meant, couldn’t, but would in the future.

Wash day.

The whole community was unified in one singular task and she had no idea that any place could be like that. She had no idea that there could be anything but being alone.

She managed to refocus her famished mind long enough to respond to the charge pressed upon her.

“I need aid.”

She had not considered exactly how to address another person outside of the palace. Everyone there had been so set on providing comfort, attending near her every wish, so it was a bit of a shock when the woman in front of her laughed and pushed past her with her basket.

“We all need that. Find some other home to bother.”

And before Anna could complain the door was opened and shut on the large, longhouse. She saw the other women of the village watching as they all filed to their homes. Their eyes were dark, distrusting. For a moment she wanted to demand her birthright, to command the respect she felt due to her parentage, but she had denied that. She had run. She was no different than these women before her. In fact she was less than them in almost every way.

Her cheeks heat at the watching crowd and she puts a hand to her rumpled hair. She hadn’t given a thought to her appearance, but now she realizes that after days she must look a fright. Her cloak was filthy from sleeping on the ground, laying in mud and dirt. The hem of her dress was caught and ripped from brush and her own clumsy steps. The delicate slippers from the palace were hardly worth even calling shoes anymore. Even if she had claimed her royalty - would any of these women believe her?

She stumbles a few steps away from the largest building towards the watching group.

“Please,” her voice cracks from lack of use. “Something to eat?”

The group disperses. All cast their eyes away from her, shelter and usher their children away. Anna feels a strange panic tingle in her chest not only because of her desperate physical need but for lack of understanding.

Still there is little she can do about it. The rejection was bright and bitter as it had ever been in the palace. Her heart crunches beneath the weight of her frantic breath. The need to be seen, be heard drove her feet towards the withdrawing figures.

“Please,” she reached out as the women disappeared into their homes. “Please!”

But it was too late. The retreat was complete and Anna was left alone in the beaten path between homes with closed doors and no windows. Anna had not cried since that first day of her escape, had not felt the hot burn of tears scald her eyes and throat, but she does now. Her knees threatened to buckle and she gritted her jaw. She would not collapse now. She had seen closed doors before and she had survived them all. This, she resolved, would be no different.

With her heart in her throat and rocks in her gut she raps on the door of the first house closest to her. When there is no answer she knocks again and again. Each beat on the door bolsters her courage and when she had had enough of that door she goes to the next. She pounds and pounds, not relenting, not having a choice.

She traveled from door to door, fist aching, heart breaking but growing in resolve. She did not know it yet but she was learning what it took to survive. She had fought the battle of the heart, the mind, when she had been trapped in the walls of the palace. Now in this open space she is learning the battle of the body.

She did not keep track of the numbers of knocks, the doors. She simply kept going. It was all she had ever done. It was all she knew to do. She knocked and she knocked and she knocked. She knocked and traveled from door to door until her knuckles were red, cracking. She fought in a way she thought she knew, but learned once again in this place and time. She tasted the language of desperation but the syllables were different. She savored the tang of rejection but the flavor was unfamiliar.

Still she went on. She went on in search of the difference until she found it. She was at the house closest to the water. She could see the fjord from where they were, the reasonable few berths and small ships constructed as a harbor for traders. This was a simple place with plain people who were only a passage point for larger and better exchange. This is where she began to learn the matter of exchange.

She knocked and knocked, hoping still against hope for a different response than she had been taught, but still surprised when it came.

A middle-aged man opened the door, and she was struck by the fact that this was the first man she had seen in this entire settlement. She did not have long to dwell on this thought and was instead taken with his appearance. His wiry frame and shock of hair even redder than hers instantly called a fox to mind. The clothing he wore was rough spun and leather. His sharp eyes scanned her head to foot and she suddenly felt her skin heating. No man had ever looked at her that way. She was not sure she appreciated it.

She did not give herself time to rethink her decisions: “Please, sir,” her voice cracked. “Some food or drink.”

He did not shut the door in her face but instead seemed to estimate every bit of her and her request with cool precision. She shifted under his scrutiny, but did not shrink. He slacked a hip.

“Ye have coin?” His voice was deeper than she expected for his spare frame.

Her mind pulled a blank for a moment, not understanding entirely. She shook her head.

“Something to sell then, trade.” It is not a question this time.

This time she understood.

Unconsciously her hand went to her satchel. His eyes tracked the motion. She thought of the ring, the music box, the hair pieces… in four days they had done little to bolster her and even less to aid her. Why then did her heart rend at the idea of separating from them the way she had her miniature?

“I suppose that depends.” Her reply was indirect - something she had learned for Elsa. “What have you for me?”

At this the man almost smiled, pleased. He widened his door and she saw inside a woman and two small children. The woman was near the central fire stirring the contents of a massive cast iron pot. The children (no older than she and Elsa had been when their relationship imploded) played on the straw floor with figures of stick and scrap. Those details brought her comfort but it was the things beyond that caught the most of her attention.

The entire home was lined with shelves filled with jars and canisters and bags. There was not a single space that was not committed to the housing and storing of many items she could only assume were valuable. It all seemed practical and that was what she needed. Still she was not entirely certain what that entailed.

With tentative, sore feet she stepped into the space smaller than her bedroom had been at the palace with wide eyes. The smell of food slapped her across the face and her mouth watered as much as it could. The man shut the door behind her and the room darkened. She blinked in the new dimness not understanding that what she saw was some sort of makeshift mercantile.

Still she felt she understood the general idea. So she stood straight and commanded as much of a regal air as she could.

“I need food and drink and transport.”

The fox of a man replied: “Aye I can give ye most that but only when the coin has come.”

She did not fully understand the concept of coin in a concrete way, so she never considered a possibility and opened her satchel. She looked at the sparse, berry-stained contents and first pulled out the few of her favorite clips and hair bobbles. On a flat, quivering palm she extends them to the Fox. He picked one with nimble fingers and turned them with precision Anna did not understand.

“Ye no stole these from some lady?” He asked. “A person that will tan my hide for having them?”

Anna didn’t not comprehend at first, simultaneously glad she did not inspire thoughts of grandeur at her appearance but also what he could mean and shook her head.

“Things like this only come from places that either look for no good or those that have good reason to get gone.” He dropped the clip in her palm. “Which are you?”

His perception made her body quake. Did he know? Had he guessed? Was there news about her here? Had she just now walked into a trap?

She would never know. She would not give herself the chance. She was here with hunger and purpose.

She squared her chin: “If you cannot prove one or the other what does it matter?”

She earned her second grin.

“I ain’t bargaining to gain something that will see me hung,” his response is quick.

“I would never wish that,” her fingers wrapped involuntarily over her asset, drew back, bargaining without knowing.

He is quiet for a moment regarding her the same way he had when she had first knocked on his door. His dark eyes strong, but still. Something told her she had made a mistake but instead of retreat she pulled her chest higher.

“Will you take what I have in exchange for my needs or will you not?”

The fox grinned then in earnest, his mouth showing gaps where teeth should be.

“Aye, but if ya need me be discreet it will nay be the same exchange.”

The comprehension of what he was saying bled into the place where the rejection of the village had cut her. He may have opened his door, may be willing to help, but it still had a price attached to it. True charity was not to be found here.

“It seems as though discretion is your idea - not mine.”

And at this the man huffed a laugh, his gap toothed smile cutting an uneven crescent across his face. She had not meant it to be a joke, so she stood straighter than before and tried to command some measure of authority despite the fact that each part of her ached. She could have asked for help, expressed at least part of her situation, but she was still too proud for that. She would learn.

“Ya have grit enough, that’s for certain, but I’ll be needing more than that for the risk.”

His eyes go to her satchel and her first instinct is to open it and show him the whole meager contents. Her second is to tighten her spine and get what she needed.

She went with the latter.

“I need food, drink, and aid for to find a port - a ship - and fare to board it and leave these shores,” asking had not worked before so instead she told. It made her insides shake, but she had no other option.

The fox’s eyes narrow: “Where you be headed?”

She almost told him she had no idea but she thought of Elsa, of the way she held herself so above everyone, and the way she owed no explanation. This man was nothing. He was only someone who opened a door.

“I wish to sail,” was all she could summon. Her years of geography escaped her. “I have a few things I can sell in exchange for food and passage - but only if you will help me.”

He moved closer, but she fisted her satchel and stepped back. Despite her need, her hunger, she would not be cheated. She had been cheated her entire life.

He settled back on one leg at her retreat and she noticed then the unevenness of his legs. They were not as they should be. One was crumpled more than the other and she forced herself to hold her tongue as she noticed. At least some of her court etiquette classes paid off in this strange world.

He appeared to notice her assessment: “I am no sailor, but food and coin for voyage I can trade if what you have be of value.”

“For these then,” she extended the hair ornaments, her favorite pins with chips of jewels and luminous pearls attached in intricate design. She’d played with them as a young woman, hoping to have reason to have her lady’s maid pin them in her coif for a ball or something. She understood now that that dream was dead.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “For both food and voyage? What else have you?”

She did not know he was testing her, had not yet learned. Feeling that she had made progress towards her goal, stupefied by hunger, she goes to her satchel.

“This,” she pulled out the music box with trembling hands. It was small enough that it fit in the palm of her hand but in the inlaid woodwork is enough to catch even the commonest eyes. The work was exceptional, ornate, and glistened even in only firelight.

She opened it and a song long familiar to her played. Her mother had sung this melody to help her and Elsa sleep when she was young. When Elsa moved to her own room… well the music box was made for Anna. She had wound and listened to it so many times that there were notes that were distorted, bits that did not quite play as they should, but she hoped it would still be worth something to this man. After all: this box was part of her past. She was moving forward.

He seemed shocked at the sound from the box. His face went blank, pale almost, and she wondered what she did wrong. Had she done something to ruin her chances?

The other woman in the room came to the fox. Anna had almost forgotten her. She was plain in all respects, but she pulled her male counterpart to a corner and conversed with him in sharp, hushed tones. Anna felt embarrassed listening so she turned her attention on the children: two girls.

They had dolls that could hardly even be called that and crude stick structures she was certain was supposed to be some sort of structure. Their muddy brown hair favored the woman in the corner but their sharp eyes favored the man. Was this what people would have seen if they had seen her with her family? Would they have thought she had her mother’s eyes, her father’s mouth?

It didn’t matter.

The fox returned even as the woman (she supposed his wife) returned to her washing. His eyes held a new light and she glanced at the woman who was trying not to stare and he stomach dropped.

Had they sorted it out? Did they know who she was? She swallowed the massive lump in her throat and clutched her now closed music box to her chest.

“The pins and the box,” he jerked his chin. “We’ll give you three day’s bread and jerky in addition to coin enough to get you on a ship out of Arendelle to wherever you might go.”

Her heart nearly stopped at the name of her kingdom.

“Are we far from there?” Her voice barely trembled, but she felt it all the way to her slippers.

“Two days by wagon,” he shifted the weight of his good leg. “One by horse.”

She thought she sensed fear in his tone. The strength of the fox had waned at her delivery, but he could not retreat. A glance showed that the children had abandoned the game and now stared. The woman watched too in her own discreet way. She felt exposed, laid bare, and fear pounded in her breast.

What if they knew her? What if she had shown too much? She was not certain if their offer was fair, had no way to gauge, had not known well enough to learn about coin and common exchange before she ran, but she had drawn enough attention. When she was on other shores, far from the reach of Elsa she would fight harder. She was sure of it.

But to walk back to Arendell now… after all she had done to be free….

“Are there other ports? Somewhere closer?”

The fox scoffed. “You could try Eldenvale but no much goes from there without stopping first at Arendelle.”

She forced a polite smile.

“I have no horse or wagon,” the music box pressed into her palm. “And I’ll take your offer but for five days food and drink plus coin for voyage from a closer port.”

She had seen the keen look in his eye and even though her voice shook as she made the offer she still made it. She tried her best to look resolved but felt herself crumbled under the cascade of worry that besieged her.

“You’ll be hard pressed to find much but local boats in these parts. But you throw in that pretty purse ya carry and I’ll throw in enough coin to get you wherever you want to go.”

Anna had not thought of trading her satchel. It had no meaning. She had taken it from the kitchen (a messenger bag from the palace) when she had been there one day and it had worked for what she needed. It was made of fine leather and a specifically tooled strap. She touched the bag, weighing her options.

If she traded the music box, the pins, the bag, all she would have left would be the coin and sustenance. A part of her revolts at the idea of giving up what she had brought for sentiment, but what comfort had it brought her? Had it filled her stomach or brought her safety?

It would bring her no comfort if she was dead. She tightened her spine and stiffened her lip.

“Five days food, drink and coin. Plus a way to carry my fare. No less.”

The fox smiled.

....

It had been two days since she had left the village, coin jingling in her pocket and ring on her finger. In some ways she misses the sound of her music box coming from her satchel - the knowledge that she could pull out her few precious belongings and remember from whence she came. Then other times she was glad to be rid of it, of memory besides the small ring. Her satchel was full now of hardtack and dried jerky. It would last her if she was careful.

She followed the directions the fox man had given her after relinquishing what she thought she prized for hard bread and jerky. She’d negotiated five days, but she was determined to make it last at least ten.

She had known so little when she left the palace. Now she knew more. She knew that food must be earned and she had done that. Soon she would find her way to where the fox had sent her and she would be on her way. She would sail and none of this would matter.

She had passed through a marsh, a field. She’d climbed through a mountain pass. Now she was back in a pine forest with her breath short but her steps purposeful. She had somewhere to go, to be. She knew it. There had to be a life waiting for her somewhere if only she could find it.

The first sign of trouble came with the sound of a rustling bush.

She had grown used to this in the past week.

There were animals about at all times and so she did not look. She did not notice the men coming behind her stalking her like wolves. Not until it was too late.

There was no preamble, no discussion. They made no attempt to speak or be spoken to. Anna hardly had a chance to see them before they hit her hard across the head and she saw stars. Then they hit her again and the stars gave way to darkness.

She tried to fight, but in her disoriented state it was nearly impossible. She did not know where one attacker stopped and the other started. She was not certain how many there were, but she felt them tear at her bodice, dig in the makeshift pouch at her waist that held her food, pull her mother’s ring from her finger. She struggled as best she could but they caught her off guard, stunned her, and now she was lost.

She felt the hand at her throat, her breasts, bunching her skirt up past her thighs but there was nothing she could do.

For the first and what she assumed the last time in her life: Anna of Arendelle gave up.

Her eyes fluttered, mind floating up somewhere in the flickering light between branches, and she had not wanted this. She had not asked to be a replacement, a spare, a castoff. All she had asked for was love, and instead she got this incessant pain, humiliation.

She hadn’t wanted to be found. She had only wanted to get away, to get past all the hurt and rejection that had followed her each day she lived in the palace. She had thought there could be nothing worse, but she was wrong. This was worse, so much worse. If only Elsa - anyone - would find her now… but she knew she was beyond that.

Her mind floated between understanding and not, light and dark, the edges hazy and bright and faded all at once as her body is beaten and abused. She could only catch snatches of the world around her: the smell of heavy, stale breath; the ugly, bruising feeling on the inside of her thighs; the shifting light in the spare moments she opened her eyes in hopeless slits.

That was why she hardly saw him coming.

Darkness had come first, swiftly - loudly, and there were shouts but none of them were hers. The relentless thrusting ended abruptly with a sickening thud and the weight of a body crashed against hers. That had roused her enough from her stupor to see something her mind had not, could not, understand. It was large, too large, to simply be a man though it was shaped as one. It tore at her attackers, breaking them with fists too huge to comprehend, and the glimpse she caught of its face - its expression - was incomprehensibly feral.

She was sure it was her addled brain that was tricking her into seeing things that were not really there. No one would come for her. She was not being saved. She was dying.

This was the end and some draug of old was here to take her to whatever abyss worthless princesses were sucked into once they were completely spent. She accepted it. The finish was more than she could wish for when everything around her only caused her pain.

Then it was dark.

The next thing she remembered was the hard warmth of a body against her side, firm arms and chest supporting her fragile frame as they traveled through the pines and yew. She thought it strange that that a draug would carry her to whatever dark purpose they might have. Why had they not eaten her or crushed her like the stories said?

She could not make sense of it.

With all the strength she had she lifted her head and looked up to see exactly who carried her with such little trouble, but there was no undead creature. In her bleary sight she made out glimpses of gold hair, dyed leather, and human skin. The light was low in the sky casting a strange halo around her carrier’s profile. It painted his profile in sharp relief: the ridged brow, prominent nose, strong lower lip, but she had not understood.

Her mind, her body, was too confused. Everything hurt, every part of her screamed. The dizzying pain threatens to pull her back into the forgiving abyss of unconsciousness but first:

“What are you?” She managed around her sluggish mind and swollen tongue.

It was only then that he acknowledged she was awake. He cast a quick glance at her with a grunt, eyes gleaming with something wild, never breaking his stride.

“That doesn’t matter,” he turned to maneuver them between thick trunks. “Sleep now.”

And she had.

[ previous ]

#WANDERING HEARTS #kristanna #mature #fanfiction #raven writes kristanna #please go away

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keithyzpm192 · 3 years

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What Hollywood Can Teach Us About spyderco para

Why Are High-end Japanese Knives So Expensive? Things To Know Before You Buy

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The blade itself is based upon a custom-made item they made together. It has a 3. 75-inch CPM 20CV blade, carbon fiber composite deal with, Sub-Frame lock, light weight aluminum backspacer, as well as titanium clip. I'm not actually certain if I ought to place this on below since the manufacturing years were 2017 to 2018, though they're still offered.

It has a $400 MSRP and is taken into consideration a manufacturing facility custom blade, Schrade is a tough one to do mostly since I had not been sure whether to consist of all of the sis brand names of Schrade like Imperial, Old Timer, and Uncle Henry. I inevitably decided to do so, which suggests one of the most costly Schrade is the Uncle Henry Bowie.

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Fastened with an attractive hand inscribed handle, it has copper and 24K gold inlays especially created by Jake Newel. The blade itself is hand created which guarantees you of a top-notch item. Crafted by Mike Norris, the blade is built from the 'Hornets Nest" Damascus steel. It includes a one-hand switch lock and a thumb stud that allows for very easy procedure.

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The blade features a natural leather carrying case. It helps to safeguard the blade when not in use. When you buy the Lancet 'Ouroboros', it's delivered in a stylish wood discussion box that maintains its beauty. The blade has the complying with dimensions blade 2. 75 inches (69. 9 mm) and handle 3.

#sharp knife

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darth-salem-emperor-of-earth · 4 years

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Well, well, would you look at that? I somehow started this today and managed to complete this oneshot in a day too. Must have been really motivated for this story or at least, to get this prompt finished for the @naruto-fantasy-week event that’s still taking place until the 21st. I have feelings I’d like to dive more into the plot and world I created for this fic because there’s a lot of story ideas brimming with possibilities. :D

Title derives from the lyrics of “Bedroom Hymns” by Florence+the Machine.

There’s a tiny bit of gore from battle mentioned in the beginning of the fic but it’s not explicit.

Summary: When the lesser gods and power-hungry mortals slew several of the Old Gods to gain their strength, the world erupted into chaos and many of the surviving Old Gods went into hiding. The world did not fare better with the newer gods and soon enough, Godkillers were either born or shaped to give humanity a fighting chance. Who would have expected an experienced, antisocial Godkiller was bored enough to escort and protect an young Old God from those who’d either kill or use her to steal and harness her powers? Naruto Fantasy Week, Day 3. Prompt: Old Gods. [Sasori x Sakura]

Text:

Thoughts

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

“Take one step towards the gods and they will take ten steps towards you.”

— Joseph Campbell, Mythologist

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

Sinking his blade deep into the enemy before him, Sasori gave the weapon one final twist, feeling the man’s flesh stretch and rend even wider and deeper before he abruptly and forcefully yanked out the sword out, blood squirting out of the gaping wound and splashing across his gloves, arms, and face. The man clutched his open gash, uttering nothing save for a few gurgles, and topped over, face first, and a pool of fresh blood soon formed around him.

That’s the last of them.

Wiping the scarlet droplets from his scimitar on the corpse’s tunic, Sasori turned around to look for his employer who chased after several archers who concealed themselves in a brush up on a small hill. She was the one who charged him to help her to escort her to the Pearl Sea, where there supposedly was a ship waiting for her to take her to the fabled ‘Himmelsreiche’ , home of the Old Gods. Or what was left of them.

Sakura was his employer’s name, her brilliant pink hair most likely the contributor to her name. Weeks ago, she approached him with a job, an easy one that consisted of a simple escort mission to bring her to the banks of Pearl Sea and deal with any miscreants who wished her harm. While she didn’t delve more into detail why she might be beset by people who were more than run-of-the-mill brigands, Sasori didn’t need to press the matter. He knew exactly who she was. An Old God, or at least, the surviving offspring of them. His eyes, a mere brown hue, had the gift to see the aura of other beings, human or no, and the auras of gods, Old or lesser, were far more luminescence and stronger than mere humans. Sakura’s aura was red, the same color his vibrant hair, and her essence brimmed with untold, untapped power.

He wondered why she, an Old God, went to him, an infamous Godkiller who never bothered with slaying the Old Gods, for assistance. He had a few theories. On the run from other Godkillers who were either overzealous in their mission to eradicate all gods, be it lesser or the original ones, or they simply desired to use a god’s power for their own devices. Or there was the lesser gods, who were caught between vanquishing the rest of the gold gods, whom they resented for being in power and adored by the masses for so long, and the humans who eventually declared their unearthly rule corrupt and tyrannical and trained many of their own become Godkillers for the express purpose of hunting all the lesser gods down and putting them to justice. A young Old God like Sakura would be just the power boost they need in order to maintain their malign reign over the human population.

But he didn’t care about her story so Sasori never asked. So he took her payment and off they travelled, gaining as much ground as they could in the daylight and when night blanketed the sky with twinkling stars, an illuminating moon, and a sky containing a dark velvet blue hue, they either sought shelter in taverns or camped outside. However, despite their meticulous measures to remain careful and conceal their presence from others, Sakura’s aura was like a beacon to those who wished her harm or to cage her so she’d be easier to subdue and channel her godly powers for their own purpose, for good or ill. Sasori already lost track of how many rival Godkillers (if you could hardly call a couple of green, stupid boys with dreams of glory and a beautiful death, or uppity, sanctimonious men and woman who could fight but never experienced true battle with an experienced, seasoned Godkiller and an Old God was still young but no less dangerous) or lackeys of lesser gods he slew without remorse or hesitation.

Sakura surprised him with her fighting prowess and willingness to hold her own in a battle, having rapid reflexes to swiftly switch from being defensive to taking the offensive. Not all the gods were warriors and despite her appearance radiating almost soft or unsuspecting charm, he learned from their very first battle that she had the strength to produce earthquakes by merely stomping or punching down on the ground long enough to create such colossal damages. She was skilled enough to keep up with him in spars or actual combat and much to his annoyance, saved his life a couple of times, either due to her superhuman strength, the ability to manipulate the earth to her will, or from her uncanny ability to heal almost injury, even if poison was embedded in the muscle or already entered the victim’s bloodstreams.

One day he’ll create a poison not even she, an Old God, could heal.

“The archers won’t trouble us anymore,” Sakura announced grimly, sweat glistening off her wide brow. “There was also a scout observing our movements so I had to take care of him as well. Like the archers, he’s buried six feet under.”

Sasori smirked, recalling the distant screams he heard earlier when he effortlessly sliced off one of the attacker’s head before whirling around to deliver two deep, perfect crisscrossing slashes across the soldier sneaking up behind him. Those horrific yells nearby provoked him to press on, to finish every single last bastard the lesser god Danzo continued to sic on them, time after time. Out of all the lesser gods that issued their own soldiers and trusted allies to hunt down Sakura and capture her, Danzo was the most persistent. He was also the god Sakura loathed the most.

“Efficient. None of them will be able to run back to their master and report about how your powers are growing.” Sasori remarked casually, sheathing his scimitar. He bent over to check the dead men’s belongings for anything of value and managed to uncover several pouches of gold. Sakura turned over two similar small bags of coins as well as a crinkled scroll, the golden seal broken.

“I found this message on the scout before I killed him. It seems both Danzo and Hanzo have joined together for an alliance. And placed an enormous bounty on your head.”

Sasori frowned, thoroughly irked at the notion of eventually having to also deal with avarice or foolish bounty hunters hounding their every waking step in hopes to take down an actual Godkiller. “It sounds like we’ll have to double our pace if we want to make it harder for the two of them to trace us. We should leave this place as soon as possible.”

Sakura nodded her head in agreement. “Just let me bury the bodies first.” Palms facing down, Sakura’s emerald gaze was focused on the ground beneath their feet. Instinctively, Sasori took a step behind her and let her carry on with her work. The earth shifted and pulled itself apart from Sakura’s command, cracks forming into huge, gaping chasms to swallow the five carcasses as well as wiping away any remnants of Sasori’s gruesome battle. Then, the massive holes in the ground smoothly patched themselves up, the earth advancing upward to straighten the land up until soil,rocks, and grass soon littered the area once more. There was not even a speck of blood to hint what just transpired here over ten minutes ago.

“Are you hurt, Sasori?” Sakura queried once she was finished.

He dismissed her concern by turning away and untied the reins of their horses, doing his utmost best to ignore the irritated, unhappy stare she was no doubt sending him. “I’m fine. None of them landed a hit on me.”

“You’re wrong.” Just like that, Sakura was at his side, gripping his arm and pushing the sleeve back, revealing jagged gash no longer than a mouse’s tail. “What do you call that?”

“A scratch. Now, get on the horse so we can resume our travels.”

Ire flashed in Sakura’s eyes, spreading to her visage as her lips twisted into a scowl. “What that is a possible infection. Let me heal you–and that cut on your cheek.”

Disagreeing with her when it came to healing was futile but Sasori continued to protest, although the scolding died in his throat soon after as one of Sakura’s hands rest over the slash on his forearm, a warm, soothing sage green glow flowing from her fingers and palm, almost creating a small dome that isolated his wound before simultaneously disinfecting it and knitting his skin back together. And then almost immediately, the very same hand cupped his cheek, right where the supposed cut was located and the welcoming verdant light returned, bathing Sasori in warmth once more.

Yet it wasn’t the tranquil sensation of Sakura’s curative abilities that caused Sasori’s blood to boil and transform in fire, or delivered tingling, shooting frissions up and down his spine and other areas of his body (which was damn well infuriating), or had every beat of his heart speed up in a rapid crescendo. When he took the escort job, Sasori imagined it was a simple ‘point A to point B’ mission with a little bit of carnage thrown in. The mere prospect of experiencing even a modicum of romantic feelings for his employer would be absolutely ludicrous. And yet here he was, unable to tear his gaze away from Sakura’s concentrated but thoughtful expression, her eyes darting between his healing cut and being caught in his heated stare, if her blushing cheeks were anything to go by.

What seemed like ages, Sakura finally removed her hand from his cheek but there was an air of reluctance as she did so. “Please, be more careful, Sasori. You have already gotten yourself injured several times on my behalf and if any of your wounds became mortal, I wouldn’t be able to heal you.” She glanced away, some locks of her light rose colored hair obscuring her face from him. “I don’t know how I’d react if you were truly gone from this world.”

Cocking his head, Sasori reached out to grasp her chin and pull her head back to face him so their knowing gazes would collide once more and at last, come to terms with the all tension and emotions brimming between them. How long have they ignored the fact there was a spark, a flare of attraction blossoming between them? Far too long, their bodies and hearts would say.

Sasori dipped his head in, saying nothing. His eyes would do all the talking.

In response, Sakura leaned forward, her hands gripping his black cloak for support even as his other arm wrapped itself around her waist. Their noses bumped into each other, awkward and soft. Yet Sakura merely smiled and closed her eyes just as Sasori tilted his head to plant his mouth over that subtle dimple on her check, right before trailing over to claim a kiss from her beckoning lips.

By the time they were back on their horses and riding to the next town, both of their mouths were kiss swollen, Sakura’s neck was already sporting a vivid bite mark red as a peony, and Sasori’s chest was aching from the scratches Sakura left behind when she snaked one of her hands underneath his cloak and shirt to give him a taste of her teasing nature. Sakura was practically glowing at the new development of their relationship while Sasori kept his focus on the horizon, towards the direction of the Pearl Sea, all the while unconsciously brushing his thumb over his bottom lip, recalling the moment where Sakura first nibbled, then sucked on that particular spot during their second to last kiss.

They were going to check into the first inn he saw and once they were settled in, he was going to give Sakura a matching bite mark on the other side of her neck. After all, in the age of gods, waning or no, paying tribute to the god of your choice was necessary to receive any blessings in return. And Sasori recognized quite quickly how much he enjoyed Sakura’s blessings. She was his god and he was her guardian, the protector of her temple. And no Godkiller or lesser god, regardless of their strength or reach, would tear them asunder.

#narutofantasyweek2020 #narutofantasyweek #naruto fantasy week #naruto-fantasy-week #my writing #SasoSaku #Sakura x Sasori #Sasori x Sakura #old gods

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jungdrizzydraco · 5 years

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An O.C. for Your Asses!!!

I wanna see if the characters are legit before I move forward with this short story im working on (I'm a character first kinda guy, so I work inside-out) leave any form of constructive critique you wish, they are still works in progress, thanks!!

Augustine Harriet Andersson

Age:22

Sign: Gemini (sun) Cancer (moon) Virgo (rising)

Height: 5'8

Eye Color: Formerly dark-brown, bleached to a pastel-hazel because of some dark magic fuckery

Hair Color/Cut: dark-brown,q shifting variations of a fade, whose design changes somewhat based on his thoughts and emotions (yes, this is an enchanted fade)

Build: lean, lightly muscled from years lifting cauldrons in his grandfather's potion shop

Notable Features: Dimples; left-dimple is deeper than right, multiple piercings on each ear, artificial left eye (looks organic but to magical eyes, it looks otherwise)

"Have you ever been like...fundamentally angry? I feel that way...like at my core, there's this rage that seethes and coils at the pit of my stomach, everyday, like a python that can't quite squeeze his prey all the way to death. Everytime I think I've grown up, forgiven something or someone or myself, there's this anger that tightens right back up all over again...like it's reminding me of something. Somedays...I feel like that feeling will petrify everything I've ever loved about myself, and I'll just be another slave to outrage and ego and pain...just like everyone else...haha, then I'll really be a normie." -August Andersson, on his depression and internal anger issues.

Augustine Andersson is a witch-boy. But you could probably already tell that from looking at him: the way his eyes are almost constantly fixed towards some unseeable infinity, the way air molecules hum with fresh, manic energy around him, how he seems to absorb sunlight and the way his brown skin would filter the glow as a result of his connection to the natural...it was all very off putting to others around him for most of his young adult life. And as we all know, no one likes a freak, so such years had a hand in building his current trust issues, feelings of great anger and inadequacy, and all the tics and tricks he uses to keep such feelings at bay. He's not at a total loss; at his core he is a humanitarian, deeply compassionate and available to those who have managed to capture his heart, as well as wild and humorous. However, he keeps a tight lid on his darkest feelings and insecurities, out of fear that they may be too much for those around him (also, he might accidentally call forth a vile arch-daemon on accident, but that's neither here nor there.) After finally having had enough of his mundane time amongst the humans, he vanishes from his college campus one day and takes to the open road, hoping that like the many young, angsty teens in the movies he loves, he will find himself in his own solitude. But the best way to deal with oneself is when confronting someone else, and after a close-call with a reckless (and very cute) motorcycle rider on an interstate, August will be forced to deal with every single part of himself, the good, the bad, and the strange...

A few more things about him...

1. His father is Afro-swedish, hence his last name.

2. Loves to travel and is nomadic by nature.

3. He gets a special kind of warmth out of being moderately petty at all times.

4. He loves open spaces and bodies of water, as well as hikes through mountains (ok so he only went once in Vegas, so sue him, he really liked it!)

5. Surprisingly low maintenance, really just likes being around people that are happy, and the feeling easily rubs off on him.

6. Both positive and negative emotions easily rub off on him.

7. Can get caught up in moments of warm content, given his unstable interior life, and can get lost in wasting/spending time.

8. Gets restless easily.

9. Budding film buff, faves include Kill Bill vol. 1&2, Her, Moonrise Kingdom, Gone Girl, Blue is the Warmest Color, Moonlight, & Mean Girls.

10. August's father is very engaged with politics and civil rights, so in honor of that, he decided that his son's middle name would belong to one of the greatest figures of the civil rights movement: Harriet Tubman.

11. Favorite new movie is The Favourite.

12. Due to a lack of acceptance of his full self and the full spectrum of his sexuality, he is judgemental of others and holds them to the same near-impossible standards he holds for himself.

13. Things he expects from others: To read his mind and conjure what he wants without saying, to have his needs and boundaries respected without actually stating so, for others to fit in whatever box he thinks they should be in, for everyone's intellect to be slightly lower than his own, but high enough not to annoy him with silly questions, ect.

14. Listens to Lorde, J. Cole, Rex Orange County, Frank Ocean, Lana Del Rey, Tyler the Creator, Young Thug and assorted film soundtracks.

15. Enjoys playing into his double-sided nature when it suits him, and has a secret glee in melding into different roles depending on who's around him.

16. Is attracted to more eccentric personalities in platonic and romantic relationships

17. Smokes weed to escape boredom. (and his problems)

18. Smokes weed because he likes the feeling.

19. Is secretly a little ratchet, but he'll kill you if you say so, it'll fuck up his reputation as the quasi-sociopathic erudite.

Magic House-Thoth

Augustine is a member of the Sacred House of Life, witches whose magic is passed down from the Egyptian Gods themselves. August himself is a descendant of an African slave-witch, once known as Ashe. She was taken to Egypt as a typical piece of cargo from zealot raiders, and was sentenced to a life of building the pyramids. Or so she would have thought: Thoth, the God of Magic and Knowledge, took pity upon her and beguiled her to follow an invisible force into the desert one night. He then revealed himself to her in his ibis-headed brilliance and bestowed upon her a set of choices: he could free her now and set her loose across the desert with all the things she would need for survival, or he could give her secrets and wisdoms unknown to man at the time, but she would have to frequently return to him for lessons. Ashe always prized knowledge and growth over any material thing, or even something such as freedom (I prefer to disagree myself). And secrets from a God must count for that much more, right? She indulged in option two. Thoth grinned and whispered to her the mysteries of life, the secrets of the stars, and the riddles of worlds lost and intangible, he spoke magick into her very soul. She would then use her newfound knowledge to fool her captors, freed any slave that would believe in her, and with her wits about them, guided them across the desert to build a library-like sanctuary, in honor of Thoth. The former slaves then learned from the god's teachings, passed through Ashe, and became witches and educators in their own right, and Ashe came to lead this new coven of magi. This is how the House of Thoth became to be.

Magick: As a member of house of Thoth, August has the ability to manipulate various aspects of the moon, writing, hieroglyphics, knowledge and sciences, and the progression of time. His particular specialty is the creation of Moon Dust, a substance used as a medium for most of his spells. By gathering various quantities of mineral, be it: crystal, rocks, pearls, aluminum, or even silvers and golds, he can channel his magic into them and break down and rearrange their atomic components into a corrosive, abrasive substance that also tends to stick to objects due to an electric charge. This dust is also dangerous to breathe in. He tends to carry around a pouch or two on his person, as trying to create some on the fly is nearly impossible given how much time and intricacy is needed to create the substance. (I mean, working with just a pile of plain old rocks would take a couple of hours to convert, let alone harder or more distilled substances.) Spells that he has mastered so far include...

Spell of Refraction: A spell in which the moondust bonds to whomever or whatever August desires (sans the harmful effects, it's enchanted in this state) and whatever is enveloped in dust turns invisible via light refraction.

Spell of Revelations: He can spread his moondust over an area and have the pieces cling to imprints of negative emotion or dark magick. A spell used for forensic work.

Spell of Retribution: An offensive spell that uses moondust to its fullest offensive powers and creates small funnels of dust to ravage the opponent. The largest funnel made could surround a fully grown man.

Golemancy: Can create golems out of the moon dust he has formed, usually no larger than a human toddler. They tend to take form roughly resembling lego-men (he was a big fan of the Lego Expanded Universe as a child), but one can easily be fooled by their size: each golem has the strength of three men, and can combine to further power themselves up.

There are a few spells that don't require the moon dust...

-The Veil: A surface-level illusion layered directly over the skin. This allows the caster to look like whatever he wants to look like and sound however he wants, but can be broken if struck with bad intentions (like a slap from an offended woman on the street)

-Somnus: A very old, yet practical spell. Also one that does not require moondust, this handy spell induces sleep. Those affected by this spell will not remember being forced to sleep, but they will have active and vivid dreams for distraction. Also necessary for Dream Diving.

-Dream Diving: A skill Augustine has yet to master, this allows the caster to astral project into one's consciousness for complete access to the afflicted parties mind, if the brain is distracted by dreams. August has gotten stuck in several public nude dreams, and it takes long hours to remove oneself from another's mind.

-Illusion Casting

-Temporary Madness Inducement

-Script Magick: By writing down a word or phrase on any surface that can be sufficiently marked on, whatever has been written manifests somehow, just so long as it is within his power. He can't create miracles with it though.

Top 10 Roadtrip Songs

Sobriety- Sza

No Role Moldelz-J. Cole

Sacrifices -Dreamville, assorted artists

Grown Up Fairy Tails- Chance the Rapper, Taylor Bennett

My Boy-Billie Eilish

U.N.I.T.Y.- Frank Ocean

West Coast: Lana Del Rey

Cruise Ship-Young Thug

400 Lux-Lorde

Let Em Know- Bryson Tiller

#writblur #oc #my writing #my ocs #iwrite

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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Diamonds In The Rough, Chapter 4 - Fannyatrollop

a/n: The Mary Poppins AU is still a thing! This is more of a relaxed project for @fannyatrollop and I, so that’s why updates are so infrequent - but it’s a good time. Fic under the cut <3

The Liaison-Mattel family had been on fairly good terms with the Minj family for some time now, their status as neighbours practically forcing them into socialising. Trixie and Pearl were good friends with Ginger, a girl close to them in age who was the youngest member of the family. She was a robust little thing - a strong, solid form, filled with forceful beliefs and opinions. Pearl had always attributed Ginger’s nature to her flaming red hair, a feature she had always found rather becoming, but one her elders seemed to shun.

Adults were funny in that way, she supposed.

Quite often, she and Trixie would pay a visit to Ginger during the day - be it for tea or for play - and they felt it the perfect opportunity to introduce their dear friend to their delightful Miss Dela.

“They have been expecting us for some time, Miss Dela,” Trixie said as she trotted alongside Miss Dela, tugging on her indigo skirts. “We’d be so happy if you came along - I’m certain Mrs. Minj would be delighted to meet you.”

Miss Dela hummed at the thought, and both Trixie and Pearl took her silence as a sign she needed more convincing. This time, Pearl stepped up to speak.

“And you might get to see Miss Tammie. We’ve heard you muttering about how irresponsible she is, so perhaps you could check up on her?” Pearl suggested. “Make sure she isn’t causing any trouble.”

“Well, if I am to be your caretaker it would be strange for me not to accompany you wherever you go,” Miss Dela remarked, and this was her rather wordy way of saying ‘yes’. “When are the Minjs’ expecting you?”

“Half past eleven,” Trixie replied, her answer quick so she could talk over her sister. Pearl shot her a small glare, which Trixie received with pride.

Miss Dela pulled her pocket watch from her waistcoat, and her eyebrows raised when she looked at it. “Good heavens, that’s in fifteen minutes! At this stage, my dears, you’re not fit to be seen by a scullery maid, let alone Mrs. Minj! Come along to the nursery, we must get you looking decent.”

“A scullery maid!” Trixie gasped. The last time she’d seen Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo was when the girl was on her way home from market. Trixie had been at her window, practically sticking half her body out so she could see her, until Miss Dela pulled her away. Pearl had laughed at her for that.

Pearl rolled her eyes, sighing at the stupidity she was so closely related to. “Don’t tell me you’re looking forward to calling on the Minjs’ maid!”

“I’ll tell you what I like!” replied Trixie, with a huff.

Pearl stuck her tongue out at her. Miss Dela sighed.

“Come along , girls!”

***

For Christmas, Trixie and Pearl had each been given a sixpence. It was a simple little tradition they had in their household, the real coin hidden amongst others made of sweet chocolate in a small velvet pouch, wrapped up in ribbon. Pearl and Trixie would spend their whole morning searching for their gift. In her mind, Pearl found hers the sensible way, by squeezing on the coins until she found one that didn’t melt under her fingers. Trixie found hers the only way she knew how - by eating all the rest.

Now, that coin was tucked safely into the pocket of her little coat, kept warm by Trixie’s constant fiddling with it. Miss Dela had scolded her for shoving her hands in her pockets as Mrs. Minj lead them through to the parlor where they were to take tea with young Ginger. The adults were talking of awfully dull things as they walked, and for once Trixie found her boredom matched by Pearl’s.

“Ginger, sit up straight, there’s a good girl,” Mrs. Minj snapped at her daughter the moment they entered the parlor, and the slight frown creasing Miss Dela’s face did not go unnoticed by her young charge.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Ginger replied from where she was seated at the table, thoroughly chastened. “Hello Trixie, hello Pearl.”

The twins gave their greeting before being guided towards their seats surrounding a table decorated with plates of little sweet cakes and a tea set. It was all very lovely, and Trixie eyed the cakes with eager hunger. Pearl, ever the prissy one, simply sat up straight and waited until she was given permission to eat. Mrs. Minj turned her attentions to Miss Dela, peering at her through little half moon spectacles.

“Now, Miss Dela, is it?”

“Yes, that is correct,” the woman said with a short nod.

“Shall we take our tea in the other room? I can’t say I was expecting your company, but I’m sure we can accomodate you.”

Miss Dela glanced down to the girls at the table, seemingly reluctant to leave them unsupervised. Although she was growing rather fond of her delightful yet strict nanny, Trixie did feel a touch suffocated under her constant watchful gaze. “Please, Miss Dela, go and enjoy your tea with Mrs. Minj. We’ll be quite happy here, won’t we?”

Ginger and Pearl’s nods in unison had the nanny convinced, and she turned to Mrs. Minj. “Very well, it seems the girls have spoken. Lead the way?”

The older women said their goodbyes to the girls, and after Mrs. Minj gave a strict warning that Ginger behave herself, the two quit the room, leaving the girls in relative peace. Ginger breathed out a sigh of relief, her posture loosening and relaxing.

“Gosh, I thought they would never leave,” she huffed, making Pearl frown and Trixie giggle.

“Aren’t you supposed to be behaving?” Pearl asked, reaching out to start pouring tea into their little china cups. Trixie had already started piling her plate with cakes.

Ginger nodded. “Well, yes, but you’d never tattle on me, would you, Pearl?”

“Only because I wouldn’t want to be a snitch. Milk or lemon?” She sounded so snooty as she served the girls their tea, sounding more like Miss Dela than anyone else. Trixie found it rather funny - Pearl did so often try to imitate those above her in an attempt to sound more impressive. Trixie never believed it, because she knew that Pearl was as silly a girl as Trixie was herself.

Trixie swallowed down a bite of victoria sponge before speaking. “Ginger, have you seen much of that new scullery maid of yours?”

“Good grief, here we go again,” Pearl grumbled before drowning her disapproval with a sip of tea.

Taking a moment to think, Ginger stirred her tea and let the spoon clink against the china. “A little bit - she comes in to light my fireplace in the morning. Why do you ask?”

“I saw her when she arrived the other day,” Trixie explained. “And I thought it was so sad when your mother called her by the wrong name. I should quite like to meet her.”

“Katherine? But that is her name, isn’t it?” Ginger asked, cocking her head.

Trixie shook her head enthusiastically. “No, no, no. It’s Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo. I heard her say so myself.”

“Yes, so did I,” Pearl said. “And then I heard it a thousand more times from you, Trixie.”

Irritated by her sister’s lack of compassion, Trixie poked her tongue out before continuing. “I want to see her so I can call her by her real name! She always looks so sad when I see her - I thought, perhaps, it might cheer her up.”

“I suppose it might, if Mama has been getting her name wrong,” Ginger considered, bringing a chubby hand to her chin in thought. “Perhaps we should try and find her.”

“Oh, I’d be so happy if we could!” Trixie cried, clasping her hands together and brightening her face with a cheery smile.

Pearl widened her bright blue eyes, looking thoroughly scandalised. “We most certainly are not! Do you two really want to get involved with a scullery maid? Why, it’s just bad taste.”

“Being a nice person isn’t ‘bad taste,’ Pearl,” Trixie snarked back, folding her arms across her chest. “Where might we find her, Ginger?”

“In the servants quarters, I imagine. I’ve never seen her around the house at this time of day.”

Trixie bounced up in her seat, forgetting her meal entirely. “Well, come along then, let’s go find her!”

Ginger, who seemed more than happy to join in on the adventure, hopped out of her seat with a grin. Pearl, however, remained seated with a sullen, pouty look on her face. “You can’t make me go with you. I’m not spending my time with dirty little scullery maids, and that’s that.”

“Suit yourself. But you’ll be so disappointed when I’m the one with a new friend and you’re not,” Trixie remarked, feeling rather proud of herself. She was going to have an adventure, and Pearl wasn’t! How wonderful was that? “Let’s go, Ginger! I want to meet Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo!”

Giddily, the girls fled from the room, leaving Pearl to sulk all on her own. Oh well, if those two got in trouble it wouldn’t be her fault, and she could impress Miss Dela by saying how well behaved she’d been.

Content to sip her tea in silence, Pearl eagerly awaited the sound of Trixie and Ginger being scolded.

***

“Have you been in this business long, Miss Dela?”

Dela regarded Mrs. Minj with gentle distaste. She’d taken an instant dislike to her after seeing how she treated her daughter - really, little Miss Ginger’s posture wasn’t that bad at all, there was no reason to snap at her the way Mrs. Minj had. And she seemed all too eager to leave the children alone, which Dela could understand if Mrs. Minj had been more pleasant about it. For the most part, Dela stayed silent throughout their tea together, speaking only when spoken to and listening intently to what Mrs. Minj had to say about her daughter.

Apparently, Ginger was far too spirited for her own good. She spoke back, she had no sense of decorum, and wouldn’t know good taste if it yelled in her face. It was all the fault of her hair, apparently, her flaming red locks singled out as the only reason why she was so ill behaved. The way Mrs. Minj spoke of her daughter’s most distinctive feature was as though it disgusted her, and it made Dela wonder why in heaven’s name she’d chosen to name her daughter after the shade. She wasn’t necessarily impressed with Mrs. Minj’s attitude at all - one should not shun their loved ones because of a physical feature, and Dela knew that better than anybody. Tammie’s hair was just as red as Ginger’s, if not more so, and although it definitely contributed to her more outlandish personality, it was all part of her charm.

“Oh yes, quite a while,” Dela said in response to the question posed to her, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a small sip. “Children can make the most fascinating companions.”

“I wouldn’t be able to stomach it. I find them wholly irritating,” Mrs. Minj said with a shake of her head.

A touch offended, Dela took a deep breath before speaking. “In my opinion, us adults must pay children more respect. We expect them to respect us, but how can they learn to do so when we give them none in return?”

“Fascinating, although I can’t bring myself to agree with you. Children learn respect through fear and discipline.”

“I would never wish to inflict fear on any of my charges.”

Mrs. Minj set her cup down on its saucer, her lined face contorting with poorly hidden distaste. “Forgive me, Miss Dela, but it sounds as though you have had a rather privileged childhood. Would I be correct in saying so?”

“Not entirely,” Dela said, a mysterious smile crossing her smooth face. “I simply care very deeply for the children I look after, and I know how to walk the line between damage and discipline. You, perhaps, should learn to do the same.”

It wasn’t like Dela to be so standoffish, but somehow she couldn’t help it - Mrs. Minj’s attitude didn’t sit well with her at all. Quite frankly, she worried for young Ginger, being forced to live under the same roof as this bitter woman.

Mrs. Minj’s eyes narrowed as she stared Dela down, the crows feet around her eyes sticking out sharply as she did so. “Perhaps, but I’ve done well enough raising Ginger in my own way. I suggest you keep out of it.”

Dela smiled sweetly before sipping her tea. “Of course. My apologies.”

***

Somehow, Trixie had the feeling that this wasn’t the first time Ginger had crept into the servants quarters when nobody was looking.

“They’re all out to market at this time of day,” Ginger explained as she lead Trixie through the mostly abandoned servants hall. It was empty save for the red faced cook, who was slumped over the rough wooden dining table and snoring like a foghorn. Trixie had to stifle a giggle at the sound of her when they’d first come in.

“But if they’re all out at the market, won’t Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo be there too?”

Ginger faltered, her mischievous smile falling. “Oh, I, um, I didn’t think of that.”

“You silly thing! What are we going to do now? We can’t go back to Pearl - she’ll laugh at us because we couldn’t find her!”

“We can still find her, don’t worry, umm…” Ginger hummed, glancing around the room for some source of inspiration. “Let’s find her room. We can wait for her in there.”

Trixie stumbled a little as Ginger took hold of her wrist and started dragging her towards a wooden door that was slightly ajar. “But what if someone comes in? Won’t we get caught?”

“What business would anyone have poking their noses into a scullery maid’s bedroom?” Ginger asked, her tone reasonable yet slightly condescending. Suitably chastened, Trixie followed along in silence.

Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo’s room was awfully small - Trixie was sure her own wardrobe had more space than this. It was strange for her, to think of someone living in such an unpleasant place, with no space and an uncomfortable bed. In all her fantasies about the little Russian princess, how she lived never factored into the equation. Trixie may be young, but she was smart enough to know that something wasn’t right about her future friend living in such a cramped little room.

“Gosh, it’s awful, isn’t it?” Ginger remarked, peering through the dirty window. “I could never dream of sleeping in here.”

Trixie hummed in agreement, fiddling with the thin blanket on the rickety bed. “It must be terribly cold…”

“I think you might be right, you know. She’s always shivering when she comes in to light my fireplace in the morning.”

The sudden sound of commotion from outside distracted them from any more discussion of the maid’s plight, their young attention spans rather limited. Ginger opened the door a crack and beckoned Trixie over to look as well. All of the servants were back from the market, and the whole room was filled with their colloquial chatter and rowdy behaviour. Trixie found it rather fascinating - she never mingled with her household staff much - but any interest she had in them quickly faded when she spotted a flash of blonde hair amongst the crowd.

“Ginger, look! There she is!” Trixie whispered, pointing through the crack in the door.

Ginger narrowed her eyes as she glanced around, but they lit up the moment she found Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo. “Goodness, look how much she’s carrying!”

The young Russian’s arms were filled with all manner of goods, from sacks of flour to bags of vegetables. Trixie was sure she’d never seen even an adult carry so much, let alone a girl as young and skinny as Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo. Yet the strangest thing about it was not the quantity and weight of what she was carrying, but the fact that she didn’t seem to struggle with it at all. It was almost as if her strength was superhuman, and Trixie would be the first to say how thoroughly impressed she was.

The cook, now awake, barked at the poor thing to put her goods in the right place, threatening her with a beating if she didn’t do so quickly. Trixie frowned up at Ginger. “What an awful woman!”

“She’s always like that, even to Mama,” Ginger explained, and Trixie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I don- wait, Trixie, look! Here she comes!”

Sure enough, Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo was coming closer, having suitably disposed of her goods from the market. Trixie and Ginger scurried behind the door so they’d be out of sight when the scullery maid opened her door - the last thing they wanted was to get into trouble for their snooping. The door creaked as it opened, and Trixie waited with baited breath to finally speak to the girl she’d been so obsessed with.

Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo let out a tired sigh before turning around, and she let out a cry when she saw the two newcomers. “Благость!”

“Oh, no, don’t be scared!” Trixie reassured her as the young blonde raised a hand to her quickly rising chest. “I only wanted to talk to you - I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since the moment I saw you arrive. Your name’s Yekaterina Petrovna Zamo, isn’t it?”

“Yekaterina…” she murmured, and then the brightest smile lit up her dirty face. “Katya! You call me Katya.”

“Is that your name?” Ginger asked, cocking her head. “Not Katherine?”

“No, not Katherine. Katya. Is small for Yekaterina.”

Ginger didn’t need to introduce herself - they must have met before. Trixie assumed Katya and Ginger had some degree of familiarity between them, seeing as they’d been living under the same roof for a while. With that in mind, she dove right in to making herself known to the curious little princess maid.

“Well, I’m Trixie. It’s… small for Beatrice,” Trixie explained, holding her hand out for Katya to shake it. She saw Papa doing it all the time when he met people - why shouldn’t she?

Katya was hesitant to take it. “No. Not proper.”

“It’s proper if I say it’s proper,” Trixie replied, and she took Katya’s hand and shook it whether she liked it or not. Katya smiled again, and Trixie was impressed with how shiny and white her teeth were. “You have a very pretty smile.”

“Thank you.” Katya raised a hand to her mouth and lightly touched it. “You, um, you have nice hair. Yellow. Pretty.”

As Trixie beamed under the praise, Ginger stepped forward, fed up with being left out of the conversation. “Kath- uh, Katya, do you like living in this room?”

She hung her head. “Not allowed to say.”

“It’s alright, I won’t tell Mama,” said Ginger, in a gentle tone Trixie often forgot she was capable of speaking in.

Katya looked sheepish as she answered. “No, I do not like. Too dirty and small. I used to have big house, like you.”

“Why are you a scullery maid then?” Trixie asked, cocking her head.

“I… I do not know. Aunt say I be taken care of here.”

Ginger posed another question, not seeming to notice that Katya was getting overwhelmed by them. “Is your aunt the woman who brought you here?”

“Yes. She took my watch. I wish I had it now.”

Trixie frowned, her heart going out to the poor girl. Abandoned in a foreign country, her precious possessions taken from her, forced to work under cruel mistresses and cooks. It was much too horrible to imagine, and Trixie hated to think how it would break Katya’s spirit terribly. Her hand drifted into her pocket to fiddle with her coin as she thought of how she could remedy Katya’s situation, and it was then that an idea came to her.

Granny always said she could buy anything with her Christmas sixpence…

“Your watch, was it very special to you?” Trixie asked, and Katya gave a sad nod.

“Very. It was precious, made of gold. Father gave me.”

Trixie took her little sixpence between her fingers and pulled it from her pocket, then held it out towards Katya. “I want you to have this. It’s a coin, and you could spend it if you liked. You might be able to buy a new watch to replace your old one, or something else that’s nice.”

Most of Trixie’s words seemed to go over Katya’s head, but she could recognise a gift when it was given to her. She was reluctant to take it at first, but when Trixie encouraged her to pluck it from her grasp, Katya did so eagerly. For a moment she simply stared at it, admiring the engraving on both sides and the slight glint of the metal. She then hastily stuffed it in the pocket of her apron, and she flashed another one of her dazzling smiles.

“Thank you, is very kind.”

“It’s quite alright,” Trixie said, her blonde curls bouncing as she nodded. “I should quite like to be friends - may I visit you again sometime?”

“I don’t know how often I’ll be able to sneak you down here, Trixie,” Ginger whispered, tugging at the pink sleeve of her dress.

But her comments went ignored by the two blondes, who were so enamoured with their newfound friendship that nothing else in the world could ever be more important. Not even the kerfuffle brewing upstairs.

#trixie mattel #pearl liaison #bendelacreme #ginger minj #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #1910s au #child #mary poppins au #diamonds in the rough #fannyatrollop #rpdr fanfiction #historical au

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