#it is a star burning with rage with vengeance yet it doesn’t radiate any light it has abandoned law and embraced hate

[moonstruck-stormy]

Is Barleycorn ok? The halved is sexy, but I don’t think it’d be a good judgement to work for none of them are. I hope it treats Barleycorn well…

[lizzieraindrops]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Destiny (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eris Morn/Ikora Rey Characters: Eris Morn, Ikora Rey Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Hello destiny sapphics; allow me to introduce myself, Femslash, if nobody is going to write the content i want to see then i will create it myself, listen. it's about perceiving the weak and wounded places in someone you love, and lavishing love and care upon them even when they won't admit they need it, it's about the Mutual Support, it's about being kind to them even when you don't know how to be kind to yourself, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, oh and ikora has the most Distinguished Bisexual energy i've ever seen so jot that down, it doesn't come up but you needed to know, this is all just a bunch of softness and tenderness don't @ me okay

Summary:

Five storms Eris and Ikora weathered and one they didn't need to.

The Shadowkeep weblore lives in my head rent free. Set post-Taken King and mostly during Shadowkeep.

“As I told Asher, there is a storm coming...” “Oryx is dead. We’ve weathered the storm.” Ikora is upset. She has yet to understand the bigger picture. “Yet his sisters would see his will done. There will always be another storm.” “Then let’s weather it together.” -Shadowkeep Narrative Preview #1

Many thanks to @hencegoodfortune for the beta read and of course for the memes.

Chapter: |  1  |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  +1  |

Set just after The Taken King.

Eris knows she is not in the Hellmouth. Although the Tower has never felt the same since her ordeal on Luna, she recognizes it easily nonetheless. At every moment, the freshness of the open air reminds her that she is here, she is on Earth. She has been for some time now.

However, she has never forgotten how to move like a ribbon through the darkness, arcing undetected round predator and prey alike. She doubts that she ever will. Sometimes the habit returns of its own accord, and she’ll find her feet and hands floating weightless as she moves. Joints and muscle and sinew flex in careful concert to absorb every sound before it is made. The lines of lightly tensed limbs spiral seamlessly into the coiled core of her, tethering her in perfect silence. At the same time, she remains ever ready to fight, ready to flee. How often has Eris’ last, Lightless life lay along the knife’s edge of a split-second choice, the divergence between action and stillness, vengeance or survival?

Somehow, the smooth stone of the Tower’s level floors is harder to walk quietly on than the rough winding warrens through Luna’s porous rock. There are no edges to test with the edge of her boot, no uneven surface to ease her soles onto by swift and silent increments. There is only the unsubtle strike of heels on a flat, unforgiving surface. She makes the most of it, as every Hunter here does. Still, it leaves her uneasy. Her feet cannot quite keep to the ground.

Consequently, she often finds herself pacing, wandering from her post in the heart of the Tower whenever she grows restless. Every step falls lighter than the last, chasing silence in a meditation on weightlessness. It does not make her feel any better.

After so long underground, she is unaccustomed to the plenitude of open space here. While she has traced much of the Tower’s perimeters, the negative spaces in the centers of broad rooms and vaulted halls she leaves less frequented. She is too exposed there.

Yet maybe she is less affected by the empty space than the sheer number of souls that so often fill it. After so long so alone, they are simply so many, pressing at her survival-sharpened awareness from every angle. Not to mention she attracts too many of their stares in the crowded plazas. Although detection here is not followed by shrieking howls or the lightning strike of boomers, distrustful eyes still make her hunger for shelter. The choice to endure or to withdraw still needs to be be made. And whether well-meaning or ill-intentioned, a close approach still makes her instinctively recoil.

Eris has scraped out a place for herself here, lingering close enough to share with those who will listen the knowledge she has gained at a terrible price. But it has been made clear enough that she does not belong here anymore, not as she once did. If the condemnation of the Speaker and the only begrudging trust of the Vanguard’s Commander were not enough to tell her that, then the wary regard of most of the Tower’s populace would. So she holds herself back, toward the edges of things. It is difficult to do so at her station so near the Hall of Guardians, the greatest locus of Guardian activity on the planet. She draws herself to her full height and stands there proud, but never takes the ground she stands on for granted. When it becomes too much, like now, she paces.

This time, her pacing has led her to the edge of the Tower where her ship was once tethered. With how wary she has grown of exposed spaces, the open sky above that lays bare every courtyard and balcony should send her seeking cover - and yet, it does not. If anything, its incomprehensibly vast expanse calls to her. Strange.

Eris has traversed the spaces between planets with her own fragile body, with only a ship’s hull to keep the cold from swallowing what remains of her. Yet from Earth’s surface, a few mere miles of atmosphere transforms that emptiness, and its beauty holds her spellbound. It scatters sun into prismatic slices of light. The stars’ unblinking gaze softens into a flutter of eyelashes. No longer can she see the narrow spectrum of colors that humans evolved to discern; it has all faded into endless shades of the same hue. But the contrast of such brightnesses against the dark have become sharper than ever. Indeed, daylight has become a blaze to truly blind her. These stolen eyes of hers were made instead for depths and shadows.

Even so, she often finds herself staring out into the searing sky until her head aches. The sensations make her remember. She is no longer buried beneath stone, lost to this cosmos. She is free now, in some ways.

Eventually, her wanderings bring her back to the shaded refuge beneath the stairs just outside the Hall of Guardians. She is glad for this, too. Her station provides some small respite for her sensitive, ever-weeping eyes. And there she stays, until exhaustion drives her to rest, or else grief or fear or restlessness or her ever-smoldering rage drive her to pacing once again.

It’s true that many other eyes pass by that shadowed alcove of hers. Guardians constantly sweep in and out on either side of her, running and jumping and gliding up and down the stairs with urgent reports and important orders and burning questions for the Vanguard. They are so bright. Few of them spare a glance for her, these days, save for startled new Lights.

There are a few, though, who look upon her not with distrust or fear or begrudging tolerance, but with recognition. Once in a great while, cousin Asher will grace her with his inimitable company. It gladdens her heart, even when he merely stops to exchange research notes or brief insults. He cleaves to his research with a passionate vengeance, as does she. Unlike most, he pays more attention to her knowledge and her current work than her past. With the way he helped care for her in the months after her escape from Luna, she has come to hold him in close confidence.

On occasion, her friend the Guardian, who avenged her fireteam upon the very souls of Crota and Oryx, stops to greet her. Sometimes they bring her news from Luna or Mars. Words are few with that one lately, though. These days, their outgoing ghost is the one who relays whatever tidings they carry. The change leaves a cold shadow over Eris’ heart. Therefore, she values their quiet presence all the more. She fears for them.

Of course, Ikora’s is the kind regard she is subject to most often. Eris has never forgotten that Ikora believed her since the beginning. Most met her genuine warnings of inbound danger from the Hive with distrust, dismissal, or fear. Ikora not only listened, but met her with endless kindness. Even now, as the Warlock Vanguard steps into nearer chamber of the Hall for a brief consultation with Lord Shaxx, she spares a moment and a smile for Eris.

Ikora’s smile has always been warm and real and reassuring, a balm on the fibers of frayed nerves. Among the very few who welcomed Eris back to Earth, that smile was a signal of genuine care and safety that she homed in on immediately. The one directed at Eris now is subtle, a mere quirk of the lips. Yet it hints at the vast depths of passion and compassion below the surface, like a ripple that disappears swiftly on the surface of a deep, deep pool.

Ikora’s outward cool composure that obscures that intensity is not a façade. It is more an ingenius piece of architecture, a mighty aqueduct capable of holding and channelling the endless font of her inner immensities. It is an elegant and functional work of art well-kept and expanded over centuries.

The warmth that must be behind such a small yet genuine smile is palpable; it falls on Eris like the creeping warmth of sunlight, sinking in deep even though it scarcely touches her skin. Even the lower half of her face, where her many layers do not shield her from long-lost Sol, is still sallow and nearly as grayed as the dust of Luna. She hadn’t known at first, with the changes to her vision, not until Asher had told her. He never does shy away from the speaking of truth. In those endless years of darkness, the lack of light and loss of Light took something from Eris, sapped something vital, and left something strange in its place.

Yet Eris can feel the sun again, now. She can walk out into the courtyard at any time of day, find a south-facing wall to lean on, and bask in the radiating warmth like an ectothermic reptile.

Even without leaving the cool shadows of her post, another warmth still reaches her. Ikora offers her one more smile as she goes to return to her own station. Eris stands a little taller under the aegis of her regard, her spine the stem of a sunflower lifting her toward its steady kindness.

Eris takes not a single one of these boons for granted. Each one is a precious gift far beyond what she ever expected to experience again, after her descent into the Hellmouth. Yet none of it can quell her restlessness, for it springs from the same source as her gratefulness. It always comes back to what happened to her on Luna.

Each time she returns to her pacing, the Tower feels a little smaller. The scope of the sky distracts her for a shorter time. Now, even after her sworn vengeance upon the Hive has been fulfilled twice over in double deicide, the path of her vow still pulls her feet forward. She does not know where its shrouded course leads, only that there is still a threat yet to be met along it. More and more, she is certain that she cannot wait here to meet it, or it will be too late.

However, she never expected to leave behind wounds when she leaves. After she departs to sight the next storm on the horizon, she is haunted as often by the surprised hurt that she left in Ikora’s eyes as by the memory of her smile.

[weswritescomics]

Character descriptions:

Bruce Wayne: Italian-American 30 years old. 6’3, slick black hair, darker blue eyes, usual darkened lining around eyelids, fit build. Not as stocky, more slender psychic, but still muscular. Five o’clock shadow, always.

The Batman: Dark blue shading to his costume, stitched leather cape, shorter ears on the cowl, cowl a darker blue than the cape. Doesn’t look like armor, more fabric, woven with kevlar. Lenses are white as snow, reflect light and shine in the dark, not animatic however, still and shaped.

Alfred Pennyworth: 63 years old, balding head, full beard of grey and white, 5’9. Stocky build, English, war veteran.

Detective James Gordon: 40 years old. African American, 6’2. Firm build, rougher mustache, balding hair, new hire at GCPD, transfer from Metropolis.

Detective Harvey Bullock: 37 years old. Caucasian, 5’9, heavy set, longer orange tinted beard, always wearing a classic hat. Thinks of himself as a real hot shot.

J𝗨𝗦𝗧𝖨𝗖𝗘 𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗚𝗨𝗘.

𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗛 - 60.

Chapter One.

The Night Cometh.

Gotham City, August, 1962.

Rain is the constant in Gotham. Pelting rays of ice cold water that hit window shields at a rapid pace. Across the open yard of Wayne Manor, through long strands of untamed grass, and leafless trees, sit two grave stones. Each of them a mark of the past that holds him. Each of them carved with the singular word.

𝗪𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲.

“Master Bruce?” The butlers tinted voice breaks his train of thought, standing at the window, with hands clasped behind his back — is Bruce Wayne. The last heir of the Wayne fortune, and The Prince of Gotham, “Alfred, in here.” His voice is lower, rougher than that of the past. A child, who was once full of life and optimism, was now a man heavy with dread.

“Sir.” Alfred stands in the doorway of the room they both share, the old master bed room of Martha and Thomas Wayne. He holds in his hands, a silver tray, accompanied with a small cup of coffee, fresh with the trail of heated steam — and next to it, a blueberry muffin, “You don’t usually come in here, I wasn’t sure where you were. Large house and all.” Alfred moves across the open space, placing said tray of assorted goods on the edge of the bed, “I thought it was time.” Wayne responds, however, his eyes keep outward, looking towards the gravestones that stare right back at him, “I owe them that much.” Pennyworth let’s out a sigh, his white gloved hands find themselves intertwining. He rocks on the back of his heals, with a small clearing of his throat.

“Master Bruce, I think it’s time you let go of the ghost in the backyard, and comeback to the land of the living.” Bruce doesn’t answer. “You’ve been back in Gotham for a whole year now, and you’ve barley seen the city for what it is now.” “I have.” Wayne turns finally, his eyes rage with pain, with lack of sleep — and vengeance. “Running around at night does 𝗻𝗼𝘁 count. Allowing yourself to feel the pain, to move on, and to run your fathers company 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀.”

Bruce takes small steps toward Alfred, the space between the two closes, “Alfred.” He starts, “We’ve seen this city for what it truly is, it showed us long ago the violence it can produce. The only way to fix that, is to bring it down, from its core. Gotham can’t rebuild, until the infestation — the 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝘂𝘀 — that crime is, is ridden of.” The two lock eyes now, a father made of grief, an arrogant son full of pain, their words aren’t spoken here — how much they truly need one another. Instead, it is met with another sigh, as Alfred takes the tray from the bed, turning and heading for the door, “We’ll then, a late dinner it is.”

GCPD Precinct, August, 1962.

The precinct buzzes with the usual morning crew of Gotham’s finest. Each of them in their own world of steady cases and rising efforts for the fight against crime. Or so, this is what James Gordon would’ve like to think they were doing. In reality it was 15% working against crime, and 85% working 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 crime. But he knew this before he even moved his family here, before he and his pregnant wife Barbara, took the plunge into the crime capital of the world. He, saw it as a way to do right by his father. Metropolis was dangerous, sure, but compared to Gotham, it was a shiny utopia. His father, then officer Gordon, always told him one thing — you do right not by the actions you 𝗱𝗼, but by the people you 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.

And those words stuck with him ever since, which is what brought him here. The GCPD was failing, the criminal underground was boiling over into the ordinary world, dirty cops helped push that quota into reality, hate crimes continued to soar, even within the GCPD — and yet he still felt like there was good in this city. An ability, if it were to try, if it were to be given even an ounce of a chance, to shine — if not 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 — than Metropolis. Barbara didn’t think so, she didn’t like the move, but how could she. The only silver lining she saw in this city was the chance of real and meaningful social work. Something that Metropolis barely offered. Again, a utopia to Gotham.

“Gordon!” Bullocks voice comes across the room, a gentle motion for Gordon to come closer, a waiting look on Harvey’s face, behind him in the meeting office was current Commissioner Harlen. James fixed his tie as he walked forth, bumping shoulders with busy bodies, and gaining 𝗴𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘀 from those who’d wish for his downfall. Since his arrival, Gordon had done nothing but make enemies, other then Harvey — most of The GCPD had already told their assorted crime bosses about Gotham’s new hotshot. And how he was 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 to save the city from its internal bleeding.

“You’re late.” Bullock snorts, he combs out the side collar of Gordon’s coat, “I had —“ marriage troubles, “—to take the trash out. Got in a fight with a raccoon before I could claim my territory.” Both men let out a gentle laugh, before Harvey motions inside with his head, “C’mon.”

The room sits idle with one singular table, three chairs — two on one side, one lone on the other. The white board behind the single chair is covered with photo evidence, four separate crime scenes, each of them murders of four wealthy Gotham elites. All of them, with two common factors, the fact that each man used his wealth — his power — to influence The GCPD, the political world of Gotham, and to fund The Falcone mob family. The second thing they had in common; the large lipstick like star marked across the face. And the burning white eyes, void of emotion.

“Gordon..” Harlen begins, “Sorry.” James responds, he takes a seat, as does Harvey. “Four new cases boys, each of them on the same path you’ve been following —“ “Christ.” Harvey lets out under his breath, “—each of them as proper as the first three. Our perp, whoever it is, is one for the thematic and the dramatic.” Gordon digs into his coat pocket, pulling out a small notepad, “I was able to get in touch with forensics on the last hit, sent them a sample of whatever that green shit was — turns out it’s the same chemicals produced at ACE.” Harvey learns forward, “As in ACE chemicals?” James nods. “You too go there yet?” The commissioner leans forward, hands placing on the top of the table, a shift in the weight he holds, “No. No not yet.” Harvey responds, he takes his hat off for a second, running his hands through curly uncut hair.

“Then you go there next.” Harlen sits up now, hands resting on his belt buckle, “We’re on it.” Gordon responds, Harvey shoots him a look. They were friends, yes, too an extent. Gordon knew of Harvey’s deals, the backwater jobs he took in his earlier days of GCPD, he knew he was out — but he knew he still had ties. It was the only reason he never turned Harvey in, he was out, and trying to stay out. Trying to be clean, trying to be a better cop. That’s all any of them could do, try.

ACE Chemicals, August, 1962.

The old squad car rolls alongside echoing gravel, Gotham had just been covered in rain, verified by the shine left on the rocks and stone buildings that await them. A warrant for a search hides away in the glovebox, the car itself comes to a stop, just outside the gates — the lights turn off — as well as the engine. Out steps the two detectives, each of them in long coats. One, Gordon, with a freshly lit cigarette hanging from his lips, the other — Harvey — with a small flask held in his hands.

“Hate this place.” Bullock states, closing the squad car door behind him, “Scared?” Gordon muses, mouth slightly muffled by the stick, “Of radiation? Yea, sure. Also — the fact that only low life pieces of garbage hang at these parts. Talkin the worst of the worst out here Jim.” “James.” “What?” “Don’t call me Jim, man. That’s my dads name. I’m James Gordon, he’s Jim.” Harvey waves him off, taking one last swig, “When you pay my bills, I’ll call you whatever you want me to. Hell, maybe even president Gordon someday.” James shakes his head, placing the remaining cigarette on the ground, and stomping it out, it sizzles as it’s smushed between heel and wet gravel. The two set forth, walking through the now opened metal gate, the chain links rattle and ache as they push past. Each of them holding a flashlight in hand, “What did forensics say exactly?”

“They told me —“ Gordon takes out another cigarette, lighting it, the red end illuminates the inner palms of his hands. And then, a gentle puff of smoke. “That this chemical was created here, it was initially a military grade weapon — meant to be used in Germany. But, it was deemed too violent — er — powerful as they put it. Was scrapped, at least it was suppose to be.” “So how the hell is it on Gotham streets?” “That’s why we’re here. Aren’t we?” ACE chemicals spirals into a kingdom of cone like buildings, each of them painted with the same three letter word — ACE, ACE, ACE. And each cone, a spewing mountain of smoke. As each man continues their walk, they stride in silence, each of them in their own thought — focused on the task at hand. Gordon, thought back to Barbara, the conversation they had before he left this morning. It wasn’t pretty.

In the first year, they were better — they were still whole. That was until 𝗵𝗲 came along. A figure of the night, a myth that soon became reality — a man built of darkness and mystery. The Batman. He came to Gordon, he didn’t know why then, or at least he thought he didn’t. But he understood now, a year later, why Batman came to him. They were honest, mask and all, they knew one another — what this city meant, and how to save it. But this, this devotion that came with this relationship — ruined his real one. Days, weeks, months, spending late nights at GCPD. Working alongside The Batman, taking down the man they now call The Riddler. He laughs, an audible one, one that catches Harvey’s attention.

The Riddler. How funny it was, it use to be gangsters, both street and professional level men. Then, it became all about costumes. The red blur in Central City, who took down the man who called himself Captain Cold. The Amazon in Washington, fought a living tiger like woman. It was all, truly? Insane. And somehow, someway, they — these normal men — were soon intertwined in it all. 𝗔𝗔𝗔𝗔𝗔𝗔𝗛! A scream breaks him, cigarette dropping from parted lips. “Shit — was that?” “Go!” Their guns are removed from their holsters, their feet dig into the ground, pushing them into a run, “Go! Go! Go!” James repeats — one step ahead of the larger Bullock.

They almost slide taking a corner, the damp gravel giving way to their fastening pace. Until, they come into clear view of the scene ahead, hanging from the roof of a taller, shackle like building, is a lone man. His foot, wrapped in a thin line of wiring — one that can only be seen when it catches the small light of the moon, “Awe hell.” Harvey lets out, his gun lowering, his feet stopping. Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon sees it. The small shimmer of white, that pierces through the dark of Gotham — that lets him know their not alone here. The Batman, “Harvey, go get him down, cuff him. I think I see something...” Detective Gordon moves off to the side, as Detective Bullock goes forward.

Gordon shuts off his flashlight, waiting for a minute, as the space between him and Harvey is at a good distance.

“Jim.” The Batman begins, voice at almost a whisper, “Batman.” Gordon responds, his gun now being placed back in its holster, “What happened here.” The Batman sits on a rail, a few feet off the ground, not even James athletic background could get him up there. The wind pulls gently at the edge of his cape, it flutters in noticeable flaps, his short ears make out the remainder of his cowl — the white eyes peer back down on Gordon. Never looking away, “Those cases you’re on now — I’ve already been working them.” “Of course.” “I tracked the chemical to here, as did you. They call it chemical - x. That man —“ The head of the bat shifts, in a pointing direction, “Was here to get more.” “Why?” “You know why.” “To do more.” “Yes.”

Gordon rubs at his neck, “I don’t know, this is all, well this feels like Riddler — again. This feels like someone is playing games, trying to stir up Gotham.” “Not someone, Jim. Something.” “What?” “The man, his tattoos tell a story. On the back of his neck, look there. His friends will have the same signal — this is something, Jim. Bigger than Riddler.” Gordon looks back to Harvey, who had just gotten the man down, his eyes look back to — nothing. The Bat was gone, leaving nothing but the gust of wind.

The two men walk silently back, guiding the arrested man to the back of the squad car. Gordon opens the back door, almost stuffing the suspect in the back, as he does, he reaches forward, pulling back the hoodie over his head — moving long locks of hair from his neck. What he sees is a symbol, or rather a character — a creature. Shaped like a starfish, with a human eye at its middle, colored purple — the eye red as fire. As violence.

Bigger than Riddler. He thought. Sitting back into the driver seat.

What the hell did that mean?