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kalakian · 5 years ago

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Mahirap maging Pilipina, ngunit masarap sa pakiramdam na sa panahon ni Rizal, itinuring n’yang kapantay ng kalalakihan ang kababaihan. Malinaw ito sa kanyang sulat para sa kababaihan ng Malolos.

To the Young Women of Malolos

by José Rizal

When I wrote Noli Me Tangere, I asked myself whether bravery was a common thing in the young women of our people. I brought back to my recollection and reviewed those I had known since my infancy, but there were only few who seem to come up to my ideal. There was, it is true, an abundance of girls with agreeable manners, beautiful ways, and modest demeanor, but there was in all an admixture of servitude and deference to the words or whims of their so-called "spiritual fathers" (as if the spirit or soul had any father other than God), due to excessive kindness, modesty, or perhaps ignorance. They seemed faced plants sown and reared in darkness, having flowers without perfume and fruits without sap.

However, when the news of what happened at Malolos reached us, I saw my error, and great was my rejoicing. After all, who is to blame me? I did not know Malolos nor its young women, except one called Emila [Emilia Tiongson, whom Rizal met in 1887], and her I knew by name only.

Now that you have responded to our first appeal in the interest of the welfare of the people; now that you have set an example to those who, like you, long to have their eyes opened and be delivered from servitude, new hopes are awakened in us and we now even dare to face adversity, because we have you for our allies and are confident of victory. No longer does the Filipina stand with her head bowed nor does she spend her time on her knees, because she is quickened by hope in the future; no longer will the mother contribute to keeping her daughter in darkness and bring her up in contempt and moral annihilation. And no longer will the science of all sciences consist in blind submission to any unjust order, or in extreme complacency, nor will a courteous smile be deemed the only weapon against insult or humble tears the ineffable panacea for all tribulations. You know that the will of God is different from that of the priest; that religiousness does not consist of long periods spent on your knees, nor in endless prayers, big rosarios, and grimy scapularies [religious garment showing devotion], but in a spotless conduct, firm intention and upright judgment. You also know that prudence does not consist in blindly obeying any whim of the little tin god, but in obeying only that which is reasonable and just, because blind obedience is itself the cause and origin of those whims, and those guilty of it are really to be blamed. The official or friar can no longer assert that they alone are responsible for their unjust orders, because God gave each individual reason and a will of his or her own to distinguish the just from the unjust; all were born without shackles and free, and nobody has a right to subjugate the will and the spirit of another your thoughts. And, why should you submit to another your thoughts, seeing that thought is noble and free?

It is cowardice and erroneous to believe that saintliness consists in blind obedience and that prudence and the habit of thinking are presumptuous. Ignorance has ever been ignorance, and never prudence and honor. God, the primal source of all wisdom, does not demand that man, created in his image and likeness, allow himself to be deceived and hoodwinked, but wants us to use and let shine the light of reason with which He has so mercifully endowed us. He may be compared to the father who gave each of his sons a torch to light their way in the darkness bidding them keep its light bright and take care of it, and not put it out and trust to the light of the others, but to help and advise each other to fiind the right path. They would be madman were they to follow the light of another, only to come to a fall, and the father could unbraid them and say to them: "Did I not give each of you his own torch," but he cold not say so if the fall were due to the light of the torch of him who fell, as the light might have been dim and the road very bad.

The deceiver is fond of using the saying that "It is presumptuous to rely on one's own judgment," but, in my opinion, it is more presumptuous for a person to put his judgment above that of the others and try to make it prevail over theirs. It is more presumptuous for a man to constitute himself into an idol and pretend to be in communication of thought with God; and it is more than presumptuous and even blasphemous for a person to attribute every movement of his lips to God, to represent every whim of his as the will of God, and to brand his own enemy as an enemy of God. Of course, we should not consult our own judgment alone, but hear the opinion of others before doing what may seem most reasonable to us. The wild man from the hills, if clad in a priest's robe, remains a hillman and can only deceive the weak and ignorant. And, to make my argument more conclusive, just buy a priest's robe as the Franciscans wear it and put it on a carabao [domestic water buffalo], and you will be lucky if the carabao does not become lazy on account of the robe. But I will leave this subject to speak of something else.

Youth is a flower-bed that is to bear rich fruit and must accumulate wealth for its descendants. What offspring will be that of a woman whose kindness of character is expressed by mumbled prayers; who knows nothing by heart but awits [hymns], novenas, and the alleged miracles; whose amusement consists in playing panguingue [a card game] or in the frequent confession of the same sins? What sons will she have but acolytes, priest's servants, or cock fighters? It is the mothers who are responsible for the present servitude of our compatriots, owing to the unlimited trustfulness of their loving hearts, to their ardent desire to elevate their sons Maturity is the fruit of infancy and the infant is formed on the lap of its mother. The mother who can only teach her child how to kneel and kiss hands must not expect sons with blood other than that of vile slaves. A tree that grows in the mud is unsubstantial and good only for firewood. If her son should have a bold mind, his boldness will be deceitful and will be like the bat that cannot show itself until the ringing of vespers. They say that prudence is sanctity. But, what sanctity have they shown us? To pray and kneel a lot, kiss the hand of the priests, throw money away on churches, and believe all the friar sees fit to tell us; gossip, callous rubbing of noses. . . .

As to the mites and gifts of God, is there anything in the world that does not belong to God? What would you say of a servant making his master a present of a cloth borrowed from that very master? Who is so vain, so insane that he will give alms to God and believe that the miserable thing he has given will serve to clothe the Creator of all things? Blessed be they who succor their fellow men, aid the poor and feed the hungry; but cursed be they who turn a dead ear to supplications of the poor, who only give to him who has plenty and spend their money lavishly on silver altar hangings for the thanksgiving, or in serenades and fireworks. The money ground out of the poor is bequeathed to the master so that he can provide for chains to subjugate, and hire thugs and executioners. Oh, what blindness, what lack of understanding.

Saintliness consists in the first place in obeying the dictates of reason, happen what may. "It is acts and not words that I want of you," said Christ. "Not everyone that sayeth unto me, Lord, Lord shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in Heaven." Saintliness does not consist in abjectness, nor is the successor of Christ to be recognized by the fact that he gives his hand to be kissed. Christ did not give the kiss of peace to the Pharisees and never gave his hand to be kissed. He did not cater to the rich and vain; He did not mention scapularies, nor did He make rosaries, or solicit offerings for the sacrifice of the Mass or exact payments for His prayers. Saint John did not demand a fee on the River Jordan, nor did Christ teach for gain. Why, then, do the friars now refuse to stir a foot unless paid in advance? And, as if they were starving, they sell scapularies, rosaries, bits, and other things which are nothing but schemes for making money and a detriment to the soul; because even if all the rags on earth were converted into scapularies and all the trees in the forest into rosaries, and if the skins of all the beasts were made into belts, and if all the priests of the earth mumbled prayers over all this and sprinkled oceans of holy water over it, this would not purify a rogue or condone sin where there is no repentance. Thus, also, through cupidity and love of money, they will, for a price, revoke the numerous prohibitions such as those against eating meat, marrying close relatives, etc. You can do almost anything if you but grease their palms. Why that? Can God be bribed and bought off, and blinded by money, nothing more nor less than a friar? The brigand who has obtained a bull of compromise can live calmly on the proceeds of his robbery, because he will be forgiven. God, then, will sit at a table where theft provides the viands? Has the Omnipotent become a pauper that He must assume the role of the excise man or gendarme? If that is the God whom the friar adores, then I turn my back upon that God.

Let us be reasonable and open our eyes, especially you women, because you are the first to influence the consciousness of man. Remember that a good mother does not resemble the mother that the friar has created; she must bring up her child to be the image of the true God, not of a blackmailing, a grasping God, but of a God who is the father of us all, who is just; who does not suck the life-blood of the poor like a vampire, nor scoffs at the agony of the sorely beset, nor makes a crooked path of the path of justice. Awaken and prepare the will of our children towards all that is honorable, judged by proper standards, to all that is sincere and firm of purpose, clear judgment, clear procedure, honesty in act and deed, love for the fellowman and respect for God; this is what you must teach your children. And, seeing that life is full of thorns and thistles, you must fortify their minds against any stroke of adversity and accustom them to danger. The people cannot expect honor nor prosperity so long as they will educate their children in a wrong way, so long as the woman who guides the child in his steps is slavish and ignorant. No good water comes from a turbid, bitter spring; no savory fruit comes from acrid seed.

The duties that woman has to perform in order to deliver the people from suffering are of no little importance, but be they as they may, they will not be beyond the strength and stamina of the Filipino people. The power and good judgment of the women of the Philippines are well known, and it is because of this that she has been hoodwinked, and tied, and rendered pusillanimous, and now her enslavers rest at ease, because so long as they can keep the Filipina mother a slave, so long will they be able to make slaves of her children. The cause of the backwardness of Asia lies in the fact that there the women are ignorant, are slaves; while Europe and America are powerful because there the women are free and well-educated and endowed with lucid intellect and a strong will.

We know that you lack instructive books; we know that nothing is added to your intellect, day by day, save that which is intended to dim its natural brightness; all this we know, hence our desire to bring you the light that illuminates your equals here in Europe. If that which I tell you does not provoke your anger, and if you will pay a little attention to it then, however dense the mist may be that befogs our people, I will make the utmost efforts to have it dissipated by the bright rays of the sun, which will give light, thought they be dimmed. We shall not feel any fatigue if you help us: God, too, will help to scatter the mist, because He is the God of truth: He will restore to its pristine condition the fame of the Filipina in whom we now miss only a criterion of her own, because good qualities she has enough and to spare. This is our dream; this is the desire we cherish in our hearts; to restore the honor of woman, who is half of our heart, our companion in the joys and tribulations of life. If she is a maiden, the young man should love her not only because of her beauty and her amiable character, but also on account of her fortitude of mind and loftiness of purpose, which quicken and elevate the feeble and timid and ward off all vain thoughts. Let the maiden be the pride of her country and command respect, because it is a common practice on the part of Spaniards and friars here who have returned from the Islands to speak of the Filipina as complaisant and ignorant, as if all should be thrown into the same class because of the missteps of a few, and as if women of weak character did not exist in other lands. As to purity what could the Filipina not hold up to others!

Nevertheless, the returning Spaniards and friars, talkative and fond of gossip, can hardly find time enough to brag and bawl, amidst guffaws and insulting remarks, that a certain woman was thus; that she behaved thus at the convent and conducted herself thus with the Spaniards who on the occasion was her guest, and other things that set your teeth on edge when you think of them which, in the majority of cases, were faults due to candor, excessive kindness, meekness, or perhaps ignorance and were all the work of the defamer himself. There is a Spaniard now in high office, who has set at our table and enjoyed our hospitality in his wanderings through the Philippines and who, upon his return to Spain, rushed forthwith into print and related that on one occasion in Pampanga he demanded hospitality and ate, and slept at a house and the lady of the house conducted herself in such and such a manner with him; this is how he repaid the lady for her supreme hospitality! Similar insinuations are made by the friars to the chance visitor from Spain concerning their very obedient confesandas, hand-kissers, etc., accompanied by smiles and very significant winkings of the eye. In a book published by D. Sinibaldo de Mas and in other friar sketches sins are related of which women accused themselves in the confessional and of which the friars made no secret in talking to their Spanish visitors seasoning them, at the best, with idiotic and shameless tales not worthy of credence. I cannot repeat here the shameless stories that a friar told Mas and to which Mas attributed no value whatever. Every time we hear or read anything of this kind, we ask each other: Are the Spanish women all cut after the pattern of the Holy Virgin Mary and the Filipinas all reprobates? I believe that if we are to balance accounts in this delicate question, perhaps, . . . But I must drop the subject because I am neither a confessor nor a Spanish traveler and have no business to take away anybody's good name. I shall let this go and speak of the duties of women instead.

A people that respect women, like the Filipino people, must know the truth of the situation in order to be able to do what is expected of it. It seems an established fact that when a young student falls in love, he throws everything to the dogs -- knowledge, honor, and money, as if a girl could not do anything but sow misfortune. The bravest youth becomes a coward when he married, and the born coward becomes shameless, as if he had been waiting to get married in order to show his cowardice. The son, in order to hide his pusillanimity, remembers his mother, swallows his wrath, suffers his ears to be boxed, obeys the most foolish order, and and becomes an accomplice to his own dishonor. It should be remembered that where nobody flees there is no pursuer; when there is no little fish, there can not be a big one. Why does the girl not require of her lover a noble and honored name, a manly heart offering protection to her weakness, and a high spirit incapable of being satisfied with engendering slaves? Let her discard all fear, let her behave nobly and not deliver her youth to the weak and faint-hearted. When she is married, she must aid her husband, inspire him with courage, share his perils, refrain from causing him worry and sweeten his moments of affection, always remembering that there is no grief that a brave heart can not bear and there is no bitterer inheritance than that of infamy and slavery. Open your children's eyes so that they may jealously guard their honor, love their fellowmen and their native land, and do their duty. Always impress upon them they must prefer dying with honor to living in dishonor. The women of Sparta should serve you as an example should serve you as an example in this; I shall give some of their characteristics.

When a mother handed the shield to her son as he was marching to battle, she said nothing to him but this: "Return with it, or on it," which mean, come back victorious or dead, because it was customary with the routed warrior to throw away his shield, while the dead warrior was carried home on his shield. A mother received word that her son had been killed in battle and the army routed. She did not say a word, but expressed her thankfulness that her son had been saved from disgrace. However, when her son returned alive, the mother put on mourning. One of the mothers who went out to meet the warriors returning from battle was told by one that her three sons had fallen. I do not ask you that, said the mother, but whether we have been victorious or not. We have been victorious -- answered the warrior. If that is so, then let us thank God, and she went to the temple.

Once upon a time a king of theirs, who had been defeated, hid in the temple, because he feared their popular wrath. The Spartans resolved to shut him up there and starve him to death. When they were blocking the door, the mother was the first to bring stones. These things were in accordance with the custom there, and all Greece admired the Spartan woman. Of all women -- a woman said jestingly -- only your Spartans have power over the men. Quite natural -- they replied -- of all women only we give birth to men. Man, the Spartan women said, was not born to life for himself alone but for his native land. So long as this way of thinking prevailed and they had that kind of women in Sparta, no enemy was able to put his foot upon her soil, nor was there a woman in Sparta who ever saw a hostile army.

I do not expect to be believed simply because it is I who am saying this; there are many people who do not listen to reason, but will listen only to those who wear the cassock or have gray hair or no teeth; but while it is true that the aged should be venerated, because of their travails and experience, yet the life I have lived, consecrated to the happiness of the people, adds some years, though not many of my age. I do not pretend to be looked upon as an idol or fetish and to be believed and listened to with the eyes closed, the head bowed, and the arms crossed over the breast; what I ask of all is to reflect on what I tell him, think it over and shift it carefully through the sieve of reasons.

First of all. That the tyranny of some is possible only through cowardice and negligence on the part of others.

Second. What makes one contemptible is lack of dignity and abject fear of him who holds one in contempt.

Third. Ignorance is servitude, because as a man thinks, so he is; a man who does not think for himself and allowed himself to be guided by the thought of another is like the beast led by a halter.

Fourth. He who loves his independence must first aid his fellowman, because he who refuses protection to others will find himself without it; the isolated rib in the buri is easily broken, but not so the broom made of the ribs of the palm bound together.

Fifth. If the Filipina will not change her mode of being, let her rear no more children, let her merely give birth to them. She must cease to be the mistress of the home, otherwise she will unconsciously betray husband, child, native land, and all.

Sixth. All men are born equal, naked, without bonds. God did not create man to be a slave; nor did he endow him with intelligence to have him hoodwinked, or adorn him with reason to have him deceived by others. It is not fatuous to refuse to worship one's equal, to cultivate one's intellect, and to make use of reason in all things. Fatuous is he who makes a god of him, who makes brutes of others, and who strives to submit to his whims all that is reasonable and just.

Seventh. Consider well what kind of religion they are teaching you. See whether it is the will of God or according to the teachings of Christ that the poor be succored and those who suffer alleviated. Consider what they preaching to you, the object of the sermon, what is behind the masses, novenas, rosaries, scapularies, images, miracles, candles, belts, etc. etc; which they daily keep before your minds; ears and eyes; jostling, shouting, and coaxing; investigate whence they came and whiter they go and then compare that religion with the pure religion of Christ and see whether the pretended observance of the life of Christ does not remind you of the fat milch cow or the fattened pig, which is encouraged to grow fat nor through love of the animal, but for grossly mercenary motives.

Let us, therefore, reflect; let us consider our situation and see how we stand. May these poorly written lines aid you in your good purpose and help you to pursue the plan you have initiated. "May your profit be greater than the capital invested;" and I shall gladly accept the usual reward of all who dare tell your people the truth. May your desire to educate yourself be crowned with success; may you in the garden of learning gather not bitter, but choice fruit, looking well before you eat because on the surface of the globe all is deceit, and the enemy sows weeds in your seedling plot.

All this is the ardent desire of your compatriot.

JOSÉ RIZAL

***

Ang mga larawan ay kuha sa pelikulang Dahling Nick.

Ang buong kopya ng To the Young Women of Malolos ay nakuha sa https://kwentongebabuhayrizal.blogspot.com/

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spirit-of-the-void · 6 years ago

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Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 9

Author’s notes: Sorry this one took so long, its been a long day kids

Chapter 9

(V POV)

You have a duty to see this through.

V’s mind was drifting in and out, awash with pain one moment then blanked out in sleep the next. He was aware of a few things when consciousness made its presence known again. One was the familiar, strange chill your energy brought, almost like cool water was traveling through his veins. Another was your warm hand, soft whispering words, the dabbing of a towel on his chest and brow. Small, comforting things. He...wasn’t used to such actions. The very sensation of your soft lips pressing gently to his forehead made his chest ache in such a way he hadn’t experienced before. He almost didn’t want to sleep, just to be able to feel those things again and again in clarity, writing them to memory so when the darkness inevitably came back he would have them.

To be honest, your actions were like a punch in the gut. Not because he didn’t enjoy them, not because they weren’t welcome. But because he didn’t deserve them. Throughout his journey, his task, the all too familiar weight of crushing guilt was on his back. Suffocating, stifling, drowning guilt. Seeing the dead bodies of innocent humans, knowing just how much destruction was wrought by such selfish actions. And that was his fault, his burden. His problem to fix. How could he, in all his sins and self-loathing ever think himself deserving of comfort, of care? He was a selfish creature too, after all. Just like Urizen, he wanted what wasn’t deserved. He asked too much of you, craved so much of you. Holding his hand meant everything. That kiss on the head meant...everything.

It meant everything to he who was nothing.

Still, he listened to what you asked, letting sleep claim him again as the pain of his chest began to slowly fade. Miraculously, you were managing to heal the damage done by the rider. The process was slow, but it gave him time to rest as needed. You were certainly determined. He lost count of how many times he was coaxed to drink water, or how many times you had given him small doses of healing energy. To be honest, this made him guilty too. You were so exhausted before, so tired and worn out. You deserved to rest, that he knew, but you weren’t. His error in judgement caused you to lose out. Though you claimed that your Deity made it so you felt no exhaustion, no pain, something...didn’t feel right. The more the night went on, the more worried he grew. But his exhaustion kept him falling back into sleep, unable to hold himself above water.

And when he did sleep, his dreams were broken and muddled. Small glimpses of memories, things that reminded him of why he was on this mission to begin with. He welcomed the pain of waking more than these dreams--they were not welcome, nor needed. He would not lose sight of what needed to be done, nor would he let his steps falter after healing from the attack. Forward, keep moving forward. His brain wouldn’t let it go, peppering his sleep with unpleasant things and the musings of...his past self. He mourned the long, peaceful rest of his first fight with you. How had things managed to fall apart so fast?

“V…!”

Griffon’s voice cut through the haze of dreams, frantic and filled with panic. V felt himself jerk, body trying to pull him out of the deep ocean of rest even as his own exhaustion tried to tug back. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. He needed to wake up. He struggled to pull himself out, feeling the slight twinges of pain in his shoulder even as he tried to fight back layer upon layer of dark, heady unconsciousness. Griffon’s weight was on his now, shaking him, voice growing louder and louder with each passing second.

“Wake up! Wake up! For fuck’s sake please get up!” He screeched, voice rising as if through ocean waves, “Something is wrong and I don’t fucking know what to do! Wake up you god damn idiot!”

Something is wrong.

V felt himself jerk awake, consciousness slamming into him like a truck. He gasped, chest heaving as his eyes flew open. How long had he been asleep? He sat up, taking in several things at once as Griffon lifted off his chest with a relieved gasp. It was still dark outside, the room was quiet, and you were nowhere in sight. The last thought made his heart pound, eyes locking with Griffon’s as the bird hovered in front of his view.

“Where is she...?!” V rasped, holding out a hand for Griffon to help him out of the bed. The bird didn’t hesitate, latching onto him and tugging onto the poet’s arm with a force V wasn’t used to him using.

“She’s on the bathroom floor!” Griffon shrieked, “I don’t know what happened! One second the girl was fine, then the next…!”

V didn’t let him finish, fear filling him as he grabbed his cane, practically bolting to the opened bathroom door. Shadow sprinted ahead of him, claws skidding on the tile floor as they scrambled to your form. The sound of distress Shadow made only deepened V’s fear, the poet quickly shoving his way into the bathroom to see what was wrong.

The sight of you made his heart practically stop.

You were lying on the cold tile, skin so pale it was practically grey in color. Hair draped over your face, blue glowing liquid dripping from the edge of the tub and onto the floor a bit. V let out a sharp gasp, collapsing to the floor next to your prone form and carefully lifting your head. Much to his horror, the veins under your skin looked black, writhing as your hands occasionally twitched. What the hell was happening to you? V felt panic curling in his gut, breathes coming short and fast as he pulled you into his lap. Even more shocking--your eyes were half open, only now they were black. Your face was prone, unmoving, you gave no indication that you had heard or even sensed his presence. Almost like you were…

She can’t be dead.

Gasping, V pressed his ear to your chest, hearing your faint, racing heartbeat and shortened breathing. Your muscles were clenching and relaxing over and over, like you were in agony. And still you said nothing, did nothing. You didn’t even look conscious. The strange, glowing blue liquid was dripping from the corners of your mouth, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was. Or what to do. What in the world was he supposed to do? He couldn’t remember a time where he felt like this, the panic, the fear...and the anger. Anger that he had caused this, anger that you hadn’t been truthful with him about the risks. Anger that you had put yourself through all of this just to heal him, to keep him safe.

No one had wanted to keep him safe before.

“Y/N…!” He whispered, smoothing your hair out of your face and cupping your cheek, “Can you hear me, Y/N? Please tell me what to do, how can I fix this…?!”

Not even strong enough to save one girl. Just like--

You didn’t answer, head lolling to the side a bit as you continued breathing in short, pained gasps. Shadow let out a low, distressed sound, curling around your other side and licking the blue liquid away from your chin. V felt his hands begin to shake, wiping tears from your left eye with the slide of his thumb. He was so weak, too weak to handle this alone. He couldn’t risk dealing with this without someone to help, he didn’t want to do anything that would hurt you more. Panicking, he looked up, locking eyes with Griffon. Every emotion he felt was echoed in the birds gold gaze.

“Go,” He commanded the bird in a harsh tone, pointing his cane out the door, “I need you to go find Nico and Nero--If we’re lucky, they are still waiting where we were supposed to meet…!”

“And if they’re not?!” Griffon’s tone was afraid, more than V had ever heard before.

“Then you keep searching…!” V said through gritted teeth, the order in his voice coming across loud and clear.

Griffon let out a nervous trilling sound, launching from the bathroom sink and quickly out the way your group came. V turned his focus back to you, eyes traveling over the bathroom quickly. It looked like...you had come in here to throw up? And whatever came out of you was blue, very light in color. Thick and glowing. V let out a slow, shaking breath as he stood, lifting you up despite the pain still in his shoulder. The wound felt pretty much healed, just a bit sore. But that didn’t matter right now. You were surprisingly light, easy to lift as he carried you out of the bathroom, back into the room he had been in.

He set you on the bed, eyes scanning over your form with worry in his gaze. You had looked so strong when he saw you last, unwavering, resolute. You were still trembling slightly, body like a rag-doll and eyes black and glassy. V slid down to his knees beside the bed, pressing your hand to his face and holding it there as he counted your pulse--it was racing. Your skin felt chilled, you had been submerged in ice. But no matter how much V tried to warm your hand, that chill stayed.

How could your Deity let this happen? V closed his eyes, black hair hanging in front of his face as he thought over all that you had said. You were kept from exerting, given extra power and stamina. Enough to heal him, to stay awake most of the night to take care of him. You had fixed his wounds, gently, carefully, lovingly. And now...you were broken.

And it was his fault.

(Nico’s POV)

The mechanic didn’t like being worried.

She was still awake, sitting on her leather couch tinkering with one of Nero’s arms. A frown was on her face, nose scrunched up a bit as she tried to distract herself from wandering, racing thoughts. Where the hell were you and that damned goth? Meet in an hour, she had said. Anger had hit her first when you were late, and now many hours later it was just...fear. She didn’t like being afraid, nor did she like admitting to it. Nero was more open to his emotions, looking for your little group for an hour up ahead but not finding any traces that you had moved on. So then where did you go? V was never one to just ignore Nero and do what he wanted. Once a plan was made, he stuck to it like glue. Not a hint of wild in the lanky man.

Now it was four am. Nico still couldn’t sleep, having dug out a path with Lady for a few hours while they waited for you. It was distracting, but not enough so that she would let it slide. Mind you, the plan was to stay and sleep in the van to begin with, she purposely chose this place so you and V could stay too. And worse--they had to waste more time because Nero got hurt without the use of his arm. He was sitting in the passenger’s set of the van nursing a wound to his thigh, chugging what was probably his third energy drink and staring out at the darkness of night. How the hell were they supposed to tell you to wait? Nico let out a sigh. No one wanted to go to sleep, not even Lady. The woman was sitting at Nico’s small dining table, reading a magazine.

She didn’t know you, but she seemed to get everyone was stressed about you and V being missing. Nico sighed, rubbing her temple with a free hand when Nero suckled down the last of his drink, letting out a loud yawn. Heavily exaggerated.

“You’re gonna have a heart attack if you keep drinking those, idiot,” Nico muttered at the white-haired boy, hearing him belch loudly and crush his can with his new metal arm. Made by her, of course, “If Kyrie finds out she’s gonna kill ya.”

“That’s why you don’t snitch,” Nero replied, tossing the can into a garbage bin nearby, “If you’d go to sleep I’d stop drinking them.”

“You don’t need to stay up with me!” Nico snapped, whipping the metal arm around to point it at him, “Shut up and focus all your dumbass energy on healing your leg!”

Nero huffed, “Not my fault your shitty arms keep breaking.”

“Stop manhandling them and they won’t break, moron!”

“Am I not supposed to manhandle demons?” Nero turned, raising a brow and wincing as he jostled his leg, “Let me just give the demons a nice pat on the head. I’m sure that’ll stop them from ripping me apart.”

Nico rolled her eyes, meeting Lady’s gaze just as the woman yawned. She was a pretty thing, with short black hair and a nice body. She was in some of Nico’s working clothes, looking pretty nice considering she had popped out of the body of a demon earlier that day. Although, she seemed fairly tired too, downright exhausted. Nico frowned, wondering why she didn’t just go asleep. Nothing was keeping her up, not to mention all the digging they had done to clear a path for the van. Nico’s own back was aching from it, the mechanic sitting up and grunting when her spine settled in place.

She should have kept looking for you with Nero, the sensation of something being wrong would not leave.

The only sign that something may have happened was from you, she was sure of it. They drove past what looked to be a curling, spiky column of black crystal earlier. It looked just like the shit you had given her earlier in the day. Nero said he looked around in the area a bit, but there was no blood or footprints anywhere. Which made sense, considering it was still raining outside. They could have taken the time to check every house in the area, but that was ridiculous. If you were still in the area, what was stopping you from meeting them?

Unless someone had got hurt.

Nico groaned in exasperation, slamming the arm she was working on down on a table next to her. The sound made both Lady and Nero jump, turning to look at the dark haired woman.

“Maybe we should go out and look again?” Nico mumbled to herself, standing up and running a hand through her hair. Nico knew she wasn’t the friendliest person, but she liked you. You always had this happy little smile, and you were nice to everyone. Like the little sister everyone in the group really wanted. Nico never really had much family growing up, just her mother once the dead-beat left them in the dirt to struggle. Her mother did her best, told her stories of her ancestors and trained her to make a living. Other than that, she had Nero and Kyrie. Her only loved ones now that her mom was gone.

Nero let out a light sigh, leveling Nico with a frown and exasperated look, “At this time of night? And where would we start? Too risky.”

“Yeah?! And?!” Nico snapped, planting her hands on her hips, “We can’t just sit and do nothin’!”

She heard Lady sigh, the woman rising to her feet as well to put a hand on Nico’s arm.

“There’s always tomorrow,” The woman murmured, eyes filled with concern, “I’m sure we will find them.”

Nico shrugged her off, letting out a heavy sigh and continuing her pacing. She didn’t want to wait till tomorrow, didn’t want to take any risks. Lady turned and exchanged a look with Nero, who echoed her concern with a glance of his own. As much as he tried to play it off, Nico knew him well. He was worried, very worried. He kept looking out the windows, tapping his fingers, grinding his teeth. His tells were fairly easy to spot. He was probably concerned about what to do without V, but Nico knew you were on his mind as well. He had sent you with the poet after all.

Nico let out a heavy sigh, ready to head out the door herself when the sound of something slamming hard onto the roof of her van startled the whole group. She turned to look at Nero, the boy grabbing onto his sword quickly and ready to rise to his feet when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You fuckers had better be awake…!” Griffon’s grating voice was muffled through the van, his shriek still managing to be piercing despite that, “Get up! Get the fuck up we need your help!”

Nico shot a glance at Nero, whipping open her van door to look up at the bird perched on her roof. He was panting, feathers puffed up in every which way and gold eyes piercing in the dark. He was also drenched, dripping water onto her van roof in a steady patter. Both relief and fear filled the mechanic now as she addressed the poet’s familiar, tone loud and angry.

“Where the fuck have y’all been?!” She screeched, making the bird rear back with a startled squawk, “Start squawkin’ little chickee!”

Griffon let out a low, nervous trill, watching as Nero and lady exited the van as well to look at him.

“V got hurt bad!” He rasped, scratching his talons on the van’s roof, “Y/N healed him up as best she could but she collapsed, there’s something wrong with her and I fucking need you guys to come help! We would have came earlier but V couldn’t be moved you psychotic woman!”

Nero and Nico exchanged a glance, Nico darting back into the van in an instant to start the engine. Lady followed suit with Nero, everyone piling back in quickly now that their worries were confirmed. Nico would let the bird’s insult slide for now, there were more important things to take care of. The engine of the van came roaring to life, Griffon letting out a startled squawk, launching from the roof and hovering in front of the windshield with glowing blue wings. Nico glared out the window at him, but he seemed genuinely worried about you and the poet, so she couldn’t really be all mad. Now the worry was really setting in, along with the relief that they at least knew what happened now.

Nico pointed out the window at Griffon, voice loud as she commanded, “Lead the way, chicken!”

He nodded his feathery head, taking off down the road toward where Nico had left you guys early. She pushed on the pedal, tires swerving around as she quickly followed with her van. Rain began pattering on the windshield as soon as they left the cover of the subway station, the dark of night barely illuminated by barrel fires and the occasional still working streetlight. Griffon’s bright, glowing feathers were easily visible in the sky ahead, Nico driving carefully for once in her life. The drive was short, much to Nico’s surprise and confirmed suspicions. Griffon led them back to the courtyard where the crystal pillars were, right where she had seen you and the poet traveling to earlier.

Nico shot a look at Nero, who shrugged and looked away with a click of his tongue. He claimed they he went looking in this area, but they must have hid in apartment like she previously assumed. That would teach people to ignore the shit she was saying and make them actually listen. She slammed on the brakes in front of what looked to be an abandoned apartment complex with a garage in the front. It was partially open, just enough that someone could sneak through if they so choose. Nico let out a pained noise at Nero, wishing to god she could smack him. That was the one obvious place to check.

He sighed, rising to his feet with a grunt of pain, “Yeah, this one is on me.” He said simply, hopping out of the van to pull up the garage door with his metal hand. Nico impatiently drove in, slamming on the breaks and hopping out of the mobile home with Lady hot on her trail. She didn’t wait for Nero to close the garage door behind them.

Griffon led the charge in, the door already half open when he nosed his way through. Nico pushed in after, instantly finding the poet and you in the room.

V was sitting in a chair next to a bed, leaning heavily on his cane with probably the most worried expression the mechanic had seen on him. He was shirtless, with several bandages wrapped around his torso. He looked fucking exhausted--an absolute trainwreck. Nico couldn’t recall a time she’d seen him that bad, not that she saw him often. He always seemed so calm and collected. But now...he was afraid, she could tell that much. His posture straightened a bit when she and Lady entered, relief in his gaze and a hint of pain.

The sight of you sent Nico’s heart pounding in shock.

She rushed to the bed with Lady close behind. You were curled up on the sheets, head half pressed to the pillow and frame twitching occasionally. Lady held her hand to her mouth while Nico leaned around V, pressing her fingers to your face, then to test your pulse. You were alive alright. But...you looked like hell. She had never seen anything like it before--just what the hell had happened to you? Panic curled in her gut, an emotion she tried to push back. Someone had to remain level headed, someone had to stay put together.

So instead of yelling, she addressed V calmly, voice low for once.

“Tell me what happened.” She said simply, eyes meeting his with a look of quiet urgency.

He let out a shaken breath, closing his eyes and leaning on that silver cane again. Griffon flew over to land by you on the bed, right next to Shadow’s anxious form.

“We fought a demon,” His voice was low, breathy and tired, “Two to be exact. They managed to land a hit on me, it was my error. She...did something, while I was fading in and out.”

Nero came in while he spoke, a look of shock and horror on his face as he saw your prone figure. He too rushed to the bed, moving around Lady to lean on the bed. Worry etched its lines in his face as he gripped one of your arms, feeling your pulse as well with a light frown. Griffon let out a low, nervous sound, eyes locked on you as he bowed his head a bit.

It was he who spoke, tone raspy and regretful, “If I had known this was the cause I would have stopped the dumb girl…!”

“What the hell did she do?” Nero asked, tone probably harsher than he intended.

“I don’t fucking know…!” Griffon sounded more panicked than mad, gold eyes closing as he recalled the events, “Poet was hurt, she told me to drag him in here. Then she...cut herself. She cut her hand, dripped blood and...and something was fucking here. Everything slowed and I fucking saw someone with her. Then all of a sudden, shit was normal. Only then she wasn’t tired, had all this flashy energy to plow away a horde of demons.”

Someone?

“Who was this someone?” Nico asked, frowning at the glowing blue demon bird, “What did they look like?”

“I…” Griffon trailed off, eyes opening again as he met her gaze, “I wish I fucking knew.”

“What?” Nero protested, a scowl on his lips now, “I thought you fucking saw them…!”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Griffon snapped, the sound immediately hushed by V. He paused, collecting himself a moment before taking a deep breath, “I saw them, I swear I did. But...when I try to remember its face...its static. I looked right at the bastard and I...I can’t remember it at all.”

Everyone went quiet, an uncomfortable silence falling over the room. Lady sat down on the bed next to Nero, gently brushing some hair from your face and examining you with something akin to a motherly gaze. She gently took one of your hands, feeling the cold of it, feeling the softness of your skin. Nico knew what she was seeing--you were a gentle looking girl. Your outside gently mimicked the inside. Only right now, you looked like...you were sick. Suffering. What the hell had you done, and why?

V suddenly spoke, drawing everyone’s attention again and seeming to answer Nico’s thoughts.

“She used an invocation,” His voice was that low purr, but with a bitter edge. He gripped the top of his cane, eyes dark as he added, “She made a sacrifice to her Deity for some borrowed power. That is who you saw, Griffon.”

A Deity...like a god? An honest to goodness God had appeared before you?

“Holy shit,” Nero whispered, rubbing his jaw a bit, “She can do that? And that...caused this?”

V nodded, running a hand through his black hair as he let out a low murmur, “I know a little of Gods and beings,” He tilted his cane to point at one of your hands. Nico immediately lifted it, eyes widening at the sight of scar on your palm. Only now...there was a black gash, the veins of it spreading over your arm and all over your body. The skin there felt like ice, so chilled it was like touching snow. V let out a light sigh, continuing, “She healed me on borrowed time. I should have known better. Griffon, how long was she awake for?”

The bird let out a low, nervous chirping sound.

“I...I don’t know…” He mumbled, head still hanging, almost in shame, “A few hours? The sun was already down when she did the palm-cutting shit.”

“It’s four am now,” Nero said, tone low and worried, “Nico, when did you leave them?”

She rubbed her cheeks, letting out a low groan as she tried to remember.

“I don’t know. Nine? Eight or nine,” She looked down at your trembling form, clenching her fists tightly as she added, “I knew I should have made you guys come with us. This never would have happened.”

Lady let out a low hum, placing her hand on Nico’s shoulder and squeezing.

“This isn’t the time to play the blame game,” She whispered, eyes soft as they passed over the group, “What do you propose we do?”

V leaned his head on his cane, gripping the base of the silver rod so tightly Nico was sure it had to hurt. She was surprised--she didn’t take the poet for the type to care about anybody easily. Nor had he known you long, always so focused on the job to be done. He never made pleasantries, never went out of his way to converse. V always gave the vibe that he was here to do the mission, not to make friends. Nico had always been alright with that, considering she had her own work to do. But he...looked downright guilty. Upset, angry, unsettled. His Jade eyes slid to you and softened a bit, that pain in his expression seeming to tighten a bit. Nico was sure she didn’t mistake that.

“We wait,” He murmured, closing his eyes and tilting his head away, “We will wait a day, take the time to see if it passes. I am still healing my own wounds, and Nero seems to be injured as well.”

Nero let out a low sound of agreement, but his eyes were troubled.

“Are you seriously alright with this?” He asked, eyes sharp and searching as he eyed the injured goth, “Are you alright with losing that much time?”

V let out a low sigh, lifting his head again to meet Nero’s gaze with his jade orbs.

“This was my error,” He replied, tone firm and resolute, “Urizen couldn’t have collected enough blood, not yet. If Dante could survive a month, he can survive an extra day.”

Nico was impressed--She never thought she’d see V willingly set back their progress. If anything it confirmed her earlier suspicions. He had to be pretty damn fond of you to do so, to do something so unbelievable out of character. It was he who always spoke of the urgency and necessity this mission faced, the dangers of Urizen and his plans. That driven look in his eyes was now replaced by exhaustion and worry...and that guilt. Speaking of the game blame, Nico was sure pretty boy blamed himself for this whole fiasco. It was a vicious cycle--she blamed herself for not pushing the issue earlier, he blamed himself for getting hurt. Hell, Nero even looked guilty.

Lady simply looked sad, still holding one of your hands firmly between her own.

“I wish Dante was here,” She whispered, “He would know what to do. I can’t even begin to start.”

Nico let out a sharp breath, trying to hype herself up and take charge. If she was good at anything, it was at getting shit done. Everyone else was still in that state of shock, but she knew for your sake she needed to bounce back. So she pulled out a hair tie, pulling her messy brunette hair back and looking around the space. A bathroom, kitchen, couch. There was a backpack left on the floor near the bed, filled with what appeared to be all the things she had given you. Nico had always been cunning, resourceful. She took care of her mama for plenty of years when she was a teenager, and she would be damned if anything else bad would happen to you while they waited. There were three injured people in the room, four if she counted Lady's traumatic experience of being trapped in a demon for a month. She could definitely figure this out.

“Nero, find some washcloths and wet them with warm water,” She commanded, making his head snap up to stare at her, “Chop chop--I ain’t gonna repeat myself.”

Nero nodded, letting out a light huff and wobbling his way to the bathroom. She turned to look at Lady next, meeting the woman’s gaze and happy to see determination echoed there.

“Stay with her,” She said, patting your cheek once as she stood, “Make sure she’s still breathin’ and lay down with her if you have to. And you,” She turned to point at V, ready to give him a command when he met her gaze with a cold one of his own.

“I’m staying with her,” His tone was absolute, right on the edge of grating, “I will not be swayed.”

Nico paused, ready to argue with him but knowing with certainty it wouldn’t work. So instead, she shrugged, skewering him in place with a very annoyed glare and pointing a single finger at him.

“Do whatcha want,” She replied, tone promising violence, “But I was gonna tell ya to lie your skinny ass on the couch and sleep. You’re useless to us injured.”

He closed his eyes again, rolling that injured shoulder as he slowly peeled off the bandages. Nico blinked, shock filling her when all that met her eyes was a pink, jagged looking scar. Still very fresh, easy to tear open, but healed. She let out a low whistle, examining it up close with curious eyes. Despite the consequences, your abilities were...something. Something incredible, amazing even. And Nico had her suspicions. Everything you had said seemed to purposely downplay yourself, make you seem just as useful as you wanted to be. But this...this was more than some latent ability. From the size of the wound and the remaining bruising, it could have easily killed the poet. Blood told a story on the bed sheets and bandages, one that confirmed V had been hurt pretty badly. In less than a day you had fixed it. And that...was something.

Something Nico would have to talk to you about.

Regardless, she backed off from the poet and left him to mope. Nero came out from the bathroom with a concerned expression and met her gaze, jerking his chin in a gesture to follow. Nico hopped down the stairs, quickly making her away to the half opened door.

Nero turned to let her through, pointing with that metal hand at the tub. Nico blinked, seeing the strange blue liquid all over the porcelain and dripping onto the ground. It was the strangest shit she had ever seen, like someone had yacked up a blue glow stick in gallons all over the tub.

“What the hell is this shit?” Nero commented, kneeling down with the mechanic and rubbing some of it between his human fingertips, “Never seen anything like it.”

Nico shook her head, pulling out a little vial from her pocket and gathering some of the stuff to seal it away. You would have to explain that later, that was for sure.

“It looks like she puked it up,” She observed, making a face at the traces of stomach bile in the tub as well. She tested the faucet, sighing when no water came out. That was fine, no one would be using this bathroom anyway, “This is all so fucking weird. I don’t understand this god and deity shit at all.”

“Me neither,” Nero sighed, scratching the back of his head with a perplexed expression, “But we can wait, regroup, and rest. What’s one day, right?”

Nico nodded, standing up and wiping her hands on a nearby towel. Time would tell and they had plenty of it to get some stuff done and lick wounds. Nero could heal his leg, V his pride, and Lady could recuperate a bit. As for the mechanic, she would take a short nap, then catch up on arm repairs and examine the bile a bit to see if it had any uses. Time was money after all, but she knew damn well she was just trying to cope with the worry over your well-being. Someone had to look out for you considering it seemed like you didn’t really have anyone else. And she certainly didn’t mind.

After all, fixing things was what she was good at.

(Your POV)

The pain had lasted so long that you weren’t sure which way was up anymore.

Time wasn’t really a concept when you were being punished. Pain was, the empty nothingness of the Void most certainly was. You couldn’t feel anything around you, but you could feel that god damn pain. Like flames, razors, claws and nails. You were chilled to the bone, and you could see nothing. That was the aspect that scared you the most, every time--the lack of senses. The panic curled in your gut, making you want to cry and scream at the sensation of zero spacial awareness. It was too much like death, too much like the time in the abyss. This was the true form of punishment, the reminder of what you were before the Deity found you. You found yourself clinging to the pain, using it as a life preserver in the ocean of panic and fear you were floating in.

How many hours had it been? Had a day passed? Was it almost over? You wished you knew. Counting seconds was meaningless when the pain was this bad, when you were swallowed by the Void on all sides. You simply focused on breathing, you hoped you still were. You tried to think about V, wondering if he was okay...if he was upset. Other worries made themselves known, like the idea of V moving on and leaving you behind. You wanted to think he at least cared enough to do that, but this was damaging to his task. You didn’t want to be a burden, in your mind he owed you nothing anyway. Your stupidity put you here, and you would deal with the consequences.

Or...so you told yourself.

The idea of waking up and the poet not being there made you ache even more in the darkness, in the fear. Too many times had you helped people, only to have them leave you behind. You tried so hard, you worked so hard. You just wanted to matter to someone, anyone. The ghosts of hurtful memories mingled with the physical pain. If you could clench your teeth, you would. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt like you belonged anywhere, but you knew there were times you did and the people...didn’t feel the same. You felt so comfortable with V, Griffon, and Shadow. You wanted to belong with them, you felt like you did. What if they didn’t feel that way?

Suddenly, your eyes were open.

You let out a low gasp, staring at the ceiling of the apartment above the bed. The pain was suddenly...gone. It was all gone, you were awake.

You registered a few things, lying there with heaving breaths. One, it was dark again. Two, Shadow was definitely curled against your body, a heavily relieving thing. If Shadow was here, V had to be here too. You felt your breaths calming, but the sense of shaken anxiety that came from the punishing ordeal wouldn’t leave. You still felt chilled, disconnected, slightly broken. Dissociating, more than anything else. You lifted your hand slowly to look at at it, seeing no more black veins or pale skin--the hand didn’t feel like yours. You swallowed, flexing your fingers a few times to try and shake the sensation. There was no relief.

Before you could look around more, you heard an unfamiliar, feminine gasp from another side of the room. Then a whispered, “Nico…!”

The following gasp was familiar--Nico, the mechanic. You heard a rush of feet coming toward you, then a familiar face filled your vision. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been so happy to see her, which was strange considering you were always happy to see her. She looked even more frazzled than usual, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and what looked to be oil smudged on her face. You blinked tiredly at her, feeling your eyes burning with relieved tears as she put a hand to your cheek, giving it a light pat as she looked you over. Whatever she saw made her sigh softly, a smile curling her lips into a half smile.

“Welcome back,” She said in a quiet twang, helping you gently sit up, “How do you feel, honey?”

You blinked again, looking around the room.

When had everyone gotten here? Nico was here, obviously, but so was Nero. The white-haired demon hunter was slumped at the table sleeping, surrounded by crushed cans of red bull. He was snoring lightly, jaw slack as he rested his head on his arms. You had never seen him look so peaceful before, but also pretty worn out. He had some bumps and bruises himself--and what looked to be a wrapped up thigh. He must’ve gotten hurt at some point. Your gaze traveled the length of the room, seeing an unfamiliar woman peeking out from behind Nico. She was pretty, with short dark hair and nice lips--she looked pretty worn out too. Finally, your gaze found the one you were looking for--the poet was slumped over in the chair next to you, weight resting on his cane. His eyes were closed, face less than peaceful as he rested. It looked like he fell asleep sitting up. His ebony hair was a mess, like he had ran his hands through it a few times.

You let out a slow, relieved breath, looking back at Nico. Griffon was perched on the end of the bed behind her, watching you nervously with his golden eyes.

“Y/N?” Nico asked in a concerned when you still hadn’t answered, “Are you alright?”

You reached up to rub your eyes, still feeling disconnected as you murmured, “I...don’t know. How long was I...out?” If they were here, that means they all saw the state you had been in, which wasn’t a good thing in your book. You knew it was frightening, outside of the norm for most things. Dealing with things from the Void was unsettling at best, downright terrifying at most. You regretted putting anyone through trouble of any kind, but Nico seemed worried more than anything else.

“It’s eight at night,” She replied, sitting down on the bed and looking at your face, “Your symptoms cleared up after six hours or so, then you slept off most of the day.”

You let out a slow breath, resting your face in your hands at the revelation. A whole day. A whole day had been wasted by your actions. The thought made your chest clench in pain, panic threatening to bubble over.

“Don’t worry though,” Nico huffed, giving you a pat on the head, “We were gonna wait anyway. Nero took a slash to the leg, and Lady popped out a demon yesterday.”

Lady, as the woman was called, gave you a wave with a little curl of her fingers.

“I’m sorry,” You mumbled, running your hands through your hair, “I...guess I have explaining to do.”

“Mhm,” Nico confirmed, standing up with a long stretch and groan, “But first, focus on you. Whatcha need? Anythin’?”

You paused, looking at your hands as you let them rest in your lap. You didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, and the pain was mostly gone. Just a dull ache remained, and that disconnected feeling. You found yourself unable to keep up the happy energy you had before, feeling like you had clawed your way out of the Void all over again. Just like with your nightmares from the previous night, you felt shaken and on edge. Hands numb, on the verge of panic. As if sensing this, Shadow plopped their head on you, staring up with worried red eyes. Only this time the feeling of their fur wasn’t enough to shake the sensation hours of what equated to glorified torture caused.

Griffon spoke up before you did, tone low and uncharacteristic of him.

“She needs a shower,” He commented, ruffling out his feathers, “Girlie has been mentioning it since yesterday.”

You blinked, about to open your mouth to tell him that the shower in the apartment didn’t work. But Nico beat you to it.

“I’ve got a shower in the van,” She said with a little grunt, seeming to like that she now had a jumping off point, “Come on, sugar. I’ll get it set up for you.”

Your heart sped up at her words, body already pulling itself up the instant she said she had a shower. You hadn’t noticed it in the mobile home before, but it made sense. How come you never thought of asking? Numbly, you took Nico’s hand, letting her pull you out to the garage as Lady took up the rear. You spared a look at V’s sleeping form as you walked past--you wished someone would put him on the bed or couch, slouching like that was terrible for his back. He looked like hell, and you blamed yourself for that. Griffon seemed determined to follow after you, and so did Shadow. But Nico gave them a firm look of “no” as she pulled you through the door, closing it in their faces with Griffon letting out an indignant squawk. Luckily not loud enough to wake anyone, but Nico was making it very clear this was a girls only kind of thing.

Not that Shadow had a gender, but she seemed to just want it to be you, her, and Lady.

She turned on the lights in the van and helped you in. Your legs felt shaky, but you were walking fine enough. You rubbed your eyes again, inhaling the familiar smell of her cigarettes and metal--despite you not liking the scent of cigarettes, the familiarity of them made you feel a bit better. Nico was tasking herself with pulling a towel out of a chest in the back, grabbing your hand and pulling you to what you now realized was a small shower stall. Big enough for one person to get clean.

“Don’t worry about wastin’ water,” Nico told you, giving you a little shove on your lower back, “I’ve got a place I can refill whenever I wanna. I’d say you’ve got thirty minutes of hot water so take your time.”

“Thank you.” You murmured, meeting her gaze, then Lady’s. You didn’t know much about her, but the woman looked very nice.

She gave you a smile, tugging on Nico’s arm before the girl sat down on the couch.

“We’ll give you some privacy.” She said firmly, ignoring Nico’s light huff of annoyance as she dragged the girl out. Both disappeared from sight with a firm thud of the van door. You smiled softly, appreciating Lady’s understanding of your discomfort, but half wishing you weren’t alone. Loneliness was your close companion, especially after spending all that time alone in the pain from earlier. Your fist clenched to your chest, slowly pulling off your shirt, then focusing on the bralette you had been wearing. It felt weird, being bare again. Like when in the Void. Everything else came next, finally nude as your set your clothes down and stepped into the shower.

The knobs were simple enough. Cold and hot. You stepped back a bit to test the temperature, a thrill of delight traveling through you at the feeling of hot water. You wanted it hot, almost to the point it hurt. You wanted to shake the chill from your body entirety, leaving no trace of the Void’s cold fingers. After finding the level of heat you wanted, you finally stepped under the steady spray, eyes closed and lips parted slightly. A shudder traveled through you, body feeling blessedly relieved as the water washed away the remainder of pain and discomfort. You leaned your head on the shower wall, breathing slowly in and out, hands clenched even as your muscles relaxed. You wanted the disconnect to leave, which it was, but not it was leaving you to face the hard reality.

You opened your eyes, the water luckily taking away any tears that tracked down your cheeks. You reached for a bottle of shampoo, starting to lather your long hair and count breaths as you did so. After a moment you slid down, sitting at the bottom of the shower with your knees to your chest. You needed to get it together, you couldn’t be falling apart like this when you left the stall. But the tears kept coming, eyes closed shut to hold them back. Still, you wouldn’t let yourself sob. Keep up the cycle, cleanse yourself. You did everything you needed while in there, trying not to look at the scar on your palm as you reached for conditioner. Time was passing much quicker than you had liked. You wanted to spend an eternity in there, hiding from bad things. Warm water was so comforting, healing.

But it couldn’t shake the knowledge that V would be upset with you upon waking.

When you finally turned the shower off, you closed your eyes, leaning your head on one of the walls again as droplets made their way down your form. You didn’t want to leave the stall. But you were going to get cold if you kept waiting in there. In a way, showering did make you feel better, but being brought back into reality hurt just as much. You felt squeaky clean, muscled relaxed but mind still teetering on the edge. You wiped your eyes, wringing out your hair a bit as you let a few more seconds pass.

Lady’s soft voice drew you out of your musing, followed by a small knock on the shower door.

“You okay in there?” She murmured.

You let out a slow breath.

“Y...yeah…” You mumbled in reply. You half opened the stall, meeting her gaze and gently taking the towel she offered. It was warm and dry, very much welcome now that the water on your body was cooling. You started to dry off, eyes half open as you stepped out of the stall a bit. Nico was there as well, holding fresh clothes. You shrugged off the fact that you were nude, rationalizing that you were all girls and it didn’t matter. You had been naked in front of others before.

Nico and Lady were both dressed in t-shirts and shorts, and that’s what they seemed to be giving you. You gratefully accepted, pulling on fresh clothes with a relieved sigh. It felt weird to dress casually for once.

Lady took the towel from your hands, hastily rubbing it over your hair once you were finished getting dressed. You blinked, letting out a light “oof” as you leaned forward to accommodate.

“You’ll get a cold like that,” She said, smiling when you looked up at her, “Come on, let’s go out an get you something to eat, yeah?”

Nico let out a light snort, pulling a bottle out of her kitchen cabinets.

“And drink!” She said, holding up a bottle of alcohol that looked fruity, pink, and strong, “This seems like a boozy kinda’ day.”

Lady frowned, you blinking in surprise.

“Is drinking really a good idea?” Lady asked, but she eyed the bottle with a hint of eagerness.

Nico shrugged, grabbing you by the arm and tugging you back toward the apartment.

“Only one way to find out.”

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Tagged: @slightlylunatic @just-call-me-no-name @nightshadow4713 @silentwhispofhope @efiicitia

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finalfantasyxivwritings · 6 years ago

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One Night in Thanalan (2/?)

AO3 Version | Chapter Tag Here

Relationship: Samilen Jawantal (OC)/X’rhun Tia

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Samilen Jawantal, the Warrior of Light, has recently taken on the duty of learning the dying art of red magic. Between the wonderful teaching of X'rhun Tia and the passing on of his Soul Stone, Samilen has learned a lot even in a short period of time, but there's something wrong. The Soul Stone is passing on more than mere techniques and knowledge--emotions, memories, all of them intertwined as one, bringing Samilen closer and closer to the man who had entrusted him with it.

Samilen finally seeks out X'rhun for help in combating these feelings, but what will happen to the Warrior of Light when he is caught in a balancing act of not red magic, but love and lust?

Note: This is an ongoing adaptation/formatted version of an RP I have been writing with my fiance (@blood--hunter) putting together my Keeper Miqo'te WOL (@samilenjawantal) and X'rhun Tia, the red mage teacher. Let me know if you spot any formatting errors!

X'rhun does not like aetherytes. They give him a sense of vertigo and make his stomach do flips. But he had been in a rush and the rush had taken him all the way to Gridania. Samilen had given him a call, just an hour before. The poor boy. Had something happened? His voice had been tense, sad and X'rhun begins to consider if Samilen was simply unused to be relaxed, taking it easy, if only for a day. Gridania is a beautiful city, but he has not been here in years. He looks around, trying to find the grey skin and white hair that marked Samilen's presence.

All things considered, Samilen is grateful that his voice did not break in the call. What had started as a peaceful day had quickly turned cold, his hands on the handle of an axe feeling so unfamiliar as though they were not his own, as if the trees around him that he knew so well were alien to him--an activity he had once found to be his source of peace had quickly reared its head to reveal nothing but emptiness and agony.

He could barely bring himself into the Black Shroud, could hardly pull his axe into the air--only for it to come down weakly upon the trunk of a tree, his eyes welling with tears that he could scarcely understand the source of.

He couldn't just pretend that things were normal.

The silent air that was once peaceful now leaves him anxious, the lack of people around him bring forth the fear of an enemy hiding in the shadows, the loneliness that he had once found familiar is now cold and frightening. The emotions hit Samilen like a wave, worse than even when he had faced Leviathan itself, and left it hard to breathe; he felt like he was dying, scrambling for any sense of self or meaning when the whole world felt like it was crashing down around him.

So he called X'rhun. The first person that had sprung to Samilen’s mind who would help him, be there for him. X’rhun Tia.

He summoned the man with all the stability he could force into his voice, constantly holding back a sob in the back of his throat in how his mind, body and spirit yearned nothing short of the man; even as he stood without the gear of a red mage on his body, Samilen could feel the stone burning against his chest, as if right next to his heart. Everything in his very soul wanted nothing more than to see the seeker, to hear his voice and feel his warmth if only to remind Samilen that he wasn't alone.

And so he sat next to the aetheryte like some sullen child waiting for their parent, his eyes still burning with the tears he'd long wiped away. His heart still hammered and his breathing felt too quick, but he had enough experience in muffling his emotions around people in his younger years that he could at least look slightly composed.

X'rhun is able to find him quickly enough but he does not like what he sees. He is disheveled as if a storm had blown him to the side. He moves to Samilen, X'rhun is on his knees before him eyes worried and hands on his shoulder.

"Samilen! Samilen look at me- what happened? Did someone hurt you?"

Had his actions in the tavern brought him to this state? Had something happened in Gridania? A death? The Seeker feels panic and worry bubble up in his chest, trying to get answers from the man. The balance he had so wanted Samilen to find was completely gone from him, in its place was this deep sadness that even X'rhun could feel. What had happened? And when?

It's almost as if Samilen feels the older seeker's presence in the aetheryte square before he finally touches down in physical manifestation. It's not a secret that teleporting takes effort and focus, drains even a man with the constitution of a mountain--and still, the moment that X'rhun is physically there, his eyes seek out and turn to Samilen almost instantaneously. The keeper thinks that he should feel some sort of comfort in that, the fact that X'rhun seeks him out as if a dear friend--are they friends, can he call them that yet?

"Nobody hurt me," Samilen says quickly, his voice too soft and his hands twitching nervously in his lap, aching for something to touch, to feel, and eventually he relents enough that one of them reaches up to start pulling through his own loose hair. "I just--I tried to do what you advised, I tried to relax and be alone and I just--I couldn't, I couldn't do it X'rhun I just-" He feels his breathing quicken, his heart hammering against his ribs.

X'rhun looks around. There were too many people here. Samilen couldn't express himself among these other adventurers so he stands him up, tugging him away from the crowd and into some deserted back alley.

As soon as he is sure they are out of sight of any prying eyes he places his hands on Samilen's shoulders, focusing on him.

"Tell me exactly what happened."

No one had hurt him, Samilen had said, and yet he stood before X’rhun hurt and confused all the same, eyes wet and face hot with an expression the elder Miqo’te could so easily see as shame and misery.

Samilen continues to tug at his hair with one, then both of his hands, combing them through soft silvery locks until they almost start to pull in what might seem painful--the pain anchors the Keeper somewhat, pain always seems to pull the thoughts down when they threaten to overwhelm him to the edge of sanity, but he hasn't been in any battles that left injury or bruises or scratches upon his body in several days and he can't keep control of his hands and just--

"I tried doing what I used to do," he whispers, fearing that his voice is too soft for X'rhun to understand. "Before the Scions I was just--I was a botanist and carpenter. I....kept to myself. Alone. I tried doing that again and I..."

He tugs harder at his hair, unsure if it's the pain of yanking at it or the refresh of emotions that sift through his heart that brings the tears welling in his vision.

"I can't be alone again. It's--it's not the same. Nothing is the same--it's all wrong."

X’rhun’s voice is gentle as he murmurs to him, "It's alright Samilen. I'm here now. You don't have to be alone." He murmurs, taking his hands into his if only so he would stop hurting himself. "You do not want to be alone? Then you won't. I will stay here as long as I am able." He squeezes his hands gently, "I will help you find balance. Find peace within yourself. And then you can learn more and make your own oaths to keep. But you must first make an oath to yourself."

Samilen grips the older man's hands hard, as if trying to will out all the pain simmering in his chest through the pressure alone. Tears continue to well in his vision until they begin to fall, rolling down his cheeks and without a free hand to wipe them away--Samilen feared to remove his hands from X'rhuns at that point, they were shaking, fidgeting, beyond what he was used to when stress got the better of him and he fell back into mute handspeak.

"There's no peace in me," The keeper whispers, voice tense and distraught, as if he is just now realizing the fact. "There hasn't been any for years, not since-" His words choke up as the memories flood him--the Calamity, the suffering, the pain and loss of so many he held dear. The anxiety of being called a warrior, the warrior of light, forced into a role when all he wanted to do was curl up in the woods and die so the nightmares would stop. "-I think I'm broken."

"You are not broken," X’rhun says, worrying over the man and pulling him forwards, if only slightly. "You are not broken, I promise that to you. You are simply hurt. You are hurting and you have been for a long time--all you need is to heal."

X’rhun can feel the worry tugging at his mind. What could he do for Samilen? What could be done? He fixes the other man with a stalwart gaze. "I'll help you. This I swear. This is my oath."

Samilen takes the words to heart as best he can in his state, hands shaking in X'rhun's grip. It's hard to think and harder still to speak, so he offers but a nod in reply--there's little trust that the words wouldn't fail him in the moment, as emotions continue to rise and twist in the center of his stomach.

He stays like that for several moments, his eyes looking down and cheeks still wet with tears, trying to come up with words that encapsulate what he's feeling: he just doesn't want to let X'rhun go.

In the end, words don't come. Instead it's action, a spur of the moment impulsiveness that makes Samilen tear his hands from the others grip and throw himself forward, wrapping his arms instead around the seeker's neck and pressing his face into the others chest.

"I'm sorry," the muffled words sound heavy with guilt. "I need you."

X'rhun feels his heart twist in kind. Had he known... Had he known that Samilen was in so much pain we would have never sent him off alone. He was his mentor, and he had left his student to suffer on his own. Never again.

"There is no guilt in this," He says, petting down his back before wrapping him in his own hug, "There is only the understanding that we must heal these wounds. No matter how deep."

X'rhun had wounds of his own, wounds that he would like healed. But Samilen's were not the kind that could be fixed with retribution for those lost. No. It could only be fixed gently. Slowly. And that's what he would do.

For someone who knows next-to-nothing about the ills that plague Samilen's mind, X'rhun is kind and warm in ways the keeper never expected to feel from someone, much less someone he scarcely knows for longer than a few moons. It's...a nice feeling, to rely on someone else instead of being the one relied upon constantly. There's a kinship in it, in feeling the older miqo'te's hands on Samilen's back, arms tight and comforting in the way only physical pressure can offer.

"I don't want to be alone anymore," Samilen says, speaking as much to the present moment as to his life in general regard--the one thing he thought he loved most, solitude, is but his abusive lover. "I can't be alone anymore. It....scares me." He knows no other words to describe the feelings that clutch his heart, and he hopes desperately that X'rhun understands. "Stay...with me? Or I'll go back to Thanalan with you--we can start training again, anything but this, I'm so sorry."

The seeker blinks down at Samilen, drawing away from him enough to stare down at the other man. "We will go where you wish. For now, we needn't worry, we must simply take care of your most basic needs, such as food and a bath?" He asks, giving him a small smile. "Not to say that you smell, but I believe that one would help clear your senses. And am I correct in guessing that you have not eaten as you should?" If he was hungry and dehydrated then that was probably affecting his current mood, exacerbating already-problematic levels of stress.

For a moment Samilen merely stared at the other man, words leaving him as he figured if it was more appropriate to shake or nod his head. When he seemed to come up with no proper answer, the younger man merely huffed and pressed his face back into X'rhun's chest, thoughts finally settling into something that vaguely feels like calm--calmer than before, at least. Calm enough to realize that he should feel embarrassed and ashamed, but not calm enough that it stops him from enjoying the warmth of another body.

"Hungry," Samilen mutters into the softness of the seeker's red jacket. "And thirsty."

X'rhun nods, combing a hand through his hair. "We'll get you to the inn." He says, "I'll get you food. You'll eat. You'll bathe. Then you'll rest." He murmurs. He wraps an arm around his waist, beginning to slowly lead Samilen towards the inn. He would buy a room and stay with him tonight.

Gods, if he'd have known. He would never have sent him here. Alone. Trapped. Gods damn him for not thinking beyond surface lust and his own problems, when Samilen had more than his own share and still did his best to learn red magic ontop of it.

There's neither argument nor resistance from Samilen as he merely allows X'rhun to guide him forward, one step after another. The of them gather only a handful of stares, though it could have been more due to the seeker's bright attire than anything else--and luckily, there was nobody that Samilen was at all familiar with, just anonymous faces and eyes of people he'd never see again.

He didn't say anything at all until they entered the adventurer's guild, X'rhun gently in-step with Samilen as the two made their way to the inn counter. The younger man kept his eyes down through the ensuing conversation, if only so he could focus instead on the warmth of X'rhun's body and the pressure of his arm wrapped tight around his waist.

The inn room is a simple procurement and X'rhun is quick to escort the both of them to it. It is better than some of the back alley beds he has laid himself in. He helps the younger miqo'te into the bed, wrapping him with blankets. Food is also quick to arrive, served by a staff member who barely gets a word out before he is shutting the door in her face. It’s not that the seeker means to be rude, but more that his thoughts are almost obsessively upon the well-being of the other man in the room with him.

Samilen.

Piled on the plate is a hearty meal for even a Roe, and with it a stout glass of sweet juice that he hopes the younger Miqo’te will like. X’rhun moves to him, sitting the goods down beside him before he himself takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

"How long has it been since you took a meal?"

Distantly, Samilen is aware of the fact that he hadn't been treated like this in a long time--though he could recall being tucked into bed by his mothers and father, those memories were many years old and hazy within the keeper's mind. The warmth of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders is a comfort, one that he selfishly enjoys while X'rhun steps around the room doing things that Samilen should have been capable of doing himself.

Should have, but yet he isn’t.

"I don't know," the man finally answers, honest as he thinks back to the last time he had eaten a full meal and not merely subsisted on what he could hold in one hand and eat. "A few days? I've eaten rations since, it's just been...." he pauses and takes a breath, the smell of a warm, fresh-cooked meal lingering on his nose. "...busy."

He eyes the plate with some manner of interest, debating if it was worth it to leave the comfort of the blanket even if it meant to eat--it was comfortable and plush, a stark difference from the thin layers of cloth he typically was used to having with him in missions outside the city.

X'rhun's brow creases in worry but he nods. That wasn't good. But at least Samilen still had some interest in eating, if his reaction was anything to go by. He was worried what 'busy' meant. Was busy having a mental break down? Or was busy doing more work for the Scions? He didn't know for sure and that was probably a bad sign. X'rhun takes up the plate, sitting it on his own lap as he picks up the fork, shoving it into a sliced popoto and bringing the still steaming root to Samilen's mouth. "Don't worry," He says, voice gentle, "I'll help you eat."

Samilen lets out a sigh as he pulls the blanket tighter around himself. He's several seconds from relinquishing the warmth in favor of filling his stomach, but X'rhun seems to beat him to it--there's a piece of popoto hovering a few ilms from his lips and, for a moment, Samilen's golden eyes flick from the food to the face of the man holding it for him.

He's not quite sure how to feel about it. Though Samilen certainly feels no disgust or anger welling in his stomach at the notion of being so intimately cared for--like a child--a blooming of heat still rolls across his cheeks. He silently looks on at the food for a few moments longer before, slowly, he parts his lips and takes the food into his mouth, chewing slowly and savoring the warmth against his tongue.

Watching Samilen eat eases nerves more than X'rhun would like to admit. Samilen is at least still able to eat and enjoy food. He had not refused it. So the seeker picks up another morsel with the fork, offering it to him as soon as he's swallowed down the last bite.

Slowly his chest is unbinding from the worry. Good food, a bath, and some rest would do Samilen well, and then perhaps they could speak about how he felt and how they could find his balance again. Having a negative mental state would not help him learn Red Magic, would not help him save the world like it seemed he was destined to do.

There's a lot of things that Samilen doesn't quite understand in the moment; most of all, he hardly understands why X'rhun seems to care as much as he does, why he's gone to such lengths to make sure that Samilen is comfortable and fed--the notion seems reserved but for best friends and lovers, parents and family, so he can't understand why the older miqo’te would take so much time from his own life to sit there and fork-feed someone who should have been more than capable of feeding himself.

Still, Samilen doesn't complain.

Though he knows that he should, though he knows he should feel ashamed, he continues to eat every bite offered to him with eyes shy and looking only at the offered food than at the other's face. He knows the feeling would just get worse if he did look anyway.

It doesn't take too long before most of the plate of food is empty and Samilen, for once in weeks, feeling pleasantly full. It had grown to be a treat in recent weeks to have the time, money and attention needed to enjoy an actual meal.

"...Thank you," he says, finally unwinding the blanket around himself--now that he could think, he could also begin to feel awkward, nearly disgusted at himself, so realize that he shouldn't keep X'rhun doing things as if he needed to. "You don't have to stay here--I mean, doing this, it's....I should be able to take care of the other things myself."

"It's not a question of if you should do it, it's a question of if you need help," X'rhun says, putting a steadying hand on Samilen's shoulder. "You can ask for help."

He can feel the concern starting to bristle again within his chest. The other man was going to work himself to the bone if he didn't take a break. No. X'rhun would not let that happen. He would take care of Samilen until he could care for himself once more and then they could work together to make Eorzea a better place once more.

"I'm a grown man," Samilen says, though he hates how his voice breaks as he says it, as if the universe itself has conspired to shame him for some ill he's committed. "I should be ashamed of needing help for basic stuff like this, you shouldn't have to feel obligated to help me."

His body shakes for a moment, though it's the pressure of X'rhun's hand that quells anything worse, thoughts and emotions muted somehow in the other man's presence. Distantly, he can feel the warmth of something familiar against his brain--something small and crystalline, something that burns through the pouch around his hips even though he's not currently using it.

Despite himself, Samilen feels a bond between he and X'rhun, a pulsing sense of closeness that has found a way to wind around his soul, unyielding--he's not even wearing the soulgem and yet it's presence, it's influence is there, forming words that he otherwise couldn't say.

"I...I've....never had anyone to help me. I don't know how to ask."

"I don't feel an obligation, I want to help, Samilen." X'rhun murmurs, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "I will do anything to make you feel better. All you simply need to do is say the word." Though he knew it wouldn't be as simple as that. Samilen didn't know how to ask and thus he didn't know what he needed. X'rhun would have to make the choice for him, if only for now. "But at the moment I believe you should bathe and then rest, it might do you some good."

He makes a gentle motion towards the door that led to the bath that was just off the suite they currently resided in.

Samilen huffed, more out of lingering embarrassment than any actual sort of distress or annoyance. For all that he sputtered about in his own self-pity, the keeper was more than aware that there was no option other than to simply listen to X'rhun's advice, if only so that he could face the next morning with some amount of his personal dignity still intact and, perhaps, the hope that the older seeker could look at him the same way.

For all of the gentleness in his words, Samilen knew that there had to be some measure of doubt or aggravation, for what kind of man would have to rely so assuredly upon another, much less a man who had known him for just a handful of moons?

There's no reason for X'rhun to feel the need to help as he does, but Samilen is aware enough that he is grateful for it all the same--the only blessing he can recognize in his hazy self-loathing.

"I won't be long then," he says at last, dropping the blanket on the bed and, after a moment, steps over to the bathroom with the full intention of at least being able to wash himself without aid--he was not that far gone into a spiral of emotional turmoil, at least.

X'rhun nods, watching him leave before he lets out a long sigh. He takes off his hat, placing it on the best as he rubs a hand down his face. He shouldn't be doing this, no, but he was. Samilen was becoming attached and X'rhun didn't know what that meant. Was it the Soul Stone? Was Samilen doing this of his own volition or was it because the stone had told him to? He didn't know. All he knew was that he wanted to help the other miqo'te. He wanted to help him get better and then teach him the magic that he so wanted to learn. To have some sort of lineage after his inevitable demise.

He is drawn out of his thoughts as suddenly as they come. The link pearl on the nightstand chirps. An incoming message. When had Samilen even taken it off? X'rhun hesitates, only picking it up when it chirps again. It could be important, and since Samilen was preoccupied at the moment he could at least take the message.

No sooner than X'rhun puts the device in his ear he is berated by a voice, obviously young, asking Samilen where he has been and why he hasn't answered his messages.

The miqo'te isn't even able to interrupt the young man as he goes on a long tangent about responsibility, using words so utterly smugishly needless in their length that X’rhun’s mind almost shuts off completely.

But it does make his jaw tighten, his fingers twist into the bed sheet before he finally snaps, "Listen here you little-!"

"Who in the realm IS this?" Alphinaud says, cutting off X'rhun seemingly without breath from his former tangent. He doesn't recognize the voice on the other end of the linkpearl and he knows for certain that he reached out to Samilen. He's not sure if the words or the fact that it's not the keeper is more alarming, but it suffices to ruffle his feathers regardless. "Whoever you are, this linkpearl doesn't belong to you--where is Samilen? Samilen Jawantal? The Warrior of Light? I demand to know what you've done to him."

X'rhun growls. "I would ask who you are first!" He says, standing from the bed in his anger. "Who are you to be demanding of him such things? And to give him an earful about responsibility! You sound as if you are barely five summers old! Let alone old enough to be telling the Warrior of Light what to do!" His tail fluffs in anger, looking more like a feather duster now. His ears press flat against his head and he growls low in his chest. "I will not be telling you where he is or what he is doing! He needs a break from you and yours and I will be supporting him as such!"

"Mind your tongue, sir, for you are speaking with Alphinaud Leveilleur, a respected ally and sponsor of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn-" the young elezen can feel fire burning at the back of his tongue as he speaks, mind already a whirl for whatever reason that this man picked up Samilen's linkpearl--it only strengthened the wonder and worry he already held for the man, if only to know what things he's gotten up to in the days he's not been at the Rising Stones. "-and I will speak to Samilen Jawantal. It is imperative that he return to the Rising Stones with haste, and while I shan't reveal privy information to one I can only assume is but a hired guard of some sort, his task is important to the protection of Eorzea and her people."

Alphinaud. The name was familiar and it makes his stomach lurch as he is reminded of Alisaie. She had a brother of the same age as her, he remembered as much. So this was the Alphinaud she'd spoken of.

"Well, young sir," X'rhun says, drawing unnecessarily up to his full height. "If you must know. Samilen is taking a break. From all things. You included. As his teacher I have prescribed him to find his balance and, dare I say it, you are very much an unnecessary part of his life right now. Until he is in a better condition he is under orders not to speak to you."

Of course it wasn't true. X'rhun had not ordered him to do anything, but he very much disagreed with this boy bossing him about. If Samilen chose to speak with him then X'rhun would surely let him--but not until then and only then.

"Under order not to speak to-" the young voice starts, sounding incredulous and, if anything, with a loss for words at such a response. Alphinaud sputters for a few moments as he tries to catch himself, jumping from one thought to the next that only seems to leave him even more flustered than before. After at least three separate thoughts that all seem to go nowhere, he finally finds himself. "I don't know who you are, but if I hear naught from Samilen soon then the Scions will be sending someone to look for him. I have no idea what sorts of people he's grouped himself with, but it should not come before the needs of Eorzea."

And that makes the seeker see red.

"His needs may not come before the needs of Eorzea, no, but they do come before yours." With that he takes the pearl off, very nearly throwing it against the wall, pauses in the motion in the final moment to sigh and place it in the bedstand's drawer.

X'rhun knew he should warn Samilen, tell him that a small child would be banging on his door any moment now. If he knew anything about Alisaie, it was that she could be stubborn. If Alphinaud took after his sister by even an onz then he would be much the same.

The man approaches the bathroom, gloved fingers tapping against the wood. When he gets no reply he frowns, pushing the door open slowly. He did not want to peek on the man, no, but he was afraid that Samilen might do something to himself in his current mental state.

Samilen shuffles into the washroom and sheds his clothes slowly, one layer after another as if they are heavy lead weights. Though he makes little effort to fold them, the keeper knows that he will need to wear them after washing off, so instead he simply tucks them into the corner of the room in a vaguely organized pile on the floor. It's better than nothing at least, leaving Samilen to glance over the tub with a curiosity--it has rather intricate piping, giving the option of a bath or a standing shower, which is more than he could say about some inns farther out from the main cities.

Opting to stand in a spray of hot water, the man begins to turn over the faucets, enjoying slightly the white-noise of water as it begins to splash down into the tub.

He steps into the warm spray of water with a sigh. He can't remember the last time he got to take a shower, much less a warm one, so he counts the blessings in that X'rhun had the mind to take him to stay at the inn, and into a room well-equipped with luxuries he would never spend the extra gil on if it was his own decision alone.

After allowing himself to settle in the hot shower of water, Samilen brings his hands up to wipe at his face, if only to wash away the tears that had long-dried over his cheeks, to soothe the ache of his eyes. Even as his mind tries to empty itself it feels heavy with vision and memory, of the seeker's warm hands and gentle voice, of how he so earnestly offered his attentions to as simple an action as feeding Samilen but a few minutes prior. Samilen thinks on how it felt to be cared for in even the smallest of ways, with actions he should have been able to do himself.

He feels a gentle twist to his belly, a reaction he's long grown used to at the thought of X'rhun, and curses the soul crystal that sits in the pouch among his gear--he hardly knows if the gem is to blame anymore for how such thoughts of the older miqo'te plague Samilen's mind, but it's a convenient object to direct his annoyance at all the same. Ever since that evening at the Coffer and Coffin Samilen has found something different in his bond to X'rhun, something deep and unexplainable--his thoughts to the man are fonder than they should be, edging on something perverse and inappropriate. He was a trainer, a man beyond Samilen's reach and many years older--it is cause enough for shame that he had to come rescue Samilen from his own emotions like a frightened child.

So why does his stomach twist and his heart leap at the mere thought of X'rhun?

The ache only grows harder to ignore as Samilen stands beneath the spray of water, feeling it roll down his skin. An ache for something he's yet able to describe, something distant and fuzzy around the edges--like a memory long forgotten. He wraps his arms around himself as he breathes, letting the motion itself comfort him, the simple act of breathing in a slow, even form. Though it calms his thoughts, Samilen is surprised that it does nothing to soothe the ache in his belly. Every thought of X'rhun only seems to make it worse, make him yearn for the older seeker as if a parched man may want for water.

It's not until he realizes that the ache is much lower than his stomach that it becomes clear what the feeling is that evades Samilen so. Golden eyes glance down to find himself hard, cock throbbing, wanting for an experienced hand, a calloused hand from years of swordplay. It doesn't take a genius to realize whose touch Samilen longs for, and so he merely groans, rubbing his hands over his face as he realizes but the ache he feels in his chest.

Whether it be the fault of the soul crystal or not, Samilen can't ignore any longer the genuine lust and longing he feels for X'rhun.

So when X'rhun opens the door of the washroom, it's to find Samilen leaning forward with one hand on the wall in front of him and the other pulling feverishly over his cock. Wet, silvery-white hair sticks to his neck and shoulders and flushed face, his jaw dropped and lips parted to let out one soft moan after another. The water has lost most of its heat by this point, gone lukewarm at best, but Samilen can barely conjure up a single thought as he tries to find completion.

"X'rhun..." the keeper murmurs, voice taught and breaking with the name, as if the very sound itself is cause for his aroused distress. "Please...please....f-...uck..."

All he can think of is the touch of the other man. The assuredness of each caress, the power in every grip, everything between the way he once had his arm around Samilen's waist to the tight grip of his hand around the young miqo'te's throbbing dick just outside the Coffer and Coffin. He's stopped trying to understand the emotions that fill his mind, stopped trying to lay logic over them--right now, all his body wants is release, attention, the beautiful chaos of climax--though his own hand pales in comparison to what he craves more.

Sky-blue eyes widen at first. X'rhun hadn't been prepared for such a .. lecherous display. He had only meant to warn him of the boy on the link pearl, but it seems that Samilen had taken his physical needs into his own hands.

Gods. There’s no denying the sudden twist of arousal in the seeker’s stomach as he watches Samilen stroke himself over with the shape of his name on soft lips.

X'rhun presses forwards, first shedding his coat and then his boots. His shirt is next, then his pants. The gloves are last and they fall to the floor in line with his other clothes. His fingers are quick to over take Samilen's pumping them in a slower rhythm now. He feels dirty, walking in and taking over like this, but his cock has already sprung to life at Samilen's sweet words.

Samilen himself is near sobbing, hand tight around his cock but bringing him little to no relief; if anything, the attempt only makes it worse, the fire coiling around his belly like a vice grip that seems to show no mercy. He's about to let out a thick sob of aggravation when he suddenly feels the pressure and warmth of another body up against him and--

"X'rhun!?" the younger man all but gasps, feeling the seeker replace his grip and stroke him in earnest. The surprise leaves him reeling, gasping as shock and pleasure seem to coil around one another in compliments. "I thought--ahhh--I'm sor--rry."

Samilen's eyes shut tight and he brings a hand to his lips, biting down on his knuckle with the hopes only to muffle out all the sounds, the foolish apology and the foolish words that might otherwise tumble from his lips.

"No apologies," X'rhun says, allowing his hand to pump Samilen. "You needed this? You said you didn't know how to ask, now I am giving. Is this alright?" He would stop, walk away, if it wasn't. But he had an idea that it was welcome. "We'll start with this for now. If it continues we'll move to something more ... intimate." That was a better way of putting it than saying he would fuck Samilen raw in the shower. He would fuck him up against the wall, hot and his breath on his neck. "This is not a burden, simply something we can do together. A project to work on." Maybe that would help to settle Samilen's mind. Something to work on. Yes.

Or maybe it was to settle his own mind more.

Samilen nodded his head fervently but wordlessly, fairly certain the answer was to one specific question but deciding that it applied well to the rest of the man's words. He could hear them, could feel the other's breath against the back of his neck, but it was hard to understand most of it when X'rhun's calloused fingers were wrapped so perfectly around his dick, pumping hard and fast and leaving stars flickering behind Samilen's eyes.

"Very alright," the man finally had sense to say, his hips pressing back and finding a welcome, hard shape jutting against his ass; it only seemed to make the fire burn hotter in his belly, if only to know that the action wasn't one-sided . "So very alright."

He keened as X'rhun's fingers found a pace that pushed him closer, so close to the edge that he felt almost feverish, but Samilen felt nothing short of wondrous and hot and perfect in being under the mercy of the other's hand, the control of his pleasure left to the yearning of someone he yearned so lewdly for.

X'rhun purrs, nipping at the shell of Samilen's ear. He continues his breakneck pace, feeling the urge to kiss or bit at Samilen's neck but that would be too... familiar and he wasn't exactly sure how the other miqo'te felt about this yet. This ... relationship? Between them. All he knows is that when he grinds his cock against the other man's ass it causes him to groan, letting out a swear as he tries to gather himself, for Samilen's sake.

"Do you want more of this, baby?" He manages to murmur, hiding his face against Samilen's shoulder, "Do you want me to fuck you more?"

"Fuck," is all Samilen has to say at first, his mind practically reeling at the petname as it lingers in the hot, humid air. It's the second time he's heard it and the second time still his body reacts like lightning, cock throbbing so hard that he wants to sob and can almost feel tears of delicious frustration gathering in the corners of his eyes. It's all X'rhun's fault, all the crystal's fault--all his own fault--but it's delicious and wonderful and Samilen doesn't want it to stop for even a moment, turning his head so he can even catch a glimpse of the man behind him, his sopping-wet tail trying uselessly to twist and wrap around the other's waist as if to tug him closer.

"Please," he finally whines. "Fuck me more fuck me more--I want to cum with your cock inside me-!"

X'rhun groans at that, bucking his hips up, grinding his cock against Samilen's thigh as he nods.

"Then you will.”

Slowly he removes his hand from Samilen's cock, letting the rock hard appendage bob in the air as he teases a finger at his hole. The water would have to suffice, since they were already both so wet that lube would not properly function. Besides, he wasn't about to leave Samilen's side to go fetch it.

Samilen hisses for only a moment at the relinquishing of pressure from around his cock. Though his ass presses back into the delicious, teasing pleasure of X'rhun's fingertip wetly pressing against his entrance, Samilen wants for more. His tail lashes again, loosened from it's grip and now wiggling uselessly around the other's arm.

When it's obvious that X'rhun has no immediate intention of returning his hand back to the keeper's throbbing dick, Samilen decides to take matters literally in his own hands, if only to sate the biting heat in his belly, to stave off the taut need that only gets tauter the more he feels that blunt, calloused digit rubbing at his hole. He reaches his free hand down between his thighs, fingers wrapping around his cock tight enough that it almost hurts, and he is quick to resume stroking himself in earnest.

X'rhun hums, smacking Samilen's hand away from his cock, nipping at his ear.

"You will only get satisfaction from me," He didn't exactly know where this was coming from, but perhaps it was the heat of the moment making him possessive. He presses his finger in, slowly as to not hurt Samilen, curling it. His cock is hard against Samilen's back, and he works hard not to thrust himself to completion against him.

There's a feeling that fills Samilen's chest, a feeling that he can scarcely describe when he feels his hand get smacked away from his own cock though it begs desperately for attention. He is certain that if it was anyone else behind him, anyone else pressed naked against his form, Samilen would have ignored their command with little hesitation (assuming he'd even be in this sort of situation with them in the first place). But for X'rhun, Samilen merely mewled through his teeth and listened, both of his hands moving to press up against the wall in front of him, leaning forward and taking the press of the other man's finger deeper within his body.

"F-...uck..." he hisses, toes almost curling when the curl of X'rhun's finger finds something that makes his body flicker with heat and delight. "R-right th-there, ahhh y-yesssss~"

The seeker can't keep the self satisfied smile off his lips. He presses another finger into Samilen’s ass, thrusting and twisting them both in earnest against the other’s tight rim. He was a large man, and Samilen himself was quite small. X'rhun certainly didn't want to hurt the man, this was supposed to be his release from ... whatever he was feeling. He leans into him, pressing kisses against the length of his neck.

"You won't cum until I tell you to cum." He murmurs, blue eyes hooded and dark with lust.

The words flood Samilen like lava, burning him down to the very core so much that it feels almost hard to breathe for a few seconds. They spark something in his mind like a whirlwind, turning his actions into instinct and his words into reaction with no filter.

"Yes sir," he moans, almost sobs as X'rhun's curled fingers find that perfect spot within him again. "Only wh-when y-ou...tell....meee~" Calloused fingertips rub over what feels like some patch of nerves that send pleasurable lightning up Samilen's spine--his tail all but curls around the other man's arm, thrashing uselessly otherwise. Heat blooms over his face and chest as his legs spread almost upon instinct, as if his body knew to prepare itself to be taken--and it couldn't happen quickly enough for the lust coursing through the keeper's veins.

X'rhun grunts, removing his fingers slowly, trying to ignore the way his dick twitches at the sound that very movement makes. He presses close, breath catching across Samilen's neck as he position's himself at the smaller Miqo'te's entrance. "Tell me if it hurts," He warns, teasing his head against the tight hole that threatens to engulf him even now, even as a hand goes to grip firmly onto Samilen's bicep.

Samilen tries to consider words, but eventually just nods his head and hopes that the man can see his acknowledgement. He feels X'rhun's body press against him, feels the hot, thick shape of his cock nudging inside. It's a lot to take at once, but the Seeker is slow and gentle--slower than what Samilen might have tried to greedily take for himself if given half a moment of control between them.

It's good though, so good, and he has to try desperately to remember to breathe as the head of X'rhun's cock finally presses past the tight muscles of his entrance--it's enough for him to shiver and shake, claws scratching uselessly against the cold, smooth walls that supported most of his body weight.

X'rhun maintains his threads of control, no matter how frail they have become with Samilen's wanton moans. He presses in closer, letting his chest rest against Samilen's back as he, slowly but surely, sheathes himself within the smaller man. He pants, brows creasing as he shuts his eyes against the stimulation. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't move, it was a desperate attempt not to hurt Samilen and he'd rather die than commit such an act against his ... pupil? Student? What were they now?

Thoughts and emotions drip through Samilen's mind like sand through barely-cupped hands. It's no use to try and make sense of any of them--all he can do is briefly catch each little snippet as it passes by in a whirlwind of heat and pleasure, to be better and deeper-considered far later into the evening.

Instead of logic or consideration or even the caution of shame to still his hands or mute his words, Samilen moans into the thick press of X'rhun's cock. It slides inside him with only the mildest of discomfort, though slow enough that impatience starts to trickle down through the haze of pleasure. He presses his hips back, hoping with all the desperation of a pleasure-driven man if only to hurry the Seeker's pace, to fill himself fully and sheath that beautiful cock within his needy body.

"X'rhun-" Samilen's voice breaks on the syllable of the man's name. "Want--...all of you. 'm not gonna---gonna break..."

With how perfectly such a heat fills him, Samilen already feels shattered, his mind warped around need and his chest aching for the intimacy of X'rhun's hot body pressed against his own for however long the sweet high of sex will have them.

X'rhun hisses against the sweet embrace of Samilen's body. He was warmth and heat around him, against him, pressed firmly against his chest and his cock. He was smaller, warmer, and every part of him shouted to just plow into him. To blow his load deep within the boy in front of him and be done with it. It's what a Nuhn would do. He swallows against the thoughts, closing his eyes firmly against the smells and sensations, against the incessant instincts that well up deep within his chest.

He fits his hands firmly against Samilen's hips, pressing his thumbs against the divots of his hips. X'rhun presses forwards with a grunt, the pleasure shivering through his nerves like lightning. And he should really know a thing or two about lightening. A sharp tooth peeks from betwixt his teeth, biting down on his bottom lip in some sort of vain attempt to stop himself from saying anything else ridiculous.

A gasp slips from Samilen's lips, one he can't hide fast enough. His lips part, his jaw drops and his brows knight tight above his tightly-shut eyes as the sudden feeling of spreading muscles and intrusion pass over him. There's a burn in X'rhun's girth, one that though the young Keeper had prepared for, it was still far from smooth and painless.

Though it brought a shiver down his spine and a stiffening to his body, Samilen couldn't much deny it was a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain, something carnal or perhaps even primal, a flicker of heedless abandon giving him the gift of not having to think at all about what he wants or how he wants it. Shame has little place in the baser activities of a creature.

"Oh gods, yessss!" Samilen all but hisses, his toes and tail curling as the man presses deeper and deeper still, pulling his hips against him in a possessive and powerful motion of command that in itself was arousing. He wants to mewl, to yowl, to hiss and spit--whether it's instincts going haywire in a response to pleasure or to some pheromone Samilen is yet to recognize, he can hardly know. All that his body knows is that he's being taken, being fucked, being split open on a cock so thick that there's no second-guess that X'rhun could have taken place as a Nuhn if he had decided to stay in his tribe.

X'rhun lets his nose slip against Samilen's hair, taking in his scent like that of a Nuhn in rut. He had to admit that the noises Samilen let loose between his lips were more than inviting. Some part of him wants to imagine a future with the other male. To call him mate. To keep him. But he knows that part is selfish. Too selfish. Too horny to even take the thoughts seriously, and yet...

"Do you like this," He murmurs into his ear, eyes closed as he begins to move in earnest now. The rotation of his hips are slow but they promise more, the night was still young and as long as Samilen still mewled and moaned beneath him he wouldn't stop. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how it feels." He presses his fingers harder against Samilen's hips, promising bruises. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

The entirety of a moment felt like a wave of heat over Samilen's body, threatening not just to send his thoughts swirling but to sweep them entirely out into the sea. The slow pace of the Seeker's hips felt maddening and deliberate, which only made the pleasure all the more tantalizing and raw and real. It carried with it the air of their time under the eaves of the bar in Thanalan--the heat and yearning and desperation--but this was more intimate and slow and tender. This was so much and, at first, Samilen merely mewled in unfiltered pleasure when X'rhun's cockhead rubbed perfectly up against the inside of his body, brushing over sensitive nerves.

"It feels so good--you're so fucking b-big--" Samilen breathes, his chest barely able to get in enough air to speak before his hammering heart needs more. "I want-....I...want...."

He takes in a breath, gulps it down like it's water and he's been without for weeks. Thoughts are useless, shame is useless--the young Keeper can barely register anything beyond the pleasure and heat and air thick with steam and pheromones of lust.

"Marks," he finally says, a desperate whisper. "Mark me up. Make me yours. Please. I--I want to feel it all in the morning. Want to ache and remember---remember this."

He lets out a breath through his nose. A part of X'rhun basks in the attention. He wants marks. He wants a mate. He wants X'rhun as his Nuhn and he would gladly give it to him. Instead he presses it back, stomps it down. He doesn't know what Samilen wants, not exactly, but he knows what he can give him.

To take right now ... it would be against his very teachings. Samilen isn't balanced enough to give, isn't balanced enough for X'rhun to ask something of him. A growl sounds from him as he presses forward, giving the Keeper a particularly hard thrust as he fights with himself. Not too much, but not too little either.

"I'll give you anything you want." He finally says, nipping at Samilens ear before his hands are moving down, pressing over his thighs and leaving scratches over the soft, sensitive skin. "Anything." He whispers, practically engulfing Samilen as he works himself into him.

Guilty. Selfish. Daring the young keeper to say the words.

Anything, he says, and the word echoes through Samilen's head. It's a whisper, a promise, and it's all the younger of the two men can do to clutch it against his chest and try to surmise an answer more than what he already forced from his moan-wrecked throat. It's confusing for a moment, unsure why X'rhun would have Samilen repeat himself, or--or was he saying it to himself? Was he babbling, lost in pleasure and barely knowing what he's saying? Though the questions slip into Samilen's thoughts, they too are quickly swept away by the rapturous pleasure eeking through his body, swallowing him up deeper with every slow but powerful thrust of the other man's hips. Every press of his cock, every reminder of how deep he's able to go that it makes Samilen gasp each time.

"Bite me," Samilen finally hisses, head tilting to the side in open invitation of his neck, where his aching body is naturally wanting to be claimed, to feel the sink of teeth of a dominant lover into his flesh. "I want it--want all of it--just give it to me, Rhun."

X'ruhn's jaw sets. There was a mewling, sex-wrecked man beneath him. His ever instinct was to claim to pump Samilen full of his seed and make him his. To bite down on his neck and make sure that every Nuhn that ever met him knew that he had been fucked and filled by another. That he was his and here he was begging for it. Did Samilen even know that that meant? To Seekers? To Nuhns? He tries to shake it off. No. He didn't understand and he didn't know what that meant. But he finds himself leaning, kissing and licking at his pulse, breathing in his scent even as his hips continue to work, continue to fuck the man beneath him.

This would be taking. It would be taking too much. Samilen didn't have this much to give.

"Samilen..." He murmurs, eyes glassy, cock deep within him.

Hesitation. Unsure. Caution. This Samilen could sense, could feel and taste it on the vapor-filled air. It wasn't for fear or genuine unwillingness, no--though addled with pleasure and seeking the euphoria that his body craved, the Keeper was still a man with senses enough to feel how X'rhun stiffened, how his voice was tense, how his breathing was strained and labored even with the slow and careful motions of his hips.

The water of the shower was starting to run cool, water dripping down hot flesh like a fresh rain, offering but the slightest shake of lustful haze from the younger man's thoughts so that he could speak with some confidence in his voice.

He had to weigh his words carefully--not in that he was afraid of indulging and having and wanting, but to make sure the message was clear, that he didn't addle X'rhun with the guilt of making a decision he assumed Samilen wouldn't want.

But he wants. He yearns. The feelings have been burning in Samilen's belly and chest since the moment he took the soulstone in hand--perhaps they had even been within him since he had first met X'rhun himself, made only unbearable by the intimate memories that drove such genuine but shameful feelings to the forefront of the Keepers mind.

"Make me yours," Samilen finally says, his tone biting and his body almost shaking with pleasure, muscles tight around the other's throbbing, wondrous, perfect cock. "If you want me, take me--make me yours." Shame was nowhere to be found in his mind in that moment, shaken clean by lust and want and pheromones enough to be drunk on. "Be my Nuhn."

X'rhun liked to think he'd journeyed and done much. He'd been wizened by years on the road and, before that, years in the resistance. He'd thought he'd seen everything. Evil kings, rebellions, the massacre of his friends, the rise of the Garlean Empire. But he had never done this. Never been brave enough, or stupid enough, to claim his most trusted of lovers. Even when they had begged him for it, he had not done it. He'd made it sound like a selfless choice, to not bind his lovers to a man who would, inevitably, wander too far. But even then he had known, as he does now in this moment, that it had been selfish. X'rhun hadn't been ready. He'd never been ready for it. He knew what the responsibilities would be and it had all seemed too much at the time. But now...

Now he had a mewling and withering warrior of light beneath him. None before him had known, had understood what his pain had been like. Samilen had slayed primals. Had slayed gods. All in the name of a greater good. And in doing so had lost much. Perhaps too much. Too much of himself. Too many friends. Finally someone could understand the pain and the triumph he had went through and maybe ... maybe someone finally understood Samilen.

It's almost beautiful, the way he presses himself against Samilen, the way he seats himself deep inside his lover, his mate. And the way that he opens his mouth wide against his pulse, breathing a hot breath there before he allows himself to bite down, to draw blood as he cums deep inside the younger man, groaning as his vision goes white and his world goes still. The cold water on his back doesn't matter. His code, the one he had lived by for so long, doesn't matter. All that matters is Samilen and only Samilen.

His mate.

His.

The world practically snaps, like a bowstring pulled too-taught by inexperienced hands over the ends of a bow. Pleasure and pain mix together into pure euphoria, an amalgamation of sensations that not only bring Samilen to the edge of climax, it outright shoves him off the cliff. The feeling is rough and hard and intense despite the slow lovemaking, the careful press of a cock inside his pliant, willing body, ridges constantly catching at the rim of Samilen's entrance and then--suddenly--it's all so much. Not too much, never too much, because Samilen knows that he could drink down this sensation for the rest of his life if he had the choice.

The pain of teeth sinking into the flesh of his neck is wondrous, dazzling behind his eyes and sending tremors of pleasure down to the tips of his fingers and toes. When X'rhun presses against him one last time, seating his cock to the base with hips flush against the Keeper's ass, Samilen can't help but let out a mewl. The intensity of feeling someone release inside of him, the heat of cum dripping down the inside of his thighs, of making him feel marked and used and protected in the most carnal ways--it's soothing, it's satisfying. He feels the way thumbs dig into his hips, knows that there will be marks across his skin and a heat within his belly for days to come--and Samilen smiles for it. He feels heat fill his cheeks and his lips quirk when another moan works its way from his throat, high and keening, a sound as welcoming as his body as orgasm milks the man's cock for all it offers, as if to coax out every little drop of his hot seed.

With every breath is X'rhun's name, a mantra on Samilen's lips.

X'rhun shudders, once, twice. He keeps his teeth sunken deep into his mate's skin. It will scar, like it is meant to, and those who know what it means will understand. Only after the blood begins to seep down his chin does he pull away. He chest heaves with each breath and he can feel his eyes slowly contract into small pinpricks of what they once were. His dick is still firmly planted in Samilen and he can feel it as his body wrings every last drop out of him. It's not unpleasant and he leans back into the, now cold, water as it rains down on both of them his hips spasming in a vague attempt at a thrust.

He swallows, coming back to himself. A conversation would need to be had. How much of this had Samilen truly wanted? And how much of this had been hazy lust?

The red mage tries to recall what his father taught him, going through his memories like an encyclopedia, or a manual. It was a hard bond to break, but it could be broken. Mating marks were the best way to ensure a proper mating, but it could be achieved in other ways. Usually cubs were spawned from marking but X'rhun highly doubted that such a thing would happen with this case ... He frowns, he knew a lot less about this than he wanted to and here Samilen was bearing his mark and his seed.

He slides a hand under the other man's chest, bringing him up to stand before pulling himself from him slowly. In one fluid movement the shower is off and in the next, Samilen is bridal style in his arms.

Samilen himself couldn't help but purr in satisfied delight as calloused fingertips brush against his almost too-sensitive skin, the rumble coming from deep within his chest. He felt so full, could feel the blossoming of heat in the pit of his belly. It was as if something deeply primal within his mind had been sated. Some fierce need, some unknown desire--it finally felt calmed by the warmth, the pressure, the pleasure and oh, yes, the slight pain with every shift of Samilen's shoulders and head, a reminder of the fresh mark bitten deep into his skin. He knew that there was significance in it, and deep down he knew exactly what he had asked for--but there was a strange fear that he had pressed to hard and pushed X'rhun into something he didn't want.

Luckily the afterglow was strong enough to stifle down most of the worries, keeping Samilen calm and placid as X'rhun lifted him into his arms and Samilen, instinctively, wrapped an arm around the back of the Seeker's neck. He lets out a soft hiss, a shiver working down his spine at the jostling of his body, the reminder of future bruises and the messy drip of seed finally working it's way out of his body without a cock to keep it inside.

But he doesn't say anything. Not yet. He is hard-pressed to find the words to start the conversation now-hanging between them. Though the last time could have been chalked up to a rendezvous of hormones, this is far more serious--something that can't be alluded to or assumed, can't be hidden or swept out of the air. Samilen hoped, dreadfully, that he didn't force his mentor to do something he didn't wish for.

X'rhun carries him into the bedroom. Both of them are dripping wet but he can't find it in him to care. He lays Samilen down on the bed, making sure he is comfortable before he goes back into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, taking a deep breath before grabbing his trousers and slipping them on. Only because he wanted to save face, that's what he tells himself. Not because his cock was already stirring again. Certainly not. He puts on his shirt too, for good measure. Maybe it would make Samilen feel better. Maybe. He grabs several towels as well, moving back to the bed with them in tow. His Ma-student. His student looks pliant and soft against the downy sheets and he can't help but purr at the sight. He kneels at his beside, beginning to massage the wet out of his hair with gentle circles.

It is only after he has dried Samilen's hair that he dares to look at the mark. It is bright red against his gray skin and some deep part of him is proud. Proud that he was able to mate such a magnificent- X'rhun shakes his head. No. He shouldn't be thinking like that and yet-

He moves, his own teacher would have been proud at how agile he was, moves over Samilen's body and to the other side of the bed so that he might have easier access to it. To his marking. He approaches it like a nervous animal. Tentative. Gentle. Skittish. And then, when he believes that nothing will harm him. He begins laving over it with his tongue. The taste of blood is still there, but he can't help the purr that leaves his chest as he licks it, again and again. Goading it to heal. Breath hot on Samilen's neck.

Samilen can't remember the last time he felt...blissful. He can't remember a time where he had the freedom to simply not think about much of anything, to simply lay on the bed with his mind still swimming with pleasure and body humming with satisfaction. He can't remember but a single time where he had found himself in this position but able to owe the blood and marks and ache to something other than a hard-fought battle against a primal or an army or....or anything else. He can't remember a time where he didn't feel the weight of the world on his shoulders or the burn of the Scions' gazes upon his back--because he wasn't allowed to fail. To relax. To want something for himself. To want someone else to save the world--to take care of him for once in his time as the 'Warrior of Light'.

He's nervous when X'rhun returns, only because he returns with clothes on; it makes the keeper suddenly feel ashamed, or at least as if what they did was stupid or silly, to be forgotten as quick as their last heated exchange under the starry sky of Thanalan. He worries about that, because he cannot forget it--Samilen can't forget how happy he felt when X'rhun's hands lay on his hips, their lips together, or even the silly, stupid but beloved sensation of the man pressed against his body, orgasm passed but drinking up the mere intimacy of still being connected to one another.

So Samilen doesn't meet the other's gaze, his throat tight and his heartbeat skipping. He suddenly feels like a child, in a way, as if he's made a mistake to be chastised about once he too is in a proper state of dress.

But when X'rhun shifts, moves to the other side of the bed--when he leans down and presses his face into Samilen's neck, his tongue over the still-aching mark, he can't help but let out a noise. It's something soft, a mere whisper of a mewl, something he tries to muffle even as his body shakes and one of his hands shoot out to grab a fistful of the other man's shirt, as if making sure he couldn't pull away.

"Please," Is all Samilen can say.

X'rhun closes his eyes. His lips a thin line. His ears pressing back against his skull. He had to admit it. Admit it to himself. He'd been trying to teach Samilen, yes, but he'd also wanted ... this. He hadn't wanted to be alone anymore. He'd tried to teach Alisaie (mind you he had never thought of her romantically or sexually as she was just a child) but she had run off as soon as she'd had a firm grasp of her training. But then Samilen ... Samilen had been different. Maybe that's why he'd allowed him to have the soul stone. Maybe that's why he'd let him have the piece of himself. Maybe that was why he was letting him so close. Maybe ... Maybe...

He licks the mark one more time before he moves, moves to claim Samilen's mouth with his own, moves to press close against him. He fits his mouth against his, the click of teeth, the swirling of tongues. X'rhun sighs and it feels like he's letting out decades of stress. Of holding back. Of not allowing himself to have this. It had always been something. The revolution. The death of his comrades. Ala Mhigo's occupation. He'd always been chasing it. Always been trying to fix something but now..

Now he loses himself in the kiss, loses himself in the smell, feel, taste of Samilen Jawantal.

A shiver of delight spills down Samilen's spine as X'rhun all but climbs atop him, their lips pressed hard and tongues pressing harder against one another. Fingers grip hard into the soft fabric of the Seeker's shirt, joined by a second hand as they grasp at his chest needily, stupidly, the confusion back once more for why X'rhun thought it necessary to clothe himself in the first place. Though he may feel shame of it later, when his mind not so clogged with emotions, but Samilen was needy and desperate to keep the other man close, to feel his warmth, to enjoy the fleeting time with him for as long as he and fate would allow it--because she wasn't often kind to Samilen.

"Why did you get dressed?" The younger man finally forces himself to ask, if only to still his hands from trying to remove the offending undershirt. If there was a reason that he did so, and a reason that Samilen had to respect. "Do you--do you need to leave?"

He hates how the words spill from his lips, the whisper almost fearful against X'rhun's mouth, eyes afraid to open and meet his gaze.

X'rhun closes his eyes, only lifting up enough to stare down at Samilen's face. It was open, wild with want. X'rhun could paint a million pictures of it and still never get it right. He shivers, feels his cock stir once more. He clears his throat, eyes dancing away.

"It was to ... hold myself back. In case I take you again before your mind is yours once more." it was the truth. X'rhun wanted to speak with Samilen before they began to fuck like they were in heat. Which he was liable too, with the way that Samilen looked at him and they way his mark sat on his neck. He swallows. "I wish to ... I wish to make sure that this-" He nods to the red welt on the other man's neck, "-is what you want. What you truly want. Outside of being sex addled."

He presses a gentle hand through still damp white hair, "And ... I want you to rest. Truly rest. I do not know how long it has been since you've done so and I ..." He presses his forehead against Samilen's unable to stop the small source of affection. "...I worry for you Samilen."

The words are sobering. Samilen tenses for a moment, feeling it work into his jaw as teeth clench tight and anxiety wells in the back of his head. Though his eyes open he cannot stare into X'rhun's own for very long--perhaps just a breath of time, though the touch of X'rhun's forehead against his own offers some mild comfort. Though he knows his own feelings, the way that the other man speaks, the way he words his thoughts--Samilen is unsure if he should feel ashamed or not for feeling the way he did--the way he still does. He nods after a moment, knowing that no words that come from his lips would be seen as honest until X'rhun was satisfied with the air between them--but it still frustrated Samilen.

"You would be the first," he says at last, eyes drifting off to the side. "Or at least the first to offer more than empty words."

Samilen takes a moment to take a breath, and then finally lets it out, speaking once more before he can allow the morbid weight of his words to sink too deeply into the air.

"If you want to put space between us until you are satisfied to know I'm telling the truth, then so be it. My answer will be the same as it was when you came upon me in the bathroom."

X'rhun nods. He wants to be sure ... to know that what Samilen says is what his heart of heart wants. But even these words give him hope. Make his heart catch and beat faster. He can't hide it from himself now. If Samilen will allow it, X'rhun wants to be in love with him. Wants to keep this mating. Wants ... everything from him. He closes his eyes, tries to focus against the tightness in his chest. "I believe you." he says, letting his fingers card through the other man's hair, focusing his eyes on the movement of his own fingers. "But this ... conversation. About what we both want ... it will wait until sunrise. Until we are both well rested and ready for what that entails." He lets blue meet yellow again. "Samilen I ..." He lets out a breath through his nose, swallowing thickly. "... Have much to say about the matter."

He moves, pressing a gentle kiss to the mark on his neck, before he is pressing close to Samilen, maneuvering them both until chest meets back and an arm is slung over the other's waist. "But I will not say them. Not now." He murmurs. "Not until we are both rested."

Deep down, Samilen is comforted by the seriousness of X'rhun's tone of voice. He is comforted by the care and concern as much as he is frightened by it. It would be too easy for someone to take advantage of lust-addled emotions and euphoria-induced infatuation, especially for someone as broken as Samilen is under the weight of anything that doesn't pertain to slaying primals or saving lives--things that need no extra thought needed to understand them. For as much as he feels anxious about words to be held in the morning, he is comforted deeply by it--that X'rhun sees his emotions as something worthy of caution, emotions worthy of thought and attention and....respect.

It is more than he can say of many people even when emotions of infatuation weren't caught up in the mix. He swallows down a stone in his throat and takes in a breath, merely letting his body press back against X'rhun's own as they lay together in bed. He appreciates the weight of the Seeker's arm over his body. It makes his chest tighten and his stomach flip a little.

"Okay," The man finally says with a nod, letting out a breath. His eyes start to shut and his mind slow down at last to the yearning for sleep that overtakes him.

X'rhun relaxes at that, lets his guard down. Samilen was not going to be angry with him. Would not scorn and shun him. At least, not this night. Not right now. He lets his nose press against white hair, he lets his eyes close, and most importantly he lets himself go to sleep.

#fic #nonreaderinsert #lemon #lemon fic #samilen #samilen fic #x'rhun tia fic #x'rhun fic #one night in thanalan #samilen jawantal/x'rhun tia #writing

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tarithenurse · 6 years ago

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All is fair in Love & War - 18

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Here be pining, fluff, angsting, relief, worry, the feeling of finally understanding something really obvious, and more relief. A/N: This is getting close to the end, depending on edits of the next part, then there will only be one or two chapters more. I’m very grateful for the support and love this story has gotten. Thank you! Oh, speaking of edits...proof reading while hungover might have been a bad move on my behalf, so pardon any errors still left.

18. Among wolves

The dull headache is one thing, but Loki’s limbs area heavy and unwilling to respond as he attempts to turn around in his bed. Or maybe the covers have gotten twisted, effectively restraining him? Some…thought…or maybe a memory is starting to squirm at the back of his mind, but it will have to wait. Groaning, he blinks to clear his eyes and investigate the situation.

“Brother?” There is a distance to Thor’s voice which throws the Jotun for a spin. “Loki, remain calm…alright brother?”

Calm? I am calm. The cerebral brain remains the same, but the vision clears which seems to fuel the insistent thought that urges him to move, to hurry. Why should I not be calm? He lost something, did he not? Getting his bearings, it occurs to Loki that this is not his own bed. There are no furs or silken sheets nestled within a wooden structure, but crisp white linen and a golden frame. Over the covers stretches thick, leather bands emblazoned with runes to imbue them with magic…magic meant to hold him in place if the physical bindings should fail.

There is no reason to struggle as it would only be in vain. “Thor…what is the meaning of this?”

“I am sorry,” the brother apologizes sheepishly from the other side of a magical barrier, “we did not know what else to do.”

Seconds pass silently while the brothers study each other. Why? Wreaking his memories, Loki can only recall walking from the stables with a plan in mind. What was I plotting? When the memory hits in the shape of the elusive thought, it takes away his breath along with any coherent thoughts…and still he cannot move. I have to get to Sjöblik in time to stop [Y/N].

“You have to release me,” he forces himself to talk evenly, “I need to get to her.”

“I cannot release you.”

Snarling, Loki is close to screaming at his brother. “Then get me someone who CAN!”

The broad bindings glow angrily until the captive relents with a sigh and relaxes into the soft mattress. Gaze fixed on the ceiling, he can hear the heavy footsteps of Thor recede followed by the distant clank of a door.

…

By the time Loki hears the door again, he has counted everything there is to count, read the runes about a dozen times, and designed his vengeance down to the smallest detail. They will regret holding me back like this. It is true that he had allowed himself to be talked into staying in Utgard from fear that any rash action would cause more damage. But preventing him from executing a carefully laid plan? Unforgivable. How did Thor even know?

Several people move in his periphery, safely on the other side of the magical wall, tempting him to turn his head. Thor, the lumbering oaf, has brought their parents. In a way it makes sense because Odin would have implemented strict rules to keep the embarrassing situation from the public, but seeing Frigga standing there with worry on her face and her hands clasped so tight before her chest that the knuckles are white…I am sorry, mother.

“Loki, I am sorry you had to regain consciousness to this…we did not know what else to do.”

The strain in Odin’s voice surprises his adoptive son, but he maintains a cool detachment. “May I suggest you begin with explaining why I was unconscious in the first place?”

“Your servants and I found you like that,” Thor’s begins, “we heard a…well I truly have no words to describe it! It was like a mixture of an explosion and a thousand people screaming. It came from the courtyard and when we arrived…I admit I was not the first, but…oh, brother! Everything was covered in ice. Dark, frozen spikes and-and shockwaves centered upon you as if…as if some force had hit you with the cold of a million winters, freezing anything in a circle around you!” The breath inhaled into the Thunder god’s lungs shakes with emotion. “No one could tell me what to do, so I called upon Heimdal…to take us here.”

My idiot brother is incapable of lying. Eliminating the most convoluted options, Loki is left with the assumption that the story is true. “So why subdue me like this?”

Frigga places a soft hand on the wall, causing the barrier to disintegrate and allowing her to step through to the weak protests of the men beside her. “My dear. We first feared you had been the victim of some form of attack, but as we searched for injuries you might have sustained, we found none.” Finally by the bed, she takes a seat on the edge, running the back of a few warm finger over Loki’s cheek. “You began to stir in your unconsciousness, showed distress…the infirmary became covered in ice too…”

“I caused it to happen…”

Turning his attention inwards, the god focuses on the part of his soul that is connected to the old powers of the Jötun, finding the Living Cold to be nearly depleted – something that only can happen by rapidly unleashing magic of enormous proportions. Already, it is replenishing, but there is no doubt it will take weeks before the powers will be restored.

“But why?” Soft grey eyes meet his blood-red with all the comfort and wisdom of a mother. “I…did something…? I felt…” Oh. “It felt as though my heart was torn from my body. Then I fell into darkness…”

“Loki, my dear.” Frigga sighs, looking to her husband and Thor for something. “Your bond with the mortal may be stronger than you think.”

… READER’s PoV …

If this is death…then why am I in pain? What first coherent thoughts go, it is not the worst, actually. It feels as though your shoulder is burning and moving your arm is like having white-hot pokers boring through. Deciding to stay as still as possible, you look around in the grey light of dawn, surprised to find yourself nowhere near the castle in Sjöblik…or for that matter near the city itself, it seems.

Dense firs and pines are standing so close that the needle-covered ground is almost completely dry beneath you, and it would not be a lie to say that at least one side of your body is being warmed considerably. Turning your head carefully to avoid upsetting the shoulder, the change of perspective brings a wall of mottled-grey fur into focus. Fur that moves as if it is still in use by its original owner. Breathing in sharply in fear fills your nose with the scent of dirt, dried and fresh needles…and a dog-like smell. Sweeping the gaze against the hairs, it passes the shoulders of a canine before coming to rest on the face of a wolf. Dark, amber eyes are watching every move you make.

You can feel your mind blank out, loosing touch with logic and abandoning any predetermined reactions that normal people might have in such a situation (though it probably is very few who haven woken up next to a wolf). Wolf. So far, not a wrong conclusion by your brain. Big. Also correct. Very, very big. Again, correct…but not helpful as such. Is Röskva and the other Vanir alright? See, that is where your brain fails to grasp the concept of prioritizing.

A quiet huff from the side that should not have a wolf assigned, makes you suspect that there is, in fact, another huge predator as if one would not have been bad enough. I survive falling several stories into a moat in the dead of winter…only to be rescued by the biggest wolves in creation?

“By the gods…this is just great.”

Talking out loud in this situation is another piece of evidence that your head must be damage somehow. Still, neither creature appears startled or upset about your comment, and you decide to risk a bit movement. Inch by inch, the good arm and hand begins a journey across the body until the fingertips can prod the injured shoulder, soliciting a hiss of discomfort. It also results in a soft whine from the wolf lying by your side, and an exploratory sniff by the newcomer (a wolf so dark brown it might have been black) which has taken a seat by your head. If I get to survive sitting up, then I need a way to fixate that arm or pop the joint back in place. Neither option is going to be easy, but at least you have a belt.

Repositioning the good arm, you brace yourself. Can’t lie here forever. With a grunt and a half-choked curse, it is possible to sit up although black dots are dancing before your eyes and it feels as though your arm has been torn off. The swaying motion steadies, making it possible to breathe a bit deeper. Then a gently yet very firm form presses against your back, nudging you to keep going. To stand. Afraid to piss off a wolf by refusing to do as it wants, you tug a leg under you the best you can, pulling the knee on the other to your chest. All the movement is making your entire body ache, but it is nothing compared to the agony of the dislocated shoulder.

A new nudge.

“Yes, yes…just give me a moment, huh? This isn’t as easy as it looks.” Hot breath fans your cheek, starting a shiver that run the length of your spine before it is stopped by a wet lick ending with a lot of wolf-drool in your ear. “Ah great, that’s really gonna help.”

As if understanding your words, the grey wolf wiggles itself underneath the good arm and then looks at you. Carefully you dig your shaking fingers through the course layer of the fur until you reach the soft undercoat. I’m being helped by wolves…yes…completely normal. But you nod to the creature, feeling it enhance your efforts to stand by pulling you forward before staying stock still as a means of maintaining balance.

“Well, uhm…thank you.”

…

Your first priority after strapping the arm to your chest had been to find water to clench an aching thirst but the wolves had other plans. Deciding it was better not to object to the wishes of creatures as big as ponies, you let them lead you away. North, judging by the mosses and lichen growing on any available surface.

A swarm of thoughts is milling in your mind, each concern fighting for attention with no regard for progress on the previous’ behalf. By now, the murder of king Gorm and the queen must have been discovered which means that when the guards or court realizes that you are missing, they will blame it on you and subsequently the Vanir – people you have come to consider as friends and who now may be arrested and convicted for your actions. That was a risk all along. Knowing that does not make it easier. If only you had had time to warn them, to send them away.

Stumbling over a root, you reflexively reach for the nearest support. Fingers dig into rough fur, causing both you and the dark wolf to freeze. Don’t eat me. The air starts to hurt in your chest as you wait for something to happen while amber eyes roam your shape with an intelligence unmatched by most beasts. There is even something familiar about it…but what? The new ruminations are interrupted as the greyer of the giant creatures lays down before you, presenting its exposed back. Huh? As you try to sidestep, a deep rumbling erupts, causing every hair on your body to stand and silencing the few birds in the area.

“What do you want?”

It was not meant to sound as whiney as it came out, but you are still tired and hurting, and things generally stink which makes it hard to deal with the whims of abducting predators. Probably for that very reason, it takes several nudges and renewed growls before the trip can continue…with you on the back of one of them.

… LOKI’s PoV …

Left in solitude for a while, the king of Jotunheim is no further from desperation than before although everything has been explained to him. She fell. The nauseating sensation he felt while crossing Utgard’s courtyard must have been related to this, but Frigga cannot give any satisfying explanation why it is happening. To find out, [Y/N] must be present too.

That leads Loki’s thought to the next issue. Having had to retreat as a child to save his own hide, the trickster knows that speed is vital unless the blame can be shifted to someone else. The Vanir are making haste on horseback heading southward to prevent getting caught, which is a sensible solution all things considered, whereas the mortal guilty of the crime committed is on food, has no rations, carries no weapons, and only has support from Odin’s two wolves.

Geri and Freki. Perhaps it should be a consolation that they are with her as the beasts are more than capable of defending their charge from any dangers…but it is not enough. The animals had pulled her from the river that has been split to create the moat surrounding the castle in Sjöblik. Once safe on land, each wolf is most likely taken turn to warm and dry [Y/N] with their own body heat until she is able to leave the forest at its northern borders. But when? The old forests cover vast areas and are too dense for Heimdal to land the Bifrost safely. That is why they must wait for the odd trio to emerge from the woods.

No, the arrangements that have been made are the best possible under these circumstances, and Loki’s frustrations stem from the uselessness he feels. Waiting will be a challenge although it is something he always has excelled at.

… READER’s PoV …

“Crrrrrooooooaaaarrrr.”

The unexpected familiarity of the sound is enough to pull you from the edges of sleep and back to the moment at hand. Jerking upright sends a new flare of pain through your shoulder but also grants you the view of the dark wolf and an even darker creature now perched on its back. To make matters worse (or odder) the raven is holding on to something shiny with its claws. The tri-hook. Only a foot of the rope is still attached, torn and frayed at the end.

“Still not dead, sorry,” you manage to whisper through dried lips.

That doesn’t rule out that I’m going crazy. A bird has flown miles to bring a tool you had hated leaving behind, and you are riding on a wolf as big as the one in Odin’s cou–

Blinking at the mottled-grey creature, you finally recognize it and its brother for what they are. Loki had told you their names and how they, together with two ravens are the eyes and ears of the All-Father as he sends them out into the realms…or apparently to watch over stupid mortals as they take on risky missions. Your cheeks are hot with guilt as they stretch in a tired smile.

What are their names again? “Thank you. All of you.”

Relief is coursing through your tired and beaten body, making your head swim so you discover belatedly that the odd company has stopped. Looking around, you notice the forest itself is behind you. Before the wolves’ paws begins the open the plains of rolling hills and the occasional village of farmer-families. You even have time to admire the view of the first blue patches of sky in weeks before a torrent of light engulfs you.

… LOKI’s PoV …

They have let him out and Loki knows just from the smiles on Thor’s and Frigga’s faces what it means which is why he is wasting no time as he hurries along familiar halls with them in sharp pursuit.

Each minute feels like a year. Each step has been reduced to a thumb’s length.

But finally, he skids through the circular opening of Heimdal’s observatory in time to see an odd group of figures materialize before the Keeper and Odin.

The mortal woman is dirty and battered with an arm strapped awkwardly across the chest, each injury echoing through Loki’s limbs, but in this moment, she is an enchanting being taken directly from the sweetest dreams he has ever had. How perfectly she fits in his arm as he lifts her off her tired feet and cradles her in his lap without a care in the world that he has somehow sunk to the floor before the eyes of his family, Heimdal, and a few other guards. None of it matters. None of it matters because [Y/N] is near him again.

Loki refuses to let go of the frail human, insisting instead to carry her to the Healers’ Ward where Idunn tends to the injuries with skill. Only when the Asgardian goddess of longevity and health orders him to leave, to grant the mortal rest, does he do so…though with the promise of returning soon.

Outside the door, Frigga is waiting on a carved stone bench with a book in one hand. “I assume you have been told to give your love some peace to sleep?” she asks with a gentle smile.

“Yes.”

“My son…you always consider each action carefully…” Gone is the smile, replaced by the tender worry of a mother. “You know you will outlive her. Does she?”

“There is one way…but how can I ask her to abandon everything? She has a chance to return to Midgard and build a normal life. A safe life.”

The soft hand that takes Loki’s says more than any words can, and he enjoys the silent that lowers itself over them. This hallway is favoured with soft, warm colours enhancing the healing qualities of the sun streaming through the windows. A multitude of plants adds to the impression that it is indeed the Healing Ward which is housed here. Blindly staring at the rose and creamy yellows of the marble, Loki wishes it was this life he could grant [Y/N] rather than that of a cold keep and Jötun clans still opposing his rule.

“If you truly want her to chose, then you cannot hide anything from her, dear Loki.”

Reclaiming her hand, Frigga places a wooden box in her son’s lap. It is carefully decorated with various coloured stones, creating the liking of a fruit tree. Even the gold filigree clasp carries the same theme of leaves and apple blossoms.

The queen cups his cheek to make sure Loki listens carefully. “Whatever she chooses…respect it.”

...

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mjstral · 6 years ago

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Happy birthday Dazai♡

How do love stories usually start? With an “hello”, with an error, with a gesture or a smile. Could we ever call it a story? Could I ever use the term “love”? I could, yes, and you know I do it already. I abuse of this word, it runs through my veins now. And it doesn’t always bring me happiness. But I wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world. For me “love” rhymes with your name, it forces me to grit my teeth in agony when my hands search for yours and grope in the void. Well, precisely for this reason it is not correct to use the term “we��. Then let me try again. My story with you begins with a thought as trivial as lethal: “I won’t fall in love with you”. A little cliché, yes. Don’t tell me. Since then you have sneaked into my soul, you have become my medicine and at the same time my poison. I can’t explain it to you. One cannot explain something that is not understood. Because I don’t understand what did you make to make me lose my head like this. I tried, however, tried again and, despite everything, it is since then that I keep trying. Through letters that you will never read, through songs that inexorably lead me back to you, through sunny days, but also rainy ones. I tried to ask the moon for help, but it also couldn’t do much, if not keep quiet. I tried to ask for help from the robin in spring and the blackbird in winter; they continued to sing as if nothing had happened, not knowing what to say. I asked my head, the reason for this madness. “It will pass” it replied. I started shaking. Pass me? How could this ever happen to me? I do not want to. I don’t want to forget the things you make me feel, you make my heart so good. I don’t want this to end and continuing to love the idea of you. Here, I found. I will make this ardor immortal. I will ensure that, even if one day you had to abandon my dreams on tiptoe, the footprints remain, the signs of your passage. Not even the waves can erase them. I’m sorry, now maybe you will hate me, but I decided that I will do so. I’m selfish, I’m in love. I’m crazy crazy about you. But now tell me: what is your favorite flower? Don’t laugh, it’s a serious question. Do you like Roses? They express eternal love. But they are a little banal and, then, once you said that they bloom in all four seasons, so, perhaps, even the people who love them have to die four times to see them reborn. I don’t want you to be unhappy today, let’s throw away the Roses. How about Alstroermeria? “Devotion”. I could give you a flower for every feeling, you would adorn a Garden. Let me help you carry the pots and the sprouts, plant the seeds and water them. Don’t worry, even the most delicate flowers will withstand the heat, it’s not a question of seasons. The Holly is in full bloom. Don’t you think a Cherry tree is good there? A Japanese legend tells that people who swear love under its blossoming branches are destihned to be together forever, but you know this better than me. The Columbine is already blossoming. It has such a lively color. Too bad it’s hidden by that bush… now that I think about it, it reflects a bit its meaning, don’t you think? And look here: the Dahlia and the Gerbera. My favorite, however, is the Carnation. The white one expresses admiration, the red one passionate love and the pink one loyalty. The scent of Jasmine takes me back in time, I want to dedicate this to you too. The Daisy is that kind of flower that I would like you to put in my hair. Come, let’s sit down, don’t worry about the grass, it won’t spoil. It is made of all the things I would like to tell you, but which remain in me until they hurt too much and I have to put them on paper. And when I can’t because they are too deep-rooted, flowers are born. But can you believe it? Not me, after all this time -you haave been living in my heart for three years- it still seems absurd to me that you, really you made me fall in love. I write about you all the time without even mentioning you and when people read my feelings they are upset. “Who is?” They ask me. They don’t know it and never will they know it’s you. I say it’s just the inspiration. Sometimes they believe me, others look at me stealthily. It doesn’t matter, I don’t want them to know the cause of my madness. I keep it for myself, for those who can really understand it, for those who are crazy in the same way. Now lie down and don’t think about anything. It is your birthday after all, you deserve to pass it in the best possible way. In truth you would deserve to spend every day like this and if only I could, God, if only I could I’d be the one to take the weight of who you are from your shoulders and bury it in this Garden; I would hide it from everyone’s eyes by letting Ivys grow from it. And it’s so painful, so unfair that I can’t even hold your hand today. Not even today. not even the hand. If only I could, I’d holdt it every day. I would tighten it between mine, weave my fingers between yours during a walk, without noticing, while we watch the sunset, the sea, a painting in some museum in Rome or Naples on a Sunday morning. Could I make you feel less alone? This world does not give anyone any discounts, but perhaps existence would be a little sweeter to bear with someone at your side. It is a common thought and for once I want to believe it. And what about you? Do you believe in good now? I don’t care, I’d just like to see you happy, always. When you are happy, your eyes light up with stars, the same ones that I would steal from the sky to be able to build a crown to rest on your head on June nights like these, when my sleep is troubled by the heat, by the paranoia of which it is filled my head, I see your features in the dark and embrace the pillow imagining that it is your chest, with your heartbeat that tells me fairy tales in which you and I are the protagonists. Stories never told, that’s what we are. How nice it would be, I tell myself, to see you smile like that. I would watch your lips completely lost, in love before uttering the forbidden words and approaching them to kiss you. How nice it would be to receive your caress on your face, feel the roughness of the bandages while I touch your skin, meet your gaze, be a witness to your every gesture and recognize the custom, be guardian of your dreams, count your sighs, folds of your clothes, of your thoughts, listen to your worries, your hopes and illusions… How beautiful you are my love. How beautiful you are. You’re the summer’s hit in the middle of winter, you’re the colorful umbrella on a rainy day. You are the love of my life, my most beautiful poetry and I have not yet written it. You don’t believe it? But what did they do to you? What hell did you have to go through driven by the wretched human resilience? Yet you have grasped your own life without even believing it and now you are here, now you are alive, you are more alive than ever, that’s why it hurts so much. That’s why sometimes you feel like you can’t breathe. I know it would be easier to die, that your passive nihilism led you to the brink of the abyss. Mine led me to you. Scratched and wound. Ididn’t want to believe in anyone anymore, no one anymore. Yet you have shown me that people change, albeit partially, but they change. I, who didn’t want to, have changed in my turn. It was a metamorphosis. From larvae we became butterflies. It is a pity that some of them live only one day. It scares me, it scares me to death how much you have become essential for me, how much it can affect my mood to see a picture of you and imagine you next, imagine how nice it would be to be able to join my friends’ conversations when they talk about their boyfriends and tell them about one of many comic episodes to which we give life together. Take yourself back when you say something embarrassing, laugh rudely at your funny face, blush like a fool at your compliments, feel the butterflies in my stomach as I’m getting ready to go out with you like it’s the first time and actually it’s been years. But there is no more time now. It’s getting late, you should go. Don’t worry about the Garden, I’ll take care of it like I’ve always done. It will not disappear, I will not allow it. After all, we are still here, once again, me, you and these words that escape to my control. By dint of writing about you and for you I thought I would run out of words, but in reality I feel like giving myself a fool if I think about it. The feeling, my love, is the feeling that does not die. It does not die, it does not give up this absurd alchemy that was created without you lifting a finger, without you meeting me. It just happened, like so many things I can’t explain. And I promise you that as long as it is, as long as you are with me, Snowdrop will bloom even in autumn and those who love Roses will not have to die to see them reborn because they will always be alive. I’m about to write the long-awaited ending of a chapter of my life to start another and you’re here, you’ve been here since the beginning. You have been and are the shoulder on which to cry, my determination. To thank you I can only offer you futile words, but I will, I will write. I will continue to do so until dew loses from my fingers, until the sunset will not drive away the remnants of my youth. No, ours is not a love story. There is only me who dreams of “infinitesimal moments of us”, moments that are soon lost in the sea of my thoughts. I imagine what it would be like if I weren’t afraid of living and letting myself be discovered. There is me holding this little house of cards that I built with my imagination. And you are there. Irreparably, tragically, lovingly, always. In me, it’s you. And even when you leave it will remain a slice of you that I will continue to call “home”. A small amount of magic. A tiny corner of eternity. With my words, Dazai, I will make you immortal. In comparison even the ocean will look like just a tear.

#dazai osamu #bsd #bungou stray dogs #love of my life #anime #manga #love #love letter #sorry but I love him too much #he's the love of my life #my person #my universe

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webcricket · 7 years ago

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Looking Glass

Chapter 8 - Fly Me to the Moon

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 2450

Summary: Supportive Sam, pining angel wings (turns out it’s a thing), and a post-prayer reunion where Cas and the reader acquiesce to the undeniable goodness of the connection budding between them.

A/N: To those dedicated souls in the back still reading author’s notes, chapter 9 promises a payoff of pure fluff.

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The furious bellow of a tractor trailer horn blares somewhere ahead in a highway scene shrouded in a morning mist of rain burning off the blacktop under the blazing kiss of the rising sun. Undisturbed by the distant noisy intrusion into the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the car, Sam’s fingers remain near motionless where they drape the steering wheel; the gracefully long digits occasionally flex and contract, making minute undulant adjustments to compensate for the winding curves of the road. Hazel eyes peacefully pensive, brow untroubled, the hunter stares ahead into the lifting fog, intent on the drive home.

Sat in the passenger seat, Cas contemplates the green and white mile markers sailing by in a blur along the roadside; according to his angelic reckoning – a feat of navigational honing very much akin to that of the regrettably extinct species of North American homing pigeon – the markers are off by a mere fraction of a thousandth of a mile probably owing to the result of a surveyor’s error, malfunctioning equipment, or the United States obstinate failure to adopt the metric system of measurement like the rest of the freaking developed world. The freaking, of course, is Dean’s invaluable contribution to the angel’s internal flow of meditative monologue.

It’s a fact of technicality the angel keeps to himself; although, within the limited circle of humans he calls friends – no, family – he considers Sam most likely to harbor the humor necessary to appreciate the trivial observation. Dean’s mode would be mockery. Then, of course, there’s the great unknown of you; you, who persistently dominates his thoughts now no matter where they bend. In gleaning fragmented knowledge of your past and present with each healing pass of his grace and the too brief spans of time spent in your company, he’s beginning to understand the battered but brave survivor better – well enough to guess that, if not the detail of the erroneous measurement itself, you might find his absurd notation of it nonetheless amusing. The possibility of arousing some small joy within you excites an ephemeral smile on his lips.

The anticipatory buzz of excitement is fleeting.

“Cas!” Your pained appeal slams into his celestial awareness with no loss of momentum in traversing the gulf of distance between you.

His wings jolt to the ready, an irrepressible instinct, outstretching and straining against the restrictions of their impairment upon perceiving the desperation of your plea. Reaching their broad black span upward in a single swift beat, ensnared inescapably in the confines of their hidden heavenly dimension, the appendages ripple and rustle in dissent to their damage; silken feathers tattered, plumes stripped to the bare barbs and deeply scarred in sections, they reflexively recollect but are rendered incapable of their once swift capacity for flight.

Lightning searing across and seizing his vessel’s shoulders, Cas pitches forward with a ragged groan and braces his palms against the dashboard as he struggles to subdue the rising winged revolt taking place in response to your summoning. He’s hopelessly immobilized from instantaneous arrival at your side, yet every atom of his celestial being tears at his vessel, beckoning to answer your prayer.

“What?!” Startled by the sudden commotion – the worst of which remains unseen by him – Sam swerves sharply, steering to the gravel edge of the road. “What is it?” He taps a tentative hand to Cas’ arm – every muscle of the limb beneath the layers of fabric tenses and trembles with all modicum of control the angel is able to rally. Although he doesn’t fully fathom the extent of it, Sam recognizes the symptoms of stress disturbing his friend. “Angels again?”

“No,” Cas forces the reply through a gritted jaw. “It’s Y/N. She’s hurting . . . praying for help . . . for me. Just keep-” Regaining his composure through sheer command of celestial will, fingers slipping on the vinyl dash as the initial sting of pain passes, he slumps into the scooped embrace of the seat. “Just keep driving.”

Sam’s eyes rove to the gauges of the car. He hasn’t expressed it aloud, but he worries about the effect you’re having on Cas here at the precipice of the latest looming apocalypse. He admits it’s good to see his friend backing down from do-or-die Terminator-esque soldier mode; but you, your coarseness toward him, abrasiveness in general, the angel surely feels a debt of responsibility learning there’s an evil version of himself traipsing around in the other universe who all but destroyed your mind. He thinks it’s a lot even for a stoical seraph to absorb.

Sam can’t imagine the conflict Cas feels, mainly because processing emotions verbally – or at all – isn’t exactly the angel’s strong suit. He knows well that Cas’ greatest fault and his best quality are one and the same – a habitual need to make things right no matter the personal cost. He wonders if the burden of caring for you circles back to making amends with Dean for Donatello – a chance to correct a mistake. “Is she okay? You know, if you want, we can talk about what’s going on.”

The angel knows you’re not okay; that, although he appreciates the open offer, talking will do nothing to correct this; and that, from his present distance-impaired location, he can do frustratingly little to help you. Grace uselessly surging, he may as well be human. Dismissing Sam’s concern, head sagging to his shoulder, blues squinting, he grumbles, “Sam, we’re not moving.”

“Right, got it.” Sam stows his concern, throws the clutch in gear, and swings the car back onto the highway.

A final spasm twitches the angel’s wings as they fold and refold fitfully together. He thinks – slanting his gaze at the console clock now and then, excruciating minutes of separation stretching into hours that should pass inconsequentiality for an ageless being existing since the dawn of time but instead drag – that perhaps, like the specious mile markers, time itself on this endless sun-drenched stretch of highway is faulty.

Inclined against the door jamb of the kitchen, fretting over her gleaming red manicure, Rowena pauses mid-chew of her pinky nail when she perceives a rush of footsteps resounding in the hall. She taps the chipped nail thoughtfully on her tooth – the redeemed witch didn’t sign up to babysit; she’s also wise enough to comprehend how it would bode for her if something terrible happened on her watch whether or not she was still present in the bunker to be blamed when the Winchesters and their angel arrived home to find you in a deeply disturbed state. Caring, she’s beginning to discover, comes with its own unique set of complications.

As Cas rounds the corner in purposeful, gloriously angelic, and full trench coat billowing stride toward the kitchen, Rowena bodily flings herself at him with an exaggerated squawk. “There’s our high and mighty hero! Took your time getting here, didn’t you? The poor girl’s been in there sufferin’ for hours. Hours! And where were you? Off gallivanting with a Winchester, of course!”

Cas ignores both the ridicule and the whip-tongued woman wielding it. He brushes past her explicatory flailing form as she animatedly complains about the circumstances of being left alone with you completely ignorant of your infirmity and alternately drones on about an episode with a screeching tea pot.

The angel finds you hunkered in a corner – wedged between the wall and a shelf – hugging your knees, face buried in your bent arms. Approaching cautiously, he crouches before you and, remembering your adverse reflex to his unexpected touch, resists the desire to lay a palm comfortingly to the roundness of your shoulders rising with a shallow inhalation. “Y/N?”

Hair sweeping in clumps across your red-rimmed eyes, you peer out at him through puffy lids from within the cocoon of crossed limbs. The reality is, your head stopped aching hours ago. You staged a kitchen coup because precisely when your headache peaked and subsided, your heart assumed hurting where your head left off under the barraged return of your memories. Remembering feels a whole lot like losing everything and everyone you ever loved all over again to an apocalypse. Sniffling against a long since dried well of tears, defaulting to your signature defensive defiance in affront to this new and improved onslaught of internal agony, you muster a bit of spirited pluck for the especially concerned looking seraph’s sake to prove to him you’re fine. “You’re late.”

Several lines fissuring his anxiously wrought features iron themselves out in a wash of relief. Spunk is good; it’s expected – it’s limitless spring in your soul is something he admires. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I can’t-” His blues – swiftly subduing into seas of sadness and shame – glaze and veer in avoidance to the assortment of dusty disused cooking utensils on the bottom shelf beside you. Husky tone sinking to a raw whisper, he addresses what seems to be a sensitive subject. “Well, you’d call it flying. I can’t do that, not anymore.” Regard bending back to you to gauge your reaction to his admission of angelic debilitation, he adds gravely, “In all likelihood, not ever again.”

“That’s funny.” You realize the unintended offence as soon as the words lob off your tongue. You meant to say: ‘Hey, that’s an interesting coincidence, cause the other you can’t fly either.’

Cadence clipped, his expression hardens. “I fail to see the humor in the incapacitation of my wings-”

“No, I didn’t mean-” You grab at his sleeve, apologetic. “It’s not funny, ha ha. I meant that it’s strange. Strange, because the other Castiel – he can’t fly either. The angels, when we wouldn’t talk, they summoned him and he came in a truck – an armored truck – by himself. An angel travelling by land, it was . . . weird.” Grimacing, it occurs to you that you’ve managed to deride Cas’ feathery debility and imply he’s strange and weird in the same breath. Apparently, your ability to translate thoughts into lucid unoffending speech is short-circuiting. You try again, because the idea of band-aiding the situation with more syllables sounds super sound inside your noggin. “Not that you’re weird, you-”

“You remember all of that?” he interrupts what was likely to be another unintentional seraphim slight. There’s a suggestion of forgiveness in the subtlest of smiles skirting his mouth.

“I’m remembering a lot of things,” you reply, watching the smile shift upward to crease the corners of his eyes at the news. Self-conscious when your gaze catches his, your focus falls from the glimmer of gladness flooding his face to your fingers continuing to clutch at the fabric of his coat sleeve. You should let go. You don’t want to let go. It’s strange and weird to still be holding on, but he hasn’t made any motion of protest. Here, and there, Cas – the first person you saw in this world, or Castiel – the last face you saw in yours, the angel is a constant. It’s why you prayed to him, this him in a tea pot induced panic when your miserable memories came crashing back to your consciousness all at once; he’s your touchstone in the good.

If he notices the epic struggle of self-discovery taking place in the fluctuating pressure of your fingertips attached to his coat sleeve, he doesn’t mention it. “You’re remembering – that’s good.”

“Is it? Most all of it – it’s bad. Really bad.” You know he’s right – in theory it’s good. In practice it cinches your fist tighter and gives you greater reason to hold on to him.

“It’s good because it means you’re recovering,” he states – at least one of you has an accurate read on deciphering your thoughts. “How’s your head?”

Biting your lower lip, you tease, “Still attached.”

Chin tilting, gaze narrowing, he chides, “Y/N.”

You shrug. “Better . . . I guess. The noise sensitivity resolved the hundredth or so time witchy Nanny McPhee ingratiatingly asked me if she could do anything else – ‘Anythin’ at all, dear!’ – that didn’t involve boiling water in brass pots.”

A skeptical humph vibrates in his throat. He casts you a doubtful stare to punctuate his pessimism over your lack of certainty.

“Okay, better, definitely better,” you concede and posit his next thought before he can mutter it. “And before you ask if I’m tired, the only tired I am is of being stuck in this damn bunker.”

“Can you stand?” Reaching his free hand across the sleeve you have securely embedded in your grasp, he glides the rough pads of his fingers gently along the ticklish inner surface of your thumb and upturned wrist; when you don’t flinch away from him, he allows his light caress to linger there longer, heat sparking on your skin.

“I-I think so,” you stutter, attention torn between the simple question and the balminess of his flesh where it grazes yours.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” His tender touch trails to your elbow; encircling your arm, he helps you rise to your feet. He pivots and sidesteps to ensure you don’t feel cornered without escape upon standing.

You wobble on your disused legs, using the unsteadiness as an excuse to lean into him for support. “A walk? You mean, outside?”

He peers down at you, aspect and affect afflicted with an utter sense of soberness as square as his jawline at this proximity. “No, a walk on the moon,” he retorts.

Puffing an airy burst of laughter, a grin broadens your cheeks. “Did you just crack a joke?”

He nods, the shine of a smile again brightening his serious countenance. “Dean mentioned recently that I should try to lighten up. Was that a suitable occasion to do so?”

“Yes. And yes to the walk!” Skipping several steps backward, socked heels slipping on the tile floor, your palm reluctantly parts from the anchoring stability of his chest as you dash for the door to change out of pajamas and into the clothing you previously deemed stupid – considering you had nowhere to wear it – which was generously purloined for you by Sam and Dean from their mother’s closet. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back!” You pause at the threshold and flash him an enthusiastic parting grin before scampering down the hall.

Exhaling a contented sigh, Cas’ lashes shutter to envision the delight of your grin etched into his memory. He thinks, based on the warmth radiating from within his vessel’s chest, that your joy, too, is everlastingly emblazoned on his heart. The experience of bringing you that bit of happiness, it’s so much more meaningful than the bounds of angelic imagination permitted him to conceive; and, the angel who wants nothing for himself wants more of this exhilarating sensation.

Next: Ch. 9 - The Fable of the Fawns

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel fluff #castiel series #castiel reader insert #castielxreader #castielxyou #cas x reader #cas x you #reader x castiel #you x castiel #spn x reader #spn reader insert #castiel x y/n #castiel fanfiction #spn fanfiction #castiel fanfic #castiel x au!reader #cricket writes cas

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cavennmalore · 7 years ago

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War Storm Fanfic

I just thought of this right now and decided I was going to write this. Please forgive me for any errors, canon-wise or wotherwise; I do not have my copy of War Storm with me right now. If you like this, please like, reblog, or comment what you think!

When the door shuts, I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

I had spent all day in agnoy, the weight on my chest threatening to overwhelm me. Now, I trade one weight for another. The feeling of slient stone would signal panic in anyone else, but for me, under the cover of silent stone is the only place I feel like myself. Well, what’s left of myself.

Her voice dims, fading to the background. Her wild shrieks blending in with the rest of the sounds that plauge my mind. I would ask someone from House Merandus to check on it, make sure that this isn’t actually my mother’s doing, but that would be revealing weakness. Those vultures would do anything to exploite my weak spots. Even rip apart their own blood. Not that I’m not used to whispers tearing their own to shreads.

You let her kill me! She wails. You let that Red bitch kill me!

I rub at my temples. “No, you let her kill you, mother,” I mutter aloud.

My muscles tense automatically. If she was still alive she would take control of my body, make me a living statue. Then, she would walk real close and cause a loud, sharp noise to screetch through my head. My vocal chords stuck in place so could not scream. She would whisper in my ear somehow perfectly clear, even over all the noise, “Do not disrespect me like that. I am trying to make you better, trying to make you a king.” She would leave me there, suffering in silence, until she got what she wanted. I’m sorry, I would think, over and over again until it was to her satisfaction. Until it was sincere. Only then she would let me go.

Bu she isn’t here. And somehow, that hurts worse than any of the pain she could have ever caused.

The pain in my chest starts back up again. It’s as if my heart is on fire. It probably is; she isn’t the only one I lost today.

Fate is a real bitch. It favors those who seem to want to make my life hell. It was bad enough losing Thomas, but losing my mother on the anniversary of his death was too much. This is the first year I mourn for both of them at the same time.

My skin burns. My collarbone feels as if the skin was on fire from the inside out. Ashes burn against my throat. Fames tingle against my hands, these possibly real. My lips hurt worst of all. Thomas touched me in so many places, his chin perfectly sitting in my collar bone, his fingers dancing against mine, but my lips were his. My lips he devored, my lips that plunged us all into this hell that we’re living--he treated those lips as if they were gold.

My whole body aches in agony. My mind belonged to my mother, but my body belonged to Thomas.

But they are both gone, so I guess my body and my mind belong to me now. Or whatever’s left of me.

I sag against the stone wall. All day I could hear whispers around the palace. Reds and Silvers alike warning each other about the Mad King in a foul mood. I was an inferno, raging at everything in my path. People parted from me; nobody wants to be anywhere close to a bomb that never seems to stop going off. But now, all I am is tired. I can barely manage a spark, let alone an inferno.

For a second, I let myself imagine. Here, only for a moment, I let myself pretend that it’s Thomas I’m married to, not Iris. I pretned I live in one of Jon’s dead realities, a far off world where Thomas can be my husband. Not my servant, like we planned, but my true partner. I can almost see him crouching in front of me, one of his big, goofy smiles and shaggy brown hair. He would have taken my hand and told me everything is going to be alright. I probably would have believed him; he had a way of making everything sound believable.

I close my eyes. This could never have happened. He was Red and I am Silver. He is dead and I am alive.

He is at peace and I am still hurting.

But I was always hurting.

I have a splitting headache. That’s the price I pay for letting myself think of him. After I came home from the front, a husk of myself, Mother was determined to rid me of him. Despite her past failures at erasing romatnic love, she believed this time that she could do it. After all, she was a surgeon with the mind. I was just glad the pain would finally stop.

Instead, it turned phsycial. Splitting headaches clung to his prescense whenever he crossed my mind. I was holed up in my apartment for days, plauged by both physical and emotional pain. That’s when I discovered how truly pownderful silent stone could be.

Most Silvers stayed as far away as they could from it. Its effects were suffocating, like drowing on dry land. When I was younger, Mother would throw me in here if I misbehaved. It was torture. But after days anguish, the silent stone was my salvaton. It made the migraine recced. Finally, the pain was dulled to something tolerable, something I could manage. My head was clear, and Mother’s mental claws couldn’t touch me.

That’s why she restricted my exposure. I was almost never allowed to be near it. My only relief came from a small piece of silent stone I hid in my room. I clung to it during my worst moments, it’s white dust coating my pale fingers.

I still keep that small block in my room. The only thing stranger than a king with a throne of silent stone is a king with a bedroom built of it. Now, though, when I’m feeling truly pained, I can just come here, and be whatever is left of myself.

I wonder if Thomas would still love me. After everything I’ve done, would he still care for me as he did that broken boy so long ago?

Probaby not.

The ony person who could ever love me was Mother, and she’s gone now.

That’s right, she whispers like a snake, I am the only one who ever truly cared about you. Not your Father, not Cal, not Mare, but me.

She’s right. I can’t help but miss her more. The bond between a mother and son is unbreakable, stronger than anything.

Oh.

It hits me like a bolt of lightning. I know what Cal’s next move is.

Harbor Bay.

#red queen #war storm #maven calore #thomas #elara merandus #fanfic #writing #red queen fanfic #i'll probably write more of this #but yay!#i finally wrote maven pov #and it wasn't that hard?#i think i might start writing more on tumblr #so get psyched for that #i know i said i was gonna write fluff but angst is my home #please comment and reblog #i crave it #everytime i want to end it i keep writing #war storm spoilers

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purple-seekers · 7 years ago

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Lisianthus || Chapter 1: Strange, but Fascinating.

Chapter List

1 - 2 - 3 (coming soon)

Tap, tap, tap, a familiar noise echoes through a large, yet solitary room. Holograms were opened left and right, papers scattered beneath tables, with a higher amount of crumpled ones below, some not even near the filled trash can that was seemingly kicked over.

ERROR

A five lettered message reflected on the pupils of a young man. His magenta eyes were beginning to feel sore, but his expression remained blank. He grew - as much as he hated it -accustomed to these situations. The irritation of failure was the one thing he resented the most, but there was nothing left in there. It dawned on him long ago, and yet it lingers. The feeling of anger, regret and grief only loomed over him. Haunting him. Eating him alive.

He couldn’t find an answer and this was a verdict he simply couldn’t accept.

He sat down and placed his tired palms over his eyes. His thoughts were beginning to spiral, he was restless, but there was no solution he could hope come to. All that’s left was the ticking of small clock and the sounds of his holograms doing all the calculations and research he might find useful. The very few sounds that surrounded him began to blur out. It was… quiet.

Even for just a moment.

Even for just a second.

Even for...

ERROR

An alarm went off.

ERROR

A second went off.

ERROR

A third, a fourth and a fifth. It was an endless array of messages, mocking him, pushing him, breaking him, until it was all… Red. He slowly opened his eyes and quietly stood up. His eyes only stared at one of his many holograms, his mind halting, processing what was going on, but then it hit him.

He grinned. “Aha… ha..” He placed both of his hands over his eyes. A pang of emotions ran through his veins. “Ahaha… hahah..” His back curled up almost immediately and before he knew it—CRASH. Throwing everything on his table to the floor, swiping them away left and right, slamming the desk, making some of the books topple over. A maniacal laugh seeped through his throat, dominating over the sounds of alarms ringing through his ears. Nothing matters, He thought, throwing out everything in front of him, unable to bear the thought of failure.

He was growing weak, he was tired, restless, exhausted, but most of all... He was sick of every single one of his attempts being nothing but failure. Just as soon as he was about to give in, the door slammed opened. Light seeped into his room and there stood a clear silhouette.

“Add, what the hell is wrong with you!?” A voice echoed through him. He turned his head slowly and there she was—long purple hair, lively indigo eyes, and an irritated expression. It all blurred out right before him, his eyes began closing until his sight was no longer there.

Regret was a feeling Add had become accustomed to. Resentment, anger, frustration, bitterness, agony - he never showed them; not ever had he showed them. His maniacal laugh only hinted at a man whose thoughts had been distorted, but as soon as silence caught up with him, a revelation would draw out of his tired mind and it all became audible in his silence. He found himself staring at a dead end, the path had already been faded, the floor and everything around him shattered into glass pieces. He felt weightless. Drowning into a never ending abyss suddenly felt more like a gift than a punishment.

And then, there was nothing, empty, white. It blinded him, but a part of him felt… Safe. Peaceful. At ease.

He slowly opened his eyes. Around him was an endless field of small blue flowers scattered everywhere. He noticed he was under the shade of a tree, he could hear its soft rustles as the graceful wind passed by him. Small blue petals danced around the endless field as the soft blue sky greeted him with a friendly gleam of light.

He felt light and refreshed, his head against a comfortable surface, and a soft and calm melody accompanied by a sweet and familiar voice.

“Oh.” The humming pauses momentarily, a chuckle followed right after. “You’re up sooner than I expected.” The voice spoke, caressing his head gently.

It seemed like a dream, or perhaps a memory of more simpler times. A record of sorts, replaying events of his younger years.

Her gentle hand continued to stroke his hair, resuming the soothing melody that he had just heard, mixed with the rustling of flowers, swishing louder than the wind allowed them to, then followed by weak footsteps, cushioned by the thick layer of petals and dirt.

“Edward!” A distant voice called out to him. The voice was childlike and high pitched, it had a tone of excitement and curiosity in it, and a small part of Add couldn’t help but feel relieved. The name had become unfamiliar to him, but hearing it once more gave him a sense of nostalgia.

“Edwaaard!”

...

“Edwa…”

…?

“Edw...dd!”

…

“Add!”

The voice suddenly became louder and closer, but it didn’t sound like the one in the whatever kind of sleep-deprived dream he just had. Unfortunately, even though he had come back to his senses, he was being shaken by someone, making his head spin even more than it already was.

His eyes tried to open as fast as they could, but everything still seems to be blurred. He could only make out a tinge of purple and nothing more. Right then and there he figured out who it was, but a part of him remained unsure.

“Get…” He grunted, placing his palms on his forehead. “Out...” His whole body felt numb, and he couldn’t think straight. He was stressed and lacked the sufficient amount of sleep to even function.

The girl’s facial expression went from worried to irritated.

“What--!? After I--” She paused, trying to calm herself down. “I give up, you nocturnal rodent…” She sighed, letting this one pass by her.

Add’s vision had finally begun to clear up, slowly regaining his composure. He sat up and curled back as the usual heavy headache kicked in. His… other kind of headache, the one that seemed like one big purple blur, took shape. That familiar high-pitched voice, those ridiculously strong arms, that bratty, determined tone and…

“That despicable, bright purple hair…”

“...That. Is not the worst thing you’ve called me.” She said in a slightly irritated tone, keeping an eye on him. “I guess I could tolerate that.” Aisha gently placed her hand over Add’s forehead, using her frost magic to simulate an ice pack.

“Stop... That…” Add protested, too weakened to move a muscle. “Don’t rub your useless magic on me, I can do this myself.” He managed to wobble a little, regaining balance right before slipping back onto the floor.

“Without my magic you wouldn’t have been able to fix up this huge mess you made.” She said, trying to suppress her anger. “Don’t go around calling it useless when you can’t even fix your personal space with your cheap machinery.” She abruptly answered, pressing her hand harder against Add’s forehead.

Add quickly grabbed Aisha’s hand, brushing it away as he stood up.

“You did what?!” He stomped and raised his voice. One thing he couldn’t stand - besides Aisha’s bratty attitude - was the invasion of his privacy. “You touched MY workspace, with your FILTHY magic?!”

“Hey!” She stood up as quickly as he did, startled. “You should be grateful I actually cleaned up this cave of yours!” She puffed her cheeks. “Jeez, all you do is complain about how busy you are, but you’re just a shut-in!”

“I’d be able to advance with my research if she stopped messing with my head… If she stopped showing up every time I close my eyes…! If she...” He slammed the desk, dropping the half-broken mug Aisha had picked up, shattering it into tiny pieces, making the now concerned mage take a short and quiet step away from the angered young man. The loud sound made Add’s ears ring, worsening the headache Aisha had just started to relieve.

He held his head in pain with increasingly louder grunting, forcing him to sit back down until his ears stopped ringing. “I-If she…” His arms felt weak, and he felt lightheaded. The pain was gone, but he could barely stay still. Aisha held his forehead once again, this time emitting a bright pink light.

“Would you stop wasting the little energy you have left on being a big baby?” She pouted, easily overpowering what little strength Add had remaining.

“Big... Baby?” He looked at the magician confused, nobody tested his patience as much as the girl that stood before him. He was beyond irritated, but he was too tired to retaliate.

“Say, Add…” She lifted her hand away from his forehead, allowing him to lean against the wall as he let out weak and quiet grunts. “I practically just babysitted you, the least you can do is tell me what is wrong with you. This isn’t the first time I hear you having a madman party so early in the morning.”

He slowly brought his hands to his face, leaving a small gap so he could stare at the ceiling. “Will you… Leave me alone to work if I actually tell you?”

“That would depend on your answer, obviously.” She sat in front of him, crossing her arms as she looked right at him. With her increasingly overwhelming, intense stare, Add was forced to return it.

Add sighed, unable to bear the feeling of defeat. “... T-Tsk… Fine, then.” He sat down, his back hunched over, and his arms resting on his knees, reluctantly making eye contact with the curious magician. “It is… About my m-” He pauses, contemplating whether or not he should give the girl an honest answer.

“About..?” Aisha prolonged the question, trying to keep Add’s attention on her.

Add closed his eyes momentarily, looking for an excuse. He couldn’t simply tell her everything, but he knew Aisha well. He knew she wouldn’t leave him alone even if situations asked for it. “It was a childhood friend of mine. Yes.” He said, covering up the legitimate reason for his worries.

There was a long pause, both parties shared a blank stare with each other.

“I see…” Aisha replied, she tried to hold her laughter back, but a small snicker went past her mouth. “So even someone like you could be so normal.” She was shaking slightly, trying to respect Add’s situation and not break the mood.

“Excuse me, what was that?” Add’s eyebrows furrowed, noticing the girl’s sudden change of mood.

“N-Nothing, nothing!” She answered quickly, trying to avert Add’s menacing gaze, she then clears her throat. “Ah-hem!” Her expression reverting back to that of a serious one. “As for your for your problem…” She closed her eyes, placing a finger on her chin, thinking of an answer.

“Oh!” Aisha exclaimed, hopping up and immediately sitting beside Add. “I have an idea!” She looked at Add with starry eyes and confidence, seemingly excited for another mundane thought.

Add cringed at the sight of the magician scooting closer and closer towards the little bubble he wouldn’t tolerate anyone getting too close to.

“Hey, grapehead, you’re getting uncomfortably close--” He retaliated, attempting to slither away from the excited girl.

“Okay, okay, whatever! Just hear me out, will you?” She firmly grasped Add’s shoulders, staring right into his eyes, widened by the magician’s sudden actions. “Let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?” Add questioned her intentions, he knew Aisha was a headstrong person, but to even suggest something as ridiculous as a deal with him made him wonder how far the magician would go.

“A deal.” She nodded. “What would you say if we… Jog your memories?”

“What…?” He questioned her even more, his eyes locked on hers, hoping he could get a clear answer.

“Jog your memories! Trust me, Add, it works!” She answered instantly. “That way, you’ll stop causing such a scandal every now and then; I’ll be able to sleep peacefully, and you can continue with your research safely! It’s a win-win situation!” She proclaimed, standing up and placing both her hands on her waist.

The immediate answer was “no”, but Add had an epiphany. “I might consider it.” He grinned lightly. “But under one condition.” He added, just before the magician could celebrate.

The girl tilted her head. “And that condition would be?” She hurriedly sat back down, crossing her legs and arms, ready to listen to his request.

“You will NOT use your magic to manipulate me in any way possible, understood?” He looked at her, waiting for a proper answer.

“Hah! Do you think I depend only on magic?” Aisha gave a confident smile. “Obviously, It’s a very simple task, y’know!~” She said flipping her hair. “We’ve just got to re-enact everything you remember from that childhood friend of yours. No magic whatsoever!” She stood proudly. “Ooohohohoho~!”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” He grunted, yet he kept his mischievous smile hidden, thinking menacingly. If it’s easier to mess around with you that way. I’m betting that, at one point, you will be forced to use your little cheat sheet.

“Alright, grapehead… A deal it is, then.” He reluctantly stretched his hand towards her, leading to a handshake as they both kept their eyes on each other.

“Roger, nerd!” She squeezed his hand tightly, nearly making him flinch, both wearing intimidating stares, letting go of each other soon after. Add stared at her walking out his door, her purple hair swaying left and right. She turned and took one last look at him once more and closed his door shut.

“She’s strange.” Add whispered under his breath as a grin began forming across his face. “But fascinating.” He couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle.

#elsword #eltag #add x aisha #aisha x add #addsha #addxaisha #aishaxadd #DW x DiE #Lisianthus #DiE x DW #dimension witch #diabolic esper #add #aisha #~osu #~val #~rozen

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miobambiino · 8 years ago

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WIP thingy for musicalluna

(This is my first go at fanfic and it’s pretty terrible atm so excuse any spelling errors and bad grammar but I’m trying my best lmao 🙃 I’m procrastinating from exams I’m sure u understand the feeling)

“I’m holding you to this, Wilson.”

Clint’s quip only served to deliver himself a considerably sized handful of snow from Natasha and a long-suffering sigh from Rhodey, who was largely consumed in a startlingly orange SHIELD-issue puffer jacket he’d picked up before everything went to hell on the jet.

Clint had his arm swung round Sam’s shoulder, Steve on his other side, helping the injured man trek through the snow.

“Gee thanks, Barton - hey, next time, I won’t step in to shove this goon out the way a hail of fire. You’d be cool with that, right man?” Sam shot back without much heat, gesturing toward Steve who was supporting most of Sam’s weight on his side. Not that it was particularly strenuous for him, being a super soldier and all.

“’M'not a goon,” Steve mumbled through a barely concealed smirk, “I could’ve handled it jus’ fine.”

It was supposed to be a straight-forward operation: get in, retrieve the data from the hydra outpost on the Winter Soldier project, and get back out. Sure, they hadn’t been cocky about it, they prepared well and took the necessary precautions; what they hadn’t counted on, however, were the agents to be armed with extra-terrestrial weaponry. Tony had marked it up to being modified Chitari weaponry. Apparently not even S.H.I.E.L.D had the scope to track down every piece that went missing from the Battle of New York - alien weaponry tended to sell fast and at insane prices on the black market.

The mission had gone as expected up until Hydra pulled the big guns out, literally. Hydra had concentrated their efforts to strike-team alpha - Steve, Bucky, and Sam. Since the loss of their asset, Hydra have been particularly keen on getting their hands back on a super soldier, or two. Sam had only just managed to swoop down to push Steve out of the way of a blast that would surely have immobilised him for the rest of the operation - only in doing so did he crush his left arm under his own and Steve’s weight at an unnatural angle.

Hydra weren’t incompetent, they knew how to launch an attack. Agents had hounded on each division of the team like a pack of ravenous dogs. By now, they knew what to expect from the Avengers, and were merciless with their approach. Rhodey and Tony had been disabled by an intense EMP developed for their suits especially, delivering excruciating electrical shocks through them, weighed down by motionless tonnes of metal. Sam had a clean break to his arm, and Clint wheezed with each step he took. Possible broken ribs, Steve had thought - praying it wasn’t a punctured lung too. Himself and Bucky weren’t badly off, though both exhausted enough that the trek in the middle of knee-deep snow was taking its toll. Besides, neither of them had particularly fond memories of the ice.

After hastily retrieving the data they had come for, they withdrew to the quinjet. The jet wasn’t much better off than they were, and in the mist of the battle, they hadn’t noticed a one piece of critical information.

There was a stowaway onboard.

“Fall back!” Steve hollered which holding Sam to his side, who had taken on a sickly grey tone to his skin. The break was bad, and Sam was only dimly aware of the situation going on around him.

Steve had his back, though. I’m gonna be okay

Natasha and Clint turned on their heel every so often on their sprint back to the jet, firing minimal but fatal shots to their attackers who were starting to get desperate. Usually, Hydra wanted to keep most of them alive; Avengers made for spectacular bargaining chips - or so they assumed, since it wasn’t like they’d ever managed to hold on to one very long (Bucky’s time as the Winter Solider doesn’t count).

Bucky was waiting for them at the bay doors, watching his teammates’ backs as they drew nearer to the jet, using a sniper-rifle to pick out hydra agents who were getting too close for comfort. Clint and Natasha eventually joined him, Nat starting up the engine ready for a hasty retreat.

“Colonel! Can you manage?” Steve had yelled over his shoulder as he neared the bay doors with Sam. Rhodey and Tony were a few short paces behind, both armed but weighed down by the armour they hadn’t been able to scramble out of in time.

“Worry about yourself, Rogers!” He shot back with gritted teeth; though the prosthetics wrapped around his legs allowed him to move his legs again, it wasn’t exactly easy sailing running through snow while under fire.

They all reached the bay doors, Tony and Steve scrambling on as it began lifting off the ground - they’d wanted to get Sam on first, Rhodey heaving him up from inside the jet. Steve hauled himself up with a grimace, automatically reaching for the scruff of Tony’s undersuit and yanking him the rest of the way up unceremoniously too.

That earned him a steely glare from Tony, who shrugged off Steve’s arm and stood up just as the bay doors firmly closed behind them with a small hiss.

“I’m capable of managing myself, thanks.” Tony breathed out as he brushed past Steve towards the cockpit where Nat was driving the jet forward. Steve watched as the smaller man sauntered off and hefted himself into the co-pilot seat, tapping in co-ordinated for the nearest landing zone occupied by friendlies. Steve huffed out a barely suppressed sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose firmly, pursing his lips tightly together.

“Didn’t say you were, Stark.” He said, mostly to himself. Since the ordeal with the accords, the team had shoddily come back together for ‘the greater-good’, as out by Agent Hill. Hydra may have crawled back into the shadows they had come from, but they were certainly no-less of a threat than they had been before. If anything, their recent losses to Cap and his team made them itching to strike back, harder and more efficiently. Steve was so tired of fighting them, a bone-deep kind of tired that permanently was etched into his features.

Cut off one head, two more shall grow in its place

A stifled groan escaping Sam’s lips drew his head out of the back of his mind - somewhere he was venturing far too often these days, and he came to his side.

“Hey listen man, I know I fucked up a bit back there, I wasn’t thinking straight. It really could of gone better-”

“Don’t- just don’t put this on yourself, Sam” Steve cut in, “the op was going to hell before you were down, we-”

This time it was Sam that cut him off, “I don’t regret doing it, hell, I know it was going to shit before I went and broke my damn arm, but still, I held you and Buck back. Pro'ly would’ve gone better if I landed right but,” Sam hissed as Steve wrapped up his injured arm, but carried on a beat later, seemingly ignoring what was bound to be an apology from Steve, “but, like I said, I’m not going to be sorry for saving your ass - again”

That earned a snort from Steve, who finished up wrapping his arm when Clint plonked himself down on the bench opposite Sam. The archer tisked as he adjusted his quiver, loosening it up off his shoulder, shaking his head slowly, “Can’t take this guy anywhere,” he drawled playfully. Sam eyed him dubiously, a quirk playing on the corner of his mouth. “See, if you landed on your own two feet instead of - you know - your fuckin’ face, we might’ve had a slightly smoother exit back there.”

Clint was clearly joking as an effort to ease the sense guilt he and Steve both knew Sam was harbouring. He’s saved Steve and probably actually given them a great chance of getting out alive - two super-soldiers is better than one, after all. Though, Sam had felt particularly useless while he was consumed in agony and had to rely on Steve to keep his head on straight while they made their escape.

“C'mon Sam, don’t flatter yourself, you aren’t all that hard to carry you know” Steve smiled at his friend, who returned the expression albeit slightly twisted in pain. “And he landed in his arm, not his face, Clint.”

“Huh, why’s it look all funny like that then?” Clint asked, feigning genuine curiosity. Sam merely rolled his eyes, nonchalantly taking his right combat boot off to throw at the archer’s head.

“Violence is not key” Nat’s voice rang from the front of the jet, not taking her eyes off the windscreen for a moment while she steered them away from any immediate danger.

They hydra outpost was desolate and practically impossible to reach on foot. Out in the wilderness of Norway, it had been hard enough locating the outpost which - like most of hydra’s bases - was underground. The landscape was covered in a thick layer of snow, making the mountains in the distance barely visible through the snowfall which was beginning to pick up at a reasonably worrying pace.

“We’re low on fuel, Tony, is there anywhere we can set down in range or do I just land us in the next clearing?” Natasha’s face was set with grim determination. She was the same after every mission, only tending to her own injuries until they were definitely out of the fray; not that she ever let on to anyone she was hurting. That had been one of the first things trained out of her - showing weakness.

Tony huffed in frustration, and smacked the dash fruitlessly when the systems wouldn’t cooperate properly. This was his tech, damn it! It should be fully operational no matter the weather - snow storm be damned.

“Nada I’m afraid,” Natasha tossed a glance his way and a frown made its way between her brows.

“'Nada?’ Seriously?” Tony just nodded in response, glancing back with a tight-smile when Rhodey appeared over their shoulders.

“God, don’t pull that face, it’s not near as assuring as you think it is.” Rhodey laughed softly, then directed his attention to Nat.

“Systems aren’t fully functional, though you’ve probably figured that out for yourself.” The man said as he shuffled into a seat behind them, leaning forward into their space from his seat. “Must’ve become compromised by stray shots from the agents back there. Best bet is to land somewhere far enough away from that mountain range - we need a signal strong enough to get back a message to base to come get us out of here.”

Natasha nodded, and began to open her mouth when a loud electrical whine sounded from under the jet. After a moment the whine grew into an even louder blast that thrummed through the belly of the jet.

Steve and Bucky shot up from where they stood, only to stumble when the jet shuddered unnaturally. Clint reached across towards Sam and strapped him in, despite the other man’s protests, and gripped firmly onto one of the bright yellow handles swinging idly from the ceiling of the jet.

“What the fuck was-” Clint’s surprised outburst was interrupted with the unmistakable sound of metal groaning underneath them.

Not a moment later the right engine startled to a halt, sending a few of them sliding into the opposite wall. The jet veered downwards, and alarms began blaring throughout the jet, seeing streaks of red lights across the interior.

Steve barely had a second to bark out a command to hold on before another blast rung through the jet, and the second engine failed on them. Steve felt his stomach suspended until it made a sickening drop and the jet plummeted downwards. Natasha unbuckled herself from the pilot seat, and in an instant as lunging behind the cockpit, hauling Tony with her and pushing Rhodes backwards with the force she exerted. Tony yelped before springing into action and holding onto his best friend, dragging them both to the back of the jet where Barnes was currently punching in an emergency code to open the bay doors.

Nat knew just as well as Bucky that they had a better chance of survival making a jump for it out the bay doors than being in the cockpit, where they’d most likely be skewered by the glass of the windshield when it shattered on impact.

The doors hissed open and immediately the team were encompassed my the freezing-cold air whipping through the door. Bucky grabbed onto one of the yellow handles with this metal arm and craned his head out the door, judging the drop distance from the falling aircraft.

His head whipped back to face the team, faces set determinedly, and yelled over the loud whistle of air around them.

“We gotta jump on my count or it ain’t gonna be a pretty landing!” He bellowed at them, while Steve approached him, gripping into his friend’s shoulder giving a reassuring squeeze.

“On his mark!” Steve repeated behind him, while Nat pulled Sam to her side, bracketing her body against his to insulate the fall in the hope of avoiding injuring his arm any more that it already was.

Tony felt Rhodey’s arm wrap around his side and pull his securely against his side. He wasn’t taking any chances of loosing Tony out in the middle of nowhere. Again.

Then Barnes issued the order, and they jumped.

More to come and this hasn't been edited yet but I'm trying therefore no one can judge me 😂 this is dedicated to my one of my absolute fave fanfic authors @musicalluna who's work I've been reading for years, but this is the first time I've made a blog to write too 🕊this will be eventual stevetony and buckynat

#fanfic #stevetony #buckynat #avengers fanfiction #steve rogers #tony stark #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes #clint barton #sam wilson #james rhodes

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coreshorts · 8 years ago

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Intrusive

youtube

It’d been a rough night. Lying in her bed, the heavyset Raen woman thought “a rough day” might have been more accurate, but she’d slept it all away in exhaustion. She was still tired. She’d run from Limsa Lominsa to the Outriders’ house in the Mist to start her training, but when she joined S’seri for her own training regimen, she realised asking herself how bad it could be was a grave error. They ran from the Mist to Aleport, endurance exercises thrown in every hundred yalms. She had begun to flag by Summerford. Once they reached Swiftperch, she collapsed.

It had been nice enough that Hali was brought back to the Mist to be re-hydrated and left to sleep in the Outriders’ yard. It was nicer than passing out in Thanalan under the sun. The yard was shaded at any rate, so it wasn’t too bad, save for being soaked in sweat and hurting all over. Her body was so weak she could barely lift the glass of water she’d been given. After a few, she passed out for most of the day.

She’d woken in the evening to enter the house, only to find T’rahven, Shadow, and a few others milling about in the aftermath of a fight that damaged several pieces of furniture and the wall in the bar area. While they fixed the damage from whatever incident had caused it, she showered. She was still somewhat weak and disoriented, but the shower helped.

When she was done and made-up again, she watched the aftermath of the situation unfold before excusing herself to find food on her way to Protector’s Training in the Shroud. She found herself a sandwich once she arrived in Gridania. It was big, it was tasty, and it was, admittedly, a little messy, the paper stained by the oil drizzled on its innards.

Training was not too great. She was still weak, still tired. That night was to be two-on-two sparring, one fighter and one caster or ranger per team. She was excited to fight Naomi again. The last time she had was during the Games of Glory, making herself a one-trick-chocobo by using her Burrow Blue magic spell with the sand and stone around the Pit’s arena floor. This time was different. This time, she was accompanied by a rather large highlander Monk with whom Hali had shared a little of her sandwich earlier. Hali, meanwhile, was paired up with one of the people from before at the Outrdier house: a miqo’te named Estelle. A very pastel-coloured man, he claimed to be a scholar-in-training, which sounded quite promising.

The fight, however, could not have gone worse. Naomi focus-fired Hali, opening with a salvo of bright aethereal flashes that instantly blinded the hyper-photosensitive Raen and set her head to pounding. Estelle was blinded, as well, but on a level where it was more of an inconvenience. She attempted to take the fight to Naomi, only to be met with Tahamine, the monk, sending a powerful kick into her head. Pain exploded into a stars and she went down, in shock at the agony that had blossomed in her skull. She refused to give up just yet, though, and through the pain, managed to recover for just long enough to give Naomi a faceful of blunted practice shuriken in vengeance. The moment didn’t last long, though, before an empowered kick left her unconscious on the ground.

The next moments dragged on as she was healed, blinded and immobilised by the pain in her head, incapable of doing anything other than sobbing in pain. Thankfully, by some miracle, she wasn’t concussed, likely having blacked out from the overwhelming pain of the second kick to the head. Once she was healed, though it was still hard to concentrate through the lingering headache or really see thanks to her eyes still recovering, she made her way home.

It had been hours that she’d laid in bed, snuggling up to her Edda Blackbosom doll. One might think it exceedingly creepy, but she thought it was an adorable recreation of the mythological fallen healer. The doll’s scythe lay on her night table while she laid still, sobbing silently, save for a few sniffles. Her cat, Finn, had chosen to curl up behind her head, pushing himself up against her and purring to try and help calm her.

She was upset. It was no good lying to herself. She’d been thoroughly beaten, and, once again, another Protector’s Training had ended with her on the ground in too much pain to move. Why was it always her? Why did people always go for her head? What was it about her that people just wanted to break her damned face so much? The last thought, though a bit dramatic, stuck thanks to her mindset, and she cried a bit longer.

Some number of bells later, she awoke. Finn had vacated the bed and was tearing around her room, yowling at the ceiling as he tried to climb the walls at something unseen. Such was typical and made her laugh softly in her bleary stupor. She wasn’t really tired. The haze of sleep lifted quickly and left her in her bed, wide awake, in short order.

Throw the doll.

Her arm tensed. Gently, she placed her precious Edda doll back on the nightstand. It was late night, about four bells into the early morning. She sighed. The impulses were coming on strong. She needed something to distract herself.

Roll out of bed and onto the floor.

She grunted in irritation, sitting up in her bed. There had to be something better she could do. There had to be something more constructive.

Go outside and climb the house.

Hali paused, considering it. She could do that. That was a good idea, or, at least, not a bad one. She began to get dressed, throwing on her adventuring gear, then, silently so she wouldn’t cause a commotion, slipped out of the house, climbing up, as she had many times before, until she was perched atop the roof.

JUMP.

Hali paused again, finding herself staring down into the yard. No, that was a very bad idea. That would hurt. It definitely wouldn’t kill her, but it would hurt. She’d hurt enough. She went to sit down, to anchor herself a bit better to resist the feeling building in her legs of preparing to actually do so.

The Chocobo House. A stain on the Goblet, and something for which she and the Crawfords shared a mutual hatred. It was ugly. It was stupid. It made no sense.

She swallowed hard as the thought came like the crashing tide over a drowning woman, Break in. Okay, but what then? She didn’t know. For a time, it was enough to keep her on the roof, just staring at it. She hadn’t had a night this bad in a while. Break in. But what then?

Before she realised what she was doing, she’d opted to climb down and take a walk. She would check out the house, take a look at it up close, maybe even peek in a window or two. It wasn’t a big deal to do that, right?

Lock picks. She had lock picks. Of course, she had lock picks. Why not use them? The practice would be helpful, right? Maybe that would be part of her training. Maybe she could get a leg up on it. It’s not as if it was something she hadn’t done many times-

She stopped, a hand clutching her lock picking kit tightly. Is this how she was going to spend her night, giving into her bizarre impulses? Was she just just going to start breaking into homes again? What then? Would she start stealing their things like she used to? She waited in the shadows cast by the moon, thinking silently on the questions she’d begun asking herself, eyes owlish in the cool, brisk Thanalan night.

Yes. She was. With that decision, she picked the lock to the door and let herself into the dark interior of that hideous house. Why stop now?

By daybreak, she was out and gone, already tucked safely away in her room again, three new books on her desk, two in Doman about old ninja clans, one an Eorzean cookbook. A box of expensive cigars rested next to them, and by it, a set of knives, brand new and still in a velvet-lined box.

Perhaps she was mad, and perhaps this was wrong, but to keep herself safe, she had to humour the lesser of the evils that had once again become so intrusive.

#hali naras #hali #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #goddamned chocobo house #blamung #roleplay #backstory #intrusive thoughts #thievery

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maedarakat · 8 years ago

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Margin for Error - Chapter 7

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 - Part 6

Ruff groaned irritably as she dunked the next dish into greasy, sudsy water. It's not so bad, just a small pile left, then you don't have to even think about dishes until after dinner, she told herself. You can do it.

It wasn't that the task was particularly hard, it was just unpleasant. Globs of oil skimming in the water's surface, damp drying towels, mysterious floating debris in the lukewarm cloudy water that bumped against her submerged hands . . .

She. Hated. Doing. Dishes.

It was even worse this morning, when the water couldn't seem to stay heated. Fishlegs' idea of dropping dragon-heated rocks into the tub was far better than waiting for a pot to boil over the fire, but it could use some fine tuning; those heated rocks hadn't lasted very long against the frigid temperature of the well water. The tub had barely stayed hot enough to allow Ruff scrub the bacon grease off the skillet. And now her sponge resembled a wet lump of black lard. Ugh, gross.

It was impossible to clean off the dishes any longer like this - maybe she could go out on the deck and summoned a dragon to give the water a friendly little blast. Ruff was already hearing the sound of big wings. Was that Hookfang?

She saw the big orange dragon and hurried to flag him down, nearly tripping over a box that someone had placed in the doorway. A box full of dishes . . . greasy, moldy, crusty dishes - even a scorched pot or two. Who had -

"Hi!"

Seething, she spun around on the owner of the voice.

"Hi, Snotlout!" Ruff greeted through her teeth, oozing with dangerously false sweetness. "What's all this?"

"Oh, well, Astrid told me earlier to grab all the hoarded plates us guys hadn't brought back to the kitchens so they could be cleaned."

"I believe she asked us all to do that a month ago." Ruff iced.

"Yep! And you know what? This morning, I just happened to remember."

Ohhh, she wanted to punch him right in his smug little face. Ruff hoped this meant his yak-pants were ruined.

"How did you even hoard this many dishes?!" she shrieked, throwing her hands up. Honestly, if the situation was any different, she'd be impressed.

Almost half the island's dishes and pots were in this freaking crate. All of them completely disgusting. She held up a soup pot so burnt that its bottom was bulging outwards, utterly mystified. "And how did they get like this?!"

"They aren't all mine, I just took up a collection. You can thank Astrid for that particular masterpiece - I think it's one of her failed cooking experiments. Saw her trying to bury it behind her hut."

"And so you unburied it?!" Ruff screeched in outrage.

"Pretty much. Enjoy! Whoooo! SNOTLOUT!" He hopped into Hookfang's saddle and they flew off, just barely dodging the furiously hurled cook pot.

Ruff let loose a long stream of decidedly unladylike invective.

She fumed at the box, wondering if she could just push it off the deck. Those dishes had been missing for a month - and maybe nobody would notice all the broken crockery on the rocky shore below?

That's how Dagur found her, trying to drag the entire thing toward the railing.

"Huh. Wow, those are some nasty dishes."

"Ack!" Caught in the act, Ruff straightened up to face him. "You saw nothing!"

"Hmmm, nope, pretty sure I saw something almost happen," he teased lightly. Seeing Ruff's crestfallen look, Dagur hastened to reassure her. "It's okay, I actually came to help you do dishes. I figured it isn't fair - you having to do them all alone, just because of me."

Ruff's eyes widened at that, then softened. "Awww, really? You came to help me?" Her smile faltered a bit when she looked back at the crate. "Ugh . . . even if we get the water hot again, it's gonna take all day to do those. And by then it'll be dinner time, which means even more dishes. You sure you don't wanna just look the other way while I chuck them all into the ocean?"

Dagur looked thoughtful, and then suddenly grinned. "Funny you should mention the ocean . . . I think I have an idea."

---------

If there was anyone on Berk who Tuff knew not to push his luck with, Gothi was near the top of the list. The tribe's Völva had a gentle healing touch, but a mouthy patient usually wasn't above receiving a sturdy whack with her staff or even one of her dreaded ear-pinches.

Tuff kept his complaints to a minimum as Gothi's bony fingers pressed and prodded his bruised ribcage, though he couldn't help but squirm. She looked surprised when she found no breaks or dislocated ribs. Tuffnut almost blurted out that he'd already had the latter, but explaining how they been fixed and by whom might cause some problems.

Once her examination was complete, Gothi motioned for him to put his vest and tunic back on and scribbled a message into the dirt. She then hooked one of Gobber's helmet horns with her staff and dragged him over to read it.

"Hey, now! You're awful bossy. Right, I know, you've got things to get on to, well so have I! Grump's going to eat everything in the forge if I don't hurry back."

Gothi looked up at him half-lidded, unimpressed.

"Alright, let's see - she says you'll need a hook - OWW! Sorry, off the hook, doing any heavy chores. And that it's a miracle you don't have anything broken, so try not to do anything stupid and reckless for at least three weeks. You'll have to breath very deeply several times a day to keep from getting ill. It'll hurt, but do it, because coughing when ye get sick will definitely hurt worse."

"Yeah, I hear that," Tuff winced at the very thought. Even sneezing sounded like agony.

Gothi smoothed the dirt with her foot and wrote something else.

"Aside from all that," Gobber translated, "Is there something you should be telling me?"

Tuff blinked, unable to stop the guilty look that crossed his face.

"Ahh. Thought so. Well out with it, then. What've you stolen, or broken, or --" Gobber looked down in surprise as Gothi gave him a light prod toward the door with her staff. She made a dismissive motion with her hand, as though shooing off a chicken.

With a shrug, and a glance at Tuff that suggested it had been nice knowing him, Gobber headed off to visit his hopefully still-standing forge.

Gothi looked at him sharply and drew something in the sand. All at once he realized that this had nothing to do with the fugitive Berserker they were hiding. Tuff stared at the crude arrow sketched in the dirt and swallowed hard.

"Did you dream about the arrows too?" he muttered, looking up at her. "A sky full of black glistening death?"

The Völva went a little pale at that and gripped her staff tighter, leaning against it. Okay, so maybe he'd been a little too dramatic there . . .

It was only a moment of weakness, for Gothi straightened up and nodded briskly at Tuff, patting his shoulder. She gestured for him to get up and go on his way.

"Wait, that's it? That's all you wanted? No details, theories, hypothesis - nothing? Just gracias, mi hijo, buenos dias?"

Gothi gave him a remarkably patient look and then nodded again, gesturing for him to leave. Tuff frowned, but obeyed. He knew he should be honored she even believed him, but being simply dismissed afterwards was upsetting.

Maybe if he and Ruff had been trained officially in spae-craft under a Völva, it might have been different; his input would actually be valued. Either way, he didn't regret learning what he knew from his mother, even if it wasn't considered 'good' magic.

"Hey," Heather greeted him, on the landing with Windshear. "Gobber just told me you're excused from hard labor, which I thought would be good news. So what's with that expression?"

"Eh. It's nothing," Tuff shrugged. "Guess I better go see Mom. Wonder what the Chief meant by her having her hands full?"

"It's nearing harvest season. Are any other members of your family helping out with that?"

He thought about it, and shook his head. "No, Uncle Sven and Cousin Lars have their own fields. Other than the kitchen garden, we have more chickens than crops, so mostly we sell eggs."

Tuff brightened a little. "I'll get to see how Mom's little chickens are doing. Maybe there was a hatching recently. Oh, Heather, I hope it's so - you haven't lived until you've held a soft fluffy little peeper in your hands."

Heather smiled as they walked together toward the Thorston home. "That sounds nice. My village used to have chickens and every morning I'd collect the eggs from my family's coop. I learned to leave the brooding ones alone pretty quickly."

"Too true, Heather. Those proud little mothers certainly know how to bite." Tuff smiled at her until he noticed the melancholy look that passed over his friend's face. She'd been doing better until he'd found Dagur, with the whole missing her family thing. Tuff sighed softly; she and her brother needed to talk.

Both siblings seemed to be holding back information that could help them understand what had happened - with Oswald, with her village. Until Heather felt ready to relive that pain again, she wasn't going to be able to listen, and Dagur wasn't going to make her.

"Have you ever had a rune-reading?" Tuff blurted, startling Heather out of her thoughts. "Just sat yourself down with a nice aromatic cup of tea, while letting someone sing to the Norns and spirits to find all the hidden answers? It can be very motivating. Maybe even soothing, for a lost troubled soul such as yourself."

"Tuffnut, I'm not a 'lost troubled soul'."

"Aren't you?" he asked dramatically, raising one eyebrow. As Heather stared at him flatly, he waggled them ridiculously until she started laughing. He joined in, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they walked.

"Seriously though, you should let my Mom do a reading for you. She's pretty good, and it won't even cost you money. I'll work something out with her." Heather looked a little unsure but Tuff just grinned. "It'll be okay. You could even ask about future loooove. You and Fishy, sittin' in a creek . . . Wait, no, that's not how that goes."

She blushed, but looked a bit more relaxed at that. "You know what, sure. Maybe it could be fun."

"There we go! That way you won't be bored while I help Mom with whatever she needs help with."

Heather nodded and leaned into his one armed embrace. "You and your family seem pretty close," she noted.

Tuffnut shrugged, thinking of who else was waiting at home. "Eh. Most of us. A little more than half at least." His father would be asleep at midday, drunk asleep by the fire in his chair. There shouldn't be any trouble with him while Heather was over.

One could always, always hope.

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

“You ready?” Dagur asked, balancing carefully on Belch’s neck. The Zippleback had agreed to let him ride, though it had taken several mackerel (Belch’s favorite) to warm him to the idea. To be fair, the Berserker and the two-headed dragon did have a rather unpleasant history and Zipplebacks never forgot.

Ruff beamed at him, and eagerly twined the rope around her arm to make sure their load was even. “I was born ready for this!” she crowed.

Dagur grinned back at her and the two of them urged their dragon to swoop down over the ocean, hovering purposefully too close to a breaching Scauldron. It ignored them for a while, but as they persisted to trail it, the Scauldron lifted its head above the water and glowered at them balefully, she needscheeks puffing out.

Ruff and Dagur dropped their cargo directly in the path of boiling spray, letting the rope go slack as they flew up out of the way. The blast hit the net full of soiled crockery full on. Ruffnut whooped as she saw the dirt, sludge and grease run off the dishes and pots, splattering into the ocean.

“Oh, that is nasty!” laughed Dagur. “I can’t believe they were going to make you clean all that by yourself!”

“Hey, if I get to do it this way?! I want to do dishes all the time! Sign me up!” Ruffnut blew a fond kiss at the Scauldron, which grumbled at them now that they were out of range. She reached back to the saddlebag behind her and pulled out a salmon, tossing it down to the Scauldron. The water-dragon caught it, and swallowed the fish whole. It looked up at them expectantly, waiting for more.

“Hey there, pretty boy! Can you do me one more solid and fire some hot water again?” Ruff asked sweetly. “There’s more salmon in it for you!” The Scauldron made a curious sound but didn’t seem averse to getting more fish, lazily treading its tail through the water as it waited.

Ruffnut shook something over the net – a powder made from dried soap flakes and soda ash. “My mom uses this stuff when she needs to get something really clean. It’s been passed down through the Nut family,” she explained to Dagur.

“Neat! I’d like to meet your family someday.”

“You’d want to meet roughly half my family,” Ruffnut smirked. “The half that isn’t all jerks.”

She again blew kisses at the Scauldron, thinking of the one she’d met and helped so long ago. It obligingly sucked up some more water and blasted the boiling liquid directly at the net, causing even more sludge and slime to dribble out.

“Alright! Here you go, scale-baby!” Ruff called lovingly, and tossed another couple salmon down.

The Scauldron snapped them up and turned to swim off with its prize. She made sure to save some for Barf and Belch, who were obviously getting jealous of the strange dragon.

On the way back to the island they dipped the net into the ocean and dragged it through the currents to fully rinse everything. “If all that doesn’t get these clean, nothing will,” Dagur shrugged.

Sure enough, the dishes were all but sparkling in the sun as they flew high enough to pull them out of the water. Ruff let out another whoop of victory. “Best. Chore. Ever!”

Dagur smiled at her, impressed. “You’re really good at training Scauldrons.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t train him. We just did each other a favor. One time Tuff befriended a Typhoomerang just by yakking at it. It ended up saving our butts from a forest fire, but didn’t stick around. I don’t know how he does it – he just talks and talks and somehow dragons like him enough not to eat him. I just make sure to always have lots of fish on hand.”

“True. Never met a dragon who doesn’t love fish.”

“Well, we have! It's called the Whispering Death. Those things don’t like anything. Tuff’s impossibly in love with them – I can’t even tell you the number of times I’ve had to drag him away from trying to hug one.” Ruffnut gave an exaggerated sigh. “Thank Loki he’s moved on to chickens. I can handle chickens.”

Dagur smiled, shaking his head fondly. “I’m glad you two get along so well.”

“We don’t all the time, but I get what you mean. After we put the dishes away, there’s a few hours before dinner. Wanna check out our boar pit?”

The Berserker perked up. “You guys have a boar pit!? Uh, yeah I want to check it out!”

Ruff cackled in delight as they flew back to the Clubhouse. “This is gonna be awesome!”

-----------

Tuff must have missed her more than he realized, for the moment he saw that familiar shape clad in vivid colors, he quickened his step.

His mother was a broad-shouldered woman who seemed to like wearing the brightest of colors - if only to flaunt that she could easily make her own dyes and dress like the noble woman she wasn't. Her rainbow rags cheapened the otherwise expensive indigos, reds, and purples that upper class families preferred, especially when worn for doing laundry in the front yard.

The outrage seemed to amuse Madge Thorston greatly; anytime Tuff had seen villagers openly scorn her clothing in the market square, she had stood up straight and laughed for an uncomfortable length of time in their faces.

His mother was proud, brave, and strong. Nothing could bring her down, make her submit, or stop her from doing exactly as she pleased.

Well, maybe except for her husband.

That explained why she was out in the yard even past noon, face and hands reddened from the cold and scrubbing linens across a board. Tuff grinned at her as she looked up, expression changing from annoyance to surprise as she recognized her son.

"Oh!" Madge dropped the sheet back into the pail and scooped Tuff up in a bear hug as though he weighed no more than a straw. "Ha! My scrawny son has come home! I'd half-thought you were Mrs. Nygenskar, back to pester me about her damned missing chickens."

She promptly pinched Tuff's ear between finger and thumb, causing him to yowl. "A good thing you weren't, because then I really would have popped you one. Why'd you have to be so terrible at stealing, getting caught all the time? Now everyone thinks we're thieves. Thieves!"

Heather glanced over at a full milk pail that had the Hofferson crest carved on its side and bit her lip.

"Well, Mom, we sort of - I mean, that's our thing. 'The family that nicks together, sticks together.' It's our motto," Tuff answered.

His mother let him go. "Stick out your tongue," Madge said sharply. Tuff groaned but obeyed, and she flicked it hard enough to make him cringe. "That's for having loose lips in front of a new face."

"Oh, uh, my name's Heather," the 'new face' ventured. Madge turned to look at her appraisingly. "Your son was telling me you did rune-readings?" Heather glanced at Tuff for help. He rather unhelpfully gave her a thumbs up.

"Hmm. You came for a reading, did you? Having some trouble with a certain family member?"

"Um, yes- how did you know?" Heather stammered, shocked.

"The Nut knows, my dear. Also, I've seen the same look on my daughter's face since the pair of them were born. Your brother has you at wits end just by being near, and on top of all that there's a whole different mess to sort out. Very well, there's time for tea and a reading. How much coin can you bear to part with?"

Yep. Blunt and to the point. That was Mom at her finest.

"Actually, since Heather's technically adopted family, I was thinking I could pay for her first time," Tuff interjected, coming to his friend's rescue.

Madge raised an eyebrow, thinking for a long moment. "Fine. You've done well enough making effective staves(1), so I'll have three more. One for the chicken coop against predators and thieves. Then I want two new ones for the house, one to ward against financial ruin. Another against violence.

"Carve the two into beams upstairs, but don't wake your father. I'll not have him running his mouth off at anyone else today."

Her words were sharp, but Tuff could easily hear the affection in them. "Okay, I can do that, Mom." He darted forward to hug her, and was pleased when she rested her hand on his head.

"Good, now get to it." Madge swatted the small of his back as he ran toward the house. Tuff heard her turn to Heather, who was waiting nervously. "Now my dear, do you like your tea sweet or spicy?"

Yeah, she was in good hands. Tuff knew he'd have at least an hour to carve the staves and sneak some stored bedding and clothing out the window. Hardsell would sleep through everything and he probably wouldn't even have to talk to him.

He carefully pushed open the door, only halfway before the hinges would squeak, and slipped inside, just as carefully easing it closed.

A thick hand palmed the door, just over Tuff's head, shoving it closed with a solid thunk.

Tuffnut froze as breath touched the back of his neck and he failed to register the usual snores by the fireplace.

"Welcome home," Hardsell said flatly, looking anything but pleased.

Tuff turned his back to the door and grinned as brightly as he could manage. "Hey, Pop. How've you been? I see you got your beard trimmed a few months ago. Looks good. Real good." Tuffnut's grin was strained but genuine, and his clasped hands were the only sign he was inwardly screaming.

Hardsell gave a snort and gripped the back of Tuff's neck, steering the boy toward the fireplace and the chairs that sat next to it. "Sit."

It wasn't a request.

Tuff stifled his dread and obeyed, heart pounding a little fast. Only two things could ever get Hardsell to stand up of his own volition: Needing to refill his mead mug and 'putting people in their place.' Usually with a fist or well-aimed kick. Cutting words were also a given.

Gods, no wonder his mother was outside. Probably spending her nights in the warm family bath-house too.

"For whatever reason, you're loose in Berk. Without your sister. I take it she isn't involved in whatever disaster you plan to cause. Definitely the smarter twin."

"Oh, definitely - most definitely -" Tuff agreed, and because his anger was faster than his logic, he eased right into sass mode. "By the way, excellent job coherently stringing together more than three words - you must have switched to the alcohol-free mead."

Hardsell chuckled at him, humorlessly. Then he flung the contents of his mug into Tuffnut's face.

Tuff yelped in pain and wiped at his smarting eyes. The liquid stung terribly, but not like mead . . .

"That's vinegar, boy. Gothi's prescription for a failing liver is apparently to drink vinegar. One mug of tea in the morning, then the rest of the day and night -"

Hardsell looked at his mug and paused for too long. Tuffnut considered getting out of his chair and hiding beneath it, but of course he moved far too late.

The heavy mug hit him as he flinched down, shattering against the back of his chair. Tuff yelped as the ceramic shards flew everywhere, piercing skin and scattering unpleasantly across the wooden floor. He remained seated, trembling as his father loomed over him.

"As I said. Vinegar. Made from last year's apple harvest, I believe. It doesn't taste very good, but my mind has never been clearer. Your old man is going to be changing this family's fortune, boyo. Starting with you."

"Me?" Tuffnut asked, raising an eyebrow. He was terrified already, but he refused to give his father the satisfaction of admitting that. "Ah, I get it! This is another one of your inspiring 'get a job' lectures. That's okay, because I'm actually already employed as a Dragon-Rider of Berk. I personally don't think I can do any better, but I'm so flattered you do. I'll keep that forever in my heart. Now if you'll excuse me -"

Tuff's attempt to leave was met with a cuff to the head and he was all but thrown back into the chair. "Stay seated, I'm not done."

Well, this was just fantastic. The youth obeyed and remained quiet as Hardsell continued. Nervous fingers tapped against the frame of the seat and he hoped the man couldn't hear them.

"Your sister will bring the family money in her own way - by means of her marriage. Though she's proven too ugly to capture the attention of Chief Stoick's son, there are plenty of rich men looking for a younger bride to keep them warm this coming winter."

Tuffnut's fingers curled into fists. He hated when Hardsell insulted Ruff - especially because he only did it when she wasn't here. Cowardly didn't describe half of it.

As for forcibly marrying her off? Yeah, sure, good luck to the poor idiot that agreed to be her groom. Had Hardsell forgotten they had dragons? They could fly away from anything he threatened. Still though, incredibly uncool. Tuff held his tongue, aware he was being provoked. Hardsell took another drink and once more focused on Tuffnut.

"But you . . . you'll never amount to anything. You've no future. Why waste money on a bride for you? Would you even know what to do with one?"

Ah, the classic narrow-minded insults about his manliness he'd come to expect.

Tuff snorted, almost amused at the predictability. He didn't take the bait, putting on an air of boredom. Small beads of blood were still sliding down his face, turning gradually into streaks and stains. He focused on the little cuts on his face, absently picking out bits of debris from the shattered mug.

"Your cousin Lars - now there's a boy deserving of a girl. So we'll trade you for one. There was a visitor from afar who visited one of our family elders. Seems he's in search for a boy, about your size and build, with long blond hair and a Berkian accent. Seems this 'boy' owes some of his men quite a bit of gambling money."

Hardsell glowered at Tuff, who just shrugged. "I don't owe money to anyone. And I'd never gamble anything if there was a chance of losing. I'm not that stupid. If I was, Ruffnut wouldn't let me be."

"Hmm. Well, he's willing to do a trade anyhow. The boy in question's whereabouts, for one of his men's eligible daughters to marry your cousin."

Uneasily, Tuffnut looked up. "Why exactly would he want this 'boy'? I mean, if he's owed money, wouldn't it make more sense to just ask for a dowry?"

"Oh, we didn't pry. It's a good enough trade for me. He can decide how useful you'd be when you're his. You know what they say, boy; one man's garbage is another man's gold."

Okay, that had hurt. Tuff glowered. "That's it, I'm not buying it anymore. There's no possible way the family can sell me or trade me - to anybody - if I don't want to go. I'm a Dragon-Rider; I help defend Berk - you can't just send me away like I'm worth nothing!"

"You're only worth nothing to me, boyo. But you must be worth quite a bit to the men you owe all that gold to."

"I told you I haven't been gambling! They aren't after me!"

"Who else would make such trouble? Was it your sister, then? Perhaps you'd prefer to blame that older, more successful cousin of yours -"

Tuff scowled, growing angrier. "Don't you even try to bring Ruff or any of my totally awesome cousins into this - they're completely innocent! Lars, on the other hand . . ."

Hardsell cuffed him again, making Tuff flinch down and cover his head. "You bite your lying tongue - Lars is the son I wish I'd had."

Tuffnut growled in frustrated anger, his emotions finally getting the better of him.

"Oh, poor you, you got me and Ruff! So sad! Not like you did any work to raise us anyway - you just sat there and drank for twenty years! And now - all because someone cared enough to finally force you to quit - you're in a bad mood and you're taking it out on me and Ruff, and even Mom! Your crappy liver is not my fault!"

"Really? Isn't it?" Hardsell snarled. He gripped Tuff's bleeding face harshly, thumb smearing across a cut. "Maybe letting such a disappointment live after it was born and not exposing it to the bitter cold is the reason I started drinking in the first place!"

Tuff lost his defiant sneer and simply crumbled, devastated. He glared through it, trying to will away the hot tears filling his eyes.

His father was full of shit; there was no way he'd actually go through with this or that the family was planning to. Hardsell was simply trying to hurt him, as usual.

Well, he'd fucking succeeded.

Even now, the man was watching him carefully for a reaction, so obviously itching for a reason - any reason - to hurt Tuff even further. The youth decided not to give him one and simply got up, pushing past the bigger man to go upstairs, to the loft where he and his sister used to sleep.

Hardsell said nothing, save for chuckling and sitting back down.

Somehow that hurt even worse.

Tuffnut took a few moments to get his head together, and gripped the dragon-toothed necklace around his throat. It was times like these he really missed having his sister with him. She would have known the exact thing to say to make that jerk pucker his lips shut.

After a few deep breaths, he took a knife out of his pocket and began to carve a stave into the beam above the stairs. His hands were shaking badly; he nearly cut himself twice and once almost dropped the knife entirely.

Still, he managed to carve the first - a protection circle with symbols warding off ruin. He began to make four marks within the circle - one for every member of their family. Mom, Ruffnut, himself, and . . .

The tip of the blade was digging into the wood, ready to make the mark for his father, but Tuffnut was unwilling to commit to it. A bead of red blood dripped into his eye and he wiped it away, staring at the smear of red on his fingers.

Bright red, just like . . .

There was the memory of warm arms around him, of kind words and a sincere smile.

Tuff's eyes spill over suddenly and with no warning. He refused to make one sound of misery, instead carving the fourth mark.

Not for Hardsell, but for Dagur.

Let the house and land wights and all the Gods protect Dagur from evil; his father could be ripped to pieces by a draugr for all he cared. Or better yet, a hill-lurking troll. Ooh, or drowned by a nokken under the ice floes - yeah, that would be fine by him. He couldn't imagine his twin being all that upset either.

Tuffnut carved the second stave his mother had asked for, against violence. It was exactly the same - he made the fourth mark on Dagur's behalf and left Hardsell unprotected.

Though Odin Allfather may frown on him for his lack of duty toward his father, Tuff knew in his heart that Loki was standing just behind Odin's throne, giving him a sly grin and a thumbs up.

He put the knife away and wiped furiously across his eyes, hitching quietly as he entered the empty bedroom. Tuffnut would need bedding and a pillow and shirts. He went to the far end of the room and opened a cedar chest.

The nicest shirt he found that would fit Dagur's frame - dark blue linen and seldom worn - was rolled up and hidden in a goose-down quilt his grandmother had sewn.

It didn't matter who it used to belong to. As far as Tuff was concerned, it was Dagur's now.

Tuff also stuffed a pillow and a fur-lined brown vest into the roll; surely his erstwhile roommate would appreciate the additional warmth. He found a set of his grandfather's throwing knives as well, and stuffed the leather-wrapped bundle into his belt. Hardsell would eventually know they were missing, but Tuffnut refused to give him the chance to sell them.

He climbed out the window and onto the roof, letting the rolled goods gently tumble down to rest over the frame of the chicken hut below. Tuffnut eased himself down as quietly as he could, knowing Hardsell might see him out the kitchen window.

He couldn't risk it. With the sour mood his father was in, he wanted no further encounters - not today, at least. Tuffnut watched the window warily for signs of movement within, and relaxed when nothing in darkness stirred. Probably sucking down another mug of vinegar by the fire.

Might as well do the last stave then; it'd be quicker than the others. Tuffnut pulled out his knife and made short work of it, scratching a mark for everyone of his mother's six (no, wait, nine?) chickens.

One of the hens burbled at him while he worked and Tuff smiled at her. He clucked back and was reaching in to stroke her white feathers when she flapped her wings in sudden alarm. Tuffnut had no time to react as a hand seized the back of his neck and pulled him away from the coop.

For a moment he strangled on the leather cord of his necklace, oddly afraid it would snap, then gasped as he was shoved down to hit the hard packed earth. Tuffnut's ribs started screaming and he gave an abortive moan, curling around them.

He didn't bother looking up at his attacker. He didn't need to.

The bed roll was dropped in the dirt beside him and shaken open, all the goods falling out. Hardsell, pulled out the blue shirt. "Hmm. A gift from your mother to me, when we first met. She dyed it herself."

He tossed it back on the pile as though it meant little; no, the reason he cared at all was because it was his and Tuffnut had attempted to steal it. That was reason enough for Hardsell to continue, but he also went for Tuff's belt, pulling away the throwing knives. "And these were my father-in-law's. I'd wondered where they'd gotten to."

If Hardsell was trying to make Tuff ashamed and submissive, he was barking up the wrong tree. That ship had already sailed.

"Oh, I can tell you that. It got thrown carelessly in a trunk upstairs, during all those years you held down a chair in front of the fire, drunk out of your mind," Tuffnut sneered.

A pair of hands gripped Tuff's upper arms, hauling him to his feet, and giving him a rough shake. "This isn't something you'd steal for yourself. That shirt wouldn't fit you, or even the Ingerman boy. You're hiding something."

Tuff winced but remained defiant. "Nope, I was just going to cut it up into rags. The outhouse on the Edge is all out of good paper."

"Lying spawn of Loki." One of those hands began to twist Tuff's arm, putting strain on his shoulder. "The vest, the shirt, the knives . . . even the extra bedding. They're for someone. Who?"

Tuffnut whined as his shoulder started to genuinely hurt.

"Let go-" he gritted out, taking back every wish he'd ever made that his father would stop being a drunken unmoving lump and do something. In retrospect, being a drunken lump was preferable to this.

Hardsell only continued, with calm purpose. Was it the mead that had kept him calm for so long? All this time, had it been merely dulling the man's hatred of him?

Tuff's shoulder burned with pain and he couldn't help the sobbing plea that tore past his lips.

-------

Madge had helped. She really had.

Not so much with casting the runes and telling her the secrets of the Norns - though that was helpful too if you really believed in that sort of thing. Rather, the Thorston matriarch had a level head, a wise outlook on life . . . and lots and lots of experience when it came to talking to estranged family members.

If Heather could boil down the whole experience to one phrase, it would be that seeking out the truth is far more cathartic than blind forgiveness could ever hope to be.

"Usually," Madge had said, blowing across her teacup, "You'll end up mad at yourself for not asking the truth sooner. You deserve to know it, certainly. Your brother deserves to be given the chance to tell you. There are reasons he did what he did, not excuses - but reasons.

"I think it's worth noticing that he's never once begged to explain away his actions. He knows what he ended up doing was wrong, no matter what information he was or wasn't told."

A strange statement, but Heather hadn't had time to ask anything further; a neighbor had showed up unannounced to argue over something missing. From the sound of the raised voices, it was going to take a while. After twenty minutes of waiting, she'd set down her tea and walked politely away, heading toward the house to see if Tuff was finished yet.

When the front door did not open she, walked around to the chicken yard.

For half a moment, Heather stood there utterly frozen in shock.

Seconds later, she was bending back two of the man's fingers - forcing him to let go of Tuffnut. She used the grip on Hardsell to spin him and twist the man's arm against his back, slamming him into the wall of the coop.

"Don't. Move," Heather hissed, beyond incensed. Her axe's edge pressed against his jugular. She didn't know or really care who this stranger was, but he was no doubt responsible for the blood and marks she saw on her friend's body.

"Tuff, grab your things, okay?"

"Yeah," came the ragged answer. "H-Hold on." Tuffnut managed to kneel, gathering up the scattered items and re-rolling them. He stood with difficulty, and bundled it under his arm. She saw him looking helplessly at a smaller wrapped parcel of leather further away on the ground.

"I got it." Heather let go of Hardsell to snatch it up, never looking away from the dark-haired man, who glowered right back. He didn't keep it up, eventually lowering his eyes from her piercing glare. "Keep walking, Tuffnut."

Heather didn't sheathe her axe and kept looking over her shoulder until they came around to where she'd last seen Madge. After one look at them, the woman turned from her argumentative neighbor mid-sentence and moved swiftly toward her son.

Mrs. Nygenskar took a long gander over the apparent situation and walked away, obviously finding gossip more valuable than her chickens.

"I may actually kill him this time," Madge murmured, looking him over. Tuff swallowed hard and fell into the woman's arms, dropping the roll to hug her tightly.

"Stay somewhere else for a while?" he begged. "I think Pop's gone insane."

Heather felt her stomach twist. Part of her had suspected, but hearing it confirmed was still awful.

"Tch. Why would I leave my house? I can handle him. Hardsell doesn't raise a hand to me, and . . . Gods, I'm sorry, boyo. I thought he'd be hard asleep." Madge sighed and dipped a rag into the bucket of clean rinse water, gently dabbing at the cuts on Tuff's face. "You don't worry for another second on me; get back to that base of yours before dark. Let the grown-ups handle all of this."

Tuffnut hitched and looked up at his mother imploringly. The desperate worry on his face made Heather's chest hurt.

"Neither of us want to leave you in any danger," Heather supplied for him. She still had yet to sheathe her axe. That was how much Hardsell had alarmed her.

"Oh, I won't be. I'm fixing to kick him out for a couple nights. Let him miss the fire's warmth and sleep on the benches in the Great Hall. I'm sorry he laid hands on you. I promise it won't happen again - he'll be on good behavior by the time you both visit for Snoggletogg."

Tuff nodded, smiling ruefully. Heather wondered how many times he'd heard that same promise and her heart ached for her friend. She put an arm around Tuff's shoulders and finally put away her axe.

"You two have a safe journey back. Don't cause more trouble than you can handle, and tell your sister the same. Give her a hug from me, whether she wants it or not. Heather, I hope our short time together was helpful."

"It was . . . thank you." And please be safe. Heather returned Madge's smile and turned, wordlessly coaxing Tuffnut to walk beside her. They would go to Gobber's forge and see if Hiccup was anywhere near done with the wing prosthetic.

Tuffnut was quiet for a moment as they walked, occasionally shivering. Heather was inwardly distressed, not having any idea what to say, but her friend solved that for her.

"You, uh . . . you remember that time we blew up that ship together?" he asked, lightly jostling her shoulder. "That was fun, huh?"

She looked confused, then realized he was changing the subject. "Yeah, it was - Tuff, should we take you to see Gothi? Is your shoulder -"

Tuffnut pulled away from her questing hands and rolled his shoulder, forcing it back in with a small crunch. The resigned pain on his face showed Heather he was far too used to this. "It hurts more when other people put it back in," he explained, not meeting her eyes.

Heather gazed at him, understanding, and drew him into a hug. "If you don't want to talk about it, it's fine. Just know that I'm always here if you do."

Tuff made a small weak noise, face muffled in her hair, but he didn't push her away. "Okay," he whispered shakily. She let him go and he raised his face, expression worryingly blank as he fought back tears. "We should find Hiccup. I think I've had enough of Berk for one day." Tuff tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a dry sob.

Heather linked her arm with his, and walked with him in silence to Gobber's forge.

- Tbc

Notes:

1.) Staves are sigils - in Norse magic, a passed-down or self-designed symbol that is made for a purpose. There are staves for binding prisoners, staves against getting lost, or drowning - even staves for picking locks! Madge has taught the Twins all her own staves, passed down through the Nutt family, and how to make their own.

Here is a link for further examples and information: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icelandic_magical_staves

#tuffgur #dagur the deranged #tuffnut #rtte

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