#its like a mountain of minute differences that gradually water them down | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

littlefreya · 4 years

Text

The Way To Hell - Final Chapter

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped while a trained assassin is sent to bring him down.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k (including epilogue)

Warnings: 18+, smut, boomer Walker, some fluff, sexual intercourse, cock-warming, mentions of torture, implied insanity, slight mentions of gore, violence, murder, mass-shooting and death. Please proceed with caution

A/N: The ending is here and I hope I did it justice, I hope I did right by you. I will reblog my kudos, but first I must thank @agniavateira for being my beta and a source of inspiration and @raspberrydreamclouds for the cover art.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Now allow me to die out of stress and anxiety.

Title: See You in Hell

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs.

”Angel, With those angel eyes Come and take this earth boy Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?”

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure.

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?”

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body.

“August...” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying...”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance.

“Stay, princess...”

“Don’t leave...”

“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still very much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them.

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron.

“You’re taking it so well, princess,” he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?” he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately.

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin.

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

“That’s my good girl.”

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them.

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid.

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug.

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel.

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently.

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare.

But her laughter soon dies.

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint.

“Time to fall, angel.”

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death.

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.”

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker.

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

‘Stop!’

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station.

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his.

But none of these images appear before her.

‘You can’t escape this.’

Her screams shudder through the entire floor.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.”

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull.

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache.

‘Your angel of destruction.’

“She’s just an asset.”

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks.

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction.

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them.

A true king among peasants.

“Is that?...”

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck did he pass security???”

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

“Stop! Hands in the fucking air, Walker!”

‘Ah, took them long enough.’

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright.

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him.

“Someone call Director Sloane down here right now, she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face.

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue.

‘If she’s still alive…’

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in.

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air.

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she?

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever.

‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades.

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

Her corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut.

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them.

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her.

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms.

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…”

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids.

“I am here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death.

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.”

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest.

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?”

‘Tell her.’

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest.

“Tell me,” she begs him.

‘She needs you to say it.’

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips.

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.”

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.”

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, his by free will.

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue.

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.”

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out.

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

‘Walker.’

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision.

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely.

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her.

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her.

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim.

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god.

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world.

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been.

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave.

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming.

‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns.

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes.

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined.

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is our cause, our better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal.

‘How is she even real?’

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp.

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky.

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss.

Epilogue.

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump.

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings.

“Loki!”

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I'm not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose.

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir.

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles.

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove.

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond.

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck.

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’

_______________________________

Additional Notes: Song lyrics by Elvis Presely - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inchs Nails - We’re in this together.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker x ofc #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction #the way to hell #henrycavill

605 notes · View notes

writinglizards · 4 years

Text

Can I be Close to You?

Summary: Geralt's been dealing with Hanahaki for a while. Jaskier comes down with it, too.

OR, what happens when you're in love with your best friend and your best friend (apparently) falls for another?

This one is for @witcher-and-his-bard both because she’s had a blah day and because this whole fic is her fault anyway. Hope you enjoy it, darling!

Read on Ao3

Witchers don't love. They may feel more emotions than they let on, may be fond of people and places and animals, but they don't love. Not like humans do. Hanahaki isn't something witchers get.

Except Geralt is, once again, proving to be a very stunning exception to every witcher rule.

It doesn't happen all at once. A cough here, a shortness of breath there. It starts after the fiasco with the djinn, when Geralt realized he really would do anything for his bard. As he parts with Jaskier in the fall and treks up the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen, he knows something is off, but what, he doesn't know.

He spends a long winter mostly normally. There's training and chores and long nights playing gwent. He still feels a little breathless, sometimes, but it's not getting worse, so he doesn't really think about it.

He coughs up the first petal on his way down the mountain that spring. It's delicate and butter yellow and just like that, everything slots into place. Hanahaki. Buttercups. Fuck.

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

Hanahaki is a slow death, everyone knows. How beautiful, to love so deeply, so completely that it consumes you. How tragic, for that love to be unspoken, unreturned. The poets, the romantics, love Hanahaki. It's the physical embodiment of that which they wish to put into words.

Geralt thinks it's fucking annoying.

For the few years following that first petal, it's...almost okay. He coughs, sometimes. His chest hurts, sometimes. He can't quite catch his breath, sometimes. But it's all rather rare. Jaskier hardly even notices, even when he's discreetly coughing petals into his fist. It hurts. It's fine.

Gradually, the coughing becomes normal. The petals get more common. It's no longer a single petal, but multiple ones. Partial blooms. Whole buds. He may be able to conceal the little buttercups still, but he won't be able to hide the illness from Jaskier much longer.

His chest hurts near constantly, the spring he comes down the mountain and knows Jaskier will find out. He'd been unable to keep it from Eskel this year and the look he'd given Geralt had been...painful. Upsetting.

Tell him, he'd said, don't make me lose another brother, Geralt. We can't do this without you.

They'll have to, eventually. There's no way Jaskier could ever love him, not like this, not like Geralt loves him--this fragile, delicate thing in his chest, slowly being consumed by flowers. Geralt wouldn't ask that of him, anyway, to love a monster.

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

They meet up on the path at a no-name village at the base of the Blue Mountains, like always. He's nervous this year--he doesn't want to see the look on Jaskier's face when he finds out, doesn't want the pity he's sure will be there in his gaze. Just thinking about it makes his chest hurt, fills him with a flutter of panic.

Jaskier's already got a room at the inn, as he usually does when he beats Geralt to the little village. Geralt knows because as he'd come in, the innkeep had tipped his head towards the stairs with a smile and Geralt had thanked him, ordered their dinner, and ascended the stairs with a curling warmth in his chest. The minute he smells Jaskier's blood on the air, that warmth turns to ice.

"Jaskier?" He's already pushing the door open and marching in, muscles tight with tension. He's not sure what he's expecting, but finding Jaskier bent over a bowl, vomiting tiny white flowers, hands shaking, isn't it.

Conscious thought clatters to a stop even as he steps forward, slips a gauntleted hand into Jaskier's hair to hold the fringe out of his eyes as he heaves, tears running down his cheeks. He hears his own voice as if from under water shushing and soothing, free hand rubbing gently at Jaskier's back.

When the fit seems to have passed, Jaskier shoves the bowl of bloody flowers away, leans heavily against Geralt's chest, breathing ragged. Geralt wants to ask so many questions. Instead, he waits, holds him upright, lets his breathing calm, lets him wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Ask," Jaskier rasps, not moving.

"Hm?"

"You want to ask, ask." He sounds so, so tired. Geralt wants to bundle him up in his cloak, take him back up the pass to Kaer Morhen, tuck him into his bed. There are so many reasons why he can't do that, but gods does he want to.

"How long?" Hanahaki's a slow disease. For Jaskier to be hacking up whole little buds, tiny unfurled flowers? This is advanced.

The smile Jaskier gives is sharp and painful. His teeth are bloody. "Six months," he says. And that's...that's too fast. It would have started just before the harvest festival and...fuck. Jaskier had been a little too pale, a little too quiet, hadn't he? Had Geralt really missed this?

"Jaskier--"

"I know," he cuts off, finally pushing out of Geralt's hold, crossing the room to the water pitcher. "I know. It's--I've always been one to fall hard, you know?" He does. "And by the time I realized, well--" he shrugs.

He watches as Jaskier rinses his mouth out, spits the now pink water into the ruined bowl, overly casual, and realizes...he can't do this.

"Who is it?" he asks, because he is not about to watch the man he loves die. Everyone loves Jaskier. Whoever this is the bard is pining for? They'll love him back. He's sure of it. They'd be a fool not to.

Jaskier stiffens. "I'm not--Geralt," he sighs hard, doesn't turn around. "Geralt, I'm not going to tell them. It's--it would upset them. It's fine."

"No," he grinds out, "it's not fine." He presses up into Jaskier's space, spins him with a hand on his shoulder. "I refuse to watch you die, Jaskier."

The look he gives him is painful in its hopelessness. It doesn't belong on his face, makes Geralt's chest tight. He can feel the tickle of a cough in response, thinks about how poorly timed a coughing fit would be right now and suppresses it, only just. "Geralt," Jaskier says, voice patient and still a little raw, "They won't love me back. Telling them would only hurt both of us. It's...I'd be okay. Dying for them."

"You shouldn't have to," he says, voice gravel rough.

"It is what it is, Geralt," he sighs, "I just--I just want us to have a normal year, okay? Just a normal year." Geralt hears what he isn't saying. I won't make it to the next one.

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

Despite his reservations, Geralt lets Jaskier talk him into setting out on the path. A normal year, despite the fact nothing about this is normal.

Those differences make themselves known long before the end of the first day. Geralt quickly realizes that Jaskier's lung capacity has been greatly diminished--he struggles to keep up with Roach at even the most relaxed pace, needs frequent and long breaks. Geralt's tempted to offer Jaskier his spot on Roach's back but he has a feeling the offer will be ill-received. A normal year would not involve Geralt catering to Jaskier's wants or needs.

Instead, Geralt deliberately slows their pace, takes frequent breaks, and doesn't point out Jaskier's wheezing or the exhausted way he collapses at the end of the day, even though watching him push himself like this is painful. As if to add insult to injury, he isn't singing, either. He still carries his lute, but it's clear his lungs are too burdened to accomplish even the most gentle of singing. It's...upsetting. And Geralt can see how it weighs on him.

The only silver lining is that Jaskier's so fatigued he doesn't catch on that Geralt's not quite well, either. He's frequently passed out cold when Geralt has his worst fits first thing in the morning, buttercups coming up in clusters, stems and leaves attached. And if his voice is a rougher, a little lower, a little more torn up? Jaskier doesn't seem to notice.

It takes them almost three times as long to reach the next town as it should and it's making Geralt jittery. There's no contract posted, but Jaskier looks bad and Geralt's worried. His own chest is overly tight, his own breathing much shallower than normal, but it doesn't matter when Jaskier looks ready to faint on the spot, too pale, too quiet. He spends the last of his coin from the previous fall on a room and a meal and hopes a day's worth of rest will be enough.

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

"Geralt? Do you have a contract?" Jaskier asks the next morning from where he's curled up in the single bed, groggy and hardly awake.

"No."

"Uh, okay...?" Jaskier yawns, which devolves into a coughing fit. Geralt's head snaps up from where he's sitting with his steel sword balanced on his knees, partially meditating. He's about to cross the room and do...something when Jaskier holds up a hand in placation. Geralt stills, watches with a sick feeling in his chest as Jaskier coughs and coughs and coughs. It subsides only when he spits out another fistful of tiny jasmine flowers into his hand, collapsing back on the bed.

"Okay?" Geralt asks, can hear the tightness in his own voice.

"Mm-hm," Jaskier groans, sounding anything but.

Geralt takes a deep, steadying breath in preparation to start the argument again--who is it, Jaskier? Let me help you--but Jaskier starts talking again before he can.

"Why'd you let me sleep in if there's no contract?" He sounds like he's been gargling with rocks. Geralt watches as he thrusts the balled-up fist of flowers over the edge of the bed, lets the bloody, torn things drift to the floor. They look the way Geralt feels--ruined, discarded. His own chest aches.

"You need the rest," he says. Jaskier tenses. Geralt knows it's the wrong thing to say but it's the truth.

"I don't need you to baby me, Geralt. You've never cared before."

That's not true, he thinks but doesn't say. He cares so, so much.

"Jaskier--"

"No," he cuts Geralt off, pushing up onto an elbow to level him with a look that cuts like a knife, "you don't get to do this to me. I choose this, Geralt."

"I--"

"This is where I want to be. On the Path." The with you goes unsaid, but Geralt can feel it hang in the air, the shape of it. He sucks in a breath that catches in his throat, throws him into a coughing fit.

"Geralt?" The worry in Jaskier's voice, the sudden tone shift, is painful. He wants to reassure him, but he's choking on buttercups and blood, stems and leaves. He hears him rise from the bed, stumble over beside him. Gently, Jaskier shifts his sword out of the way, sets it aside. He runs his hand down Geralt's back in a soothing gesture. "Geralt, what's--?" He spits the first of the flowers, still hacking. Jaskier goes very, very still. The hand on his back slows before balling into the fabric, grip tight.

"Ask," Geralt rasps between coughs, an echo of Jaskier's own words a few weeks prior.

"How long." His voice is hauntingly devoid of emotion. Geralt coughs again, chest aching as he brings up another bloody bouquet. He pants through it, gasping for air.

"Since the djinn," he breathes out weakly. Jaskier makes an awful noise.

"Oh, that's--" he cuts himself off, makes that same strangled little sound in the back of his throat again. "That's a long time," he says finally. He thinks Jaskier sounds strange, but his head is spinning from the lack of oxygen and it's hard to tell.

He doesn't respond, just focuses on calming his breathing. He doesn't want another coughing fit if he can help it. The back of his neck feels hot and he knows he's flushed with both exertion and embarrassment.

"I didn't know witchers could get Hanahaki," he says, voice still a little off.

"We don't," Geralt answers. His throat feels on fire, his chest hurts like he's been thrown around by a leshen.

"You do," Jaskier says slowly, "apparently."

"Hm."

It's silent for too long. Geralt finds himself staring blindly at the bloody little buttercups. This is it. Jaskier has to know.

The bunched fist in the back of his shirt eases, carefully. Too carefully. Geralt feels the strain in it. "We need to go see Yennefer," Jaskier says. His voice is also too careful. Carefully controlled, like it usually is when he's performing. Or putting on an act.

"Okay," Geralt agrees. He knows what Jaskier must be thinking--mages can cure Hanahaki, sometimes. It's...painful. Awful. Not something most people want. It's ripping a part of yourself away, the part that loves. Geralt's terrified of it, but he'll do it, if that's what Jaskier wants from him. He knows Jaskier must hate the idea of Geralt being in love with him, especially now that he's in love with another, no way to return it. Geralt's often been ashamed of feeling too much, but this is...worse.

"She'll fix this," Jaskier says, and Geralt can smell the salty tang of unshed tears in the air, "she'll fix this."

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

They spend the rest of the day at the inn. Geralt knows Jaskier's upset, but at what exactly, it's hard to say. He’ll hardly look at Geralt for more than the briefest glances and keeps himself well outside of casual touching distance, which is strange for the normally tactile bard. He's either upset Geralt kept this secret from him, or he's upset Geralt's in love with him. Probably both.

Despite the distance he seems to be forcing between them, he bullies Geralt into bed beside him for the second night, doesn't let him meditate or sleep on the floor as he'd planned.

"Geralt, I know mornings with this are worse when you sleep on the floor. Sleep on the fucking bed."

"What happened to 'don't baby me'?"

"Fuck you, witcher. Get your ass on the bed. And don't hog all the sheets."

They settle, finally. Geralt lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to be hyperaware of Jaskier, curled on his side, back to him.

He dozes off, eventually, to the quiet wheeze of Jaskier's breath, a bubble of anxiety in his chest.

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

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to find the bed beside him empty and cold, the tremble of suppressed sobs and the salty tang of tears on the air. He lays very, very still.

"--'s not fucking fair," Jaskier gasps, sucking in a harsh breath that turns into a hiccupping little sob. "Fuck."

Geralt listens to the hitched breathing that turns into a round of coughs, the wet, hacking sound of little snow-white flowers leaving Jaskier's lips. The way he tries to muffle the sobs, the coughs, with a hand over his mouth. Geralt feels cold. He hates that he's done this to Jaskier, made him this upset. He wishes he could take it back, keep this awful, painful love to himself. Jaskier shouldn't suffer because he can't return what Geralt feels.

After the third coughing fit in the last fifteen minutes, Geralt gives up the pretense of sleep and rouses, rises from the bed.

"'m sorry," Jaskier croaks when Geralt rubs his back, pours him a glass of water from the pitcher. It hurts that Jaskier thinks he needs to apologize. This isn't his fault, after all.

"Back to bed. We've still got a few hours." Jaskier follows, quiet and subdued. He's exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks still wet.

They settle, that sliver of space between them as always. Geralt's just starting to drift when--

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Um--" he trails off. Geralt cracks his eyes open, tips his head to look at Jaskier. He looks miserable. Tired. "--nevermind."

"What do you need, Jask?" he asks, quiet.

"Hold me?" he whispers, eyes fixed firmly on the edge of the sheet. Geralt's heart clenches. "I know it's not fair to ask that of you, but--"

"Come here," Geralt says, voice rough. Jaskier shuffles over, awkward. Geralt curls his arm around Jaskier's back, tugs him over so his head rests on Geralt's chest, ear pressed just above his too-slow heartbeat. He settles his hand on the curve of Jaskier’s hip, tries not to enjoy holding him too much--it’s about comfort, not Geralt.

They're still and quiet for a beat. "Thank you," Jaskier mumbles, voice thick with something Geralt can't name. "I know it's not--just. Thank you."

"Shh. Sleep."

They do.

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

They leave the inn bright and early, after only a single round of awful coughing on Geralt's part. Jaskier's stiff and rigid, watching him hack up the flowers, and Geralt hates that Jaskier knows. This was so much easier to bear when there was still a ghost of a chance he returned Geralt's affections. Now--

"So how are we going to find her?" Jaskier asks, during one of the numerous breaks early in the morning.

"We're not," he says. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, brow pinched in unhappiness. Geralt speaks again before he can get the words out, "We're going to see Triss. She'll know how to find Yen."

"Oh," he deflates. "Don't you, I don't know," he gestures vaguely, "have some magic way of getting ahold of her?"

"A xenovox?" He asks. Jaskier makes a 'whatever' kind of noise that makes Geralt's lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "No. Triss does, though."

"Ah." He doesn't looks happy, per se, but-- "Okay."

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

"Yes, I can get ahold of her for you," Triss says when they track her down. She's still in Temeria, still serving the king. "Or at least, I can leave her a message. She doesn't much care for answering, usually," she laughs.

"Hm." That sounds like Yen.

"Tell her it's urgent," Jaskier pipes up, expression pinched.

"Is there anything I can do? If it's urgent, I mean."

Triss might actually be the better option, Geralt thinks, if he wants this love torn out of him. She's a healer; he knows first hand she has quite the skill. He could--

"No," Jaskier's already shaking his head, "we appreciate your offer, Triss, darling, but it's got to be Yennefer." His voice is strained. He coughs, a tiny thing he suppresses with difficulty. Geralt can hear him holding his breath to stave off the fit.

"Yes," he agrees slowly. He's...not sure why Jaskier's so insistent on it being Yennefer. They don't even like each other, and he's always liked Triss well enough. "Sorry, Triss."

She corners him before they leave. "He's not well." She'd obviously taken notice of the coughing.

"I know."

"I can--" she winces, gestures vaguely. She's offering to tear it out, the love. He knew she'd be the better bet.

"You can ask him, Triss, but I don't think he wants that. He told me he was...okay. Dying for them."

She makes a strangled noise. "Geralt--"

"We're not talking about it."

She's quiet for a long time. "At least take this." She shoves a bottle of something dried at him, "it won't fix anything long term, but it will help. Mix it with some tea." He takes the little bottle, tucks it into his things.

"Thank you, Triss."

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

Geralt's still trying to figure out where to go from here when Yen tracks them down at an inn they've been staying at a few weeks later. He's just finished an easy drowner hunt and they're planning to pack in the morning. The dried herbs from Triss have helped, but they're not a miracle cure. And Jaskier refuses to take them unless Geralt does too.

"Now what about this is urgent?" she asks, stepping out of the crowd to settle at their table beside Jaskier without invitation. The bard splutters, choking on his ale. It sends him into a coughing fit. His hand flashes out across the table and Geralt reaches back automatically, lets him grip him hard as he shakes his way through the hacking. Yen watches silently, eyes wide.

"Shh," Geralt soothes, slips up from his seat to crouch beside Jaskier when he doesn't recover quickly enough, hands still linked. They're starting to draw attention, so Geralt uses his bulk to shield Jaskier from the scrutiny of the room, "it's okay, Jask." Geralt doesn't breathe easy until Jaskier spits up the little fistful of bloody jasmines, panting.

"Oh," Yen says, voice strange.

"'M not--" Jaskier breaks off, clears his throat, grimacing. He flexes his grip around Geralt's hand once before letting go, "It's not about me."

"It should be," she says. Her gaze cuts over to Geralt, the look in her eyes hostile and reprimanding.

"No, Yennefer--" he starts, gaze jumping fast between her and Geralt, "can I talk to you? Alone?" Geralt startles, tries not to show it. Yen glances up at him where he's still standing.

"Go, Geralt. Your bard and I need to have a talk."

"Hm," Jaskier won't look at him, "I'll go check on Roach."

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

He takes his time brushing her down for the second time that day and forces his mind quiet, focuses on getting her hair all laying the same direction. He's...not trying to listen for the swirl of their conversation in the mix from the tavern. It just...kind of happens.

"Jaskier--"

"He knows and he doesn't feel the same, Yennefer. It's...fine."

"He's an idiot, bard. Did you--"

"No, doesn't matter."

"Then why--"

"He's in love with you."

Geralt's focus breaks when his breath catches and dissolves into another coughing fit. The buttercups are painful little reminders, bright and beautiful, even splattered in blood. He gathers them up, tucks them into his pouch for a lack of anything else to do with them. Jaskier thinks he's in love with Yen? Why--

"Geralt," Yen hums, appearing as if summoned by his thought (she very well might be).

"Yen." He turns to face her, leans his weight against the door of Roach's stall. He's still a little short of breath, knows he looks a sight.

She sighs, long-suffering. "I'm only going to ask you this once--why do you think your bard wanted me here?"

He's...not sure what game they're playing here. "He's...unhappy. With me." Her expression pinches and he can tell she's hanging on to her patience with him by a thread.

"Why?"

"Because--" he sucks in a deep breath, hates that he has to say this out loud, "--because I'm in love with him, and he's in love with another," he finishes quietly.

She makes an awful noise, patience snapping, "And how do I factor into that, Geralt?" She's pissed, but Geralt's not sure who at, honestly.

"He wants the Hanahaki gone...doesn't he?" He can't help make the statement a question. Yen looks like she's going to strangle someone (maybe him).

"You're both fucking idiots," she seethes, "and I would normally refuse to have anything to do with this but I promised your fucking bard, so--" she gestures viciously behind her, "lead the way to your room, witcher."

Geralt does, feeling like he's missing something.

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

When they make it up to the room they're renting for the night, Jaskier is there, looking drawn and highly uncomfortable.

"Yen, I told you I didn't need to be here," he mutters. He won't meet either of their gazes.

"No," she says, voice firm, "you do. Now, Geralt," she turns on her heel to face him, "the only way to get rid of Hanahaki--no, don't interrupt me, we're not doing that--the only way to get rid of Hanahaki is to confess your love to the person the flowers are for." He shifts his weight, gaze jumping to Jaskier whose eyes are still downturned, before settling back on Yen. "Who are your flowers for, Geralt?"

He feels breathless, like he might be about to have a coughing fit again. "I'm--"

"I told you they're for you, Yennefer. Don't make him say it. Please."

"Jaskier, I told you to be quiet," she snaps, "who are they for Geralt?" Her gaze never leaves his, a sharp, angry challenge.

"They're not for you," he tells her. It's obviously not quite what she wants to hear, from the way her scowl deepens.

"You're fucking impossible," she tells him, the same time Jaskier makes a harsh little yelping sound. Geralt's gaze snaps to him.

"Geralt, you can't--" he's scrambling up, crossing the room, "you have to tell her, Geralt, or you'll die. Don't make me watch that." The scent of his worry, his panic, is heavy on the air, sour milk and fruit gone rotten. "She'll love you back, Geralt. It's okay."

His chest hurts. It's only partly from the coughing. "Jaskier--"

"Geralt, where are they? Your little flowers?" Reluctantly, he pulls the little handful of buttercups from his pouch, not sure where she's taking this. "Jaskier, they're buttercups," she says, tone harsh. He just makes a painful little noise.

"I know," he says, voice strained, “It’s hardly fair, is it?” His tone is light but obviously forced. Yennefer sighs, changes tactics.

"Jaskier, who are your flowers for?" She asks, gentle. He makes another little noise.

"Yennefer--"

"Did he tell you what he thought you wanted? Why you wanted him to see me?" She doesn't wait for an answer, "he thought you wanted his Hanahaki gone, Jaskier. Ripped out. He was going to let me do that."

"What? Geralt, I wouldn't--why would I--?" There are tears brimming in his eyes, "I'd never ask that of you, Geralt. Why would you think I would?"

"Why do you think I love Yen?" he asks in return. Yen makes a disgusted sound.

"This is enough. Figure yourselves out; I'm leaving. Don't have Triss call me again unless it's a real emergency." In the next breath, she's stepped through a portal. Gone.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's quiet question draws his attention back. He looks-- "Geralt, who is it?"

"Who else would it be?" he finds himself saying, "They're buttercups, Jaskier."

"I thought--" there are tears rolling down his cheeks, "I thought it was so cruel. For destiny to give you buttercups."

"I'm sorry," Geralt murmurs, reaches up to brush the tears away, "I know you don't--"

"You idiot," Jaskier laughs, a wet sound, "mine are for you, too."

Geralt feels the tightness in his chest fade, like heat leeching away in the cold. He hadn't realized how oppressive the blooms had become until they were gone.

He doesn't know what to do with Jaskier looking at him so full of love and relief. It's overwhelming and he can't help himself--he pulls him in for a kiss, slow and gentle, arms around his waist. Jaskier's fingers slip up into his hair, tilt his head to a more satisfactory angle. They only break when their lungs begin to burn, and then it isn't to go very far. Jaskier presses lingering kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Geralt shivers.

"I'd always known you'd kill me, darling," he breathes. Geralt slips his arms a little more securely around his waist, presses a palm flat to the small of his back, kisses down his throat to the open vee of his doublet and the ties of his chemise, temptingly on display.

"'M sorry it took me so long," he says, voice low. Jaskier presses closer in his embrace, winds his arms around his neck. "I was so afraid--"

"I know," Jaskier cuts him off gently, tugs him up for another kiss, slow and unhurried. "I know." When they pull away, Jaskier cups his face in his hands, rubs his thumbs across the arch of his cheekbones, "I was terrified too, love. What a pair we make, hm?"

Geralt hums in response. Jaskier laughs.

"Love you too, darling." He says it light and teasing, but the flowers, the look in his eyes, belie how much he means it.

Geralt swallows hard. "You too," he says, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again, "I love you too, Jaskier." It comes out a little stilted, but the look on Jaskier's face--

He tugs Geralt down into another kiss. "You're entirely too sweet," he murmurs against his lips. And well. Maybe it's not so bad, loving Jaskier when that love's returned. He presses him backward towards the bed, listens to the delighted burst of laughter Jaskier makes as the back of his knees hit the mattress and he collapses backward, dragging Geralt down with him.

No, it's not so bad at all.

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #lizard writes

382 notes · View notes

ckneal · 3 years

Text

Sometimes I need to remind myself that not everyone watched Supernatural with an ongoing gen fic happening in their head, all about the family life of the angels before Chuck’s disappearance and the rise of humanity. And as such, not everyone was constantly compiling stray details thrown out about the angel characters, clustering them together into this rubber band ball of ideas that was just so fun to play with.

I mean, for instance, not everyone took in the way the other angel characters seemed to look down their noses at the cupid characters (who, it’s worth noting, are never once referred to by their individual names, but instead by the human pet name for their category of cherub [which in Lucifer’s case, was certainly framed as an unflattering term], despite Castiel once boasting that he knew everyone in Heaven), and reason to themselves that it was surely because the other angels were jealous. Because obviously, the cupids are given classified information from God himself about what bloodlines he wants to see continued and merged for the sake of his Plan, putting these silly, non-combatant angels on par with the archangels in terms of secret knowledge about what was to come. For the first couple billions of years of existence, while the other classes of angels were sitting around with nothing to do, they all had to watch the cupids happily zipping around the earth, cooing over blue-green algae and gradually coaxing different species into existence with their magic love arrows. And every time a significant milestone was reached, they also had to watch as the insipid little harbingers of love scooped the newborn creature up and raced over to the nearest archangel to excitedly show them their progress, like a little kid with their first art project. And the archangel in question, regardless of which one, would nod encouragingly and smile as the cupid in question babbled about the tiny, tiny lungs this fish had, or the beginnings of feet at the ends of its fins. Even Lucifer, who would also add the additional suggestion to try and give the next one more teeth.

Additionally, not everyone looked at the way that Lucifer was able to just insert himself into Sam’s head from inside the cage, and considered how Azazel needed to visit a specific geographic location to communicate with Lucifer, and even then was only just barely able to do so, and thus came to the conclusion that clearly Michael and Lucifer must have come to an agreement to pool their powers to project Luci’s image into Sam’s head. Which explains why Sam’s special link disappears right after leaving the cage, and also why Michael didn’t interfere when Lucifer was freed, even though season 15 makes it clear that Luci did not sneak quietly out the backdoor. Michael was fully aware who was responsible for the jailbreak, thus leading us to consider that perhaps Lucifer was supposed to turn around and free Michael and Adam in turn, but did not. Thus leading us to imagine Michael spending roughly a year (Earth time) tapping his foot in the cage, until . . .

“He’s not coming back for us, is he?”

And Adam, cracking open a molecule-flavored soda (manifested courtesy of Michael), snickers. “Nope. Told you not to trust him.”

“Right. . .” Michael exhales, looks around for a moment, settles on side-eyeing Adam. Then, with an air of ‘fuck it’ says, “Want to make out?”

And Adam promptly chokes on his soda.

And not everyone heard Metatron specifically say that he personally tattooed the names of every prophet of the Lord ever on the inner eyelids of every angel, and immediately had the thought, “Poor Michael” spring to mind. Because of course Michael was the first one on the proverbial chopping block, trying his best not to flinch as his little brother gradually figured out how to handle the needle. (To this day, Michael is still not sure if the prophet after Chuck Shurley is named Kevin Tran or Rovim Frun). And all the while, Michael was probably also trying his best not to worry about how things were going on Earth while he was busy getting his eyes stabbed.

After all, Lucifer was God’s second eldest son, barely younger than Michael in the grand scheme of things. He could handle watching over their younger siblings for a little while. And Raphael and Gabriel were there to help. Everything would be fine.

However, Michael isn’t aware that about five minutes after being left in charge, Lucifer yelled, “HEY EVERYONE, CHECK THIS OUT!” And then promptly threw his grace into the body of a nearby pterodactyl. Possession being a new ability that Chuck had recently invented, the surrounding angels were mystified as Lucifer piloted the prehistoric reptile through a series of dizzying loop-de-loops that saw the poor creature—not suited to containing angel grace—explode midway through, leaving Lucifer gleefully giggling in the sky.

About half of the angels looking on gaped in horror.

Gabriel whispered to Raphael, “We’re still beta testing that, right?”

The other half of the gathered angels, however, like the impressionable young followers that they are, start grinning, because Lucifer is grinning, and he’s their cool older brother, and as Lucifer—relishing the attention—makes a beeline toward the earth’s one continent, Pangea, and an unsuspecting herd of ornithopods, these younger angels eagerly follow.

Soon, Earth is full of the anguished cries of cupids, watching their hard work blown to bits again and again. Swept up in the crowd, are Castiel and Balthazar. They watch Uriel and Zachariah excitedly throw their armored dinosaur bodies against one another in the moments before both vessels combust, after which Uriel and Zachariah excitedly dart off to take on new ones.

“Are we sure this is. . .okay?”

“Well, Lucifer is in charge. We’re supposed to follow his lead. . .aren’t we?”

Meanwhile, Raphael is frantically trying to stem the carnage. Several dinosaurs are levitating in mid-air, as Raphael tries to simultaneously keep them from exploding while also ordering the angels possessing them to vacate the vessels immediately. But none of them have ever taken a vessel before, and do not know how to get out of them without tearing them apart. Raphael keeps expanding their powers to more and more creatures as their young siblings continue to follow Lucifer’s example.

“GABRIEL, DO SOMETHING!”

“RIGHT!” Gabriel looks around, locates Lucifer running amuck in an apatosaurus that he’s forcing to walk on its hind legs, and fires off a lightning bolt to startle him out.

The lightning bolt misses its target in spectacular fashion, and several trees catch on fire.

Gabriel throws another lightning bolt.

“GABRIEL, THAT IS NOT HELPING!”

“RIGHT!”

Gabriel then grabs a giant meteor from outer space and begins trying to smother the flames by whacking it against the continent, to Raphael’s horror. More cupids begin to cry. Thick clouds of dust fly up, choking out natural light on the planet’s surface—now only illuminated by flames, as well as the magma that rises up out of the cracks that form in Pangea, as Gabe unintentionally creates the first tectonic plates from the sheer force of his assault on the planet.

Trees fall over. Fire continues to spread.

Lucifer is still in the apatosaurus, but he’s fallen onto his side, laughing hysterically.

“WATER, GABRIEL! USE WATER!”

“OH! RIGHT!”

Gabriel throws the meteor into a nearby sea, creating a tsunami.

It is at this point that Raphael abandons the dinosaurs to their sad fate, forgetting their solemn oath to not reveal any secrets regarding evolution and God’s plan, to broadly yell out to any and all of their angelic siblings who are listening, “QUICKLY, SAVE THE MAMMALS!”

And it is at this point, that Michael returns. Samandriel, clutching a dozen or so rodents in his wings, is the first one to spot him. All of Michael’s eyes are red and puffy from abuse. The cupids are sobbing, the Earth is battered, flooded, and scorched. Angels are getting into fist fights with reapers as they dart back and forth, trying to ferry as many warm-blooded creatures as they can find from the site of the catastrophe to the relative safety on the other side of the mountain range Gabriel accidently made when he bashed a crater into the planet—relative, as it turns out some of those new mountains are in fact volcanoes, and it took some trial and error to figure out how far away from an active volcano could be considered “safe.”

Nearby, Castiel and Balthazar are somehow both stuck inside the same mosasaur, beached from the tsunami, and loudly panicking as they struggle to de-possess it before it explodes. There’s a snapping sound, and then suddenly all of the angels still trapped (or willfully frolicking) inside vessels are ejected, at the same time that the fire goes out and the volcanoes cease erupting.

Consequently, everyone goes very still as Michael scans the damage and his bedraggled siblings. With humans not yet existing, the art of facepalming is not yet a thing. But looking at Michael, one might just expect him to invent the practice right then and there.

When Michael gets to Lucifer, he’s greeted with, “What? Pop’s 86-ing the lizard kingdom anyway!”

Michael promptly drags Lucifer off to Heaven.

The next day, it was made an official rule, written into the very fabric of angelkind: vessels could only be taken after obtaining explicit consent.

Additionally, everyone agreed to never, ever mention the existence of the dinosaurs or how they ended ever again. And, rather than fixing the damage to the Earth’s surface, the tectonic plate situation was just sort of left to do as it would.

Many, many years later, Adam was shocked by Michael’s reaction when the cage door suddenly swung open in Hell. Adam had immediately surged to his feet in excitement, ready to leave and never come back.

Michael, however, remained stationary on the floor, squinting at the doorway, wondering what dystopian nightmare must be waiting on Earth after leaving his siblings unsupervised for a solid decade.

“Michael? You okay?”

“Adam, before we go back to Earth, I think I need to tell you a story. . .”

#himbos all of them #except raphael #raphael's doing their best but there's only one of them #the divine shurley family #is this really what i'm putting out on the midam wedding day?#yep guess so #i just didn't get any good wedding thoughts today #all i could think about was how michael was once a very exhausted older brother #today was not a romantic day for me #but it was chaotic #and i have expressed myself #and raphael deserves a raise #midam #supernatural michael #my thoughts #What did the rest of you guys even do to get through the boring seasons if you weren't imaging stuff like this?

81 notes · View notes

spahhzy · 3 years

Text

No Title -Chapter 2: Headache.

*Dimension 63 OG*

"Last of the pancake stacks are done, seriously I could bring in three pancake factories and she'd eat them out in a week!"

"Anyways...uh where were we? Oh right the explosion and what came after...ah yes Cinder sulked for a few minutes after a reality check from Watts."

"Jaune, Yang, Emerald, Ren and Oscar all survived the explosion and learn that Ozpin is indeed alive...hmm ooh and the warm tender reunion ah was so nice to see...but sadly...the warmth didn't last long..."

"I have always promised to defend this kingdom; its technology its future...from those who'd see it destroyed" Spoke Ironwood on the monitor almost towering above his viewers.

"Our enemy is crippled but one individual denies Atlas its salvation...the protector of mantle" Ironwood says as the Ruby and Co, glare at the screen.

"Penny wherever you and your friends are I need you to listen" he starts looking down in a brief sadness.

" I know how much Mantle means to you so im going to give you a choice..."

" in all actuality it wasn't really...much of a choice Mantle is doomed be it by Ironwoods hand Or Salems...though I feel for the latter as things were spiraling out of control..."

"General Ironwood reminds me of a certain analogy....oh how'd it go again? Ah yes!"

"When a duck swims ontop of water you only see it glide apparently effortlessly across the lake"

"But underneath as in beneath the surface well its a whole different story its legs are moving like he's peddling a bicycle up a fucking mountain!"

"That's Ironwood, he is THAT duck"

"Let's go to the manor hmm?"

"I'm glad your alright" Spoke Ren to Nora as looked away from him as Jaune arms glowed with his aura trying to heal his teammate.

Nora said nothing.

A few more moments of silence followed before Jaune gave up.

"Sorry but no matter how much I boost you they...won't go away" He told her before kneeling down at her bed side, Ren at the edge of the bed still looking down.

"Don't apologize I got hurt doing what I always do...just another ditzy move from Nora" Nora spoke as she sat up from the bed back resting against the bed frame.

"T-that's not true" Ren said as he stood up, Nora still didn't look at him.

"How would you know?" She said her voice cracking a bit.

"We were supposed to be a team but that didn't matter to you!" Her voice rose as Jaune brought his head down as she continued her verbal assault with Ren.

"When things went wrong you pushed us away!" Ren looked down to the floor again away from Nora.

"You shoved people out so you don't have to feel things that are hard!" She said before laying back against the bed frame finally stopping as Ren processed.

"You're right" He finally said

"I should be apologizing to both of you...when we lost Oscar and things got difficult I said terrible things" Ren said as he sat down at the end of the bed again.

"I've just been so angry at myself for not being as good as the aceop's...."

"Ah a little lovers quarrel but his anger and frustrations are understandable...I too felt what he was feeling before"

"Its was good that he was able to talk about it apologize to those around him and forgive himself...yes Lie Ren you certainly are a very good friend"

"Unfortunately..."

"My biggest failing was as a teammate and a partner" Ren said as he looked into Nora's eyes and vice versa.

Jaune just looked back and forth between them realizing that they were about to have a moment...

"Haha! All water under the bridge buddy!" He states before walking to the door that leads out to the hallway.

"I'm gonna go see if Klein needs help with Penny" He says looking behind him as both Nora and Ren didn't even pay attention. He smirks before closing the door.

Jaune now standing in the hallway chuckles.

"They'll get through this" He said to himself as he looked down the hallway

"Which way was Penny's room again?" He said laughing before suddenly a massive headache came to him that it made him close his eyes and clutch the side of his head. The throbbing was intense as it brought him to one knee.

"-me -om-" a whisper or what he thought was a whisper but it wasn't clear because of the damn pounding in his ears.

Jaune gradually through the pain stood up breathing a bit heavily before finally taking his hand away from his face, he'd find some advil in the bathroom.

Yet when he looked around he was no longer in the hallway...much less in the schnee manor.

He was standing on a grassy field...he looked around but all it was was just green grassy plains and big cloudless sky...a mountain range way out in the distance as well.

He continued looking until he stopped as he realized...he wasn't alone.

There about thirty five yards away was a robed figure Jaune couldn't make out any details as the light from the sun was blocking them out.

"What the?..." Jaune thought as he walked forward and as he did so to did the mysterious figure.

That caused Jaune to stop and momentarily reach for his blade...but all he grasped was air.

"Who-" He didn't get far as suddenly the scenery changed rapidly as now gone was the grassy plains, but now a quiet little village...

"Wha? Wait...this is...Ansel? My home?" Jaune said as he was freaking out a bit...wondering if something/someone might have drugged him or such.

"But wh-"

"Look Auntie! I'm a knight who's come to rescue you!" Spoke a voice which caught Jaune's attention as he looked to the source.

There was a little blonde boy no older then six. with a makeshift wooden sword and woman dressed in black who was chuckling at the boy.

"Oh my brave little knight has come to rescue me what a dream come true!" Said the lady playing along as the damsel as the blonde boy slayed the evil imaginary dragon and approached the lady.

He dropped his wooden sword and ran in to the lady's stomach giving her a tight hug. The lady just hugged him back with equal affection.

"Mom and Dad don't like you very much" The boy said too which the woman said nothing.

"I don't want you to go..." He said in despair.

"I'm not going nowhere little knight I promise" said the lady with strong conviction.

"...om" he mumbled in her stomach.

"What was that...no mumbling now" She chuckled.

"I wish...you were my mom too"

The scene then changed once more back to the grassy fields again as Jaune was still trying to piece together what he saw.

He looked ahead and the mysterious figure was still there looking straight at him Jaune still couldn't tell who it was but was surprised when the figure extended their arms...as if inviting him.

"Jaune"

The throbbing headache intensified as he once again dropped to a knee.

"Jaune"

Weakly he tilted his head up to see the figure closer to him and all he could make out were red eyes.

"Jaune!"

The figure still with open arms started to speak but Jaune could make out a word of it.

"Jaune!!"

He was back in the hallway still on one knee and clutching at the wall for support.

He looked up to see the concerned face of Klein looking down at him.

"Are you alright Mr. Arc? You look unwell" Klein said as he offered his hand to help.

Jaune looked around still confused, though the headache had just vanished. He took the hand and stood up.

"Uh it was nothing serious Klein..." Jaune said to him but it didn't really convince Klein or even himself for that matter.

"Heh come on let's go check on Penny and ill help where I can" Jaune said as he dusted himself off.

"Are you sure your okay Mr. Arc I can get you some refreshments if needed" Klein offered but Jaune shook his head.

"Penny needs us first let's go help her right now...I'll be fine" Jaune told him to which Klein looked him in the eyes before walking forward.

"Very well...I take it was just a big headache...who wouldn't have such after whats been going on" Klein said too which Jaune chuckled before looking out the Schnee Manor back to city and the rising sun.

"Yeah...just a big headache"

"But it was so much worse then that"

#jaune arc #rwby salem #lie ren #nora valkyrie

19 notes · View notes

translations-by-aiimee · 3 years

Text

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 16

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 16 - Game

Ten minutes later, Lin Yan appeared on the stage awkwardly wearing a silver-grey robe with a small dragon pattern embroidered on it. All ten participants took their seats. Even the Professor File Folder put on a traditional teacher's outfit. The buzzing activity coming from the crowd made Lin Yan blush. It felt like he was sitting on pins and needles; it was uncomfortable no matter how he tried to adjust himself.

This whole situation felt like a melodrama between Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai. He couldn't help but glance back at Xiao Yu several times. The only real ancient man in the audience was standing behind him with a frown. Looking at him with a serious stare, he pressed his hand against Lin Yan's shoulder, like he was trying to comfort him.

When he changed his clothes, he noticed that something was wrong with Xiao Yu, or maybe it was just everything that was wrong. In the dressing room, the ghost had wrapped himself around him and hugged him. He pushed and shoved the other around the narrow room, creasing his costume. Just as Lin Yan was about to start fighting back, Xiao Yu suddenly stopped tugging him around. He pulled him over to the mirror, put his chin on Lin Yan's shoulder and he stared at the person in the reflection. For the first time, his chaotic eyes seemed calm, even holding a quiet sadness.

The mirror surface swayed, like a droplet hitting a calm pool of water, waves rippling away from the center. Standing in the brass mirror was a young man standing with clear eyes, hands resting beside a cloud brocade waistband, and a face exuding pride. Lin Yan backed away in horror. He almost screamed. The person in the mirror wasn't him. Although he had the exact same face, life had done a number on him and he wouldn't be able to make an expression like that anymore.

The scent of agarwood incense in the room was intoxicating. The young man's eyes softened. The tall man in the traditional Chinese clothes adjusted his chin on his shoulder, raising his long eyebrows. His voice was slow and hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time: "I've been waiting for you for so long. . ."

Lin Yan's head snapped back to the mirror. He staggered forwards and leaned against the mirror. The person in front of him had hair as black as paint, and his mottled blood coat didn't match his eyes that seemed so sad and hopeless. . .

I have been waiting for you for a long time.

Lin Yan scrambled out of the dressing room.

"The break is over. Please quiet down and we'll get started with our next activity." The girl in the red jacket skirt read.

Lin Yan sat in the chair in a daze. The bright stage lights and the dark crowd in the audience made him feel like what just happened in the dressing room was a hallucination, and Xiao Yu was no different. Lin Yan looked back at him, panicked. Xiao Yu leaned down and held his trembling hand. On the table were a small whiteboard and a soft black marker. Xiao Yu motioned for him to pick it up and he moved his hand across the whiteboard: I'll help you.

Lin Yan was stunned and wrote out: Do you remember something?

Xiao Yu didn't seem to want to answer. He shook his head and let go of his hand. He still stood behind him holding onto Lin Yan's shoulder for support.

The audience quieted down, and bright white chasing lights hit the mahogany silk box on the centre of the stage. The red jacket skirt girl stepped forward to open the silk box, revealing the glass box within. The audience let out a few exclamations, and Lin Yan's eyes lit up. It was a beautiful moon flask with two handles. The maiden leaned against the tree art, the linework was meticulous, the enamel fully covered the flask, the piece was still intact, and the overall flask was in good condition.

This authentification wasn't difficult for a student studying cultural relics. Lin Yan carefully looked at the glaze texture and enamel of the flask's body. He wrote his answer on the whiteboard after double-checking that it was correct. When the time was up, the host walked past the square table and stopped when he reached the PSP guy, holding up her mic and asking: "You, what's your answer?"

The PSP guy’s whiteboard turned out to be empty. He was leaning on the table and his attention was focused on his game. When the host asked the second time, he raised his head as if he had just woken up. He glanced lazily around and sarcastically twitched the corners of his mouth into a smile. "It's genuine," he spat out. Then he brushed the host off and lowered his head to continue playing the game.

Lin Yan knew this guy was arrogant, but he didn't expect him to act this to everyone. The girl in the red jacket skirt was embarrassed by PSP's attitude. After putting a polite expression back on her face, she nodded and walked to the next student.

"Well. . . There were nine students who got the answer right, might as well switch it up for the last one." The audience let out a good laugh, and the boy three places down from Lin Yan grinned and left the stage. The professor briefly spoke about the flask. Lin Yan cleaned off the whiteboard and waited for the next question. His mind couldn't get over what he saw. He thought that most people wouldn't make a mistake on such a simple question. It seemed that the people on the stage were not as professional as they thought.

Professor File Folder also seemed a little disappointed. He took a sip from his stainless steel cup and turned his attention to the laptop, not knowing what he was looking at.

The brocade box in the center of the stage was swapped with a smaller one. After the mysterious sound effect, the box slowly opened. It was an ancient book. The host motioned everyone to take a closer look. Lin Yan stood in front of the glass box for a while and returned to his seat to write the next answer: "Genuine, the Southern Opera "White Rabbit" published in the Ming Dynasty, unearthed from the tomb of the Xuan family in Jiading."

He had seen this thing in the Shanghai Museum. Lin Yan thought, this lecture is like an antique appreciation meeting. No wonder it attracted so many people. After they all answered the question, another person left the stage amidst the applause and whistle of the audience, leaving another armchair free.

The questions were asked one by one, gradually getting more and more difficult. A fake yet elaborate sunflower gold hairpin inlaid with gemstones stumped three people, and then a bucket-colour fine-grained water chestnut bucket imitation with a "grinding" technique even had Lin Yan hesitate with his answer. After the authenticity of each item was announced, the professor simply added a few points on the piece, which could count as educating the audience on the topic. The seats were vacated one by one. When the eighth object was brought out, there were only two people left on the stage. Lin Yan glanced to the right, and it was the PSP guy who had toughed it out until the end.

He looked careless, but he didn't expect that he understood the field so well. Lin Yan put his cold palms on his face to cool down and took a long breath as he waited for the next question.

The red jacket skirt girl was holding a delicate paper box in her hand. Instead of showing it to the audience first, she walked over to Lin Yan and the PSP guy, signalling them to come forward. She opened the paper box and carefully took out a fan.

The ink on the front of the golden fan wasn't very visible; it wasn't well-preserved. The ribs of the fan were slightly damaged, and there are signs of water damage on the ink-painted mountains. With this kind of condition, it would be difficult to fetch a good price in a private auction if it wasn't made by a famous artist. But when the inscription on the face of the fan was exposed, Lin Yan and the PSP man couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. On the front, a few lines of the unruly inscription were written on the fan: “Wildwater Bridge Road, The Village of Barren Chickens and Fallen Leaves. Returned to Hou Xidu, The Child Sweeps the Firewood Door." What surprised the two of them were the three small characters following the poem: by Tang Yin.

Lin Yan's heart sped up. If this was Tang Yin's authentic work, then the fan in front of him was worth at least 500,000 yuan. Wasn't he afraid of being robbed bringing such a valuable thing to school? Then a clear picture of the fan was shown on the big screen. As expected by Lin Yan, an exclamation sounded from the audience, and even the host's voice was drowned by the buzzing discussion.

Professor File Folder grew impatient and coughed into the loudspeaker to signal the audience to shift their attention back to the event.

Lin Yan carefully looked at the light brown fan in front of him. He couldn't help but take his time with his answer. Tang Yin's paintings were extremely difficult to distinguish in the field of calligraphy and painting. His style of painting changed throughout his pieces, and he rarely indicated the year on the paintings so it was difficult to guess the painting based on its creation year. Therefore, there were countless counterfeiters and imposters on the market. To be honest, judging this kind of work could only be based on the painting style, date and seal inscription. The most important thing is the eye and inspiration of the connoisseur. Being extremely familiar with the author’s style, the first time he saw the work, he could only make a guess. This wasn't just an answer determined by years of study, but it was also just a luck-based gamble.

In the early years of the founding of the People’s Republic of China, many collectors relied on this ability to make money at auctions overnight, but it was too difficult for students like Lin Yan who hadn’t even finished school. He frowned and thought carefully. Regardless of the painting style, the date and the handwriting of this fan were almost flawless. Although there was a slight deviation from Tang Yin's other landscape paintings, the vigorous and unrestrained spirit of the brush strokes clearly distinguished this piece.

It should be the original one. . . Lin Yan bit on his pen and hesitated. Halfway through writing out his answer, his wrist was suddenly grabbed. Xiao Yu bent down and studied the fan carefully. His fingers lightly tracing the red seal and he seemed surprised. He shook his head at Lin Yan and crossed off the half-written "true" on the whiteboard with his hand.

"After so long, you still haven't figured it out?" PSP guy leaned over to Lin Yan casually with a disdainful expression. Seeing Lin Yan still holding the pen hesitantly, he couldn't help but sneer, "I thought you were so awesome."

The file folder-like professor was staring at his notebook in a daze. Hearing these words, he couldn't help turn his head around and looked at the two with interest. Lin Yan just focused his attention on the painting instead and had forgotten to be nervous. As soon as he raised his head to meet the professor's gaze, his cheeks became hot again. He couldn't help but cry inside. He originally planned to wait for the end of the event to ask the professor backstage regardless of whoever won the contest. Now he feels like he wouldn't be able to ask him anything if he lost to this guy in this activity.

"Hurry up, hurry up." PSP guy tapped the table with a pen and made some muffled noises. "Just go home already, you aren't qualified for this."

When the professor heard this, he couldn't hide his amusement and turned his face to take a sip of water to cover up his expression.

That was rude. He hadn't finished yet. Lin Yan clenched his fist and asked Xiao Yu as quietly as possible: "Are you sure?" Xiao Yu nodded, his pale fingers stroked his throat, and frowned. After a long time, it seemed that it took a lot of effort to say slowly and hoarsely: ". . . I drew it."

Lin Yan's eyes widened. He looked at Xiao Yu in disbelief, and then at the fan. In ancient times, there was no perfect reprinting technology. Famous paintings and calligraphy were often copied by literati and calligraphers. Some were for practice, some were to give to friends. Some were for selling, and the prices of those high-quality copies were even comparable to the originals. But Xiao Yu's counterfeit actually appeared here. . . Wasn't this too much of a coincidence?

"Dude, if you don't know what it is, stop wasting our time." Seeing Lin Yan's hesitation, the PSP guy shook his head impatiently. He lowered his head and continued to play his game, pressing the buttons with his thumb, clicking them loudly.

Lin Yan was also irritated but by this person's attitude. He took a deep breath and wrote his answer on the whiteboard. The crowd in the audience couldn't wait. The people in the nearby seats pointed at the PowerPoint. Someone nodded gently, seeming to recognize the authenticity of the painting.

The sound effect of a gong sounded, and when the host read out the answers of the two, Lin Yan heard a commotion in the audience and even a disdainful sneer from the corner of the room. However, the PSP guy completely ignored the audience’s reaction and crossed his legs. He glanced at Lin Yan, touched the pimples on his face and raised an eyebrow with a chuckle: "You're right, not bad."

The same answer was written on both whiteboards: fake.

The professor showed an appreciative smile on his face for the first time. After he said the right answer, he grabbed the microphone and explained to the audience: "Tang Yin's fan "Xiqiao Going Back to the River", a work made during the Ming Dynasty Chenghua period. The author is unknown. The two students answered correctly."

There was a sigh from the auditorium. This time, most of the people who had thought they were right about their guess couldn't help pointing at the screen to discuss the flaws in the fan. There was even a school official wearing a black suit in the front row who had turned around and argued fiercely with the guests in the back row.

Author unknown? Lin Yan wasn't focusing on the fan, instead looking back at Xiao Yu. His hands still rested on his shoulder, but he didn't respond to anything Professor File Folder was saying. Instead, he frowned as if immersed in memory. He seemed really lost in thought. Lin Yan looked into Xiao Yu's eyes, no longer as wild as a beast like when he first saw him. Now, his dark eyes were like the surface of the river after sunrise, and the turbid fog was slowly burned away in the sun, revealing a hint of clarity from within the chaos.

"Now that the first nine rounds are over, please give your attention to the last round with these two classmates, which is also the most difficult round today." The red jacket skirt girl raised her voice and signalled to something behind her.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #chinese bl #chinese novel #english translation #yaoi #danmei #yaoi novel

9 notes · View notes

charlthotte · 4 years

Text

Breaking Through the Iron Wall - Aone Takanobu x Reader

Chapter 9

Before I entered my house, I tried to curtail my emotions - expecting to see my mother's condescending expression at soon as I stepped past the threshold. And even though her shift at work had finished for the day, of course she wasn't home. The house was empty, just like always. That sight morphed my mood into one of a much lower level, I wasn't always on the best terms with her; but her being there just hinted that she cared in the littlest sense of the word. But obviously, she never was.

Since I was alone, I decided to make something simple for tea, seeing as though it was a meal for one. With a swift click, I set a pan of water to boil and began chopping some vegetables. After they were all diced to the measurement of my liking, piece by piece they were plopped into the pan. Whilst waiting for them to boil, I seemingly zoned out for the rest of the meal preparation. Everything was cooked perfectly but my mind wasn't present during the process. I fixed myself a glass of water and then sat down to indulge in the comestibles I had prepared. It tasted just fine, nothing more - after all, meals enjoyed in the company of yourself were always just the bit bland.

As I was washing up my plate and silverware, a loud ring echoed from the doorbell letting me know that someone was waiting behind the door. I half expected it to be some kind of delivery, yet it wasn't that at all. While unlocking the door, a hound of some sort howled from behind it. However, there wasn't just the hound standing there. Beside it stood the snowy mountain himself, holding a lead connected to the same beagle I had seen the day before. The reason as to why they stood there wasn't blatantly obvious. Perhaps there was no meaning to him standing there.

In a rare occurrence of events - Aone was the one to start a conversation, "Do you want to come with me?" He asked me, with his eyes dead-bolted onto the floor - almost as if he felt embarrassed.

"Yeah I'd love to, but I'll have to leave my parents a note." It sure was an unexpected situation, but it was rather uplifting to see someone at my house. I quickly shuffled over to a notepad and jotted my explanation down.

'I'm out on a walk, I'll be back soon. -(Y/N)'

After slipping a jacket over my shoulders, I laced my shoes up - and I was then ready to leave the house. "Do you have any idea of where we're going?" I inquired. Aone nodded, so I trusted him and followed his lead. His dog was a lively little creature - who was also very... talkative. From looking at its collar, I realised that his name was Shiro. He seemed to have no problem with me, but every other moving object that contained life - he would howl endlessly at. At least until Aone tugged on the lead, and after that he'd immediately quiet down.

Minutes passed as I followed Aone down a route I had never set foot upon before, that path was much more endowed with nature than any other street I had seen - with buildings few and far between. Compared to the rest of the town, it seemed like a different place entirely, even though the sun was shining radiantly through the gaps in the clouds, I saw but one person on the same path as us. We walked for a little longer, only for Aone to turn down a much narrower and dingy path that was hardly noticeable to the unassuming eye. It didn't take long to walk down, but after we exited that pathway - it was like a whole new world had been thrust into our grasp.

An abundance of fully-bloomed sakura trees outlined the clearing, completely blocking out this haven from the rest of the world. Several stone pathways swirled around in the grass, each one of them leading to eclectic little 'attractions' of some sort. From my point of view, there was an elegant marble fountain near the left of the clearing. Right in the centre was a pavilion surrounded by a pristine moat and stream, it trickled around the whole vicinity; its waters clearer than air. It almost seemed to glisten under the sunlight, making the most comforting trickling sound I had ever heard. Even though the clearing was moderately sized, there wasn't another human there besides Aone and myself. However, there were countless birds and small animals roaming and soaring around. People had obviously been there before, but somehow it felt as if we were the first people to discover it.

Aone unclipped Shiro's lead, letting him run around freely - and he did just that, he zoomed in and around the trees taking not even a second to let anything distract him. Truly relishing the freedom that place brought him. Aone seemed that way too, his eyes wandered around, taking in the scenery - his expression seeming somehow blissful. We then made our way over to the pavilion, strolling next to the stream the entire way. Inside of it there was just a single wooden bench, overlooking the rest of the clearing - the paragon of serenity.

"How do you know about this place?" I asked.

"I don't know." He replied, his resonant tones weaving through the atmosphere. He must have been there before, recently or an age ago, both time frames were plausible. Either way, a place like this must have some importance to him.

"Thanks for bringing me here, Aone. It's just gorgeous." I divulged. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed him nodding his head. There wasn't much need for conversation in a place like this.

Abruptly, four scampering paws hurtled into the pavilion, Shiro was slightly panting from his sprinting, so he jumped up onto the bench to join us - leaning his head on my lap. As I ran my fingers across his sumptuously silky fur, his eyes gradually closed - letting him fall into a state of slumber. It almost looked like he was carrying a smile upon his face. He appeared so peaceful and nonchalant.

I soon clocked Aone gazing at Shiro too, his eyes shining with adoration for the small creature. From what I had seen, Aone always seemed the happiest in the presence of his dog. Friendships with animals were always enthralling to me, two living things from different species and walks of life forming a great connection with each other, but without understanding anything the other one spoke. Perhaps that was why Aone loved Shiro to the extent that he did, they couldn't literally understand each other, but somehow - deep down somewhere - they could.

I'm sure we sat there for nearly an hour - enjoying each other's company to the fullest, side by side in silence. The hue of the sky darkened as many sakura petals gently cascaded all around us. I was positive we would have stayed there forever if we could, had it not been for the rather urgent text I received from my mother.

'(Y/N), why aren't you home? Come back here right now.'

"Sorry, Mum. I'll be right back.'

As always, she was right there to ruin the perfect scenario. Quickly informing Aone of my mother's command, I made sure to walk at an elevated pace for the entire journey home. Aone stayed beside me the whole time; Shiro happily trotting beside us, seemingly more exhausted than the first half of our journey.

After arriving at my house, I apologised to Aone about the inconvenience I had caused him once again. I spoke a solemn farewell to him and Shiro before hesitantly unlocking the door, only to be greeted by my mother's unimpressed face.

"Why weren't you at home, (Y/N)?" Her arms folded tightly over her chest as she leered over the brim of her spectacles.

"I've just been out on a walk, I did leave you a note."

"And that note simply didn't suffice," She spat, "There was no apology about your absence nor where you were going on your walk. You didn't even ask my permission to leave."

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again." I hopelessly sighed.

"I'm sorry isn't enough, (Y/N). You should know that - now go upstairs, you've disappointed me too much."

Tired of all the condescension spouting from her mouth, I dragged my feet up the staircase and towards my bed, just to flop straight onto it. Hardly half a hour ago, my word felt serendipitous and ethereal, now it had all come crashing down into a brick wall. At that point, I didn't feel like moving from my current position. The orc that was my mother had sucked all the passion and drive straight from my system. Who knew how long I laid there, but the sky morphed into its nightly pallor. A faint knock tapped against my door.

"Come in." I sighed monotonously.

My father crept into my room, careful not to let his footsteps make a single murmur, he whispered - his voice nearly inaudible, "You feeling any better, (Y/N)?" I shook my head, hardly having the energy to make a sound. He continued to converse, "Was your walk okay at least?" I nodded, my memory of the clearing spindling itself into my head. I must have smiled a little, as my father did seem to pick up on something, "Let me guess, you were with that Aone guy?" I don't know how he correlated what he saw as my faint happiness to him, but he was very correct. I didn't react to his question that time, however he still must have clocked onto something I did, "I'll take that as a yes, goodnight (Y/N)."

---

For the next ten days, I continued to go out on walks to the clearing with Aone and Shiro, somehow growing even closer without the need for frivolous amounts of conversation. One aspect of those then days that could be described a frivolous was the amount of teasing I had to endure from Futakuchi - in lessons and during practice no less. It was surprising that I hadn't snapped at him yet.

During practice, I helped out a lot more - the team did seem to need it, due to their upcoming match against a powerhouse school. Somehow, their blocks improved in my eyes - adding a few extra inches onto that iron wall of theirs. Their overall power level somehow grew within those few days.

Hiroko and Rea hung around with me a lot during lunch, and Hiroko never curtailed her craziness for a nano-second. I thought I might had grown slightly accustomed to her antics. Rea, however, I could talk to in a 'normal' way, we seemed to get along by chatting about the dreary aspects of life. After all, all Rea ever did was complain about the things she didn't like.

Day by day, the excitement about our upcoming match in Tokyo riled up inside of me even further, and at that point... It was only four days away...

#aone #aone takanobu #aone x reader #aone takanobu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader

11 notes · View notes

lorei-writes · 4 years

Text

Fairy Tales for Bedtime

Two-Faced God

Kennyo x MC ( with a twist at the end) Fantasy AU (Fairy Tale-ish) Choose Your Own Ending*

Content Warnings: animal attack, injury mention (non-descriptive) Respective trigger warning are added before each ending. The story can stand on its own without them, so fear not.

Hello, friends! This time, I come to you with an unexpected story. I know Kennyo... Isn’t exactly popular to say the least. But, if you enjoy fantasy - I urge you to give this story a shot. I believe you may like it regardless.

*- Fluff or Angst

Long, long ago, in a land hidden behind a thick veil of mist, there was a city. It stood proudly in-between rivers, hidden in the cooling shade of nearby mountains, secluded from any and all outsiders. Life there was peaceful, or so would the citizens say – although nobody cared enough to see their faces and understand the emotion behind the sullen eyes they all had.

The city was governed by its own set of rules. Do not question the officials – do not speak ill of them. The prince shall be obeyed, his word being that of god. Be thankful for what you get and, most importantly, never seek a better day, for you’ll be rewarded according to your contribution. Never – never – venture out into the forest, least you wish to get banished – and then, your fate will be decided by the nature itself. Perish, as many would say, the woods being hostile and seemingly stretching up to the very horizon. It was never discussed whether it was good or bad, the very thought of even doing so being an offense of sorts. Fear rules stronger than compassion, as they stated – so fear it was, keeping them from ever aiming up higher, the few ones daring to reach for the sun being burned by the flames, their example serving as grave warning. After all, the familiar sorrow always seems safer than the unknown.

Yet, that isn’t to say that people wishing to disobey the order had ever ceased to exist. The reasons were many – poverty, being unable to meet the impossible expectations, lies stopping to satisfy, just to name a few. She was no different, the threat of impending betrothal stopping her studies hanging low over her head. She knew better than to rebel, letting the anger simmer inside of her soul – until she couldn’t contain it anymore, her feelings boiling over, choking her like molten tar. Dishonesty could carry her only so far, the disgust with her very own being overwhelming her. To loath yourself is a cruel fate – and so, she decided to stand against it. In secret, she collected her belonging, all fitting nicely in a tight bundle, and departed, abandoning her home of so many years.

The route outside of city led through shadows – although darkness she did not fear. Step by step, she came closer to the outer gates, cursing people responsible for her fate. Why was she the one running, while it was them, the system, who hurt her? When was she at fault in the dispute? She gritted her teeth, mourning all that she had to leave behind. Her entire old self – her studies, the books she cherished, countless hours of research – was all for nothing, as she was born a woman. The choice was hers only up until a certain point in time, and it appeared she had reached it.

Road stretched outside of the city and she followed it to the woods, never once looking back until stones under her feet turned to grass. She glanced around herself, assessing her surroundings carefully, eyes – or much rather, countless pairs of glowing eyes – staring back at her. She gulped, swallowing her fear. Holding her head up high, she ventured deeper into the forest.

The following days proved milder than she could have ever expected. Although certainly cautious, the wildlife appeared not to be hostile in the slightest, her tracks never once crossing with the predators. Wasn’t there any violence? She couldn’t believe that: cats hunt mice, smaller animals fall prey to the bigger ones. Nature needs carnivores equally to herbivores, all the species balancing each other out. How could a place where that wasn’t the case exist? She was soon to find out.

Winter days came, sun hiding behind the horizon seemingly not long after dawn. Yet, there she was – the sole survivor of banishment, even if self-imposed. She tore her way through the wilderness, hungry and dizzy from exhaustion. The snow that year had fallen earlier than usual, leaving her with little time to prepare for the cold – and so, she suffered the consequences of it. Forward and forward, she dragged her feet through heaps of white, dreaming of warm fire. Her vision reduced to but a narrow tunnel, she noticed a doe. She stopped in her tracks and prepared to shoot an arrow, her breathing slowing down as she focused what was left of her.

Some things she was unable to notice. A roar. She fell, tremendous weight crushing her against the ground as pain set her nerves on fire. Icy snow burning her cheeks, she looked up, thinking it would be the last time she’d do that – and yet, she felt something being lifted off of her. Golden light overwhelmed her, a tall figure stepping in front of her. The last thing she saw were hair black like wings of ravens, warm water pooling around her lulling her to sleep.

***

Who knows how many days had passed before she came to. Her head throbbing, she woke up slowly, too confused to comprehend anything. Instinctively, she tried to get up, pain instantly flooding her senses. “ Please, don’t move. You have to rest,” someone said, a gentle hand pushing her by the shoulder down onto the pillows. She let out a sigh, a sudden sense of peace calming her body. “ Where am I?” she asked in a weak voice, squinting her eyes in an attempt to see anything. Second by second, she forced reality back into focus. “ In my camp. You’re safe here.” “ Who… Are you?” she uttered, but didn’t hear the answer. Having just became clear, the world began to fade out, only a face with a scar letting itself be known to her.

***

Within weeks, she began to walk again, the man having spent all his energy nurturing her. He’d feed her fish and pigeon stew, never letting the fire die out, as to keep the cave warm. He’d redress her wounds with careful – although clumsy and unpractised – care, the ointment making her skin itch, its herbal aroma filling her nostrils whenever the jar was opened.

At first, she lacked balance and strength, dizziness overwhelming her just after few steps. However, she was able to sit up again – she wouldn’t let herself be discouraged by anything. Progress, even if gradual, was still progress… Perhaps she didn’t mind the company as well.

The man, Kennyo, claimed to be a pilgrim from a land far away, traveling in order to reach the state of harmony. Generally reserved and hardly radiant in his ways, he appeared to be grim, the scar splitting his face in halves seemingly supporting the notion. Yet, had somebody cared enough to truly look, they’d see something odd – a dim, almost shy, aura of tenderness surrounding him at all times. She couldn’t understand it at first either, his demeanor causing her to wonder what had happened to shape him like so. Yet, despite sitting with her by the fire each night, he never gave her a clear answer.

No less confused, but certainly stronger, one day she decided to test her limits and go for a walk. Slowly, she dragged herself up to the exit of the cave, holding firmly onto the wall with one hand. She squinted her eyes, outside world being brighter than she remembered – or was it? She blinked away any soreness, surprise taking its place instead.

It appeared spring had come while she was still in recovery, thousands of buds spread over the tree crowns preparing to finally grow and develop fully. She gasped in awe, first fresh flowers emerging from within melting snow. She looked up, but something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the sun that initially blinded her – no, it could hardly compare, its light coming from too far away. Her brows knitted together, she took a step forward, swaying as she tried to uphold her balance. Holding onto side of the mountain, she came closer and closer to the source of brightness.

She stopped, the scene unraveling before her seemingly begging her to just stand and watch in silence. There, a couple meters in front of her, was Kennyo, kneeling on the ground with his back towards her. A broken branch in his arms, he tilted his head back and said his prayers, liquid gold leaking from his scar, falling straight onto the dead plant. Her body froze mid-step – what was happening? She could only see so much. His shoulders moved. Kennyo dug out a hole in the ground with his hands and put the branch inside of it.

A gasp, one she couldn’t hold back. A tree began to grow, the cycle she observed for so many years occurring right there in the matter of minutes. Taller and taller, budding, blossoming, just for the leaves to turn red, whither and fall down, over and over again until it stopped, standing no different from its surroundings. Only then she managed to turn her attention away from it – and to notice him staring at her with regret in his eyes. “ Kennyo, what are you?”

***

If he could have chosen, he’d rather never tell her the truth. To be a pilgrim was easier than to be a god – much more one of two faces, at that.

His face was split in halves – well, at first glance. If somebody looked just a moment more, they’d see that one was bigger than the other, perhaps they’d understand that so was his nature. What they would miss was hidden deeper inside: which one was the dominant, that was his choice, for he, Kennyo, was god of compassion and ruthlessness alike. Yet, the other never perished, which he was gravely aware of.

They sat by the fire, spring winds humming outside their shelter. “ So, you were a god all along?” she sighed, at loss to what else she could say. “ But why are you here? Why do you live in a cave if you’re a god? Why didn’t you heal me and moved on?” “ Restoration steals time, and you humans already have little of it. I have nowhere else to be regardless,” he claimed, shadows playing over his face as he stared into the flames. “ You could live in one of the cities, right? Even…” she trailed off, averting her gaze from him. “Mine was more comfortable than the wilderness.” “ I can’t.” “ Why is that?” Kennyo inhaled deeply. Storm growing inside of him, his eyes became darker, black like asphalt lakes. “ Cities are created in the image of gods, one for each – but I have two and can enter neither of them,” he stated, covering one of his eyes with his hand. “ At least not anymore.” “ I don’t understand.” “ It’s only an ancient story of a being that is no longer there.” “ If it involves you, I have to know. I want to know.”

Only fire could be heard buzzing, even her breaths being muffled by the heavy atmosphere. “ Gods wage wars and so did I. I was fighting against the Lost God, the devil himself. I lost and he marked me so that I would never forget. The wound never healed and so, I became the Two Faced God. It split my city into two – perfect mirrored reflections of each other, both in values and structure. But I am fully neither of them, so both stay out of my reach,” he sighed, seemingly calming down. “ You should go to the other one once you recover. Many had taken refuge there.” She stood up, just to walk up to him and sit by his side. “ You know… If you don’t mind, I’m fine staying here. It must be lonely.”

Dream:

Content Warnings - Dream ending: implied impending death of partner, from natural causes (old age) - does not happen in the end.

Years passed and she did along with them, maturing and growing – and then, slowly beginning to wither. Her sight began to diminish, her hair turning silver as wrinkles spread over her face. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not quite yet. Sometimes, she’d ask him to lay besides her and she’d trace his scar lovingly, her fingers showing her his face. “ Have I told you of what I did back at my city?” she’d say more than anything, already knowing the answer. Yet, she’d wait for it all the same. “ You can remind me,” he’d hum in reply. “ I was a student. At first, I learnt at a school and then moved to a university of sorts… You know, I loved studying – science and culture and everything in-between. Well, maybe I enjoyed learning, not studying itself…” she sighed, but, to his surprise, picked up her tale again.

“ There was one thing I’ve read about and never quite forgot, though. You see, there’s this technique, I’m not so sure how it works anymore… But, the general idea, was to connect broken pieces of porcelain with molten metal, so that it could become whole again. To think, I can’t even recall its name,” she laughed. “ This metal was ornamental.” “ I see. Interesting, indeed.” She seemed tired. Thinking she’d fall asleep soon, he kissed her forehead and was just about to leave when she burst out into laughter again. “ You silly, silly man. I’m not going anywhere, stop acting like it’s my last day.” “ You’re old, ____. Eternity…” “ Eternity can wait,” she cut him off. “ I’m only growing old to stop and grow young again – in this form or in other, I will return and haunt you until you’re sick of me.” “ I think you’d need plenty more lifetimes for that.” “ And I intend to use them all. Trust me, you’ll just blink and I’ll be back again. And again. And again.” “ And if I granted you life that never ends?” he suddenly spoke. “ Then I’ll take it all the same. You’d just have to blink a little less.”

A genuine smile lit up his face, one she so craved to see for so many years. “ Then so be it. Tomorrow,” he said. Kennyo got up and was just about to leave when she stopped him: “ Hey. You know… I think you’re like broken porcelain. One day you’ll be treated… And then, you’ll be even more beautiful. The god of acceptance...”

Wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps, perhaps all along you were just her.

Nightmare:

Content Warnings - Nightmare Ending: lethal injury, death of major character, death of lover, bad ending

She fell, icy snow digging into her cheek as something warm began to pool at her side. She blinked, not quite understanding what had happened to her – who? Hadn’t she experienced it all already? Her fingers curling up into fists, she looked up from her spot. Humans. She screamed.

Her shout tore air apart, causing the hairs on his arms to stand up. Perhaps he knew on his way there, perhaps he knew the moment he had heard it – and yet, he still prayed to whatever deities that were above him to spare her. Indeed, he was the tainted, the broken, god… But he only asked for her to be safe. Could that be too much?

His eyes rested upon her, his mind beginning to wail. Only half-aware of his movements, Kennyo took a step forward, golden aura surrounding him as he crouched beside her. He couldn’t hear the commotion around nor see the terrified figures. The world was red, covered entirely in thick aroma of blood. He took her in his arms, hugging her body to his chest. “ Kennyo,” she uttered. “ Don’t talk. Rest. I will …” he stopped, her hand touching his cheek. “ You’re changing.” A drop. Thick and black, it fell onto her face, just to slowly drip down her jaw. “ You can’t. Please,” she begged. “ Don’t. We need to…” And yet – no answer came, none was ever to come again.

Kennyo rose to his feet, letting her body, just an empty shell, fall to the ground. Substance alike to molten tar oozing out of his scar, he glared at the huntsmen in front of him. He looked, he looked deep into their souls, he searched for reasons, for answers… But whatever he came across, he could not believe. Only hurting himself, he let his tears evaporate before they spilled – and he hardened his heart, swearing he would never let it be torn apart again. Not after that day. “ That woma…” “ ____. You’ve slain ____,” Kenyo said, devoid of any emotion other than rage “ We..!” the voices stuck in their throats.

They couldn’t know and neither could you. However, even if by accident, even if none of that could have been prevented – it happened. Even more broken and with no desire to get better, that was how the god of revenge was born.

Tag list: @datenoriko, @nad-zeta, @tsubaki3192, @choi-jiyu, @missjudge-me, @ikemencrossedmyth, @plumpblueberry, @i-sleep-like-napoleon, @nimeryaa, @nuttytani, @thesirenwashere, @milas-imaginarium, @kisara-16, @yukas-clover, @alerialumina If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, if you have some preferences (for example: you’d rather not be tagged under some series, etc.), please, tell me. If you don’t want to be tagged anymore - please, do not feel bad about it, just say so :)

#kennyo #ikesen kennyo #ikemen sengoku kennyo #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series #my writing #my ff

57 notes · View notes

mtjester · 3 years

Text

BNHA Steampunk AU: My Steampunk Academy Snapshot #1

(I probably won’t write a fully-fledged, contained fanfic for this AU, but I like the idea of little snapshots that I can type out as I feel like it. Maybe I’ll figure out how to put something like this on Twitter, too, since I know that’s a thing people do. Enjoy!)

Deku Finds the Machine

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

The ruins of the skyship were scattered across the landscape. The main hull, now a skeleton of metal rings, was nestled among the rocks near the peak of the stubby mountain, and parts of the engines and decks had tumbled down the slope. Izuku paused at the apex of the neighboring hill, taking in the charred remains of the ship again. Memories of the night before ghosted through his brain: the fire, the smoke, the jarring scream of twisting metal. He had searched as much as he could through the blaze, but he only found the one survivor. The man was safe at his house a mountainside away with his mother doting at his bedside, but he hadn’t woken up. The doctor said he might not, between the shock, the burns, the injury on his side. Izuku had never seen anyone die before, and he wasn’t going to wait around to see what it was like. Even the ghastly sight of the decimated skyship was more welcoming than the man’s labored breathing.

Izuku trudged down to the shallow valley below, where so much debris had collected. In any other circumstance, he would be excited. There was more scrap metal to tinker with than he would ever be able to use. Some of the devices might even survive if he was careful with the repair. But he was too afraid of the possibility of a blackened body emerging out of the rubble to snoop much.

He traced his steps back to the place he found the survivor. It was near the main hull, but not near enough to suffer the worst of the heat while it burned. The whole mountainside was charred. It would be months before Izuku could bring the Bakugou’s flock of sheep this way to graze. The wealthy family wasn’t used to inconveniences like that, but they seemed to understand well enough, even if their tone was lost through the telegram.

Nothing moved. No people clawed their way out of the wreckage, gasping for help. Izuku didn’t know what he was expecting, but his heart sunk nonetheless. He poked around futilely, too afraid to actually find anything to really get anything done. An hour passed, then two. He started a pile of garbage, a pile of usable material. No bodies, thankfully. Then, around the three hour mark, he found something that caught his eye.

At first glance, it was like a backpack. It had two thick straps for the arms and another to go across the waist, as it was a rather large, hefty pack. Its exterior was made of leather and covered in pockets, or it was once, at least, but brushed brass and iron peeked out through burnt holes now. Layers of mechanisms — clockwork-like gears, engine-works, a miniature firebox for steam-power — revealed themselves like a kaleidoscope through the outer layer of leather. Izuku knew even at a glance that the machine was sophisticated, more so than anything he had ever encountered. He passed his hand over the mechanisms shining beneath the burnt fabric, his fingers tracing the intricate designs. His heart beat like he had discovered a stash of gold or a genie in a bottle. A squeezed noise of excitement forced its way through his throat. Any thought of cleaning up the mountainside or finding fictional survivors who clearly didn’t exist evaporated from his mind.

He grabbed a strap and moved to haul the backpack-like structure over his shoulder. If he got it home soon, he would have enough daylight to tinker without wasting gas for the lantern. But he didn’t expect the weight of it. He lifted, expecting nothing more than the resistance of a sack of grain or a stubborn lamp, but it just about pulled his shoulder out of its socket. With a yelp, he toppled backwards onto it, the small of his back landing on the solid structure that suddenly seemed more brick than machine.

“Geez…” Izuku breathed, rubbing out the new pain in his back. He stared down at the innocuous object. “Is this really supposed to be a backpack?”

He tried picking it up twice more with roughly the same results. He wasn’t weak exactly, but he wasn’t a dedicated sports enthusiast either. He was far from a muscle-man. He furrowed his brow and lifted a finger to his lips to think, muttering his way through the problem.

“Well...I don’t have to take it all the way home, at least not at first...I can ask for help if I need it, or bring a dolly cart...although a dolly wouldn’t work so well over the mountain...maybe a bigger cart? Or I can ask Mrs. Bakugou to lend me their ox...I do have to clear the land...she’d want me to do that, right? In any case…” He looked up at the sky. The day was still young, perhaps just past noon. If he hurried…

“Right,” he said, coming to a decision and dropping his fist into his other hand with purpose. He turned back to his house and began to hike at a quick but steady pace back home.

He returned an hour later with his tool belt. He had customized it himself to hold all his little tinkering odds and ends. It was far from a true machinist’s tool belt, but it did as much as Izuku could afford to do. He skittered up the slope to the mysterious box with a feverish glint in his eyes.

“Let’s see…” he said, plopping down next to the device. He mumbled to himself as he pulled back the leather casing. It was a strange casing, coming apart in odd patterns, covering the device in chunks and strips with a purposeful design that Izuku couldn’t place yet without more examination. He took out his handmade sketchbook and sketched the design in detail, as faithfully as he could.

Once the leather had been fully removed, the genius of the machine was laid bare for admiration. Izuku spent a full ten minutes just looking, starry-eyed, at the beautiful, intricate works hidden beneath the bag’s casing. It was unlike anything he had ever seen in their small mountain village, leagues above the basic clockwork that made up the vast majority of the machinery he had had the chance to tinker with. He spent an additional length of time — a half hour? An hour? — sketching to the best of his ability the detailed works. It was one of the most detailed sketches he had ever made, and it still wasn’t detailed enough. He chewed on his tongue, erasing and redrawing, erasing and redrawing. Finally, he put his sketchbook down.

“Okay, let’s see…” he said, finally approaching the machine. He barely knew where to start. He hovered over it for a couple of minutes, looking at it from different angles, debating whether to undo this screw or that. Finally, he leaned back. “Well...the logical first step is the most obvious, right?”

He leaped up and jogged to his new garbage heap, searching for something burnable. He found plenty of kindling and returned to the device. The firebox was one of the first and most apparent parts of the machine. It was a steam-machine, clearly, although it was far more compact than Izuku thought possible. He hoped he was making the right choice as he packed the burnable materials into the firebox. He produced some matchsticks from his tool belt and lit the flame.

The fire would heat the water in the compressed chamber, which would create steam, which would power the engine. That much, Izuku knew. How it all worked with the clockwork elements was the mystery. What was the machine designed to do? What was its function?

Izuku waited, almost buzzing with anticipation. Nothing happened. Cooled steam began to escape, having done what it was supposedly meant to do. Still, nothing. It made noise, at least. But it didn’t do anything. Izuku gradually deflated, realizing he was being silly. Was he waiting for it to sprout legs and walk away? An engine doesn’t just run for show. An engine needs a conductor. He still had a role to play here somehow.

He moved forward to examine the machine again, careful now that it was steaming. For all he knew, it was damaged in the crash and was ready to blow up in his face. He touched it, gingerly, looking carefully along its surfaces, prodding with laser focus. His hands felt the top, the front, the sides. Then, they felt two raised bumps. A button on each side of the machine, almost hidden beneath the layers of leather he had pulled back. Of course — the buttons were meant to be exposed with the leather casing intact, but by pulling it all open at once, he had covered them. It was just where a person could reach if they were actually wearing the dead-weight object on their back. Izuku licked his lips, his anticipation coming back full-force, and he pressed each button at the same time.

Two arms, about the length of an adult human’s, sprung from the sides of the box and launched forward, where a human would stand if they were actually wearing the device properly. At the ends of each, they branched out and formed into something like gloves. Pistons, gears, rods, strange copper wires, and a sturdy metal skeleton ran the length of the arms. Izuku’s heart picked up pace in his chest as he examined them. He reached for his sketchbook, paused, reached for the machine, paused...and his curiosity won over his scientific duty to observe. He scrambled to the front of the machine and dropped onto his butt to wiggle himself into the straps as best as he could. He somehow managed to find a position where he could secure the device firmly around his waist.

The metal arms were too long for him, but they were adjustable to an extent. He fit his hands into the gloves. Each finger seemed to be attached to some element of the machine. Tentatively, he moved just one, the index finger of his right hand. The machine behind him came to life with buzzing, whirring, clicking. He glanced back to see the intricate inner mechanisms catching the light of the sun as they moved. He moved another finger. Something clicked, and the form of the box shifted, opening. His eyes blazing with excitement, Izuku threw caution to the wind and danced all of his fingers in a short wave.

Like it was the signal it had been waiting for, the box burst open. Legs like spider limbs splayed from the contraption, their skeletons made of iron and their muscles, full of gears, pistons, rods, wires, built out of brushed brass and copper. The legs came down hard into the dirt of the mountainside, and before he knew it, Izuku was being lifted. His strangled yelp grew into an actual scream as his butt came off the ground, followed by his legs.

“What — what? What?” he shouted as his feet dangled in the air. The straps dug into his armpits. Without thinking, he flailed his arms around. In response, the machine began to turn and spin on its spider-y legs, circling back and forth across the charred wreckage in an almost impossibly smooth manner, as if the ground were perfectly level and not covered in boulders and debris. Izuku, now dizzy as well as bewildered, reached back behind him, trying to press the buttons he had found before. His fingers twitched erratically in his panic. The device rocketed him forward, and before he knew it, he was sprinting across the valley on bronze and iron spider limps, shrieking.

He did not get home until twilight. Luckily, he did not need to borrow an ox from the Bakugous to get the device there after all.

#bnha #bnha steampunk au #my steampunk academy #midoriya #midoriya izuku #death mention #maybe I'll compile the parts someday #but fuck scene transitions tho #fuck consistent narration too #POV is whatever I decide to do today #I claim that freedom

5 notes · View notes

bodywyrcs · 3 years

Text

Mental Health 2021

And so, its mental health awareness week again. And after one of the toughest years for our collective mental health I wanted to share, without judgement, my own experience and thoughts on the abundance of kindly shared hints and tips that our social media screens become overwhelmed with each May.

About 8 years ago I went to the GP and broke down at him about how low and awful I felt. His response was to tell me I needed a holiday. I mean, I love a holiday but even I could see that this wasn’t something a week backpacking along the coastal path was going to sort. And how sustainable is taking a holiday every time you feel depressed? And considering I was super skint at the time it wasn’t helpful advice at all. I left the surgery feeling embarrassed and ashamed that I’d wasted his time and that I was overreacting. I decided that there was no other option for it. I would have to fix myself.

My first stop was YouTube where I decided meditation was the thing I needed to do. I pretty much forced myself every day to do a 10 minute guided meditation. It was difficult to start with as I couldn’t stop the negative voice in my head and most sessions ended with me more angry than I’d started. But gradually I saw a change. I started to enjoy the moment of peace in each day and thought I’d found the answer.

But then the next life obstacle cropped up, the surface cracked and all that meditation-y goodness soon melted away, as I’d fall back into a horrible fuzz of self-loathing. I had not fixed myself after all.

This pattern repeated itself numerous times over the years. I tried everything. I developed an interest in mindfulness, even gained a qualification in it. I dieted, I took probiotics and brewed kefir, I popped supplements and obsessively exercised because I LOVE WALKING IN THE MOUNTAINS. I thought that inflammation was the problem, then found a new vocation and decided that massage was the solution. I found the high of cold water swimming exhilarating but it never lasted long enough after drying myself off. And eventually I tried counselling (I have a great recommendation if anybody feels they need someone, based in Llanrwst and she can work via zoom too.) She really helped me a LOT and the sessions absolutely lightened the load and helped me rationalise things.

However, they did not fix me.

You see, the problem was by now I had spent so many years trying to fix myself that each time something ‘failed’ I would hit another new low. Not only was I still broken, I was also a failure because I couldn’t make the latest ‘cure all’ work for me. And while it’s easy for me to write this now, when you’ve got what feels like a bloody Tasmanian devil whipping up a storm in your brain its easier said than done. I couldn’t see that I was just chasing my tail in a constant effort that only ever brought more disappointment and made me feel like simply existing wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Then along came the mild inconvenience of ‘the shop’ nightmare with debt piling up, a global pandemic and a big old lockdown.

Oh, and I broke my leg. Which ironically was the thing that made me decide I needed to try the GP again. Through talking with a friend, I realised that during my immobilised time on the sofa I felt the most light-hearted I’d felt in a while because here I had this physical impairment that showed people I was broken. I didn’t have to try and explain it, unlike the mental illness that was invisible. I had an ‘excuse’ for feeling the way I did (see: lockdown/pandemic/broken ankle) Plus, the prospect of phoning the GP was a lot easier as it meant no face-to-face appointment and I could hide my shame.

But this GP was fantastic. She was awesome. I gave her the abridged version of the above and her response was ‘Blimey, you’ve definitely tried everything haven’t you!? Let’s give medication a go’.

Now, medication is not always the best option and the first month of taking it was pretty gnarly for my body and mind. But this is my story and nothing more, I’m not telling anyone what to do here. I had felt the stigma so hard around mental health and medication, GPs and putting on a brave face, that I had completely forgotten what it was like to feel content. I found myself appreciating stuff that I hadn’t even noticed in such a long time, as I’d been constantly trying to justify my worth by maintaining the façade of being hap-hap-happy! I hadn’t realised what an absolute effort everything had become and of course each small or large inconvenience that life threw my way was simply the straw that broke the camels back (over and over again).

Anti-depressants have not fixed me though. They have given my brain the capacity to think rationally and to bring me back to a state where I can process all the day-to-day stuff without collapse. They have not numbed me to life, but have allowed me the opportunity to enjoy it and I haven’t felt this good in years. Yes, I still get sad and yes, I get angry, but I can cope with it and I can see those emotions as something passing by and not here to stay.

I suppose the thing I think when I’m writing this down is that I wish I had seen a GP earlier who had understood mental health better in the first place. How different the last 8 years might have been. I was put in a position where I thought I was solely and entirely responsible for things that were happening in my brain that I could not control – that I could somehow choose to switch on happiness if I truly wanted to.

The problem is that people living with mental health struggles can feel vulnerable and they might be more susceptible to suggestions – which in turn makes me wince when I see posts making outrageous claims regarding depression and anxiety. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve definitely been guilty of sharing the 5 Ways to Wellbeing as if it’s a magic spell and I’ve wanged on about mindfulness as if it will transform you into a higher being. But please know, I did these things as I was struggling to work out my own stuff and at the time, I fully believed I was fixing myself (ps. I was not).

I suppose my summary is that I don’t have an exact summary. There is no fixing people, we’re all messy and weird and wonderful. But sometimes what is happening inside us is chemical and there is medical help for that, and sometimes we just need the confidence in ourselves and our self-worth to push a little harder to get the treatment we require.

As for all the stuff that has been ‘proved’ to improve our mental health, just remember, what works for me won’t necessarily work for you and vice versa. And while I still love, love, love cold water swimming and practise mindfulness most days, I can safely say that kefir and diets can go in the bin (sorrynotsorry). For me mental health awareness is talking to friends about our experiences and being able to empathise with each other. It is understanding that sometimes we will feel happy without trying, sometimes we will feel happy because we are doing something we love, and other times happiness will elude us completely. But most importantly happiness is not the be all end all – us human beings have such a wide range of emotions and we spend a lot of our time trying to avoid them. Running off a bad mood, drinking away our sorrows or posting on social media about our totally excellent lives while wishing someone knew how we actually felt. Mental health awareness for me is sharing stories and being able to laugh at ourselves, wallowing under the duvet when I’m sad, ranting with a mate when I’m angry and having a little weep when I’m frustrated and trying not to end every sentence with ‘but I know there are people with far worse problems than me in the world’.

2 notes · View notes

vake-hunter · 4 years

Text

Heart’s Desire Lore Post

[All of my Ambition lore can be found in this google doc]

The Marvelous

This is protocol: when a player wins, they depart. A new candidate is found, or occasionally, like your delecterious self, presents themselves." Pages lets out a long faux-melancholy sigh. "The rest of us must keep playing, of course. Victory is the only escape."

“When a winner expresses their heart's desire, we – that is the Masters – gather, and turn all our ingenuities and resourcements to its fulfilment. If it is possible, we shall grant it. We have never failed yet. After all, we have moved cities in pursuit of desire. I fear to be immodest, but our capabilities are significant."

The Deck is, at first, very normal. Until, as Pages says, “the unfortunate business of expense, deadly journeys, etcetera, can begin."

"They must be consecrated, naturalously, in the Kingdom of the Is-Not.”

Discuss the venue. Where is the best place to hold the Honour? “"The venue must be somewhere that all the players can agree on.” The answer to everyone's needs is Arbor.

The standard set of Cats, Rats, Bats and Hats. Then there are the trumps: the trinity of face cards which tops each suit: the Jacks, smiling and stern, the Queens, sober and wild, the Kings, magisterial and melancholy. Each face is unique to its suit, a Tiger for a Jack of Cats, a Master for a King of Bats.

First played in the Third City

The cards are a recent convention. It changes with the fashion of the cities.

Seven players, always. Every five or ten years – the date depends on certain astrological conjunctions, written in the roof.

Rules

Each hand you pay an initial ante (7 coins) and are dealt a hand of cards. You then chose to call (pay the current bet), raise (double the current bet) or fold (lose your current stake, and the hand, but bet no more coins).

Each game is played in a series of hands, during which you stake some of your First City Coins. Hands are compared, with different combinations of cards have different values. At the end of each hand, the winner takes the loser's stake. When one player's coins are gone, they lose the game. In its essence, it is not dissimilar to poker – a fact which the Custodian claims is no coincidence.

Gradually, you learn about the legal combinations of cards. How First Fall beats Second, but both are trumped by the Perfidy of Sisters. About the complex interactions between the Parliament of Rats, the Tragedy Procedure, and the Four Crowns.

On the faintest and most coyly-worded of tablets, you study the forbidden hand: the Thing in the Well, which is mentioned nowhere else, and which loses to all other hands but one.

Then you move on to the esoteric rules that govern as yet undiscovered combinations. The Conspiracies: the matching of key cards to increase their value – or decrease the value of an opponent's hand. You learn to avoid the Treachery of Seven, which renders aces lower than sevens. You struggle to understand the Footsteps of Salt, a rule which has never been interpreted the same way twice.

The Thing in the Well wins only against All Manner of Things.

If you run out of coins, you can stake something else. If your opponent accepts, you may play one more hand. All or nothing. They call it the Chance.

rules forbid excessive drunkenness unless the Debauchery of Fourth is in play

Mr Pages

Pages fucking HATES the monkey.

Literally moves into your house, drinks all your wine and calls you a bitch.

Really likes Roquefort Cheese. This is important Lore.

Inquire after Mr Pages' own heart's desire: Normally, it would be unwilling to divulge information of a personal nature. But under the influence of uncanny musics, the Masters sometimes let something slip.

Mr Pages, in your drawing room, waltzes clumsily to the aerological sympthony. You watch, carefully, as it performs some soaring dance of heavens long since abandoned. Beneath its robes, shapes stir and bulge, as if trying to break through the cloth. Are those wings?

"Home," it says, it's voice slurred, "I want to see the stars again."

Mr Pages' approach is brutally successful, and First City coins teeter in stacks at its elbow. It raises aggressively, pushing rivals into situations where they stake more than they should. Then it folds, leaving others locked in bidding wars they daren't lose. Then, when it has a strong hand, Pages pursues it relentlessly, driving up the pot and turning routs into slaughters. Its victories are infrequent, but Pages only cares about comparative success. All it cares about is staying one coin ahead.

Beats the Monkey but offers him a Chance if he has something to bet. The Monkey bets you. Pages instantly accepts. And loses to the monkey.

Now hang on a minute— you protest, but Pages raises a talon. "Quiet please! It is inapproprisiderate for the stake to speak. The Chance has been offered and accepted. One more round; all or nothing."

Cards are drawn, discarded, drawn again. The Monkey does not stand on ceremony now; there is no showmanship. It calmly puts down a straightforward Ascension of Cats: the three, four, five, six, seven, eight and nine. Pages stares. It contorts beneath its robes. "I offer a Chance of my own!" it screeches, in panic. The Monkey shakes its head, but Pages persists. "Name a price! A flask of Hesperidean Cider! A vial of my own blood! The very robe from my back!"

The Monkey hesitates. It is obviously tempted. To disrobe a Master, to expose its true nature here, before Londoners... But no. The Monkey keeps its eyes on the prize. It picks its nose, dismissively. Thwarted, Pages emits a strangled noise, and jerks spasmodically to its feet. "Impuderagous!" it squeaks, and hurls its cards across the room before sweeping from the Helmsman.

Publishes a bunch of poems about how much monkeys suck.

Confirmed crime is Truth-Strangling.

The Manager

Ask about the Manager's heart's desire: The Manager offers a hungry phantom of a smile. "Cities are odd beasts, don't you find? One can never tell where one begins."

"My needs are simplicity itself. I want a bright diamond. I will make it my heart and grow from there into something strange and wild. Like my beloved. I will carry the seed of a new city. Perhaps I could be of sandstone and gold. That would look very splendid, don't you think?"

The Manager's style is infuriatingly languid. He considers his hand minutely before every bid. When he raises, he counts his coins with plodding deliberation before committing them. And then, half the time, he reveals he has nothing better than a Remorse of Sisters or a Roser's Retreat! Except, apparently, when someone thinks they have him figured out and calls his bluff, only to walk right into a Peace of Hell or an Black Glass Mirror. The Manager likes to keep his opponents guessing.

Uses Nightmares against his opponents.

You can choose to win one of his Brass Buttons or the Topsy King’s Mind when you beat him.

A Bright Brass Button: You won it from the Manager of Royal Beth during a game of the Marvellous. It is a key to a secret back door allowing you to leave his hotel. And it is very, very shiny. [Weapon; Watchful +3, Bizarre +2, Glasswork +1]

Your Monkey

The Monkey appears to be asleep, but you are certain it is a ruse. You think it's trying to put the other players off their game. It snores loudly when Virginia is deciding whether to raise. It chatters its teeth as the Bishop rearranges his cards, upsetting his train of thought. And whenever Mr Pages lays down a card, the Monkey noisily breaks wind.

The Monkey is guilty against Hell and the Chain (only ascension is permitted)

The Monkey used to be Gregory Beechwood, and previously won the Marvelous. His desire had been to become an ape because he believed aps were better than humans. He now regrets it. A lot.

His current Heart’s Desire is to end the Marvelous forever.

Beechwood's argument was that man once existed in a state of grace: its present form a devolution. That pristine state was to be found in the form of the ape. One of the players of the Marvellous just so happens to be a monkey – your Monkey, to be precise.

The Monkey gives you a wink, then darts a glance at Pages' now useless mountain of remaining coins. Was that the play? To tempt Pages into giving up his stake advantage? To even the odds by risking everything on a single hand? With you as the prize? Well, it could have bl__dy asked!

Wins against Pages, but not before hesitating when Pages offers its own robes for a Chance of its own.

Your final opponent is your own monkey.

Virginia

She is very, very mad at you.

Ask about Virginia's own heart's desire: An old desire, renewed. Virginia gives you the thinnest smile you have ever seen. "Sanctuary," she says, in a voice as soft as bare feet on snow. She looks away, indicating the end of the discussion.

Virginia sets a strategy early and holds to it come hell or high water. She trusts to the deck, discarding reliable cards in the hope of a high-scoring combination. But the cards aren't her friend tonight. The best she can manage is a Brace of Hats, then a String of Rats. But every now and again, it pays off. When it looks like she's within inches of constructing a Great Chain, Mr Pages folds hurriedly. A few rounds later a six-card Mirrorcatch wins back her losses. If her fortunes change, her approach might bear fruit.

Loses to your Monkey.

Kills you so you can meet the Boatman. Is like really excited to do it. "I've been waiting for this...." Virginia arrives at your lodgings promptly. She passes a cursory glance over the instruments of death you've neatly laid out for her (to furnish your own demise.) "Thank you, my dear," she says, "But I shan't be needing those." She advances on you, wearing her sharpest smile. Mercifully, you do not remember the rest.

The Bishop

Ask about the Bishop's own heart's desire: The Bishop smiles, though he is no longer looking at you, instead off into some middle distance. "South," he says at last, his voice low as though thickened with honeyed wine. "To be forgiven. To be welcomed. To end all these darkened days of wandering. To taste sweet fruit upon my tongue and walk in pastures gold. I would lie down upon that splendid glade like cloth of emerald and feel my cares mist away, like dew on a cold morning. And I would not walk there alone. I would open the gates, and lay a path so that others could follow, those who knew the signs." Thin tears streak his face.

The Bishop's style is cautious. He prefers reliable hands, and rarely raises. He watches his pile of coins hawkishly, as though they might abandon the table of their own volition. Still, after a few rounds you think you have discerned a pattern: every three or four rounds he finds his courage, and plays to the end regardless of his hand.

Loses to you or the Manager depending on how you faired in the Honor.

Topsy King

Doesn’t seem to remember why he plays. Staked his mind against the Manager to stay in the game and lost. The Manager now keeps his mind.

He favours esoteric combinations and rare exceptions. He invokes the Treachery of Sevens, the Heart-Catcher's Promise, and the Embarrassment of Swans. He constructs elaborate Conspiracies from low-numbered cards, and disposes of kings and queens like a guillotine. He is having a good night, winning a steady trickle of coins from the other players. But his weak point is the Manager, who always seems to know what the Topsy King is holding.

Loses to you or the Manager depending on how you faired in the Honor.

You have won back the Topsy King's mind. You should return it to him. Even if it is sometimes a lizard.

You restored it to him. He will never be as he was, but nor is he entirely what he became. Some of the time he is the Topsy King; sometimes he is Tristram

The Thief-Oath of Tristram Bagley: You restored some of his lost mind, and the Topsy King will forever be in your debt. He will always owe you a favour, and you will always have a friend in a high place. [Affiliation; Shadowy +1, Dreaded +1, Bizarre +1, Mithridacy +1, Visiting Tristram Bagley +1]

October

Previous Winner.

The Calendar Council is composed of twelve members: each opposes the purview of one of the Masters.

"October achieved her goal and vacated the Council. But she remains one of twelve – a successor has not been chosen. She must mean to, however, so we must assume she is somewhere that the Masters cannot reach but the Council can. Which suggests – ah. Yesterday's Clerestory."

"I asked for my dreams to come true, and the Masters arranged certain accommodations with the powers of the Is-Not."

"The Masters didn't know who I really was, of course. I spent years constructing a false identity in order to join the Marvellous. Virginia saw through it, but did not expose me. Not that I'd have let her." October smiles bright as a falling star. "Afterwards, I used my reward to cast one of the Masters in a prison of its own failures." October sighs wistfully, "I understand that most of them have had second thoughts about the game since then."

Won and killed Mirrors.

The Boatman

A previous Winner

At last, he answers in his creaking voice. "A replacement. I grow weary." His voice echoes in the hollowness of his skull. "My desire was granted, but difficult to arrange. An appropriate substitute did not exist; therefore one had to be born." The Boatman punts the craft further into the centre of the river.

"They should be of age now. And yet." The Boatman's gaze is briefly reflected in the water, dark empty sockets lost in the darkness. "Perhaps there has been a complication." His voice cracks, a splinter of melancholic menace.

His Amused Lordship

A previous Winner.

His Lordship tells you of his heart's desire. "Damn fool game. I only played to rescue a damn fool friend. Well, friend undersells it rather a lot. She wouldn't be pleased to hear me describe her so. They have such terrible foul language on Mutton Island." His Lordship smiles wistfully. "She was on a dark path, a seeker of that which shouldn't be sought. I played the game to win her back."

Won and freed Mrs Plenty from Seeking.

Mr Hearts

Created the Marvelous in the Third City because the Masters were bored. Lord of Blood in the Third City

Is fat!!! Bulky!! Big!!

Flies you to the top of the tower!!

Has red eyes.

Final Match

Takes place deep in the Bazaar. Literally in the Bazaar’s heart.

The Masters all gather and hang from the ceiling to watch.

Visions of different outcomes assault both of you with the beat of the heart.

Visions of Power: You feel the slow stretching in your bones. Your organs, persistently rearranging themselves into superior configurations. You cast off your robes to stretch your new arched wings, wide enough to break the sky.

The Bazaar opens all of its seven doors to you: the other Masters welcome you to a spire of your own. In the innermost chambers, you let fall your robe and allow your magnificent wings to spread—

Visions of Love: Adoring eyes locked with yours. The heat of a fierce embrace, beating heart to beating heart. Two lives, completed by each other. A love that inspires and consumes.

You play with a poet's ardour and mastery of form. The cards want you to win; they adore you. A rare Adoration of Days; a timely Anchorite of Norwich. Your opponent, meanwhile, is struck by these visions more powerfully than those of yesterday. Tears glisten on his hairy cheeks. His paws shake. He still plays a string of lucky, desperate hands, but you're able to win back some of your coins before the day is through.

Visions of Time: You see yourself defying time (the greatest of thieves), and living hale and healthy into a new age of the world. An endless future, to make of which what you want. And not just time for you, but for others, too. The theft of the sixth city deferred. London's lifespan is prolonged, gleaming like the Neath's darkest jewel.

The heart shows you a New Empire, its dawn-ships conquering territories across the zee. It shows you the Sixth City – a colony of the Fifth – suspended in chains from the Neath's ceiling. You see yourself, centuries hence, on a throne of roses in the Eighth City after the Treachery of Arbor; and then you leading the leagues of Hell against the Ninth— In each vision, you dedicate a handful of years to planning your next move in the Marvellous.

Visions of Escape: Escape from London, escape from the Neath. You see the glow of a rising sun across the length of a horizon; feel the playful touch of wind in your hair; smell the scent of fresh-fallen snow, sharp and crisp; hear the relentless chatter of birds, clear in a blue sky.

You lose, but invoke your Chance, staking something. Either your profession, your destiny or a single penny. (if you don't have a penny you can borrow one from Hearts.)

You win, then. But Beechwood, your monkey, wishes to stake his own Chance.

Accept his Chance: He stakes all that is left of himself. The remainder of his humanity. And then places a losing hand on purpose. He turns feral and runs off, unable to deal with being trapped in the game as a monkey any longer.

Decline his Chance: Beechwood has drawn away. You can see him wringing his paws together, compulsively. His eyes are haunted. He knows that – in a few years' time, when the false-stars align – he must play the Marvellous again.

Your Desire

Mr Hearts speech: "Colleagues, we are gathered (save for Mr Pages, who is excluded for reasons of a conflict of interest) to fulfil our sacred duty. This creature–" here, it gestures at you, "–has proven victorious in the Marvellous and earned their heart's desire!"

There is polite, scattered applause.

You take the time to look around. The walls are adorned with calendars – some of them follow earthly dating systems, others do not – and maps. The workbenches are covered with indecipherable apparatus. A set of heavy red books stands on a shelf. You can make out the black-lettered title of the nearest: 'The Tragedy Procedures Vol. VII.'

"Here," Mr Hearts tells you, "is where we perform our greatest works. This is where we ascertained how to purchase London, and how to accomplish the small request Her Majesty required in exchange. Thus far, no request has been beyond us. Now, if you would do us the honour, tell us your heart's desire. We shall do all in our power to grant it."

Power: You want to be one of them, a Master of the Bazaar – terrible, glorious, magnificent.

Another argument follows, this one not about whether but about how. There is some debate as to your bailiwick and whether this can be a purely titular bestowal. It cannot. Spices and Hearts begin to mix steaming concoctions at one of the workbenches. Mr Veils measures you for a robe.

In the end, Hearts approaches you. "It is decided. You will be Mr Cards."

Love: There is a long silence. "The problem, oh perspicacious, indeed brilliant, victor of our game," Spices says in its sibilant whisper, "is that despite our very best efforts – and I do not wish to disparage our dear Mr Fires in saying this – we cannot manufacture love." Fires only grunts.

"Does it have to be true love?" Wines interjects, thoughtfully. "There are approximations that, as far as we can tell, are indistinguishable in all meaningful ways—"

"We are not all convinced," Hearts cuts in, "That true love even exists. Certainly, we have yet to isolate it. But! Happily, we can offer something better: adoration. Celebration! The whole city, united in recognition of your evident magnificence. Fame, and of course, glory."

Choose something else. Choose something that is not love.

The Masters have no idea what love really is.

Adoration: To be known by all. To be admired. To be worshipped! In every mind of the city will live a shining image of you, perfect, pristine, and permanent. A collective sigh of relief from the Masters. Adulation, adoration, envy – all these can be readily manufactured.

Time: Long life – not just for you, but London, too. Eventually, the Masters will require a Sixth City. But London is your home, and you would want to defer that day as long as possible.

"This means London, in its entirety, is technically yours. We shall not," it says, raising a claw to the other Masters, "seek the Sixth until all reasonable hope for the Fifth is lost. These are our terms: this your prize."

How long have you bought for the city? Years? Decades? Centuries? More than it had, certainly. You look around at its familiar, grimy streets; the poignant, flickering glow of its gaslamps; the people hurrying by to jobs and appointments, oblivious to the fact that you have saved them from a fate that has befallen four other cities. Perhaps London itself is your heart's desire. And a reckoning has been postponed.

Escape: You want to walk on the Surface again. You want nothing less than the sun, the sea, and the stars – the real stars!

Eventually, between them, they reach a proposal. Mr Hearts presents it to you. "There are certain laws that are, unfortunately, beyond us. The capriciousness of sunlight is one. Were you to return to the Surface there is every chance the sunlight might kill you, and there is nothing we could do to prevent it. However, there are places where the sun is only an occasional visitor."

Mr Fires unrolls a map of the Surface, and stabs a claw into the top of it. "We will build you a home. Here. The sun is absent there nearly half a year at a time. The location looks to be somewhere in the arctic circle. Habitable, but hardly clement.

Your Defeat

Yes, you can let the monkey win.

The Marvellous is over. In fact, if Beechwood is true to his word, it is over forever.

The Monkey asks you to come with him to get his reward.

A pair of Masters carries you and the Monkey – Hearts for him and Iron for you. Membranous wings rip through their robes, and with a beat you are lifted aloft, borne to the highest chamber in the Bazaar.

You tell them the Monkey’s desire is to end the Marvelous for good. Hearts is very upset but Stones argues that after the ‘Mirrors Incident’ it should have been ended.

"It would be a shame," purrs Spices. "The Marvellous has been terribly diverting, and the days are so very long." Sympathetic murmurs from the other Masters.

"Enough, Our truest currency, colleagues, is our word." Mr Wines is speaking, now. "This is entirely in the rules as you established them, Mr Hearts. It's hardly the monkey's fault."

"I must strongly object!" splutters Hearts.

'NOTED.' reads another note from Mr Iron. 'AND IGNORED.'

Item Rewards

Marvellous Monkey: A monkey, once called Gregory Beechwood, who achieved his heart's desire, regretted it, and (with your aid) brought about an end to the Masters' preferred entertainment, though it cost him everything. [Companion; Watchful +5, Persuasive +5, A Player of Chess +1, Dangerous -1]

The Robe of Mr Cards: The robe is huge and concealing, and glistens like wormskin. It contains an ingenious framework, which grants its wearer the profile and stature of a Master of the Bazaar. 'Mr Cards,' of course, is you. Every month you call at the Ormolu Door of the Bazaar, and are taken inside to undergo various painful but improving procedures. Already you have grown a few inches, though your posture suffers. Your ears are lengthening. And one day – one bold, magnificent day – those nubs on your shoulder blades will be wings. [Clothes; Persuasive +11, Dreaded +2, Artisan of the Red Science +1]

Newly-Cast Crown of the City of London: Fresh-forged from authentic starlight (carried from the High Wilderness in the Bazaar's vaults) this magnificent crown denotes your position as Regent of London. It heavily implies that you are in the line of succession, and gleams like the promise of power. It has been made to your exact size, for it will only ever adorn your head. The Masters have promised you that. [Hat; Persuasive +13, Respectable +2, Mithridacy +1]

A Leasehold on All of London: This is the very contract by which Her Majesty agreed to sell London to the Masters. It is a labyrinth of legal complexity and metaphysical demarcation – partly written in English, partly in Latin, and partly in the Correspondence. As a result, it is best stored in a fireproof steel tube. The text has been meticulously amended in order to extend the 'guaranteed period' in which 'it is prohibited for the previously-specified parties to arrange the replacement, abdication, or discontinuation of London' in favour of 'any other metropolis of comparable significance and succulence.' The exact duration of the extension is not specified: as with all the best legal precedent, it makes much hay of the word 'reasonable' – 'for a reasonable period,' 'to a reasonable observer,' and so on. No doubt some lucky court will be expected to work out the details at a future point. A final, recent clause specifies that the owner of this leasehold (that's you) is entitled to a monthly stipend of revivifying peach brandy to 'further and ensure that party's longevity and rude health.' [Home Comfort; Shadowy +10, Respectable +2, A Player of Chess +1]

A Palatial Holiday Home in the Arctic Circle: A Surface mansion of your own, dappled in genuine moonlight. It enjoys commanding views of dense pine forests, and basks in the infinite hues of the Aurora Borealis. The mansion is only accessible via a secret funicular connecting to the Travertine Spiral. When the sun is absent, for several months of the year, you can travel there and breathe fresh air, and hear birds, and walk in real, new-fallen snow. [Home Comfort; Watchful +10, Bizarre +2, Mithridacy +1]

The Marvellous: This deck – consecrated at the Root of Need – was used in the ancient and treacherous game known as the Marvellous. Player after player was broken upon it. But since you forsook your heart's desire, proving you were not subject to your own wants, the cards have been obedient. Now, they anticipate your needs, and seem eager to please. When you play with them it's as if they're speaking to you. Via their oblique language of numbers, faces and combinations, they hint of broader, grander games played behind the skin of the world. [Weapon; Persuasive +13, Bizarre +2, A Player of Chess +1]

#fallen london #mr pages #mr hearts #mr stones #hearts desire spoilers #lore #long post

53 notes · View notes

emmybluefire · 4 years

Text

Leylines - The Threads of Reality

“I want all of you to stop for a minute and tell me honestly: do you take mages seriously?”

“Do you listen when they warn you of the havock your spells can reap if you aren’t careful? Or do you simply discount them as being self-righteous assholes who fetter your ability to learn?”

looked on at the crowd, her expression intense, and her gaze unwavering. Stoically she scanned the crowd for a good long while, a stare piercing each and every single one of them, pulling from their body language things they wouldn’t otherwise communicate.

“Magic is powerful. The forces you pull energy from all have the capability to destroy our world in an instant. As such, it needs to be respected. A balance needs to be kept. And it’s infrastructure *needs* to be maintained.”

“But what is this magical infrastructure? Well the answer is clear. It is the Leylines. However, let's pause there for a moment.” she smiles, folding her hands behind her back.

“Tell me, when you hear the word ‘Leyline’ what do you all think of?” She asks, peering at the crowd gathered before her in search of raised hands.

The next little stretch of this lecture is dynamic to the responses.

“For many, I reckon the leylines simply refer to large twisting, winding, nexus of subterranean rivers that move arcane energy through the world.”

“The residual energies that break off form it then surface in the form of mana, which mages utilize to cast spells.”

“But this statement is widely generalized, and wholly inaccurate, as there are multiple examples in the world of the Leylines being channeled to do more than just weave together a flame, push energy away from an area to create frost, or blast them with raw magical energy in the form of arcane.”

“The Kaldorei are famous for the creation of the Moonwells, fonts of supposedly holy energy. We all know this. What many don’t know is that each and every single one you see, is built on top of an intersection of Leylines.”

“On the edges of Mulgore, there are hot springs within the mountains that have mysterious healing powers who--just so happen--to rest on top of yet another intersection of leylines.”

“And as many of you know, healing is not the kind of spell most mages have in their repertoire.”

“The Throne of the Elements, a sacred place to the shamanistic orcs of Draenor, was also discovered by Khadgar to rest on top of a large intersection of leylines there. And yet, we can all agree, mages aren’t shamans.”

“And finally, in the Stonetalon mountain range, there is one that is appropriately named ‘Mount Fairview’ in which all of your senses seem to get amplified. You can see farther, sounds are amplified, and the winds carry even the slightest and most subtle scents to your nose.”

“An ability rarely seen in anyone but hunters and druids.”

“And, surprise surprise, the Leywalkers have also discovered a large intersection of leylines there as well.”

“There are many more examples of these places one can find when out adventuring, in history books, or even in your own backyard. But no matter where you look, one thing is patently certain: these leylines aren’t just fonts of arcane magic. They are magic incarnate.”

“But… for now, let's stop there. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with information right off the bat.” she chuckled.

“Instead, let me ask: Where do you guys think runes come from? What are they? How do you think they were discovered?” she pauses finally, looking over at the crowd for a show of hands.

Glances back behind her and draws a few sigils in the air with her fingers then bends her hand back, index and middle finger and thumb pointing towards… something. She lowers her hand gradually and reality shimmers behind her.

The effect drops as if a veil or cloth was pulled from a large flat object, revealing to everyone a large chalkboard. Upon it was drawn a map of Azeroth, with a few runes inscribed over key locations. Some she mentioned, others she hadn’t.

Steps to the side and grabs a large wooden pointer from the storage plate of the board, and lifts it, pointing to Mt. Fairview in the Stonetalon mountain range. Particularly the rune used to represent it.

“Hunters, Druids. I know you all recognize this one. This rune is used in the sigils for spells like “Farsight”--Also known once as Aspect of the Eagle--Aspect of the Hawk, and other spells of that nature.”

“Some mages might have also seen it in the use of divination spells such as truesight, and scrying.”

Swiftly moves the pointer to The Valley of Ancient Winters, in Northrend, hitting it with a sharp smack, jostling the rune there.

“Frost Evokers, and Water Elementalists. You guys see this one all the time. It is used in the weaving of nearly all frost and water attuned spells meant to damage someone with biting cold.”

And finally, Emmy whipped her stick to the northern segment of Kalimdor, between Darkshore, Ashenvale, and Winterspring. It was Moonglade.

“Healers, Priests, and even alchemists might recognize this one. Found in the Valley of Dulvarinn, a place known for its diverse ecosystem and variety of rare plants. The rune found here is used in many of our known healing spells.”

“But where did they come from? What do these runes have to do with the leylines? Well…”

She sets the pointer down on the storage plate and lowers her hand to the bottom of the board, gradually lifting up. As she did, lines of chalk of variant, and gradient thicknesses drew themselves across the board, infuseing the map of Azeroth like a web.

Most particularly, a lot of them melded into the runes that previously adorned the chalkboard. Several letters that seemed unrelated to one-another now seemed completely, and utterly, interconnected, pulling it altogether into an expansive nexus of elegant lines and shapes.

One might even be able to see new intersections forming as the lines netted their way across the board.

“The Leylines. Are. Everywhere. They infuse everything, and impact everyone whether you realize it or not.”

“Many of the spells we’ve developed today owe their thanks to the Highborn Scholars of old, who developed what we know today as magic by exploring the world, discovering these intersections, and documenting the patterns they saw.”

“It was through the leylines that we’ve developed the expansive runic alphabet we know today, opening up possibilities for a wide variety of spells and enchantments.”

“Magic is possible only because each of these letters, these runes, are interconnected and forever linked… enabling us to cast a spell from any-” she blinks to the back of the crowd, launching a bolt of arcane energy towards the front.

Lifts her hands and blinks back to the front, lifting a hand. It spiraled with a grand calligraphy of runes in an intricate sigil. The bolt hit it, being held in a sort of stasis for a very brief period. She rotated her wrist clockwise and twisted it to face her chest, the bolt fading back into energy, and spiraling back into her arm.

Lowering her hand to her side, she looked upon the crowd, gauging their reactions, before speaking once more.

“-where. From anywhere.” she smirked.

“Interestingly enough, many of us have taken transcripts of these runes, brought them to Titan facilities and compared them to the documents found there.”

“While the nuances of our spellcraft, and Titan spellcraft are very different, the general shape of these runes is the same.”

“This has led some to believe that it was the Titans who created the leylines.”

“The theorized reasons vary from scholar to scholar, some saying that they were created to sustain order on the fledgeling surface of Azeroth. More on that later. While others say it was merely to power their facilities. Still though, some have a different theory entirely.”

“Do I have any medical professionals in the crowd?” she glanced around.

“As was just demonstrated, the leylines remind people of blood vessels. Avenues by which nutrients are carried to different parts of the body. What nutrients go to where is determined by the constant ebb and flow of your blood, and where your arteries expand and constrict.”

“In the case of Azeroth, those nutrients are cosmic energies. The leylines pull energy from the cosmos, transform them, and move them to different parts of the planet to breathe life into her.”

“The runes that formed on this map are junctions by which these newly transformed energies get infused into her being.”

“The life that formed on her surface in the wake of some of these energies leaking was merely a happy side-effect. One that many of us are grateful for to this day I’m sure.” she chuckled.

“Today, this is the theory that is regarded as the most plausible by many of us mages. Particularly after reports of an audible heartbeat being heard in the chamber beneath Silithus.”

“I myself have also done research that more or less confirmed this by looking into the properties of Azerite--a substance often considered to be the congealed lifeblood of the planet.”

“Interestingly enough, I’ve found that it contains essences from nearly *all* documented forms of magical energy. Yet… in trace amounts along the outskirts of the main substance, as though it were mid-transformation.”

“So that, my friends, is what the leylines are. That is what they do, and that is where we draw much of our magic from. They are, as I said, the infrastructure of all magic. But, just like any infrastructure, they can also be damaged.”

“And when Infrastructure gets damaged, a multitude of horrible things can happen. Especially when you’re dealing with the fabric of reality itself.”

She sighs softly, folds her hands behind her back and looks down to the ground with a frown. Pausing for a moment to let that all sink in.

“If you all would like to stand, and follow me into the cavern behind, there is something I would like to show you.”

As the group stepped into the cavern, an immediate sense of disorientation would overtake them. For a brief moment, all concepts of direction and senses of what’s up and down would lose its meaning and confuse their minds. Though, this was not a mental attack.

As their bodies adapted to the new gravitational circumstances, they would suddenly feel lighter on their feet. A tickle rippling up their spinal chords as their bodies became completely engulfed in raw, latent magic.

Stops for a moment to let everyone collect themselves… seemingly used to, or unaffected by the strange magics that now surrounded them. “Do not be alarmed, you are completely safe. The situation here is much less dangerous than it used to be.”

‘S lips moved… but her voice didn’t seem sourced from them as normal. Instead, it sounded disembodied. Coming from everywhere, yet nowhere at once, adding yet more weirdness to the situation.

“Whatever you do though, don’t jump straight upward. You will be jettisoned in that direction and potentially break your neck on the ceiling.”

As Emmy continues to move down, the group would find it hard to keep their footing level… instead, they would have to push themselves forward using more effort than typical walking took. The lower gravity makes each step mimic a wide arch forward.

They continued on until they reached a ledge of obsidian. Though, looking into it was like looking into a window to the entire universe. Large Leycrystals coalesced in patches around them, and strange alien creatures flew above them, keeping a long distance away.

“This… is a minor form of what happens when a Leyline gets damaged. The effects here have been lessened since the damage was first discovered, but… well.” she clears her throat. “Does anybody want to wager a guess as to what caused all of this?”

Dynamic responses.

“If you remember from my last lecture, I explained that portals damaged the leylines by putting too much strain upon the veil. In a sense, this is what happened here.”

“The Warpwind Cliffs were once home to Chief Telemancer Occuleth, who has so graciously given his permission for me to teach within his home.”

“When he was banished from Suramar though, he began to wither. An ordeal which kept him from tending to his telemancy pads properly.”

“After many years of neglect, they fell into disarray. So all the ingenious anchors that prevented his portals from damaging the leylines broke down… leaving the energy to bleed out.”

“This formed a rift in the fabric of space/time, causing it to unravel. The combined efforts of the Kirin’Tor and Suramar have slowly begun to reverse this damage--hence why it’s safe enough to remain within here--but the scar it left will stay here forever.”

“You see, in the same way our planet’s rotation creates an electromagnetic field that shields us from cosmic radiation, the pulsation of the leylines creates a metaphysical shield known as ‘The Veil’ that prevents an excess of magic, and other realities, from bleeding into ours.”

“When a leyline get’s damaged, it creates a weakness in that veil that allows foreign forces to seep through into ours. And that, my friends, creates what you see behind me.”

“Of course, as I said, this is a very minor case… as this happened gradually over time, and was caught before the damage became too great. But there are a few more extreme examples I can throw at you.”

“Firstly, Azuna. A telemancy network malfunctioned there, choking a leyline and creating a ley fissure. Now you have anomalies like Manawraiths roaming about, dangerous animated objects, and just walking into the area causes severe disorientation, force damage, and fatigue.”

“Dalaran Crater is another example… in which an abrupt decision to teleport the entire city to Northrend created a massive wound in the planet where similar anomalies happen.”

“Even more severe is the mage tower known as Kharazahn. Its unfathomably powerful enchantments weakened the veil enough that it became a beacon for the Burning Legion to invade from.”

“The resulting energies of chaos unraveled what was left of the veil and created a place within its walls where all senses of ‘how it should be’ become null and void.”

“Halls and time warp, people shrink, gravity changes with the moon, and the spirits of those who were killed there are cursed to never rest.”

“And perhaps the most extreme example of all… Draenor. Our Draenor. The one that eventually became outland.”

“Ner’zul, a man trying to redeem his people, used the staff of Sargeras to open up a portal to another world. Only, it wouldn’t stop. Reality around them began to deteriorate, and the entire continent was thrust into the Twisting Nether.”

She stopped for a good long moment, allowing it all to sink in once more. It became apparent now, that her voice was gradually growing louder, and more severe, this entire time.

“But why? Why does this happen? Well… the answer to that is actually quite simple.”

“If the leylines are blood vessels, then like blood vessels, they can only handle so much energy--so much blood--at any given point in time. Call upon too much--pump too much--and they burst.”

“This is why the spells we cast can only reach a certain potency. Go beyond that, and you must take more time with it, resorting to rituals to cast, rather than a much quicker incantation.”

“This is why people like myself push so hard for others to be mindful of their castings. To be mindful of the impact they have on our planet through these castings.”

“Damage a leyline, and you never know what could happen to you. What could happen to the world around you.”

“The preservation of our world is a must. Keeping the infrastructure in proper working order allows life to flourish. Destroy that infrastructure, and you’ll wind up with a dying world in the long run.”

“Thank you, for listening. I hope this was informative.”

Author’s Note: Hey guys! I’m sorry this took so long to get out. I was busy! But I got it, and can now work on another piece of headcannon and theorycraft for ya’ll to enjoy :P

#wow #world of warcraft #mage #magic #lore #leylines #azeroth #rp #roleplay #ic #in character #theorycraft #headcannon #research

24 notes · View notes

undermounts · 4 years

Text

Bound―Chapter 1: Searching

Summary: As Diana searches for a mysterious artifact, she finds more trouble than she bargained for.

Masterlist | AO3

Pairing: Gaius Augustine/Diana Leigh (BB MC)

Aosta, Italy, 2042

Diana slipped through the shadows, feet near-silent as she traversed the stone streets and alleys of Aosta, the moon full and bright above her. The town was quiet, most of its occupants deep in their slumber by this time of night.

She had left her lodging about half an hour prior, prepared to make the quick ten-minute journey to her destination when she had sensed another presence. As usual, it began as a prickling sensation at the back of her skull that spread like cold fire down the nape of her neck, the hair on her arms standing on end. Diana cast her senses, tendrils of psychic power dispersing through the night like ink through water until she sought what she was looking for.

The signature she found was ancient, far older than her, and distinctly inhuman, although she concluded this individual was not particularly powerful. Probably. Her own signature was masked so as not to alert any supernatural beings or even sensitive humans from paying her too much attention. It was possible whoever else was out there had done the same.

When the presence did not disappear after five minutes, Diana decided whoever this was was following her. She doubled back, taking a few random turns and sticking to the shadows in an attempt to lose her pursuer. Although she had no doubt she could handle herself, it was better to avoid a fight if possible. It would draw less attention from both the locals and anyone else who might be looking out for her.

Europe after all, was still risky territory, even after vampires emerged in the States nearly two decades ago. There were still humans who were hesitant to live side by side with vampires and Diana couldn’t fault them for being wary. Beyond that, there were other vampires as well in Europe that she wouldn’t quite call friends. Those who had devoted themselves to the First, those who were still devoted to Rheya.

Diana felt a twinge in her chest as she thought of Serafine. The Daughters of Rheya. If only she had spared a moment before confronting Rheya, perhaps she could have swayed Serafine… made her see reason.

Diana was not proud of her own mercilessness after losing Lily. She had lost herself, her control, to all of the pain and rage. For a few moments, she had lost her humanity, just as Rheya had. And it still scared her to think of what could have happened had Adrian not tethered her to this earth. It scared her even more think of what could still happen.

Diana paused in a doorway, momentarily lost in her own thoughts as she absently rubbed her thumb over the small charm that hung around her neck. A lily, formed from the silver of one of her best friend’s crossbow bolts. God, she missed Lily. She missed her every day. It was made even worse by the fact that Diana was now so far from home and everyone she loved. Kamilah, Jax, Adrian…

That caused another pang of sadness to roll through her, the thought of home. Home was basking in the moonlight with Kamilah, tending to night-blooming flowers. Home was training other vampires, young and old, with Jax in self-defense, teaching them how to protect those who can’t protect themselves. Home was resting safely in Adrian’s arms after a long day of working towards the better world they all had dreamed of and fought so hard for.

That was home for Diana, even if some aspects were no longer available.

She shook her head, breaking from her thoughts and huffed. A psychic lost in her own mind.

Coming back to the present, she cast her senses out once more and was pleased to find that she no longer felt that supernatural signature. She had either lost her pursuer or it was a coincidence. Either way, she continued with caution, taking a few extra turns than necessary. Just in case.

Eventually, she arrived at her destination. A nondescript stone house on the outskirts of town. It was well cared for, if not a little old. Potted plants bloomed on the doorstep and in the windowsills. Diana pinched a bit of soil from a flower pot between her fingers. Dry. Again, she reached out mentally, searching for any other signatures, human or otherwise, but the house was empty. She suspected it had been for a while. Had counted on it.

Glancing around, she ascended the steps to the front door and placed her hand on the wooden surface and held her breath. Nothing. That was good she supposed.

Over the last few years, Diana had come to learn that people weren’t the only sources of memory she could access. Objects held memories as well, especially those that were well used or had some sort of sentimental value to its owner.

Diana let her hand fall to the door handle and closed her eyes, thinking of the lock’s tumblers sliding free. The door unlocked with a soft click and Diana entered.

The house was more like a studio apartment. There was a living area with a couch, television, and an old wooden table surrounded by four cushioned chairs on her left, a modest kitchen on her right. Against the far back wall was a single bed, unmade. The house was well-lived in, littered with little trinkets that seemed to have come from around the world. This place was… Diana rested her hand against the worn surface of the wooden table and sucked in a sharp breath. Loved. This place was loved.

She glanced around again, this time seeing it as its owner did. This house was a sanctuary, a place of peace, comfort, and belonging. Diana eyed the heavy curtains that covered the windows and realized that the plants in the windowsill were moonflowers, a sort of night-blooming flowers she recognized from Kamilah’s garden. This further confirmed her research and her own psychic senses. This was the home of a vampire.

Diana took one second to take in the peaceful air of the room, appreciating it for just a moment, before she swept forward and began to search. Diana loosened the damper on her power, opening herself to perceive other signatures she would otherwise have to actively search for to perceive, which was more difficult when she wasn’t sure what exactly she should be looking for.

She paced, feeling her power rush to her fingertips, eager to be used. In some ways, her power felt like a sentient being. It seemed to have its own will, although Diana had long since learned to curb it so that it was merely suggestive to her. In other ways, it felt like water, the way it moved through her. She could dam it up when she had to, halting its flow; when she released it, that was when her magic was most insistent, rushing through her like a tidal wave before it gradually leveled out.

Once she felt her magic settle, Diana crossed to the center of the room, closed her eyes, and waited.

Where are you? she thought, breathing deep. I know you have been calling for me. I am here.

The dreams had begun a few weeks ago, during one of her first days in her new apartment. She had gotten fragments of something that resembled a necklace, perhaps an amulet. It was silver, engraved with odd runes and inset with a pale green stone. Following this had been glimpses of the majestic snowcapped mountains that formed the Valley of Aosta, then the exterior of this very house.

There were more dreams after that, of different objects in different places, all of them whispering of some sort of power. Diana still did not quite understand why these objects were calling to her, perhaps due to her own restlessness she had unknowingly sought them. Either way, when she had spoken to Adrian about searching for them, he had agreed that perhaps it was safer for these objects to be brought to New York where they could be monitored rather than out in the world. Although Diana suspected that Adrian had only agreed with her because he no longer felt that he didn’t have a right to do otherwise, given their new situation.

So searching for the mysterious objects was a welcome task for Diana. It gave her the space she needed, even though she wasn’t always certain that this was the space she wanted.

Where…

And then she felt it, a low hum that echoed throughout her bones. She moved in the direction of the source, her senses guiding her towards the bed in the back of the room. The bed, she sensed, was ordinary, so she gently lifted it and set it out of the way so she could survey the area it occupied. Diana brushed her fingers along the wall. Nothing. Humming to herself, she continued along the wall, walking slowly until she felt a floorboard shift slightly beneath her foot.

She couldn’t help but smirk to herself. Of course, whatever this was would be hidden beneath the floorboards. Diana crouched, wedging her fingertips into the crease of the board she had stepped on and gently lifting it. A bundle of faded red cloth sat at the bottom of a small compartment. Diana sucked in a small breath and carefully extracted it, just in case the object was particularly malevolent, although she sensed whatever magic or power this held bore no ill intent. To her at least.

Diana unwrapped the cloth, humming in satisfaction as she recognized the object of her dreams. There you are. The talisman glinted in the silvery moonlight as she inspected it, her own mottled reflection staring back at her. She tried to discern what sort of purpose it had, whether it was inherently good or evil, but as she studied it, she decided that it simply just was. Whether the talisman could be used for good or evil was dependent on its owner.

As she studied it, the pale green stone at the center seemed to pulse alluringly. Odd. Compelled, she reached out with her other hand and touched the pad of her finger to the gem’s polished surface.

Before she could react, her power surged, psychic energy rushing through her fingertips and into the amulet with a blindingly bright flash. Diana gasped, dropping the talisman to the floor with a metallic clunk! She stared at it, breathing hard as her power dissipated around her, sated and once again under her control. What the hell was that?

After a moment passed and nothing else happened, she nudged the talisman with the toe of her boot, turning it over so that the stone, now dull and unassuming, faced her. She could still feel its signature like a faint tingling sensation, but whatever energy she had interacted with, ignited, had gone dormant.

Cautiously, Diana crouched down and wrapped it back up with the thick, velvety cloth. Lesson learned. She would not be touching that with her bare skin any time soon.

Before Diana could think too hard about whether or not she had a right to take this talisman, she felt that prickling sensation at the back of her skull, more intense than before. She shoved the talisman into the inner pocket of her jacket and shot to her feet, blood singing. It was the same presence she felt before, although now that she had spent time in this house, she could at least tell that the two signatures did not align. Whoever was nearby wasn’t the house’s occupant.

Diana heard the scrape of gravel and knew with grave certainty that whoever she had sensed earlier was right outside. She scowled, reaching for the sword at her back. If whoever was out there hadn’t sensed her when she loosened her hold on her power to find the talisman, they certainly did when she touched it. She wondered distantly just who else she might have alerted.

Diana crept towards the door, breathing evenly. Diana didn’t bother to reign in her power again lest she alert whoever was outside that she picked up on their presence. Let them believe they have an advantage. She waited, quieting her mind and settling into a state Kamilah called the “killing calm.” Let them come to her.

As anticipated, Diana hear a sharp inhale, the scuffle of a boot on concrete, and then the door flew open. Diana caught the flash a scarlet gaze and gleaming incisors before she spun, planting her foot against the chest of her attacker. They tumbled back out of the building and Diana followed, closing and locking the door behind her without a second thought as she loosened her hold on her power even more.

Diana watched as her attacker picked themselves off the ground and bared their fangs, hissing in anger. A vampire then. She could handle that.

It was a young woman, although Diana knew this vampire was far older than she. Her blond hair looked silver in the moonlight, save for the dark patch that resulted from a bloody gash on her forehead.

Diana reached for the sword strapped to her back and then paused. Attacker or no, she didn’t want to take any lives tonight. Whether she would be able to escape this encounter without death still remained to be seen. She let both arms fall to her sides, palms facing outwards.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Diana said softly, stepping off the doorstep. “We don’t need to do this.”

“Traitor!” the woman snarled and then launched herself forward once again.

Diana dodged a punch aimed at her head with ease, twisting her body and whirling around so that the woman’s back was now to the house. Diana glanced around at the nearby houses and then beyond to the field and forest beyond. The woman struck again, this time with a low sweeping kick that Diana barely backed away from. She had to get the woman away from these houses and towards the field. There was no telling what humans might do if they awoke and witnessed two vampires fighting. And if someone else got involved…

“Die!” the woman hissed, freeing a stake from the inside of her boot and stabbing down towards Diana’s chest.

“I’ll pass,” Diana grunted, catching the woman’s fist. She yanked the woman forward and headbutted her hard. The woman stumbled back with a cry, head cracking back, and Diana took the advantage to bolt towards the field.

“Coward! I’ll kill you!”

Diana grit her teeth and wondered why the woman couldn’t vow to kill her silently.

Long blades of grass whispered around her legs as Diana bound through the field and closer to the edge of the forest. The further away they were from the town, the better. The moon shown brightly down on her, providing no shadows for cover in the open field, which suited her just fine. She had no plans of hiding.

Diana heard twigs snap underfoot behind her and spun, planting her feet in the ground and stretching out her hand, using the woman’s momentum against her as she wrapped her hand around her throat and lifted her off her feet, turning with the motion before slamming her into the ground.

“Stop this,” Diana growled, staring into blood-red eyes. “You don’t need to do this.”

“The Daughters of Rheya will never stop fighting the enemies of our Goddess!” The woman’s eyes bulged, glinting with hate and fury as her face turned blotchy. She clawed at Diana’s harm, her wrist, reaching for her face before Diana pinned her wrists with her free hand. Diana’s blood went cold at the mention of the Daughters of Rheya. That was Serafine’s following. Jax and Adrian had been keeping tabs on the group; over the last two decades, the Daughters had grown in numbers but had yet to act, appearing to be not much of a threat. Perhaps by crossing into Europe, into their domain, Diana had changed that.

“This is suicide!” Diana snapped, preparing to delve into the woman’s mind, hoping to help her see reason. “One vampire isn’t enough to―”

She cut herself off. Yes, one vampire against her was a suicide mission, so there had to be another―

“Let her go!” another voice demanded and Diana almost rolled her eyes at her own lack of foresight before the new arrival continued. “Let her go or I’ll slit his throat.”

Without turning, Diana perceived another vampire and indeed their human charge. Immediately, Diana released her hold on her first attacker and stood, hands up. Slowly turning around, she saw her another woman with closely shaved dark hair glaring back at her. In her grip was a young boy, eyes wide and afraid, a wicked knife gleaming against his throat. Her power pulsated, begging to be used. She knew she could kill both attackers but she refrained. If that could be avoided...

Suddenly her feet were swept out from under her and Diana went crashing to the ground, the wind swiftly knocked from her lungs. The first woman was on her in an instant, expression nearly feral as she wrapped both hands around Diana’s throat and slammed her head back against the hard-packed dirt. Diana grit her teeth, fighting down the panic that came with being unable to breathe as she rose her hand not to break the grip on her throat but to place her palm directly against the woman’s forehead.

Immediately the hands at her throat went slack as Diana entered the mind palace of the woman, forcing her to see her own horrific memories of Rheya as she sifted through the woman’s.

“Lies,” the woman seethed, thrashing weekly against Diana’s hold and Diana sensed that the woman truly did not believe the memories she showed her.

It’s because she’s never met Rheya. There is no truth to hold against her, no memories to compare this to.

Amidst the crushing realization that Diana could not simply turn the woman to see reason, to believe the truth about Rheya, Diana found another truth within the woman’s mind. She would not stop until Diana was dead.

Diana saw the woman’s next action a split second before it happened, barely twisting just enough so that the knife the woman pulled from a sheath at her thigh missed her heart and instead plunged into Diana’s shoulder, all the way to the hilt.

Diana gasped in pain, body surging as she hurled the woman off of her, no longer thinking to check her strength as she rocked to her feet, adrenaline rushing, power screaming to be released. Slipping into that cold, killing calm, Diana wrenched the knife from her shoulder with a grunt and flung it into the abdomen of the blond woman, unsheathing the sword at her back in the same motion.

The blond woman’s eyes flew wide as Diana stepped forward, her face neither furious nor scrunched with pain. It was eerily calm as she shook her head in disappointment and her eyes flashed with something akin to sorrow.

“I told you to stop,” Diana said in a low, even voice as she swung her blade out in a gleaming, fatal arc.

“No!” The second woman screamed in anguish as the first dissolved into ash and Diana whirled, eyes widening and power boiling to the surface as the other Daughter brought her arm sideways, preparing for that fatal slash of a knife.

Diana reached her arm out, but not fast enough.

She watched in disbelief as a blade suddenly protruded through the chest of the remaining woman and the knife fell to the ground as the hand holding it turned to ash. When the woman was nothing more than specks of dust on the wind and the young boy stumbled forward, gasping in shock but otherwise unharmed, Diana stared at the man before her as he observed the scattering ashes with a sharp exhale before meeting her gaze.

Diana’s fingertips threatened to drop her sword before she gripped it tighter, the leather creaking beneath her palm as she whispered, “Gaius.”

tagging @bigmemesplz, @somin-yin, and @mkamra2355

#my writing #gaius x mc #gaius augustine #bloodbound #bb3 #choices #adrian raines #kamilah sayeed #jax matsuo #lily spencer #rheya apostolous #serafine dupont #redemption arc

29 notes · View notes

scoundrels-in-love · 5 years

Text

We draw a line in the sand, We say don't cross this or else (Take this from me, take this lonely heart )

Brienne hasn't believed love itself is enough to defeat all obstacles for a long time.

When Jaime comes to join the convoy returning North after Dragonpit, it's not about them loving each other - it's about survival.

But maybe it can be about love, too.

Also on AO3.

Brienne hasn’t believed love is enough in a long time.

Like a flower, this childish belief has gradually lost its colorful petals - blown away by harsher fall winds that had blown out candles of her mothers’ and infant sisters’ lives, trashed to ground by cold rain like waves had battered Galladon’s body against the cliffs, fallen away from the first touch of frost that her decision to leave had brushed upon her relationship with her father.

Love could not carry you over the pits in the road or take you over the mountains life raised in your path. Only you yourself could try to overcome these obstacles, assisted by it’s sometimes gentle, sometimes bruising hand.

She still carries imprints of those, they ache dully into the night when she could not sleep, when neither crackling of fire or familiar shuffling of camp settled down (but never quite at peace) could soothe her.

Her love could not save Renly when he bled out in her arms, so far from his own beloved.

Just as her oaths and beliefs could not save Lady Stark - or her late Lady’s love had not saved her family.

Much like Jaime, whose golden, cracked heart could not dispel darkness over Cersei’s mind with its glow.

And, in turn, she could not follow its shine into the marshes, in hopes to find him and pull him back on safe, stable ground.

Yet, she had dared to hope, for a brief moment in Dragonpit, when their traded glances held the weight of gathering storm clouds upon the horizon - they could dispel yet, giving way to a sun so bright it blinds in its play or unleash a storm that would devour fleets in minutes.

She had been blind, alright. But no sun had been present, except for the resplendent Lannister twins. And what cruel desert suns they could be.

“Fuck loyalty,” she had told him, but now it tastes like salt and ash of burned would-bes in her mouth. Brienne would feel better if she could truly, honestly say she had meant it, without a single, passing thought of ‘fuck loyalty to her, your sister, and maybe you will find a different sort loyalty in the smoking ruins of what Cersei has reduced your love to’.

Selfish, even when she tried to do what is right, even when she tried to save him.

And so, so godsdamn angry when she could not.

Podrick calls considerable amount of it upon himself, when she glares at the boy as he tumbles into her tent, red faced and out of breath.

“Ser Brienne, Ser Jaime just arrived with a handful of men and announced he has a meeting with you.”

Jaime looks slightly out of place in her tent, but that is less disconcerting than the fact he is here and how much he still looks like he belongs. She has spent many years in war camps, too, but Brienne knows she looked a lot more misfit in his lavish Commander’s tent back in Riverrun.

(She tries not to think about the implications of that, tries and fails.)

“I could have exposed your lie,” she tells him, plainly. The implied should sways between them like an axe’s blade, edge of it glinting in the candle light.

“But you didn’t.”

“Do not make me regret it.” She regrets immediately, for the flicker of doubt, an almost hurt that casts shadows over his eyes, dips into the lines of his face, making her think of all the pain that others have inflicted on him with their dismissals and accusations.

“Cersei does not intend to send her forces. I overheard her speaking with Qyburn, her rat of a Hand, about how she intended to keep me in the dark until the last possible moment.”

He barrels on, which is for the best, because with a moment to speak or act, she might have walked up to cup his clenched jaw, take his fist in her hands until it warmed and melted open again under her touch.

“I bade my time, took my most trusted men and raced to catch up with you. I doubted I would be given a chance to explain myself and enter the camp, so I lied and said this is what we had spoken about at Dragonpit.”

She knows there are countless questions to ask, about logistics, about how many men he had trusted and if they could indeed be trusted, about, about, about, but all that she has on her tongue is: “Why?”

It comes out quiet and paper thin, a rustle of dry leaves to reflect the drought in her mouth.

Jaime walks forward, stops a step away from her, and she can see more clearly now how distraught he really is. It’s not even the way his beard is far from the well-maintained form it had been back at Dragonpit or the tension in his shoulders, his whole body, really. There is something broken and hopeful and soft in his eyes, which she has only one word for, but not one she can give it.

She thinks he looks like a page torn from a book that hopes she will sew him back into another tome, instead of tossing him into the fire.

“If I have to go North and die fighting decayed monsters, at least we can do it together, Brienne.”

She has been addressed in many ways and her name dragged through spit, blood and mud, but the way he says it now is as if he has washed it clean and is holding it tenderly. It lances through her heart, right next to where his solemn proclamation is buried hilt deep.

“You are seeking out an honorable death, is that it?” Later she wonders if her voice rose in volume, but right now, all she can feel is anger as a wall built hastile in response to the hurt.

“We all die and this is perhaps one way I can actually be useful doing it.” She sees him closing up, too, retreating now that the conversation had spun out of his hands, though Brienne does not know where he had wanted to take it.

“Ser Jaime, do you intend to live or to die?” He flinches at her use of his title, the moat she has haphazardly dug around herself filling with water rapidly. And yet, she still hopes he will give something, so she can lower the drawbridge.

“You know none of us can intend much in a battlefield.”

The gate falls shut and she knows Jaime sees it, hope that has been crumbling already turned into foggy resignation and yet the softness stays.

“Very well, Ser Jaime. I will make necessary arrangements for the stay of you and your men. I am sure your brother will be happy to let you spend tonight in his tent.”

“Good night, Lady Brienne.”

III

Handful of men turn out to be a good fifty well armed and equally trained soldiers and while rest of the camp is vary of them initially, enough for them to be somewhat glorified prisoners, the trial which Brienne had worried for is seemingly postponed until they reach Winterfell and over the journey, the tension eases and connections are made.

She, too, finds herself making some - particularly with Jaime’s second in command, Addam Marbrand. Next morning, after she had finished training with Pod, he had strode over to her, all easy swagger and seemingly genuine respect, introducing himself and pressing kiss to back of her hand as he told he had heard great many things of her valour and battle skills.

Perhaps it is what he chooses to praise or his eagerness when sparring, or the way he lures a shadow of smile or a familiar scowl out of Jaime over stories he shares of their childhood that makes her feel more at ease around him than she normally would.

Or maybe she spends time with him because it is closest to natural excuse she has to be near Jaime. At first, she had avoided him and he seemed to do the same, but then Addam had started dragging him to campfires and early morning spars.

“If you intend to watch Lady Brienne’s six, you could do better than merely be a body shield for one or two wights,” he had said the first time, ignoring Jaime’s grimace (and earning a notch on her appreciation scale).

After she and Addam are done with him, he has more than a remark to make faces about. But he grins and bears it, quite literally, and within a week he taunts them in return and the improvement is clear. Sometimes, she almost forgets where they are and what awaits them, with the way their swords sing and banter warms the space between them. Some of it is stilted still, bear pits of silences they stumble into, especially when it is just her and Jaime, the unspoken things just as dangerous as the beast that left its mark on her body.

Especially so on quiet nights when they find themselves sitting together and gazing at the moon in her milky garden, promising cold weather. It makes her wonder if that single, wilted flower could’ve been part of an azalea instead, which now mistakes the warmth of his shoulder for the arrival of Spring. But the Winter is not just coming - it is already here.

Though Winterfell is half-sunken in snow, something seems to thaw in Jaime after his trial has passed. There is uncertainty to him still, like he is a spring that hasn’t found the path it will carve out ahead just yet, but he throws himself into the preparations earnestly and his eyes glint with color of laughter (green of new leaves) more often.

It feels selfish to seek him and Addam out, under guise of discussing strategies and overall progress, when she merely wants a moment of breathing, away from everything that they’re actually supposed to think about. She draws in air so deeply, so greedily it actually hurts - hurts when Jaime’s hand hovers near hers as they stand on battlement and his smile is warmer than memories of sun, clouds on its edges because they know this is not enough. And he cannot give her more.

Yet he does.

Addam had mentioned her (lack of) knighthood before, but she had brushed him off. It is the last thing on her mind, when Jaime stands up abruptly after Tyrion mentions most of the people present have fought the Starks at one point, yet now they are united to defend their castle.

“There would have been no one to truly reclaim it, if not for Lady Brienne, who brought Lady Sansa home,” he says, almost conversationally, but she can sense the flood of certainty rolling generous waves within him. She fears she is the river banks it intends to swallow.

“And if there is to be a new dawn, it deserves to be greeted by one true knight in these seven wretched kingdoms.” Jaime sets his cup down and moves to the center of the room, the sound of him unsheathing Widow’s Wail almost deafening in the quiet that has entangled everyone.

“Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

She wants to laugh it off, before he can, before someone says ‘women cannot be knights’, before -- but only he exists outside the silence and she has no voice. Somewhere, on the edges of her vision, Addam and Podrick smile at her with such pride and encouragement that it sweeps her off her chair and toward Jaime, like he is the lighthouse and the cliffs that could shatter her all at once.

He guides her to the shore, gleaming in the firelight, and her legs wobble as her lip does when she stands up, now a knight.

In that moment, love isn’t just enough, it is everything, and all she can see is flurry of pink in golden sunlight.

Morning comes, but the night has taken many under her cold, silent wings.

She has lost the count of how many times she thought it will carry away those dearest to her, instead it had become a rod of ice next to her backbone that hadn’t let her bend or break, or stop even for a moment as they fought through the Long Night.

It still has not melted, almost a day later, because Addam is laying pale in a makeshift infirmary bed. Only for a moment, she had lost sight of him, but it could as well have been an infinity, because next time a wave of wights crested and fell apart, so was he crumbling to the ground. They had managed to drag him along as they were forced to retreat towards a wall, clinging to the ragged breath he still drew and the hope it could be over soon, but if the battle had lasted even half an hour more, he would have faded away propped against the stone, now uselessly protected by three swords.

She has not seen him since they brought him to Maester that night, immediately overtaken by duties, interrupted only by short and restless sleep where sometimes it was Jaime, sometimes Addam and even Podrick that fell (and then rose) in her dreams. But now she is here and so is Jaime, who has little else to do than to be by his friend’s bed and mend his own wounds.

He chides Brienne for looking as if she will keel over herself, has few choice words for Lady Sansa’s inability to manage even a day without her, and drags her on a stool next to his. Doesn’t let her hand go even afterward - it is rough and warm, and familiar somehow, though they have barely ever touched. As if all the countless dreams she has had have somehow become a piece of truth, reality, embedded in her body and mind.

“Brienne, he will live,” Jaime tells her and she wants to tell him he cannot know that, not with the clarity he bears, but she smiles a little and nods in return, because it is good one of them can be so assured of it.

“And so will I.” His voice is almost solemn, trembling just a little like he isn’t sure if this promise is even wanted, though he must, just as she had known his heart. And she thinks of the gaping abyss they still have yet to cross which love will not lift them gently over on its own, and of the way she cannot think of taking another step without his hand in hers, and then she is kissing him, soft and sweet and he cannot taste like first warm spring rain, yet he somehow does.

“Could not wait until I am good enough to say finally with all the panache it deserves, could you?”

They startle apart, though Jaime’s hand stays on her shoulder, still drawing her closer even if it is awkward at this angle. Addam still looks pale, but she appreciates seeing his eyes again, the glimmer of mirth and relief making him seem more lively than he logically can be.

When she stands to call Maester, she thinks she was right - love itself might not be enough. But when it is encased with support and trust and oaths that are hard to give but easy to uphold once said, and life that shall be lived and shared, it becomes something that makes roads and homes in impossible places. And somewhere in her heart, azalea blooms dizzyingly as the color drips back into the landscape.

#Braime #Braime ff #Jaime x Brienne #got #Braime fanfiction #my fic #rainy writes stuff

36 notes · View notes