#leaving them as vague blurry circular shadows on the face

[ikilledamanforthisurl]

Arti sketch from feburary + Arti sketch from likee right now

[kettlequills]

C3: waking dreams: master of fate

On A03 here. tw for grief/mourning, mentioned child death, and mild hallucinations. also miraak is high. you guys get to meet soskro and mirdein!

“Easy now,” the healer, Soskro, murmured, “Easy. Your body has had quite the shock.”

“Hmm,” another voice came, gravelly, rough with ash. “Just patch me up. I need to get back to guarding the temple doors. I don’t trust that those troublemakers have gone.”

Flame-soft light greeted Miraak’s eyes. It rippled warm orange over the curtains that had been pulled around his bed. A bed? It was warm against his body and held him like an embrace, like Mora had decided to dangle him over the ink-dark seas long enough that Miraak’s body heat started to warm the perpetually tepid rubberiness of his tentacles. There were no beds in Apocrypha, nor curtains, and vague notions of some distant past-dream warred with what Miraak knew – the only fabric was the ragged tatters of the seeker’s cloaks. A similar papery colour, these cloaks that wrapped around the world, but they had dried out, and there were no stains.

The healer and the patient were shadow puppets against the light, their bodies licked with slow-moving, peaceful tentacles that swayed back and forth like the sigh of the waves on the shore. Like the remote figures of lurkers, small as a scale on his gauntlet from the vantage point of his high tower, the bubbles they blew in the ink as they idled.

Miraak’s face itched, but gently, as if it was far away. His ear ached a little, as if he’d been laying on it for a very long time. His mask felt odd on one side, soft instead of hard, and the eyeslits were wider, he thought. All the added peripheral vision made him feel dizzy.

He wanted to close them, but he could not figure out how. Instead, he watched the flutter of the curtains in the soft breeze and felt the salt from the distant sea in his throat. The world seemed to inch past in honey-thick grains, each second languid, lugubrious, elongated as an endless rest among the murmuring pages wrapped in tame dragonwings. He did not need sleep, did not ever fully slip into the dark comfort of Vaermina’s realm, but it was… meditative, in a sense, to leave only one ear open for threats, and simply lie quietly for a time.

Sahrotaar was the best to sleep on if Mora did not have him within his curling knot of oil-dark tendrils, even though Sahrotaar was always a placid room temperature. Its scales were smooth and soft, circular, made for slipping like a knife between the skin of the water, and its finned wings would curl round Miraak with the most care, like he was a sea-pearl in the heart of a clam. The bones in Sahrotaar’s wings still jabbed him, and Sahrotaar would insist on sliding its big snout into the pocket of space it had made between its wings and its body, filling it all with the subtle reek of old fish and ink, but it was better than nesting among the ripped pages of books.

Miraak wondered where Sahrotaar was.

“Mirdein, you have a spear hole in your leg the size of a drake,” Soskro said with the firmness of an argument often repeated, “You’ll sit here til I tell you.”

Mirdein grunted. “Yes, muthsera.”

Miraak breathed on his own now, without the tube down his throat and blurry white mask-faces manning bellows to manually pump his lungs for him. The huffing of the bellows had marked his days in and out of silence, and though something had always felt faintly wrong, Miraak could sense the presence of another close by – one of his dragons, surely, keeping watch against the lurkers – that occasionally pressed into him with tender magics that made his muscles unknot and his body loose and limp. Reassuringly, it still hurt, and the insistent feeling of violation and vulnerability was soothing in its familiarity. Perhaps Mora was feeding him again, or taking from him, and that was why Soskro was there, solid as never before when they’d met in dreams, spoonfeeding him potions that left his mind dreamy.

Soskro had seemed proud when Miraak could breathe all by himself. He focused on it, sucking air into himself until he felt buoyant as a balloon, ready to drift away. Fly, all by himself, in windless Apocrypha, with no dragonwings to hold him up.

“Don’t be smart with me, wife.”

The gentle tones of Restoration magic chimed like the ringing of bells to call the priests to evensongs, and Miraak floated in the sense-memory and wondered vaguely if anyone would be mad if he didn’t go, because he didn’t think he had a mouth anymore, and he thought that was good for singing. He had eyes, more eye than he was used to – had there always been so much to see, to the left of him? – but dim memory told him that he didn’t need to see. Mora would be there, to see for him, see in him, see to him, and his voice oily-smooth would tell him what he needed to do.

The curtains were glowing faintly. He wondered if they were supposed to. It looked like dragonfire caught in glass, like the scales of a fire-drake steaming where it lay in the snow. Dragon eyes and dragon names slipped foglike through his memory, and though he tried to shape the words of forgiveness for forgetting the name of the beast whose hide watched him through the curtains, his tongue was busy holding in all his air.

“I need you alive,” Soskro continued, “not dead on the end of some Skaal blade.”

“It was just a training accident,” said Mirdein, dismissively. “Sulis got too close. Nothing serious.”

“Serious enough for you to be stabbed! Since when did training get so violent?” Soskro’s voice was loud. Miraak thought he might sing to calm the tensions so no one would get bitten or eaten, but there was no space around all the air in him.

“Tensions are rising, Soskro! No one likes being sealed in the temple and you know there’s been accusations-“

His vision was going grey at the edges. Miraak released all his breath in a wheezing exhale. The voices went quiet. He mourned them. Mora so rarely put on different voices to catch Miraak out anymore and send him hurtling down book-strewn paths chasing echoes of memories. It had been one of the games they played. Mora had laughed at it, but Miraak did not remember laughing.

He did not remember most things, these days.

“Is he awake?” Mirdein asked, eventually, and Soskro sighed.

“Higher than a netch in a skooma-barrel, but yes, I think so. He’s staying awake most of the time now, can’t get much out of him but nonsense and odd words, but I think he’s more or less lucid. Taking him off the illusions helped.”

The shadow puppets moved, and then the curtains parted like a wound. Furrowed brows like the iron trellises of Apocrypha’s bridges stared down at him, then a broad-shouldered shape nudged into the curtained off section where Miraak nested. Another shape on its heels, merging together and apart, then Soskro appeared like magic and pushed Mirdein into a chair.

“Serjo.” The voice of Mirdein was back, but closer now. Rough, and warm, like the scratch of Kruziikrel’s sleepy mumbles when Miraak stole a moment of rest on his flame-hot throat. There was a bandage wrapped around her thigh at Miraak’s eye-level, a bloody spot the size of a coin already soaking through. Mirdein was a big woman, big enough to make the chair creak when she leaned forward to get a good look at him.

Some impression that something was wrong tickled him, and his face began to itch unbearably. He tried to lift his hand to scratch it, but his arm was tied to his side, his hand immobilised in a thick swathe of bandages. While Miraak puzzled that out, Soskro leant into his vision and smiled at him.

Red, red eyes, like Laataazin’s blood over his hands, these elves had. He thought they were elves. Soskro’s left hand was golden, and clicked and whirred softly when moved, and Miraak knew that it felt cold and hard, like things that touched his face were supposed to. He did not move away when Soskro’s thin metal fingers touched his cheek.

“Here, Lord,” said Soskro, and then lightly draped a gentle kerchief of silk over his face. The itching soothed immediately, and Miraak sighed against the coolness on his skin. It was the wrong weight – he did not know how he knew, but he knew it was wrong – but it felt more right than before. More right than Mirdein looking at him.

Mirdein exhaled slowly. There was a weight in the shadow of her shape through the silk, a slump of tired shoulders.

“Have faith,” said Soskro, quietly, “He will recover when he recovers. We will hold out.”

“I am patient,” said Mirdein, dourly, but then her voice softened.  “I – and my men – will keep you safe, serjo. Do not fear for my loyalty.”

“Geh, aam-hi,” Miraak heard himself say, as if through a very long tunnel. Yes, you serve me. The world shivered in response, and for a brief moment, he thought he heard the lonely cry of a dragon. Soskro’s soft intake of breath was one of awe.

Mora’s tentacles kissed Miraak’s nose on the inside of the silk kerchief, pulsed dizzyingly in his vision when Mirdein spoke again, firm as bedrock, “As you say, serjo.”

---

Frea clung to a jutting rock not far from the Tree Stone and squinted through the blinding snowfall. She had been crouched in the lee of the rock for some time now and her furs were dusted with snow, until she looked like nothing so much as a sleeping wolf taking refuge from the bitter winds.

Once, the animals had lived in the old ruin beyond the boneyard, wolfcubs whelping in the ancient rooms and birds nesting in the crumbling walls. There had been people, there had always been people in the temple, but only three or four at most, wary of outsiders but content to leave the Skaal well enough alone. As the Skaal had been happy to leave them; the cult of the Traitor could have their dusty ruin hidden behind the heaped skeletons of dragons fused together by time and the interminable movements of ice, no Skaal wanted to go near that wretched place. If the All-Maker did not move to kill them, it was certainly no business of the Skaal.

Of them all, only Frea had ever ventured inside. With the Last Dragonborn at her side, they’d carved a path through the temple with might and strength, to uncover the truth behind the disappearance of Frea’s people. The Traitor’s mind-snare was broken at the Tree Stone and the Skaal freed the night Laataazin had returned to read Herma Mora’s dark Book and confront Miraak – but the animals still had not returned to the temple, and Frea wanted to know why.

Frea pressed a far-seer to her eye and peered through it, hoping to catch a glimpse of swishing robes or patched armour along the top steps. Be they brigands, mostly, and honourless thieves, the cult of Miraak had grown hugely during the domination of the Stones. Yet, there was no sign of them, not even fat-bellied wolves slinking to their dens, or vultures drawn to the fresh carrion. Skorn had once cautioned the Skaal to stay away from the cultists and their dark magics, but Skorn was dead now to Herma Mora, and the burden of nurturing the Skaal’s spiritual connection to their land – and defending it – was Frea’s to shoulder.

And so Frea watched, and Frea waited, and the temple remained quiet.

Better that silence than the one in her father’s hall. The village was alive again, if weary and battered from months of gruelling work without their minds, and everyone felt Skorn’s loss deeply as their own wound. Their eyes were sunken when they looked at Frea for guidance, their hands thin and chapped with rough work when they touched her forehead, and though their hearts still were steady, Frea felt their grief and pain both as a stab of guilt to her own. Skorn would have served the Skaal better, but Frea did not know how to fix their nightmares for them or the days they had slaved that had been stolen from them, and though she could make tinctures for the rasping cough Oslaf had developed since a winter night at the Tree Stone she could not bring back the child that had died that night beside him, whose frozen body was found there still clutching his father’s leg.

Frea burned at the injustice of it. There was no guidance she could find meditating with the chants her father had taught her, well-worn as river stones in her mouth, no peace in trying to discern the will of the All-Maker in the dead that slept beneath the icy ground, but there was the fire of hatred in her heart, and that warmed her as she lay in the snow. Vengeance and safety in the knowledge that the temple was watched, and whatever scourge remained within unable to steal like shadows in the night to rob the minds of her people, she could bring the Skaal, if nothing else.

She dropped the far-seer to root in her belt for a pouch of cold-staying berries, her mitts awkward on the ties. Bags and bags of these she’d gone through travelling with Laataazin Dragonborn, whose southern blood chilled easily, and whose joints were worn with age and battle. It felt almost wrong to eat them by herself now, the tartness breaking on her tongue like a memory. But Frea was a practical person, and sentiment would not stop her freezing to death.

A shadow swept over the snow, and Frea blinked. A bird – perhaps, but no bird was so large – she fumbled with the far-seer, and jammed it to her eye just as the dragon passed over the temple of Miraak.

It was a frost one, it had to be, to fly so high, so fast, through the snow that Frea had not even heard the thunder of its wings. Laataazin had told her there were many different types of dragons, that they each favoured elements but it was best to assume all could flame and frost. Frea had seen them fight a dragon once, gripping her weapon tightly as she guarded the idle mage Neloth at Nchardak. Her heart had been in her throat as Laataazin taunted the great beast, evading its snarling and snapping jaws as it crowed slavishly about its master Miraak, and finally sent it to howling retreat with a final, bone-shattering blow to its leg.

The dragon circled over the temple, its head ducked like it was hunting for prey. It held something in its claws, she thought, for its right leg was oddly extended, not tucked close against its spiney body like the left. Unless – was this the same creature that Laataazin had chased off at Nchardak? It could not be. Had it returned to search the remains of the temple for its master?

Suddenly, from the temple another dragon rose on flapping wings, interrupting the lazy flight of the Nchardak dragon. This one was easier to see against the snow, the colour of a burnished ruby, and it spat fire a ship-length in front of it that the Nchardak dragon had to hastily dodge or risk charring. The two dragons circled each other, exchanging snapping forays too quickly for Frea to keep up with through her far-seer. They did not breathe flame or frost at each other, or clash fully, but instead danced around each other in the way Frea had seen wolves of the same pack play-fight – if a thousand times more deadly.

They tussled there in the sky for a while, but after a certain development that Frea could not spot from her position huddled in the snow some agreement was evidently reached, and the Nchardak dragon tucked its wings and dove into the darkness of the temple, presumably to land. As if flushed out like a hen from the sudden appearance of a fox, a third dragon, jade-green all over, rocketed out from the temple walls with a bitter screech. It was a horrible noise, and Frea’s far-seer tumbled from her hand as she hunched to protect her ears.

The screech cut off, suddenly, and through streaming eyes Frea squinted to see the two dragons left in the sky descending together, their blurry shapes quickly swallowed by the snow. Three dragons, solitary beasts one and all, roosting together in the temple, and one of them Frea knew had been loyal to Miraak once.

Tucking the far-seer back into her pocket, Frea rose stiffly, but cautiously, and crept away from the hollow she had made. She kept low until she reached the wooded line of the trees, then straightened, casting a last, perturbed look over her shoulder. Farani Strong-Voice would want to hear of this.

[exhaustedfander]

Of Birthday Cakes and Sentimentality

Here’s a fluffy (Slightly late) birthday fic for Logan, featuring Loceit! @coconut-cluster ‘s is wonderful loceit uni au content was really what got me into the ship in the first place.

a03 

word count: 1,755

Logan wakes slowly, the sunlight filtering in through the blinds casting stripes of shadow on the carpet. He glances to his side, vision blurry without his glasses, and frowns. The spot beside him is upsettingly empty. He feels along the sheet, realizing they’ve long since gone cold.

Logan reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, slipping them on and checking the time. 8:00 a.m. Curious. That’s far earlier than Janus is usually up on a Saturday.

His boyfriend is a firm believer that cuddling into the late morning should absolutely be considered self-care, and really, Logan isn’t one to challenge that notion. He might put up a fight from time-to-time, but it’s all for show and Janus knows as much. Logan can pretend he’s above cuddling all he wants, but as his boyfriend would say, he’s a dreadful liar.

Logan wonders what might’ve compelled Janus to rouse from his slumber so much earlier than usual, before noticing a sweet smell wafting through the apartment. This only raises more questions. What could Janus be making at this time of day that would smell so saccharine?

Logan rises from bed slowly, still bleary and comforted by the warmth of the duvet around him – but certainly missing the feeling of Janus against him. The hardwood is cool beneath his feet as he stands, the scent of baked-goods – yes, that’s definitely it – drifting through the air gaining in strength.

He glances at the mirror hanging on their bedroom wall, his hair a fright and pajamas still on, and Logan realizes he doesn’t care. It isn’t usually odd for someone to be comfortable not looking entirely presentable in their own home, but this is Logan, a man who practically lives in polos and neckties. He’s been told more than a few times by several people that he could stand to “loosen up.” While he’s not always the best at it, Logan can certainly try; it is his birthday, after all.

Oh. Wait – it’s his birthday. He’d completely forgotten. Likely, Janus remembered, though. And with the sweet smell coming from the other room, and the day of the year, that must mean…

Logan opens the door to look out across their open living and kitchen area to see Janus standing at a kitchen counter smeared with flour, a jar of crofters, and an array of baking ingredients around him.

Janus has never been one to bake, as far as Logan’s concerned. It’s not that he isn’t proficient in cooking, it’s just never been something he’s seemed particularly invested in. But here Janus stands, in his pajamas opening the oven and pulling out circular bakeware Logan’s certain they don’t own. The smell of vanilla is now detectable, and Logan can’t stop the smile from slipping onto his face.

“Good morning,” he says softly, trying not to break Janus’s fragile concentration.  

A spoon clatters against the ground, Janus all but shrieking as he turns around to face Logan. Concentration be damned, it seems.

“You weren’t supposed to be awake yet!” Janus huffs, bending down to retrieve the spoon, dropping it in the sink.

“I wasn’t aware I was meant to be confined to our bed until you said otherwise,” Logan responds sarcastically, walking up to Janus.

Getting a better look at him now, Logan can see there’s flour smeared on his yellow pajama shirt and pants, their small kitchen rather cluttered. Just a few years ago, Logan would’ve sworn against sentimentality. He’s a man of logic, a man of intellect and focus. And yet… his time with Janus has worn down that stubborn belief that romanticism and he are separate beings.

Janus is a lot of things. Passionate, driven, cunning, affectionate to a point that Logan thought he’d never tolerate, nor grow to love. But right now he’s also making Logan a birthday cake at eight in the morning and Logan can’t help but feel the emotion well up inside of him.

“Happy birthday,” Janus says, moving to embrace him before remembering the mess he is. “I’d kiss you senseless, but –,” he gestures vaguely to himself. Logan shakes his head, the stubborn smile on his face refusing to leave.

“I don’t care,” Logan says, leaning down to connect his lips with Janus’s, his hands cupping either side of his face, thumb tracing along the faded scar on Janus’s left cheek. Janus sighs into the kiss, his hands settling on Logan’s waist. The two pull close to one another. The taste of vanilla mingles on Logan’s tongue, and he can’t help the laugh that bursts from him. Janus pulls away, eyebrows raised.

“What’re you laughing about?”

“Nothing,” Logan says, trying to bite back the laughter, and failing quite miserably, “It’s just – you taste sweet.”

“Well,” Janus says, tone matter-of-fact, “I needed to taste-test the batter, didn’t I? And, this way, you know your cake isn’t poisoned.”

“Ah, true. Unless, of course, you’ve developed an immunity to whatever you’ve poisoned me with.”

“Guess it’ll be a surprise then,” Janus says teasingly, before returning to finishing the cake.

“You really didn’t need to go to so much trouble, darling,” Logan says, watching as Janus stirs a bowl of white frosting that he must’ve been fiddling with a moment ago.

“It’s a cake, Logan. You act as if I’ve been slaving away. It’s the least I can do.”

“Yes, well, you woke up early. On a Saturday. And you’re baking… I don’t believe we own any bakeware.”

“I’m perfectly content with waking up a little early on your birthday,” Janus says pointedly, eyes fixed on the frosting he’s creaming. “And no, we do not own any bakeware. But Patton does, and I asked him to lend me it.”

“Janus –.”

“And, I had him explain the steps in great detail over the phone, as to not royally screw this up. I know I’m not always a master in the kitchen.”  

“I never said anything about your cooking skills,” Logan interjects. “Seriously, love. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Janus says with so much sincerity, Logan wonders if his heart might burst. “I’ll have you know, it’s a crofters filling.” Logan’s eyes light up at that.

“Well, that… does sound quite good.”

“Oh, does it now?” Janus asks teasingly, holding an icing-covered spoon to Logan’s mouth. “Taste this and tell me if you like it.” Logan obliges, sticking the spoon in his mouth and humming around it. Janus chuckles.

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s delicious,” Logan says, moving to take another spoonful before Janus pulls the bowl from his reach.

“How about we save some for the actual cake, hm?”

“I suppose…”

“Go, on. Sit down,” Janus says, motioning towards the table, “The cake ‘ll be done in a minute.”

“Cake is hardly an appropriate breakfast,” Logan points out, earning a glare from his boyfriend.

“Allow me to remind you for the millionth time this morning, that it is your birthday,” Janus says, spreading the frosting with a knife over the top of the cake. “Cake for breakfast on the day of your birth is absolutely appropriate.” Logan scoffs.

“I can’t see why. There’s hardly anything special about today. It’s merely the anniversary of me being alive another year. I can’t understand why it’s such a big deal.”

“Hardly anything special?” Janus asks, slightly incredulously. “Hardly anything special, he says! Do you realize, that were it not for you being born, we never would’ve met?” Logan’s heart pangs at that.

“Janus.”

“And then where would I be? Who would I debate with into absurd times in the morning? Who would teach me about each and every constellation he knows about, so excited to share his passion? Who would I bully into going to bed at a decent time?” Logan tries to interject, but Janus isn’t having any of it, “Don’t you start. You may preach about circadian rhythm and the importance of going to bed at a decent time, but I’ve found you asleep at your desk far too many times now.”

“In all fairness,” Logan says, trying not to let the sentimentality well up in him, “I’ve also found you asleep on the couch, and at the table late at night a fair few times.”

“Well then, it seems we’re meant to take care of one another,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say. As though it’s not achingly tender.

A slice of cake is slid in front of Logan.

“The point is, I love you. Let me make you a stupid cake, and have our friends over for a movie night,” Logan opens his mouth in protest, but Janus is quicker, “A very casual movie night. Just Patton, Virgil, Roman, and Remus and whatever movie of your choosing. Clue, perhaps?” Logan perks up at the mention of one of his favorite films, and Janus grins.

“Clue would be… nice,” Logan admits. Janus pecks him on the cheek.

“Then that’s what we’ll watch. Now, take a bite, the anticipation is positively killing me,” Janus drawls out dramatically, gesturing to the cake. Obliging, Logan scoops a piece of the cake with his fork, popping it in his mouth.

“Mmm,” is as dignified of a response as Logan cares to give, but Janus looks pleased with himself all the same.

“You like it?” Janus asks, already knowing the answer. Logan nods, grabbing at the collar of Janus’s shirt and pulling him into his lap. “Goodness, what’s gotten into you?”

“You were just giving a rather sappy declaration of love,” Logan explains, pressing his lips to Janus’s. “And, you made me a cake.” Another kiss. “With Crofters.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And you’re having our friends come over for a movie night, for me.” A kiss. “And I love you, so very much, my dear.”

“I love you too,” Janus responds, seemingly happy with his place in Logan’s lap, “But I thought you didn’t care about your birthday?”

“I don’t,” Janus doesn’t believe that for a second, “But you rather seem to. And it’s kind of… nice,” Logan admits, voice soft, “To have you care about something so seemingly silly so much.”

“Oh, you think I care about you? Wherever did you get an idea like that?” Logan chuckles as Janus presses a kiss to his cheek, his face resting in the crook of Logan’s neck.

“I haven’t a clue.”

Logan could pretend he didn’t care about birthdays till the cows came home, but Janus would always call his bluff. And really, Logan can’t find it in himself to complain.

=+=

General Taglist:

@nadiestar

@unoriginalgayboyalex 

@bella-in-a-bag

@igonnatalknothing

@elizabutgayer

@wishthefish916

@reptilianwithscallions 

@justmeandmygayships

@arodynamic-enby 

@harper-mdn 

[razzamatazz13]

Bridges part 3

My town didn’t have anything distinctly bad or strange about it; very rarely any drug addicts or homeless people sitting in the streets, no shady businesses, no suspicious murders, hardly any disappearances. But still it gave off a bad feeling, a feeling that something was wrong. Maybe it was the high amount of abandoned building that the council always talked about demolishing but never did. Maybe it was the fields, moors and forests enveloping the place, cutting it off from the rest of the world. Maybe it was the rumours. There was a legend in our town, I remembered my Grandfather telling it to me when I was nine, and how it kept me up at night for weeks, refusing to turn off the light and too frightened to even look out of the windows at night. But now I could hardly remember anything about it. 

It had been two weeks since the police had taken me home, two weeks since all the strange, crazy stuff had happened, two weeks since I had first met Anne. When I got home, my parents were both furious and dismayed, but my mother and father showed it in different ways. My mother rarely talked to me, while my dad tried harder to bond with me, taking me on ‘bonding father and son activities’, which I hated. If only I could tell him that I wasn’t his son, but neither of them would understand it. My mother would hate me even more, and my father would think I was ‘just confused’ or some bullshit like that. To my surprise, I never got arrested for the robbery of the shop, and upon checking the newspaper, I found out why. The shopkeeper had no memory of what happened, and the camera didn’t show me or Anne,  but something strange. A picture from the camera footage was in the newspaper, showing the silhouette of a figure in a bowler hat looking directly at the camera. I haven’t looked at the newspaper since. Not the recent ones, atleast. I started going to school again, and stopped smoking pot. Strange as it sounds, I felt happier than I had in years. I finally had a friend, someone that I could trust, even if I didn’t know where they were. And I had hope, hope of seeing Anne again, who knew about me, who I trusted. I was determined to find her, before Alice did. I thought Alice could have been behind the rumours surrounding this town, and I wanted to find out more. The best place to look into the rumours, I decided, would be the library. The library in our town was situated in an old brick building, and had an archive for almost all the newspapers from our town from the last hundred years. I had been in there once a few years before, to do some research for a piece of history homework.

I was searching through the newspaper archives when I found, hidden in the corner, a cabinet marked ‘Missing persons/Murders’. I checked it, and found quite a few newspapers, all dated roughly ten years apart. I flicked back to the earliest, dated at 1934. The newspaper was yellowing, sealed in a plastic bag. I pulled it out, and had a look at it.

The headline read, ‘FAMILY FOUND MURDERED: DAUGHTER MISSING’. Under that was a blurry picture of a family, a mother and father with three children: a son, a baby, and a daughter. Looking at the daughter, my blood ran cold. It was Alice. I skim read the newspaper, discovering that the wealthy family’s corpses had been found in various places, the parent’s in the house; the son’s in the forest, alongside the daughter of the neighbouring family. The baby, Mary, had survived, and had been put in the care of the mother’s sister. Of the daughter, however, there had been no trace, simply vanished. The police believed it had been committed by a lunatic, or a robbery gone wrong, but I knew better. Alice did it, I knew. But how was she still alive, I wondered, was she a ghost? Or something else entirely? I remembered seeing Carrie, after we saw the remnants of her corpse, the huddle of transparent kids waiting outside the house when we tried to leave. So she was a ghost, and those kids outside the door… I flicked through the newspapers, finding the pictures where they had them. Sure enough, I recognised them all. Then I reached a newspaper from 1976. Pictured on the front, in black and white, was the girl that had fought off Alice; Carrie. And there, beside her, Anne. 

I checked through the newspaper, convinced it had the wrong date. It didn’t, the date was right, and deep down, I knew it. I started to read the story; two girls missing, presumed to have ran away. But one had been found a week later, hanging from a noose in the forest, believed to have committed suicide. My mind raced back to when I first met Anne, standing behind the noose. But I stopped her from killing herself, I saved her. Except, I wasn’t there in 1976, three years before I was even born. I hadn’t saved Anne from dying, she was already dead. I closed the cabinet and walked out of the library, my mind was whirling with confusion. I didn’t want to believe it, but I had no choice. 

I got home to a coldly distant mother and an overly-friendly father, who greeted me with a “How was the library, champ? Hey, how say we go on a hike tomorrow, just us lads?”

I told him I had a lot of work to catch up on, and went to my room.

I couldn’t sleep that night. The hope that I’d had was dying, and I felt myself sinking back into depression. My only friend, the only person I had trusted, was dead. But she had been dead for as long as I’d known them, so, I told myself, if I could trust her then, consider her my friend, then I still could. Anne had saved my life from Alice, we had run from her together. She hadn’t changed, all that had changed was what I knew. 

I was searching through a box of cassettes when I found it, where I buried it when I got home; the cassette I had found in my cassette player after I’d been given it by the arm of who I assumed to be the pale, grinning figure in the bowler hat. Even if they might have been helping me, in a strange way, they were the one that filled my nightmares, the one I imagined looming outside my house, the one that truly frightened me. Maybe it was because Alice, despite being some kind of murderous ghost, had some semblance of humanity in her eyes, she still looked human. But the creature in the bowler hat didn’t- I never saw its eyes, only the void-dark circular sunglasses, but I knew that under them, if it had eyes at all, they would be completely empty, or filled with madness. I picked up the cassette and turned it over in my hands, the ‘listen to this’ smudged. I decided to finally follow the instructions. I put the cassette into my walkman, and, hands shaking, pressed play. The cassette started to play, producing a buzzing sound, voices speaking over the top, The first was Alice’s.

“Do you want to see them again? Or do you want to spend another twenty years alone, hmm?”

The second voice was Anne’s.

“No! But I can’t do that, not again!”

“You don’t know this person, and yet you’re choosing them over your own brother and girlfriend?.” Alice responded.

“How do I even know that you’re telling the truth?”

“What other choice do you have?”

“I… I can’t.”

“You won’t even know you’re doin-”

The voices were drowned in a buzzing sound, obscuring all that was said after that. I opened the cassette player, took out the cassette and put it back in. The buzzing faded and increased continuously, partly obscuring what was being said. All I heard was;

“Ju.. t.k.  th.. ..e .ou.. “ The sound distorted and slowed down, before stopping completely. I took out the cassette again, to see that the tape had snapped. I threw it against the wall, and it broke. I sat down on my bed, hands on my head. I needed to know what was happening, what Alice was trying to get Anne to do, when it was from.

It was one thing knowing she was a ghost, it didn’t change who she was as a person, but quite another hearing this. I wondered if she could have tricked me, acting as a lure to Alice, and the house. But if that was so, why had she saved me? I convinced myself I was making it up, being paranoid, there had to be some kind of reasonable explanation. But then, nothing about this was reasonable. 

That night I couldn’t sleep, the shadows filled with leering grins and wide staring eyes. Eventually, I got out of bed and went to my window, climbing out into the garden. I sat on the grass and stared up at the sky, mesmerised by the stars and moon, trying to not think about anything, trying to lose myself in the infinite sky stretching above me. But I couldn’t get away from my problems, and instead of floating away, I felt like I was being dragged down. I could feel the misery and confused anger boiling up inside me, and I felt like I had to somehow release it, get rid of it, because I was too afraid to face it head on. I carefully climbed back through my window, and looked through my messy drawers, eventually finding it; the ‘solution’ to all my problems. I went back outside, and brought the blade to my arm, a messy crisscross of faint red lines. I started to press the blade against my skin, dismayed that the only good friend I’d ever had, that I could trust, was dead. Even the friendship itself was a facade. I didn’t want to ever do this again, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice, I felt like it was the only way to release the bitterness building up inside of me, before I exploded in misery or anger, and did something far worse.  I heard rustling at the edge of my garden, and looked up, desperately hoping to see someone, Anne, and for her to tell me that she wasn’t dead, she hadn’t just been pretending, that it all was just a sick joke. I was starting to wonder if any if it even happened, or if I had just been running around the outskirts of my village, lost in some kind of drugged-up hallucination. It would make sense, it would explain all the weirdness that happened, even if it wasn’t the truth I wanted to face.

I looked back down to the blade, glinting in the moonlight, and pressed it back against my arm, dreaming vaguely of bringing it to my wrists and just ending all of this shitshow, maybe going to Anne, if she existed. Maybe as a ghost I could be my true self, if it was the soul then it could only make sense, unless I was confused like everyone told me I was, if my true self as I thought of it was no more real than Anne or Alice or the person in the- 

My arm blazed with pain as the blood pooled out, releasing all the anger and misery built up inside me. I lay back on the grass, watching the stars spiral above me, and I spiralled away into them, like a penny rolling down a drain, around and around and around, down and down and down.

I was standing on a bridge, illuminated by only the moon, either end obscured in darkness. I stood up on the side, and looked down to the red water below, watching all the people I knew get washed away; my parents, teachers, the people that bullied me at school, my uncles and aunts and grandparents, the shop keeper. Anne. I jumped in after her, fighting the red water that was holding me down, fighting through it. I surfaced, only to discover myself completely alone, no longer under the bridge. I could faintly see land in the distance, and walked towards it. As I got closer, I saw a figure standing at the shore, eyes glowing red from under their bowler hat. They opened their mouth in a wide grin, and red light shone out. They started to sing, in a flat, high voice.

We’ll meet again

Don’t know where

Don’t know when

But I know  we’ll meet again

Some Sunny day.

I saw a huddle of people standing behind the figure, and for a moment I could hear faint screams.

Keep smiling through

Just like you always do

Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away

 Washed away by the oncoming wave, I was pushed back under the water, and fought to the surface.

I surfaced from sleep on to the wet grass, looking up to the night sky. I sat up, looking at my arm. It was still bleeding, a small red pool on the grass below. I pressed my hand to it and climbed back in through my window, into the bathroom. I cleaned off the blood and wrapped some tissue around it, using a hair band to keep the tissue in place. Then, I went back to my bedroom, and tried getting to sleep. For a while I was unable to, the red glowing eyes keeping me awake. But when I did eventually fall asleep, my troubles followed me. 

I was wandering through the forest, following Alice through the trees, running after her until she disappeared, and I was back in the clearing. But this time I was too late, and Anne was hanging from the trees, her eyes bulging, her body swinging in the wind. Before my eyes, she rotted away to the bones, then the bones to dust, leaving no proof that she was ever there. I knelt down on the ground, and started trying to form the dust into a person, shape it, but no matter how hard I tried all I could make was a hand with a smiley face carved into the wrist. It grabbed me and pulled me down into the puddle of dust with it, and I was sinking. 

That morning I tried searching for the broken pieces of the cassette I had been given, but couldn’t find anything, not even a shard of plastic. Maybe none of it was real, maybe I had just suffered some kind of psychotic episode. I refused to believe it, Anne had to be real. There was only one way for me to find out.

I said goodbye to my father -for what I hoped to be forever- and left for school, but headed in the opposite direction; to the outskirts of my town. I had packed my bag with everything I thought I would need to run away. This time I would be prepared, this time would be different. By the afternoon I had reached the bridge where I had sat with Anne to have lunch, close to where I was given the cassette. I approached the pool of water, and threw in a handful of rocks, hoping for some kind of reaction. Nothing happened. I threw in a few more rocks, and again, nothing happened. I stuck my arm into the pool of water, and found nothing. I lifted my arm out and stared into the dark water. “Where are you?” I asked, not receiving any kind of reply. 

I was suddenly overtaken by a deep anger, hitting the water again and again, soaking myself, shouting, “Where are you? Where the fuck have you gone?” I cut my finger on a sharp piece of metal, and stopped hitting the water, instead, bursting into tears. I curled into a ball as I cried, this one escape I had found, the light at the end of the tunnel, it was gone, if it had ever even been there.

I wiped off my tears and started towards the abandoned house, reasoning that if there was evidence anywhere, it had to be there. I set off on the path I had walked with Anne only a few weeks earlier, following it until I reached a dead end, the path blocked off by a bramble bush. I walked off into the trees in hope of finding a way around it, but soon got lost. By the time the sun had set, I was completely and utterly lost. I continued through the trees, until I reached a section of forest I faintly recognized. I soon realised that I was near the bridge, close to where I first met Anne. Sure enough, I soon heard the crashing of the river. I stumbled towards it, struggling to see in the dark. I climbed up onto the bridge. Thinking maybe I would head home, but as I looked out on the river, I was struck by a wave of sadness. I had lost my only friend, and now I felt more empty than ever, when I was with her it was like a hole in my life had been filled, but now she’d gone I felt even more empty than before, now I knew what I’d been missing, in a friend. I stared into the river as it swirled and danced and rippled, and I was being carried away, taken towards it. I climbed up onto the side of the bridge. I thought maybe I could see someone in the water, a silhouette of a person. I reached out towards them, Maybe it was Anne, maybe she would save me from drowning again, and we could run away again, away from my school and family, away from this shitty town, away from Alice, away from everything. We could be free, I thought, as I fell into the water.

We could be free, I thought, as the water filled my mouth.

We could be free, I thought, as everything faded, we could be free.

[i-w-p-chan]

Red Crystal, Part 1

Summary: Enma wakes in a world he only half-remembers and stumbles through his new life with the shadow of his previous one looming over his head. AU.

Note: I'm pretty sure approx 3k words in this fic happened just because I couldn't physically bring myself to summarize some scenes in simplistic sentences.

Also, sorrynotsorry.

WARNINGS: Completely AU, Fantasy AU, This Fic Has Only Two Modes: Feels And Confusion, FEELS, SO MUCH FEELS, NOT A HAPPY ENDING, I.W.P-chan's One True Evil Fic, There Is A Kiss (Not In A Romantic Context), So. Many. Details., Enma Is Trying (So Is The Author), Blood, Can't Believe I Almost Forgot To Put 'Shameless Self-Indulgence'.

Disclaimer: Don't own KHR.

.

Enma jolted awake.

He blearily looked around him, noting the great mountain rising in front of him, the river a couple of feet in front of him, situated between him and the mountain side, and the sand beneath his fingers. Just where was he? And how did he get here?

He braced himself on his hands and knees to raise himself up, going slowly to accommodate his sluggishness and dizziness.

He stretched and let out a jaw-cracking yawn; just how long had he been asleep here?

There was a rustling in the bushes behind him, making him snap into awareness and warily eye the forest that was behind him. Another rustle, this time accompanied by a low growl, and Enma stepped backwards, one foot slipping into the shallow edge of the river.

Silence stretched for what appeared to be an eternity; Enma's heart was beating furiously. Just what was going on? Who- or rather, what else was there with him-

There was a great splash from the river and a loud growl from behind him.

Enma didn't even look behind him before he shot off into the forest, chased by the sounds of rustling bushes and loud growls-

-and footsteps not his own.

There was a voice calling out and Enma was too terrified to stop and listen.

Enma kept on running and the voice grew closer and closer.

"Hey! Wait!" A hand shot up from somewhere nearby and Enma jumped in surprise. His foot caught on something on the ground and he almost fell over.

The hand grabbed him, suspending him in mid-air.

Enma turned slowly towards the person who caught him, to see a young man with messy, purple hair and purple eyes.

The man huffed, looking vaguely annoyed, but mostly alarmed, "I'm not going to hurt you. Actually, I've been searching through the forest for hours now and you're the first person I came across."

Enma must have given him a confused look, because he elaborated, "I'm Skull, a freelancer, I'm on a job for the Sky Temple."

Enma relaxed. Just a freelancer on a job for the Sky Temple. The knot in his chest unraveled from relief. He was safe if the Sky Temple was involve-

The Sky Temple? Enma's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Yeah, kid, the Sky Temple." (Did he just say it out loud?) Skull was giving him a concerned look, "Everyone knows about the Temples,"

"No, that's not…" Enma trailed off as he wracked his brain for information; he frustratingly came up blank, "I know about the Temples, it's just! I can't remember!" No matter how hard he tried to dredge up anything he knew about the subject, he couldn't find anything more than a vague sense of recognition.

"That's worrying." Skull let go of Enma and put his fists on his hips, "I think I'm going to stop my search for the day and take you to the land; we should have you checked over if you can't remember the freaking Sky Temple. There is no way you're that sheltered. You could have amnesia and that requires you going to one of the cities for medical attention." Skull hummed thoughtfully, "I forgot to ask, what’s your name?"

"I'm Enma."

"Of?"

"Of?" Enma parroted, confused.

"Yeah, of which town, family?"

Enma opened his mouth to respond, the name on the tip of his tongue, before he stopped, suddenly realizing that he didn't remember.

Skull observed him carefully, "Can't remember?"

Enma nodded mutely.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen, nineteen? I think?"

"Do you know where we are?"

A shake.

"Where you last were?"

Another shake.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Enma focused on his memories, a sea of blurry images coalesced together into a great fog of muted colors and sounds.

What was the last thing he remembered?

There were screams; there was fire; there was the sound and feel of crystals, shattered and whole, clinking on the ground; there was blood so much blood (too much blood); there was a great pair of huge doors opening and the overwhelming sense of panic; there was painpainpain and shocked amber eyes and oh god why did it happen how did it happen-

"Breathe!" There was a pair of hands grasping his shoulders and a voice talking to him.

Enma blinked, his surroundings coming back into focus, his vision obstructed by a concerned face.

"Skull?"

"Yeah. I thought I lost you there for a second."Skull inhaled, "I should really take you to one of the Temples as soon as possible."

Skull pulled a silent Enma with him through the forest, keeping an eye on him and a hand holding onto him, as if afraid Enma would slip away at the first opportunity.

Enma was lost. He was missing something, someone, very important to him. Someone he needed to search for, but didn't know where to start looking.

Actually, no, Enma blinked, he knew where to look. He needed to go to the Sky Temple. Something in him resonated with the name, it probably meant something.

(He hoped it meant something.)

He didn't know why he was- wherever he was, why he was missing a good chunk of his memory, why it hurt to try to remember by himself, why he felt a vague sense of urgency, pushing him to turn back the way he came and go look- look for what, he didn't know.

So many things he didn't know anything about aside from vague echoes, echoes that sent his heart hammering in his chest in fear and longing and terror and too many feelings to name (too many feelings filling his chest until it felt like it would burst any minute).

What was he supposed to do now?

"Alright, be careful while stepping into the boat. Don't want you to fall over."

Enma was snapped from his thoughts by Skull's voice as Skull guided him to a simple wooden boat, connected to what looked like a huge octopus.

Enma blinked in shock, but stepped into the boat, closely followed by Skull, who was carefully observing him.

Enma had a feeling that his zoning out didn't go unnoticed.

"We'll be heading to the land now."

"Can we-" Enma licked his lips, fists clenched, "Can we go to the Sky Temple?"

"Sure. I was planning to go there and tell them about you anyway. After all, they were the ones who sent me here in the first place."

Enma settled down as the boat moved, departing from the island and heading towards the land rising on the other side of the sea.

Enma couldn't help but look back at the island he was leaving behind, a tremendous feeling of loss and melancholy filling him to the brim.

He blinked away tears he didn't know were gathering in his eyes and prepared himself for the journey.

.

It took them until sunset to reach the land.

Enma stepped out of the boat and stretched before he turned to look at Skull who was taking his octopus, Oodaku, out of the water, and smiled as Skull grinned and cooed at the now shrunken octopus. Turning to look around him, he took note of his surroundings as he scoured through what he could remember to figure out the way to the Sky Temple.

He and Skull were on the docks; off to the side, appearing to be raised in the sea and only connected to the land with a bridge, was the Sea Temple with its circular shape, many outer columns and windows, and glass dome with a wave-like design.

Enma couldn't remember ever seeing it in person before, but he remembered the details of its description. Which meant…

His thoughts whirred as his eyes trailed off to the left, looking across the nearby buildings and up the rising land to catch sight of the Light Temple in the distance with its unique shape resembling a staircase as it accommodated the rise of land. His eyes then shot off to the highest point in the land, where he caught sight of the silhouette of a building right at the top.

The Sky Temple.

His breath caught in his throat; so close, yet so far.

(He wished he knew what he was so eager to see.)

A strong gust of wind whipped around him and he put arm up to his face as a shield.

"What…"

"Huh." Enma heard Skull say, "We're in luck. We arrived just in time to catch up with the Vongola's air patrol."

Air patrol? Enma removed his arm when the wind died down and gaped at the sight in front of him: a big winged ship was suspended in mid air above the sea and close enough to the port they could probably use a gangplank to move between the ship and the land.

"What is that?"

"That's the Vongola's airship. They use it to patrol the border of the land and take a look around at the Walls."

"And we're in luck, why?"

"The Sky Temple is in Vongola City, their city, they usually take passengers with them to the town during this time. Their patrol would now take them around the island again before they are finished, so if anyone was out here by sunset and needed to go to Vongola City, they'd take them."

As Enma guessed, the ship extended a gangplank down to the ports and a black-haired man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, with pupil-less green eyes walked down it towards the two.

"Hey, Lambo." Skull waved, "You have space for the three of us?"

Lambo waved lazily at them, "Sure, follow me."

With that said, he turned around and returned to the ship, followed by Enma, Skull and Oodaku.

(The ship felt surprisingly empty when Enma stepped on board, he had expected there be more people for a patrol on a big flying ship.)

A kind woman called Chrome with purple hair and a pair of pupil-less, purple eyes showed him around the ship, pointing out where the guests cabins where and where the crew's cabins where, while warning him against venturing into the part the crew stayed in.

"Usually, we'd let our passengers come and go as they please but our boss is in a bad mood and wants to be left alone, do you understand?" She looked at him with stern eyes.

"Of course, ma'am." Enma suppressed the urge to shiver under the veiled promises of pain he saw in Chrome's eyes. It was probably for the best to squash down his urge to explore.

"Good." She smiled lightly at him before she left him to his own devices.

Enma found himself back on the deck, eyes trained on the horizon where the great Walls rose, separating them from whatever it was on the other side.

"Please tell me that you at least remember the Walls."

Enma blinked at Skull, who had sidled up to him, Oodaku draped over a shoulder, "Of course I do. Who doesn't know about the Walls? They've always been there."

"Kind of makes you wonder what they're doing there, doesn't it?"

Enma opened his mouth to respond before he closed it. He didn't know why, but the question tugged at something inside of him, something heavy and bound with thick chains, something that tasted bitter in his mouth.

Phantom pain shot through his nerves and his chest ached; he clenched his hands on the railing he was leaning on to make sure he wouldn't tip over.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just… Nothing, it was nothing."

Skull looked skeptical, seconds away from questioning Enma.

Luckily, Lambo had picked that moment to tell them that they were going to land.

.

Enma walked with as much speed as he could muster down the gangplank, making sure he won't fall over, ignoring the feeling of eyes on his back and the gnawing sense of loss in the pit of his stomach.

Enma was getting sick of it: all of his sudden emotional swings, launching from one end to the other, wearing his skin, stretching it and returning it to him too big and frayed around the edges.

He wished he could make sense of them, but they refused to cooperate, and his vague memories weren't helping at all.

He picked a random direction and aimlessly wandered, still distracted by his emotions. But not too distracted to not notice Skull's footsteps following after him and assuring him that he wasn't going the wrong way.

Around five minutes of silence passed before Skull spoke up, "Sorry if I said anything that bothered you."

Enma blinked in shock as he stared at a serious Skull, "But you… didn't?"

Skull squinted at him, "It sure looked like I ran you through with a wooden log back there."

"No, that was-" Enma bit his lips, "-just my general confusion. And my mood swings. I don't even know why I have mood swings. They feel too tiring, I don't think I'd ever get used to them. I'm not even sure if I'm the type of person to have mood swings!" Enma dragged his hands down his face, suddenly tired, "Look at me! Doing it again! Why am I so riled up?! Ugh."

Skull quirked a humorless smile in Enma's direction, "Chin up, you may feel better after we get you to the Temple where you can rest for the night."

Enma sighed, "Sure. Thank you for putting up with me."

Skull waved him off, "No need to thank me for it."

Enma begged to differ; he was already feeling much better with Skull's quiet company.

The rest of the walk towards the Sky Temple passed by in a much lighter atmosphere.

.

Enma had guessed that the Sky Temple was going to be special, due to his surprising insistence on travelling there.

He was already feeling hidden burdens on his shoulders start to peel away from him the moment he crossed the bridge leading to the Temple's plot of land.

There was something about the Temple's aura that made him feel light, safe, protected.

It felt like coming home.

A sense of melancholy descended upon him and he turned to look the other way, down to where the Sea Temple stood, across the great expanse of water and to the dark shape of the island he woke up on.

With difficulty, he wrenched his eyes away and pulled himself towards the Temple's entrance.

Skull preceded him, opening the door and ushering Enma in.

Entering the building itself encompassed him with indescribable emotions; he was happy, content, eager, excited.

Maybe, hopefully, he'd find answers here.

"Ah, welcome." A soft voice echoed through the main hall and Enma turned to see a figure heading towards him and Skull, dressed in a white robe that flowed down their figure, draped across their body in a way that didn't give away any hint to what was underneath, the sleeves were quite long and the hood was wide and fell over their face; the robe had orange lines descending from their shoulders and neckline until the end of their sleeves and around what Enma estimated to be the ribcage; the hood had similar orange lines going down the sides with an orange hexagon in the center.  

"Skull and guest, we've been expecting you."

"Head Priest." Skull inclined his head and then waved in Enma's direction, "As you requested, I went looking through the island. So far, I've only searched through a part of the forest. I found him, Enma, there. He seems to be missing a chunk of his memories."

The Head Priest cocked their head to the side, "Enma will be welcome here to sort his affairs. We may even be able to help him. Anything else?"

"Yeah, I'll be going back tomorrow. You don't mind if I stay the night, do you?"

"Oh no." The Head Priest waved a hand, "You know you're always welcome here."

The Head Priest then gestured behind them, "Follow me, I'll show you to some of our empty rooms."

The Head Priest had the two settled for the night and had a meal brought to them in moments, leaving Enma blinking at the efficiency and speed.

Skull chuckled at the slight shock on Enma's face, "It looks like they're a bit over-eager to have you around."

"Huh, why would they?"

Skull shrugged, "It could be anything from being curious or…" He trailed off, zoning out a bit, as if thinking about what else he was about to say, "How about you ask them about that tomorrow? For now, let's eat and go to sleep."

.

End part 1

Next