#most bugs breath with their bodies not their mouth so thus a conclusion was made

[goblin-enjoyer]

Through acquisition of new knowledge I can make an educated guess and say that if you want to get scrabby high you must “hot box” him.

[haikyuu-sickfics]

Hello!If your doing requests can you make a very sick Kunimi with a stomach bug? And Oikawa and iwasumi find out… Hope your well! Dont do this if you dont want to!

(Its sad how much ppl dont write about kunimi)

cont.Hey I'm that anon that asked you for a kunimi sickfic and I forgot to add that ,, outside it was raining very heavily and it wasnt safe to go out so they had to stay in the gym for 1 hour .. Vomit Warning! Akira should've taken the ominous swirling that morning- both in the grey clouds and his stomach- as a sign.

But alas, he did not.

Instead he ignored both bad omens, walking to school as usual and attending all classes before changing clothes in the gym and half-assing practice.

The coaches paid him no mind. They were- begrudgingly- used to Akira underperforming in practice, and thus didn't pay any mind to the players sloppy movements.

Tooru and Hajime though, were convinced that something was wrong with their underclassman.  They conspired with eachother in hushed tones, pointing out his slight limp and how his arms always remained hovered over his midsection.  Concerned, Tooru tried to call Akira out to let him rest a bit.  However, this only served to anger the coach who forced Akira to push himself harder, saying he'll need to earn a break.

In conclusion, practice was brutal.  In the locker room Tooru attempted to confront Akira, but the latter just shrugged and ducked away, not wanting to admit a thing.

All Tooru could do was hope Akira was stable enough for the walk home.

The team made their way to the exit, most of them in partners chatting away.  The first to reach the door and attempt to push it open was Issei.

"I think it's locked," he commented out loud after forcing his whole body weight onto the door.

Sadayuki made his way over to inspect the door, "it shouldn't be, I have the only key for this door."

With the combined body weights, the door cracked open, only to be slammed shut once more as a gust of wind pressed back with an even stronger force.

The coach stepped away and scratched his head before pulling out his phone and tapping through it for a minte.

"Well even if it would open I don't think I could let you guys go home," he looked up from the device in his hand, "'S too dangerous.  The forecast says it's gonna let up in an hour or two, so just sit tight till then."

Akira could feel his heart drop into his roiling gut as the team murmered amongst themselves before walking to claim various areas in the gym to sit and talk.  Akira moved too, intentionally avoiding Yuutarou's line of vision.

And so here he was, alone, miserable, sitting balled up in the corner of the gym waiting for the raging storm on the other side of the wall and inside of him to let up enough for him to walk home.

Tooru was only half interested in whatever his fellow third years were saying, casting constant glances towards Akira's corner nest.  Every time he did something abnormal, i.e rub his eyes, run his fingers through his hair, clench his fists, bring his hand up to his mouth, Tooru tapped Hajime's shoulder.

Eventully Issei grew tired of this.

"Just go already, he probably needs someone and it's not like you're listening," Issei urged, nodding over to the corner.

Tooru nodded sheepishly, breifly apologizing for his rude manner before standing up and pulling Hajime over to the corner.

"Are you alright?" Tooru questioned, sitting down and getting comfortable before Akira had a chance to protest.

The very obviously not-alright boy weighed his options.  A, tell the truth and get babied or B, lie, get called out, then get babied.  It was a lose-lose situation, so Akira just shrugged.

Tooru pouted, placing a hand on Akira's back.  Hajime took note of how Akira's eyes furrowed every time someone yelped or laughed a bit too loud.

"Let's go to the locker room, it'll be calmer" Hajime offered, extending his hand for Akira to take.

His shoulders shrugged once more, the rest of him not making any move to do anything alone but also not resisting when his upperclassmen helped him to his feet.

To make the walk across the gym less awkward, Tooru tried to stir up small talk.

"So, you guys would never guess what happened this morning," he began, supporting Akira's left side, "I was gonna fry an egg for my sister, right, but when I cracked the egg the yolk was all black and red and goey, but it was already on the pan so then it started burning- like IMMEDIATELY- and this awful, I mean awful smell came out!  It was like moldy cheese stuffed inside of roadkill, I'm telling you it was bad, and-"

"Oikawa," Hajime warned, glancing over Akira's head wearily.

"No no no, but I'm telling you, like I swear it was like someone threw up in a pot, boiled it, then froze it and defrosted it in their dirty laundry."

Akira lurched, pulling himself out of Tooru and Hajime's grasp in favor of bracing himself against the floor.

"Shit," Hajime cursed, scooping up Akira before anyone noticed what was going on.

The ace speed walked to the locker room, Tooru on his heels.

Akira gagged over his chest, his nausea at a peak thanks to Tooru's cursedly detailed description.

"Hang on, hang on, hang on, we're almost there," Hajime repeated, weaving through the locker room to find the adjacent bathroom stalls.

He placed Akira on the floor in front of the first toilet, just in time it seemed as Akira gave one more noisy retch before coughing up a mouthful of his stomach contents.

"It's ok, get it out," Hajime comforted as Akira trembled in an attempt to suppress tears and his stomach, "seriously Shittykawa?  Was that really the only thing you could think of talking about?"

Tooru rubbed at his arm, awkwardly standing in the corner, "It's the first thing that came to mind!"

"Just.  Could you go get paper towels and his water bottle or something."

Desperate to be useful, Tooru quickly left to find the mentioned items.

Meanwhile, Akira was still fighting a losing battle with his stomach.  He refused to let anything more than that lone mouthful out, instead allowing his face to turn red in strain and his body to curl in to itself.

"Hey hey hey, you need to breath," Hajime murmured, using his hands to straighten Akira's posture up and back over the porcelain bowl.

Akira sniffed in hesitantly before breathing out through his mouth.

"See, there you got it, in... and out," Hajime comforted.

"In... and out," Akira repeated, his voice shaky.

They sat there for about 10 seconds, just breathing until Akira's stomach gave an incredibly strong lurch, forcing a thick wave out before he even realized what was going on.

He coughed through tears, spitting as much as possible to rid his mouth of the horrid taste.

"It's okay, you got it," Hajime rubbed Akira's back, concern swimming laps in his irises.

Finally, Tooru returned.

"Think you can handle some water?" Hajime asked while nodding his thanks to Tooru.

Akira shrugged, wiping his mouth with one of the napkins.

Tooru reached over the both of them to flush the toilet.

"Let's try it, okay?"

Akira nodded, bringing the bottle up to his lips, rinsing his mouth before taking a few cautious sips.  The water went down fine, his stomach seemingly done for the time being.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back, desperate for rest and support.  Tooru sat down behind him, bringing his head to a rest on his lap, brushing his fringe back to check for a fever.

Frowning, Tooru whispered, "I think he's sick, he feels really hot."

"No shit, are you a doctor?" Hajime retorted in the same volume.

Tooru glared as if to say 'now is not the time.'

"Well what do we do?" Tooru asked, Akira's eyelids twitching in his sleep, "we can't just take him home, and I don't the gym is the best place for him right now."

"You heard coach, we've got an hour or two.  We can take care of him in that time, How hard can possibly it be?"

Akira tilted his head to the side, coughing up a small amount of bile to illustrate just how hard it can possibly be.

"You're buying me new pants."

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Fandom: The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance

Rating: T

Genre: Friendship, Angst

Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, and more to come...

Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE

Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it.

The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs.

But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity.

Notes: HERE IT IS! This is the fic that’s co-authored by @jaywings​ and I! I’m really excited to finally start posting this. Hope you guys like it!

---

Chapter 1: That Ancient and Most Sacred of Arts Summary: In which the Conqueror shows off his painting and puppetry skills.

---

The sky had been a dark crimson that early morning as the triple suns rose, a deeply foreboding sign for many.

For skekGra the Conqueror, one of the sixteen Lords of the Crystal and a regent of Thra, known far and wide for his prowess in battle, it was as if the very elements had already known the outcome of the approaching battle and were lamenting it.

He took it as an indication of great fortune.

SkekGra ran his tongue over his fangs, seeing it all again: the flashes of sunlight on the line of his army’s swords and armor as they crested the last hill and gazed down at the red-tinged Silver Sea lapping the shoreline, where their quarry had set up a last, desperate defense. He had arrived with two other Skeksis and a convoy of Gelfling castle guards and volunteers—a small battalion to be sure, but more than was needed for such a task as this.

"Can I get anything for you, my lord?"

The sudden voice made him give a start, blinking, the thick paintbrush clasped in his talons pausing in its careful application of pigment to canvas. He peered over his shoulder; a Gelfling had entered the room, looking up at him earnestly.

"Oh! Hm. Yes,” skekGra said, with a glance down at the dish holding his—for lack of a better word—paint. “Fetch me more water."

"Of course, my lord. It's good to have you back, by the way."

He nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the Gelfling scurry away, before he turned his focus back to his canvas and dipped his brush in the bowl, swirling it around.

Some artists enjoyed charcoal. Others used clay, and still others delighted in pigments made from berries and flowers.

SkekGra certainly had his preferred medium.

On the canvas was an image of his own likeness—the first thing he always painted when beginning his personal works. Eventually there may be a few of his other Skeksis brethren behind him, just to stop their whining. For now, though, he would keep himself standing alone. Below himself, he was beginning to paint another race—this one short, stout, and hunchbacked. Their arms were strong, their fingers deft, but their strength and wit were no match for his. And in this painting, they would be depicted bowing to the Skeksis. To him.

"Your water, my lord."

Nodding briskly without looking up, skekGra set the pitcher next to the bowl that contained his congealing paint, ready to thin it out when necessary. His spines bristled briefly at the realization that he was being observed—but, noting it was merely the servant, he smiled and went back to his work. "Come on, you can watch if you want."

"Thank you, my lord." The Gelfling stepped closer, looking on in silence for a moment. "Those are…?"

"Gruenaks," he answered. "We hoped to... ah... ally with them. But they proved to be enemies of the Skeksis, and thus of the Crystal." He regarded the Gelfling seriously. "They have been dealt with, Vapra."

"O-of course! I would expect no less of the Conqueror."

His tongue poking out from the side of his beak, he retrieved a smaller brush—this one fitting neatly onto the end of one talon—and started in on depicting the Gruenak’s faces. He had to get the expression just right, exactly the way he remembered it. He could see in his mind’s eye the twenty or so remaining survivors of the Gruenak tribe in a loose formation down on the glittering sand of the beach, staring up at them with their eyes wide and terrified, lips pulled back over blunt, harmless teeth as they took in the might of the army that had come to meet them, framed by the blazing suns and the blood-red sky.

He pondered his easel. Should there be rain in the painting? The real battle had started off on as clear a morning as he had ever seen, before dark clouds rolled in from over the sea and obscured the three suns, and the heavens of Thra had opened up in a deluge. His skin felt clammy even now at the recollection of his robes plastered to his frame and giving him the appearance of a drowned fizzgig, his feet skidding in the mud and blood while his tail dragged through the muck behind him. Everyone struggled to fight through the storm; yet he managed better than all of them, cutting down any enemies that stood before him with his newly-sharpened blade, which had been whet with stones from the very mountains under which these vermin had attempted to seek shelter.

Oh, how he had missed this. After what seemed like endless trine of pursuing Arathim, here finally was an enemy whose face he could see. The Gruenaks proved far better foes than the Arathim had ever been. It was not, after all, so satisfying to squash a bug.

The rain had even given his army an advantage in the end, despite his commanders skekVar and skekUng taking it in turn to whine about it to him (oddly, the Gelfling had never complained, while his fellow Skeksis seemed to consider it a proper pastime). The Gruenaks, technologically-advanced as they were, had brought fierce machines to do their fighting for them. But many of the machines failed to operate in the rain, and the weaponless Gruenaks had been forced to make a stand on foot with whatever they could find to defend themselves.

The corner of his mouth quirked. The weaklings had no fight in them. It could hardly even be called a battle, really.

It was a slaughter.

The thought had come from nowhere, and the force of it shocked him to his core, making him catch his breath and pause in his work for a moment with his hand trembling. The Vapran Gelfling was alert at once.

“My lord Conqueror?” it asked, its airy voice tinged with concern.

“It’s nothing, Gelfling, I’m fine,” skekGra said, giving a quick shudder to rid himself of the unpleasant sensation. The Gelfling took a step back, still looking uncertain. It didn’t seem at all intent on leaving—maybe he should send it off somewhere. SkekGra wracked his brain for what the Vapra’s name was but came up with nothing. Well, he could hardly tell the Gelflings apart anyway.

He tried to focus back on the painting, which swam before his eyes. What in Thra had just happened? For just the barest instant he had felt it again—a strange hollow feeling in his chest, like someone had dug their claws in and ripped something out while he still breathed. He coughed, his throat rasping, and in a burst of frustration grabbed his thicker paintbrush and jabbed at the painting, leaving a dark streak where he hadn’t really intended to put one.

SkekGra glared poison at it as though the harmless mark were to blame for all his recent troubles.

“Are you… quite sure you’re all right, my lord? Is something bothering you?” the Gelfling asked tentatively. “Should I call for someone?”

“No need!” skekGra said sharply, forcing himself to take measured breaths and regain his composure. Whatever this was, he would deal with it later. “It’s only from a lack of sleep and a good meal, which I will soon have at the feast tonight.”

He took care not to look the Gelfling in the eye. For if he did, it might see that his mind was not, in fact, on the feast they would surely be having in his honor, that it wasn’t something that bothered him, but someone…

Hatred boiled in his gut. This must be from his influence. His compassion—a vile word that made him bare his teeth and let out a soft snarl of contempt—his weakness. The unexpected encounter must have affected him more than he’d thought. He needed to be rid of it.

Well, tomorrow morning he would rejoin the Ceremony of the Sun with the others and be purged of this sickness for good by the Crystal. Until then, he must betray nothing, must only give the outward appearance that the battle had been a conclusive victory, that all had worked out, that everything had gone according to the needs and wants of the Skeksis.

And that memory—the tail end of the battle, the brief period where skekUng and skekVar had been looting the bodies for spoils, and the Gelfling had regrouped to talk amongst themselves and clean their weapons, and he had been alone, or so he thought—that memory would be shoved to the back of his mind, where it would rot and be forgotten. It was over and done with, and would become entirely unimportant by the time the first sun rose tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about it now anyway.

He needn’t concern the Emperor or the General with trivial matters. SkekSil especially should hear nothing about it, as he was likely to look far too deeply into it and end up causing more problems for skekGra than he had started with. The shifty Chamberlain had seemed eager to get in his good graces the last time he had been at the castle, as well, perhaps hoping for favors or spywork. At least this time he hadn’t seen a sign of skekSil since he’d arrived back at the—

"Conqueror!"

SkekGra bristled and the Gelfling turned in surprise to see another Skeksis in the doorway, his brilliant red robes standing against the shadows of the castle.

"SkekSil," skekGra acknowledged. By the Greater Sun, it was like he’d been summoned.

“You have returned!” the Chamberlain exclaimed as he crossed into the room. His eyes darted over the clutter of dusty canvases and scattered art supplies, his brow wrinkling slightly, but the tone of his voice remained sickly jubilant. “Apologies I was not there to greet good friend Conqueror. I was under impression you were not due back until rise of first moon tonight.”

“The battle was shorter than we expected,” skekGra said. Almost imperceptibly, he stood a bit straighter as he resumed painting, allowing him to turn and look down his beak at the newcomer. He was slightly taller than the Chamberlain.

“Ah yes, yes, should have guessed. Yet, no one told me you were back already. In fact—” the other Skeksis took in a whistling breath through his nostrils, squinting up into skekGra’s face. "I have even heard that friend skekGra has reported to Emperor without friend skekSil, hmmmm?" he said.

SkekGra’s talons clenched on his paintbrush.

SkekSil’s jaw parted in a simpering smile, which he aimed toward the Gelfling. “Your attendant need not stay, surely? You—Conall, isn’t it?—” The Vapra servant nodded, “—Go, please. Conqueror and I, we have much things to discuss.”

Conall the Vapra made a small bow to each of them, uttered a quick thank you to skekGra for showing his newest work, and hurried from the room under the Skeksis’ close watch. The Chamberlain, in turn, sauntered further across the floor, his eyes glinting in the light from the window. He craned his neck to peer at the canvas over skekGra’s shoulder and let out a satisfied hiss.

“Another successful conquest, hmmm?” he said. “How excellent! Is best if have all been eradicated, yes, lest Gruenaks’ dangerous machines be used against Skeksis. Though, it is almost a shame, if none were brought back as slaves. Would have made valuable servants, with such knowledge metal and machinery. And they are not talkative!”

SkekGra clicked his beak, forcing out a snicker. “Ah, they could have given you lessons.”

“Yes, of course,” the Chamberlain continued, taking a step backward; if he was annoyed by the comment, he didn’t show it. “But oh, Conqueror, why must I find out about Skeksis victory by lovely painting and not hearing for myself? Why was Chamberlain not present during report to Emperor?”

Turning away from the canvas again, skekGra flashed him a grin, letting the light catch his jagged teeth. “I don’t know, skekSil. Why was Chamberlain not present during battle with Gruenak? Hmmmmmmmm?”

The other Skeksis ducked his head and blinked owlishly. “Battle?” he crooned. “Oh no, no. Perhaps in light of own achievements, Conqueror has forgotten? Emperor strictly forbade me from going into battle, yes! Many trine ago! I am not fit for war! Am not strong like Conqueror or General, or especially Hunter. I would be viciously dismembered by Gruenak machines, or worse!”

SkekGra let out a light chuckle and eyed his painting again, scrutinizing the dark, drying marks for any areas of detail he’d left out. “Do not worry, skekSil, I jest, I jest! There are few Skeksis I would take with me into battle, and you—” he turned quickly and prodded the Chamberlain, who had ventured much too close again, in the chest with his paintbrush handle, “—were never among them!”

The Chamberlain let out a horrified, undignified squawk and checked over his outer garments for paint drips, though any spots would be difficult to see on his red robes.

"But really, I would have told you all about it if you had been there," skekGra went on. "I went to the Emperor as soon as I returned, and he didn't want to wait. I suppose we forgot to send for you." And you might have suspected I was hiding something in my report, Chamberlain. That sounds like you.

"Hmmmm. I was with Gourmand, making sure plenty food would be prepared for friend Conqueror's arrival. If only I had known had returned already..."

SkekGra’s eyes brightened. “The celebratory feast?”

"Yes. With roast nebrie, fresh from Podling village, special for Conqueror. I was hard at work with much preparations for skekGra!"

"Well..." SkekGra smiled. "I guess you'll just have to hear all about the battle at the feast tonight. I have a show prepared."

"...Yes," skekSil said, tipping his head. "Friend Conqueror is most kind and creative. Will see you at feast."

With that, skekSil finally stepped back out of the room, and skekGra turned back to his painting at last. He caught sight of the inside of his paint bowl and huffed, prodding the hardened pigment with a claw. SkekSil had kept him talking for too long—he didn’t understand the care that needed to be taken with this particular medium. Grumbling, he poured water into the bowl to thin it out again.

Blood had the annoying tendency to clot.

—~~~---

This was almost his favorite part of any conquest: the triumphant return to the Castle of the Crystal, the welcoming feasts held in his honor, and the artistic treat he would be sure to give his fellow Skeksis every time.

Tonight his audience consisted of nine other Skeksis, mostly talking amongst themselves but a few watching him with expectant, beady eyes over hooked beaks. They all sat along the curved table at the front of the hall, waited on by bustling Podling servants while a small group of other Podlings hovered over the music machine in an alcove at the top of a set of stairs, waiting for skekGra’s cue.

He stood in the center of the room, facing the table with a covered object next to him, and cleared his throat loudly; the idle chatter died away and every eye focused on him.

“Fellow Skeksis!” he cried, brandishing his arms. “Podlings! Gelflings! ...Gelflings? Are there any Gelflings here?” He glanced around but spotted none, and felt oddly disappointed. “Have we stopped allowing Gelfling in the Banquet Hall since I was last here?”

“Gelfling made one too many derisive comments about our eating habits,” skekOk called out from one end of the table, in a clipped voice. “They were rude. Now they are forbidden!”

“It’s just as well,” skekSo said. He sat in the place of highest honor at the table’s center. “I did not get any joy from watching them scarf down their food, either.”

A few along the table let out creaky laughs. Seated at skekSo’s right side, the Chamberlain slowly stirred his bowl of boiled crustaceans and swamp weeds with the utensils on the ends of his claws. Though he wore his usual smirk, he did not laugh with the others, and his narrowed eyes were fixed on skekGra.

“Come onnn,” skekLach complained from the other side of the table, in the midst of hacking into an old handkerchief that had probably once been white. “Are we watching a show or what? Give us some entertainment!”

“Yes, of course! But first…” SkekGra made a grand, sweeping gesture with all four arms and a ripple of crimson robes. “Fellow Skeksis! Podling slaves, one and all! I present to you my latest work… the Conquest of the Gruenaks!”

With a single smooth motion he grasped the tattered cloth covering the object next to him and ripped it away, revealing his newest painting. A collective “Ooh!” issued from a few of his audience members’ beaks.

The finished painting—monochrome, of course—depicted himself standing triumphant over the vanquished Gruenaks, who bowed to his glory. Behind him he had squeezed in some of those who had joined him in battle: skekVar and skekUng, who were as similar as they were different and had squabbled constantly as bitter rivals, yet both fought like warriors against the enemy. He had even included a number of the Gelflings who had fought by his side (none of which could speak a word of Gruenak, of course—he had handpicked them all with that very requirement). The whole thing was likely his greatest composition yet.

“Why, that’s wonderful!” skekEkt exclaimed in delight. “Do one of me next, I want a portrait!”

There was a chorus of agreement as everyone clamored for a picture of themselves, to which skekGra bowed deeply.

“My lords! You must know these things take time! The arts are simply my hobby, not my greater role to benefit all Skeksis,” he said. “But if my Emperor wishes me to paint portraits for you, I will.”

All eyes turned to skekSo, who stroked the side of his beak thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said, and the Ornamentalist clapped his talons in delight. “Once there are no more important matters to attend to."

"But of course, sire!" SkekGra gave a short bow. "Nothing is more important than bringing every inch of Thra beneath our Emperor's rule. And speaking of..."

A brief glance was all it took for the Podling slaves in the balcony above to begin beating against the instruments, producing a crude tune that slowly rose in tempo and grandeur (or as close as simple Podlings could get to such a thing). In turn, two other Podlings quickly wheeled out a well-sized, mobile puppet stage, which they then ducked behind.

With a flourish, SkekGra pulled away the curtains on the stage to reveal a landscape painting (disappointingly made with common pigments). Next, he swiftly produced two objects out of his pockets, keeping them hidden behind his back. “Behold the spectacle of my greatest show yet: The Conquest of the Gruenak, in puppetry form!”

The music swelled, and he showed the first object: an intricately detailed wooden puppet of himself, which he made to march onto the stage. With another musical flourish, he brought the second object forward—this one a marionette, the appearance of which made the majority of his brethren lean forward in interest, skekOk adjusting a couple pairs of his glasses.

Unlike the first puppet, this one was made of more... interesting materials: fabric torn off the garments of a Gruenak, and a body made of segments of carved bone, taken from the same creature (with a great deal of satisfaction on his part). Even if the others couldn't see these details for themselves at this distance, they were familiar enough with his artistry to know the materials he enjoyed working with.

“Pay close attention!” skekGra continued in a cry, really warming up now. “I’ll be requiring audience participation!”

Everyone slumped backward with audible groans.

What followed was a mostly unscripted, blow-by-blow account of the battle, illustrated with the standard, intricate puppets he used for every show (the one of himself, and two Gelfling puppets), along with the couple that he had put together during the carriage ride back home. He had his Podling assistants act out a few of the simpler, background roles, and also put them in charge of effects—which turned out to have been a bad idea, as half the time they forgot their cues and he had to work around their frustrating clumsiness. He left a few choice details out of his performance while ramping up others, keeping one eye trained on the Skeksis to gauge their approval.

A few seemed to grow bored as he carried on, apparently more interested in the nearest tureen of soup or other delicacies than in skekGra’s hard work. However, he glimpsed the shadows in the wide doorway behind him shift slightly and noticed skekTek slip into the light—late to the feast, as he often was, but drawn from his lab below by the smell of food and now watching the performance with rapt attention.

His production gradually expanded from the stage to making the puppets run along the banquet table, forcing a few Skeksis—namely skekAyuk—to yank their plates away from him with noises of protest. As his manikin self fiercely battled Gruenak machinery he attempted to have several Skeksis pretend to be Gruenaks and set up obstacles along the table, though the response to this was lackluster at best and downright contentious at worst, so he dropped that tactic.

“Ugh. Isn’t it over yet?” skekLach griped to skekShod next to her in a rather carrying whisper, while reaching out to grab something from the Treasurer’s plate. SkekShod growled and swatted her hand away.

“He’s giving himself too much credit with all this,” skekVar, sitting on skekLach’s other side, grunted. “I haven’t even been mentioned.”

It looked like now was as good a time as any for the finale. SkekGra spun around, twirling the train of his magnificent red robes impressively, and brandished his puppet self at his audience.

“The fight had lasted for hours,” he said, slowly making his puppet stumble over the table, a sword hanging limply from its claws. “Neither side could hold out much longer, and we knew we must end it. It was when the final brother had set over the horizon and the last vestiges of light faded from the sky, that we found ourselves facing the Gruenaks’ last, secret weapon.”

He had reached the puppet stage again, where behind his back one of his secondary arms slipped under the stage and retrieved a rough sculpture of wood and metal.

“An unnameable, unknowable creation!” he went on, his voice hushed. “A mechanical device the likes of which I had never before seen!”

There were startled gasps; skekGra had secretly flipped a lever that made the stage’s curtain apparatus collapse in on itself, in the same motion raising the metal sculpture onto the stage and whipping away from it in a flurry of robes. The overall effect was that the machine seemed to have appeared from nothing. A flick of his tail signaled the Podling operators behind the stage to crank the machine with their fingers, causing the thing to grind together, sharp metal jaws snapping open and closed.

Quietly making his way over to his seat next to skekZok, skekTek gave him a tiny nod of satisfaction. The Scientist had obliged to build the prop in exchange for blood and bone samples procured from the battlefield.

“Granting protection to the last of the Gruenaks riding its hull, it bore down on us!” skekGra announced to the audience. “One… hm… unlucky Gelfling fell victim to its horror…”

The machine gave a particularly savage snap; in the light, the mechanical parts seemed to gleam with splashes of pink and red.

He ducked down, raising up puppets with three of his arms—himself, a rough model of skekUng, and the rattling Gruenak marionette; the Gruenak stood atop the machine, its body language taut with savage triumph as it looked down at the two Skeksis beneath, who gazed up at it and then at each other.

“There was only one thing to be done,” skekGra said. “I must burn it to the ground.”

At the table, skekVar jerked his head up. “I was the one who burned it!”

“Ah, but, you see, the torch is in my hand!” skekGra said, holding up one talon.

A Podling lit the match for him, which he took unseen and transferred it to the hand of his puppet proxy with a quick movement. The puppet now held a blazing, miniature torch.

“For Thra!” he cried, his voice ringing in the cavernous room. “For the Skeksis!” And he made to toss the tiny flame onto the metal sculpture.

But his hands were empty, and were not his own.

He was standing in a dark, narrow tunnel; he could hear murmuring voices and saw three figures shuffling near him, looking tense and nervous, glancing over their shoulders repeatedly as though worried about being followed. They were Gruenaks, all of them, from the same tribe he had just purported to have wiped out. The ones he had been forced to let escape…

Words issued from his own throat, though he did not speak them. They were uttered in a deep voice, achingly familiar, repulsively familiar: “Go, hurry. You will be safe here. They are not following… yet.”

It was his own voice. But it was also not.

The Gruenaks pressed past him and headed on down the familiar-looking passageway ahead. One turned back to give him a last look—part grateful, part terrified; and its eyes widened slightly, mouth agape, as though it had noticed something odd about his face, a shadow of something lurking in his eyes—

Panicked yells brought him back to himself, snapping him back to his senses like he had been yanked out of deep water. His Podling assistants had abandoned the puppet stage and encircled him, crying out. Along the table, most of the other Skeksis had jumped to their feet, shouting or screeching with laughter, and skekTek was rushing back toward him with a soup tureen in hand, a hiss issuing from his beak.

Out of the corner of his eye, skekGra saw something flickering brightly. He turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat.

His stage was currently on fire, as were the hem of his robes.

“Fool! Curse your negligence!” the Scientist growled in a low voice as he reached skekGra’s side and doused the burning stage in soup. “You didn’t tell me you were going to light it on fire! I labor on that confounded mechanism of yours since before the first sunrise today and you incinerate it?” The fire had died down a great deal and he beat at the remaining flames with his robes, snapping to everyone in the general vicinity, “Well, help me extinguish it! Do we want to be consumed in a great conflagration?”

If the others had been laughing before, they were howling now, skekEkt going so far as to hammer the table with his fist and skekOk very nearly toppling off his chair.

SkekGra paid them no mind, stamping out his smoking robes and assisting skekTek in beating out the fire on the stage, biting back a hiss when the fire burned and blistered his hands.

Part of him relished the pain. The thought of that creature whose mind he had shared for a brief instant, his… other half… feeling this too was comforting, in a way. He felt sullied at the shared contact, corrupted, unwhole—

But that’s the point, a small voice in the back of his head whispered. You are unwhole.

He crashed his hands over the last of the flames, snuffing them out, and hoped urGoh felt every blister.

Why was this happening? And why now?

Next to him skekTek, panting, shook his head vigorously and stepped back from the smoking wreckage. No one else had rushed to help put out the fire—the Podlings still cowered away, and while every Skeksis was now standing, none had left their spot at the table. Most seemed to still be struggling to breathe.

“Er—the end!” skekGra called, and gave another low bow. He nudged skekTek, who, rather than bowing, just grunted and gave a stiff nod to the audience; then he marched back to the table to finally claim his seat, muttering darkly to himself.

“Another performance getting out of hand, I see,” the Emperor said, sitting back down and prompting everyone else to do the same. His eyes flashed with dark amusement. “One can only imagine what you’ll have in store for us next time.”

“It was a momentary distraction!” skekGra called back, idly fiddling with a piece of charred wood from the stage. “Humblest apologies, Emperor. It will not happen again!”

Only after he had spoken did he wonder if he could have gotten away with blaming skekTek for building a faulty, overly-flammable prop. Then again, the Scientist had been the only other one to do anything about the fire.

On skekTek’s left, skekVar snorted. “Wonderful time to be distracted. Handling fire.”

He seemed disgruntled. Perhaps he was upset that there had been time to build a puppet of skekUng, but not of him.

“Well I thought it was excellent,” skekOk said, leaning back in his chair with the light reflecting off every pair of his glasses, turning the lenses white. “A brilliant finale. I do so love when these shows of yours end in fiery disaster, Conqueror.”

“Which is every time!” skekAyuk laughed heartily, then choked and had to cough up a leg bone from his entree.

With the show definitively over, they all fell back into aimless chatter and feasting. SkekGra directed the Podlings to help him clean up the ruined stage, taking care to examine his puppets for damage. None of them had escaped unscathed. He didn’t notice skekSil slip away from the table until he heard the Chamberlain’s characteristic whimper emanate from right behind him, making his hackles rise.

“Are you very well today, Conqueror?” skekSil asked. He shifted his sleeve over his hand and gingerly swatted at a bit of the stage that was still smoldering. “Is not usual for skekGra, always so focused on task at hand, to be so… distracted. So… forgetful.”

“Yes, well, it has been a very long day—and night—for me,” skekGra said nonchalantly. “I suspect I’m merely tired. In fact, I may just take some food to my chamber and retire early tonight.”

SkekSil nodded. “Of course, of course! Tired from sleepless night on long carriage ride back to castle, yes? And from days spent fighting Gruenak war machines, with no rejuvenation from Crystal, yes, yes. SkekGra must have rest. Would not want to make further careless mistakes, especially in upcoming battle… against Arathim.”

SkekGra nearly dropped a broken piece of machinery and scrambled to catch it with one of his secondary arms. "What?" he cried, whipping his head in skekSil's direction.

With an obnoxious hum and a tilt of his head, the Chamberlain picked up the singed Gruenak puppet from the floor and turned it in his hands. "Yes, while friend Conqueror was busy preparing for puppet show, I talked with Emperor and General. Gelfling scouts from Stone-in-Wood came to us, told us of Arathim invasion at Caves of Grot. Poor Grottans have managed to fight back some, but will need Skeksis help, hmmmm?"

"You volunteered me?" His lips twitched, fangs gleaming. He would have said yes to the proposition regardless, but the fact that the Chamberlain had done this without his consent…

"Yes, yes. After all, I know friend skekGra well. Emperor knows this. And I know skekGra would be willing to aid Skeksis in whatever needs vanquishing, even if it is short time after recent battle!" With a stroke of his claws, he brushed the soot off of the Gruenak puppet's outfit. "If Conqueror can talk to Emperor about important matters without friend Chamberlain, surely he trusts me to do same."

"...Of course, of course." He snatched the puppet out of skekSil's hands, swiftly pocketing it. "I will gather the details and plot our course of action when the first brother rises."

With that, he took the handles of his mobile stage and wheeled it out of the room, leaving the Podlings to mop up the ashes on the floor. He hadn’t eaten anything at his own feast, but he’d quite lost his appetite.

"Good night, Conqueror," skekSil called after him. "I eagerly await your report in morning!"

SkekGra merely flicked his tail behind him as he retreated to his quarters.

—~~~---

Everything the Skeksis owned—their castle, their outfits, their banquets—was quite ornate, and their bedchambers were no exception. Small diamond-shaped windows, a plush carpet on the floor, an enormous wardrobe (hand-carved by Gelflings—which tribe, he couldn't recall) with enough room to store a single outfit, and a massive bed with a dense quilt and several layers of blankets.

What separated skekGra's room from the rest were the paintings that hung on his walls (all monochrome, each a different shade of red, brown, or black), several canvases stacked up in one corner, a mess of art supplies (papers, charcoal, brushes, carving knives) scattered across the floor, and the shelves that featured his puppets—each depicting a different race he'd conquered. It was on this shelf he placed the Gruenak puppet, and by a blank space of wall he set his recent painting, to be hung up later when he had the time.

Which certainly wouldn't be anytime soon.

Sighing, skekGra began the arduous task of removing his layers of clothing: his armor, his collar, his outer robes, and so on, carefully placing each in the wardrobe. He examined the singed hems of his robes, thinking of repairs, but decided it wasn’t too noticeable.

As he changed, he kept his mind focused on the challenge he would face tomorrow: of fighting the Arathim, again, and of protecting the Gelfling tribes that served the Skeksis. He thought of the defenses of the Arathim, how he'd fought them before to drive them out of the Caves of Grot, of whether or not he'd be able to track down skekUng again on such short notice, and the strange and exploitable connection that the Arathim shared—harm one, and the rest cry out in pain with him…

So intent was he on focusing on these matters that he didn't notice he'd forgotten to pull one arm out of its sleeve before starting on the layer beneath it, and the two sleeves caught on his wrist, and pulled—

The grasp was as unexpected as it was strong when the hand flew out and caught his arm to block his strike, and the look in the Mystic’s eyes was unusually piercing; but urGoh’s sudden arrival at the battle wasn't what nearly made him drop his weapon in shock. It was the feeling, even through the layers of clothing, that bolted through him, like a sudden blow to his chest—

With a snarl he ripped all but one of the layers off, shoving them roughly into the wardrobe and slamming the doors shut. He grit his teeth, his breath hissing between his fangs, as he kept his talons pressed against the cool wood, focusing everything on keeping his mind away from that scene.

From that memory.

And yet he could still feel it, in whatever passed for a heart in his twisted body. One hand pressed into his chest, and it took a surprising amount of willpower to not claw at it, if only to give himself something different to feel.

After a moment he clicked his beak, shaking his head; he wasn't going to stand here all night, not when he had a battle tomorrow. But as he slipped into bed and began to drift off to sleep, the memories trickled back into his mind.

The low voice of the urRu, uncharacteristically harsh as he stood in front of the three cowering Gruenaks: “You... have done enough here today, skekGra. Leave these few... and go slink back to the rest of your kind."

The unfamiliar, vague sense of completion at the contact, when his light half appeared in the downpour and seized his wrist to stop his sword.

And for the first time since he'd taken this form, for the first time in hundreds of trine...

The feeling of guilt that pierced through his heart.

You have done enough.