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figonas · 3 years

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As Warm As The Sun-Part 2

The Light of the Moon

The scent of his skin beneath the aroma of sweet wine blurs Jude’s thoughts. She’s tempted to reach for him again, to trace her fingers along his sharp cheekbones; pale as the light from a full moon, dusted softly with incandescent, shimmering gold.

Summary: Part 2 is Jude’s POV of the scene from Part 1. Takes place during The Wicked King pretty much right before the Queen of Mirth scene and Chapter 15. Just a soft, fluffy response to the prompt; “hug me, I command it”.

Words: 2267

Rating: GA

Links: Part 1-Cardan POV | AO3

A/N: I struggled with Jude’s POV far more than I did with Cardan’s. I think because this is a really vulnerable moment and at this point in her story like Jude isn’t prepared to be vulnerable with Cardan. Idk, this takes place a little early in twk for Jude to be admitting she has feelings for Cardan, but this is fanfic and I do what I want. @jurdanhell this one’s for you my dude.

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Jude Duarte, former spy for Prince Dain, seneschal to the High King of Elfhame, is exhausted. If she is honest with herself, which she often isn’t, she couldn’t remember a time since Cardan was crowned where she hadn’t been tired. Nearly every day of the last five months there was always something too important going on for Jude to waste time sleeping. There was always a problem to solve, a threat against the kingdom to thwart, an attempt on her life, or Oak’s life, or Cardan’s life. What Jude really needed was a shorter list of lives she was responsible for, but for now, a good night's sleep would have to do. She was almost too tired to be angry at Cardan for having her attend this stupid revel, almost...but not quite.

Early in the night Jude was doing her best to slip away after a meeting with the Living Council, yet another one Cardan had failed to attend and Jude had fought for every word she had to say. As she rushed out of the room she nearly collided with Locke, followed closely by Cardan, Taryn, and a group of court members she didn’t recognize. Cardan’s eyes met hers and Jude knew she was in trouble the moment he got that infuriating gleam in his eye, the look that said; Oh Jude, you will absolutely hate the next words I speak. And hated them she had, Cardan launched into details about that evening’s revel which ended in him asking Jude if she would attend the revel in full that evening, his voice practically dripping with mock innocence. Before Jude could answer with a curt and resounding no, Locke chimed in and did what he was best at; started trouble. By the time he was done with his mocking explanation of why Jude’s many duties robbed all her mortal energy and didn’t allow her to attend revels like the rest of the folk, the Living Council had moved from their meeting place to gather in the hall. Jude briefly entertained a fantasy of running Locke through with Nightfell just to be done with this whole encounter, but she realized Locke’s attempt to devalue her position had garnered a substantial audience so Jude was left with no choice but to clench her jaw and bite out an acceptance of Cardan’s offer.

Now, an eternity later, Jude stands to the side of Cardan’s throne scowling at the side of his horribly beautiful face as he downed the dregs of yet another gobet. She had given up trying to count his cups hours ago but the glazed look in his eyes told Jude it is likely someone would be carrying Cardan back to his chambers this evening. She took a cursory glance around the room eyeing the dwindling guests and the King’s Guard who all made a point to look anywhere but toward the dais, and realized that someone is most likely to be her.

As if on cue, Cardan stands swaying as he attempts to step forward and nearly pitches head first off the dais.

All of Jude’s training, both in Madoc’s house and as a spy for Prince Dain, have honed her reflexes and without a second thought her hand flies out fisting in the back of Cardan’s gaudy cloak of embroidered black velvet. With all the gentleness of someone who has spent the last four hours contemplating murder Jude yanks Cardan back against her and wraps her arm around his waist to steady him.

“As much as it would amuse me to watch you fall after you made me stand here all night for no reason, I’m too tired to pick you up off the floor,” Jude hisses in his ear, she throws his other arm about her shoulders and sets off down the handful of steps leading away from the throne. Cardan leans into her, his breath ghosting across her temple; warm and sweetened by wine, Jude can’t stop the longing that shoots through her like the peeling of a bell.

“Dearest Jude, are you trying to take me to bed?” Cardan’s mouth stumbles through the words, just as his feet stumble down the steps nearly dragging them both to the floor. Jude tries to tap into her anger that seemed so palpable only moments before but she can’t think past his hip pressed against hers, his arm warm and heavy across her neck and shoulders.

“Don’t push your luck or I’ll leave you to sleep on the floor in the middle of the burgh”. He laughs, truly laughs in a way that’s free of anger or malice. Jude tries and fails to suppress the small smile that touches her lips at the happy sound she so rarely hears from him.

The walk to Cardan’s rooms takes a lifetime. They don’t speak again, but Jude can feel Cardan’s eyes on her every few moments. His proximity makes the sensation hard to ignore causing a flush to darken her cheeks. Jude tries to focus on the path ahead and clamp down her desire to return his gaze.

Once in his chambers Jude abruptly releases him and takes a half step away putting much needed distance between them, but even then he’s still too close. The scent of his skin beneath the aroma of sweet wine blurs Jude’s thoughts. She’s tempted to reach for him again, to trace her fingers along his sharp cheekbones; pale as the light from a full moon, dusted softly with incandescent, shimmering gold.

Jude, no the rational voice inside her mind nearly screams. She clenches her hands into fists, a half second from running out the massive wooden door when Cardan’s voice startles her from her thoughts.

“Embrace me again,” he says in a voice that reminds her of another drunken request he made not too long ago; kiss me again, kiss me until I am sick of it.

Jude is weary, worn down, exhausted, the kind of tired that makes limbs sore and heavy as if she’d spent the whole day throwing rocks. In that exhaustion the Cardan-shaped wall built around her heart is lowered more than Jude would ever admit; she had refused him then, she doesn’t know if she can refuse him now.

“Go to bed Cardan” it’s as much of a refusal as she can muster with his eyes boring into hers, black and wanting. Her hand flicks out to point across the suite to Cardan’s ridiculously large bed.

“But I am your king, Jude I command it,” he grins like he’s gone mad but Cardan, who is less a living being than a fae revel given flesh and bone, looks horribly and unmistakably sad. It’s gone in a moment, replaced by feigned indifference so sharp it almost burns in his coal black eyes. But she had seen it there; a glimpse of the depth of his loneliness and misery.

“So I say again, embrace me and then I will concede and go to bed,” his tone is teasing, it does nothing to fool Jude.

She opens her mouth to speak but quickly shuts it. The feeling of slick, slimy guilt roils in her belly, guilt she often pushed aside in favor of anger and self-preservation. Cardan’s pain was not all her doing, she knew of his scars, on his skin and his soul, wrought from Baelkin’s hateful hands and the cruel indifference of Eldred.

But his position as High King, his empty life beneath a hollow crown was one she had thrust upon him through lies and deceit. Facing the truth of that in his eyes made bile crawl it’s way up her throat, and if Jude was honest with herself it shattered her heart into shards of broken glass threatening to shred her apart from the inside.

Guilt was not easy to feel, it was the feeling of admitting you had done wrong paired with the admission that you haven’t yet made it right. Jude had choked on guilt before but usually pushed it away, citing the safety of Oak and the stability of Elfhame; but those excuses fall apart like strips of wet paper when pit against the emptiness in Cardan’s gaze.

Jude curses herself, wishing for the days when she felt nothing but hatred for the High King, instead of the complicated mix of regret, shame, and desire she feels now. Swallowing thickly against her guilt, and before she can examine her own want too closely, Jude steps forward and wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

Cardan hesitates for a brief moment, before returning her embrace. Jude resists the urge to sink into his warmth, stops herself from tightening her arms and nuzzling her face into his neck; it’s power over her she won’t relinquish to him and an admission to herself she isn’t ready to face.

More than anything this moment feels fragile, as if Jude, mortal among fairies, human of the earth could break it with the snap of her fingers.

“I’m only doing this because I’m too tired to fight with you about going to bed,” she lies, to herself and to him.

Cardan doesn’t reply, simply holding her in a strong, steady embrace, his cheek resting light as a feather on her forehead. The unsteady balance brought on by Cardan’s overindulgence seems to evaporate as if, he too realizes how delicate this moment is. How easily it could shatter like a stone through glass.

She isn’t sure how much time passes as they stand there tangled up in each other, but her eyelids begin to droop as Cardan strokes lazy circles on her back with his thumbs.

In serious danger of dozing off Jude yawns deeply and steps back. Cardan’s hands bracket her waist as she pulls back and he makes no effort to remove them. The warmth of his palms seeping through her jacket keeps her heart pounding out a steady rhythm. She doesn’t know how to read into this small gesture of intimacy, if it means anything at all, so she simply ignores it.

“Alright, Your Majesty I indulged your wishes,” she stops another, smaller yawn with the back of her hand.

“Now to bed with you so I can go get in my own,” Jude points again in the direction of the vast expanse of pillows and spider silk sheets.

Cardan’s hands drop to his sides, he sways unsteadily as he turns, his drunken clumsiness returning now that the distance between them has broken whatever spell was cast over their embrace. She places a gentle hand on his lower back, when he leans into her touch Jude feels a rush of warmth as she walks him through his empty rooms.

“Careful with your orders Jude or I will tell everyone that you were kind to me,” he laughs though she can’t imagine why.

“Though I don’t think anyone would believe me,” he continues softly almost as if speaking to himself. She shakes her head though Cardan is too focused on his feet to notice. He doesn’t say the words with malice or venom but something twists in Jude’s chest all the same.

“You won’t remember this tomorrow anyway”.

She gives a gentle push as they reach his bed and Cardan flops down on the coverlet, gazing up at Jude in with something soft and yearning in his eyes. She leans over him, breath catching in her throat. The intensity of his gaze pins her to the spot.

“Oh Jude, loveliest of afflictions, I will remember this night for years to come.” He makes a move as if to reach for her, but Cardan’s hand falls back to his side as his eyes flutter closed.

“We’ll see about that tomorrow,” She makes a disbelieving noise and crosses her arms. Laughing softly as she takes in her disheveled High King.

Though Cardan’s eyes remain closed, his head turns in her direction as she laughs, as if he craves her laugh as she craves his; a moth to flame.

Jude backs away from the bed, retreating to the suites main door, but something stops her as she places a hand on the knob. Turning to peer over her shoulder she calls out softly through the dark chamber.

“Goodnight Cardan,” without waiting for his response she slips into the hall and flees toward her room.

By the time she reaches her chambers Jude is dead on her feet and desperate for the feel of her pillow against her cheek.

She strips off her weapons and clothes, tucking herself into bed instead of curling up in front of the fire as she most often does. It’s cold but the sheets and pillows are soft, as she relaxes into them. Sleep hovers nearby waiting to take her the moment she closes her eyes, but Jude stares up toward the ceiling keeping herself awake for a few more blissful moments.

Jude Duarte has made herself into a fearsome creature, one of the folk in spirit if nothing else. Tomorrow she will go back to her role as the High King’s seneschal, back to her knives, and seething looks, and harsh clothes. But tonight she will allow herself one small, indulgent moment of weakness and be simply; Jude Duarte, mortal girl.

Tonight she lies in bed and thinks of Cardan’s soft breath on her cheek, the stroke of this thumb on her back, the moonlight glow of his skin in the dimness of his chambers.

Jude isn’t sure exactly when she drifted off but her dreams are filled with yearning black eyes and strong steady arms. When she wakes she smiles to herself, wide and foolish, before donning the mask of seneschal once again.

#FINALLY part 2 is out #I struggled with Jude more than Cardan #I didn’t want her to be too vulnerable but I also wanted this to be light and soft #I don’t know if I found the balance between the two #we’ll see #🤷🏻‍♀️#jurdan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jude x cardan #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #the folk of the air #fanfiction #tfota fanfic #holly black #Jude Duarte POV

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maplecornia · 3 years

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chapter 22

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.36K

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: our first full introduction to all of BTS! I hope you're all excited ^^

Why did there have to be a meeting today of all days?

Yoongi scowls in the back of the car, trying his best to work on the small music app he’s downloaded for free on his phone. Letting out a small growl, he throws the phone aside, frustrated and annoyed.

“Absolute trash.” He snarls, staring ahead with nothing but malice in his eyes. The driver flinches a bit at the dark aura emanating from the back seat, and slowly rolls up the little partition glass that separates the two.

You know...just in case.

Yoongi notices the small act of distance and rolls his eyes, scoffing. He doesn't have to apologize. He can have a bad attitude if he wants. His schedule was supposed to be completely free today, a day where he could work on the album quietly. It was supposed to be a productive day, one where he could hole himself up in his studio and work and work until he made music that was perfect for their comeback.

Perfect for BTS.

Narrowing his eyes, he mutters a string of curse words under his breath for the 7th time that morning.

Then he got the call. That there was an urgent meeting for BTS to attend. A meeting that would affect the future of the company.

Running his hands through his hair, he tries to refrain himself from punching the car window out.

"What the hell is that even supposed to mean?!" He screams in aggravation, causing the driver on the other side of the partition to jump, startled. Not paying any mind to the driver currently struggling to restart his heart, Yoongi sighs, positioning himself on the seat so that he's comfortably lying down. Looking up at the ceiling with his soft, sparkling eyes, he tries to calm down. See things in a brighter light, try not to care so much. It's just...things are so frustrating to him.

All.

The.

Time.

Raising his hand to cover his eyes, he tries to remember a time when things had been so hard. He remembers training, debut, remembers the struggles of rising to the top, remembers injuries, exhaustion, remembers quarantine and tireless motivation…

Each moment seemed worse than the last. Every time they conquered a new struggle, another presented itself. As though they were walking down a road filled with multiple storms. A road that was destined to tear them apart, scatter them and leave them for dead.

Suga didn't think it would be so hard to leave. They were only gone for 2 years and yet by the time they got back it was almost as though the world had either forgotten about them, replaced them, or turned against them. Smiling bitterly, he raises his dark eyes to the ceiling once more, his hand curling into a fist at his side.

"You really fooled us didn't you...?" He mutters, his voice soft, but cold. Shivering with forgotten remorse. His hand rests itself safely over his eyes, shielding himself from the world. Trying so hard not to lose himself, he fights back the tears, barely able to struggle out the one word he's been holding back for so long.

"ARMY…"

Closing his eyes, he fails to catch one solo tear that falls, trailing a lonesome streak of wet painful memories across his soft ivory cheek.

He doesn’t remember the rest of the drive to the studio, choosing instead to block everything out and focus on releasing the dark cloud shrouding his mind. He’s learned how to deal with the pain, how to erase it, ease it safely and securely back into the inner corners of his mind...his heart. It's an endless procedure, falling and picking the pieces back up again. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he may lock them away...they always come back, stronger and worse than before.

At least he’s learned to keep it inside.

At least he can safely hide.

And pretend everything is alright.

As the car pulls to a stop, Yoongi seriously considers skipping the meeting and staying home. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like crap. Maybe then he’ll be able to forget...at least for a while. However, as soon as the car pulls up, the driver immediately opens the door and cuts the ignition. Yoongi groans from the back seat, glaring up at the ceiling just as his driver opens his door, and nervously waits for him to exit.

Muttering under his breath about how some people are such pussies nowadays, Yoongi reluctantly sits up, gathers his things and exits the car. Paying no mind to the nervous driver, he stares up at his company building. His face hidden in a shadow, he bites his bottom lip, his hand clenching around the strap to his backpack.

Since when has he regretted coming here?

Since when was he afraid to see what may lie on the other side?

Shaking his head free of such thoughts, he groans, the dark cloud surrounding him only growing. Today’s just a bad day, he really needs to pull himself together. Sighing, he rubs his hand over his face before heading towards the building. Each step seems to weigh him down, blur the world around him, bring him further and further into his mind.

A dark mess of music notes and compositions.

Of torrents of pain and broken promises.

Of hidden fears and memories.

The mind of a man past his breaking point.

But then he hears the voice.

“Yoongi!”

Just as he’s opening the door to the building, it calls out from right behind him. That one voice...that one sweet cacophony holding brotherhood and love, is enough to draw him back to reality. It’s enough to break the hold the darkness had had on him. Smiling softly to himself, he turns and meets his eyes with a soft steady look of his own.

“Hoseok.”

Jhope smiles broadly at the mention of his name, and finishes running across the distance to his hyung. Clapping his hand around his shoulder he chuckles a bit as they walk together inside. Yoongi smiles at him a bit, but looks away before Jhope could notice.

If he was being honest, any one of his members have the same effect on him. Every one of them...the hidden parts to the family they have struggled so hard to build...they make everything okay. They make everything worth it.

If Yoongi were to suffer…

Then it would be okay.

As long as it was all for them.

“Hyung, why do you think PD-nim wanted us here this early?” Hoseok asks, breaking his hold on his friend in order to stretch as he yawns. Yoongi doesn’t answer, brooding a bit over how his work got interrupted once more. First it was Namjoon, over a stupid assistant, now its Bang Sihyuk?

“Whatever it is, I hope he has a good reason for interrupting me.” Yoongi mutters darkly under his breath, startling Jhope a bit. Jhope flinches, and noticing the change in Yoongi’s mood, steps away a small distance, chuckling nervously.

“Were you working on something important?” he asks as they walk inside the elevator, headed to the office on the top floor. Yoongi scoffs as he presses the button and the elevator doors close.

“I sure hope it was. It was for our new album, which is due no less than a few months from now! Namjoon and I still haven’t even gotten the beat down for the title track...and now this?! What could possibly be more important?” Yoongi sighs, collapsing against the cool metal walls against the elevator. Cold and indifferent, he stares at his warped expression in them, wondering if that’s enough to protect himself.

But...

What does he need to protect himself from?

Jhope regards Suga with a soft look, almost pitiful. He’s found that when he gets like this, sometimes it’s just best to leave him be, to let him work it out on his own. But right now…

Is this really the best way to solve things?

The look on Yoongi’s face is familiar, and yet different from all those times before.

Hoseok finds that he can't read it, he doesn’t recognize it. Something about that…

Scares him.

As the elevator dings, and Yoongi immediately steps out into the hallway, it takes Jhope a moment to follow suit. Silent, he watches the back of Yoongi, trying hard to understand him, figure out what’s going on with him. It frustrates him that right now, when he needs him most is when Jhope has no idea how to help him.

Can he help him?

Biting the inside of his cheek, he looks at his feet as they make their way to the meeting room. He knows that ever since they were separated, ever since the military enlistment, no one has been the same. Once beloved by the world, they found themselves facing the fear of being forgotten. Of entering a world where no one cares about who you are...only how strong you can be. An honorable service, but a taxing one, something that would change a person.

And so it has changed Bangtan.

For Yoongi, it drove him further into himself. Into the depression of darkness he had tried so hard to avoid. Without his sources of light, without that grasp on hope he had before...he found everything fading away. He found himself fading away.

How easy is it to find yourself again?

How easy is it to turn everything back to how it was before?

For anyone who knows...it’s near impossible.

So he’s trying, he’s trying his hardest to turn it into something that he can live with. Into a strength he can look back on and say he grew from. Another obstacle that he has defeated in his pathetic excuse he calls a life…

But what can he do right now?

Except fall deeper and deeper into the darkness which becomes so alluring to him. He finds himself longing for it, he finds himself wishing to end it...because what is he fighting for anyway? He already reached the top...and now he has to make his way back up again? What is that supposed to mean to him? How is he supposed to deal with that?

They said they would stay with them.

They said they would wait for them.

But they lied.

They moved on, they forgot.

Was everything they ever did…

Did everything mean nothing to them?

Entering the meeting room the pair of them are greeted by noise. The familiar noise of joy and laughter Bangtan carries with them everywhere, just happy being with the other...no matter how many hardships they may face nor how much the darkness may cloud each of their minds...as long as they're together, nothing else matters. Yoongi can’t help it…

He smiles.

It happens on its own accord, without warning. It's just...seeing them, seeing how happy they are despite everything makes him feel a bit of happiness, a little ray of joy, a little speck of pride and amongst them all he finds what he’s been looking for all along.

Hope.

The one thing stronger than his fear.

“Yoongi! And Hobi hyung! You guys made it!” Jimin practically barrels into Yoongi as Jhope closes the door behind the two of them. Laughing like a maniac, Jimin squeezes Suga so tightly that it's hard for him to pry him off.

“Seriously Jimin, you saw me just yesterday, you act as though it’s been years.” Suga sighs, placing his backpack in one of the many chairs in the meeting room as Jimin pouts. Jhope chuckles at his expression, rubbing his hair affectionately before following suit.

“It feels like it’s been years! Have you forgotten that we only got back a few weeks ago? I’ve missed our hugs--” Yoongi places his hand expertly on Jimin’s face, stopping him as he moves in for another hug. Growling, Jimin gives him a glare and Suga raises his eyebrow.

“What was our deal about hugs?” Jimin pulls away at the ultimatum and dramatically deflates into the chair next to Yoongi as he sarcastically recites the “deal”, deepening his voice and flattening it as much as he can in order to match Suga’s.

“One free hug a day...any other extra will cost you.” While Suga rolls his eyes, he can’t help but crack a smile as everyone else in the room laughs along and Jimin sits up in the chair, chuckling to himself at his great impersonation. Well...great in his eyes. Shaking his head, Yoongi looks around at the room, smiling at the familiar faces he finds meeting his own.

There’s Jin, who hasn’t stopped laughing, his unique laughter carrying through the room, half hurting everyone’s ears, and half bringing them joy and happiness. Yoongi always forgets that it’s actually possible to miss that strange windshield laugh.

There’s Taehyung who sits next to Jin and rolls his eyes a bit at how hard he’s laughing, before chuckling softly to himself in quiet happiness. Yoongi still can’t believe that there was ever a time he didn’t cherish Tae as much as he does now.

There’s Hobi who has just settled into a chair right next to Yoongi and laughs that contagious laugh that strikes hope and joy into even the darkest of hearts. Suga still remembers when that laugh first entered his life.

There’s Jimin who has just tackled Suga into another hug before dancing away and laughing almost manically. Yoongi lets him off the hook, smiling softly to himself because if he were being really honest...he would want those hugs every day of his life.

Then there’s Namjoon, the one who watches over them all, a small but distant smile present on his face. As Yoongi raises his eyes to him, he can’t help but feel a bit of nostalgia.

His first friend.

His best friend.

Perhaps the only one who could understand him and yet…

He always seems so far away.

Namjoon, as though feeling Suga’s gaze on him, slowly flickers his eyes over to him and is startled by what he finds.

He sees the darkness shrouding his dear friend's mind. He sees the cry for help. His heart pounding with worry and trepidation, he bravely meets Suga’s deep conflicted eyes and tries to pick them apart, solve them as though they were a problem only he could untangle. He hasn’t seen this face for so long, he hasn’t seen this kind of fear in his friend before. His chest constricting, he almost wants to hold onto Yoongi and hold him tight in his arms until he makes everything better.

As though it were his job to make everything better.

His brow crinkling with concern, he opens his mouth in order to address him, but an outburst from Taehyung who is looking out into the hallway cuts him off and the connection is broken. Yoongi almost immediately looks away, leaving Namjoon to continue to stare at him, in deep thought.

"Where's Jungkookie? Why is he so late?" Tae is asking as he leans back in his chair to stare out the see-through glass that encases them inside the meeting room. Jimin, coming up behind Tae, almost makes him fall as he pushes the chair down so that Tae meets his eye.

"Wha…" Taehyung begins but Jimin cuts him off.

"That's rich coming from you Mr. MickeyD." Jimin snorts at the reference to the soaked bags Tae brought as a peace offering yesterday, before letting go of his chair and leaving Taehyung to teeter slowly to a stop. Jin, picking up on the let's tease Taehyung memo nods and leans forward in his chair as though invested in the conversation.

"Yeah, where were you yesterday? You took an hour to get here TaeTae…" he coos, reaching forward to touch his hand but Tae pulls away grimacing. Jin laughs before pulling away and Namjoon rolls his eyes, ignoring the small smirk growing on his face.

"Stop it guys, he was helping Yen, my new assistant manager." Namjoon explains as he pulls out his phone to check any new notifications. "She fell during the afternoon rush in the lobby yesterday and hurt her ankle. Tae was helping her to the hospital. That's why she's not coming in today."

At that comment, Jimin's face goes a bit cold, and he glances at Tae in the corner of his eye. Tae nods frantically in agreement to Namjoon's statement almost as if he were clearing his name, and Jimin can't help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Tae used to tell him everything…

So why does Namjoon know this and he doesn't?

It wasn't that hard to explain...he would have understood...so why?

Why couldn't Taehyung talk to him instead of having to turn to RM?

Tae swallows hard to see if they all believe him, his heart pounding a bit fiercely in his chest. That was partly the truth...but Namjoon doesn't know the whole story. Nervously glancing at Namjoon in the corner of his eye, he can't help but fidget a bit.

The only way he was able to keep Yen home was to get the all clear from RM. And in order to do that...he had to tell him that you were hurt. And so that's exactly what he did...it just wasn't entirely the truth.

Looking down at his hands, he holds them tightly, faintly remembering how your hands felt in them. If he told Namjoon about what happened, who knows what he would have thought? Besides, Taehyung doesn’t want to tell anyone about that day. He doesn’t know why, he has nothing to hide but…

It's almost as if he mentions it to someone else…

It’ll become theirs and not his.

“In any case, we’ve been waiting long enough...where’s BangPD anyway?” Suga wonders quietly, not bothering to hide the frustration in his tone.

“Good morning to you too, Yoongi.” At the voice, the 6 of them freeze, and slowly turn toward the door, which was closed once before, but now occupies three significant figures. Suga tries hard not to wince, but as he meets BangPD’s dark eyes, he can’t help it. The other members seem to shrink due to the tension rising in the room as the door closes behind the newcomers. This isn’t exactly a situation they would like to be present for.

“Jungkook!” Jhope cries as he scans the three faces, and sure enough there he is standing attentively behind BangPD. He smiles a bit as Jhope calls his name, and waves to them but when BangPD walks into the room, Jungkook follows closely behind. The third figure, a tall and slender woman, closes the door behind them.

Namjoon glances towards her a bit curiously, trying to place where he may have seen her before. As she sits in a chair near to the door, a reasonable distance from the rest of the others, she glances towards him as well. As their eyes meet, Namjoon barely has time to notice the small flecks of gold circling in her brown eyes before she looks quickly away. Raising his eyebrow, he shrugs before turning to BangPD who is setting down a few papers and documents in the head chair of the meeting room.

“Sir, what exactly is going on? Why did you ask Jungkook to text us all to meet here? Is it something to do with the album?” BangPD smiles at Namjoon’s quick wit as the rest of the members glance at each other a bit confused. He’s the only one who figured out that BangPD was the one behind that strange text last night. Sitting down, BangPD meets Namjoon’s stern but curious eyes, trying to pick apart the complexity hidden behind their depths.

“The reason is simple. We needed to confer with you 7 as shareholders in the company.” Taehyung sits up from his once relaxed position at the sentence, turning attentively towards BangPD-nim. He glances toward Jungkook to try and read his expression, but Jungkoook avoids his gaze. What exactly are the two of them planning?

BangPD nods to the woman sitting attentively in the back and she nods back, pulling out a computer and walking to the head of the table. She opens it and begins connecting it to the stereo system. Yoongi crinkles his brow at the curious setup. Once the woman is finished, she nods toward BangPD before heading back to her seat next to the door.

“Before we can do that however...there’s something you need to hear.”

With that, BangPD presses play and once more...your voice fills the room.

It instills a hush over each of them. Each one of them, even the woman in the back, is visibly affected by the emotion in your voice. The soulful pain that you carry through each note you sing takes them to a world which only they can see; drives them to emotions they have never felt before.

Jin goes completely still, trying his hardest to hold back the tears which are threatening to spill over and wet his cheeks. He wants to hurt whoever made you feel this way. Whoever made you sing like this...as though you were crying out for help.

Jhope’s expression is blank, completely out of character for him. But he can't help it. At the sound of your voice, he is unable to keep the mask up for any longer. It falls, shows everything underneath, shows what he really hides behind his smile. He can hardly feel it as the single tear runs down his cheek.

It takes all Jimin has not to break down into tears right then and there. He stares at the computer as though that would help him reach you. Help him to erase the pain that has affected you deep inside. As though he could erase in you what he could never erase in himself.

Yoongi has closed his eyes, leaning his head back in the chair he sits in. As though if he were to open them, the voice would disappear and the beauty he sees behind his eyes would go with it. As though it's the only anchor keeping him from completely fading away.

Namjoon finds himself searching through his mind, trying to figure out where he’s heard this voice before. Where he’s felt this kind of pain, this deep level of sadness and insecurity. Trying to remember why he can find some familiarity in it. Why he feels as though he’s home and safe.

Taehyung is petrified. He’s heard this voice before. He has it saved safely in his pocket at this very moment. He helped the owner of this voice home the other day. He can still feel her touch on his skin.

Frantically, he glances toward Jungkook once more. How was he able to get this recording? Was he there? And if he was…

Then was that moment Taehyung shared, that one break in time where he could only see you, that one moment where he knew, he just knew that you were perhaps the only one who could truly understand him…

When he couldn’t understand himself…

Did it mean nothing at all?

Jungkook smiles to himself now as he sees the room which is alight with your voice. As he sees the way they change, the way they are affected, how it seems as though they have been healed with the sound, the beautiful world which your voice brings to each one of them. When he sees the way your voice alights in them a new fire, a new flame unable to be doused, he sees the true purpose behind your voice behind you.

A light that was meant to be shared.

As the song ends, though he’s sad to see it go, this time he’s sure that he’ll hear it again.

That he’ll hear you again.

In the silence, the ones who remain have a hard time coming back to themselves. It's as though they are wandering in the dark, now that the world they were able to see has disappeared. Almost as though they had forgotten how to live, how to breathe without that utopia in their mind.

But the main thing is that suddenly, all at once…

They felt as though they had been healed.

Even if it was only for a moment.

“Her name is Yen.” BangPD’s voice breaks through the fragile silence, catching everyone’s attention, including Jungkook. Clearing his throat, Bang Sihyuk opens your file, passing it forward on the table. Everyone is able to see your ID picture, where you were born, your current number, your family members, your current address...even your social security number. It’s all there, for each of them to see and to immediately know…

“She has recently been hired as Namjoon’s assistant in Jaejin’s absence.” BangPD explains, but this is something they already know. They share a look with each other, recognizing that this is the same girl who brought a smile on their face yesterday.

“Now that you have heard her voice, let’s get down to business.”

The same girl who was hours late for her first day.

“The real reason I called you all here is because we need to make a decision.”

The same girl who turned Namjoon into a frantic mess.

“A choice that may make or break this company.”

The same girl who turned Jungkook into a dumbstruck teenage boy.

“A choice that involves this voice, that involves Yen.”

The same girl who helped Taehyung find himself...even for a little while.

“As shareholders for this company this affects each and every one of you.”

Though the rest may not have met you...they all saw the picture.

“I called you here today to ask you…”

They saw in you the same charming girl that everyone else had seen throughout the day.

“If the 7 of you would agree to signing this girl on as a trainee for our company.”

The one behind this voice.

Is the same girl who tried to stuff an entire bowl of salad in her face.

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: crazy crazy

chapter 23 here

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headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne · 3 years

Text

Lautrec Chain

Original Prompt: How Lautrec landed in that cell in the Undead Parish. We did it! Another chain is complete! A big thanks goes to all the amazing artists and writers who participated in this chain. Please check out their content and blogs.

@acebladespades

“A knight of Carim is nothing without his lady.”

He looked at the man behind the metal bars.

“You knew well what was expected from you.”

He took one step closer to the cell’s door.

“So why are you still alive?”

‐---‐-----------------------------

“I love you.”

His entire world came to a stop.

Fina’s voice echoed softly in his ear.

At first, Lautrec believed it was only a trick of his wishful mind. It wasn’t until he felt Fina’s arms resting on his chest, pulling him closer in a tender embrace, that he realized everything was true.

He closed his eyes and gently put his hands on top the golden arms of his cuirass.

“I love you too, my lady.”

“Then, when the time comes, you won’t hesitate?”

Lautrec couldn’t answer. He knew his silence angered his goddess, but the question had caught him off guard.

“I see.” Fina lifted her ethereal arms, leaving Lautrec alone with the metallic replicas of his armor. “Your ridiculous honor still means more to you than I, doesn’t it? How foolish I was to think that your love and devotion for me were real.”

“They are real.” Lautrec replied. “You know well you are my everything.”

“Lies. Your claims are nothing but honeyed and vacuous words. They are so typical of you mortals. If you truly loved me, you would have answered me instantly, without any trace of doubt in your voice; yet, all you gave me was silence. That’s not the way a knight should treat his lady, is it?”

“Of course not.” Lautrec smiled in a faint attempt to appease Fina’s temper.

Fina answered by resting her hands on his belly. At first, he mistook the gesture as a sign of forgiveness. His naïve perception changed when Fina dug her nails deep into his flesh and began clawing her way up to his shoulders.

The pain left Lautrec breathless. He fell to his knees, swallowing his screams and forcing himself to endure the punishment in silence.

Even if Fina’s nails did not make him bleed nor they left visible injuries on his skin, the agony they caused him was real.

Lautrec only dared to breathe again once Fina was done. The skin where she had touched him felt burning and tender, as if her ethereal nails had been covered in fire.

“If you wouldn’t treat a vulgar wench so rudely, what makes you can act with so much disdain toward your goddess?”

Lautrec didn’t answer. Fina didn’t gave him the chance, for as soon as she was done speaking, she embraced him again from behind.

The melted together, trapped in a blissful moment that Lautrec wished would never end.

“I love you.”

Lautrec could feel the brush of her breath against his ear even through his helmet.

“It pains me to hurt you like this, but you left me no choice. Please, my knight, do not make me do this ever again. All I ask from you is an answer.”

Guilt and regret kept Lautrec glued to the floor.

“So, I’ll ask you again.”

The ring on his finger throbbed with an invigorating energy that swiftly got Lautrec back on his feet. He remained still, with only the weight of his armor and the voice of his goddess keeping him grounded in reality.

“When the time comes, will you hesitate?”

“I won’t.” His answer came so promptly that his voice clashed with Fina’s. “Never forget that I am yours.”

“Oh, my knight.” Fina whispered so lowly that Lautrec could barely hear her. “My Lautrec.”

Though she couldn’t see her, Lautrec knew she was smiling.

Underneath his golden helmet, he smiled too.

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

“I must say I expected a more courageous performance from you.”

“My lady, it is one thing to fight a horde of Hollows.” Lautrec said once he was done rubbing of the filth off his helmet. “But to confront a ferocious drake, with nothing but a narrow bridge as our battlefield, wouldn’t have been brave, it would have been suicidal.”

“I suppose you are right. At the very least, I’m satisfied you didn’t end up becoming that beast’s dinner. You should be glad that its fire only brushed the surface of your helmet. Had it touched your skin, you’d be cursed with a burn that would never heal nor stop hurting.”

Lautrec had never believed such claims. He had always dismissed them as the exaggerated and baseless statements of antique books and scrolls.

But he believed Fina.

The memory of the drake and the closeness of its fire formed a hole in his stomach.

If there hadn’t been a secret passage underneath the bridge, the drake’s fire would have engulfed him whole, either reducing his body to ashes or leaving him covered in agonizing blisters.

It was seldom that Lautrec felt fear, but there was something dreadful in imagining himself at the absolute mercy of a beast.

Forcedly, he dismissed his panic from his mind. The least he wanted was for Fina to notice how scared he was.

His lady, while gracious and merciful, did not take kindly to displays of weakness of any sort, and she took great pleasure in mocking Lautrec every time he failed to keep his mental barriers up and left his most hidden insecurities exposed.

Though her derision was always heartless and poignant, Lautrec did not resent his goddess for it. He knew Fina didn’t do it out of malice, and had he been in her place, Lautrec would have done the same thing.

After all, he was a knight of Carim. To be always strong and resilient, especially when in the presence of his lady, was both his duty and his pride. If a lady mocked his knight, it was not to discourage or humiliate him, it was simply to remind him to keep the weakness of his heart in check.

Indomitable, stoic, dutiful, strong and steadfast.

Those were the true qualities of knighthood.

How Lautrec pitied the sentimental Astorans and the savage Catarinians for their deplorable and bastardized perceptions of what a knight was. They were pathetic, weak-minded and pretentious fools without a purpose.

None of them could ever understand what an honor it was for a knight to dedicate his entire existence to a lady. They couldn’t fathom the satisfaction a knight gained from being the eternal protector and the pillar of strength for his fated woman.

And if said woman was none other than Fina—

“Why are you laughing?”

“It’s nothing.” Lautrec said. “I was just thinking of how blessed I am to have you as my lady.”

Fina remained quiet.

After a small moment, she chuckled.

“You are adorable.”

She sounded amused.

Lautrec waited for her to continue.

When she did, it was only to order him to proceed with his journey. Far from being disappointed, Lautrec was pleased. Though his confession hadn’t given him the answer he’d wanted, he had succeeded in making Fina laugh.

He had made her happy.

He couldn’t ask for anything more.

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

After getting rid of some meddlesome Hollows and infected rats, Lautrec managed to infiltrate the parish the drake had guarded so fiercely. He felt tempted to rest for a moment in a nearby bonfire, but Fina did not approve.

“I know you are tired.” She told him, so tenderly and motherly that Lautrec felt ashamed for having even thought about taking a rest at all. “But you cannot stop now. We are close to our destination. Once we are in Firelink Shrine, you will rest there for as long as you need. I want you strong and refreshed when your time comes to fulfill your duty.”

The reminder shattered all sense of peace and comfort Lautrec harbored. He raised his mental walls before Fina could sense his distress. This time, his weakness passed unnoticed by his goddess, but Lautrec still felt a boiling hatred for himself and his own feebleness.

Even if he could fool Fina, he couldn’t fool himself.

His rage and frustration fueled his attacks.

Every Hollow and any other abomination that crossed his way met their ends at the touch of his swords.

Lautrec fought his way through the chapel, but his streak of invincible prowess was cut short when the armored boar proved to be an enemy he couldn’t defeat.

The beast charged at him and sent him flying towards a wall of stone. If it hadn’t been for his armor, the violent crash would have broken his spine in half.

“Don’t even think about dying now.” Fina told him as he struggled to get back on his feet. “If you die, do you know how long it would take you to arrive to this place again? Seriously, if I had known you were so frail and easily defeated, I would have allowed you to rest at the bonfire. No wonder that harlot you used to look after is long dead. She was cursed to an early demise the moment you were made her guardian.”

Lautrec couldn’t move.

He felt as if Fina had dug a dagger into his chest and had ripped out his still beating heart. He would have remained there, rotting in his own bafflement for all time, if the loud trotting of the boar hadn’t snapped him out of his trance.

This time, Lautrec avoided the charging attack of the armored animal. He lunged himself forwards and landed on his chest.

Then, his instincts took over. His former bloodlust was replaced by an urgent need to survive.

He ran.

He did not look back at the enemies he left behind. He continued running, making use of his blades only if he had no other choice. Many of the Hollows he was escaping from tried to follow him, but they were slow and clumsy creatures.

The few that managed to keep up with Lautrec had their heads severed from their shoulders.

To him, his escape was little more than a blurry vision. It was as if his mind had become disconnected from his body and dull to its surroundings. At first, Lautrec tried to convince himself that his numbness was the result of his exhaustion and stress.

Like always, he failed to believe his own lies.

He couldn’t think of anything else. He continued pondering on his weakness long after he was safe again, inside the confines of an abandoned church.

How he had gotten there was only a hazy memory, as was his fight with the Hollow knights that lay dead at his feet.

His ring finger itched as if maggots were devouring it whole.

“See, my knight?” Fina told him. She caressed his chin, tracing a soft line along the bone of his jaw. “See how effective and lethal you are when properly motivated? Be thankful, Lautrec... for it is I who gave you the strength you needed to overcome your weakness. Go on, say it. Say that you are grateful to me for unleashing your best self.”

Fina rested her other hand on his chest, right above his heart.

“Say that you are grateful to me for being the only reason you are still alive.”

Lautrec’s mouth was bitter and parched. For the first time since he had become his loyal knight, he wished Fina would keep quiet and go away, if only for a moment.

All that Lautrec wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, but he was a knight of Carim. His time was not his to employ as he wished, it belonged only to his lady.

“I’m grateful.”

“Grateful for what?”

Lautrec clenched his jaw; he almost committed the offense of pulling away from Fina’s touch.

“I’m grateful to you for unleashing my best self.”

Then, he felt it. He felt how Fina tried to pierce through the barriers of his mind.

Lautrec strengthened his walls and hugged the arms of his cuirass.

“I’m grateful to you for being the only reason I’m still alive.”

“Oh, my Lautrec.” Fina kissed him in the cheek. The softness of her ethereal lips was followed by the sharpness of her voice. “If only I could believe you.”

Beads of cold sweat formed in Lautrec’s forehead. He didn’t know what scared him most, Fina’s anger or how easily she had seen through his façade.

He remained trapped together with his goddess in a cold uncertainty that felt eternal.

“You’ve got nothing to fear, my knight.” Fina said, “As long as do as I tell you, you won’t be giving me reasons to forsake you. As long as you forget about that ridiculous knightly pride of yours, killing that fire keeper will feel as natural as the beating of your heart. The act will be quick, peaceful and pleasant. She will be grateful to you for freeing her from her cursed fate. She will enjoy it, and so will you, if you just let go of your past and embrace your present.”

Lautrec’s lips quivered.

“You are Undead.” Fina continued, brushing away the only tear that escaped from his eyes. “You’ve got no lady to satisfy other than me. The teachings of your homeland have no meaning in Lordran. I am your everything; you are my knight.”

“I am.” Lautrec muttered. He was overwhelmed. Not even the darkest piece of Humanity could have granted him as much peace and comfort as Fina did.

“Then prove it to me now.” Fina’s tone changed. It remained gentle, but now her words sounded like orders. “Over there, at the altar. Do you see it?”

He did.

There it was, at the other side of the church, carved in stone and untouched by time. Behind it, he could see the statue of a woman.

“Not just any woman.” Fina corrected him with a scoff. “It’s me. Approach it, my knight.”

Lautrec obeyed. He felt like almost like a child.

The silly excitement he felt slowly vanished the closer the got to the altar, and it disappeared completely the moment his eyes understood what the strange figure laying on the altar’s surface really was.

Lautrec was used to the sight of corpses. He had been familiar with death since the time when he had been too young to become a page.

However, as unfazed as he remained by the decrepit state of the corpse before him, Lautrec trembled at the sight of the glowing orb floating just above the body’s chest.

“What a shame.” Fina said, “I would have preferred her to be alive so you could kill her, but it seems someone else already did the deed for you. You must be rather disappointed.”

“But I thought,” Lautrec swallowed before he could continue, “I thought the fire keeper would be at Firelink Shrine, locked for all eternity inside a cave, just like you told me.”

“Don’t be stupid, my knight. This fire keeper is not the same you will murder. This must be the tribute some deluded fool left here for me in a desperate attempt to earn my favor. Whoever he may be, the only thing he’s gained is my disdain. Does he honestly believe I would accept the offerings and advances of every man that comes by, as if I were a common strumpet? The gall! Does he not know that Fina handpicks her knights and followers? Does he note care? Such offense will not go unpunished! If he ever dares to come back, you will fight him, and you will kill him.”

“I will.” Lautrec promised, wishing that the offender would return and give him an excuse to step away from the altar, but no one came.

“Regardless,” Fina continued once the worst of her flaring temper had passed, “it would be a waste to refuse this soul. I will not accept the offering of a stranger, but if my knight was to offer it to me instead, everything would be different.”

There was no need for Fina to instruct him further.

Somehow, Lautrec managed to lift his arms. They felt heavy, as if they were made of stone. It took as much effort to get them closer to the corpse as keeping the barriers of his mind up did.

Yet, he could Fina trying to tear down his defenses and reach the deepest part of his mind. She wanted to see it.

She wanted to make sure that his heart was free of all regret and doubt.

Why shouldn’t it be?

Lautrec was staggered by the question as he asked it to himself.

To kill a fire keeper was the greatest sin a Carim knight could ever commit. It was an unforgiveable offense, a taint on his soul not even death could remove.

But he was not responsible for the death of this fire keeper. He had not taken her life; he had only found her rotting corpse on his goddess’ altar.

He had done nothing wrong.

He was following his lady’s commands.

So truly, he was fulfilling his duty as her knight.

He was just—

“Take it.” Fina said in his ear. It wasn’t until then that Lautrec realized his hands had remained stuck in the same position for a while. His armored fingers were so close to the fire keeper’s soul that its gentle warmth could be felt through his gauntlets. “Do it.”

“I will.” Lautrec smiled. His pulse throbbed intensely in his temples. “I am yours, remember? I love you, Fina.”

“Shut up and take it!”

That he would.

His rebellious hands had just started to listen to his commands when the blade of a rapier emerged from his chest. His blood covered the weapon, concealing the silver of the metal underneath a crimson layer.

Lautrec let out a soft gasp. It was the only sound his pierced lung could muster.

Fina did scream on his mind; more than a mournful lament, her cry resembled a roar. She cursed the stranger for spilling the blood of her servant.

She damned him for damaging that which belonged to her.

The stranger, if he could hear her, ignored the goddess with sinful indifference. Instead, he focused all his attention on Lautrec.

The stranger warped an arm around Lautrec’s neck and pulled him closer to him, further impaling him with the blade of the rapier. The weapon cut through the plates of Lautrec’s armor as easily as it cut through his flesh and bones.

“I witnessed your sin.” The stranger said as he rested his chin on Lautrec’s shoulder. “And it shall not go unpunished.”

“Kill him! Don’t you dare die without putting up a fight!” Fina exclaimed. Her voice resonated so loudly in his ears that Lautrec was surprised they didn’t start to bleed. “Kill this bastard, you useless coward! What kind of man are you? Are you even a real knight? Don’t you dare die, Lautrec. I will never forgive you if you fail me this way. If you die, I will forsake you and leave you to rot in this cursed land. I have no need nor use for weak men.”

The stranger removed the rapier from Lautrec’s body. His movements were quick, but they were not gentle.

Lautrec swallowed his pain and blood and tried to turn around. He would do as Fina said. He would not die in such a shameful way.

If a knight of Carim was meant to die, he had to meet death in the heat of battle. To perish under any other circumstances was the greatest humiliation imaginable.

“My lady,” Lautrec stuttered as he tightened his grip on his swords.

Just when he was turning on his heels, the stranger grabbed him by his helmet and violently pulled him down to the floor.

He then grabbed Lautrec’s arm and pulled it behind his back until he let go the sword. The stranger kept pulling, almost snapping Lautrec’s arm from his shoulder.

“Useless.” Fina spat at Lautrec. Her voice was venom, and it spread across his soul like a blight. “Absolutely useless. What a pitiable excuse for a man, what a mockery of a knight you turned out to be.”

The stranger said something. His voice overlapped with Fina’s.

Lautrec tried to reach out for his goddess, but he had already sunk too deep into the darkness of death. His life was leaking away from him, taking with it all of his thoughts and his strength.

Soon, all that remained inside him was exhaustion and the phantom of his own despair.

Lautrec heard a distant, chilling laughter.

It was the last thing he perceived before death claimed him.

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

He got no response from the knight.

Oswald waited, but it was in vain.

He knew the knight was awake and could hear him. Oswald had defeated him; then, he had healed his injuries by forcingly feeding him Estus.

Sinners like the knight did not deserve to be granted the peacefulness of death so easily. Death, contrary to what most people believed, was not a punishment or a sentence. To those with a clean conscience and an unburdened heart, death was a well-deserved rest.

Yet, even if the knight had not sinned, to let him die would be an unnecessary waste of time. He was Undead, and for all Undead, death no longer had the same meaning than for those who remained free from the curse.

“You should have taken your own life the moment you lost your lady. That’s what was expected from you, or are you not a true knight of Carim?”

Oswald said. The knight refused to acknowledge him, but Oswald did not care.

“That fact you still exist when you’ve got no lady to protect is a sin in itself. How unfortunate that the Undead curse prevents you from fulfilling this last duty... or perhaps luck has nothing to do with this matter, and you sought a way to curse yourself in a pathetic attempt to preserve your life?”

Oswald listened as the echo of his own laughter spread across the church. The knight of the golden armor, however, remained quiet and indifferent.

He had his chin glued to his chest. His hands were caressing the golden arms of his cuirass.

So, he was one of them.

Oswald’s smile almost hesitated, but he had long learned that to pour any amount of pity into those lost, deluded men was useless.

It was seldom that they broke free from their delusions, and most of them never tried at all. They became drunk on the promises of eternal love of the vainest of goddesses.

They willingly fell for her empty words.

Fina’s power over them was only as strong as the power of their own wills.

It was no wonder she always picked the most broken and feeble of knights.

“Your failure to keep your former lady alive, whoever she was, is an unforgivable sin.” Oswald said. He took a step back from the cell. He joined his hands behind his back. “But that’s not the reason I am punishing you. Whatever sins and mistakes your committed back in Carim are none of my concern, but those you commit her in Lordran are my domain. And I saw what you did, so don’t even try to deny it. At this point, accepting your fault is the least you could do to salvage what little honor remains in your rotten heart.”

The knight did react to this. He lifted his head and looked at Oswald.

Oswald couldn’t see his eyes, hidden behind his golden helmet as they were, but he could almost feel the ice-cold glare of the knight.

“I did not kill her.” He said.

There was anger in his voice, but also a deep emptiness. He would go Hollow soon.

Oswald smiled.

“Perhaps you didn’t.” He conceded. “I have no proof, so I cannot thrust the weight of this sin upon you; but I saw what you did. I saw how you tried to take her soul for yourself.”

Oswald expected the knight to say something in return. He was prepared to counter his excuses and tear apart his arguments, but the knight said nothing.

His silence was all Oswald needed to know he had condemned a guilty, dangerous man.

“If you were willing to commit such a vile act, what will stop you from killing a fire keeper yourself the next chance you get? Certainly not your conscience, even less your pride as a knight. That’s why you shall never leave this cell. You will remain here until you go Hollow.”

Oswald gave one last look to the disgraced knight before turning his back on him.

“And then I will kill you. But remember this, knight, your death is not your punishment.”

He told him as he walked toward the stairs that led to the church’s roof.

“It is merely the fate you chose for yourself.”

Oswald laughed again.

He didn’t so out of mockery or cruelty, but out of amusement.

Oh, Fina’s so-called devoted followers.

They would have been pitiable if they weren’t so pathetic in the first place.

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

Fina had forsaken him.

The bitter solitude of her absence had almost driven Lautrec to his Hollowing, just like the death of his first lady had come close to sink him into madness.

But he had endured, though not because he was strong.

If he had been allowed to keep his sanity after losing everything, it was because he had never lost his faith.

Faith that he could make amends and regain the love of his goddess.

A faith that became invigorated after some poor idiot freed him for his cell.

A faith that was about to be cemented now that the second bell had tolled.

It was time.

He had delayed the act long enough.

It will be quick.

Lautrec thought as he grabbed the fire keeper by the neck through the barriers of her cell. She showed no emotion in her blue Astoran eyes.

It is peaceful.

Her stoic semblance not once faltered, not even as Lautrec slit her belly with a long slash of his curved sword.

It was pleasant.

Lautrec did not trust this last thought, but when his eyes meet with the agonizing and defying stare of the moribund fire keeper, he could see a glimmer of happiness in her.

It was then Lautrec knew that Fina had been right all along.

The gaze the fire keeper was giving him was not one of hatred or resentment, but of gratefulness. In the last moments of her miserable life, she was thanking him in silence.

She was grateful to him for freeing her from her everlasting torment.

She was enjoying the moment just as much as Lautrec was.

“You are welcome.”

Lautrec told the fire keeper before letting go of her fading corpse. He forgot about her as soon as her neck left his hand.

In his other hand, floating above his blood-soaked palm, there was her soul.

I did it, Fina. Can you see me?

Lautrec held the essence close to his chest. His mind, devoid of all barriers now that he had freed himself from his past fears and insecurities, was touched by the soft whisper of a goddess only he could hear.

“I do.”

Fina answered. For the first time since his defeat at the hands of the pardoner, Lautrec felt safe in the tender embrace of his one and only lady.

“My knight.”

Lautrec smiled.

He felt whole.

@pan-de-torao

@dbzespio

Lautrec leaned heavily on his knees, gazing deeply into the bonfire and its dancing flames. He sighed softly as his wounds began to heal up, and the strength returned to his body.

Yes, this bonfire had served him well. But now, he felt it was time to move on.

His posture still stooped forward, he turned his eyes upward to behold the firekeeper.

Much like his, her helm hid her face from view, and so he could not tell where exactly her gaze was directed. She was rested against the wall, her body still with a certain poise, one that indicated she was not one to be trifled with. She could hop out of that position and into a battle stance at once, and all with the ease of a well-trained warrior; he could tell.

He rose to his feet with a slight grunt of effort.

No, it would not be worth the trouble. He already had one prize; he didn’t need more.

Those damned archers…

Lautrec nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of a new bonfire. He practically dragged himself to sit before it, finally allowing his gaping wounds to heal once again.

“Oh! There you are!”

Lautrec startled, snapping his head towards the voice.

But it was only a fellow knight, seated there on the floor nearby, just far enough to still be warmed by the flames. The crest on his chest held no significance; the fool had likely painted it on himself in a fit of self-grandeur, or perhaps, sheer lunacy. He also appeared to be adorned with a feather or two and... was that grass? A lunatic indeed.

Lautrec faintly recognized him; he had likely summoned the fool to assist him in battle at one point or another. He merely grunted a sort of half-acknowledgement of the knight’s words and returned his gaze to the bonfire.

The knight politely waited a few moments before speaking again. He leaned forward slightly, his voice friendly. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Smooth summoning out there?”

Lautrec slowly turned to face him again, wishing that his glower could melt through his helm.

“Anytime you see my brilliantly shining signature, do not hesitate to call upon me,” the knight continued. “I must say: you’ve left me with quite an impression. I would relish a chance to assist you.”

Was that fondness in his voice? Truly a fool, this man was.

Despite this, a modicum of camaraderie swelled a little within Lautrec’s chest. Fool though he was, this man was still an undead knight, trapped within this godsforsaken realm, no doubt charged with a quest similar to his own. He felt he owed the knight a warning, at the very least.

“Our futures are murky,” he finally told him, turning back to the fire. “Let’s not be too friendly now.”

“Nonsense,” the man proclaimed, the feather atop his helm swaying in place as he fervently shook his head. “You and I are bound together in not one, but two bouts of jolly cooperation!

“Whatever your quest, my good knight,” he continued, his fist held up in a firm resolve, “I feel certain you will see it through.”

“I already have.” Lautrec rose and readied himself to leave. “Now it is nothing more than a simple matter of delivery.”

Breathing heavily, Lautrec willed himself forward before collapsing before the fire.

That was too close.

His eyes darted around wildly before settling upon the summon signs around him.

So there it was. His answer to the ever-constant invasions…

Lautrec and his posse had just cleared the hall when yet another invader formed before them. She was but a simple cleric, but her eyes smoldered with barely suppressed rage as she rose from the haze upon ground.

“Oh, look! Another one,” Lautrec sneered, waving the others to attention. “How many times must these lambs rush to slaughter? Ah well… Let’s get it over with!”

Lautrec charged forward, his summoned warrior following in his wake. Just behind them, his sage readied his wand.

The cleric immediately raised her shield, a flimsy thing, really, and certainly no match for his blades. It managed to reduce the impact of the sage’s magic bolts, but now, Lautrec was right before her. He reared back before striking her a solid blow, his curved shotel easily reaching around her paltry shield. The shield blocked his comrade’s spear, but the woman now looked rather breathless.

“‘Tis a terrible pity,” Lautrec mused, trading his left shotel for a knife as he watched the invading cleric scramble to return her shield to her back. “Like a... moth, flittering towards a flame.

“You fellows… No? Don’t you agree?” He turned back towards his sage and briefly extended his arm towards his warrior, allowing the cleric a moment to ready herself for an attack of her own.

As if she’d stand a chance.

He chuckled darkly, watching as she lifted her talisman. She cast Force, which sent the spearman to the ground and the sage’s next magical projectile soaring back to strike him in the face.

Lautrec himself stumbled before recklessly charging her again. If his companions weren’t able to strike her, it appeared he’d have to finish the job himself.

She rolled away when he slashed at her with his shotel before charging at him with a knife that he hadn’t noticed she had been holding. He caught it with his own, slashing at her again with his free arm.

Vulnerable as she was, and with no armor to boot, the cleric staggered from the devastating blow. Lautrec kicked her away, laughing callously yet again. The sage’s magical bolts peppered her several times as she struggled to recover. In the meantime, Lautrec traded his parrying knife for his second shotel, all the while watching her intently.

Finally she knelt with talisman in hand. He recognized the gesture immediately as one of self-healing. “Oh no, you don’t…”

With that said, he lashed out with dual strikes and chuckled as her form disintegrated into smoky mists. He helped himself to the humanities and souls she left behind before turning back to his entourage. “Well, well. I thought you were wiser… but I thought wrong.”

His summoned warrior lunged at her now formless remains with his spear. Poor fellow was a bit slow to grasp the reality of the situation. Finally he recognized she was gone and returned to Lautrec’s side.

“Well, that was rather simple,” he scoffed and scanned the area. He beheld a glowing summon sign near the stairwell and went to examine it further.

Ah, if it wasn’t the fool himself.

Lautrec recalled the spearman, and summoned the warrior of sunlight. He arose with his arms in the air in a sun salute before facing Lautrec with a nod. Thankfully, he didn’t talk as much while in a summoned state.

Lautrec led them down the hall and pushed open the giant, double doors. He would have thought the room beyond empty, until he finally took note of a giant, stocky figure at the other end of the area. For a moment, they were so still Lautrec wasn’t quite certain whether they were human or statue. Either way, they wielded a hammer, nearly as large as themself.

Before Lautrec or the others could move in to have a closer look, another figure slowly and gracefully made their way to one of the balconies above. A single hand rested gently upon the railing as the knight, clad in incredibly intricate armor, gazed down at all of them. Within moments, the knight leapt down to stand before them, poised for battle.

The one wielding a hammer hefted it upon his shoulder, moving the giant weapon with such an ease that it looked as if it were made of feathers. So then apparently this ‘statue’ could move after all.

Lautrec faintly recognized the pair of warriors; felt certain that he had found their likenesses etched in marble somewhere within the city of Anor Londo. But it hardly mattered; if they stood in his path, they would be eliminated, all for the glory of the goddess.

The knight charged forward, his spear at the ready. Lautrec raced to meet him, easily moving off to the side to avoid the incoming spear. However gifted he may be, this spearman was no different from all others; he favored his right. All Lautrec needed to do was be careful to avoid that side and attack from the left, whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Meanwhile, Solaire focused his efforts on the giant. He would avoid the swing of his hammer with well-timed rolls and slash away with his sword while the giant struggled to reorient himself. He’d have to sprint away whenever his opponent decided to charge him, his hammer practically transformed into a whirlwind. And once his back was turned, Solaire would toss over a few lightning bolts in response.

Meanwhile, Lautrec’s summoned sage would hurl magic bolts at the giant. He was a large, and therefore, easy target, after all. And with both Lautrec and Solaire keeping their opponents busy, the sage didn’t have much to worry about, so long as he kept himself far from the fray.

Before long, the giant man crumpled to the ground and took his last breath. Ornstein leaped away from Lautrec to stand at his side. He rested a hand against his fallen comrade’s body with a clearly remorseful weight to the action, despite how simple it was.

But that simple gesture granted the knight a sudden surge in power. His very size surged until he grew to twice his height and weight. His spear sizzled with electricity as he held it aloft, reinvigorated to fight anew.

“By the goddess!” Lautrec exclaimed as the spearman lunged at him. He rushed away; this time, it was much more difficult to avoid the weapon, given it too had increased in size.

Solaire took the moment to lob a spear of lightning at the dragonslayer. However, it hardly had any effect.

The sage had prepared a more powerful spell, and this time, several magical bolts struck Ornstein at once. He momentarily flinched before rushing forward to attack the sage.

Lautrec and Solaire used the opportunity to move in close, slashing away at Ornstein’s legs. In response, the knight readied a lighting strike, charging up his spear with crackling electricity. Lautrec just barely managed to avoid being impaled, but his body shuddered as the remnants of lightning burned at his skin. He rolled away and yanked up his helm to chug a flask of Estus.

Meanwhile, Ornstein leapt high into the air, his body practically shining with excess electricity. Both Solaire and Lautrec were knocked off their feet as the dragonslayer crashed back down to the ground, sparks flying nearly everywhere. Even the sage, far from the action, staggered from the impact.

Lautrec frantically rolled until he was far away, ripping back his helm to down not one, but two flasks of Estus. This wasn’t going to be an easy battle.

But once he had his fill of Estus, he clenched his fists tightly around his shotels. He would not falter. For, after all, he had the favor of the goddess.

In the meantime, Solaire hurried to his feet and rushed in to attack Ornstein’s legs once again, determined to give Lautrec the time he needed to recover. He narrowly avoided another lunge; his body involuntarily shuddering from the excess electricity. How he longed to drink but a drop of Estus… But he had no time for that.

Meanwhile the sage had quickly gathered his wits and hurled magical bolts at the dragonslayer. He was too distracted with Solaire to fight back, so the mage continued his assault without interruption.

Reinvigorated, Lautrec moved in to assist Solaire. Together the two kept slashing away at Ornstein’s feet, all while avoiding his near-constant barrage of lightning laden lunges. Ornstein was just about to recharge his spear when the sage dealt him one blow too many, and the mighty dragonslayer finally fell.

Muscles buzzing with excess energy and skin burning from electrical buildup, Lautrec heaved hungry breaths of air as he watched the knight succumb to darkness. A glittering light was left behind, along with several other treasures.

But before he could go to retrieve them, the foolish knight hurried to stand before him. He jovially clapped Lautrec’s shoulder until he finally lifted his helm to look him in the face.

“A truly excellent bout of jolly cooperation, my good friend!” Solaire declared, no doubt a hearty grin beneath that helm. “Here; please take this!”

Lautrec already knew what the man was about to give him, and he didn’t want it.

Regardless, Solaire found his hand and pressed a warm medal into it. Lautrec could feel the warmth even though the thickness of his armor; the object was indeed strange. But he refused to close his fingers, so the medal eventually fell to the ground once the golden sunlight warrior finally vanished into thin air. Lautrec didn’t bother to give the thing even the slightest of second glances. He simply didn’t need it.

Instead he moved in to receive his prizes. A gluttony of souls, along with Ornstein’s own, and a ring, a lion engraved upon it. He doubted he would find much use for it. Regardless, he tucked it away along with the rest.

He wandered about the area for a while before coming upon a moving platform. He took it to find access to the balconies above, and to his great relief, a bonfire laid in wait. He took a rest there, allowing his wounds and aching body to heal.

Soon enough, he rose to his feet and made his way to the double doors before him. What laid behind them took his breath away.

There, her beautiful body draped across a plush chaise, laid the goddess Fina. The room was warm; soft light that emanated from the goddess herself wrapped the area in a gentle glow.

“Fina…” Lautrec breathed, immediately dropping down to one knee.

Fina smiled and extended a gentle hand towards him. “Thou hast journey’d far, and overcome much, chosen Undead. Come hither, child…”

Lautrec blinked. ‘Chosen undead?’ ‘Child?’

Did she not see him?

He cleared his throat. “Fina, my beloved… It is I, Lautrec the Embraced. And I have for you a gift...” He procured the firekeeper’s soul and held it aloft.

She beckoned to him again. “Come hither…”

“As you wish…” Lautrec humbly rose, moved to stand just before her, and knelt down, all while holding out his treasure for her to take.

“O chosen Undead,” she continued, her voice soft. “I am Gwynevere. Daughter of Lord Gwyn; and Queen of Sunlight…”

She had more to say, but Lautrec immediately stopped listening. Rage boiled up within his gut and spread throughout his body as he clenched his teeth.

The blasphemous wench! How dare she pose as the everlasting goddess!

Snarling, Lautrec ripped his shotel from its sheath and slashed the imposter, causing the unsuspecting woman to scream out. But his steel did not taste flesh; rather, he tore through naught but haze.

The woman was but a mirage. A trick of his mind.

Just as suddenly as the woman disappeared, the room went dark. It was cold here.

Lautrec looked about wildly, but he was alone, left with nothing but a soft, almost fading light from the firekeeper’s soul. He dropped his shotel, and it clattered to the ground, louder than ever now.

Was Fina… testing him?

He clenched his fist. No, it was that woman’s fault. She was a charlatan, a fake. Nothing was worse than impersonating a goddess. And it wasn’t as if he had ever seen a being as wondrous as the goddess herself in person before. How could he have known?

Yes... yes. He was not to blame here. No, not at all.

In that moment, the silence was broken.

I witnessed your sin, and it shall not go unpunished.

Lautrec froze. Too afraid to turn and face the voice.

Thou shalt perish in the twilight of Anor Londo.

No, this wasn’t happening. Everything he had done… it was all for Fina.

He couldn’t have…

Slight footsteps from behind compelled him to whirl around. A blue phantom stood within the doorway; she was dressed in light armor, not unlike the painting guardians he had encountered shortly after he had entered Anor Londo. And just like those warriors, she was wielding two short blades.

He would have bent to retrieve his shotel, but his limbs felt heavy, worn. And before his mind could have the opportunity to overpower his fading will, the warrior rushed forward, her blade plunging into his abdomen. She twisted the weapon, and he shuddered, the pain overtaking all of his senses. She kicked him to remove her blade, and his body easily crumpled to the ground.

He laid there in agony, coughing up blood and wondering why she hadn’t yet finished him off. Once he finally opened his eyes, he saw her, tenderly holding the firekeeper’s soul. He must have dropped it at some point, or maybe she had taken it from his hand; he could hardly tell, much less remember, at this point. All he knew was that it was ill-gotten. That he had soiled Fina’s good name in taking it.

Before long, his helm was roughly ripped off of him. “This is for Anastacia of Astora,” the warrior stated, her voice cold.

With that said, she lopped off his ear. “The Dark Sun will be pleased.” Her voice was soft now, devoid of the malice with which she spoke earlier.

He watched her ready a black separation crystal. “You will not kill me?” he finally managed to ask.

“Killing you would only end your suffering.” She stepped on the wound in his gut and pressed down, forcing him to cry out yet again. “And my wish for you is to wallow in it.”

She finally backed away and activated her crystal, returning to her realm awash in shining light.

Lautrec, bloodied and broken, finally mustered the strength to drag himself out of the room and towards the bonfire beyond.

But it was not lit.

He coughed again, blood spattering across the marbled floor. His vision blurred; the blood loss certainly wasn’t helping matters.

He crawled onwards, knowing full well he was too far gone to reach another bonfire. But he knew he must try. For Fina’s sake.

Fina…

He had failed her.

No…! He would never…!

His fingers trembled as he continued to drag himself forward. Onwards.

Everything, yes, everything he had done, all of it was for Fina. For her glory. For his honor. For their love.

But…

Lautrec faltered and hissed. The pain was too great.

Fina was a magnificent, benevolent goddess. Death in her name would only serve to sully her beauty, her magnanimity. She would never allow it.

But the prize.

The endless souls… They would preserve her beauty forever; grant her with eternal youth.

Lautrec’s fingers hit into a wall. He could barely see straight; his body felt cold. He wasn’t certain how much longer he would last.

He pulled himself into a seated position, his back against the wall. He breathed deeply, as best as his tired lungs would allow.

The ends do not justify the means.

He had failed his goddess, his love, by dishonoring her name. She would never accept any gifts, any love from a man drenched in sin. He knew this now.

He would perish within the twilight of Anor Londo.

As his goddess ordained.

@lefrustemangaka

@taroris

Silence always followed death. It was mandatory, as only death could rip things from this world with such coldness and leave a grieving void where the poor soul exhaled its last breath. Once the Shrine’s fire faded, not even the breeze dared to break the deathly quietness.

It took a while for Anastacia’s grasp around the metal rod to vanish; her delicate face contracted in a somewhat painful expression yet with relief under her lifeless blue eyes. Blue eyes which also stared at Lautrec with reproach; reproach because it wasn’t yet her time to leave, because she was supposed to die after fulfilling her role as Firekeeper, not in the hands of a knight who kept her company day after day until turning his blade against her.

With a swift measured move of hand, Lautrec cleaned the blood from his shotel. It was splattered on the floor in front of the rusty cell, which seemed to have been built in a rush by non-expert hands. Her frame paled in the light, not even a murmur was produced by the vanishment process. Then, the delicate soul of Anastacia jingled where her place has been for, perhaps, an eternity; tiny humanities dancing around the pure white light, happy, unbothered by the grim turn of events.

Lautrec picked them up and gave a look at the light and the darkness. Both antagonists floated pleasantly in his hand; darkness around light, light around darkness. The tendrils of Anastacia’s soul seemed to caress the humanities, as a mother would do to their kids. The humanities seemed to love the attention as they appeared to jump and shake their small bodies pleased. The somewhat peace these poor vestiges of a past life enjoyed was finally disrupted, for the image of the very safety and home meant nothing to Lautrec, whose real home was in the arms of a Goddess and the safety was only reached after the brief moments of offering the humanities he separated from Anastacia and placed inside his travel bag.

The Firekeepers' soul seemed to shiver when the mourning was over and the wind blew in the shrine, caressing its tendrils and letting it know of the newfound loneliness.

Truth be told, the reaction of the white soul was rather peculiar. With a tilt of his head, Lautrec observed how it reacted to its surroundings. How it seemed to know somehow that something was off. Maybe the pureness of the Firekeepers’ souls was the one to blame; souls remaining safe of the hunger that leads most Undeads, unbothered by the filthiness of the world that has no room for these same souls unless entrusted with the task to tend fire.

Lautrec scoffed. He was no innocent human, that was as true as the sky was blue. On top of that, he was hungry; hungry to please her Lady, hungry to give her everything she wished for. Staring at the soul wouldn’t do him any good. Then, almost in a whisper, a kind voice spoke to him. It spoke to him about time, about love, about forgiveness. For Lautrec, there was only one thing more absolute than death, and that was her Goddess’s words. He knew what he had to do next: complete his duty in the so-called city of Gods, but which was no home for his Lady. At least, not anymore.

The knight left the Shire, wherein the few beings remaining there barely noticed his leave. He, then, resumed his travel; going through the cathedral, through the burg, through the fortress made to break one’s soul but merely scratched his for the loving voice gave him the strength needed to prevail and move forward. It was such the faith in his Lady’s words that he even travelled through air (carried by nasty ugly demons) to arrive at his destination.

With utmost care, Lautrec inspectioned the place until finding the bonfire and, with the bonfire, the Firekeeper. He felt the arms around his torso hug him even in a more affectionate way, and the joy which washed over his body was almost overwhelming. Yet, he shouldn’t be carried away by those feelings, or he could end up imprisoned again, when the end of his task was within the reach of his fingertips.

When the Firekepeer spoke, Anastacia’s Soul shaked faintly in his travel bag.

“Mmh… You are a rare visitor,” she said once he walked down the stairs. In her voice, there was a hit of something Lautrec couldn’t place right away. “Welcome to the lost city of Anor Londo. If you seek Lord Gwyn’s old keep, exit here and head straight yonder. If you-”

“I will, for now, allow myself to take a rest,” Lautrec interrupted her.

It had been quite a while since he had been around a talkative Firekeeper. Instead, he had grown so comfortable with the silence around Anastacia that he had forgotten how annoying these women can be sometimes; with their gibberish and duties.

“Very well. After all, that is what the bonfire is for,” she muttered, with annoyance and that something which was still difficult to place in her voice.

Lautrec sat down near the fire. His tired legs sighed with the brief break they were given while his hands quickling unfastened the travel bag around his waist.

The moment to observe her came when he pretended to take care of his equipment, of his shotels and armour. It stood out that Firekeeper was nothing like the previous ones he had encountered before; all delicate ladies, sometimes blinded, sometimes too oblivious of the world around her. This woman, instead, looked like a warrior, and it was not because of the pretentious armour befitting of an even more pretentious place like Anor Londo. No. It was because of the aura around her, of the way she folded her arms, the posture she kept against the wall, the way tried to appear like she was self-absorbed but her eyes felt like daggers poking his skin.

It finally clicked. That something hard to place in her voice: mistrust. This woman was, by all means, different from the previous Firekeepers who always thought he was a well-meaning knight searching for their help and fire. This woman was dangerous, because mistrust made you be aware of dangers, of betrayal, and made offering harder. Lautred needed to find help, and by help it meant cannon fodder. For that reason he got up and announced it was time to continue his journey. The knight, then, adventured himself even further in the city, further into the high building.

His shotel cut through multiple enemies dressed in white clothes and who threw daggers. He got no reward from it and the voice whispering kind words suddenly started to rush him to go back to the Firekeeper’s place. Oh, how much he wished to speak with his Lady at that moment, to hold her delicate hands and promise her that she would have the world if only she gave him a moment to do what had to be done to cut the Firekeeper’s throat.

His steps lead him to a cathedral, wide, open, and filled with multiple enemies. Even if it cost him some estus, Lautrec prevailed and the colossals figures and Silver Knights ended up falling to his blade. When inside there was no more than silence (a silence aware of the knight’s intentions and which followed him as it followed death), Lautrec started to search for marks. For marks of unwaries who would have no other choice but to help him fulfill his role; perhaps serving as bait.

It didn’t take him long to come across a well-known yellow sign. Holding back a scoff turned out to be impossible for a solid second, as there was no point in summoning that crazy fool. Lautrec kept searching, avoiding the signs of Warriors of Sunlight as if they were infected with the plague. Then, finally, after walking up and down the hallway, he located it: two white summoning signs. A sorcerer and a spearman. That would serve him well. Lautrec touched the first white light, with black letters signaling a name that he couldn’t care less, before touching the second one. Two men appeared in front of him and spoke words of greeting, too cheerfully for his liking. He barely muttered some words to content them for there were more pressing matters to attend.

After the pointless greeting was over, the three of them walked to the entry, to the closed massive doors. With a sigh, Lautrec started to look for the mechanism to open them, locating a giant lever attached to some big gears.

Upon touching the handle, though, he felt it. The soft rumbling of worlds clashing together. His furrow deepened under his helmet and walked back to his comrades who were looking at their surroundings. Lautrec didn’t feel like playing the mouse and cat game at that moment, so, when the other two men looked at him wondering about his plan, he simply ordered them to wait until the dark phantom appeared.

And the phantom did so. After a closer look at the armour, an amused hum left his lips. The Chosen Undead straightened their back and when their gaze fell on the knight and his cannon fodder, they stormed towards them, sword raised in wrath. The same wrath that filled their voice when they spoke.

“Lautred, you bastard! How dare you kill her?! How dare you kill Anastacia?!”

The knight waited (hearing reassuring words of his Lady that ensured him the victory) for the Chosen Undead to run towards them and for his summonings to defend him, as it was a mandatory rule between the fool Undeads.

“Well, look at you,” he began, dragging out his shotel. “I thought you were wiser, but I thought wrong!”

@thefatladysang

#dark souls #lautrec of carim #fanart #fanfiction #soulsborne chain game #dark souls chain 2 #lautrec chain

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more-stuff-of-pi · 4 years

Text

Believe Because He is Good

a/n: I’ve been thinking of writing something like this and I read these beauties by @volleychumps and was inspired to just write out what was in my head. This is very much a self-comfort fic regarding my personal experience, ofc featuring my og hq mans :)

notes: y/e/n = your ex’s name. requests are open :) find my masterlist here

pairing: sawamura daichi x fem!reader | genre: angst (w/happy ending) | warnings: asshole exes, implied past abuse (emotional, manipulation, slight physical), implied panic/anxiety attack | word count: 2,395

Balls were bouncing off the court, slapping the wood as Karasuno wound down, practicing serves. Even Noya tried his hand at serving, the ball smacking into the net. Tanaka laughed at Noya, ceasing when a volleyball knocked into his head. The culprit, Hinata, squeaked as Tanaka scrambled after him, Noya roaring with laughter all the while, gripping Asahi’s arm as he in turn knitted his brows together. Tsukishima rolled his eyes as Yamaguchi hid a giggle behind a hand.

Despite the chaos of Karasuno, an immense feeling of pure joy washed over you as you stood in the doorway of the gym. Nothing felt quite like seeing the team together. Their bond and their energy always lifted your spirits. And, of course, the handsome captain was the cherry on top.

“Great work today, guys!” Daichi called out to his team, signalling that practice was well over. They started to casually saunter over, Suga coming to take his place as vice next to his captain. “We’ve got a practice -- Nishinoya, Tanaka, shut it -- we’ve got a practice match next week, so I wanna see you all working hard to be ready. Shimizu and Yachi left early to run some errands for Sensei, so please do your best in cleaning up. Alright, get to it!” Daichi clapped, releasing the group to their chores.

As the group dwindled, you watched as Suga tapped Daichi’s arm and jutted his head in your direction. Confused, Daichi glanced towards you and instantly his face melted from slight exhaustion into absolute adoration. He bid goodbye to Suga who clapped him on the back with a mischievous grin in return, causing Daichi to cough.

You giggled, waving to Suga whose grin widened as he threw a peace sign up before turning to do his part in cleaning up. Daichi joined you at your place by the door, lightly touching a hand to your hip, leaning down to peck your lips in greeting.

“Hi, Y/n,” he welcomed warmly as he smoothly laced your hands together as if it were second nature.

“Hi yourself,” you replied. “Shimizu told me you’d need some help cleaning today.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Still, you didn’t have to come.”

“No,” you agreed, entertaining a wicked grin, “but I heard the captain of this team was really hot so I just had to come see for myself.”

Daichi grinned at your teasing. “Well, you should see the captain’s girlfriend. I heard that she’s a real looker.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, leaning in for another kiss which Daichi gladly gave. “So what can I help you with, Mr. Team Captain? Because with these boys you will most certainly need it.”

Daichi huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re telling me.” He looked around, scanning the gym for a task you could take up. “Ah! You could take care of the water bottles, if you wouldn't mind.”

“Just dump them out, yeah?” Daichi nodded. “Seems simple enough. I’ll go do that and then when we’re done here we could go out for meat buns, maybe.”

“You struck another craving, haven’t you?”

“Your treat!” you teased in answer, snatching up the carton of bottles and escaping from the gym before Daichi could reply. Stepping out, you begin absentmindedly busying yourself with unscrewing the lids of each bottle as you make your way to the outdoor sinks. Focused on the task, you don’t notice the person in front of you until you’re crashing into them, effectively spilling the water you were on your way to empty. Well, that’s one way to do it.

“Oh, my gosh,” you crouched down, quickly picking up the bottles, “I am so so--”

“Hi, Y/n,” the boy said, looking down at you with a tight lipped smile. He was a year your junior and also your ex. You had broken up with him at the beginning of summer vacation but had fortunately not seen him since, even through several months into the school year. You had foolishly hoped that your luck would continue and you would miraculously not ever see him again. But he was also a student at Karasuno and shared not only many of your extracurricular interests but also a handful of friends, of whom were responsible for setting you two up in the first place. What they didn’t know is that they were setting you up for disaster.

The relationship had started with no base friendship or really any genuine knowledge of the other besides the words of others from the grape vine. In retrospect, it was a plain bad idea. You two had fun at first but soon into your relationship, your boyfriend had begun pressuring you. He started with little things, subtly manipulating you until it was hard for you to recognize what your own boundaries genuinely were, as blurry as he made the lines. He was cunning and cornered you into situations you didn’t want to be in as easily as he could talk. He never complimented you, never made an effort for you, never validated you. Normally, you would stand up for yourself, speak out against this mistreatment, but something about him made you weak. And not in that head over heels kinda weak. The type of weak that drained you, that made you doubt yourself where you wouldn’t have before, that twisted your own strengths to look like hindrances.

It seems that even after months apart, he still had that same, nauseating effect on you.

“Hi, Y/e/n.” You forced a pretty smile, trying your best to stay polite and to ignore all of the sudden flowing emotions, not wanting to admit to him -- nor yourself -- that the damage he had done was still raw. “Sorry about that, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

“Still ever the clutz,” he laughed, something cruel and mocking.

You grit your teeth, smile impossibly tight. Whatever semblance of sanity you had left pleading for you to remain polite. “I’m sorry. Now if you’ll excuse me--”

He abruptly put a hand on your shoulder to stop you. “Where’re you heading?” The thinly coated politeness was easy to see through when you had suffered through the consequences of believing it.

“To rinse these.” You lifted the carton of now mostly empty water bottles. You went to move past him and tried to brush off his hand, but it only tightened, his thumb painfully digging into the dip between your shoulder and your collarbone. You inhaled shapely at the resulting shock and pain.

The movement reminded you of other times he had done this subtle control, other times he had wanted you to just shut up and comply, other times he coerced you, forced you--

“Why don’t I accompany you, hm? It’s been awhile since we’ve had the opportunity to chat. Let’s catch up,” he said with a toothy smile that even his eyes carried. The familiarity of this compelled you to learned submissiveness, breaths desperately trying to claw their way from your throat. You tried to swallow them down, but they were clawing faster than you could handle.

“I have a job to do, Y/e/n.” Your voice sounded weak, even to your own ears. You weren’t fooling him.

His thumb dug even harder. “C’mon it’s the least you can do after purposely spilling that water all over me--”

“It was an accident--!”

He raised his other hand, going in to grab your arm -- to gain more control over you -- when someone caught his wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A voice said quietly, eerily so. Despite that, under its influence and familiarity, an intense calm washed over you, wrapping you in comfort and relief.

Turning, the image that greeted you of Daichi’s wrath was that of an angel of death, beautiful and fearsome in all of his glory. In his eyes he held enough heat to burn the ends of the earth. And it was all for you.

Your ex shook his wrist from Daichi’s grasp, trying to subtly shake it out. His grip on your shoulder loosened though he didn’t pull away. “I’m just catching up with an old… friend,” he spat, his polite veil thinly covering his malice.

“I’ve never known old friends to hurt each other in greeting.” Daichi was fuming, to say the least. Whatever you had against your ex, you were amazed at his sincere idiocracy. That, or his delusionment that he could genuinely stand level to Daichi.

“I wasn’t hurting her,” he sneered, “I was just saying hi.”

“You could do that without putting your hands on her. I suggest you take them off.”

Your ex snorted and glanced down at you, his hand squeezing reflexively. “Are you really just going to cower there and let him speak for you? You were always telling me what to do, I’m surprised you’re actually staying quiet.” You instinctively flinched away from him, tears threatening to sting your eyes. You knew he was wrong, that he was trying to hurt you, but that broken part of you couldn’t help but believe him.

Daichi, from the corner of his eyes, saw your distressed state, the sight causing his heart to lurch. In his eyes, you were absolutely incredible. So kind and giving and loving and it angered him to no end that anyone would be able to make you believe anything otherwise. He loved you, so incredibly much and he wanted nothing more than to protect you and keep loving you.

“Get off of me,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself that your ex no longer had any control over you.

Your ex smiled wickedly, finally taking his hand off. “There you go, sweetheart. All you had to do was ask.”

“And all you had to do was leave,” Daichi seethed.

“Sorry?” Your ex asked lamely.

“You’ve had your stupid fun, now leave. I’m giving you five seconds.” You looked at Daichi and almost flinched away from the absolute hatred burning in his features. The fire that was there before had grown impossibly hotter.

He laughed. Your asshole ex actually laughed in Daichi's face. "And what will you do?"

"Stay longer than five seconds and find out." As much as Daichi was wonderful and patient and mature, if something really got him going, he threw that all out the window. And perhaps that was Daichi's one fault. That he would gladly abandon reason when it came to you.

"Really?"

"Daichi," you breathed, "he's not worth it."

"No," your boyfriend agreed, "he's not. But it would be so satisfying." Without warning, Daichi lunged and gripped the front of your ex's shirt, pulling the shorter boy roughly to be chest to chest with him. Your ex gulped audibly, his tough persona crumbling away far too easily at a single physical touch. Granted, an angry Daichi held all the fury in the world barely contained in a wall of muscle. Even the word intimidating would be too much of an understatement. "Don't you ever touch her again. Don't look at her, don't talk to her -- in fact, stay far away from her," he snarled, boiling over like an animal on the hunt. He threw your ex away from him. You watched as he stumbled, tripping over his own feet and landing harshly on his ass. Daichi took advantage of this, squatting down over him before leaning in and whispering, "your five seconds are long gone. You can either leave or stay and find out what I can do."

Your ex glanced between you and Daichi, defiance somehow still lingering in his features. Seeing Daichi, though, had given you some courage and confidence as being around him often did. You believed in yourself again, just enough to look your ex in the eyes.

"Goodbye, Y/e/n."

He scrambled from his place on the ground (where he surely belonged, you thought bitterly) and disappeared from sight. You gasped for air, relieved he was gone, the anxiety that threatened to overtake you flooding from your body.

Daichi immediately turned to you, worry and love replacing the wrath in his eyes. "Can I hold you?"

"Please," you gasped, tears that rarely ever came already spilling silently down your cheeks.

With your permission, Daichi rushed from his crouch, pulling you gently to him as his hand came up to card through your hair. You clung onto him, holding him impossibly closer as you sobbed into his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, pushing hair that had fallen into your face behind your ear. You leaned into his touch, revelling in the love and comfort he provided.

"I love you, Y/n," he said as you lifted your gaze to meet his searching one, "I love you so much. I'm sorry you ever had to deal with that but… but I'm so glad that I'm here with you."

"I'm glad you're here with me, too," you sniffled, wiping at your face. "Where's everyone else?"

"Gone," he replied and you noticed for the first time that he was already changed out of his gym clothes. Just behind you was his discarded bag. "Suga and Asahi went on ahead. I thought it was odd that you didn't ever come back in so I came to check on you."

"I'm glad you did."

Daichi smiled softly. "I am too."

"I'm sorry you had to step in. I don't know why I couldn't handle it, I usually can it's just-- he--"

"Hey, hey," he lifted his other hand to your face, holding you as he gently coaxed you to look at him, "you have nothing to be sorry for."

"But--"

"No buts. You did a great job. You can't just erase what he did to you or how he made you feel. You're allowed to react the way you did, Y/n. Okay?"

You nod. "Okay."

Daichi smiled warmly. "Good. Now how about we put those bottles away and we go out for meat buns."

"Your treat?"

Daichi laughed, the sweet sound bringing a smile to your lips. "Yeah, my treat." He laced his fingers through yours, still grinning.

"Daichi?"

"Hm?" he hummed.

"Thank you. I love you."

His smile softened as he leaned down, kissing you softly. "I love you too, Y/n."

And because it was him, because Daichi was so kind and charming and good, you truly believed him.

taglist: @samwrights (ily mom)

#sawamura daichi x reader #daichi x reader #sawamura daichi #daichi #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #thanks for letting me tag you in my stuff mom ahhhhhhh #this is the definition of a self-comfort fic #it was really cathartic for me to write!#sorry if it went too hard for anyone yikes #tw: abuse #believe because he is good

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heartsofthewisps · 4 years

Text

Characters:

Carson Von Somethin

Yes, that IS his last name. Residing in the busy city of Auriga, Carson is a music connoisseur while his views and takes on the world are rather cynical, ever since the tragic death of his parents whom he lost in a brutal car accident when he was only four years old. The leader of the wisps, unfortunately for him. The main man!!

Margie Spellwinder

Margie is from a long, esteemed line of proud witches. She is to inherit the great Spellwinder name!..... That is, if she can even be a proper witch to begin with. Although very gifted with magic, she doesn’t know exactly how to wield it. Margie hails from southern Astraeya, her abode not far from the Witch’s Hamlet. She often fizzles simple ember spells or ends up blowing up her household with potion brews. Either way, she’s determined, and isn’t about to give up! But she could take a break from the constant malfunctions. Constantly anxious, and has a deeper past than first anticipated.

Hitoshi Spirit

Ironic as it is, Hitoshi Spirit is a samurai who has traded in his soul for incredible strength and stamina during a tolling war that took place in Hiragashi, a coastal town in Eastern Astraeya. Now he remains a husk of a man. Still, he is able to feel and experience emotions despite having traded away his spirit. But he is often cold and heartless, not feeling pity for cowards who beg for pity. And somehow, he ended up in a group with a pessimistic music maker, a failing witch, and a bossy, immature guardian spirit. Enjoys the simple things in life, like fishing and painting.

Willow Wispy

Willow is a guardian spirit that, as her name suggests, can control fire and ashes. However being such a small, insignificant spirit, she believes she’s a long-forgotten goddess who has magnificent power (which is proved time and time again to be false by her team). She showed up beside Carson one day, promising to protect him through his compelling journey. Though he pushed her away a lot, being the independent person he is. Has a lot more to her than meets the eye.

Akio Hinode

Appearing to be an ordinary man at first, it is later revealed that he is actually the last remaining kitsune to live. He hails from the small Kitsune Village hidden deep within the Woods of the Lynx. Due to his species being doomed, he has grown bitter and cold from the world, especially towards humans since they are the very things that killed his people. To make their lives as miserable as possible, he pulls pranks and tricks, lies and steals, anything to inconvenience them as much as possible. Be wary - his bright and cheery persona is only a mask for a darker and cold man.

Ichika Gakusha

An avid historian that hyper-studies any subject that catches her eye, to ignore the depression of her family neglecting her for her entire life. Her current obsession is the kitsune people and their past culture, trying to recover and learn about them ever since they went extinct. Little does she know that there IS one living kitsune, who happens to be afraid of her possibly exposing his existence to hunters. Incredibly intelligent, but oblivious to what’s in front of her.

Julian Lores Draconia

Kindhearted prince and sole heir to the throne of Draconia, the kingdom ruled by dragonblood. Despite loving his father for treating him kind all his life, he knows that he’s been slipping away bit by bit, and that one day, he will become a threat to the people of Astraeya. With this knowledge, he defects from the kingdom for a time and joins the main group to restore peace to the world. Due to the draconic blood flowing through his veins, he slowly transforms into a dragon, and cannot revert back to his human self unless using a scale tonic or a magic spell. Has a bit of a crush on Margie.

Faenar Mysticus

For thousands of years, elves, fairies, and fae alike have been known to reject any species that were not their own, having strict rules on what can and cannot be done, and overall are unfriendly, unkind beings. Not Faenar. Absolutely not Faenar. He is the nicest, kindest, most gentle elf in the entire world, and comes from the Treetop Sanctuary, a large settlement of elves in the Woods of the Lynx. Taking Margie in when she was small and frail, he deemed himself her older brother and pretty much everyone else as his little siblings. His mother, an elvish council member, desperately wants him to stop dragging her through this trouble, but has honestly given up at this point.

Dreezna Elfenstof

Dreezna is one of the fairies that reside in the mystical Verdwaald forest, home to the fairies of Astraeya. The queen of fairies, Titania, knew what must be done, and had sent Dreezna away to find the Wisps (the main group), knowing she is among the souls. Despite her pessimistic personality at first glance, she is a person of pure heart, as a healer in Astraeya cannot be one unless their heart is kind and pure. Pines over Viviane hard.

Viviane Samaka

A mermaid from the underwater kingdom of Lu’Lu’, who advocates for the truce between land dwellers and sea creatures, she has a bright outlook for the future, and is unknowingly one of the Wisps. Like other mermaids, she has the sacred ability to entrance a person with her singing voice, though she must be careful not to hypnotize one of her one friends. Pines over Dreezna hard.

Mo (short for Mother Life) is the long-since-forgotten goddess of Astraeya, the creator of the entire world. Don’t be fooled by her young, childlike appearance - she is wise when it counts. Though she provided everything for the people, they still disliked her, angry that she didn’t accommodate their every need (though they weren’t exactly aware their caring goddess is a literal child). She one day mysteriously disappeared after the Gigas Disaster, which crumbled Astraeya’s old society. Whether she’s dead or ran off, nobody in the world knows.

Nightmare

A literal blob of evil black goo, Nightmare is the cause of the Gigas Disaster and the main antagonist of the story. He was born of the hatred and malice of the eight lesser elemental gods’s war. Though I may draw him with a form, the truth is he has no real form, and can only can have one by inhabiting a vessel, a person chosen among his followers. Hasn’t been seen physically for thousands of years, as he disappeared when Mo did, but threatens to return to end Astraeya once and for all.

Slug Prophet

Yes. You heard that right. Slug. Prophet. Born around the the same time Mo created Astraeya, they are a sea slug gained sentience, and gifted with the power of foresight. Mo often came to them in the past for advice and help, but has long since lost relevance and now hangs out in a damp, musty cove by the ocean, eating plankton-algae soup and doing....whatever they do in their free time. Primordial being, on the same level as Mo herself.

Sakura

A totally uninteresting and non-relevant elf lady from the forest, a total nerd and dweeb. She uses magic I guess, but honestly what’s the point, because she is just there. Mostly for background. Created To The Wisps as a fun little comic project on the side but it accidentally became real and she’s powerless to stop it. If you see her, ignore her, she will eventually go away.

#ooc #carson von somethin #margie spellwinder #hitoshi spirit #willow wispy #akio hinode #ichika gakusha #Julian Lores Draconia #Faenar mysticus #will continue the list but it’s like 10 pm and I’m tired #also pinned post #pinned post #dreezna elfenstof #viviane samaka #mother life #nightmare #slug prophet #I WILL MAKE PROFILE PICS FOR THEM. EVENTUALLY. A #Sakura

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cruelzy · 7 years

Note

Hi, could I request something? Could I possibly have Villain! Midoriya with a civilian s/o who gets hurt during a League of Villains attack or something? Thanks so much!! I love your writing ♥️♥️

It all happened so fast.

You’d seen it first. Only glimpsed it. The flash of searing light in the corner of your eye that made you turn, made you curious. It felt abrupt–the light too bright, too intense–then a skip of a beat and you could suddenly hear it. (It seemed that light did travel faster than sound after all).

There wasn’t really a way to explain what you heard. The best you could say was that there was a sudden pop, as if depressurizing air, but magnified almost 1000 times. Then you felt it. The reverberation of the ground beneath your feet, terror sinking into your bones cold and heavy at the realization, the vibrations going straight to your DNA. You paused entirely, frozen in shock, locked in the terrifying beauty of it all.

And then you weren’t thinking at all as you were forcefully knocked off your feet, everything spinning and twisting and then just black.

It took you a while to come back.

When you finally recovered your senses, the first thing you saw was the coarse charcoal of the gravel. You groaned, struggling to move, lifting your head up from the ground. Your ankle pulsed from the movement and you filed the pain away in your adrenaline soaked mind to be addressed later. (Probably sprained, not a big problem, you had other things to deal with, oh god there had been an explosion-)

Feet rushed past you. Some people very nearly trampled over you, concerned with their own safety, shoving others out of the way. Questions flooded through you. What had happened? A villain? Several?

But that wasn’t the problem. Something was wrong. You watched their mouths move, perhaps screaming for help, saw the scuffle of the shoes on the ground, saw the chaos and yet, and yet–

Your heart twisted.

You couldn’t hear any of it.

Palms immediately went to your ears. When they came away damped with a moist crimson, your stomach lurched. You were in very close proximity to the explosion, of course your ear drums would suffer. (Your hearing would come back shortly, right? Right?)

Someone kicked you in the side, carelessly trying to rush past.

You curled in on yourself. Why was this happening? Why did you have to get caught in this situation? You were no hero. Hot tears burned at your eyes, leaving trails down your cheeks and staining a faint saltiness on your tongue. You were useless. Absolutely useless.

(And yet.)

You don’t know why you looked up.

You were certain you were gonna lay there until all eternity in your own self disgust, but some unidentifiable power had drawn your attention. You narrowed your eyes, trying to see through the chaos of green.

And your breath was utterly stolen.

Static. It rolled over your skin, drawing goosebumps from your flesh and saturating the air. It was alive, hissing, crackling, closing over your head till you felt as though you had been wholly encased in water. It drew you in, wrenched your very being and captured it tight.

But that thought was there and then it was gone, because the green turned out to be a person, and he was looking directly at you.

Sparks of electricity danced across his entire body, weaving through his clothes and climbing into his skin–as if it was born there, comfortable there. His hair was as uncontrollable as the volatile energy all about him, a shade of green that darkened and lightened in different areas, wildly curling round his ears. There was a streak of red splattered on his right cheek (not his blood, oh god not his-), browning, rusting, something you refused to think about unless you wanted to empty your guts right then and there.

His eyes caught yours, their hue matching the feral locks un-top his head, contrasting with the dark bags underneath his lids, calculating and brilliant yet somehow…off.

He grinned, wide, gleaming, predatory.

You knew that smile. How could you not? You recognized him from the news–the hero who had apparently defected some months ago at an attack at U.A. There wasn’t much about him apart from the vague information of his affiliation with the ‘League of Villains’. It soaked him in mystery, his utter ruthlessness the only well known fact relatively known. Nevertheless it was enough to have you sinking deeper into the dirt, hoping it would swallow you.

When he finally reached your side, towering over you from your place on the ground, grin illuminated by the flickering lights of the street overhead, the electricity had lessened somewhat: had allowed you to finally inhale without feeling like you were trying to breathe through thick liquid.

His lips moved.

You shook your head frantically. Whether you were trying to communicate the fact that you couldn’t hear him, or simply having a mental breakdown, you weren’t sure. His grin faltered, a look of innocent confusion slowly replacing the expression. It didn’t match his presence, didn’t match the terror shooting through you.

He outstretched his hand. You couldn’t restrain your flinch. Gravity tugged his mouth downwards even more at your action, and against your common sense, you found yourself tentatively reaching for the offered hand under a ridiculous sense of guilt.

It’s fine, you tried to convince yourself. What could you do otherwise? You were injured, weak. Besides, if he had wanted to hurt you, surely he would have done it already?

His gloved fingers wrapped around yours. Even as he raised you to your feet, the intensity of his stare didn’t let up, and you already knew the unspoken question hanging in the air. You split your attention between explaining and not letting your shaky legs collapse on you, gesturing towards your ears.

‘Explosion,’ you mouthed, a frightened deer in headlights. Ready to run once he gave you the chance. No matter his notions of decency towards you, you were not to be fooled. You knew the kind of things his organization did recently. You knew what he was.

At your brief explanation, the harmless curiousity on his face twisted into annoyance, his eyes darkening. The emotion didn’t seem directed at you, but you still felt yourself convulse involuntarily in fear, as if a live wire had been attached to your nerves.

You followed the movements of his mouth, just barely making him out.

‘Those…idiots…’ he seemed to be speaking to himself, animosity leaking from his countenance as his jaw clenched, a storm raging behind those vibrant emerald sea-glass eyes. ‘the…always…so…unnecessary…innocents.’

You missed some of the words due to your inexperience in reading lips, but the overall message was not lost on you. It only caused your mind to be submerged in even more chaos. What could that mean? Was he…sympathizing with you? How could he have certain priorities towards some but not be afraid to delve his hands in the blood of others?

Or were you misunderstanding altogether? Did the media have the wrong assumption of him?

You must have made some sort of sound because he snapped himself out of it and caught your eyes with his. Immediately the malice you had seen disappeared, as though it hadn’t been there whatsoever, his features melting into a soft smile. (It blinded you, outmatched the sun-) Little crinkles formed beneath his eyelids.

You shivered, but now for another reason altogether.

If you hadn’t seen the hatred in his eyes a second earlier, you would not believe that he had the capability to hate at all.

It was unnerving. You were drawn to him, a sense of safety coming over you from just being near to that smile even though you knew otherwise. So many heroes had begun to defect to his side, you recalled. It was a disease, spreading through the industry like an epidemic and shaking the whole country as they tried to understand how he was doing it. Now…Now you felt as though you caught a glimpse at the reason.

His bright charisma robbed you of your logic, and this in itself scared you more than any other villain could have.

‘Don’t worry,’ you clearly made out.

His fingers traced your ears, the glove cool against your skin. They smeared in the blood, lightly grazing your lobe as if in apology. You were frozen, unable to comprehend the fragile warmth curling in your abdomen at the motion. ‘You’ll be okay.’

He must have heard something from far off as he tensed, glanced to where you knew the fight must have been taking place: the direction people had been running away from earlier. A sigh escaped him and he let his fingers slowly drag from your ear down the column on your neck till they rested just above your collarbone.

‘You’ll have to go to sleep for a while though.’

You didn’t even get the opportunity to think.

The last thing you saw before your vision cut off was his reassuring smile as he pressed the tips of his fingers into your pressure point.

Tick.

“See?”

The clock moved towards the hour slowly, methodically.

You yawned.

“The eardrums were only ruptured,“ the calm voice of the nurse informed you, clutching her clipboard. “You just need more time to rest and some minor treatment before your hearing returns fully.”

“Is that so?” You murmured, staring at your hands on the lap of your stark white hospital gown. The room was equally as white, so much so that it almost hurt your eyes.

“Yes,” she said. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Although there is one thing we are curious about. When you arrived, you were unconscious, placed at our doorstep. Do you know who carried you here?”

You turned to look out the window silently.

The poster underneath the window sill was green. A bright, foamy, sea-glass green.

You closed your eyes.

“No. I don’t.”

#boku no hero academia #villain!au #villain deku #midoriya izuku #deku x reader #midoriya x reader #izuku x reader

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j-writes-and-suffers · 7 years

Text

NaNoWriMo Day Six

Anxious for his upcoming performance, Philip had struggled to get to sleep. Nonetheless, he got up with an unusually early alarm, remembering his promise to Lucien about being on time. He downed two full cups of coffee to fight the lingering drowsiness before grabbing his bag and heading off towards campus.

By the time he reached the academic hall, Philip was bouncing off the walls. Maybe he hadn’t needed quite so much caffeine. The extra energy was sending his anxiety through the roof, and he found himself pacing nervously to kill time before the poetry slam started. Staring intently at the ground as he walked, he was too caught up in his own nerves to notice Lucien walking up behind him. The older man put a hand on Philip’s shoulder, causing the young blond to shriek in surprise.

“Fuck! How do you sneak up on people like that?”

Lucien shrugged. “Libraries are quiet. It wouldn’t suit me to be a lumbering oaf. What’s gotten you so worked up?”

Philip sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just nervous to perform. I haven’t actually been in a poetry slam since high school…”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re very animated, I bet your delivery will be excellent.” The lanky brunette rested a hand on Philip’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Besides, I’ll still make you dinner if you bomb.”

“So you think I might bomb?” The younger man asked, wringing his hands together.

Lucien rolled his eyes. “No, that’s not what I said. Stop being so pessimistic.”

Philip groaned. “I’m not trying to! I’m just scared.”

“Most of the people performing are over-dramatic undergrad hipsters that can’t actually write to save their life. I promise, you won’t be nearly the worst act.” Lucien reassured him. “Come on, everyone is gathering.” He led Philip into the lecture hall nudging him towards the front where the other performers were waiting.

The anxious blond fiddled with one of his earrings, bouncing where he stood. Dr. Samuels, the head of the English department, was currently greeting the audience, going off on some long-winded rant about the importance of poetry. When he finally shut up, he stepped aside, calling forth the first student.

About five or six people went ahead of Philip, and he started to relax as he realized most of them were pretty shit. After an absolutely awful love poem finished, he was called up, and he felt his nerves fading a little. He spied Lucien as he scanned the crowd, and shared a brief smile with the older man.

“Hello, everyone. I… I’m Philp Valentine, the new English professor. Here’s a piece I wrote a few years back. It’s… It’s called Late Nights.” He cleared his throat, taking a slow, deep breath before he began.

“There's a monster in my house. He roams the house at night. He screams, he hunts, he breaks things; The house is filled with fright.

No one steps outside their room after the midnight hour. A vicious, violent demon, the monster has the power.

One night, I kept a vigil to face the awful beast. The hour didn't phase me-- I like the dark, to say the least.

I didn't notice anything; I waited till the dawn. The monster always comes at night. Did I do something wrong?

As I went to lie down, I walked by the bedroom mirror. Thinking I saw something odd, I paused to see it clearer.

Menacing and soulless, the piercing eyes glared. Too mortified to look away, I analyzed and stared.

I saw hatred in the face, the scowl angry and bitter. Something seemed to click, so I looked a little deeper.

Somewhere beneath the malice the soul was worn and lonely. A silent plea for what once was: ‘Can't someone find the old me?’

I sank into an epiphany as I rubbed my tired eyes: the demon faced me in the mirror; the monster was inside.”

The audience was silent for a moment. Once the awe faded, a round of applause filled the room. Though Philip was no Robert Frost, it was easily the best piece at the show, and most of the students looked pretty damn impressed. He beamed to the crowd, grinning as he walked offstage. Lucien, however, didn’t seem as happy. His eyes had grown dark a few lines into the poem, and his expression was still dour in its aftermath. As Philip moved to sit down, he saw Lucien’s distaste, and his face quickly fell.

“You didn’t like it…” He sighed, sinking down in the seat Lucien had saved for him.

The older man snapped out of his morose state, turning to Philip and shaking his head. “No, no, it’s not that. It just got me thinking. You’re a good writer. Certainly better than any of the clowns before you.”

“Oh…” Philip perked back up, “It made you think? For real?”

“Of course. It was inspiring. You painted a vivid picture.” Lucien offered a smile.

The younger man blushed, the pink tone highlighting his freckles like a backlight. “Thank you! That means a lot, you know… You’re kind of an expert on literature.”

Lucien laughed, “You hold me too highly.”

“I respect your opinion, you old fart! Don’t brush off my compliment.” Philip stuck his tongue out.

“There you go calling me old again! For god’s sake, I’m maybe ten years your senior!”

“My senior citizen.”

Lucien huffed, rolling his eyes and giving Philip a playful shove. “You’re horrible.”

“Yeah,” The younger man grinned, “but you like me anyway.”

“I know.” Lucien chuckled, shaking his head and turning to listen to more mediocre poetry.

The rest of the slam went well, considering the quality of the poetry being read. Everyone seemed proud of their stuff, even the ones that definitely shouldn’t have been, and afterwards, the head of the English department passed out punch and cookies. The kids got to chattering, some asking questions of the teachers as well. Philip made friendly small talk, basking in the praise the students gave him for his poem. Once the kids were bored of him, he got distracted eating, too busy sucking down cookies to notice Lucien slip away. He turned to make a rude joke, only to realize he was alone. Feeling a little rejected, Philip moved to the corner, shoving another cookie in his mouth.

As the students dissipated from the lecture hall, Philip got up, dragging his feet as he reluctantly helped his fellow English professors clean up. He greabbed a trash can, gathering all the stray cups and napkins that assholes had just left on desks. Once the room was actually clean and presentable again, he walked out of the building, headed towards his apartments rather than the library. He assumed Lucien had finally gotten bored of him, and certainly wouldn’t want to see more of him. He trudged along so slowly that his hour-long walk home took a good chunk of the afternoon, and upon returning to his apartment, he simply dropped onto the couch, turning on some mindless Netflix series to distract himself.

Philip ended up passing out on the couch, sleeping through the night and well into the morning. When he finally woke up, sunlight was already pouring in the windows, and he grabbed his phone to check the time. Getting only the black screen of dead battery, he cussed and hurried to his room, plugging it in and looking at the alarm clock.

1:47.

“Fuck!”

Throwing on a clean shirt and grabbing his bag off the floor, Philip bolted out of his apartment and down the stairs. He had been due at the dodgeball game over an hour ago, and it would take him another hour just to get to the school. He was going to be in so much trouble. Lucien’s warning about tardiness echoed in the back of his mind, and Philip cringed, still feeling shunned after yesterday. By the time he got to campus, the game was long over, the teachers having beat the students 5 - 3. He waved sheepishly at Dr. Samuels, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Heyyyyy….”

“Where were you?” The professor demanded, glaring down at Philip.

The younger man shied away, sheepishly mumbling, “I… I overslept.”

The tubby older man huffed angrily, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let it happen again, Valentine. You’re not making a good first impression.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” Philip cringed, feeling his soul wither. “Can I do anything to help now?”

“Just go to the parade tomorrow, help clean up after the picnic, and don’t make any more of a fool of yourself. Do you think you can handle that?”

Philip nodded. “Yes sir.” He shuffled away before Samuels could dig into him any more; his self-esteem was frail enough already.

Not having any other obligations for the day, Philip simply dragged his sorry ass back home. He checked on his phone, which had barely charged while he was gone. Ugh. His charger was a fraying piece of shit, but he hadn’t had the time or money to get a new one. Oh, well. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere with it right now, anyway. He curled up on the couch, trying to ignore the growing storm of negative thoughts in his mind. He was such an idiot. Not only had he scared off Lucien, but now his boss was pissed at him, too. God, this week was a mess.

Philip was half asleep on the couch when his laptop started beeping. Who was skyping him? It’s not like he had friends that cared enough. He rubbed his eyes, opening up the computer to answer the call.

“Mom?”

“Hi, honey! How are you?”

Philip yawned, brows furrowing in confusion. “Since when do you know how to use skype?”

“Your brother taught me!” She smiled, “I wanted to see you. So does Callie. Come here, Callie!”

A loud bark echoed through the speakers as a long, furry face popped into view. Philip grinned broadly. Callie was a loving Afghan that had been his best friend since late high school, and he had been missing her tremendously. “Hi, Callie! How are you? Are you being good for mom?”

“Woof!” She replied, clearly just as excited to see him.

“I’m gonna come home and visit you as soon as I can, okay?” Callie barked again, bumping her nose against the screen. Philip laughed quietly, his spirits lifted. “I’m glad you called, mom. I’ve been missing you guys. Is something up? Did you need to talk?”

“No, I just thought I should check in on you. Something told me you could use a smile today.”

“You’re not wrong.” Philip smiled ruefully. “It’s been a hell of a day. I overslept and missed the dodgeball game. Dr. Samuels was piiiiissed.”

“Philip!” She rolled her eyes. “You promised me you were going to be better about your alarms this year.”

The young blond pouted. “I have been, I swear! Yesterday was just a bad day, and it threw me off.”

“Is there something you need to talk about, honey?”

Philip shook his head. “Nah, it’s… it’s fine. It’s nothing important. I’ll get over it soon.”

“Are you sure?” His mother sounded worried, “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“I know, I know. I promise, I’ll talk to you if it’s serious. This is just dumb drama.” He reassured her.

“Okay, honey. As long as you’re doing okay.” She paused briefly to sniff the air, recognizing the aroma of slightly burning seasonings. “Oh dear, I need to go check on the chicken. I’ll talk to you later.”

Philip chuckled. His mom was just as scatterbrained as he was, with the tendency to forget about something the second he looked away from it. “Bye, mom.”

“Bye honey!” She hung up, running off to pull her chicken out of the oven.

Stretching back out on the couch, Philip closed his eyes. He was more relaxed than before; just seeing his family and talking to someone that actually cared had taken a huge weight off his chest. Besides, it was hard to be upset with Callie around. A faint smile still on his face, he drifted back off to sleep.

#nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2017 #fantasy #modern fantasy #comedy #school #my writing

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tellmevarric · 7 years

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Shattered

Okay, so there was this post going around and I wrote this fic for it.

It’s a bit angsty but ends a bit fluffy. Because, you know, it’s me writing this. :D I am unrepentant!!!

Oh, there is some reflection on some nasty comments.

Cullen shivered where he was sitting, hunched over and arms wrapped around his legs, in the strange dusty little study in the depths of Skyhold. It wasn’t the cold that made him shiver but the memories that were crowding his head, making him feel exhausted and miserable. Memories that had made him forgo the usual trappings he wore that made him the Commander of the Inquisition forces. Instead he was wearing simple breeches and a shirt, with only the warm furred coat Josephine had gifted to him to ward off the cold.

He knew he should be upstairs, helping the Inquisitor and the others clean up the aftermath of the Venatori blood mages’ attack. He was, after all, uniquely suited to handle that. Not that he’d handled it well at all last time but at least he knew the unique sort of traps and mess that would be left behind. But… so too did Leliana after a fashion and he was feeling wretched enough to leave it to her.

It’s a pity your father didn’t succeed. You might have actually been worth something.

He shuddered and bowed his head until his forehead rested against his knees at the memory of those words being spat out of his mouth by the demon. The feeling of being invaded by the demon, being possessed, used as a mere puppet was horrifying enough given his past but the vitriol it had spewed out of his mouth, the hateful words, the bile, all directed at Dorian, the man he loved… it had been that which had ultimately made him vomit once he was free, not the possession.

Did you really think anyone here respects you? Likes you? Thinks you’re of any use at all? If you left, no one would miss you.

Something that was half a gasp, half a sob escaped from him. Oh, Dorian had laughed off all the comments but Cullen wasn’t a fool. The demon had taken all the secrets Dorian had entrusted him with and used them against his lover, sent them flying at Dorian like shards of malice, aimed to hurt and shred and tear Dorian apart.

As sharp as the knife he’d been holding to Dorian’s throat.

You flaunt your deviant behaviour like you’re proud of it. You disgust everyone.

He shuddered again and now tears did fall from his eyes to dampen the fabric of his shirt. Dorian had laughed when he’d forced him to his knees, tossing out lewd comments and encouragement that would ordinarily have made Cullen blush. He hadn’t even stopped when Cullen had pulled out his knife and held the oh-so-sharp blade against his throat. Trapped inside his own mind but left fully aware by the cruelty of the demon, Cullen had been screaming his despair and defiance and fear for his lover.

Did you really think I could ever love someone like you?

Dorian hadn’t shown a single flicker of fear, of anger, of hatred on his face or in his eyes but Cullen didn’t… couldn’t… believe it. How he must hate Cullen now. He must surely think that the demon got those things from Cullen himself. The bravado had been for show, to allow Dorian time to cast his spells to evict the demon from Cullen. The mage had certainly left quickly enough afterwards. There had been others he’d needed to help, of course… far too many really… but he’d hurried off so quickly, without a single glance back at Cullen and he hadn’t come back, not even when it was all over.

Cullen gave in to his despair and misery and let his tears flow, the occasional sob escaping him. He could never… would never… do this where his people could see him. They needed to see him stand strong and tall as their Commander. They didn’t need to see his weakness and shame. But he needed this. He needed the time to piece his shattered mind, heart and soul back together so that he could actually be their Commander. Because he couldn’t do that right now.

He was so lost in his misery that he didn’t hear the door open and close or the footsteps approach him. It wasn’t until there were arms wrapped around him and he was being pulled close to a warm, oh-so-familiar body that he was jolted out of his wretchedness. But it was the distinct and beloved scent of exotic spices, old books and the heat of flame that made him raise his head at stare at his lover, who was looking back at him with open worry and concern.

“Amatus,” Dorian began but Cullen didn’t let him finish.

“Forgive me, Dorian. I didn’t… the demon… what it said… you have to know I didn’t mean any of it. It wasn’t me. I am so sorry. Please…”

Dorian placing a finger over his mouth silenced him and he stared at the mage with pleading eyes.

“Amatus. My dearest Cullen. I know that. I know it wasn’t you.” He saw Cullen’s expression change and suddenly all four fingers were keeping Cullen’s mouth firmly closed. “It wasn’t you. I knew that at the time. I know it now. You would never say such things to me.”

His voice was firm and solid, absolute in his belief in Cullen. It settled something within Cullen but still…

“D’r’n,” he began, his voice muffled by the fingers that were still over his mouth.

“No, Cullen,” Dorian said firmly. “You are not to blame for what the demon said. Yes, it drew that information from your mind but it was only there because I told you. I wanted to tell you that. I wanted you to know that part of me, just as you trusted me with the darker parts of you.”

Cullen pulled Dorian’s hand away from his mouth. “Dorian…”

“If it would make you feel any better, I could make fun of that furred monstrosity you insist on wearing,” Dorian offered with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“Dorian,” Cullen said with a weary firmness. “You can’t just ignore this.”

Dorian softened and sighed, cupping Cullen’s cheek with his hand. “I’m not, Amatus. Do you think I wasn’t terrified when I realised what was going on? When I realised that you had been possessed? I knew the demon would do its best to drive a wedge between us and I refuse to let that happen.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Besides, what did it say that I hadn’t heard before? It didn’t even have the intelligence to be original.”

Dorian fell silent for a moment before continuing, “Besides, I don’t much care about what it said to me. Meaningless, empty words. I am far more concerned about you, Amatus. Your nightmare come true.”

Cullen shuddered and let his head drop again and when Dorian drew him into his embrace, he didn’t fight it. He’d been trying not to think about that ever since Dorian had expelled the demon from him. That what had happened had been his worst fear from his days as a prisoner at Kinloch. He hadn’t wanted to think about it so he’d concentrated on Dorian and that part of it. A sob escaped him and he curled into Dorian as the full measure of what had happened thundered through his mind and that feeling, that slick sickening ooze of the demon possessing him, came back to him full force.

He couldn’t stop the tears that followed that sob and as Dorian gathered him close, murmuring soft words of comfort, he didn’t want to. For once, he let himself go and buried his face in the crook of Dorian’s neck and let himself be held. He didn’t know how long he cried as Dorian whispered and crooned soft nothings to him but when the tears finally tapered off, he felt exhausted but… good. Like he’d been washed clean of not only what had just happened but of the filth of Kinloch as well. Still, there was one question that lingered in his mind…

“Why?” he whispered.

Dorian raised his head, cradling his face with one hand, his thumb brushing soothingly along his cheek as he looked at him with a confused frown. “Why what, Amatus?”

Cullen swallowed. “Why was the demon able to possess me now but not… back then?”

Dorian’s face cleared. “Because it took you this time. Because of what the blood mages did, the demon didn’t need your permission or assent, it could just take. It’s a nasty old trick that isn’t used very often because it makes even the mage casting the spell vulnerable. But also… last time, they wanted you to give in of your own free will. They wanted you to fall willingly into corruption, to make it all the sweeter for them. There was no sport in it for them to simply take. They must have hated that you were so strong. This time, you were never given the chance to show them your strength.” Cullen started and Dorian smiled as he continued, “Because you would have. Just as Cassandra would have. And Blackwall. And the Iron Bull. All of you fell to possession not because you lacked strength, not because you were weak, but because the Venatori were cowards and were not going to take the chance that you would resist and face them.”

Cullen shuddered and slumped against Dorian again. There was no dissembling or hesitation in Dorian’s words. They were blunt and truthful and Cullen let himself believe.

“Now, come, Amatus,” Dorian said, raising Cullen’s head again and giving him an affectionate peck on the lips. “You need sleep and I promised Cassandra I would see that you got it.”

Cullen frowned as he took in the lines of strain around Dorian’s eyes and the weariness that lurked in them as well. “I think you need sleep as well,” he said, his voice a little hoarse from his tears.

Dorian smiled something soft and sweet and a little wry. “Yes, I do. So, come. Your bed is far more comfortable and much less cobwebby that this place.” He glanced over at the bookshelves. “Though I am coming back here soon. Those books should be in the library, not here, mouldering away.”

Cullen chuckled softly at that and let Dorian pull him to his feet. He leaned into his lover, wrapping his arms around him and giving him a proper kiss. Dorian pretended to scoff at him but Cullen saw the flush of pink in his cheeks and the happiness in his eyes when he pulled away and started dragging him towards the door.

“Bed. Rest,” Dorian said sternly. “And more talking later. Don’t think I’m going to let even a second of this fester in that brain of yours. I know what you’re like and I won’t have it.”

Cullen ducked his head and laughed softly as he let himself be dragged towards his office and bedroom. Dorian was right. He was likely to find things to brood about if he was left to his own devices and as they headed through the kitchen towards the outside stairs, he thanked the Maker for bringing Dorian into his life.

If you like my writing, why don’t you buy me a coffee.

#cullrian #fic #writing #art fic #dorian pavus #cullen rutherford

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gastricpierrot · 7 years

Text

Title: When Stars Align

Series: Daiya no Ace

Pairing: KuraRyou

Rating: T

Summary: Nothing good ever comes out of an intimate relationship between a human and a youkai, Ryousuke knows. He’s heard more than enough stories on betrayal, on disasters, on families being shunned. And being an onmyouji, he knows better than anyone else.

And yet, he lets himself fall.

Warning: im late as hell wowzah

Also on AO3

[Ch.1][Ch.2]

[Ch. 3]

The first time Youichi sees Ryousuke performing an exorcism, he can’t help but wonder what sort of experience he’s gone through to reach that level.

Ryousuke being a ridiculously strong onmyouji is a fact Youichi has never doubted since the day he met him. The only thing is that knowing a fact and seeing for himself why it is so are two different matters. It takes conscious effort for Youichi to keep his mouth close as he watches Ryousuke banish the rampaging reiki trying to break through their barriers. Ryousuke has the youkai sealed and writhing within a circle of harsh light, his composure unruffled and his chants fluent despite the weight of those giant fists beating against his spell. The reiki emits so much malice and hatred that even Youichi finds himself on edge, expecting it to overpower Ryousuke’s spell any moment now.

Fortunately, Ryousuke swiftly finishes the job before that can happen.

An eerie silence settles around them the moment the last of the youkai’s screams fade away; it’s not a summer night if there are no cries of cicadas or crickets this distance away from civilization. Youichi resumes breathing only when Ryousuke moves and breaks the stillness in the air as though resuming the flow of time itself. Ryousuke raises his eyebrows slightly when he sees Youichi.

“Oh. You’re here,” he says as he brushes dust off his robes. For a moment, Youichi could only nod wordlessly. Despite how he seemed, exorcising that reiki must’ve taken a monstrous level of focus. Ryousuke would usually never miss a presence so close to himself, much less one as profound as Youichi’s. Youichi senses something else that’s not quite the usual too, but he can’t seem to figure out what that is.

“I was nearby and I felt a strong one facing you,” Youichi says, to which Ryousuke only hums to as a response. Huh. Youichi’s actually expected to receive a sarcastic remark or two about him not asking, so the lacklustre answer felt a tad bit anti-climactic.

It only clicks in when Ryousuke moves to close the distance between them. Youichi spots the barely visible tension in the onmyouji’s shoulders; the way strands of his short hair cling to the skin of his temples and forehead with sweat. He doesn’t know if Ryousuke’s even consciously trying not to show his tiredness at this point, but wow. Either his fatigue has been building up all this while, or that reiki took quite some out of him.

“Ryou-san,” Youichi starts to say before he can think things through. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“Why ask?” Ryousuke inquires in return, not halting in his steps even as he walks past Youichi. Youichi thinks he hear him stifling a yawn behind him.

“You seem tired,” he blurts, instinctively tensing up when Ryousuke’s footsteps stop.

“It’s a few hours until sunrise and I’ve just exorcised an oni,” he says and Youichi swears he sounds unnecessarily defensive again. He notices how Ryousuke seems to have a thing against having his wellbeing questioned; it’d happened the last time on his mountain as well. Youichi’s chalked it up to a by-product of his ego all this while, but he has to admit there are times when he wonders if that’s really the case. “Contrary to what you might believe, even I need some sleep, Youichi.”

“I can give you a lift home, if you want?” Youichi offers half-jokingly with a flap of his wings. He winces when he’s reminded of the injury on his left wing where the youkai he faced earlier had clawed at him in the air. It could just be his imagination, but Ryousuke’s smile seems to soften by a tiny fraction.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to owe you any favours,” Ryousuke tells him, resuming his steady trudge towards the direction of his home. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Well if you say so,” Youichi mutters, knowing full well Ryousuke can’t hear him. He stays a few minutes more to survey the area, trying to pinpoint the source of the nagging feeling in his gut. He can’t tell if there are traces of malice left around that’s giving him bad vibes, or if it’s just the general knowledge of knowing something terrible is about to happen that’s throwing him off so badly. Youichi’s been noticing it too; how there seems to be a sharp increase in number of youkai that’s trying to either terrorize the village or steal power from his mountain. It’s been a little more than a month since Youichi took over from Tetsu and it’s not until recently that he finds Ryousuke and himself facing more and more high level youkai that normally should not be in these parts, let alone be as powerful as they are. Something’s obviously stirring, but what? What’s going to happen? What’s already happening?

A movement by his feet catches his eye, and Youichi’s sword is already drawn and stabbing towards the ground before his brain can fully process what it is. He hears a faint hiss of fury as the will o’ wisp fades to nothing; the last remnant of the reiki dissipating before it has the chance to fully regenerate. Youichi sheathes his sword, frowning. He’d enjoy the challenge of facing such strong opponents under normal circumstances, but his sense of responsibilities as a guardian does not allow him to be so carefree. Besides, there’s more to it than just Youichi wanting to do his job well. It’s the same for all subjects of worship—the moment he stepped into Tetsu’s shoes, his own life force has been woven together with that of those whom he’s supposed to watch over. Whether he likes it or not, Youichi depends on the villagers to exist as much as they depend on him to protect them from ravaging monsters. If the village were to be wiped out one day, Youichi too, will cease to exist. It doesn’t seem to be much of a fair exchange, but that’s just how it is.

Youichi keeps mulling over his unease even as he returns to his mountain, so much so that he almost flies right past the unusually large gathering of youkai by the waterfalls. Still rather high-strung with nerves from his earlier thoughts, he makes an abrupt stop, hovering in the air as he contemplates whether to find out whatever’s the matter. They could just be having a get-together like some other youkai communities that are fond of partying and socializing. The ones in his mountain are pretty chummy with one another despite their differences. But having fun would mean there’d be shouting and yelling and fooling around. The only noise Youichi can discern from this group is the hum of fervent murmuring among the youkai.

“What’s going on?” he finally decides to join them and ask. Heads turn towards him at the sound of his voice; Youichi doesn’t like those nervous faces.

“Good work again tonight, Youichi-sama,” the nearest youkai, an okuri inu, dips its head in greeting. Others shortly follow its lead, muttering assent.

“Well?” Youichi prompts when the only response he receives for his inquiry is silence. The gathered youkai glance around anxiously, each trying to have another explain the situation. With the way he’s kept in suspense, Youichi half expects it to turn out to be something absolutely unrelated to his concerns, possibly even something painfully insignificant compared to the scale of Ryousuke’s predicted calamity.

Until someone finally finds the courage to tell him.

And it’s…bad. It’s really, really bad and Youichi’s immediate thought is does Ryou-san know this? But hold on—it’s still just a rumour. However fast word has travelled, it has also travelled far. Youichi knows from experience how easy it is for details to be distorted and lost when passed along verbally from one to another. Words of youkai are especially prone to that; their love for mischief is well known. Youichi can’t fully trust what he’s told until he receives news from more credible sources.

But if it really is true…Youichi dreads just to think about it. He’s only heard of her in stories, in tales documenting her power, her cunningness, her sheer evil. In all of them, she was always only missing. She was never reported to have died, no matter how much time passes.

If the rumours are true, there’s going to be a huge problem.

xXx

Unsurprisingly, it rains on the night the Hyakki Yagyō passes the village.

On the bright side, it helps ward off a bit of the stifling summer heat. On the not-so bright side, the Parade can get obnoxiously rowdy and there’s nothing Ryousuke can do about it.

A good majority of youkai are playful in nature, and would probably never pass up the chance to party. It’s especially so in the case of the local youkai in Ryousuke’s village; he’s been keeping them under such firm restraint all this while, after all. They’d no doubt want to let loose with some of their kin when given the chance. Ryousuke only hopes he won’t have to go around hunting for missing people again the next day. No matter how many years it’s been happening, not everyone seems to understand that even he doesn’t have the power to bring back people who’s been spirited away by the Parade.

Ryousuke flips to the next page of his book, doing his best to filter out the commotion and only focus on the steady patter of rain against the roof. It’s well into the night, but it’s impossible to sleep with all that hollering and yowling and growling and whatever variety of noises youkai apparently make. He glances a little enviously at Haruichi and Eijun curled against each other on a spot to his left, blissfully oblivious to the din thanks to a handy spell and innate ignorance. Haruichi always did find more comfort by being near Ryousuke on nights of the Hyakki Yagyō. He’s probably skilled enough now to ward off relatively strong youkai on his own, but Ryousuke supposes it’s something that’s been ingrained in him when he was young. While Haruichi is born with strong spiritual power, Ryousuke isn’t born a skilled onmyouji.

Ryousuke huffs. He’d love to cast the spell to temporarily turn off his hearing as well, if it isn’t for the fact that he has to be ready in case of any emergencies. Besides, he’s hoping to expect some visitors. No, not the intruding youkai he’s consistently been working to ward off for the past week or so; he’s sure the Nurarihyon has that under control for the night. Ryousuke hasn’t actually met them face to face before, but from what he’s heard, the current Nurarihyon has—at the very least—a sense of moderation. Even though it’s mostly anything goes during the Parade, they’d probably refuse to tolerate anything excessive such as say, a violent attempt to take the local source of spiritual power.

Or, at least Ryousuke really hopes they would.

By the time there’s only a few hours left till sunrise, his ears have somehow eventually tuned themselves out to cope with the noise. Ryousuke snaps back into attention when he abruptly registers the dramatic drop in temperature around him, his gaze immediately drawn to the subtly glowing figure seated across him that’s appeared out of thin air. His visitor nods at him in greeting, lips set in a slight, but amiable smile.

“Good evening.”

Ryousuke allows himself a split-second to calm the spike in his heartbeat. “Well. Fancy meeting you tonight,” he returns with a wry smile of his own, feeling tension creep into his muscles despite the familiar face. He didn’t think he of all youkai would show up. He closes his book, setting it down by his foot. “I didn’t take you for someone who’d want to hang around with the Parade, Yuu-sama.”

“It’s not too difficult to bear in small doses,” Yuu reasons as he clasps his hands loosely together on his lap. “Maybe it’ll be nice if you could let loose a little once in a while like them too, Ryousuke.”

“Drinking to the point of losing consciousness and being a nuisance isn’t exactly my idea of letting loose.” Ryousuke’s fingers twitch when a particularly loud shriek of laughter cuts through the air. He forces back the urge to take a deep breath. “But enough with the small talk. Since you’ve appeared before me, I gather you have something to tell?”

Ryousuke finds himself holding his breath when Yuu’s smile fades, a shadow of graveness taking its place. Faint outline of light around the pseudo-god flickers as he glances at the two sleeping figures nearby.

“Ryousuke,” Yuu begins, looking up to meet his eyes once more. “There’s a kitsune in the Capital, hiding in the Imperial Palace.”

“And…?” Ryousuke prompts when he stops there, hearing the unvoiced continuation to his statement. There’s no way he would come all this way just to tell him about a common fox spirit. He makes conscious effort to uncurl his fingers from the fabric of his pants, bracing himself for the bombshell.

Yuu’s expression remains scarily passive as he says, “It’s her.”

Ryousuke feels his heart take an involuntary dive down his stomach before he even finishes.

He takes a sharp breath to reign his thoughts in before they could scatter. Sure, he’s been prepared to even hear of news regarding visits from a tatarigami, but to think that it’s the nine-tailed fox herself. She’s one of the few youkai who has the ability to trigger a chain of disasters if she wishes and isn’t afraid to use it, which is what makes her as dangerous as any other harbinger of calamity. What’s worse—she doesn’t seem to be vulnerable to death, having a ridiculously long life even in youkai years. Knowing they’re going against a possibly immortal being won’t exactly be the best morale booster.

Plus, her being a fox puts Ryousuke personally at jeopardy, too.

“It may be wise for you to sit this one out if you’re called, Ryousuke,” Yuu advises knowingly. Ryousuke’s better judgement agrees with him. Every single thing about this twist in events screams bad news for him. Getting involved would only spell deep trouble for him. It’d be best for him to keep his distance.

The only thing is that Ryousuke rarely does listen to that one inside voice when it comes to performing his duties. He’s spent so many years training to hell and back, pushed himself way past his limits in order to obtain the level of restraint and control he has now. There are risks, sure, but it’s not like being an onmyouji in general is free of them. Ryousuke’s never let risks hold him back from anything, and he doesn’t plan to start now. If anything, he looks forward to being able to sneer at the small, hesitating part of himself after he proves it wrong once again.

Even when there is a possibility of him dying in the process.

“And what would you like in return for giving me this information?” He chooses to skirt around the topic nonetheless, deciding to address a more immediate concern at the moment. Being a youkai famous for his wisdom, Yuu’s also notoriously known for the high prices he demands in return for his services. Despite them being on fairly good terms after that one time Ryousuke helped him with a favour, it’s difficult to tell what sort of compensation he might ask for this time.

“I told you what I told you because I consider you a friend, and because I know you,” Yuu says, a tiny smile once again tugging at the corner of his lips. “Just some tea would do nicely.”

“Alright.” Ryousuke stands, not at all inclined to question his leniency. He silently thanks him for not giving him one more thing to stress over. “I must tell you beforehand, though—I don’t exactly make the best tea around.”

xXx

True enough, a messenger shikigami is sent to summon Ryousuke to the Capital city two days later.

He’s to leave immediately to aid in performing a legendary holy ritual to smoke out the fox—who, according to Yuu, is currently an attendant in the palace going by the name of Tamamo no Mae. Ryousuke feels his palms dampen as he goes over the letter again to make sure he isn’t missing any details. He wills his stomach to stop doing flips on its own accord. He’ll be fine. He knows he’ll be.

He can’t not be. Not this time, not ever again.

“Aniki, is it true that— “Haruichi trails off the moment he steps in and sees Ryousuke staring disquietedly at the piece of parchment in his hands. Ryousuke takes a breath, spending a few seconds to erase all possible traces of anxiety from his expression before turning to face him. He shouldn’t make Haruichi worry more than he already will.

“Looks like I’ll have to set off to the Capital tomorrow morning,” he says, inwardly relieved that he’s managed to sound as nonchalant as he’s trying to be. Haruichi’s eyes widen, his shoulders tensing.

“So it’s real…?”

“I’m guessing you’ve been seeing some things yourself?” Haruichi couldn’t have heard his conversation with Yuu the other night; Yuu’s voice could only be heard by the people he wants to be heard by. “But yes—there seems to be a fox hiding in the Imperial Palace and they’re trying to flush it out.”

“Wouldn’t it be risky for you to go?” There’s a chance that it might act up and—“

He’s interrupted by a firm shake of Ryousuke’s head, everything else left unsaid spoken through his worried gaze alone. “It’s risky even if I don’t go, Haruichi,” Ryousuke reasons, idly folding the letter in halves until its limit. He glances at the sliding door across where they stood. “And there’s no use hiding, Eijun. I know you’re there.”

A few seconds pass before the door moves to leave a gap just enough for Eijun to peek in cautiously.

“I wish to apologize for my insolence but I swear I was only passing by when curiosity overwhelmed me and I promise you I only heard the last parts about— “Ryousuke tells him to go in before he launches himself into a full-length speech that could’ve lasted anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. It’s difficult to tell when it comes to Eijun. Fortunately for him, Ryousuke has got worse things to worry over than being eavesdropped by him.

“Onii-san’s going to the Capital again?” Eijun asks once he’s safely half-hidden behind Haruichi. When Ryousuke nods affirmative, he squares his shoulders, and adds with a thump of his fist against his chest, “In that case, leave it to me to take care of Harucchi!”

“Just try not to cause too much trouble for him, alright?” Ryousuke says, to which Eijun responds enthusiastically without getting the implication. Sadly, Haruichi’s way sharper than that, and easily sees through his subtle attempt to divert the topic of conversation.

“Aniki,” he persists, “you should really think it over.”

“There’s nothing left to think over at this point,” Ryousuke quips, clasping his hands behind his back and moving to leave. Just as Haruichi opens his mouth to argue further, he adds, “I’ll have to start preparing for tomorrow now, so I’ll be leaving for a bit.”

“Aniki— “

He slides the door shut behind him; a little harsh, but necessary, he supposes. He doesn’t need to waver more than he already has. Ryousuke’s done being wary of the suppressed power within himself years ago; he’s not going to let it bother him now.

He refuses to let it bother him now.

xXx

Of all things, Youichi would never have expected to be greeted by the Nurarihyon himself during the night of the Parade.

He’s not gonna lie; he’s pretty relieved he hadn’t been drunk out of his mind when the youkai leader approached him to exchange a few words of greeting. Don’t get him wrong, Youichi loves sake just as much as any other tengu and there’d even been times when he discovered he’d passed out for three whole days after some particularly…wild nights. It’s just that it’s pretty hard to be drinking without a care in the world after being told the Nine-tailed Fox herself is in the country again.

And just when Youichi’s beginning to successfully convince himself to stop being a wuss and calm the heck down because those are still rumours and surely it’s not as bad as his childhood fear is influencing him to think it is, Ryousuke appears at his shrine smack in the middle of the afternoon—which he never does. As if that doesn’t set off enough alarm bells and weird Youichi out enough as it does, Ryousuke’s apparently there to pray.

Youichi wonders if it’ll start snowing tomorrow.

“Is there a problem?” Ryousuke asks with a raised eyebrow, no doubt seeing the strange looks Youichi’s giving him. Youichi could only gesture vaguely as his immediate response.

“I don’t know—I just didn’t think you were the type— “to what? Pray? Even though he’s an onmyouji and a good part of his job requires him to do nothing but chant sutras for hours on end? Youichi abruptly realizes how ridiculous he’s about to sound. In his defence, to him Ryousuke has always been the sort who would rather rely on his own abilities than to seek help from anyone in general, let alone from deities. Even though he has agreed to let him join him in kicking some youkai butt lately, Youichi knows it’s only because of his physical limitations. Ryousuke’s agreed to let him help because he’s aware he could only be at so many places at once. But prayers—that involves more of a mental boost, if Youichi could word it any better. Humans know their prayers aren’t always necessarily heard nor granted, yet they keep doing it anyway because it helps give them a peace of heart, a bit of hope to hold on to. A bit of extra mental strength.

Needless to say, Youichi expected Ryousuke to have the mental strength with a solidness of a block of steel, hence his surprise.

“Sorry,” Youichi finds himself apologizing in the end, scratching the back of his head almost sheepishly. It’s probably best for him not to judge people’s reasons, even if it’s Ryousuke.

“You’re a strange one,” Ryousuke comments, his ever-present smile difficult to read as usual. He moves to sit under the shade of Youichi’s shrine, reaching into his robe before producing his bamboo flute. He holds the instrument up towards Youichi. “Would you accept a song as an offering?”

“Depends on how well you play it, I guess.” Youichi couldn’t help being snarky despite having heard Ryousuke’s playing enough to guess that even his worst would likely sound just fine. Ryousuke doesn’t seem at all affected by his pathetic attempt to be mischievous, though. Saying nothing more, he lifts his fue to his lips, blows a few experimental notes, and plays.

Ryousuke’s songs always have a haunting quality to it; the slow, long notes echoing deep into the mountain forests like the calls of mythical animals or songs of the dead. They’re beautiful, sure, but Youichi sometimes finds goosebumps rising across his skin when listening to them as well. He’s always got this irrational concern that something strange might be summoned by Ryousuke’s tune any moment (he’s a youkai himself, he knows and it’s embarrassing enough as it is). While the other mountain youkai seem to enjoy Ryousuke’s songs without much question, Youichi can’t help wondering if they’re just Ryousuke’s own preferences to learn or if the humans of this era simply have that bad taste in composing music.

All trivial things aside, Youichi also wonders what’s the reason for Ryousuke’s visit. With his shrine being as deep into the mountain as it is, only a few people actually go the lengths for routine prayers. Not even Ryousuke goes there often; he usually just sends someone to fetch Youichi after his performances if he ever needs to talk to him. It’s kind of obvious at this point that Ryousuke’s got something coming, and Youichi starts when he’s hit by an abrupt realization. No way. Are those rumours actually true?

“It’d be rude to be so obvious when ignoring someone else’s prayers, you know,” Ryousuke chides the moment he finishes playing. Youichi could only stare at him, almost too afraid to ask the question he wants to ask because what happens if it’s true? What’s going to happen if it’s true?

“Ryou-san, is— “

He doesn’t get to finish, the words halting in his throat when Ryousuke moves to kneel before his altar and claps twice before pressing his hands together. Youichi bites his lip, fighting down his own agitation. As much as he wants answers, it’s his job first and foremost to listen when he’s being prayed to. His questions could wait, maybe. Or perhaps Ryousuke’s obviously refusing to let him ask because he expects he’d be able to glean for clues on his own.

The system works like this: deities can hear the prayers of humans as long as the humans themselves are sincere. Famous deities usually have the power to choose who and what to hear, but those in charge of smaller areas like Youichi usually have no choice. That’s not the problem, in any case. The problem is that if Ryousuke himself needs a heartfelt prayer to Youichi, then there’s no doubt that there’s something huge about to happen.

“Your feet smells.” Ryousuke’s voice rings clear in his mind the moment he focuses. Youichi’s quick to make a sound of protest, receiving a playful smirk in response.

He can’t help noticing how quickly it fades.

“Please keep my brother safe while I’m gone.” Ryousuke’s tone takes an abrupt, grave turn the moment his mirth fades. “Please watch over the village as well; make sure there’s still a village for me to come back to when it’s all over.”

“Where are you going?”

It’s only when Ryousuke glances up at him with a strange look that Youichi realizes he hadn’t said that aloud. One of the abilities of a tengu include appearing in people’s dreams and speaking directly to them in their minds. Youichi admits he’s had a few chats with Haruichi that way, but he’s never bothered (and wanted) to try with Ryousuke. This form of telepathy involves creating temporary links between himself and the recipient, and Youichi doesn’t even need to try to know Ryosuke’s got a solid wall as his mental defences. He has to if he wants to avoid the chances of him being possessed himself. There’s no doubt plenty of spirits who’d want to get their hands on that sort of spiritual power over the years.

And now Youichi has practically invaded Ryousuke’s mind by accident while he still has his guard down during his prayer—probably not the most polite thing he could’ve done. With how uptight Ryousuke seems to be when it comes to respect and all that, Youichi tenses almost immediately, bracing himself to have his ass whooped any moment now. He’s scrambling trying to form the best apology that doesn’t involve him begging for forgiveness in a voice a pitch or two higher than usual when Ryousuke answers.

“Haven’t you heard? The Nine-tailed Fox is in the Capital.”

It takes Youichi half a second to register he’s heard him with his ears this time. Ryousuke’s tone retains its unreadable nonchalance, but Youichi has glimpsed enough during that quick moment of linkage to know better. Even the great onmyouji Kominato Ryousuke could be afraid of something. And with what the current ‘something’ he’s about to face is, Youichi doesn’t blame him. Even the gods have been struggling to stop her all this while; what chances would humans have?

“And you’re going there to face her?” It comes out sounding more incredulous, more involved than Youichi thinks should be necessary. They’re partners, their jobs complement each other’s—but they’re not exactly…friends. Or at least Youichi has never gotten the impression. His idea of friends sort of includes less instinctive flinching and a whole less verbal harassment.

“Technically, yes, but I won’t be doing it alone,” Ryousuke replies, and Youichi catches himself nearly sighing in relief. Still, Ryousuke tilts his head slightly, smiling in scarcely concealed amusement as though noticing his efforts. “Are you worried, Youichi?”

Youichi thanks whatever gods who are listening for his dark complexion because he feels his cheeks warming in betrayal. Then again, he’s never been much of a great liar and Ryousuke’s definitely shrewd enough to see a lie a mile away—Youichi resigns to the fact that he’ll probably only make things more embarrassing for himself for trying so unnecessarily hard.

“With that kind of danger so close by? You bet.” It’s surprisingly easy to admit. Youichi averts his gaze, expecting to bear the brunt of Ryousuke’s usual teasing.

“I won’t let her come this far even if all things fail.”

Youichi focuses on him once more, slightly taken aback by the unexpected declaration. Ryousuke moves to leave without another word, turning his back so Youichi isn’t able to see the expression he’s wearing.

…Right. If there’s someone who loathes openly showing his own weakness more than anyone else, it’s Ryousuke. With all that’s happened in the past few minutes alone, Youichi guesses he’s probably at his limit before his ego takes permanent damage. He’d cackle at the revelation under normal circumstances, but not now. Not with how it’s just dawned him anew how recklessly brave Ryousuke could be.

“Ryou-san.”

At the call of his name, Ryousuke pauses in his steps. Youichi waits until he glances a little over his shoulder, his profile obscured by his pink hair. He then takes a breath.

“Be careful.”

Youichi still isn’t quite sure until this time and day, but he thinks he hears a barely audible “thank you” before Ryousuke leaves.

*more on okuri inu,nurarihyon, and the Hyakki Yagyō

#kuraryou #kominato ryousuke #kuramochi youichi #diamond no ace #daiya no ace #//TRIPS IN 4720384 YEARS LATE WITH MY LIFE IN TATTERS HEY GUYS HOWS IT GOING #ive been having a massive writer's block since forever ugh i hope this is okay _(:D #fanfiction

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antivanruffles · 7 years

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Can’t Pretend

Sense8 // Kalagang // SFW // AO3 Link

A what-if set between the end of S1 and the Xmas special. Title (and partial inspiration) comes from Tom Odell’s Can’t Pretend.

For @charliechaplin2blr because we’re in shipper hell together!

Don’t drop your guard. Keep the walls up.

It was a fundamental part of his life, not just in a brawl but in everything. He had learned young to put up defenses, cultivating the ability as he had grown older. To the point where he no longer knew what or who he was without them.

Sun got it, got him, that he was sure of. As did Lito, in his own way. Wolfgang had come to appreciate that about both of them. The others, though, they only understood in that particular way the cluster seemed to understand everything about one another. In a way that was knowing and not knowing at the same time. He still found that aspect strange. The knowledge you’d find in an instant, a bit of pinpoint information without the excess. All simply because he was somehow connected to seven other people.

Connected or not, he still kept up his guard. He would help them when he could, and they would help him regardless if he asked or not, but there was still that barrier, a wall. He liked it that way.

At least most of the time.

Everything was different with her though. It was from the first second he saw her, like a glittering diamond in the corner of his eye.

It wasn’t just that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. It wasn’t that inkling, that strange draw he felt with everyone in the cluster. The feeling of familiarity with a stranger. Those things might have contributed to it, might have drawn his attention and his curiosity. But there was more to it than just that.

There was the fact she made him want to let down his guard. Made him want to carefully tear down the walls he had spent his entire life building, brick by painful brick.

Wolfgang had first been aware of that feeling in the hospital. When Felix had been hooked up to a respirator and she had appeared next to him, crying. He realized she was beautiful not just outside, but within as well. A kind and gentle heart. So he’d told her about Felix, about growing up together. The moment had almost put him on edge, because it was a weakness, to show that side. To show he cared.

Only there was no malice from her, no reason for her to exploit it like everyone else in his life surely would. So he let himself be vulnerable, secure in the knowledge that she was safe. She was a good person. That, he realized in an instant, was exactly why he couldn’t deconstruct the walls he had in place. That was why he couldn’t let her in: because she was a good person and he was not.

That was made all the more clear when he stood before his uncle, bleeding and broken. Wolfgang could still feel her lips against his. Despite the fact she was not physically there, he still knew exactly how warm she was, how soft her skin was. She was like sunshine, warm and welcoming and he wanted nothing more than to bask in it.

He knew he couldn’t.

All of his anger and frustration and hatred -- for Sergei and his father, for the situation, for himself -- bled through, and he squeezed the trigger again and again and again.

A monster. That was all he was, and all he would ever be. No matter what she might think, or hope, or want.

When it was over he knew she was there, watching in horror at the violence he had wrought. For a fleeting moment he wished it wasn’t this way. That he wasn’t this person, but it was far too late for that.

“That is why you have to marry Rajan.”

Wolfgang tossed the gun onto the desk, the clattering sound seemed louder than it should have been with his ears still ringing from the gunshots, from her bomb -- such a clever trick.

He had done what he had to, what was needed, still it felt a weight had settled inside his chest. Heavy, constricting as he turned away from her. Guilt seeping into every part of him as he fortified the barriers and prayed she would understand why.

***

“You’re really going then?” Felix tilted his head to one side, squinting in confusion at the dufflebag Wolfgang was currently stuffing a change of clothes into.

Wolfgang glanced around, trying to find his socks. “Yeah.”

“And you won’t tell me why?”

Wolfgang stopped and took in a deep breath. He thought about explaining it all, but that would take time and where would he even begin? “You wouldn’t understand,” he finally said.

“Bullshit, give me a chance.” Felix leaned against the doorframe and arched an eyebrow.

“There’s a girl.”

Felix visibly perked up at the mention, really he should have lead with that from the start. “A girl? Who is this girl?”

“No one you know.” Wolfgang finished his impromptu packing. The plan was barely formulated but Wolfgang thought that was for the best. Less likely to be found out, he supposed. Besides, the longer he waited the less nerve he had. So it was now or never. Do or die. And Felix wasn’t helping with his endless questions.

Felix crossed the room, obviously trying to gauge his friend, his brother. He might have been the best at reading Wolfgang, having spent more than half their lives around each other. But Wolfgang had his defenses, his means of hiding when he wanted to. Right now he really wanted to.

“Must be some girl, hm?” Felix mused.

“Not just some girl, Felix.” Wolfgang shook his head and zipped his bag. He double checked that he had everything he needed, ticking off a mental list. Satisfied, he grabbed his things and turned to his best friend, gently smacking his cheek as he smiled. “The girl.”

***

Airports were awful. Airplanes were worse.

Capheus had checked in, had wanted to see the clouds. Wolfgang had shut him out.

Sun had tried to talk to him, asked what he was doing. Wolfgang had shut her out too.

Lito and Nomi didn’t try anything, but a strange kind of tickle at the back of his mind told him they had wanted to.

All the practice, all the time spent building up ways to keep people out, had come in quite useful, he thought when his plane touched down. As he shuffled off the plane with the other passengers, arriving in the middle of a bustling, busy airport and heading toward customs, he suddenly realized how stupid he had been.

Wolfgang dodged his way through the sea of people crowding the airport, while he berated himself and wondered how quickly he could leave again. What a fool, what an utter fool. He barely had time to register the person in the corner of his eye before he ran directly into them.

Looking down, his ready apology died on his lips when he meet a pair of large, doe eyes. It was her. Of course it was her.

“I knew it,” she hissed. “I knew you were here.”

Her hand came around his wrist, yanking him away from the crowds. He was only vaguely surprised by her strength as she all but drug him through the airport, instead he was more focused on the feel of her hand; noting exactly how slim her fingers were, how warm and how soft her skin felt. He allowed himself the brief moment to marvel at the fact that he was there and she was real. Not someone living in his head; a ghost haunting him.

Finally deeming them far enough away from prying eyes, she whirled around and shoved him up against a wall, jabbing a finger into his chest. He nearly laughed, realizing exactly how ridiculous the situation was, how ridiculous he was.

“What are you doing here?” She emphasized each word with a jab to his chest.

That sobered him. What was he doing there? He knew what he had been thinking when he bought the ticket and boarded the plane, but that all seemed so absurd now. He supposed the real answer was that he was tired of hiding, tired of pretending.

“I don’t know,” he said and tried to move away, anything to avoid looking at her face, but she effectively blocked him.

She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him closely. “We both know that isn’t true. You have to say it, Wolfgang. You have to say it.”

He let out a breath slowly, and looked at her with regret. It was better to keep his guard up and pretend it didn’t bother him, pretend that she hadn’t changed everything. “Kala, I....”

She covered her mouth, eyes suddenly glimmering like they were gems. She looked stricken and he wanted nothing more than to take it back. Take it all back.

“You said my name.” Her voice was soft and a little shaky, her fingers barely brushing her lips.

He swallowed thickly. “I did.”

“I was beginning to think you didn’t know it.” She giggled, and brushed away a tear that hadn’t yet fallen.

The weight that had settled inside his chest, in what seemed a lifetime ago, finally loosened. His shoulders relaxed and he thought he could see a little light peeking through the wall for the first time in a long time.

“I know a lot of things,” he said. “I know that I’m an idiot.”

“Yes, you are.” She smiled at him, bright and warm like the sun, and with that Wolfgang decided to kick down the wall down once and for all.

He stepped in close to her, aware of how her breath hitched, and let his fingers brush against hers. “I know that I am absolutely in love with you, Kala Dandekar. And I know that you love me too.”

“Yes, I do.” Now Kala’s smile was even brighter than the sun, radiant and infectious. So Wolfgang did the only thing he could do in response to such a magnificent sight: he kissed her.

#sense8 #sense8 fanfic #wolfgang bogdanow #kala dandekar #kalagang #fangirl's fanfic #I finally posted the thing Charlie :D #because I will make everything happy and fluffy #I DONT CARE #NEXT I MIGHT WRITE ABOUT LITO'S ONESIE #fROM THE SEASON 2 PICTURES #try and stop me lol

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emeraldragonfly · 3 years

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Things I’ve Learned Recently

I have been gradually learning new things, as I’ve begun to walk a new spiritual path once again.

Search for Beauty - In the World, in Others, and in Yourself

You may recall my posts about my quest to search for the beauty in the desert, the place that is currently home for me-- with the goal of connecting with nature and spirit better. It was difficult at first. The beauty here is not always obvious. It’s often buried or in unexpected places. But the more you search, the more you seem to find.

When we say 'beauty,' we often mean that which we love and adore, that which we find good, that which we find kind, that which we find meaningful. That is the sort of beauty I mean: not just a superficial aesthetic, although even "superficial" admiring of beauty can be very meaningful, too. There can be beauty in many places; even, and especially, in places not traditionally considered beautiful.

I am happy to have found much to admire and love about the desert. And I will continue to look for more of it. But I also have realized something. This search for beauty can also be applied not just to the desert, but to myself.

Self-care is difficult for many people. Plenty of folks have low self-esteem, and I’m one of them. We often do not treat ourselves very kindly. It’s hard for us to see the good in ourselves, the way our loved ones can. But if we focus on searching I think maybe we can find it. We’re often taught by society that learning to love yourself is either silly twee nonsense or it’s outright narcissitic. But if I am to live the value of kindness, I must treat my own self with kindness. And really, why shouldn't I see the beauty in the things I am able to manifest within myself? That is an admirable thing to do. If it is there, then I want to do all that I can to be a conduit for goodness. I should feel free to sing what is beautiful and what is love to me. So, searching for beauty in the self is actually a good idea. It helps us celebrate that goodness and focus on manifesting it further. After all, we each have spirit within us.

Practice Self-Kindness and Self-Forgiveness

Being kind to yourself can be very difficult, though. I have had depression and anxiety for all of my adult life, around 20 years worth of it, since I am in my 30s now. I am very used to being very unknind to myself. The truth is, I am very angry at myself and blame myself for many things.

When you think about it, it’s honestly strange that we can be angry with ourselves. It’s odd: what “part” of yourself is angry at you? How is it possible to be mad at the self? But it very much is. We can hate ourselves, blame ourselves, abuse ourselves. But because this is all possible, it’s also possible to apologize to ourselves and forgive ourselves.

Forgiveness is not always quick and easy, though. I am angry at myself for “wasting” many, many years of my life being depressed. I am angry that I allowed my depression to control me, and wasted my time being miserble instead of working to improve my life. People have often told me, “Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault you are depressed. There’s nothing you have to forgive. Don’t beat yourself up.”

I’ve realized there is something I have to forgive, though.

Think about it this way. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I had a mother who neglected me when she raised me. She did not do this intentionally or out of malice. Let’s say my mother had severe clinical depression, enough that it made it hard for her to even get out of bed a lot of the time. Let’s say she loved me deeply and treasured me more than anything in life and was honestly trying her very best. But the end result was that, unfortunately, there was only so much she could do, battling against her inner demons. And I was often neglected as a child, as a result.

I would be hurt very much by this. I would end up having a lot of problems as an adult and feel much of my childhood was spent in pain and agony. Would I blame my mother? Well, I think I would forgive her. I would think it’s not her fault, she tried her best. But the sheer truth remains: she DID hurt me, so there IS something to forgive. The pain is very real, and it’s something I would need to actively work at letting go of.

I think this describes how I feel about myself. I am mad at myself for so much time wasted. And the truth is, my feelings are VALID. I was genuinely hurt by myself. I need to acknowledge this. Only when I acknowledge it can I possibly learn to forgive and let go of that pain. To move past it. I consider this one of my spiritual tasks, right now.

(Note: The mother example was just an example. My real mother was awesome to me.

Note 2: I am currently seeing a qualified therapist. So these musings come from both therapy and my thoughts about my spiritual path.)

Focus More on Drawing Towards Good than on Escaping Pain

The motivating factor in my life has often been pain, fear and guilt. One simple example is when I am sitting in my room, feeling utterly depressed and drained and unmotivated, just laying in bed. I think to myself I should go for a walk to get some exercise. I tell myself, “You need to walk. You know if you don’t, you’re only going to feel worse.” And this is the truth. It’s absolutely correct. I will feel worse if I just lay there.

The problem is, the fear of experiencing more pain? It’s not as motivating as you might think. When I tell myself “It’ll only get worse if you sit here,” often that . . . really doesn’t work. It just makes me feel worse and more likely to stay put, honestly.

But if I tell myself, “I know it’s hard to do it, but you always enjoy walking when you actually get going. You like the smell of the air, the feel of movement, seeing nature and the sky. It’ll be nice.”

Well, that often works a lot better.

This sounds pretty obvious, maybe. But it’s something I often forget. Maybe because depression makes you pre-disposed to forget what ‘good’ feels like. But, yeah. Trying to draw towards the good and focus on that is often better then trying to motivate yourself by focusing on avoiding the bad.

You Need Healthy Behaviors but also Faith

Taking care of yourself, especially if you have depression or whatnot, is a combination of things. Part of it is simply engaging in healthy behaviors. There are things essential to good mental health: physical exercise, socializing/connecting with other human beings, doing some sort of meaningful work. There are other, more purely mental behaviors, too: meditation, practicing mindfulness during an anxiety attack, etc. You might find engaging in these behaviors is difficult to do and it may take some time for them to actually start to feel good. That’s because with depression there can be a ‘delay’. After all, you’ve felt like shit for a long time, and it may take time to see the effects of positive acts. So it can be important to do stuff even when you don’t feel like it-- actually, especially when you don’t feel like it.

But . . . that’s not the whole story.

A lot of this is about making yourself do things that have proven to be helpful. Some may argue that’s all you need to get better. But I think it’s more then a matter of logic and good therapy. I think it’s also about faith.

One of the things I truly believe in is goodness. I believe goodness is real. I believe it exists in the world and in people. This may be hard to believe sometimes, in the face of so much hatred and violence and cruelty we see people are capable of. In the face of how so much is wrong in the world. But I believe there is also good in people; and kindness, and love. A good and love that can overpower cruelty or callousness. I believe most people generally want to be good and are capable of it.

I also believe in change. I believe change is real and can honestly happen. I believe societies can change for the better. I believe people can change for the better. I believe there’s plenty of proof of that.

These may not sound like radical beliefs: “love and good really do exist in people, change is real and possible.” But honestly? They are beliefs that are constantly challenged and need to be constantly reaffirmed and lived.

And I’ve realized they are beliefs that need to be extended to myself.

If I believe that good exists and that change is possible, then I should believe that there is good in myself and that I can change for the better.

This isn’t about logic-- not really. This is about my faith in these ideas. This is about believing in these principles and then extending them to me; believing in myself.

Again, that might sound twee or obvious. But honestly, genuinely believing you are capable of positive change and that you are a truly good person? That is really, really hard for someone with depression to do. You might know something intellectually, but you also need to feel the truth of something. Because, intellectually, I know I’m probably not a horrible piece of crap. But I need to feel that truth, too.

That’s why I think good therapy should be paired with faith, too. They’re stronger together. The habits need to change and the mind needs to change . . . but the heart does, too. And knowing that I can link it with some of my spiritual/philosophical beliefs helps me a lot.

Nature is Sacred

Humans only exist because of nature. We live and die because of nature. Without nature, we all perish. Without nature, we are nothing. The water we drink, the air we breathe, the crops we grow, the sun that keeps our world from turning to a ball of ice and that powers photosynthesis. We are fools if we forget for a second that it is from this, we live. We did not simply evolve from nature; we are inextricably entwined with it and dependant upon it, and always will be.

To me, I have always loved nature. I find it exciting and fascinating and wonderful and awe-inspiring and being in nature feeds some vital part of my mental well-being. But I have also found it is literally sacred to me.

I've already known the places that have felt most sacred to me are the sea and the stars. They give me a sense of awe and meaning that is deeper than I've felt standing inside any sort of church or human structure. But I’ve come to realize it runs deeper then even that. Nature is not simply an ‘expression of the divine’ . . . a lovely ‘example’ of it. It’s a fundamental component of the sacred.

I won’t go so far as to say “The Divine is literally Nature and nothing else.” I get a sense there’s . . . something else, too. A sort of consciousness or something. I don’t know. That “something” that makes it so that somehow, our collection of chemicals and molecules and neurons firing in the brain becomes something greater than the sum of our parts-- that ‘thing’ that allows for ‘consciousness’ to immerge.

But, yeah. I guess my point is just that I genuinely revere nature.

Anyway, that’s a summary of my musings, as of late. It ended up longer then I intended.

#myposts #depression #anxiety #beliefs #long post

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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The Church's Year - INSTRUCTION ON THE FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

At the Introit implore God's assistance and say, with the priest:

INTROIT Hear, O Lord, my voice with which I have cried to thee: be thou my helper, forsake me not, nor do Thou despise me, O god, my Savior. (Ps. XXVI.) The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? Glory be to the Father, etc.

COLLECT O God, who host prepared invisible good things for those that love Thee: pour into our hearts such a sense of Thy love, that we, loving Thee in all, and above all, may obtain Thy promises, which exceed all out desire: Through etc.

EPISTLE (I Peter III. 8-15.) Dearly beloved, Be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, being lovers of the brotherhood, merciful, modest, humble: not rendering evil for evil, nor railing for railing, but contrariwise, blessing: for unto this you are called; that you may inherit a blessing. For he that will love life, and see good days, let him refrain his tongue from evil, and his lips that they speak no guile. Let him decline from evil, and do good: let him seek?after peace, and, pursue it: because the eyes of the Lord are upon the just, and his ears unto their. prayers: but the countenance of the Lord upon them that do evil, things. And, who is he that can, hurt you, if you: be zealous of good? But if also you suffer any thing for, justice' sake, blessed are ye. And be not afraid of their fear, and be not troubled: but sanctify the Lord Christ, in your hearts.

How can and how should we sanctify the Lord in our hearts?

By practising those virtues which Peter here recommends, and which he so exactly describes; for thereby we become true disciples of Christ, honor Him and edify others, who by our good example are led to admire Christianity, and to become His followers. Moreover, we thus render ourselves more worthy of God's grace and protection, so that if for justice' sake we are persecuted by, wicked men, we need not fear, because God is for us and will reward us with eternal happiness.

ASPIRATION O good Saviour, Jesus Christ, grant that I may make Thy virtues my own; especially Thy humility, patience, mercy, and love; grant that I may practise them diligently, that I may glorify Thee, sanctify myself, and thus become worthy of Thy protection.

GOSPEL (Matt. V. 20-24.) At that time, Jesus said to his disciples: Except your justice abound more than that of the Scribesand Pharisees, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. You have heard that it was said to them of old: Thou shalt not kill: and whosoever shall kill, shall be in danger of the judgment. But I say to you, that whosoever is angry with his brother, shall be in danger of the judgment. And whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council. And whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire. If therefore, thou bring thy gift at the altar, and there thou remember that thy brother bath anything against thee, leave there thy offering befog a the altar, and go first to be reconciled to thy brother: and then coming, thou shaft offer thy gift.

In what did the justice of the Pharisees consist?

In external works of piety, in the avoidance of such gross vices as could not be concealed, and would have brought them to shame and disgrace. But in their hearts these Pharisees cherished evil, corrupt inclinations and desires, pride, envy, avarice, and studied malice and vengeance. Jesus, therefore, called them hypocrites, whitened sepulchres, and St. John calls them a brood of vipers. True Justice consists not only in external works of piety, that is, devotional works, but especially in a pure, sincere, self?sacrificing feeling towards God and man; without this all works, however good, are only a shell without a kernel.

How are we to understand that which Christ here says of anger and abusive words?

The meaning of Christ's words are:. You have heard that murder was forbidden to your fathers in the desert, and that the murderer had to be given up to justice: but I say to you, whoever becomes angry with his neighbor, shall be in danger of divine judgment, and he who with abusive words, such as Raca, Villain, gives vent to his anger, using expressions of contempt and insult, as fool, scoundrel, profligate, wretch, is more liable to punishment. These degrees of anger are punished in different ways by God.

Is anger always sinful?

No, anger is sinful only when we wish or actually inflict some evil to the body, property, or honor of our neighbor; when we make use of such insulting and abusive words as injure his character, provoke and irritate him. If we become angry at the vices and crimes of others, when our office or the duties of our station demand that we watch over the conduct of those under our care, to punish and correct them, (as in the case of parents, teachers, and superiors) then anger is no sin. When one through pure love of God, becomes irritated at the sins and vices of his fellowmen, like King David, or if one urged to wrong, repels the tempter with indignation, this is even a holy anger. Thus St. Gregory Says; "It is to be understood that anger created by impatience is a very different thing from anger produced by a zeal for justice. The one is caused by vice, the other by virtue." He, then, who becomes angry for justice' sake, commits no sin, but his conduct is holy and praiseworthy, for even our Lord was angry at those who bought and sold in the temple, (John II. 15.) Paul at the magician Elymas, (Acts XIII. 8.) and Peter at the deceit of Ananias and Saphira. (Acts V. 3.) Anger, then, to be without sin, must proceed from true zeal for God's honor and the salvation of souls, by which we seek to prevent others from sin, and to make them better. Even in this respect, we must be careful to allow our anger no control over our reason, but to use it merely as a means of doing good, for we are often apt to take the sting of anger for holy zeal, when it is really nothing but egotism and ambition.

Why must we first be reconciled with our neighbor before bringing an offering to God, or undertaking any good work?

Because no offering or other good work can be pleasing to God, while we live in enmity, hatred, and strife with our neighbor; for by living thus we act altogether contrary to God's will. This should be remembered by all Christians, who go to confession and holy Communion, without forgiving those who have offended them, and asking pardon of those whom they have injured. These must know that instead of receiving absolution for their sins, they by an invalid confession are guilty of another sin, and eat their own judgment in holy Communion.

How should reconciliation be made with our neighbor?

With promptness, because the apostle says: Let not the sun go down upon your anger. (Eph. IV. 26.) But if the person you have offended is absent, says St. Augustine, and you cannot easily meet him, you are bound to be reconciled to him interiorly, that is, to humble yourself before God, and ask His forgiveness, making the firm resolution to be reconciled to your enemy as soon as possible. If he is accessible, go to him, and ask his forgiveness; if he has offended you, forgive him from your heart. The reconciliation should be sincere, for God sees into the heart; it should also be permanent, for if it is not lasting, it may be questioned if it was ever sincere. On account of this command of Christ to be reconciled to our enemies before bringing sacrifice, it was the custom in ancient times that the faithful gave. the kiss of peace to one another at the sacrifice of Mass, before Communion, as even to this day do the priests and deacons, by which those who are present, are admonished to love one another with holy love, and to be perfectly reconciled with their enemies, before Communion.

ASPIRATION O God, strike me not with the blindness of the Pharisees that, like them, I may seek to please man by my works, and thus be deprived of eternal reward. Banish from my heart all sinful anger, and give me a holy zeal in charity that I may be anxious only for Thy honor and for the salvation of my neighbor. Grant me also that I may offend no one, and willingly forgive those who have offended me, thus practicing true Christian justice, and become agreeable to Thee.

MEANS OF PREVENTING ANGER

The first and most effectual preventive is humility; for as among the proud there are always quarrels and contentions, (Prov. XIII. 10.) so among the humble reign peace, meekness and patience. To be humble, meek, and patient, we must frequently bring before our minds the example of Christ who did not sin, neither was guile found in His mouth, (I Peter II. 22.) yet suffered great contradictions, many persecutions, scoffs and sneers from sinners, without threatening vengeance to any one for all He suffered; He say's to us in truth: Learn of me, because I am meek and humble of heart. (Matt. XI. Z9.) A very good preventive of anger is to think over in the morning what causes will be likely to draw us into anger at any time during the day, and to arm ourselves against it by a firm resolution to bear all with patience and silence; and when afterwards anything unpleasant occurs, let us think, "What will I effect by my anger? Can I thereby make things better? Will I not even make myself ridiculous and injure my health?" (for experience as well as holy Scripture teaches, that anger shortens life.) (Eccles. XXX. 26.) Finally, the most necessary preventive of anger is fervent prayer to God for the grace of meekness and patience, for although it seems difficult and almost impossible to our nature to be patient, by the grace of God it becomes not only possible, but even easy.

INSTRUCTION ON SACRIFICE

Offer thy gift. (Matt. V. 24.)

In its wider and more universal sense sacrifice comprehends all religious actions by which a rational being; presents himself to God, to be united with Him; and in this sense prayer, praising God, a contrite heart, charity to others, every good work, and observance of God's commandments is a sacrifice. Thus the Holy Scriptures say: Offer up the sacrifice of justice and trust in the Lord. (Fs. IV. 6.) Offer to God the sacrifice of praise. (Ps. XLIX. iq..) Sacrifice to God is an afflicted spirit; a contrite and humble heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. (Ps. 1. 19.) It is a wholesome sacrifice to take heed to the commandments, and to depart from, all iniquity. (Ecclus. XXXV. 2.) "Therefore," says St. Augustine, "every good work which is united in sanctity with God, is a true sacrifice, because it refers to the end of all good, to God, by whom we can be truly happy." As often, then, as you humble yourself in prayer before the majesty of God, when you give yourself up to God, and when you make your will subject to His divine will, you bring a sacrifice to God; as often as you punish your body by continency, and your senses by mortification, you bring a sacrifice to God, because you offer them as instruments of justice; (Rom. VI. 13.) as often as you subdue the evil concupiscence of the flesh, the perverted inclinations of your soul, deny yourself any worldly pleasure for the love of God, you bring a sacrifice to God. Such sacrifices you should daily offer to God; without which all others have no value and do not please God, such as these you can make every moment, when you think, speak, and act all for the love, of God.

Strive then, Christian soul, to offer these pleasing sacrifices to God, the supreme Lord, and as you thus glorify Him, so will He one day reward you with unutterable glory.

[Concerning Sacrifice in a stricter sense, especially the Sacrifice of Jesus on the Cross and its renewal in holy Mass, see the latter part of this book.]

#fifth sunday after pentecost

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