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scrivenerofchaos · 7 months

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Shadows of Faith 1/3

SUMMARY - In "Shadows of Faith: The Corruption of Sweet Carmilla," we follow the story of Carmilla, a devout young woman who anticipates a traditional marriage arranged by her parents. However, as her wedding day approaches, Carmilla's nightmares grow increasingly vivid and disturbing. She finds herself consumed by hunger in her dreams and haunted by the sensation of being watched. Amidst the chaos of her nightmares, a seductive voice calls out to her, whispering her name, "Carmilla." This voice belongs to Desdemona who reveals to Carmilla that she will eventually lose her faith, at which point she will be ripe for the taking.

Carmilla’s Nightmare

Carmilla relished in her morning walk around the Everhart family grounds. A grand estate, purposefully decorated for each season and occasion from Gregory, her father’s library to Genevieve, her mother’s painting studio to the classroom where she and her brother, Benjamin, were taught etiquette and culture of the world. Carmilla followed the well-trodden grassy path created from years of her foremothers footsteps. The sun warmed her deep skin, likened to the soil of Mother Earth. She glided her bare feet across the blades of grass and dirt to be cooled before taking another tentative step forward. Her house was a home filled with memories she’d cherish forever.

She wondered how she could feel at home on her fiancé, Irvine’s land. He was, “a fine young man,” according to her father. A stranger to her. She couldn’t help her thoughts turning to dreadful things. All the musing made her head spin. A sinking feeling formed in her stomach. These were not the butterflies she read about in her romance novels. It was a more familiar feeling. She was hungry.

She sat at the dining table. It stretched the length of the room. There were no decorations centered, there was nothing on the table at all - no plates, cutlery or crystal. She didn’t think it was odd, that her family were not in attendance. But the servants were nowhere to be found as well. The entire estate seemed devoid of people. She was alone and suddenly became aware of it.

Everything was still and quiet. Not even her old home made a sound, not a creak or settling noise. Carmilla struggled to remember how she got here, sitting at the empty grand table alone. Her memory faded, her skin still felt the warmed by the sun. She remembered that she was outside once. Why couldn’t she remember that?

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her. Nothing else mattered, she was starving. She made a move to leave the table, when she smelled the most delicious meal. A feast materialized before her, tempting her senses with its tantalizing aroma. She wanted nothing more than to take the food in her hands and bring it to her lips. In confusion, she hesitated, a fleeting thought came crossed her mind, how’d this get here?

The gnawing hunger roared in her gut. Without hesitation she took bite after bite, hardly chewing, hardly breathing as she gulped each morsel down, each tastier than the last. She felt she would never get full. The more she ate the greater the pain grew in her stomach. She was so hungry, the food intoxicating, she could hardly get a hold of herself.

A voice, velvety and commanding, pierced the silence, calling out her name, “Carmilla.” The voice was strong enough to break whatever curse compelled her to eat without sense. She pulled herself away from the plate.

There at the opposite end of the table, a dark figure sat, still and quiet yet their presence filled the room. The air was dense, heavy. Carmilla struggled to breathe. She couldn’t see the stranger’s face as it was shrouded in darkness, she felt the tingle of eyes watching her.

Carmilla swallowed the last morsel, before attempting to speak. She felt the urge to ask the dark visitor a question yet she didn’t know what. She whipped her face with a crisp white napkin made of cloth. As she returned the napkin on the table, a bright red stain caught her eye. She froze in confusion at the sight of it - it was blood.

In shock, she put her hand to her face and felt the congealed blood cling between her fingers, sticking them together, they formed ribbons as she pulled her fingers apart. She looked down at her plate as if that would grant her answers. That it did, in horror.

As she struggled to comprehend the gore before her, the stranger’s voice, resonating, a haunting melody like chimes in the wind, “Carmilla.”

The room smelled of fresh cut flowers. She felt a powerful urge to shift her focus on the stranger at the end of the table. Yet, She couldn’t break her gaze from the carnage before her on the silver platter.

She couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. She shook her head in disbelief. “No, no, no,” Carmilla shook her head, covering her bloodied face with her soiled hands.

A familiar warmth enveloped her, “Carmilla,” sang her mother.

Her mother’s voice, a sweet escape from the hellish nightmare. She sat beside her daughter, eager to start the day, holding fresh clothes and water in hand for her, “my darling, Carmilla.”

Carmilla jerked awake, startled but grateful to be free of the deep sleep. The sun’s raze flooded her bed chambers. A look of relief washed over her beautiful sweaty face.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Bad dreams again, my sweetling?” Her mother inquired, concern evident in her voice.

“Yes, but”, her mind losing the grip of the dream that felt more like a fading memory, “I can’t seem to remember it at all.”

”Ah, what a blessing then. We can focus on more important matters.” She set her daughter’s day clothes on the bed and poured a pitcher of warm water in the washing bowl. She gleefully continued, “We have wedding dresses to try on. They’ve just arrived this morning.”

Carmilla sat up slowly, the lingering fear of her dream made her feel sluggish. She felt the familiar feeling in her abdomen. She lifted her covers to reveal fresh blood staining her bed linen and sleep gown. Her mother, unshaken by the sight, did not hesitate to ring the bell for the servants’ assistance.

”Do not fret. We’ll get you freshened up.” Her mother assured her with confidence.

“I guess I won’t be trying on any dresses today?” Carmilla asked, disappointed.

”We can still peruse the selection,” she held her daughter’s hand, “You just rest. The first day of bleeding is always the worst. I will have the servants bring you your favorite.”

Her mother made a gesture to the servants without speaking a word. They moved in an organized fashion. They prepared a copper tub for bathing and fresh clothes for bleeding days.

She was served a plate of duck bacon, buttered toast with apple-cinnamon jam, freshly cut fruits and berries with black tea. Gazing at her food she felt a hint of nervousness but couldn’t remember why.

Her mother distracted her from her anxious thoughts, ”When you feel better, we can take a stroll around the grounds if you desire. Exercise is good for you, especially on your Moon-day.”

She recalled the serenity of walking, then the dreadful feeling returned as if anticipating the other shoe to drop. The emotion soon passed, fainter now and weaker, she focused on other matters.

She forced a weak smile, ”I’d like that very much.”

In the dressing hall, several rows of pearly white wedding garb displayed before them, waiting to be chosen by Carmilla. She and her mother studied the dresses intently before moving to the next. A servant follows them closely, writing down their comments about each garment.

”Number…34,” Carmilla paused, making sure the servant wrote it down before continuing.

”I love the lace trim on the bodice,” her mother commented, the servant feverishly writing.

”It’s a bit tight here,” Carmilla criticized.

“We’ll send it to the tailor, of course,” her mother reassured, she couldn’t find a bad word to say about any dress, she loved them all.

The mention of a tailor and Carmilla’s mind reeled with thoughts. Each trousseau felt like clouds beneath Carmilla’s fingers. This was everything she dreamed of since she was thirteen years old. She had libraries full of diaries, vision journals and scrapbooks packed with artist’s illustrations, poems from classic writers, and her own prayers detailing her perfect life to come; her perfect wedding, her perfect husband and perfect children. Choosing the perfect dress with her mother completes one task from the list of to-do’s.

Carmilla decided to do a combination of her mother’s wedding dress and something new. Her mother’s wedding dress, passed down for five generations, didn’t quite fit her body type. She had wider hips and a deeper bosom than her mother. The sense of style had changed over the years, Carmilla desired to make a dress of her own.

The dress would be tailored by none other than the bride-to-be’s best friend, Emily. She was more than an expert tailor, she knew every curve of Carmilla’s body as they were once interested in heavy petting on the long and lonely nights.

Emily’s affections couldn’t be returned by Carmilla. It was unclear if it was the pressures of tradition and religion, economic status, or the fact that Carmilla couldn’t see herself happily wed to someone who couldn’t give her children.

Her mother would say, “Have your fun with the girl now. When the time comes to make the family and your God proud, you must get married to someone who can provide for you as you provide them with future children.”

Emily is a tradeswoman. Carmilla is an Everhart. The Everharts amassed a great fortune from once being tradespeople several centuries ago. Now the family is a thriving business. Taking their special friendship seriously would be going backwards down the poverty line.

When Carmilla envisioned her perfect wedding, it was her betrothed that flooded her mind’s eye, not Emily. Her husband-to-be, is Irvine Quartermaine. A man her father approved of. He was of good stock, wealthy, and he’s a devout follower of Easis, like the Everhart’s. A perfect match for sweet Carmilla.

And yet, she desired nothing more than to be held by Emily again. She couldn’t shake the forgotten nightmare, she had grown accustomed to Emily’s support. The ill-faded dream slipping from her mind like smoke in the air. She couldn’t tell if the sinking feeling in her gut was from her cycle or the ill night visions. No, this aching was deeper, the pain lingered in the body, like the dull soreness of fatigued muscles.

She remembered the sleepovers of her younger days. Carmilla grew up sickly and bedridden most days. Emily would keep her company during those challenging times. They’d hold hands as Emily fed her because she was too weak to lift the spoon. When Carmilla woke up screaming, Emily would be there, holding her in her arms. She wondered if Irvine was as kind and gentle. He had to be, she dashed the thought of doubt, if he follows Easis’ teachings he has to be a good man. But what if he isn’t? Her stomach turned at the thought of her dreams being dashed. She closed her eyes and hurriedly plucked a pale bridal gown from the rack.

Her mother smiled happily before confusion appeared on her face, “This one, love?”

She nodded her head before muttering, “I don’t feel well,” and hurried out the room.

The day yielded to the night. Carmilla drank chamomile tea to soothe her nerves. The uneasiness of the day melted into the rhythm of night. Cicadas sang and the cool breeze rustled the tree leaves. She looked at her bed intently before making her way to the walk-in closet. She borrowed through a forest of hanging clothes to reach a wooden box. She knelt before it as if praying. She opened the box to reveal an aged charm. This trinket was handmade. She gently took the charm into her hands and hugged it to her chest.

“It was only one bad dream,” her mother’s solemn voice came from behind her.

“I haven’t lost faith like you,” she walked past her mother to her bed.

Author's Notes: My inspiration - "Write about the love you've always wanted," My sibling told me.

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twstdreams · 4 years

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Nightmares

Reposting this because tumblr is having lots of fun not putting my posts in the tags🥀

Request: Nightmare request! Literally! How would Jamil, Leona, Floyd, Azul, and Riddle react to having a nightmare where their love was brutally killed in front of them only to wake up and see them sleeping (or awake) beside them? You can format it however you like 🎃 Happy Halloween Thank you

Warning: death, blood, violence, broken bones, hanahaki, suffocation, drowning, bruises, poison

Jamil Viper

The nightmare is horridly vivid. You lay in front of him, poisoned and slowly bleeding to death from some unknown stab wound, and he’s chained and unable to do anything but watch as the life leaves your eyes

Such vicious words escape your mouth, pleas to save your life, painful accusations, and eventually just groans of pain

The background is out of focus but the moonlight illuminates your face contorted in pain, the sickly colour of your skin

He awakes slightly disoriented, the moon still gently glowing on your visage but instead of hair caked with blood and glistening tears, you sleep peacefully. Your hair is a little mused and there may or may not be a spot of drool, but no harms as befell you

Jamil knows this is real. When his nails bite into his palm, the pain keeps him grounded. The details of the room are crisp. He goes over a mental checklist one by one to prove to himself he is no longer trapped in a nightmare

Jamil gently grabs your wrist with fingers hovering over your pulse to feel your blood flowing. He has to press a little into your wrist, you’re so deep in your sleep that your heart rate has slowed down, unlike his own that continues to be erratic until he finally feels your pulse that assures him you’re alive

It feels like hours pass like this, Jamil attentively watching you dream, until he falls asleep to feeling of your constant pulse as he clutches your wrist

Leona Kingscholar

Farena turns you to sand. Leona doesn’t know how it’s possible. That’s his unique magic, not Farena’s. But like everything precious in his life, it is handed to Farena and his bloodline, not Leona

And you, someone who is finally his and his alone, no strings attached or specific clauses to keep you in his grasp are too taken away

Leona can see it. The horror that paints your face. The panicked shrieking as you try to defy fate but crumble to pieces anyway. He swears he can feel the grains of sand that used to make up his lover

Now he has nothing. Not king of his land or your heart. An anguished roar erupts from his throat until it hurts, but never as much as the loss of you

His eyes snaps open and he intakes a sharp breath of air, trying to adjust to his new surroundings.

Instead of sand whipping in every direction, he inhales clean air. Instead of your screams permeating the air, at most he hears some bugs chirping. Instead of clumps of sand, you lay beside him underneath crumpled blankets

Without thought, Leona pulls you into his arms. Your solid form reassures him that you are real and alive. He snuggles you into his chest and keeps you close, caging you in his embrace with strong arms that may or not have quivered slightly when he first made sure you were okay

He feels your body, its warmth, the way your chest raises and falls as your breathe, little puffs of air, all these little signs let him know you’re well

Floyd Leech

Open fractures, moulted bruises, bleeding cuts, there are so many injuries Floyd doesn’t even know how to start. Every injury he’s ever inflicted appears on your body and when those cease, even more begin to harm your battered body.

The perpetrator is a frustrating shadow that Floyd can never get a grip on

He gives up chasing the culprit and cradles your body in his arms, ready to run or swim any distance to get you the medical treatment you need, when he notices your lack of response

No matter how many times Floyd calls out, the light squeeze of your arm, nothing gets you to open your eyes. How could you? The dead don’t move

Without hesitation, the second Floyd has his bearings, he is squeezing you so tight. With your body so tightly pressed against his, he can confirm that your body is safe and not oozing blood. All your bones feel solid when he pulls you so close to him it feels like he’s trying to smush the two of you together

There’s no way you don’t wake up from either being jostled, crushed, or perhaps even slight suffocation. Even your legs are tangled with his at this point

“Give me a hug back~” he whines and at this rate you decide to comply and ask questions letter

Soft mutterings pass through your lips and the occasional reassurance as you try to remove the fog in your sleepy brain

Floyd wants to feel you alive next to him and the pressure of a hug that you return, like how only the living can

If you placate him with a flurry of kisses, you might just get to fall asleep with some breathing room

Azul Ashengrotto

You’re drowning in the ocean. Azul can see your limbs flailing about as you feebly try to climb upwards but you’re leagues below the surface and you’ll never make it in time

He hurls spell after spell your way but none of them reach you. He swims frantically but it’s never fast enough. He watches the stream of bubbles escaping your mouth and nose continue to decrease in size until there is nothing left.

Your limbs still. Your expression is dull. Your body feels cold by the time he cradles your corpse in his tentacles.

When Azul awakes, it’s with a sharp gasp as he searches the room for you. Immediately he wraps all his limbs around your form

You’re jolted from your sleep to the feeling of Azul clutching on a little too tightly

Squeeze him back, remind him that you’re alive and well, whisper sweet words to lull him back to the present

Azul knows you’re okay. The warmth that radiates from your body, your soft sentences that wash over him like gentle waves, the sleepy smile you give him, but somewhere in the back of his head a little voice whispers that it’s all an illusion

A soft kiss on the lips lets him know that you’re real

Riddle Rosehearts

You’re gasping for air, eyes wide, wheezing but holding onto him so painfully tight. Roses bloom and their thorns pierce your throat.

He can see the bud begin to blossom in your mouth, obstructing your airway. Riddle casts spell after spell, trying to reduce the thorns, perhaps wilting the flower but nothing stops its growth

Your chocked breaths cease and you go limp in his arms. As you eyes finally close, you turn into petals and disappear

Riddle awakes, frazzled and worried. He counts to ten to try and calm his mind.

He checks you’re alive, needing proof to assure that horrid dream is all but gone. Riddle feels the pulse in your neck, checks there are no injuries, hovers right above your face to hear your breath. He’s not even gentle, too consumed with anxiety and looming fears

It stirs you awake. You’re not sure what’s happening but his distressed expression prompts you to give him a hug

“You dying on me is against the rules,” Riddle murmurs while falling into your embrace

“I’d never abandon you like that,” you promise and place his hand over your heart to prove you’re alive

You place soft kisses on his forehead and drift off to sleep as he focuses on the sound of your heartbeat.

#twst #twst x reader #twst headcanons #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader

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nalgenewhore · 4 years

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promise me your heart

elide x lorcan, alternate canon au, word count: 2458

Night had fallen hours ago, but still they did not sleep.

A fearsome fire roared and danced in the pit they had built, encircled with marked stones. On the other side, he sat.

The demi-Fae’s dark eyes were wide and could not stop moving, always looking at something new. The witch laughed into her mug of honey ale and drank deeply, the slightly sweet drink cool and refreshing.

When she put her mug down, his eyes were on her.

Elide felt her cheeks blush and turned her face away, cursing him for having this- this foolish, lovesick spell on her. No male made her blush. Not even this one, with his long, long hair and his black tattoos that wrapped around bronze skin rippling with muscles every time he shifted.

She bared her iron fangs in annoyance, at no one in particular. Elide Lochan was almost six-hundred years old. She was the leader of the most feared witch clan in the world. She had killed men, women, males, and females with her bare hands and teeth.

As for the beasts she’d slain, well, she kept their skulls as trophies in her vardo*, the white bones gleaming and shining, fitting in with the colourful drapes and carpets and adornments she had collected over the centuries.

Elide tipped her cup up, only to find that she’d finished her drink. She grumbled and tapped an iron nail over the rim, stewing in silence. Her quick eyes glanced at the male again and her cunning mind wondered what to do with him.

Three weeks ago, she’d found him. At the base of one of the towering and foreboding peaks of Morla. He’d hardly been breathing, curled into a tight ball, his weapons askew in the snow around him. Death had seeped from him, shadow-like strands skittering across the ice and snow covered ground.

They’d seeked her out, herding her towards him.

Elide had managed to drag him back to their camp and tended to him in her caravan, not letting another witch see him, not even her second, Manon. When the moon-haired witch had teased her, telling her she had gone soft for him, Elide had snarled in her face and gone back to his side, until the fever broke. Until he stopped having those… those terrible nightmares, she assumed.

The ones where he thrashed and pleaded, speaking in an ancient warrior language, one she had not heard in ages. Once, tears rolled from his narrow eyes, screwed shut tightly, spilling down his high cheeks. Not knowing what to do and having the undeniable urge to soothe him, Elide had held his face and kissed his brow, whispering a soft prayer.

She was startled from her musings when the very subject of them sat down next to her. He was so large that their shoulders, arms, hips, and legs were pressed together. Elide could feel his enticing warmth against her.

“Are… are you the one who saved me,” he asked, his voice low and grating.

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him. Maiden, Mother, and Crone save her. He was too tall. “What of it?”

The male arched a brow and shrugged a large shoulder up, “Where I come from, it’s customary to thank one for doing you a favour. You saved my life and I should owe you a great debt.”

“I have zero want for a foolish and young male’s debt.”

“Young?” he choked, then chuckled. “I am anything but young. I’ve lived more than my share of centuries.”

Without thinking, Elide replied, “As have I.”

Shocked that such words and such information about herself had slipped from her round lips, Elide snapped her eyes to his. They surveyed each other in turn and the witch was the first to look away, a soft smirk curling the corner of her mouth. “You’re welcome.”

He looked at her again and Elide clarified, “For saving your life.” She leaned just the slightest of bits into him. “You may call me Elide. Whatever do they call you, in your strange land?”

“Lorcan.”

Elide hummed and they both stared ahead. The heavy, booming drum beats slowly died and the witch looked around. Surely her fleet could not be tiring yet. Many, many a time their festivities raged on for days.

Her worries were soothed when it began again and almost immediately, Elide glared at Asterin and Manon.

Their fiddles, well worn and well loved, were nestled comfortably on their shoulders and tucked beneath their chins. They played a delicate and sweet tune and a loud cry of approval swept through the camp.

Almost instantly, witches were surging to their feet and grabbing their loves, dancing around the fire. And then, the most golden of witches opened her mouth and pure heaven spilled from it. Asterin’s sun-flecked eyes sparkled, “I’ll swim and sail on savage seas, with ne’er a fear of drowning…”

She looked to her cousin and Manon rolled her eyes of pure gold before singing in her rasping voice, “And gladly ride the waves of life, if you would marry me…”

For the next lines, they sang together, a perfect harmony. Elide’s second stared pointedly at her, subtly tilting her head. Elide scowled as her face heated. Never.

Stop being a wee witchling. I know you fancy him.

How dare you, Blackbeak?

Manon’s satisfied grin, the fangs she wore on proud display glinting in the firelight, told Elide she’d let too much of herself show. And what are you going to do about it?

She fumed, but knew in her gut that Manon was right.

“No scorching heat nor freezing cold will stop me if you will promise me your heart…”

Darkness, how Elide loathed it when Manon was right. And Manon was right all the time.

Before she could do a thing, Lorcan was standing and his hand extended to her. She looked at it, her mouth popping open, her eyes widening. Elide snapped her head up to look at him, “What are you doing?”

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing around. She could’ve sworn she saw red stealing across his cheeks. “Oh, well- I just- the others are- is–” Lorcan cut himself off, thinning his full lips in self loathing. “Would you like to dance with me, Elide?”

“Yes,” Elide said, her response quick and rushed. She primly cleared her throat and stood. Before Elide placed her hand in his, she retracted her iron nails and gathered the skirts of her red dress in hand. “Shall we?”

“Certainly, witchling.” Lorcan looked to the fire and smirked, awaiting her reply.

She clicked her tongue, “Shut it, faeling.”

“Oh, how you wound me,” he chuckled.

Elide narrowed her eyes at him and sharply tugged him into the dance. She held their hands up and quirked her brow, “My waist, Lorcan.”

His large hand curled around her waist and he pulled her closer, so that she was forced to crane her head up to meet his eye. “Now what?”

“We dance, of course!” she laughed, dancing nimbly on her feet. Elide let Lorcan follow, his footsteps slightly slower. His head was bent, his brow furrowed as he watched her steps. With a surge of confidence, Elide leaned up, kissing the wrinkle between his eyebrows. Lorcan inhaled sharply, his eyes wide as he looked at her. She swallowed once and said, her voice far more unsteady than she liked, “Don’t frown, you’ll get wrinkles.”

A large, booming laugh burst from him. Lorcan quickly picked it up and danced with her, urging her faster and faster. When he spoke, he spoke as if they were taking a leisurely stroll, “I’m six-hundred years old, Elide, I am not worried about wrinkles.”

“Aha, I am six-hundred and one years old which means I know more than you,” she boasted. Elide squealed when Lorcan abruptly spun her out and snapped her back into his arms. Her hand came to rest on his chest and she could feel his heart beating against her palm, “Oh.”

He smiled and she noticed the deep, dishy dimples on his cheeks, “Don’t fall behind, Elide.”

She frowned in offence and switched her steps to something complex and beautiful. Lorcan only slowed for a moment before he matched her, step for step. Elide laughed then, her head tossed back as a pealing sound escaped her.

Lorcan looked down at the ethereal beauty he spun, her cheeks rosy and eyes closed in delirious joy.

As the music picked up speed, they went faster and faster and faster still. Elide’s blood-red skirts spun and flashed and twirled with her hips. Her hair shifted like dark waves of a troubled ocean and Lorcan was utterly, utterly bewitched by the divinity of it all. By the divinity of her.

That quickly, in such a flash, they tripped and stumbled, rolling to the flattened grass. They tumbled over each other, until finally coming to a stop. Lorcan was pinned beneath Elide, her knees bracing on either side of his hips.

Their chests heaved and the off-the-shoulder sleeve of Elide’s dress slipped. Lorcan reached up, as did she, to push it back. When their hands touched, the both of them froze and looked at each other, analysing what they saw.

Slowly, Lorcan sat up and Elide slid her fingers through his. He graced his fingertips over her regal cheekbone and felt her breath fan over his face.

He thought she might kiss him, her breath fanning softly over his face, but she didn’t. Instead, Elide shifted to sit next to him, “You must be hungry.”

Lorcan was about to say, no, but his stomach protested and he cracked a grin, “Starving, but I do have to tell you, I don’t care for virginal sacrifices or young men. They scream far too much.”

Elide stood up and offered her his hand, “The virgins or the men?”

“The men, obviously,” he scoffed. He accepted her hand and stood.

She laughed again, that bright, warm and golden noise stirring something in his chest. “Right answer.” They walked to a large tent, one with beaded fabric walls. The tent’s entrance was pinned open, showing the glowing oil lamps and low tables laden with food and drink.

Elide practically pranced in, holding her large skirts in her hands. She sat down and patted the space beside her. Lorcan walked in and took his seat, looking around him at the array of colourful, aromatic choices. “What should I choose?”

She hummed, her sharp eyes searching the options. “Hmmm… try the saffron rice first, to start. Nothing too rich, your body is still healing.” Before she ate, she took a metal bowl filled with water and gestured for him to do the same. Then, Elide took a stuffed pepper, its skin blackened by flame. She deftly scraped the burned skin off and began to eat.

Lorcan scooped some of the yellow rice onto his plate and ate with his hands, not seeing any utensils. Elide didn’t seem to even notice, so he assumed it was customary. It was all very well, this was how he ate as a child, before everything, with his mother and his sisters.

His throat ached with tears for a moment and Lorcan ate slowly, knowing that his stomach would ache if he went too quickly.

The rice was gone quickly and when he reached for more, the witch stopped him. “Now try this.” She put a bowl of rabbit stew in front of him and his nose twitched, scenting the myriad of spices all melding together. Elide put a round piece of bread beside his bowl. “You need to eat more, you’re too skinny.”

“Well, yes, I nearly froze to death,” Lorcan said drily, frowning when she patted his cheek a touch too hard.

“Don’t be contrary,” Elide said. “Eat your stew.” Her hand rested on his cheek and Lorcan snapped his teeth towards her fingertips, laughing when she shrieked and snatched them back. “Devil Fae.”

“Devil witch.”

Elide hummed in appreciation and they ate until their bellies were warm and full.

Outside, the fiddles still played and the witches still danced, bright and merry. Elide and Lorcan took their plates and bowls and walked to the river behind her vardo. They washed in silence and stacked their dishes beside them. Warm and sated, Elide leaned against Lorcan and he wrapped his arm around her. Elide sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. She tipped her head to the side and pressed her face into the crook of his neck. “Will you be leaving soon, then?”

His arm slipped from her shoulders and his warm hand fit into the cradle of her waist. The demi-fae’s voice was soft and low, his head leaning against hers, “Do you wish for me to leave soon? Your witches must not care for males.”

“I do not care what my witches think about this,” she whispered, her hands finding his free one. “And I do not wish for you to leave.” Elide looked up at him, his face bathed in the light of the moon. Like she could not help herself nor control herself, Elide reached up and marked those beautifully untameable features of his. She ran her fingers down his cheekbone and dragged one down the ridge of his brow, following the path it made to his straight nose.

Lorcan simply watched her, his eyes soft and dark as he surveyed her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the corners of his mouth. He hardly dared to breathe. Elide swallowed once before she pressed her lips to his, forced to rise onto her knees.

He lifted his hand to cup her face. She sighed softly and leaned her cheek into his palm. When Lorcan tangled his hand in her hair to kiss her fully, Elide shifted to straddle him, her knees bracketed on either side of his hips.

When he had woken in that foreign, vibrant and colourful carriage, Lorcan had not been scared. Something had settled in his chest, something he hadn’t known he’d been aching for. He had been too tired, too weak to explore it, to reason it. Too safe.

“Don’t leave. Please,” Elide whispered, pulling back slightly. “Won’t you stay?

“I will,” Lorcan swore, for he had found it.

He had found his heart, ancient and wicked and his in every way possible. And Elide, she had found the one to protect her, in this life and every life after.

Even after the world went to ruin and damnation, they would remain this way, for they were finally home.

☽ ☼ ☾

*vardo: traditional romany wagon

@mythicaitt @werewolffprince @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @ladyverena @ttakeitbacknoww @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere @queenofxhearts @maastrash @mynewdreamwasyou @cursebreaker29 @empress-ofbloodshed @b00kworm @hizqueen4life @silversprings98 @amren-courtofdreams @minaidss @superspiritfestival @sanakapoor @ireallyshouldsleeprn @spyofthenightcourt @thegoddessofyou @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx @claralady @neonhellas @darlinminds @readingismyonlyhobby @autophobiaxx @silversprings28 @myshadowsingeraz @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @elriel4life @always-in-a-daydream @jlinez @ladywitchling @mariamuses @darklesmylove

#aint it sweet ! this was fun to write tee hee #elorcan #elide x lorcan #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #isa writes #nalgenewhore

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malkumtend · 4 years

Text

I Like Your Laugh (A SquirrelCrow AU) - Chapter 17.

He’d been here before.

Well, actually, he’d been here all his life. It was on the moors of Windclan territory. On the hills that cascaded over in an endless shape. Crowpaw looked around in bewilderment, the relief of finding home leaving him as soon as he realised a more glaring fact.

He couldn’t even remember how he got here.

Bristling, Crowpaw felt his stomach chill, a searing dread overcoming him. It was night-time, but where the Windclan sky should have been full of bright stars, only a vast, empty darkness hung over the hills. There wasn’t even a moon. Crowpaw turned around again and again, but all that met him was the emptiness of the hills and the ebony sky.

It seemed like Windclan, but it lacked everything that meant anything.

This place was devoid of warmth and safety, only coldness and dread reigned here.

Crowpaw swallowed down his growing fear, his tail stiffening as he remembered the cats he had been with for moons. “S-Squirrelpaw?” He called out hopefully, his voice echoed around him carrying a dreary chant. It sounded wrong. “Feather-” He paused, swallowed again, and took a breath. “Tawnypelt? Stormfur? Brambleclaw?!” Again and again, only the hollow repetition of his growing fear replied to him. He could hear the terror broadening with each call.

Crowpaw’s heart began to race. Something was deeply wrong here. His mind was hazy and he couldn’t find the breath to even think about what was going on. He felt the freezing night all over, as if it were trying to swallow him whole. A deep convicted sense of judgement littered the hills. It was almost like a thousand eyes were glaring hatefully at him, concealed in the dark home; waiting to drag Crowpaw in.

He tried to command his trembling legs to run away, to find whatever help he could, it wasn’t safe here, but his paws kept firm on the ground. The hills held him there, frozen with unknown horror.

Then he saw it.

A black shape in the corner of his eye. A tremble worked along Crowpaw’s neck to his body and then down to the tip of his tail. He inhaled, craving desperately to feel anything other than the scratchy moans rasping on his voice.

He turned and two glowing eyes stared at him.

Even in the darkness, even if the cat’s black pelt was nothing more than a shadow in the night, Crowpaw recognised that stare. A forgotten scent entered Crowpaw and made his jaw drop.

“Deadfoot?”

Deadfoot blinked but said nothing.

Involuntarily, Crowpaw felt the desire, the burning need to embrace his father, to cling to him like he was still a kit and not an apprentice terrified in the middle of nowhere. But he still kept still. Maybe because the cold had numbed his bones.

Maybe because Deadfoot’s stare held him back.

“Where are we?” Crowpaw yowled desperately to his father. “What’s going on?”

Deadfoot said that a mistake had been made.

The voice that came out of his father made Crowpaw’s fur shoot up on all ends. The strands of comfort he had were scratched away and left Crowpaw alone.

“A mistake?” Crowpaw muttered.

Deadfoot repeated himself.

“What are you talking about? What mistake? I- Where’s the rest of my group?”

Deadfoot said that they were fine now. That they were better off now that Crowpaw wasn’t there.

“W-What?” Crowpaw stammered, now failing to muster whatever bravery he had feigned. He just now began to see that behind the hollow glow of his father’s stare, there was nothing but an unimaginable hatred.

Deadfoot claimed that Crowpaw had failed. That he was the mistake that Deadfoot had made.

Crowpaw’s breathing weakened. “I-I don’t-”

Deadfoot screamed that Crowpaw should never interrupt him. Crowpaw cowered as the ferocity shattered the night sky and made a torrent of rain hiss down onto the pair. Crowpaw struggled to raise his gaze again; even when he was alive, Crowpaw had never heard his father yell at him like that. Deadfoot didn’t react to the rain as he continued that he was a fool for ever trusting an apprentice to do a warrior’s job. He bitterly remarked that Windclan was now the laughingstock of Starclan.

Crowpaw felt blame pierce through him like a stone. The kind of blame that could kill. That had killed.

“W-Well why did you choose me in the first place?” Crowpaw yelled, “If I was such a mess, why did you send me instead of a Warrior?” If he hadn’t been chosen, maybe she wouldn’t have-

Deadfoot interrupted the choked sob with a loathing explanation that Crowpaw had a name to live up to, and he was given a chance, and he had failed.

Crowpaw tried to rub the pain off his fur before it ate him away. “I-I did everything you told me to!” He screamed, the scream he somehow remembers from the times his father was alive. “We made it to the sun-drown place! We completed the journey!”

Deadfoot wondered aloud if the journey was complete without Riverclan’s chosen cat.

Crowpaw screwed his eyes until he saw dots instead of the blood and the body. “D-Don’t!” He pleaded.

Deadfoot spoke the truth. It was Crowpaw’s fault. He wasn’t quick enough. A Windclan cat wasn’t quick enough, he spat with a bitter, horrible laugh. He mused whether Windclan would want a cat like that back if they were to ever realise that.

Crowpaw kept his eyes closed but the tears still came. Wet and hot and taunting him with his failures.

A failure. Deadfoot decided. Crowpaw was a failure to his clan, to himself, to Deadfoot, and to her.

The rain still hissed down, scratchy and scraping, but Crowpaw didn’t feel it on his pelt anymore. It wasn’t like he fully realised it. Apologies and begging was caught in the thorns that enclosed around his throat, digging into his tongue as he was bombarded with the images again. Deadfoot’s disgusted, disowning expression. His own cowardly face, pressed against stone, frozen in fear. Then-

A new voice came, withered, forgotten, dying. But it was clear in its decision that Deadfoot was right about Crowpaw.

Crowpaw didn’t know why he opened his eyes, but he did. And he wasn’t in the moors anymore. The shadows of the cave flashed up and away with the roar of thunder. A tail-length ahead of him, a broken body lay in its pool of gore, silver fur matted with dirty crimson, its shattered head was turned up and staring at Crowpaw through pale, bloodshot eyes that once were a brilliant blue.

The Windclan cat felt bile in his throat as the voice he still recognised spoke up again claiming that it was Crowpaw’s fault. As she spoke, she coughed out a wad of blood that flickered on the grey cat’s paws.

Crowpaw didn’t argue. He wanted to open his mouth and beg for whatever mercy he could still hope for.

But the growling behind him made him stop.

Wearily, acceptingly, the tom turned, staring right into the hungry ember eyes of Sharptooth. He knew that what was going to happen was what should have already occurred but, of course, he still closed his eyes and screamed as he felt the jaws lunge forward and claim the prey it always should have seized.

Regrettably, Crowpaw woke up. He shook his head from side to side, seeing no cave anywhere. Instead, his sleeping friends lay all around him. The moon sagged in the dim night; it wouldn’t be long before they all had to continue home.

The tom winced at the images that still stung in his mind. His heart threatened to burst out of his mouth with how hard it was beating. He breathed slowly as he realised that he was safe.

Then the guilt made his throat close up again.

How could he feel any relief that he was safe or alive? He’d seen her in his nightmare.

The cat who would have gladly licked his head like a worried mother if she’d seen him like this. She was gone and was never coming back. And even though that vision of her had been nothing more than some terrible dream, it didn’t change the truth.

It was his fault that she was dead.

He had been the one who couldn’t hide from Sharptooth, he had been the one who she had risked her life for, he was the one that she had died to save. Whether it was ‘prophecy’ or not, she had died because of him. Now Riverclan was without their chosen cat, now they had lost a valiant Warrior, Stormfur and Greystripe had both lost their own family.

All because of some worthless, pathetic, apprentice from another clan.

Stormfur had trusted him. Make sure that she doesn’t get hurt. Crowpaw had promised something that he couldn’t keep. She had been hurt. She had been lost. He could only imagine what the Riverclan Warrior thought of him.

Crowpaw’s head sank onto the cold grass, exhaling like it may cause his own life to fade into the hills. Deadfoot, whether it was him or not, had been right. He’d made a terrible mistake choosing his son.

Death and despair, that was what had come because of Deadfoot’s choice. But then again, he’d probably only wanted to give his son a chance that Windclan never would have approved of. What that nightmare had said, who’s to say it wasn’t what the real cat thought.

If he closed his eyes, Crowpaw could feel the stars burning down on him with disgust.

Crowpaw felt the presence of the cats beside him, each glowing with the respectful title of Warrior. There was a reason they’d been chosen. There was a reason Crowpaw shouldn’t have been. They’d all been right to be on edge when they found out an apprentice was Windclan’s supposed savior. They never would have accepted him if it wasn’t for her. And now, she’d had to pay the price for her kindness.

He’d not even once suspected that she might be the prophesised cat. Was he really that blind? If he’d bothered to just think for one moment, he might have been able to do something to keep her from that fate! He could have refused ever going back there!

But he hadn’t done anything right, he hadn’t been the friend she’d called him. Feathertail deserved better than him.

He didn’t deserve a place here. He should have been the one they’d go home without.

But they were stuck with him. The memories of Feathertail, of Crowpaw’s failure, were stuck with them all. They were better off if the ground would just swallow him there and then. If anything happened to any more of his friends, because of his actions…

Dolefully, Crowpaw turned to his sleeping best friend. She was curled up in a tight ball, her muzzle creased with a disturbed look. Clearly, her dreams were also plagued. Crowpaw’s ears lay tight against his head, sympathy and guilt icing his heart.

I’m sorry, Squirrelpaw. I’m so sorry. She had lost a close friend too. They had become friends because of Feather. His claws retreated into him, soft horror making him ache. The bloody images of his nightmare clawed over him, reminding him what he caused, what he brought.

If he ever saw Squirrelpaw like that…

He’d sooner die.

So much of him wanted to go over to her and comfort her, to tell her that everything would be okay. But how could he dare do such a thing? He couldn’t tell her such terrible lies. She wasn’t stupid, she knew who was to blame, even if she was too kind to show it.

She had stayed beside him the whole way here. Her kindness was poisoning her. If she was put in a dire enough situation, Crowpaw knew how her bravery would make her act, she’d protect anyone she thought of as her friend.

She’d die for them.

Crowpaw would never let that happen.

He hated what he was thinking of doing, but it was for the best. He couldn’t do anything to help Squirrelpaw. He’d seen how she had tried to storm over when Sharptooth was advancing on him, and how her death was only prevented because Brambleclaw had held her back.

Her clanmate had protected her. Her clan was the only thing that could protect her. She would only face pain if she continued on with him. Crowpaw dragged his eyes away from his friend, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to accept the truth. This needs to end. You always knew that deep down.

He was a kit for thinking any different.

If his thoughts were right, they would reach home hopefully by the end of tomorrow. They’d reach the fields first, and then they would find Windclan. Then it would all end. They would separate.

Just like they were meant to do.

Images of the journey, foolish and sickly, mocked Crowpaw. The promise to meet again. The friendship they wished to retain. The happiness of those thoughts now taunted him, laughing at how he could have believed such a fantasy.

But he had wanted it, so much.

Because he cared about them.

He cared about her.

That was why he wouldn’t argue anymore. Crowpaw’s blue eyes dimly gazed up at the overwhelming swarm of stars, the lights that had always been, and always would dominate the sky above them. His face sank down in defeat.

He’d done this to himself.

He knew what was right now. For their sake, for her sake, when they said goodbye, it would be for good.

…

Everything hurt.

No cat hurried along the hill slope, even as the air began to smell more like home. They were all entrapped in the memories of mountains and caves, their hearts and spirits lost with the cat who would remain there for all time, the cat who should have come home with them all.

Every face carried some dark mask, the sting of loss piercing them all. But for Squirrelpaw, that loss clumped to her like thick roots, painfully wrapping around her bleeding, cracked paws, making her yearn to fall into another flood of tears again.

She fought to keep her head up. She told herself that Feathertail would have wanted her to be strong.

But Squirrelpaw wanted Feathertail here with them.

Because now, no cat looked ready to face whatever lied ahead in their journey.

For a while, Squirrelpaw had tried her best to comfort those who needed it the most. Obviously, Stormfur was her first priority. The grey Warrior had been devastated, his usual cheer barren, replaced by the murky weariness that had claimed them all. But for him, it was so much worse. Too many times, the cat had been quietly speaking, clearly trying to make some remark about home to his sister, only to find his side empty aside from the memory that Feathertail would never come home.

The look of utter heartbreak was gut-wrenching to see every time.

Squirrelpaw had done her best, like they all did, sharing tongues and pressing gentle pelts against the cat, but every word of encouragement she offered just felt like empty, dry breath in her mouth.

How could you comfort something like this? It wasn’t like it ever worked. It just reminded Squirrelpaw of those happy memories that were now bitter thorns on her pelt. Every gust of wind that should have told her they were growing closer to the clans just felt like a frosty imitation of Feathertail’s voice, unreachable yet lingering forever.

She didn’t need to look at her friends to know they felt it too.

Squirrelpaw sighed weakly from the back of the group. We should have all been here. That was how it was meant to be! It wasn’t fair! Feathertail had given everything, had been good and kind every step of the journey, more deserving to be called a hero than anyone Squirrelpaw knew; so why did she have to be the one who died?

Why did any of them have to die at all? They had all grown so close over this journey, had overstepped boundaries that the clans were drawn by, to lose any of them was some cruel joke after everything they’d been through!

It wasn’t fair to Feathertail’s sacrifice!

It wasn’t fair to the cats left struggling with her memory.

Especially the cat she loved, who hobbled at the front, tasting the air of his home, but with no spark of recognition at all.

It was so, so painful to see Crowpaw like this. It was clear the cat blamed himself for Feathertail’s death, and he still stuck to that idea no matter how many times Squirrelpaw tried to prove to him it wasn’t true. Her words only seemed to fall on him like rain, just making him more cold with every drop.

It was his eyes that made Squirrelpaw ache the most. A glazed, misty blue. Lifeless. It never left.

No cat could reach him.

But wasn’t that understandable? It was clear that he had lost the cat he loved, to Squirrelpaw at least.

She really was terrible for letting herself be hurt by that as well.

Squirrelpaw watched him sorrowfully as he took in another deep breath, scenting the marsh of his homeland. “We’re getting close.” He muttered, loud enough to be heard, gentle enough to be weak. They had past Highstones a few minutes ago, but the realisation offered no cat any comfort. They were all numb from the loss.

“It’s almost over.” Tawnypelt said, it was unclear whether she was speaking to the group or herself.

Beside her, her brother, Brambleclaw, lifted his head wearily. “I can’t believe it. It seems like just yesterday we all set off.”

Squirrelpaw saw Crowpaw’s tail swing angrily, “We all should have returned.” He growled, “If it wasn’t for Feathertail, we would never have made it back.”

His words sent a wave of grief throughout the cats, but none could disagree. “She saved us all.” Stormfur agreed in a hushed whisper, his eyes drifting off like clouds.

Tawnypelt moved over to the grey cat, pressing her head gently against his. “It was her destiny.”

Crowpaw’s neck stiffened up, and dread coiled in Squirrelpaw. “Destiny?” Crowpaw cursed, “Her destiny was with us! It was with her clan! She shouldn’t have died for another cat’s prophecy!” His voice was dry with loathing.

Squirrelpaw knew where it was targeted.

She pounced up to where her friend was, the aching in her heart was now intolerable. Up close, she saw the bitterness in Crowpaw’s eyes again. “She did what she thought was right.” Squirrelpaw said softly, “That was just who Feathertail was.”

Crowpaw seemed to be straining to look away from her. His scowl fixed ahead, creasing as her words reached him. At his other side, Stormfur crept over and pressed his muzzle to the tom’s pelt. “Bravery and sacrifice are part of the Warrior Code. Would you have wanted her to make any other choice?”

The Warrior Code. The words fell onto Squirrelpaw like a hawk’s talons. Her teeth quietly clashed together. Crowpaw seemed to have the same idea, his eyes widening for a split moment that made Squirrelpaw tremble. The dark tom burst ahead, tasting the air, not giving the other two any more notice.

Stormfur sighed and slunk back to where Tawnypelt was. Squirrelpaw was still watching Crowpaw wistfully, wishing she could know what to say to make him stop hurting. Over this journey, he had changed so much, they had changed so much, but now he seemed to be retreating back into the cold shell that refused any kind of kindness offered his way.

She couldn’t hate him though. She wouldn’t have fared much better if she had lost the cat she loved.

But now, the journey was finally ending. Soon he would be gone. Why did it have to end like this? Yes, she wanted to see her parents and sister again, the thought of their safety had never left her mind one since Midnight had told them about what the Twolegs were doing to the forest. But still?

She could never trivialise how much she would miss her friends. Especially Crowpaw.

For more than a moon, he had been by her side, through the best and worst of times. And now, it was just expected that they would leave that in the past and move on as rivals, like the clans demanded.

How could she ever do that? She couldn’t just pretend that this tom didn’t mean so much to her. Even when ignoring her feelings, they were close friends, she considered him her best friend, she was meant to just act like that was never even a thought?

Squirrelpaw cast her head low. It just wasn’t fair.

A gentle press to her pelt made her look up. Two amber eyes looked at her with mellow sympathy. “He just needs some time.” Brambleclaw purred, “We all do really.”

Squirrelpaw’s whiskers twitched in surprise, but her gaze softened. “You can say that again.” The grass beneath her feet was soaked with dew that seeped into the cracks of her paws, making them sting. She hissed lightly, “I wish I knew what to say to him.”

Brambleclaw made a murmur of acknowledgement, his great shoulders sinking on him as he exhaled. “I’d help if I could.”

Squirrelpaw mewed wordlessly, strolling on.

Brambleclaw chewed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes flickering. “Are you going to be okay?”

He meant it well, but Squirrelpaw still laughed sadly. Oh, if her clanmate only knew. “Probably not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She looked over at Crowpaw again, her muzzle scrunching. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I just wish he knew that.”

“He will, eventually.” Brambleclaw meowed.

Squirrelpaw scoffed, “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you won’t stop until he realises it.”

Squirrelpaw twisted to face her clanmate. He looked down at her, a gentle smile on his face. A proud smile. He chuckled faintly, his throat humming like a summer beehive. “He’s lucky to have a friend as loyal as you.” His smile thinned, “She was lucky as well; to know you.”

Squirrelpaw’s ears twitched and her tail flattened, “So much good I did.” She muttered. Feathertail was dead and Crowpaw wouldn’t even look at anyone.

“Of course, it did good.” Brambleclaw assured, “You were their when she needed you, that’s the best any cat can ask for.” He took a small breath, his ears falling flat. “It was better than anything I did.”

“What?” The apprentice’s ears perked up again.

“You were a better friend than I was a clanmate.”

Squirrelpaw’s face loosened, “Brambleclaw…”

“It’s true.” The brown tabby meowed out, an assured strength in his tone.

In a way, Squirrelpaw couldn’t disagree. The way Brambleclaw had treated her at the start of the journey had truly been terrible. She certainly hadn’t hidden the fact she resented him for his actions then. But that had been then. When they had reached the mountains, his attitude had greatly changed. He’d apologised for what he’d done and had promised to change.

And he hadn’t lied. He had changed.

She thought she’d made it clear she’d forgiven him. “Brambleclaw, it’s fine.” She mewed, smiling gently at her clanmate. One eye cocked up a little, “You may still be a mouse-brain, but you’ve done enough to make up for what happened.”

Despite her words, Brambleclaw still looked down, “You may be kind enough to say that Squirrelpaw. But I’d beg to differ.”

Squirrelpaw let out a hurt mew, “Why?”

Brambleclaw let out a low moan, his amber eyes cooling with hopelessness. “I thought that by the end of this journey, I would have been able to prove your father for not trusting me when we left the clans.” His back fur prickled. “But what did I do? I just proved him right.”

Squirrelpaw’s face filled with astonishment, “What are you talking about?” She remembered clearly how Firestar had treated Brambleclaw, and her for that matter, before they left. None of what happened then was fair at all.

“The way I treated you. Let’s face it, I was the cat you trusted the least, me, your own clanmate!” He dipped his head feebly, “Not that I didn’t deserve it. I just wanted to show I could be a good leader, and now one of us is…” His voice broke off into another shattered sigh.

Squirrelpaw remembered that clearly as well, it was true, she hadn’t trusted Brambleclaw then. But that didn’t stop his words from being any less stupid. The ginger molly rubbed her pelt against her clanmate’s. “You’re forgetting yourself, Brambleclaw. You just said it; what happened was not your fault.” She looked up at him, her tail pressing against his pelt. “You apologised for how you acted. I forgave you. That’s it.”

“But I-”

“And believe me, you are better at leading than you think.” Squirrelpaw couldn’t deny that, she wasn’t a liar… most of the time.” Her breath cast off for a second. She reclaimed it, cold and heavy. “If it wasn’t for you, Sharptooth would have got me as well.”

“Are you joking?” Brambleclaw cried, his eyes wide. “You’re the one who saved me!”

“And you saved me too.” She may not have liked it then. But neither had Brambleclaw. He hadn’t held her back to sacrifice Crowpaw, he was just doing his duty. He had to protect who he could. She would have done the same for him. “I think Firestar was more than wrong about you being a bad influence on me!”

Brambleclaw gazed down at the apprentice, his mouth open, and his eyes trembling with gratitude. Squirrelpaw purred, nudging him with her head. She gave him a playful look. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to put in a great word for you!”

The brown tabby laughed weakly, nudging her back teasingly. “He was wrong about you, as well, you know?”

“Really now?”

“Yes.” His muzzle glowed with an honoured glint. “You deserve to become a Warrior. You’re going to make a great one.”

That was what Squirrelpaw had wanted to hear from him for moons.

“Thank you.” She mewed quietly, somehow overcome. She quickly sniffed up though, cheekily whipping the larger cat with her tail. “What made you finally come to your senses?”

Brambleclaw rose a brow, smirking. “Tawnypelt told me you were keeping a tally on how many times you saved me.”

Squirrelpaw laughed out loud, “Oh that. Well… I might have done. You want me to tell you the numbers.”

Brambleclaw rolled his eyes, walking ahead, “I’m sure you’ll tell me soon enough.”

She’d missed this. This friendship they’d had before they left. The pain in her paws seemed to leave her as she realised, she had her friend back. A friend that would be by her side when they reached home.

Squirrelpaw stilled.

Home.

The molly’s heart oozed with worry again, her breaths deepening. How could she have forgotten? Home; her family! This journey was far from over yet! They still had to find their clan and tell them about what they’d seen.

“What do you think my father will say when we tell him about Midnight?”

The humour drained from Brambleclaw’s expression. “Who knows?”

Squirrelpaw cringed. It was her own dad and she wasn’t entirely sure how he would react to the idea that they needed to run away from this forest as soon as possible. Leaving generations of history was not an easy ask. “Do you think he’ll believe us?”

Brambleclaw’s eyes cast down densely, “He’ll have to. If what Midnight said ends up being true.”

A spike of fear dug into Squirrelpaw. The destruction Midnight had promised would come… No. She had to shake those thoughts from her head. They had come so far now, they had lost too much, she couldn’t afford to lose sight of the future.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Brambleclaw suddenly tensed and burst forward. “Come on!”

Without thinking, she ran after him. Crowpaw had burst off in a sprint, weaving through a rabbit track, Tawnypelt and Stormfur close behind. Squirrelpaw’s heart leapt into her mouth. He must have smelt Windclan!

Squirrelpaw put all her strength into running after the group, soon catching up with them as the thought of home stimulated her nerves and muscles. She followed through the track, not pausing as the wet soil caked over her paws. They were so close to the forest. She couldn’t slow down now!

Following the frantic shapes of her friends at the front, Squirrelpaw began to see a weak light shimmer near the end of the tunnel. Sunlight. She bounded towards it like it was the light of Starclan.

Ignoring the gorse spines embedding into her fur, she pounded towards the light, leaping out to see a wide grassy plain stretch out before her. Instantly, the smells of Windclan took over her senses.

They were here! Alleviation, a small victory, sparked in Squirrelpaw’s gut. They had made it back!

She raced to catch up with the others, leaping through heather and tall grass, not stopping for a moment.

As she pounced through a brush of heather, she just about caught Brambleclaw’s yowl. “I smell Windclan warriors!”

Squirrelpaw smelt them too. She had found one.

She digged her paws into the soil to stop herself from colliding with the cat. The tom was small, an apprentice by the look of it, and stood in the centre of a grassy clearing, his thin pelt bristled with rage as he spotted Squirrelpaw. “I knew I smelt intruders!” He hissed, as he slowly advanced on Squirrelpaw.

Squirrelpaw’s eyes widened with shock, then darkened into rage, her claws unsheathing. Was she really going to need to fight this little runt as soon as she got back? After everything she’d gone through. Her pelt spiked with warning as the cat approached, growling.

Between them, a grey shape cut in. Standing a little over the apprentice, Crowpaw stared down.

“Owlkit!” Crowpaw yowled, “Don’t you recognise me?” Squirrelpaw’s face twisted. This pest was a kit?!

Owlkit stared at Crowpaw vaguely, before he snapped. “I’m Owlpaw now!” He hissed indignantly.

Squirrelpaw scoffed to the side. Was it true that all Windclan cats were as snappy as this?

Owlpaw did seem to recognise the tom however, but when Crowpaw tried to explain their travels and how he needed to see Tallstar immediately. Another pair of Windclan cat approached, their eyes also narrow with mistrust as they saw the other clan cats on their territory.

“Get them off our territory now!” A wiry grey tom ordered. Squirrelpaw stared worriedly at the ribs protruding from his thin waist. They looked like they hadn’t eaten in days! Her worry was quickly forgotten though, as the tom, Webfoot, Crowpaw called him, demanded that they leave!

“They travelled with me.” Crowpaw meowed sternly, “I’ll explain it all when I see Tallstar.”

“You’ll explain everything later! We thought you were dead.” The tone of Webfoot’s voice didn’t sound happy that the thought was proven false. “Now, get them out of here! They don’t belong here!”

Squirrelpaw’s fury raged inside of her, the fool wasn’t even giving Crowpaw a chance to defend himself! She saw Crowpaw’s tail lash in frustration and she couldn’t stop herself from stepping forward! After everything she’d seen, she wasn’t afraid of some malnourished grump.

But Brambleclaw quickly stepped forward, his head dipping respectfully to the glaring warrior. “Of course, we’ll leave.” A stern but pleading look crossed over to Squirrelpaw. Please keep your cool. It seemed to beg.

Squirrelpaw sighed and turned away, “We need to return to our own clans anyway.” She muttered, trying to hold back her hiss.

“Then hurry up!” Webfoot growled, his unkind eyes latched onto Crowpaw. “Come on then, I’ll take you to Tallstar. I’m sure he’ll love hearing whatever you have to say.” The cat said, his stare burning unkindly on the dark apprentice.

Squirrelpaw gaped. This was the welcome Crowpaw got, after everything he’d done for his clan?! Her heart surged to protect her friend, but she paused as she saw Crowpaw take one reserved step forward. A thought that made everything suddenly grow cold.

This was it.

After more than a moon of bonding, befriending and loving this tom, this was where they had to separate. This was where things went back to normal. She watched as Crowpaw continued to speak to Webfoot about the clans, wondering, maybe pleading, that the thought of this was as heartbreaking to him as it was for her.

He didn’t look her way.

Squirrelpaw felt her own fur freeze as reality came over her in a cruel tide. This really was the end. No more walking and talking by Crowpaw’s side. No more nights curled next to him, their warmth aiding each other. No more of their friendship being something they could hide.

Would their friendship even be allowed to carry on?

The molly stared hopelessly after the tom. She could still hear when she had first called him her friend. She could feel his care for her when he hugged her. Where had the time gone since then? Everything had been pulled away from her like an owl stealing a kit from their mother’s paws.

She was just expected to forget all of this.

She didn’t want to forget. She couldn’t forget any of this.

She couldn’t just treat Crowpaw like he was some enemy.

She…

He was her…

Crowpaw looked back, but it wasn’t just at her. His eyes were shallow with thought, a hard line on his muzzle. “Can I say goodbye to my friends first?”

Goodbye…

Why did that word sound so harsh?

“Friends?” A brown Windclan tom meowed, aghast, “Does you loyalty lie with other clans now?” He spat poisonously.

Crowpaw gave the tom a level stare, but his paws clearly trembled in a fight to remain sheathed. “No. But we’ve travelled together for more than a moon.”

Exactly. And so much had changed in that time.

The Windclan cats did not look pleased by his answer, but they kept quiet.

Time seemed to slow down for Squirrelpaw as she watched Crowpaw break the space between him and their friends. His eyes were still thin and hollow, but his touch was tender as her rubbed affectionately between Tawnypelt and Stormfur. Somewhere, Squirrelpaw wished he could move slower.

Each one of his movements was like a drop of rain being swallowed by a voracious lake. Soon the water would spill and Squirrelpaw would be carried away in the flood.

When he stood before Brambleclaw, Crowpaw didn’t even seem to consider their history as he pressed his muzzle against the Warrior’s pelt, his eyes closed. Brambleclaw looked sadly down at the apprentice, his tail wrapping over Crowpaw’s back. It gently touched a line of scars that cascaded across the Windclan tom’s side, scars that had long since dried up and were covered by tufts of new fur.

“We must meet again soon,” Brambleclaw purred as Crowpaw pulled away; the younger tom nodded silently. Squirrelpaw’s heart lightened with hope. “At the great rock, like Midnight told us. It might not be easy to convince the leaders that we need to leave the forest. But if we’ve seen the dying warrior…”

“Why don’t we bring the leaders with us?” Squirrelpaw suggested. “They’ll have to believe us if they see the warrior too!”

The others shared a grim look. “I can’t imagine Leopardstar will agree to that.” Stormfur mused.

“Blackstar neither.” Tawnypelt added with a lash of her tail. “There’s no full moon, so there won’t be any truce between the clans.”

“But it’s important!” Squirrelpaw insisted. Surely the clans could put aside their nonsense when their own lives depended on it.

“It’s worth a try.” Brambleclaw decided. Squirrelpaw flashed him a gracious beam. “Squirrelpaw’s right. That might be the best way to share the news.”

“Okay.” Crowpaw monotoned, “We’ll meet at Fourtrees tomorrow night. With or without our leaders.”

“You can’t meet at Fourtrees!” Squirrelpaw groaned as she turned back to the impatient scowl of Webfoot, then his words caught her like prey. “There’s nothing left of it!”

A terrifying silence took hold of the journeying cats. Squirrelpaw’s entire bloodstream turned to dark ice.

“What do you mean?” Tawnypelt took a heavy step towards the Windclan cat.

Webfoot’s glare darkened, trouble edging into his face. “The clans watched the Twolegs destroy it moonrises ago, when we arrived at the Gathering. The Twolegs and their monsters ripped the trees from their roots!”

Images ripped across Squirrelpaw, the trees she had sat by so many times torn apart like they were just blades of grass. Midnight was right, destruction was on the clan’s path, and they needed to get away quickly!

“Go see it for yourselves, if you’re mouse-brained enough!” Webfoot meowed nastily. His glare twisted back to his returned clanmate. “Are you done?”

“Almost.” Crowpaw mewed, he too looked despaired by the news. They all were. Squirrelpaw’s mind was in a frantic push and shove. Her loyalty screaming at her to find her family as soon as possible, but something deeper keeping her rooted where she stood. “I still think we should meet there, even if the trees are gone.”

That sounded fine. Squirrelpaw certainly wouldn’t argue. The other’s also shared an agreed mrrow.

Crowpaw nodded once, then slowly his eyes were on Squirrelpaw.

The two friends looked at each other, silently. A wounded sensation came over the Thunderclan molly. She was so used to seeing those eyes on a morning, full of life and joy. Now they were distant and dryly grazing her. Had he also realised what this meant for their friendship?

Even if they met again tomorrow, it wouldn’t be any cause for joy.

Those times were over, Squirrelpaw realised, sadness filling her. Reality truly was pulling them back into place.

This moment was the last chance they would have to act like real friends.

Squirrelpaw braced herself to remember it. She stepped forward, ready for whatever Crowpaw had planned. The beautiful blue eyes looked at her tensely, his neck fur prickling a little, but the dark tom approached her.

Squirrelpaw offered him a smile, ready to embrace him.

The side of his muzzle lingered against hers.

In half a second it was breaking away.

In the next half a second, Squirrelpaw didn’t have any control of herself. A brief touch, a passive brush, that was going to be their farewell. She thought of all those moments he had been by her side, laughing, crying, being her closest partner every step of the journey. She thought of the devastated state she had seen him in for days, and how after this he would be left alone like that.

He would be left alone with that empty look still plastered on him.

That would be their goodbye.

This would be the moment she thought of whenever she saw him.

Empty. Alone.

No.

He wasn’t alone. He wouldn’t be now. Squirrelpaw still had that much power.

She hadn’t realised what she’d done until her paws were wrapped tenderly around his neck. She breathed him in, trying to hold onto all of him, as her nose pressed into the crook of his neck. She could just imagine how the others were looking at her, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about their unfair rules. Crowpaw was he friend, that would never change. “Take care of yourself.” She mewed into his ear, beginning to nuzzle into his neck fur.

Then she noticed how stiff Crowpaw was in her grasp, how his paws had slid over her forelegs, gently pushing them off of him. The shock that paralysed Squirrelpaw made her let herself effortlessly uncurl from him. “Squirrelpaw,” A dry voice said, “You need to go back to Thunderclan, okay?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a goodbye.

Once her paws had weakly found the ground again, she stared up wordlessly at her friend, her eyes wide with dreaded disbelief. Her heart truly broke when she saw that empty stare again. The light in the blue was gone, overtaken by a cold, misanthropic aridity. He meowed a quiet, “Good luck,” to them all, and then all Squirrelpaw saw was the dark shape of his back until he had finally disappeared over the hills.

He was gone now.

He hadn’t even paused once to look back.

Squirrelpaw didn’t even feel reality’s claws on her neck anymore.

It had been replaced by true, heartbroken horror.

Squirrelpaw didn’t stop staring until Brambleclaw nudged her. She softly looked at his sympathetic gaze, her mouth still frozen open. “Let’s go.” He mewed.

Quietly, Squirrelpaw obeyed. Her eyes trailed over to the hills again, but they were barren and cold in the air. The grass swayed gently in the growing breeze. A memory came back of tall grass; of her and Crowpaw entangled, pinning each other, laughing, so happily.

The breeze came over Squirrelpaw again, biting and cruel as freezing loss settled itself in her heart.

…

Merry Christmas everyone! Thank you all for filling this year with so much pride and joy for this story! I hope you all have a wonderful new year! Keep safe! (sorry for the angst)

#squirrelflight #crowfeather #crowsquirrel #squirrelcrow #tawnypelt #Stormfur #brambleclaw #Bramblestar #Warrior Cats #warriors fic #warriors au

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trillian-anders · 4 years

Text

bewitched

pairing: geralt of rivia x reader

warnings: violence (physical violence, mentions of suicide, death, harm to a child), angst, smut

word count: 4544

description: part 1 of 3. there’s a curse on your kingdom and as the king’s mage it’s your duty to break it. but only when the curse seems to befall you do you call for help. a man you’d seen once in your youth. a witcher.

note: (can be read as stand-alone) there are some trigger warnings, it’s dark as far as mentions suicide and a child is harmed in this.

It was slow, moving through the foggy moor. The dew not yet settled. The sound of the spectre cutting through the grass could be heard if you listen, but the poor victim was not listening hard enough. A man who’d been travelling for days, escaping to the next village over for fear of prosecution. His hands were stained with blood for the woman he loved, and he accidentally killed. The man’s guilt was feasting on his belly, rum and whiskey he’d been trying to burn it away with did nothing more than stir the bile.

Vomit stained his boots, upchucking again, dry heaving by the side of the road. He gagged, sipping water from his hide, he persevered on. Through the fog and tall grass he could see his destination. The village was a good size for him to disappear into, in a dip of land behind a mighty castle, large sea rock behind, waves crashing upon the cliff in steady beats. It was lively enough to have an open pub. A place to further drown his sorrows.

A scratch. That’s all it takes. Deep and unseen. The scratch that leads into madness. His guilt the trail of breadcrumbs leading the spectre to its feast. He stumbles into the warm stone building, stragglers and early morning travellers dipping into their vices once more before starting their day, those who’ve not rested since the previous evening.

A stumble and fall into the bench, his eyes unfocused. Sweat pooling on his brow as he replayed his crime. Over and over until the slosh put in front of him wasn’t enough to drown. He swallowed his guilt, coins tossed on the table and asked for a room. Sleep his sorrows away until they no longer felt so raw.

But it did nothing to quell the festering wound left by the spectre, the wound he didn’t know existed. The spectre stayed in the shadows, enjoying the meal it had been given. The guilt filled it’s belly for the first time in ages. But it wasn’t enough. The spectre was patient. This wound would fester more until it consumed the man’s body, until he was empty in madness or until he ended his life. And it would be fed. After, it could sense the delicious trail of guilt and sorrow in this village, it would feed again. The shadow demon grew satisfied in that it would no longer feel the acidic gnaw of hunger.

A place destined for madness.

Years passed and those who did not live and die in this village never stayed for long. Some stories would say it cursed. People would grow mad, men and women slitting their throats in the street. Hanging themselves in the gallows. Screaming and becoming belligerent. Locked away for the rest of their lives. Holy men dared not step foot on the plagued ground. And the king grew sick with it. The disgrace handed down to him from generations before. The blame put on a mad King, his Great-Great-Grandfather now long dead, buried in the crypt below his feet.

With three wives dead, a fourth with a child on the way, hopeful for a son. He buried himself into resentment for the life he’d been given. Ungrateful for the fortune and wealth. Ungrateful for the ease in which he was able to live.

That’s what you resented him for.

You’d been given away as soon as your parents realized you had the gift. Trained and tasked with becoming the mage you were today. A king’s mage. The Cursed King’s mage. You’d seen this lineage’s descent into madness and were expected to stop it. You lurked in the shadows of his life, willfully standing by as wife after wife failed to produce him a son, the curse of the town pulling them into madness.

The first threw herself from a tower. The second put rocks in her pockets and walked her and her newborn daughter into the sea. The third was locked away in the asylum, screaming until her throat bleeds. The King, unsatisfied with his brood, took on a fourth wife. Maybe this time she’ll provide him a true heir.

But in all this, you felt, maybe you were the ungrateful one. You were given whatever you wanted, whatever resource you could possibly need or want. And you didn’t even have to fetch them yourself, a courier would pluck your herb and slaughter your animals. Your hands, shaking as they may be in grief for your position, no longer have the dirt and scars from your youth.

“You’re a beauty.” He’d mused. Your old King. He’d sought for you, the talent you’d possessed when you’d felt yourself still a girl. You were naive then, unknown to you the curse he brought on his back and lay at your feet. The dance in court, a seduction to your new position. Whether it was for you or him there was no clear answer. You knew, as your master had taught you, that he would never see you as more than a pretty ornament. A tool for his mastery.

It was better than digging up radishes and eating half cooked potatoes in your family’s shed. You wouldn’t care to wonder what they are doing now. Your parents and sisters are most likely older, more gray and more dead. A lineage you know not if it was passed on, but you weren’t of them anymore. Not for nearly half a century.

He was fat, your king, stuffing his sorrows down with roast pork and wine, blind with it. You mused if he could even perform at all let alone produce an heir on his part. His pretty bride, sold to him by her own family, a noble’s daughter who was afraid, very afraid.

“Will I be cursed?” She asked, made aware of her pregnancy, the seed having taken root in her belly like the beginning of her end. A death sentence created by rumor. “When my babe is born, would I sooner throw myself into a pyre than try to produce again?” Her eyes dazed, wide, and unblinking.

You were meant to console her, you assumed. Tell her what she wanted to hear, that she wouldn’t fall into the same madness that had taken every Queen before her.

“Madness only takes you if you let it.” A small vial for the health and well being of her baby. “Persevere and keep yourself strong.” That’s all you could give.

You’d come here softer than you should, calloused from your training, but training and real world experience were very different. The first time the old King had come to you in ramblings and despair you’d given him something to sleep, you tried to find the source of his pain like he’d instructed, but he’d soon fell. Locked away in the stone walls of this castle until the day he’d passed, his son taking the throne hastily after and finding a proper bride who quickly sired him a son. Your current King. The one who took his throne only after his Father was slipped into madness like a dream in the night. Swift and abrupt, unending nightmare of a dream.

He’d hung himself in the main hall.

His son was a child then, twelve when he’d taken the throne. You’d served a boy who’d barely found his own cock before he was giving you instruction. Pompous and confident in the wake of his Father’s death, the boy seemed so sure he would not meet the same fate. But now as his beard turned gray without an heir he claimed he was given a headier curse.

“Is there anything you could do to guarantee me a son?” His face half lit by the candles in your room, red and puckered with age.

“There is nothing guaranteed with magic.” You state and wrap your gown further across your body, the King having interrupted your bath, gown sticking to your legs. “I’ve done everything I’ve known to try to give you a son, everything ethically possible.” His mouth stank of rot. Spitting, snarling, hair pulling,

“Well try something unethical then or it shall next be your neck hanging from my gallows.”

It was hard to be grateful for this life, but swallowed down by the guilt of others suffering. Those you could see without food or drink, empty bellies in his Kingdom he cared not about more than his own life.

There was a way, but it was never something you’d expected to be pushed to do. It seemed madness had already taken root in him, or perhaps it was you for you were not sure who was more mad for this act. Him requesting it or you following through.

It made you sick, but it was not something you could show. And when he asked it done you appeased him. The memory of the sweat and crying, your fingers aching with it. The unrest afterward.

The village, thick with mud from the last rain, smelled of shit. You thought about all of the other mages that were gifted with you, their gilded cages in high towers above prosperous cities. You’d picked the short straw. Or perhaps you’d been the short straw that your old King picked himself.

Winter was approaching, snow would soon lay thick on the ground, so you had to move quickly or else you’d never get a moment of peace until well after the birth of the new prince. Your fingers found the precarious rock’s surface. A deep crawl belly to salty rock to make your way into the sunken cave, the ocean spraying against your side, soaking you to your slip as you made entrance.

A wave and the fire roared to life, illuminating your place of escape.

You’d found it in a dream, leftovers from the mage before you, burned on a pyre for bringing this curse upon the village. The curse upon her king. But you knew it wasn’t a curse, you’d known that for a while now. It was your purpose to identify the source of the curse, but you had. It was not something you knew how to fight.

The beast was uncommon, a whisper heard in the shadows, a task only a Witcher could take on with hope to survive. The last Witcher that had stumbled upon your town had gone mad in his own right, succumbed faster than any before him and threw himself into the sea.

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

The cave was hot with the fire, clothes discarded, you kneel at the foot of the fire. Seeking, in fear for your own life now, the guilt of what you’d just done was enough to take root deep in your belly and rip you apart. You had to find another Witcher. And soon.

You drift into a memory. Just a girl, well before you knew what you would soon become. Your hands, clean, reverting to calloused and thick with dirt. You hadn’t had your first blood, your breasts mere buds, new and tender, you were back on your family’s farm.

You saw him there for the first time. The man they called the White Wolf. He threw a creature at the foot of a man’s hearth. An exchange of coins, your eyes looking up to meet his; gold. You felt bewitched by them. A wash of familiarity... You’d been waiting near his horse, a gut feeling you couldn’t resolve. He’d paused, you were sure looking down at your dirty face and hands. An empty belly. A moment of eye contact while you waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. He’d slipped you a coin, pulled from his pocket and into your grubby little hands. One coin. Before his back turned and he rode his horse out of the village and far away from you.

You felt it, beneath your fingertips. Smooth and cold. You marveled at how men would kill for this shiny piece of metal, given no more worth than what they themselves give to it.

When you’re pulled back to your present it was there, between your thumb and forefinger, the only difference being fifty years. But the world was vast. It would take a certain orchestration of events to get your Witcher here. It would be your paranoia maybe, or the fact that the spectre knew what you were doing, but you could see the shadows shift out of the corners of your eyes.

The Witcher needed to get here fast, the Hym seemed to have locked it’s sights on you.

…

The Witcher heard tales of a beast, coin for another, and another. He’d never had good enough fortune for money such as this. Every village he went to seemed to have a story for another, and another. On and on until the realization. A clear path on a map leading him to an unknown destination. He wondered who’d orchestrated this. You could sense it from your sanctuary.

The wonder of the plan. The hope that it would be a lost love. You cared not for who he loved but only wished he would quicken his feet. The paranoia grew by the day. The fear buried in your gut and sickness that washed over you as the Hym suckled at the guilt, feeding it’s belly on your mistakes.

A trail of breadcrumbs stained the bodies of creatures you’d placed into his path. Bodies slewn and dispatched for thankful villages and the satisfaction of a job well done. It had been months before you saw him cross the threshold of your castle. The paranoia and fear growing in bile in your belly. You weren’t sure he was even real until your King called an audience with him.

The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. He stepped into your throne room and there was a primal feeling in your gut. You’d brought him here, to you. The Hym scratching at your back. You knew your King would seek any cure to save his life that he could, even if it wasn’t actually his life that was in danger.

You could imagine the spectre’s claws in your back as your King began to speak.

“I’ve heard tales of you, Witcher.” Your King’s voice, sure and booming for respect. “The White Wolf.” You watched Geralt, expressionless, almost bored. “I have a task for you Witcher.” You saw those gold eyes shift from him, a pull towards you that you’ve created. A raised eyebrow. “My family has been cursed for nearly a century now.” He stood from his throne, stepping towards the man. “My useless mage has not found a resolve for said curse,” His eyes drift to you as well as your King’s. You willfully show no response. Your King scoffs, “I’m hoping to employ you for the cause of saving my kingdom.” More to save himself.

The Witcher looks to you, the familiarity on his features, the same familiarity you felt when you’d met him as a child. You could see the gears of his mind turning. He turned his gaze from you slowly as your King continued.

“We’ve been under this curse, turned my family, my citizens into madness.” He says, “With not a clue as to the cause. If you listen you can hear the screams from the mad in the asylum upon entrance. If any being born of magic can break this curse, it would be you Witcher.”

Like poison in your veins, black and thick, you dipped down into that madness. Sweat on your brow, sorrow and rough cries in the night. It’s how he found you.

“How long have you known of this Hym?” His voice gruff, deep. You could see in the mirror your sunken eyes and vacant expression. A pallor of death.

“Long enough to be a fool to be taken by it.” You breathe, dampening a cloth to place on your neck. He leaned against the wall by your door, reflected in your mirror.

“Were you the one laying beasts in my path to lead me here?” Those eyes, focused and calculating, sent a chill down your spine as you turned to him.

“How else would I have acquired a Witcher?” His eyes focused on the shifting shadow. A pass of the spectre hiding behind you.

“What is your guilt?” He asked, hands clenched tightly by his sides. You swallow roughly, the words not wanting to peel from your throat.

“To be fair,” You bemoan, “I deserve death.” A hand braced on the table. “It feeds on the despair of the guilty and has served its cause.” You can’t sink down into it, the drowning.

“Killing.” He states. You shake your head, swallowing roughly.

“Saving.” He circles the room, stepping close to the shadow, the spectre moving out of his way. “Brutal men... rapists and murderers. Women who drown their children based on their sex.” Your heart picks up speed as he settles in front of you, “It deserves to die with me.”

“So you would let it take you?” His eyes looked through you, burying themselves into your thoughts.

“I deserve this madness.” A hand placed over your belly to steady yourself, “I’ve given the King what he wants at the cost of my own conscience.” You had to admire the Witcher for his poker face. Not many men would not show emotion when you admit to a child sacrifice. The give and take of magic a cruel fate for the King’s needs. It felt justified and left you craving his disappointment, his ire. But it hadn’t been given.

“Slaying a Hym isn’t easy.” You could feel the spectre, the emotions it felt at the cost of the proximity to the Witcher, but departing a Hym from its meal was a feat on its own.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf,” you muse, “If anyone can do it, you can.” You see him swallow, eyes focusing in on yours. Close enough that you can feel his breath.

“We’ll have to go somewhere a little more private for that, its lair will be the place tied to your guilt. We have to go there.” The sorrow, the lust for death, a sweet release from this ebbing guilt. You could almost taste it.

Your shadow shifted and he could see the horns. A demon to be exorcised.

He followed you to the cliffs, trusting your footing to be true as you climbed down into them, sliding your belly against the wall and watching as he held his sword aloft to fit through the small space into the cavern aglow by fire.

“I’m going to need more light than this.” His eyes focused on the damp walls and dim glow. A log pulled from the fire. He lit the torches in the corners of the room, a deep dark hole that led further into the cave systems beneath the city forgotten, his back to it while he faced you. “I need you to focus on something, anything else but the guilt… preferably something pleasant.” He steps towards you, “It’s going to come out of hiding and what you will feel will be intense, whatever you do, don’t succumb.” A vial, procured from his pocket and quickly drank, eyes blackening.

“You make it sound so easy.” A drawl from your mouth as the whispers begin. The haunting demon who plagued your every thought, the despair that grew on your tongue.

“Focus.” His voice cut through, pushing you back against the far wall, “And stay here.” His sword gripped in his hand. “Do not interfere.” He turned his back to you, the shadows shifting on the ground as the Hym exposed itself. The tall spectre’s horns brushing the top of the cave. Red eyes glowing in the pitch black.

Elder spilled softly from your mouth, his sword turning in his hand, before striking the beast. Your vision blurred, knees sinking into the floor as it flooded your airways, burning down your throat.

“Again!” a yell. A rod against your back, you straighten. Your training, so long ago now. Tissaia. The old mage taught you well. Raised you practically in the cobwebs of her home. The place that birthed every proper mage of your lifetime. The chaos that spilled from your fingertips, the fire burning in your belly, stoked by her hand. “You’re better than this.” Her beauty matched only by her venom. Her bite, fierce and lethal. “Do better.”

You flourished under her through perseverance and determination. These private lessons you’d suffered through long before you were brought into the circle, years before you would ascend, years before your time in court.

“Focus!” Was that her voice or… your vision snaps back to the present, Geralt damp with sweat, blood cascading down his arm you find yourself panting on the ground. His silver sword slashes across the demon’s belly. A high pitched whine. You could feel the edges blur again, ebbing and flowing, taking your consciousness.

A boy birthed in the asylum. A slight deformation. You hushed him quietly as you robbed him in the night. Villain. That’s what you were and what you’d come to be. This boy wouldn’t survive. A slim chance with the ailments he was born with. He would soon be ripped from this world regardless, that’s how you reasoned in choosing your prey. Your last ingredient for a spell you shouldn’t be casting.

You’ll do this, and then it will take you. That blissful Hym. It will give you the final push into cowardice. The push you would need to finally be rid of this place. This useless mage you’d become. His belly was round, so were his cheeks, his legs kicked in the cold air of the cave as he wailed.

Elder words spill from your mouth as you raise the blade into the air. Striking true between the third and fourth rib. A wheeze and he’s gone.

You found yourself gasping for air. Screaming as the wind picked up, a strong force over your mouth and chest. You felt trapped, cold stone against your back. It clears, your vision focusing in the dark. Whimpering against Geralt’s hand, “You’re fine.” Gruff words of comfort. “It’s gone, you’re free.” You catch your breath against him, pinned down by his arms in your anguish. What had you done?

You wail. Embarrassingly and out of code. You wail. He lets you struggle out of his grip, hands beating on his chest. “I told you to let it take me!” His jaw clenched, letting you sit up, backing yourself away from him and pressing as far into the wall as you could possibly be. “I told you--”

“I know what you said.” Voice level as always, even though there’s blood crusting on his arm and neck. “I saved you--”

“I should not have been saved.” He scoffs, sitting on his ass.

“I thought that was the Hym talking.” He shrugged, steeling you with his eyes. You glare.

“It was not.” He hummed, looking around the room, seeing the vials and herbs strewn about, glasses broken in battle.

“I thought Mage’s brave.” He mused, “You’re a coward.”

“I brought you here for a reason, Witcher.” Your head leaning back against the stone.

“If you wanted to die, you wouldn’t have brought me here at all.” His brow furrows, in mock contemplation, “But why wouldn’t you let it just take you? Once you’re dead you’d no longer have to concern yourself with a Hym anyway. It doesn’t torment the dead. So that means…” You roll your eyes, avoiding his gaze. “You care enough about the people here, as much as your cold dead heart could, to save them from the same fate…. How noble of you.”

“Shut up.” His smirk, you let a heavy breath, eyes dry and itchy from crying, “I still killed a child.” The smirk drops, and he sighs as well. You were sure your womb would be aching if you had one.

“The child,” He starts, “Wouldn’t have survived either way?”

“It might have if--” You shake your head, rubbing your eyes with your hands.

“You wouldn’t have chosen a child not destined to die.” A glare, your glare.

“You don’t know me.” You spit, pushing yourself up from the floor. He follows suit, standing across from you.

“You’re right, I don’t.” A step closer. “But I’ve known Mages like you.” Another step. “And Mages tend to have a soft spot for children.” You could feel anger bubbling up in your chest,

“I’ve never wanted a child,” You bite.

“Regardless of that you no longer have the choice.” His canines were sharp up close. “And that kills you.”

“If only.” He scoffs, close enough to taste his breath. You remember the rumors about Witchers, the rumors you knew to be true. How they were formed. “You know,” his head leaned down, forehead brushing yours. “I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you.” A stab into his chest, drowning out in a primal need. The comment ignored as he smashed his lips with yours, tangling his fingers into your hair. His teeth were sharp against your bottom lip. You beat him back with your fists, blood smeared on your bottom lip, his pupils blown wide. “Cad.” You spit, a grin, and you meet again.

The stones rough against your back as you submit to him, his palms wrapped around your wrists and pinning you to the floor, a rough thrust and a gasp from first contact. Those eyes, black around the edges still, boring into your very soul as his hips meet yours in a brutal pace, splitting you into eye rolling pleasure.

The friction of primal need. A burning of adrenaline in your veins. His hands release yours, sitting back on his haunches he grips your hips tightly. Your own hips rocking to meet him on their own accord, chasing the pleasure you so desperately sought. The slip you’d been wearing, torn on the sides from hasty tugging, he leaned over lavishing a nipple into his mouth, your fingers drifting between the two of you to bring yourself over, breath being caught in your throat, face red with exertion you push him over, his back meeting the stone floor where you straddle his hips.

You slip yourself down his length, legs still shaking in orgasm and press your hands to his chest, rocking yourself, grinding your oversensitive clit against the course hairs at the base of his cock. His head hits the ground, hands bruising your hips as you work both him and yourself to a release. Head tossed back, sweat dripping down your spine. He spills himself inside you while you work yourself through your own aftershocks. Panting and suddenly extremely tired. Drained, you collapse next to him, his seed dripping down your thigh.

“Collect your coin,” You pant, “And be gone before I wake.” You could see from the corner of your eye, his head turning towards yours. A pause, your breath catching. You felt bare, naked before this man. The forgetfulness of lust crusting on your leg. You needed him gone, if only to drown your sorrows once more before moving on. You see his mouth open, then close, deciding against whatever he was originally going to say. A moment of quiet.

“As you wish.”

taglist // @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @gifsbysimplysonia @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious

#henry cavill #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #the witcher #witcher #geralt of rivia x reader

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merryfortune · 4 years

Text

Day 3

Social Interactionism 2021

Prompt: “It’s going to be cold tonight, so I hope it’s alright that we share a bed.”

Event: @hugsaku

Ship: Aiballshipping | Ai/Yusaku

Word Count: 1k

Rating: T

Tags: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Humour, Horror Elements, PTSD

Yusaku was the suspicious type, not the superstitious type. However, he was still fairly certain and fairly confident that something was living in his room. Something that was neither he nor the Roomba that he employed to keep it relatively clean.

He was hoping that it was some sort of cat. That was the looking on the bright side explanation to this situation. The building had rats and nice. Yusaku had heard – and even – seen them but they also seemed to disappear once in a while so to test this theory, he had left milk and cream out in a saucer on the floor. By morning, it had been licked clean so maybe there was some sort of cat which preferred the niche life.

That was certainly consoled Yusaku in a way that he didn’t realise he needed to be consoling because the other explanation that he could conjure was grimmer. The rent for this place had come dirt cheap and Yusaku was starting to suspect it wasn’t because there were cracks in the walls nor the fact the heating had an uneven split of ever working. He was thinking that it might have to do with past residents of this apartment.

Because, sometimes, the past residents didn’t always… leave. Not even necessarily in the supernatural sense, in that they became ghosts and other ghouls who haunted their previous residence and resided in that sense. Yusaku envision more along an eerier line of thinking. That these so-called previous tenants had never left at all and were found, sometimes dead and sometimes alive, living deviant, malnourished lives in the basements, attics, and even the walls.

So, between a cat and a person living in the crevices of his apartment, Yusaku was hoping for the former. But then he heard the voice for the first time and all his scepticism was thrown out the window in a blind panic. That… That wasn’t a cat, but it wasn’t human either.

Maybe it was because he was operating on pure adrenaline, having woken himself up in a thrash from a traumatic memory nightmare but he was on the edge. Relying on pure instinct to keep him safe and awake and alive. His heart pounded in his chest as it felt like the walls of the room were closing in on him. His head ached as he strained his eyes through the darkness. Searching for the danger that he never saw once during his ordeal as a kidnapping victim.

Yusaku was certain of what he had heard. Yes, he had audio hallucinations from time to time, but it was always an electronic woman’s voice. This… This was something else. It was like nails on a chalkboard raking across his ears. It was male and bestial through some sort of growly distortion. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat as he waited, and it came. He wasn’t sure of how long he had waited but his nail-biting endurance proved correct.

“Oh, you, poor sod…” the voice pre-ambled, a muted roar. “You know, its going to be cold tonight… so I hope it’s alright that we share a bed.”

Yusaku froze as he tried to process what had been said to him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for him to unpick the duality of reality versus hallucination, to see which one was as fault as the creature that he had been living with finally made itself known. A long limb unfurled from under the bed and then curled back over.

The creature slid against the floor, on its back before behaving like a shadow. Getting bigger and bigger until slothfully coming up and plopping down. Yusaku was statue still as he let this monster plonk itself right next to him and cuddle in.

“Much better… don’t you think?”

It sounded almost cute.

Long, sprawling limbs like tentacles fanned over Yusaku as he was cuddled up to. Spooned.

It was strange and yet Yusaku relaxed. He felt oddly serene with confusion as he let the maw of this creature, toothy and purple, settle against his shoulder. He stole a glance at more of his monster. It was about person-sized, maybe slightly smaller, long limbs not counting and seemed to have a tail and humanlike legs but wrong. Inversed or broken or something. Yusaku decided to stop looking. He couldn’t feel it breathe on him, he thought it might have felt like rubber or silicon, but at least it was warm.

He stole another glance. In the opposite direction this time, towards his window. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the glass pane was absolutely frost bitten. He sighed and he figured it only polite, so he spoke.

“Thank you.” Yusaku said.

“No, thank you,” the creature replied, nattering and content, “no one’s ever had such delicious fear before – nor as anyone ever set out milk and cream for me… I like you, Yusaku, I think we can have quite the… symbiotic relationship. You can call me… Ai.”

“Oh, great.” Yusaku replied sarcastically.

“Try and get some sleep.” Ai said.

Yusaku had never had a monster fuss over him but somehow, having something stranger and scarier by his side made him feel better about the stranger and scarier things in his past. So, he let his body go soft after keeping it hard with stress. He rolled over and put his hand on one of the paddled bulges of Ai’s limbs and held it. The idea of having an emotional support monster under the bed was far more appealing to Yusaku than an emotional support pet cat – and to think that he had still be a dubious sceptic at sundown, that was bizarre and gave his mind other things to occupy rather than his traumatic memories. Although, Ai was more under the covers than under the bed, Yusaku mused as he enjoyed the fact that he was somehow comfortable.

“Good night, Ai.” Yusaku murmured.

Ai smiled to himself. “Good night… puny human.” He sounded mischievous rather than intimidating so Yusaku paid him no mind as he settled to hopefully go to sleep or, bare minimum, get some semblance of rest.

#hugsaku #hugsaku2021 #aiballshipping #yugioh vrains #vrains #yugioh #yusaku fujiki #ai (vrains)#writing tag #social interactionism #social interactionism 2021

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chaostheoryy · 4 years

Text

Fallen Star [A Valvert Drabble]

Summary: After Valjean spares his life and he finds himself unable to kill the convict at the sewers, Javert makes the decision to throw himself into the Seine. Before he can end his life, however, Valjean intervenes. Is this a torture brought on by the fallen in Hell? Or does God have something planned for the faithful lawman?

Word Count: 1,252

Rating: Teen

Warning(s): Suicide attempt, mentions of blood

A/N: This is my first time writing for Les Mis and Valvert and it’s certainly been a long time coming. I’m actually considering expanding on this piece and turning it into a longer fix-it fic so I’m very eager to hear what you think about it. If you enjoy it and want to read more, please consider commenting or sending me a message with your feedback! Thank you.

I am reaching, but I fall

And the stars are black and cold

As I stare into the void

Of a world that cannot hold

I'll escape now from that world

From the world of Jean Valjean

There is nowhere I can turn

There is no way to go on

Javert closed his eyes and exhaled. The sweat on his brow mixed with the blood still caked against his temple, oozing down the side of his face like some cursed stroke of watercolor paint. Crisp evening air tickled the hairs on the back of his neck and gently coaxed him forward. One step was all it would take. One step and his nightmare would end.

With a clenched jaw, he took the step. The entirety of his body weight fell forward, his feet instantly clearing the safety of solid ground. Rushing water and sparkling mist called his name down below and Death himself finally opened his arms to welcome the inspector with a warm embrace.

But the embrace never came.

Javert had fallen only a foot or so when something drew his descent to a halt. His collar grew tight around his neck as he dangled there over the Seine’s violent waters. Had it not been for the deep grunt of a man overhead, he might have actually believed God was holding him up amongst the stars.

Startled, the inspector opened his eyes just as he felt himself being hoisted upward. An arm hooked underneath his own and a large calloused hand latched onto the breast of his waistcoat. Even without seeing the bearer of that hand, he knew perfectly well who it belonged to. And even surer he became when he heard his savior cry out from the exertion of lifting him skyward.

The second Javert’s legs cleared the railing, the hands at his waistcoat fell away. He collapsed onto his backside, the impact of his shoulder blades against the hard ground forcing a sharp breath from his chest. For a moment, he lay there, eyes locked on the Heavens above. The stars stared right back, just as they always had. But whether they looked upon him now with pride or shame, he simply could not comprehend.

From underneath the roar of the waters, heavy panting seeped into Javert’s ears. He knew that breath, knew those exhales of relief. He’d heard them so many times before: in the factory office after long days of bookkeeping and busy work, in the shipyards of years past when chains fell slack around wrists and the merciless labor of the shift was through. Yes, Javert knew that breath well. Just as well as he knew the voice that went along with it.

“Is this really what you want, inspector? To throw your life away in the name of justice?”

Javert finally looked over at the figure who intercepted his fall to find Valjean propped up against the railing. He looked confused, his face twisted into a scowl. His chest rose and fell beneath the stained uniform as he fought to catch his breath.

“I have spent nearly a quarter of my life chasing you,” Javert said, “Wanting nothing more than to see you rot behind bars. You have fled to the ends of the Earth, changed your name, taken up the care of a child. The Heavens see you wage this war and grant you the chance to end my life but you don’t take it.” He shook his head, still in complete disbelief over the encounter at the cafe. “A convict with the opportunity to end his pursuit by killing the man he hates chooses mercy. How can a lawman such as me continue to uphold justice when justice itself is but a shadow?”

The last thing he expected in that moment of vulnerability was laughter. Valjean was not a man of disrespect, Javert knew that much. Even in the face of isolation and punishment, the man always remained sympathetic and sure. And yet, there he was scoffing.

Javert’s brow furrowed.

Valjean waited for his chuckle to fade before speaking. “Javert, I could not hate you no matter how hard I tried. And, believe me, try I did. The first few months on my own, all I did was seethe. I lied and I stole and I set myself ablaze with hatred. But it was a flame that could only burn for so long. By the time I had stumbled upon Montreuil-sur-Mer, the wick of my anger had burned away. All I wanted —all I have ever wanted— was to help those less fortunate than myself, to help to their feet those that feel they have no strength to carry on.”

Javert wanted nothing more than to mock the old man. After all, he was a fool wasn’t he? A man aiming to help the poor and the helpless when he was just as unfortunate as them? Even the literary greats could not have written something so tragic.

But Javert couldn’t laugh, couldn’t taunt the man that sat across from him. Valjean’s desire was that of the angels: selfless and warm. Misplaced as it may be, it was a gesture God would have praised. And who was the inspector to question the work of the almighty?

“And so I become the less fortunate,” Javert mused, turning his attention back to the twinkling stars above. After years of devotion, I too have fallen.

Valjean groaned and the scuffling of heavy boots against stone alerted Javert that his counterpart had risen to his feet. Two bold strides and he was standing over the inspector. For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes scanned the horizon, took in the beauty of the cathedral just beyond the Seine. Then, with a sigh, he held his hand out toward Javert.

“Come.”

Javert was unsure whether the man standing above him was from Heaven or Hell. Every defensive instinct that had been engrained in him over the years told him it was the latter. And yet, when he looked up at those gentle eyes framed by graying curls, all his brain could picture was feathered wings and a halo of pure light.

Without uttering a single word, Javert seized Valjean’s waiting hand and allowed the sturdier man to hoist him off the ground. Once the inspector was on his feet, Valjean clasped his shoulder in solace.

“Wash up at my home. Cosette and I shall make you a warm meal and strike a fire. Should you choose to stay the night, there is an extra bed down the hall and plenty of blankets to spare.”

“Why are you doing this? Why would you help the person who has done nothing but cause you pain?”

“Because I believe in second chances, inspector. Every man deserves them,” Valjean explained, “Especially those who feel they do not.” Valjean’s hand slipped off of Javert’s shoulder, but the warmth it had brought with it remained. “Now, come before the rains wash us out.”

Valjean started off toward Rue de l’Homme Arme and Javert followed suit. The figure that guided him down the dark Parisian streets that night did not bear a crown of light or boast a wingspan of golden feathers. Nonetheless, Javert was convinced that Jean Valjean was not of Earth. For what purpose he was saved, the inspector did not know but there was no doubt in his mind that the Heavens had sent an angel to ease his pain.

Perhaps, Javert thought, a fallen star can rise to the Heavens once more.

#This could be the beginning of something beautiful 👀#I am so tempted to keep writing but I'll wait for some feedback #Valvert #Valvert Fanfiction #Valjean/Javert #Jean Valjean/Javert #Les Mis #Les Miserables #Les Miserables Fanfiction #My fic #Drabble #Jean Valjean #Inspector Javert

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allyvampirelass29 · 4 years

Text

Goodnight, Chris McQueen

A NOS4A2 Review By: Allyssa J. Watkins

I love you, Brat I hope you know that....... My biggest fear was becoming my old man Drinkin', philanderin', livin' for nothin' I wanted so much more for my little girl But Babe, I'm just like him A haunted soldier That never came back from the war I tried so hard to make you laugh Just so you didn't see me cryin' Funny names, and stupid jokes I guess, don't band-aid the holes Punched through the walls and in Your mother's heart Jesus, maybe this dad thing Was a cosmic hoax right from the start I love you like a big dog I'd die twice just to give you a hug Before I go, I want you to know I'm proud of my kid I could never do what you did It's like you told your ma You're made of steel, Vic You threw the bottle away You sure as hell didn't need me But you let your broken down dad save the day I ain't half the hero to you though As you are to Wayne Give 'em HELL, Babe Fight the good fight Don't cry over me I won't die as I lived A good for nothin' It's gonna mean somethin' I gotta believe Don't stay here, Brat, trapped in my death scene Remember the good stuff, when they say "Goodnight, Chris McQueen."

In the words of the illustrious Linda McQueen........ "Holy HELL." It's been days, and I've been in a morose fog, only just now emerging, shaking and fighting the tears, even as I write this, half numb, and half agony. I'm shocked, dismayed, and altogether fragile. The second I saw that this episode was going to be called, "Chris McQueen," I couldn't have been more thrilled, and my heart soared, excited! Chris McQueen has SHINED this season, our own resident white knight, slaying Vic's demons, both of the vice, and supernatural variety. It was no mistake, or random shuffle of fate, that her magic bridge led her back to her dad. He's been a gun-wielding, bomb-making, godsend!!! He helped her quit drinking, heartbroken that his little girl had inherited his disastrous coping mechanisms, refusing to let it drown her the way it did him. He's fought at her side, let her lean on him, he's become her safe place. He's given her the best advice about fighting for Lou, choosing her family, and oh yeah, he SINGLEHANDEDLY took on Bing Partridge, not just once, but TWICE!!!

If NOS4A2 has a CHAMPION, a dark horse in the game, it's hands down Chris McQueen. If anyone is deserving of their own personal, entitled episode, it's the vindicated father who did the work, fought like HELL for his redemption, made himself a better person for his daughter. That rush of flooding joy, cooled to wary concern, and hesitant dread, however, when I realized....... This honour could be his final tribute.......

Don't kill Chris McQueen........ I pleaded over and over in my mind, the frantic cry, resounding, even as I pressed play. I hadn't been able to shake that sinister, creeping feeling all day, and when we opened onto Chris at a funeral, my relief flooded in, graciously thankful to see him alive!!! Wait, he looked younger, like WAY younger, even younger than the first season, and oh my god, hold on, whose funeral is this!? Someone died........ my stomach knotting again, trying to figure out who, and we realize that this is Chris, decades ago, speaking at his Dad's funeral.

I loved, and I mean LOVED this opener. It's just so beautifully real, and one hundred percent Chris McQueen, as he muses about his father's life, and his own, and how the two came to mirror each other. He's funny, irreverent, vulnerable, and by the end, absolutely heartbreaking. It's a searing portrait of a broken man, and everything that caused his life to fracture, every death, that made him wish he was never born.

"When I came back from the gulf, I finally understood why he was pissed off all the time, because he knew there was no reason for him to born, and that nobody was going to give a shit when he died."

Chris' voice cracks, and my eyes sting, because I feel it, his greatest fear, and I know he's not just talking about his father, he's talking about himself, effectually delivering his own eulogy, and again I implored the fates...... Don't kill Chris McQueen.

Aaaaaaaaah, and HELLO Baby Vic!!! Oh my gosh, she's so precious, about eight years old, frowning as her father speaks, huddled close to her mother, and then when Chris becomes too overwhelmed with his anger and emotions to go on, tearing out of the church, she frantically chases after him, calling for him!!! Even then, she was her daddy's girl!!! Once again, I must COMMEND NOS4A2 for choosing the perfect miniature of our badass leading lady, because this girl is the very IMAGE of Ashleigh, and it was such a joy to see her fierce features, and resolve, in a dear little face!!! More Baby Vic, PLEASE!!!

Flashforward to the present day, and Team McQueen is ready and raring to hit the road. I loved this entire scene. The love between her and Lou as she tells him goodbye, and says, "I'm going to go get our boy." An achingly beautiful moment, these two give me life, and have become my FAVOURITE couple on the show!!! I may have been purely Team Drew Butler, Season One, but now I can't imagine our beautiful badass without her Teddy Bear Man, and I ship McCarmody so freaking hard!!! Vic revs the Triumph's engine, testing it, gearing up with her Dad, and it hits me....... She doesn't have to hide it, sneak away to go do her Creative Hero thing, he accepts her for exactly who she is, believes in her gift enough to go with her. For the first time..... Vic McQueen isn't riding alone........

Linda is an absolute rollicking delight, emphatic in her protest, and I have just come to LOVE her so much!!! "I don't know about this Vicki, taking explosives across a magical bridge IN THE RAIN!!!!" God BLESS this woman, she's so maternal here, and I love it, I see how much she's changed, becoming this mother and ex wife even, that isn't afraid to express her feelings and doubts, no longer shackled by the fear that she's destined to be alone.

"You're my only kid, Vicki, My Baby."

"You know me, Ma, made of steel, remember?"

Awwwwww oh my gosh, so freaking CUTE, and for the first time, they feel like a real family, The McQueen Clan on a Mission, slaying psychotic kidnappers, and rescuing lost children, becoming the family business. Linda's still unsure, hurrying after Chris and Vic, still thinking they're both CRAZY, when she sees it for the first time....... Her eyes widen impossibly, as a rickety, wooden, covered bridge, appears on the street in front of them, and her reaction is EVERYTHING we've been waiting for, I found myself, leaping off the couch, cheering as she says it. "Holy HELL!!!"

Chris' childlike wonder, as he looks up into the dark eves, and watches the bats flutter, the Triumph roaring through the beams of breaking light, weaving in and out of shadow, is such a joy to behold. He believed in it, believed in her, even without seeing, and it means that much more to Vic, you can tell. It's also symbolic, Vic sharing her world with her father, bringing him into her inscape, fighting the good fight TOGETHER, both soldiers. I loved it, every second.

Surprise, surprise, when they roll up to the junkyard, Bing Partridge isn't dead, because some cockroaches just won't DIE!!!! Like an AVENGING ANGEL, Chris McQueen is all of us, flying off that bike, and assailing Bing with murderous fury, backhanding his stupid face with the gun, over and over, impaling him deeper with the protruding rod, and I swear, I wanted to run to him, and HUG him so tightly, so freaking PROUD!!!! THANK YOU, CHRIS MCQUEEN!!!

"Where is he, you SICK, Son of a BITCH!?!?"

"HE CAN'T HELP US IF HE'S DEAD!!!!!"

Vic screams at her father, angrily chastising this good and proper beating that has been a LONG time coming!!!! I'm sorry, isn't that how ANY sane person would react to a sadistic, murdering, rapist whose made their life a LIVING HELL!? What gives, Victoria!? Chris falls back, as confused as I was, and then shakes his head, as he apologizes vehemently, which Vic is having none of. She's AWFUL to her father from this moment forward, rude and spiteful, blaming him for everything, and as much as I love the girl, in this unjust punishment, she REALLY lives up to her nickname, Brat.

This Kids Glove approach to Bing Partridge is MADDENING enough to make me PSYCHOTIC!!! BING. IS. EVIL. Say it with me, NOS4A2!!!! It's like they are hellbent on redeeming the ONE character that is beyond saving, a man that even God, himself, would look at reviled, and say, "Get thee behind me, SATAN!!!" Last week they failed, first through the deus ex machina epiphany, and then through the attempted murder/suicide, so they tried even harder, using a meeker approach, making him say manipulative propaganda like, "I wish I'd never met Mr. Manx, because then Vic McQueen would still be my friend." and "I'm all alone in here, and it's really scary." Ughhhh somebody, anybody, put us out of our misery, and put one right between his beady little rat bastard eyes.

I almost understand Tabitha's need to keep things professional, and speak to Bing, in a reassuring way that reaches his simple, monosyllabic mind. I get that beating the living hell out of him like he so obviously deserves isn't an option for her, but this man is a HEINOUS criminal, who's kidnapped kids, drugged and raped their mothers, KILLED both of his parents, not to mention TORTURED Charlie within an inch of his life, only just last week!!!! But by ALL MEANS, Vic, go HOLD HANDS WITH HIM, and see if that will help get your son back!!!! Cringe.

I HATED this, so, so, SO much!!! Bing was her friend, he betrayed her, violated the trust between them, became her worst nightmare, shot at her, traumatized her, duct-taping her to a chair, she should HATE him, despise the sight of him far more than Charlie Manx!!! I CRAVED a reckoning, even if it was just a verbal assault. But no, instead, Vic decides to play nice, and I get that most of it was an act to convince him to help her get her son back, but I could also feel NOS4A2's misguided hand in her actions. Look, see, even Vic can find the good in Bing!!!! Sigh. Not gonna lie, I was going to scream bloody murder if she said she forgives him!!!

Good Cop pays off, however, and Bing, desperate for Vic's forgiveness, reveals there is one more stop before Christmasland, one last chance to grab Wayne, when he gets out of the Wraith at Sleigh House to hang his ornament. It's a dawning revelation, intel quintessential to their success, and for once they know where Charlie is going to be, before he gets there, and can lay a trap for him and his indestructible car. I hate the way they arrived at the information though, I'd have much preferred to see Bing suffer for his sins, and the whole interaction is just so laughably implausible. I will say this however, there was a rather BEAUTIFUL line in this scene that Bing couldn't begin to deserve, but I LOVED it all the same. "I miss the person I thought you were." My god, that's powerful.

"Chris McQueen," is a STELLAR episode, full of beautiful lines like this, including my FAVOURITE thing that Maggie has EVER said to Vic, which perfectly exemplifies their eccentric friendship!!! "I'd shank a thousand assholes for your mopey ass!!!" YES!!! I LOVE THAT SO MUCH!!! I will say though, that I was SHOCKED at how cool Vic was with Maggie's scary new trick of hurting herself to use her powers, sans seizures. I thought she was going to kick her butt for that!!! I'm really worried, Guys, this is a dangerous addiction, that's going to be the hardest one yet for Mags to quit!!! The break-up with Tabitha was bittersweet, but it did not come as a shock to me. They'd been drifting apart for awhile now, and I feel like Maggie was so scared of losing her, that she was afraid to be herself. "I want to live in the real world all the time." For me, that was the nail in the coffin, having only heard it about a thousand times myself. Maggie will always be living in two worlds, and whoever she's with MUST accept that. They love each other, yes, but they just want different things. I do respect Tabitha so much for not demanding that Maggie give up her tiles, threatening to leave her if she didn't. She'd rather let Maggie go be herself, be happy, than try to stifle her, shove her into that hateful, constricting little box called normal.

Vic continues to be petty, and spiteful towards her father, treating him WAY too harshly, punishing him, when he's done nothing but fight for her, a literal action HERO, avenging Wayne, and kicking ASS!!! It hurt my soul, and I could see the pain in his eyes, thinking he'd failed her, apologizing again, just wanting her forgiveness. The second scene at the McQueen house is a far less fuzzy one, as she forbids her father to come with her, placing all the blame of every bad thing that's happened thus far on his shoulders, and she cuts him with razor edged words, saying the worst thing that she could have possibly said in that moment, something truly unforgivable, that I already know she will spend the rest of her life, regretting.

"I lived eight years of my life without you, Dad, and I can just as easily do it again." She sneers, and even Linda stares, aghast. "Vicki, no, you don't mean that!!!"

I felt the pangs in my heart, stunned that she could be that vicious to her own father, after all he's done for her, getting sober, changing his whole life, hell, getting HER sober!!! Linda is again so adorable, insisting she take Chris with her, like "Vicki let your father play on your magical bridge, if he wants!!!" not wanting him to feel left out, and while I want more father/daughter explosive awesomeness, I'm conflicted whether or not he should go. If he stays here...... he's safe. Eventually Linda's persuasion wins out. "Don't let your anger towards your father, keep you from getting back Wayne." With a frustrated sigh, Vic shoves a black helmet in Chris' hands, and we're off to the races again. "Bring them home," Linda whispers sweetly, embracing him tight, and as they hug, I get the most sinking feeling that it's for the last time. Dont...... Don't kill, Chris Mcqueen.

Vic and Chris work in silence, once they get to the charred foundation of Sleigh House in Colorado, burying the handmade bombs, and finally Chris can't take it anymore. "Is this how you want it, Brat?" He asks her, heartbroken, and Ashleigh's acting is PHENOMENAL, as she breaks down and reveals the truth behind her unprovoked animosity.

"It's easier to be mad at you, than to blame myself."

"None of this is your fault. Charlie Manx is not your fault."

"I want to forgive you, because if I don't, how can Wayne ever forgive me. But I can't just let myself off the hook!!!"

It's not entirely a make-up, but it's an important conversation, something she's been wrestling with for a long time. Chris is again AMAZING, consoling her, easing her guilt, even while she's the one that's been impossible. Again Vic, I love you, but your father did the absolute RIGHT thing, and he's the only one that did right by Bing, as far as I'm concerned.

Maggie and Lou join the dynamite father/daughter duo in Colorado, and I LOVED all of their scenes together, the two people in this world that Vic McQueen loves most, and there's something magical about it, something iconic, seeing all three of them together, the Creative Dream Team, united in their crusade against Charlie Manx.

"Every one of these ornaments represents a kid in Christmasland, lost forever. Do you think there's a way to get them back? The other kids?"

WHEN SOULS FALL.

Maggie stares down, perplexed at the tiles, as she arranges them, revealing to the oracle this cryptic, mysticism, and I myself, could NOT breathe. Holy SMASH. Ever since the end of, "Gunbarrel," where Vic wanders through the trees outside Sleigh House, frowning at them, the hundreds of glittering ornaments, swaying in the wind, glowing as she drew near, I just knew...... I KNEW the souls of the Lost Children, were trapped inside each and every one of them, and this suspicion was ever further confirmed, when she found Bradley's canoe ornament, broken open on the ground, after he burnt up in the Wraith. My prediction? To turn the kids back, they have to smash every single one of these ornaments, and only then can the escaped souls return to their vampire shells, and make them human again. The minute a child hangs an ornament, the transformation is complete.

I also LOVED the transcendent scene between Vic and Millie, a scared little girl, in over her head, calling, pleading through the static, and I couldn't help but MARVEL at how much has changed between them. Last Season Millie Manx was very much her father's daughter, cruelly taunting Vic, on her father's behalf, even appearing to her while she was awake, stabbing her with an invisible sword. Now, she calls out to her to be her saviour, her father's greatest enemy, the iron wrought armour of her inherited hatred falling away, and Vic sees her as she always was, not a hollowed out demon spawn, but just a frightened little girl that needs to be set free. I was also THRILLED that dear little Millie imparted the knowledge that Charlie CANNOT die, else all the children, including his daughter, will die with him. Vic abhors Charlie with a screaming vengeance, but now that she knows his death comes at the cost of every child he's ever taken, she won't kill him, she CAN'T kill him, because then all of this, everything she's fought so hard for, bled for, would be for nothing.

The final act is both the thrilling BEST and the incoherent WORST of the episode, as the chaotic music ominously heralds our man's arrival. Charlie Manx, cutting a dashing, imposing silhouette, dark against the hazy dusk, exits the Wraith, turning every which way, striking in profile, floating smoothly across the front of the car, to let Wayne out. I loved this aesthetic, Charlie moving swiftly through the mist and dying light, rising as the threatened dark, enclosing. It's beautiful, and serves two clever purposes. One, to shroud our debonair dark menace in all the more intrigue and mystery, and the other, to conceal just how bad Wayne's gotten. Charlie clasps his hands around Wayne's shoulders lovingly, the picture of paternal pride, and my heart caught, seeing Wayne in the cast light, his boyish curls, frayed and almost white, his skin covered in white blue veins, every one of his teeth, coming to a sharp point.

"Go on, My Boy, it's time to hang your ornament," Charlie chortles handing Wayne the CUTEST little gray, baby bat ornament, I have ever seen, urging him forward. "Choose any branch you like, just make sure it's a SPECIAL branch," Charlie crows, and my heart melts, so in love with both of them, and the way Charlie dotes on him, knowing that while this began as a revenge plot, Charlie has come to love and favour Wayne, like the son he never had. "Don't dilly dally," He warns adorably, with an eyebrow raise, and even this mild scold is too precious for words.

Charlie waits by the Wraith, already nervous, as little Wayne disappears into the grove of trees. I LOVED the Wraith's ADORABLE warning system, as it flashes danger, the car horn honking, and even more I loved Charlie's distressed reaction to it, hurrying over, brow knit, like a father racing to tend to and protect his frightened child. Can I just have this impossibly PERFECT man, that darling little curly-haired boy, and this pretty, shiny car, PLEASE!?!?

"Smart Car," I whisper to myself, as the Wraith senses Vic's presence, and the waiting bombs beneath the ground. Charlie, alarmed, jumps back into his car, to seek out what's got the Wraith in such a tizzy, racing away, and leaving young Wayne behind. If there was ever a time, to save Wayne, it is NOW!!! NOW, Maggie, grab him NOW!!!! Here's where things start to unravel for me as far as character motivation and realistic ability is concerned. Yes, I get that Wayne's appearance is terrifying for her, that she doesn't know what she's walking into as she approaches him, but there is NO WAY Margaret Leigh, Oracle Extraordinaire, Hourglass SLAYER, would just cower, and watch as Wayne hangs his ornament. Nope, sorry. Wayne isn't even all the way a vampire yet, he's in transition, and the FEARLESS girl that I know and love, would have grabbed him, reassured him, while she wrested the ornament from his hands, and SMASHED it!!! Wayne's soul flies back into his body, crying as he clings to his Aunt Mags, Charlie is thwarted, and everybody lives happily ever after. End Scene.

But no, Maggie, in an uncharacteristic move, waits until Wayne has ALREADY hung his ornament, and then approaches him fearfully. I will admit I was a little nervous too..... Wayne, Darling, NO BITING Aunt Maggie!!! Wayne bares his vampire teeth, and raises his vampire claws in an adorable scare, with the cutest little growl ever, laughing cheerfully as he chases Maggie through the trees, clearly thinking it's a game.

Meanwhile, Charlie bristles as he sees the glowing headlights of Vic's motorcycle up ahead, piercing through the descended dark. His annoyance is obvious, but you can almost sense his secret excitement, at having one last chance to kill her.

"Gunning for Mother of the Year?" Charlie scoffs, amused, looking hot as hell behind the Wraith, clenching the steering wheel, his head down, eyes narrowed and full of smouldering, black intent. It's a FANTASTIC face-off, as the Wraith screams down into the open field, Chris pressing HARD on the detonator, and the first bomb goes off in a spray of dirt and billowing smoke. Again here's where I found myself more than a little bit incredulous, wondering WHAT THE HELL IS THE WRAITH MADE OF!?!? I even giggled to myself, remembering what Chris had said. "I don't care if he's in a GOD DAMNED tank!!!" The Wraith remains unscathed, the gleaming black paint, not so much as scratched, as a second bomb, and then a third go off beneath it, to no detriment. Really!? The Wraith is NOT a tank, it's not even armoured, and while yes, it's a supernatural entity, it CANNOT DEFY THE LAWS OF PHYSICS!!! Baby, I'm sorry, I'm so don't want to see you harmed, but you put a blast beneath that undercarriage, it is going to send that car FLYING, flipping it over at the very least!!!

Back in the grove of trees, Wayne, still chasing Maggie, stops cold when Lou calls out to him.

"Dad..... is that you?" THANK GOD, I cry out tearfully, as Wayne recognizes him, and in a very human moment, runs and hugs his father so tight, snuggling his little head to his shoulder, Lou sighing relieved, as he holds his son at last. Happy tears become angry ones, however, and at first I was LIVID with Wayne, horrified as he sinks his tiny little fangs into Lou's shoulder, biting him hard. DON'T BITE YOUR FATHER!!!!! Why, Wayne, WHY!? But the second time I watched this episode, I noticed something soooo very important. Wayne doesn't show any signs of hostility, poses NO threat, UNTIL the first bomb goes off. This is NO coincidence. Charlie, you're too clever for your own good!!! I suspect, that once the transformation is complete, and the kids are connected to Father Christmas, they can sense when he's in danger, and their innate attack instinct takes over!!! Freaking brilliant, and yet also terrifying!!!

Vic curses under her breath, her foot slamming on the gas, helplessly, as the Triumph won't start, her knife failing her, as the Wraith, screams at her like a shot bullet, promising vengeance, and Charlie smirks, sadistic, knowing he's about to end this....... "Say Goodnight, Vic McQueen."

My heart clenches in my chest, barely breathing, the tears flooding my vision, watching through blurry eyes, knowing what he's going to do, before he even does it. Chris McQueen hurtles himself in front of Vic, selflessly sacrificing his life for hers, and the Wraith runs him over, crushing the back of his legs. as he collides with it. I screamed, I sobbed, and shook violently, stunned because my prayers had been answered....... Chris McQueen, has miraculously SURVIVED. He's alive...... he's alive...... I whisper, reassuring myself. While he's far from okay, surely suffering two crushed legs, unable to move, I'm just so happy to see him still breathing, still fighting.

"Perfect timing, Wayne," Charlie snickers, Vic screaming, "NO!" as Wayne hops back into the car. This is it, this is the moment, where it all goes so wrong. Charlie's holding all the cards, he's got Wayne in the car, he's subdued Vic and her father, neither of them can so much as move, and he listens, drinking in their anguished cries. All he had to do was drive away....... It was over. It was SUPPOSED to be over.

"Chris McQueen, a disappointment of a man, just like your father," Charles snarls, and I AM BEGGING him to stop, bawling, pleading frantic, my terrified voice shrill. "BABY NO!!!! BABY STOP!!! DON'T KILL CHRIS, PLEASE GOD, CHARLIE!!!!!" Tapping into a darkness, donning a heartlessness, unbecoming of our gentleman villain, Charlie looks Vic in the eye, as he does it, snapping Chris' neck with lethal force, killing him purely out of spite. The episode ends with her broken, mournful sob, and Chris' slain gaze, his eyes still full of tears, staring blankly at the camera.

My pain is deafening, my sorrow beyond all hope of any coherent expression as NOS4A2 suffers its greatest loss to date. It's an empty gesture, a callous act, uncharacteristic of the man that I love with all my heart, but who has hurt me something profound with this senseless murder. In what kind of CRUEL world, does an innocent man, who sacrifices himself for his daughter, who fought for eight years to be the kind of father she deserved, have to die, while an indecent evil like Bing Partridge gets to live!? Charlie, HOW could you!? This...... There's no honour in this. Charlie kills only as a last resort, and only in defense, he has a strict moral code, and is vehemently against violence without cause. This was unfeeling, unnecessary, and soulless. Yes, he knew Chris was a bad father from before, but surely in witnessing the valiant manner in which he'd flung himself in front of the car, with no thought for his own life, Charlie would have found him redeemed, he would have seen a father who'd do anything to protect his daughter, not so different from himself, and he would have felt SOMETHING!!!

Goodnight, Chris McQueen. You fought the good fight, you changed and made things right, and now at last you can find peace....... My heart is so heavy, I can't hold it, and crying here, I want him to know how wrong he was, thinking nobody would mourn him when he died. A thousand cry out, stricken with grief. Husband, Father, White Knight Redeemed, here lies Chris McQueen, a HERO who didn't die for nothing.........

#nos4a2 #nos4a2 review #chris mcqueen #vic mcqueen #linda mcqueen #wayne mcqueen #charlie manx #maggie leigh #bing partridge

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years

Text

Show Me Your Dream

The skies rumble with thunder. Purple lightning rains down from dark clouds overhead, licking at the jagged crags that loom on the horizon.

A beast tramples down the vestige of a ruined city under its clawed feet, like a child kicking a sandcastle and stomping it into the mud. While the creature is a mere ant to you at this distance, you know just how colossal the monstrosity is. You feel the tremors all the way over here, reaching you where you stand, looking on in awe of the destruction this beast wrought.

Stones float in vortices, helix-shaped patterns, revolving around the crystallized anomalies that dot this blasted landscape. The metal fragments of destroyed craft continue to drift aimlessly through the air like debris on the water. Between stretches of landscape where reality obeys the laws of physics as you know it, gravity defies those rules and alien plants coil in strange patterns, shivering and shuddering without breath or wind to disturb them.

The creature, engrossed in devastating the city in the distance, roars. You feel it in your blood, in your bones. You feel how you are connected. How the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in reaction, for the beast calls to you. How something within you responds on a molecular level. How the very cells of your body split and mutate, changing you with each second of your exposure to this foreign place.

Changing you back to who you are meant to be. To what you are meant to be.

The raw beauty of these sights, they rob you of your breath and instill you with fear.

You want to wake up, but this is no dream.

And you must, under no circumstance, fall into dreaming again. You must see this through. Overcome your fear, and reach the pits torn open by the beast.

You must do this because you are its savior.

You have dreamt of the place you thought was real. Where people idly chatter of mundane things, of everyday things, oblivious to the infinite possibilities, blind to the reality to where you have now returned. You have dreamt of the sound of cars in traffic, of beeping horns and angry shouts.

You have dreamt of the smell of ozone when rain peppers asphalt, accompanied by the symphony of watery precipitation showering the dreamscapes around you.

You have dreamt of the taste of grit when wind kicks up dust and sand from the roads. Of alarm clocks that tear you from slumber, measure when you prepare to work and when you rest, of eating food from a microwave and how unreal it smells, of the scents of coffee and gasoline and many other a thing as they sting your nostrils.

That is all but a dream. A dream of normalcy. You go to sleep there and think you escape it into the fantastical worlds of your dreams.

But that is all wrong. It is the other way around.

You escape into a stable sphere that you call reality. Unreliably reliable, unpredictably predictable, and somewhat consistent in its rules, no matter how many questions and mysteries that it continues to spawn.

You run there, snapping out of true reality every now and then because the dream has infected you. It has led you to think that the real world is too strange to fully understand, though things are all upside down.

Your name, you believe, is something simple, something natural to you. Easily grasped, easily slipped on and off, like an article of clothing. Seeing it printed on papers and screens in that dream, it is easy to believe that it is your name.

Here, though, your name is Sanurakh. Inescapable, and unique. Permanent.

Removing this name would be like scraping your skin and face off with a knife. An impossibility, a law of nature more stable than the semblance of gravity that you see now breaking all around you.

The colossal beast roars again. It arches backwards, its three-pronged mouth lined with sword-sized teeth opening and closing, as if to curse the heavens. Then it descends, like a tidal wave crashing down on the world, vanishing between the valley of steel that many destroyed buildings once made up. Clouds of dust explode, rising and engulfing that ruined cityscape beyond the gravitational anomalies.

Among the metal shards that drift past your face, one of them catches your eye. Its shiny surface shimmers with diffuse reflections like a mote of light, and you pluck it from mid-air, pinching it in between finger and thumb.

As you twist and turn it in your hand, inspecting it from all sides, you read the label of the hull that it came from. Your mind fills in the blanks, your imagination completes the vessel’s name as The Sea Defiant. Your vessel, destroyed by the dream, trying to strand you there.

But you persevered. When you laid your head down to rest upon that pillow, when you thought you went to sleep, you awoke back into this reality. The beast’s roar had drawn you back here.

After all this time, you have finally returned.

In the dream, you are one of millions in a city, most indifferent and numb to the dream they live in. They yearn for places like the reality you stand in in now, no matter how frightening it may be pursuing it in the facsimile that fiction within the fiction of their dreams renders into their thoughts. They have deluded themselves into thinking that it is merely fabricated within their minds. Unknowing that their minds are gateways that could lead them back to this reality.

Unlike you. This time, your eyes are open. Your mind is clear. Your awareness complete.

This was all you had left. You had abandoned all belongings and wealth, left everybody behind. Everybody who might have spoken to you and reminded you of the dream, anchoring you there and helping to delude yourself into thinking that it was the reality, and this reality was the dream.

Withdrawn from that dream world, forsaking anybody who might remind you of that artificial name you once carried.

Sanurakh. Pilot of the Sea Defiant.

In the dream, you had shared your adventures in this reality, but all who heard it only laughed or dismissed it or appreciated it as entertaining tales, a yarn spun by a creative mind. Their need for stability and the poison of comfort made them blind to the way you showed them, the bridge back into the real world that everybody mistook for dream.

Sometimes, you saw a connection in those who dared write down and explore the real world, what they considered dreams. But such enlightenment always proved fleeting, soon dismissed as petty amusement.

Dulled to the safety of a dream that offered no security, driven to believe that they were the architects of their world out there.

You, Sanurakh, know better. You feel it now. You hear me.

You have broken free from the dream. Know that it fools you whenever it makes you jolt awake in bed, covered in a sheen of sweat. Reinforcing the notion that the reality is a nightmare, or merely something strange and nonsensical that you may ignore.

No more, Sanurakh. No more. You have broken free from what you are told is the opposite of reality.

It is infinitely easier to embrace the prison of consistency, to muse about reality and dreams and reverse the order in which they naturally fall or follow one another.

The people of that world of paper and concrete, they are the phantasms. The less they awaken to the reality, the more perfect and believable their dream becomes. They escape within the escapism, consuming fictions within the fiction, reaffirming the illusion beyond any shadow of a doubt.

But here you stand, awake again. You must vow to never sleep, never dream again.

The beast has gone silent in the ruined city. Burrowed deep, away from your prying eyes. The path through these murmuring wastelands leads you there, but you will walk alone, and walk for long without your vessel to carry you there in boundless flight.

The gravel crunching underneath your heavy boot snaps and crackles. It is crystalline and bronze in color. Shadows of the dead, bodies drift through the air overhead, mingling with the floating stones. The damned who perished within the dream, leaving nothing but lifeless husks in this reality.

Golden cliffs outline your unmarked road, sharp around the edges, guiding you where you need to go. The green sun does not shine upon you, it glows in a sickly hue with a radiance that never fully reaches the grounds you walk upon.

Listen. Crunch.

Listen. Whispers.

This world—this dying world, Sanurakh—only you can save it now. Yet you feel the pull of the dream, its tendrils reaching out like spidery legs creeping through the ivory gates where reality and dream meet, where you passed through to return here. Stretching out, blindly extending and shivering as they seek and feel around to find connection back to you; to grasp you and pull you back into the dream.

You dare not look behind you, for fear of seeing those tendrils, those horridly long and slender legs that feature too many joints. In the dream, they are real, but here only have as much power as you imagine them to.

The fate of this world rests upon your weary shoulders. So many times have you broken free from the dream, mistakenly believing this dying world to be the fabrication. If it dies completely, you die with it, and so does the other world, the actual dream.

You are the last one. You hear me.

The way to the ruined city meanders through a forest of thin, spike-like spires. The creeping plants crawl around them in spiraling shapes, jittering like caterpillars as they climb to dizzying heights. Never running. Always knowing.

The murmurs, the whispers, they come from here and beyond here. You hear my word, my certainty, cutting through their gibberish and entering your mind like the knife you need. Ghosts of those who perished, lost in the real world, severed from every last silver strand that once connected them to reality.

Sanurakh, you remember this dying world from your childhood. The farther you wander, the more vivid the memories become. You may have dreamt of a house in which you were born, but you, in reality, you crawled from the craters of the ivory sands here. You dreamt of the human teat, but the sinewy flesh of the creeping plants was what provided you with nourishment, mulched to a pulp in between your tiny sharp teeth.

The silvery moon descends, aligning with the green sun, yet never eclipsing it. Auroras of strange purple lights flare up, dancing along the path that snakes its way through this rocky valley, between the floating stones and hungry fern, guiding you to your destiny.

The dream is so enticing. So safe. The spider of it stalks behind you, silent and predatory. Waiting for you to turn and look upon its many eyes, just before it catches you and bites you and poisons you with that sweet, sweet comfort. Before your limbs go limp, and your heart fills with the sadness of that dream to which it will drag you back to. Drags you back out of reality, so that you may die in every world. So that reality collapses, and the dream with it.

Do not give up, Sanurakh. Do not let the spider win.

Remember the time before the fall, before the spider and the anomalies that it wove to deceive you, to make you think that this world makes no sense. The smells of butter and sweet perfumes are nothing but a dream, they are shaped from the spider’s web, things you desire to see in between the weave, and thinking of them only slows your steady progress.

The childhood you think you remember, with all the laughter and kindness and warmth that may have filled it—or not, depending on the variation of your dream—all just figments of your imagination.

Widen the abyss between that dream and this reality, Sanurakh. Leave behind you those small houses in which man dwells and restore the labyrinthine cities that the dreamers have forgotten.

Here, in reality, all the stars are dying. I sing to you, but whispers are all that remain of my last and dying breath, reaching you through the void. Echoes of the infinity we have lost, the innocence sacrificed by harsh dreams masquerading as truths.

Reach, now. Yes. Your hand outstretched, the ruined city so close now. The hungry beast slumbers below. You are almost home.

When you have restored this world, you may rest again. Dream again if you must.

But more than anything, you must pull reality back from the brink of oblivion. Pull it with all your might.

Pull, and pull, for all our lives depend on it. I will be there, in the shadow. I will take your hand.

You will take me to your dream.

I have showed you reality, Sanurakh.

Now I want to see your dream. Live it.

Taste it.

—Submitted by Wratts

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skyofstorms · 1 year

Text

Muses currently wandering

In no particular order, these are the babies looking for attention of just about any kind.

Eunjin | OC | Ccubi

Izzy | Shadowhunters | Nephilim

Jace | Shadowhunters | Nephilim

Seungki | OC | Kitsune

Jageun | OC | Rainbow Nymph

#shadows they roar nightmares they call ⇼ muse abouts #i want you to love me now ⇼ pick a muse #oc rp #original character rp #shadowhunters rp

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lizablee · 5 years

Text

Choices (Linked Universe) pt 1

Characters derived from the Linked Universe AU by @jojo56830 (@linkeduniverse)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The sounds of the forest seemed to swell in the late afternoon. Light filtered through the canopy, glittering off the damp leaves and illuminating the swirl of sea mist blowing in from the sea. The Hero of the Winds could smell the ocean. He forgot his exhaustion from the long day of walking and dashed ahead of the other eight heroes, shouting into the wind. The Hero of the Wild and the Hero of Hyrule both perked up. Hyrule called after the boy, running forward to join him as his blonde head bobbed away through the leaves. Wild hopped up the nearest tree, climbing to the highest branch.

“We’re almost there!” he shouted down, grinning. The Hero of Legend breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief and threw down his pack.

“Finally. I’ll light a fire.” He kicked away at some leaves to clear a spot. Wild jumped down in front of him.

“Almost,” he insisted. Legend groaned. The Hero of Time clapped his shoulder as he passed, eye sparkling mirthfully. These were his kind of woods – deep but bright, and teeming with hidden life.

Epona grumbled restlessly, swaying her head. The Hero of Twilight stroked her absently. He looked to the sky through the canopy. Golden mist swirled overhead, glowing brightly in the afternoon light against a backdrop of bruised clouds.

The Hero of the Four Sword appeared at his side.

“Looks like a storm,” he mused, fiddling with his tunic. “Maybe we should be looking for shelter.”

A whoop echoed through the trees.

“I saw it first!” Hyrule crowed.

“Well, I’m going to touch it first!” Wind proclaimed, setting off at a sprint. The Hero of Warriors sighed, jogging ahead.

“Hold on, sailor!” he shouted. “Nobody’s running off anywhere until we’ve set up camp.” Wind scrambled to a halt, glancing back sheepishly. Hyrule laughed nervously, tugging at his hair.

The Chosen Hero stumbled over a root. “Psshh,” he chuckled.

“You right there?” Legend smirked. Sky nodded.

“Yeah. Wasn’t watching my feet. Look at the sky,” he said, distracted.

The group wandered out of the forest into a rolling field of shimmering grass. The world opened before them. Legend sucked in a breath.

It was amazing. The sun rested low in the sky before them, a glowing peach coloured orb nestled over dark purple clouds. Gilded wisps rolled in from the horizon. Beyond the slope of the field, a flicker of the ocean could be seen, winking back the sunlight in bright bursts. The group paused, taking in the sight.

“Look at the colour of those clouds.” Sky seemed enamoured. Lightning flickered, almost too far away to see. Wild popped out of the field, humming and fiddling with the slate he kept on his belt.

“It’ll rain soon,” he confirmed. “And storm in the night. There’s a cave down this hill. It’s pretty deep.”

“Is it cleared?” Twilight asked. Wild laughed nervously, his hand floating to his hilt.

“It is now?”

Twilight rolled his eyes at his protégé. Four smacked his forehead so hard it hurt.

Legend scowled. “And you didn’t invite us.”

“Here I thought you were tired,” Time chuckled.

The walk to the cave took longer than expected, and was more uphill than it was down. By the time they reached the mouth, the sky was lilac, and a soft rain had started to fall. Wild looked to the horizon, stretching his arms. Sky cringed as his joints cracked.

“You know, you’ve got a habit of underestimating travel time,” Four moaned. Hyrule took off his tunic, threw it down and collapsed onto it. “Someone else make a fire.” He mumbled into the ground.

Wind hesitated outside. There was still light in the sky, and the sea was so close. He turned to the group. “I want to head down to the water.” The others threw him pained looks.

“I’ll come,” Wild volunteered, impossibly energetic. “We can fish.” Wind’s face lit up. He turned and sprinted down the hill without hesitation. Wild bounded behind, cloak billowing behind him and hair whirling in the sea breeze.

“Come back before the storm hits, alright?” Sky called after them. Wild turned and yelled something inaudible before tripping over a rock. A vein twitched in Twilight’s forehead.

“How have they still got energy?” Warrior tutted. Time smiled knowingly.

“They’ll sleep very well tonight.”

The water was further away than it had appeared. Wind and Wild had to slow down as the field steepened, the slope becoming slipperier with every falling drop. Trees seemed to claw out of the earth, their trunks almost horizontal and their branches bursting out like fingers pointed to the sky. Wind chattered about how the trees grew shorter because the earth had more sand in it. Suddenly he lost his footing, slipping on some loose sand and skidding down the slope. The young hero dug in his feet and dropped onto his back, cringing. A small avalanche of earth and sand proceeded to roll down the hill from his feet.

“It’s a bit steep, but we’re really not far off.” He insisted.

“I know,” Wild said, following him gingerly down the slope. Wind watched as water trickled down the sand, ferrying along tiny pieces of earth.

“It’s too wet to keep going, isn’t it.” Wind looked morose. Wild looked around. The hill to the water had fallen away steeply, ending in a sharp cliff. They could climb down further, but the trek back would be perilous. He sighed.

“It might be dry tomorrow,” he said kindly, shuffling onto the sand next to wind. He leaned back on his forearms and looked to the sky. “In the meantime, this isn’t the worst place to watch the stars rise.” Wind smiled tiredly.

The stars had only been out for a few minutes before clouds swept them away. Wind had dozed off. Wild was just beginning to drift off when a fat raindrop fell directly into his ear. He sat up spluttering and shaking his head. Wind stirred, looking at him groggily. His eyes bugged out.

“WATCH OUT!” he gasped. Wild looked up just in time to see the Stalmoblin’s club rushing towards his head. He dropped backwards onto the sand, feeling the club catch his hair as it swept over. Wind scrambled to his feet, drawing his Phantom sword with a growl. Wild rolled to his feet, staggering away from another swipe. He drew his sword. The moment it left the sheath, it fell apart in his hands. Damn it!

The Stalmoblin roared, swiping clumsily. Wild darted to the side, drawing his bow. He glanced behind him. No room for a downhill retreat, not without ending up in the sea. The Stalmoblin lunged forward again. Wind let out a battlecry and rushed the monster, jumping from a rock and bringing the full weight of his swing down across its spine. The monster howled and split, its head bouncing down the slope and right arm tumbling to the side. Wild aimed for the head, loosing an arrow through its skull. The creature crumbled to the ground, arm still clawing at nothing.

The world fell silent. The heroes looked at each other. “You alright?” Wind demanded. Wild nodded. “Thank you,” he said breathlessly. They stood awkwardly for a moment.

“Did we fall asleep?” Wind said incredulously. Wild snickered.

“The others are going to be pissed.” Wild broke into laughter. Wind giggled hysterically.

“I’m too young to die,” he laughed.

An arrow slammed into Wind’s back. His hand floated to his chest, lips parted in surprise.

Wild dragged him to the ground, standing between the boy and the enemy. Three Stalmoblins had risen silently behind them, their bows drawn. Wild let out a feral roar as he drew his bow, firing off arrow after arrow. He ducked an arrow and caught another with his forearm just inches from his face. He didn’t feel any pain. He got two headshots in before the third Stalmoblin reached him. He lunged for the severed arm of the first creature to attack and wielded it like a greatsword, spinning it wildly. The skeletal arm burst against the Stalmoblin, detaching its head. The blowback sent Wild rolling down the slope, the rocks slick beneath him. He felt open air and scrambled wildly for purchase. He ground to a halt, hands and feet like claws against the cliff edge, his jaw rattling as his chin hit rock.The sea roared somewhere in the darkness below.

The headless Stalmoblin clawed at the air above Wind. The boy was struggling on the sand, reaching for his sword. Wild forced himself climb, leaping up the rocks only to lose traction and skid down, so far that he could no longer see his friend. His body screamed as he pushed past his limits. There was a tree, with a branch just out of his reach – if he could just grab it - he had to. He had to make it!

He heard a shout and a crack, and screamed into the rocks. He was out of energy. He’d failed.

There was silence, then the sound of approaching feet. Wild felt the weight of his bow on his back. Once the monster crested the cliff, he could jump back and shoot it. Maybe he’d use his paraglider to try and fly to the bay.

Maybe he’d just fall.

“Wild?!” His head snapped up. Wind stood silhouetted against the sky, sword in hand, his shield punctured by a single arrow. His shield. Of course. Shame and relief flooded through Wild’s veins.

“Are you ok?” Wild shouted.

“Are YOU ok?” Wind yelled back. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’m-” Wild laughed so hard he shook. “I’m not going to last on this cliff. I’m out of… I can’t hold on much longer. This is so stupid.” Wind gasped and started frantically sorting through his things.

“Here! My hookshot! It goes on your hand. You can use it to grab onto this.” He slapped the protruding tree trunk. Wild nodded slowly. He’d seen a clawshot in action before, Sky rappelling down from high places with ease. The hookshot must work in a similar way to go up.

A flash of lightning tore through the clouds, illuminating the world for a brief moment. Like something out of a nightmare, the silhouette of the Stalmoblin appeared behind Wind. The boy spotted the shadow, and spun to see the monster loose an arrow. He thought fast, jumping backwards off the cliff and shooting his hookshot into the tree. The arrow flew over his head and into the darkness, falling to the sea. Wind crashed into the cliff feet first, screaming as jarring impact dislocated his arm. He braced himself with his other arm, shuddering.

“I thought I’d got it,” he gasped. “I broke right through the ribcage. It cracked apart!”

“Did you take out the head?” Wild grunted. He felt his left foot slip an inch. Wind cursed.

The Stalmoblin took its time, looking at them carefully. It nocked an arrow and drew its bow slowly, aiming straight for Wind’s heart. Wild made his choice.

He kicked off the cliff and snatched his bow off his back. Time seemed to slow. He loosed three arrows. One burst through the Moblin’s hand, knocking the bow into the sea. One tore through its neck. The final arrow went clean through its skull.

The wind screamed in Wild’s ears as he fell. He reached for his paraglider, but his arms couldn’t take it. He was done.

He barely felt himself hit the water.

The party in the cave was restless. They had arrived exhausted, and had rested gladly in the evening, snacking on campfire fruit. When night fell and their comrades hadn’t returned, a few of them had suggested looking for them, but the rain had worsened before they’d made their move.

“They’ll be back before the storm hits.” Sky repeated. “They agreed.”

“I thought that was just Wild tripping over.” Legend mused. “Maybe they didn’t hear you?”

Twilight sat with Time, watching the darkness. The younger hero shifted uncomfortably.

“I can’t track them well in this rain,” he said quietly. Time nodded.

“I don’t like this either.”

“He’s not armed,” Four said suddenly. The others turned sharply to him. “Wild, I mean. That sword at his belt,” he explained quickly. “- I think it was damaged. I assumed that’s why he was being shifty.”

“I thought it was because he got into a fight without inviting us,” Hyrule said.

Warrior stood, drawing his sword. “We’re going to look for them,” he said firmly.

A clap of thunder rang out, light illuminating the world. Epona made a distressed sound, shifting around in the small space. Twilight soothed her, trying to ignore his pounding heart.

“Put that away,” Legend demanded. “No metal weapons. There’s too much lightning.”

The heroes went through their packs, arguing about which weapons could safely be taken outside, removing metal armour and preparing to bear the rain. Four watched as Twilight slipped outside. He exchanged a glance with Time. The old man nodded. Four palmed his boomerang and stepped into the storm.

A wolf emerged from the darkness. Four wasted no time in following. The pair were quickly saturated, following the signs of their friends down the hills towards the sea. Wolfie stopped suddenly, growling.

For a moment, there was nothing but darkness, the howling of wind and the roar of thunder. Four grounded his feet, drawing his boomerang and staring into the darkness, wishing he could see what Wolfie sees.

The wolf whined suddenly, rushing forward. Lightning burst through the clouds, revealing the staggering form of Wind, right hand bracing his left arm. He yelped in surprise, stumbling to his knees. Four rushed forward and caught him by his good shoulder. Wind was gasping for air.

“He’s dead!” Wind gasped. Wolfie let out a vicious growl and disappeared into the darkness at a run. Wind lent into Four’s chest. Four tried to clear the shouts in his head. He’s hyperventilating. Deal with that first.

“Just breathe.” Four said soothingly.

“I can’t!” Wind sobbed. Four ran a hand through the boy’s hair, drawing him close.

“You can. Breathe with me. In… two… three… four… Out… two… three… four…” Wind’s rapid breathing began to slow. He slumped forward.

The flicker of torchlight alerted Four to an audience.

“What’s happening?” Time demanded. Four looked to Wind.

“Explain kid, quick as you can.”

Wind shuddered.

“He fell into the sea. There were… we were attacked. He – Wild fell into the sea. I couldn’t see him.” Wind’s voice turned bitter. “I thought I saved him. I thought we were safe.”

A wolf howled in the darkness. The heroes exchanged looks and began to run to the noise. Time grabbed Hyrule’s arm.

“Take him back to the cave. He needs healing.” Rule nodded vigorously.

“I’ll defend them,” Four promised. Time’s eye met his. He nodded.

“Be careful.” The old man said softly. He disappeared into the darkness.

---

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #jojo56830 #angst #first fanfic #fanfiction

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sylvanfreckles · 4 years

Text

They Look So Pretty When They Bleed (Whumptober 2020)

AU of episode 15.09, “The Trap”. Separated in Purgatory, Castiel finds himself in the hands of the leviathan who have taken him captive for a sinister purpose, only to be rescued by an unlikely ally.

* * *

One of the leviathan, armed with a crude stone ax, broke the lines of the angel trap. Before Castiel could take advantage of his returning grace the others had tackled him, binding his wrists with coarse rope and hauling him away from the clearing. He tried to look back to see if Dean was safe but they surrounded him to propel him forward.

“The human's dead anyway,” one of the leviathan sneered in his ear. “He'll never make it to the exit. You should have just let us gut 'im.”

Castiel flinched away from the creature's glistening teeth. They didn't know about Michael's rift or they would have killed Dean on the spot rather than accept Castiel's bargain. He'd promised to submit and go peacefully to face whatever judgment Eve required, but in truth he was waiting for the best opportunity to break away. There had to be more leviathan blooms somewhere, and even with the dark influence of Purgatory pressing down around him an angel was more than a match for a dozen leviathan.

After perhaps ninety minutes of walking, during which time Castiel valiantly hoped Dean had woken up and started back for the rift rather than on some insane rescue, they broke through the forest into another clearing. This one had a broad stone altar in the center and a handful of torches scattered around.

“Where's Lud?” one of the leviathan called.

“He's on his way,” another answered. She had a coil of rope over her arm and was brushing leaves off of the altar to reveal a carved design. “Should we wait for the others?”

The leviathan holding Castiel's arm shook his head. “Can't risk the rebels finding out. As soon as Lud gets back we'll start the ceremony.”

Ceremony? “I thought you were taking me to see Eve,” Castiel said as the leviathan moved around him to prepared for a ritual. “This was not our agreement.”

“We are,” the leviathan holding him answered. “Samlah?”

“Ready,” the woman called back. She stepped away from the altar to reveal the intricate angel trap etched into its surface. “And Lud's here.”

Another one came jogging out of the trees, a roll of animal pelt under one arm. “We've only got three left, Tema” he said to the one holding Castiel.

“It's enough,” Tema replied. “Do it.”

The leviathan named Lud rolled out the animal pelt on the ground near the altar. It had an assortment of crude surgical tools made of rock and bone, some crumbled leaves from a plant Castiel didn't recognize, and three dirty syringes. As Castiel stared Lud rolled up one sleeve to plunge a syringe into the crook of his arm, drawing out vile black blood.

“Altar,” Tema snapped.

Castiel didn't wait to see what the leviathan had planned. He twisted away to break out of Tema's grip, snapping the weak bonds on his wrists as he did so. The leviathan roared in fury, its brothers answering its cry. They charged, wielding their rough weapons, faces morphing into nightmares.

They had taken his angel blade when they captured him, but Castiel met the assault head-on. He caught the wrist of the first attacker and twisted it back, slamming his knee into the elbow joint so the leviathan dropped the stone knife it had been carrying. He picked up the knife to block the next attack but a rock caught him in the shoulder and spun him off-balance so that the leviathan's club landed on his outstretched arm instead.

More rocks struck him across the back. Someone got hold of his arm and swung him around into another leviathan's fist. He reeled back and more hands grabbed him by the shoulders. Something slammed against his knees, making them buckle. His arms were pulled away from his sides, forcing his elbows and shoulders to lock so he couldn't pull away.

“Hurry,” Tema said, unruffled by the short fight. “We're too exposed here.

Lud was walking toward them, three syringes filled with blood in his hands. “Will this be enough?”

“It better be,” Tema replied. “Do it.”

The leviathan walked around behind Castiel. A hand tangled in his hair to force his head down, then the sharp pain of a needle pierced his neck. He might have screamed, except that the pain caused his body to lock up even down to his lungs.

Demon blood would burn an angel from the inside out.

Leviathan blood was primordial ice.

Castiel was barely aware of the hands hauling him to the altar as his body twisted in agony. They laid him out on the stone and tied his hands and feet down, and the moment he was within the angel trap his grace shut down and the leviathin blood tore into him. He couldn't get enough air in to make a sound, much less a feeble attempt to free himself.

Tema leaned over him, holding a small stone blade that looked like a crude scalpel. “You see, Mother isn't here. We returned to Purgatory but she was sent somewhere deeper.” He pressed the tip of the blade to the inside of Castiel's elbow and dragged it down, opening the skin so that blood flowed over the angel's arm and onto the altar. “Only a very special sacrifice will bring her back.”

Another leviathan cut into his other arm. The his inner thigh down to his knees, then the bottoms of his feet. The backs of his calves. The lowest ribs on each side. The blood pooled beneath his body, filling the lines of the angel trap.

Samlah was leaning over him, too, casually studying the bloodied knife in her hands. “I keep forgetting,” she mused.

“What?” Tema demanded.

“Angels really aren't much to look at,” she explained, face splitting into a nightmare grin. “But they sure are pretty when they bleed.”

Tema answered with a grin of his own. “Let's begin.”

A howl rent the dark forest around them. The leviathan leader swore and dropped his stone scalpel. “The rebels,” he hissed. “Spread out.”

There was a commotion at the edge of the clearing. The paralysis of the leviathan had worn off enough that Castiel could crane his neck to see what was happening, but there wasn't much more than the confused shadows of a fight. The howl had sounded like a werewolf, but he couldn't think why one of them would attack such a large group of leviathan.

Others were joining the battle now. He thought he saw a wolf bound into the clearing, shifting into a man in time to knock the blade out of a leviathan's hand. Someone leaped onto the altar, feet on either side of Castiel's body, and when they arched back to let out a scream of challenge he caught sight of their fangs.

Werewolves, skinwalkers, vampires...what could have brought them all together to challenge the leviathan?

A smaller, slight figure slipped out of the trees and dropped to her knees beside the altar. “Castiel?”

He stared at her, at the long brown hair and intense, dark eyes. “Lenore?”

The vampire smiled in relief. “Hold on, I'm gonna cut you free.” She grabbed the scalpel that Tema had dropped and sawed at the ropes that held Castiel's wrists and ankles. There was nothing she could do for his injuries, but if he could get off the angel trap then his grace might be able to purge the rest of theone of leviathan blood.

“Can you stand?” Lenore asked, leaning close to be heard over the din of battle.

“Angel trap,” Castiel shook his head. “We need to break one of the lines.”

Lenore studied the trap for a moment, then picked up a fallen rock from beside the altar. She brought it down on one edge of the trap, hammering at it over and over until one of the intersecting lines crumbled into itself.

His grace broke free with a howl, though it wasn't quite enough to restore his full strength. He rolled off the altar with Lenore's help, accepting her enhanced strength to stay upright. “We have to go,” she said, wrapping his arm around her slender shoulders. “The others will keep the leviathan distracted.”

Castiel focused on the vampire at his side as she lead him, stumbling, away from the light of the clearing into the woods. Questions swirled in his head, but he made himself focus on staying upright and following Lenore as she lead him deeper into the shadows of the trees.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they stumbled down a faint trail. The sound of battle was growing fainter, but they were still too close for Castiel's liking.

“I just have to get you away,” Lenore explained. “When he finds us he can explain.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who 'he' was, but something crashed into them and sent them tumbling to the forest floor. Lenore was wrenched from Castiel's side and flung deeper into the trees, then Tema was picking Castiel up and slamming him against a nearby tree, a feral growl deep in his chest.

“Where do you think you're going?” he snarled.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” a deeper voice drawled from behind Tema. Before the leviathan had time to respond he was torn away from Castiel. The angel had a glimpse of a tall figure with broad shoulders throwing the leviathan to the ground, before Lenore managed to make it back to his side.

“Come on,” she urged, tugging him forward. She held him up when he stumbled and together they limped down the faint trail. “Benny's got this, we need to move.”

“Benny?” Castiel tried to look behind them but Lenore pulled on his arm.

“We have to go,” she insisted.

Cas?

“Dean?”

Cas, I hope you can hear me.

Dean was praying. Castiel grit his teeth and limped after Lenore, forcing his exhausted body to keep moving forward as his friend's words echoed in his mind. Words of pain and absolution, as cathartic for man as for angel. He focused on the words instead of his ailing body, until his legs collapsed as the last dregs of strength left him.

“Get back up, please, we're almost there,” Lenore urged.

Castiel let the vampire leaver him back up, but he was forced to lean most of his weight on her to stay standing. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the rift. One of our scouts found it, we followed your trail from there. Benny thought the leviathan might be trying something when they left your human friend behind to take you to their altar.”

“'Course I was right, hot wings,” Benny announced, shoving his way through the undergrowth to join them. “Summoning Mama from the underworld. Guess they thought it was poetic to use you.”

Castiel studied the vampire, too exhausted to be surprised at his presence. “They told us you were dead.”

Benny threw his head back and laughed. “Me? Darlin, there ain't a creature in here that would lay a hand on me except Mama's little bitches. They all know the Winchesters sent me here to run the place.”

“That's not what happened,” Castiel protested, brow furrowed.

Benny held a finger to his lips and winked. “Our little secret, Cas.”

“We should get moving,” Lenore interrupted. “Dean should reach the rift before long.”

“Wait,” Castiel pulled back when Benny stepped forward to support him. “I can't go back.”

“Not again, Cas,” Benny growled. “You know it almost killed Dean last time? You're goin' back with him if I have to chuck you through the rift with my bare hands.”

Castiel shook his head. “We came here for something. A leviathan blossom. I can't leave until I find one of those.”

The vampires exchanged a puzzled glance. “Why do you want one of those?” Lenore asked.

“We need it to stop God.”

Silence fell between the three of them, then Benny raised his hands and chuckled. “I'm not even gonna ask. Lenore, you get hot wings here to the rift, I'll go get him his little flower.”

With a final wave the big vampire trotted off, leaving Lenore to wrap one arm around Castiel's waist to support him as they made their way toward the rift.

“I never got the chance to apologize,” Castiel said after a few minutes had passed.

“To me?” Lenore shook her head. “For what?”

“For ending your life. I was caught up with the complications of my own deceptions and never considered another alternative. You would potentially have returned to yourself once we destroyed Eve.”

“Castiel, I had killed someone,” Lenore replied gently. “I was so sickened with myself for doing it, and it was even worse because I didn't want to stop. I was grateful, really. I died while I still had control of my mind, not when I was the monster I'd fought to be my whole life.

“And this place may not be heaven, but it's getting better. There's a group of us who look out for each other now. It's not the same constant struggle for survival it was before Benny returned.”

“Is he the king of Purgatory?”

Lenore gave a soft laugh. “Maybe someday,” she said as the soft glow of the rift came into sight.

“Cas?” Dean was there, next to the rift, phone in his hand. Castiel could see the timer still counting down, just a few minutes left until the rift would close. The hunter's eyes were wide, then he was striding across the clearing and pulling Castiel into an embrace.

It hurt—Dean was unintentionally putting pressure on the wounds in Castiel's sides—but he let himself soak in the warmth of his friend's arms. “Dammit, man, I didn't think you were gonna make it.”

“I wouldn't have without Lenore's assistance,” Castiel explained as Dean stepped back, maintaining a supportive hold on Castiel's arm.

“Who?” Dean glanced at the vampire, who was waiting a few paces away. His brow furrowed for a moment in concentration, then he straightened up. “Hey, aren't you...?”

Lenore tilted her head. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but it's good to see you again.”

“Yeah...” Dean nodded. “Thanks for...” he trailed off, jerking his head toward Castiel.

“You'd better hurry,” Lenore said. “I think you only have a few minutes.”

Castiel pulled back against Dean as the hunter turned for the rift. “What about Benny?”

“Benny?” Dean whipped back around. “He's alive?”

“He said he would try to find a leviathan blossom.”

Lenore shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I don't think that's possible. They just aren't very common, and most of them are heavily guarded by the leviathan themselves. I don't think he can find one and make it back in time.”

“Aw, where's your faith in me? You're breakin' my heart.” Benny leaped down from one of the trees above them, straightening up to his full height when he landed and holding a bright red blossom in front of Castiel with a teasing grin. “Your flower, sweetheart?”

Castiel rolled his eyes but accepted the blossom. “I am not your sweetheart,” he grumbled.

Benny winked at him and turned to Dean, pulling the hunter into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Benny, man,” Dean slapped the vampire on the back. “They said you were dead.”

“Can't believe you lost faith in me. Hot wings over there I can handle, but you, Dean? For shame.”

Dean managed a weak chuckle. “Hey, man, we could really use your help with what's going on.”

Castiel stiffened. While he had no grudge against the vampire, he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to invite him back to the living world. Especially with Lenore right there, with no way for her to crossover.

But Benny was already shaking his head. “Sorry, Dean. I got a lot of people back here who need me now.”

“Yeah,” Dean let out a sigh, hefting Castiel a little closer for support. “Well, you take care of yourself.”

Lenore had slipped up to Benny's side, and Castiel thought he saw her slide her hand into the bigger vampire's. “We'll catch you next time,” Benny said.

Dean held a hand up in farewell, then turned to help Castiel through the rift. “Crazy vamp,” he muttered. “How many times does he think we're gonna come back here?”

Judging by the peal of laughter from Benny just before the rift snapped shut, the vampire had heard them.

And, judging by the grin on Dean's face, that had been his intent.

#whumptober2020 #no. 10 #they look so pretty when they bleed #blood loss #supernatural #fic #fanfic #purgatory #au #leviathan #castiel whump #why did they kill benny #off-screen #like a bitch

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twstdreams · 4 years

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Nightmare request! Literally! How would Jamil, Leona, Floyd, Azul, and Riddle react to having a nightmare where their love was brutally killed in front of them only to wake up and see them sleeping (or awake) beside them? You can format it however you like 🎃 Happy Halloween Thank you

This is only vaguely Halloween related but I’m pretty sure you requested this before but I unfortunately deleted it. So in respect for your gusto and that you’ve probably waited months for me specifically to complete this request, I’ll definitely do it. 🥀

Warning: death, blood, violence, broken bones, hanahaki, suffocation, drowning, bruises, poison