#steel haze for command wolf... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ruiniel · 6 months ago

Text

A name, a heart

Rating: M

Relationships: Galadriel/Adar

Additional Tags: TROP S1, Written before S2, Past Relationship(s), Flashbacks, Emotional, Crossover, Imprisonment, Past Torture, The Silmarillion References, Original Character(s), Heavy Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Mild Sexual Content, another AU name for Adar

Count: 5.3k

Also on AO3

Written for @tolkienrsb 2023 for @clumsycopy's wonderful art. See the artwork here.

Summary:

The world is on the precipice of another change, shaken to its foundations. In the immediate aftermath of the 'creation' of Mordor, a weakened Galadriel seeks her companions and is captured by the enemy. What happens when the past and present converge? A short story about choices.

An ashen haze blankets the land between her fluttering eyelids, casting a reddish hue upon all it touches. Her heart races—she remembers little of what had come to be, at first.

A hissing sensation like a wolf bite on the exposed skin of her forearm jolts her to consciousness: a ragged dark burn.

She remembers, then: the catastrophic explosion; the anger of the mountain; the burst of fire and poisonous fumes enveloping them.

She tries to move, but sees restraints tethering her to the earth, binding her to the trunk of a tree. The elf struggles—to no avail. Her sharp gaze seeks through the smoke and cinders in a desperate pursuit. She twists and turns, attempting to find a vulnerability in the bindings. But all is agony, for the rope digs into her burns, and her efforts yield a blaze of pain.

I was… I was searching for the others… I was… alone…

Her companions, her friends, her comrades in arms. Anguish grips her by the throat, and her voice cuts through the choking air, calling out names that echo faintly in the distance.

There is no response, but for the eerie silence of a world forever altered.

Striding forward… I was… searching for the others… she repeats in thought. Her steps had been cautious, deliberate, but she could barely see, hear, or stand. And now fresh wounds plague her, and she is trapped, with ash on her face and lips and uncertainty in her heart.

I am… captured…

“Halbrand…” A name she knows. “Elendil…” she repeats the names over and over.

Now she strides forward, stumbling through the nether, the harshness of the landscape assaulting her senses. Now she stumbles, now she rises, eyes stinging and lungs begging for release, but she carries on.

Everything… burns…

Something cold and rough on her skin, crawling. Her eyes snap open, and she coils like a cornered animal, her instinct to reach for her sword.

I am… bound…

She falls, sliding against the tree trunk. Her back meets hard earth. Her tattered gambeson is torn, her breastplate—all her armor—gone.

“Stay… away from me…” she hisses at the twisted figure looming over her, shakes her head to be free of the touch, fails. Stubbornly, the elf seeks to keep her eyes open, but she is thirsty and exhausted, and the burns ache; her bones hurt. “... Halbrand… Elendil…”

She is restrained with crude yet sturdy knots. The commander of the northern armies turns on her side, gasping in pain and hopelessly trying to observe yet another figure, having joined the first.

No… not them…

The guttural sounds reach her amid a stifling fog. “... fever took’er. She’s not in ‘er right mind, hasn’t been for a while now.”

I must escape, I must … Her eyes move rapidly beneath her lowered lashes, but that only enhances the pressure upon her temples, the shortness of her breath.

The clink of steel on steel, a heaviness of step; a presence, more dangerous than any of them, for she yet feels a remnant of that which rests within her: the fringes of a fëa, so close, so close… pulsing like a gaping, infested wound; a voice that had riled, challenged and mocked her mere days before.

Must… escape…

“Unbind her, for now. I will consider the rest.” The sheen of murk in green eyes, of twisted anger, of triumph.

“Yes, lord Father.”

A grin, a clawed hand reaching for her, the tendrils of the shattered fëa like dagger wounds to her own.

Galadriel screams.

※※※

Hours, perhaps days, pass this way. The elf drifts in and out of awareness, memories milling like smoke about her. Sometimes someone moves her, and she has not the strength to defend herself; vulnerable. She curses them in her mind.

Other times, instead of the cold, clammy touch, there is warmth. She tries opening her eyes then, tries to see—but the vision is blurry, bedecked with green and a memory so faded it fails to resurface, like the sunken skeleton of a warship drowned by Ossë’s fury.

The cloth sticks to her skin, her hair reeks of smoke and sweat. Sometimes she finds enough strength to lift herself up, to prop her back against the tree she is shackled to.

It is then, ignored and unmoving, that she watches them milling about, building. Her heart is heavy with disdain, but something is different here. As time goes on, something shifts—indefinable, at first. Galadriel sees an order of sorts: gestures that are not threatening, glimpses of conversation and collaboration. She sees them caring for each other in strange ways: there is no affection, no show of tenderness—nor would she expect such, knowing what she does of orcs. She felled them by the hundreds, thousands, Age after Age, and now here she is: the prisoner of a ragged legion that somehow succeeded what the great Sauron had not: forging themselves a kingdom in Middle-earth. Their language, once nothing but guttural grunts, in time becomes a hackling noise she can filter from her thought.

They heed her not, but each day—or what she thinks is a new day—Galadriel finds two crude, carven bowls by her side: one with murky water, the other with an assortment of something undefinable.

“Eat,” orders one.

She acts as though she’s not heard, struggling against the bonds again. Usually, they leave her be after this.

“If you don’t eat, you die,” the orc insists.

Galadriel looks to her tattered clothing; someone had stripped her of her plates, yes, and there are foul-smelling bandages wrapped around the wounds on her arms. “What would your master keep me alive for, I wonder?” Her gaze cuts to the orc, scalding, though the creature seems unperturbed.

“You may ask him yourself,” the orc mumbles, looking away as he trudges off, leaving her somewhat uneasy.

“Kill me and be done with it, then! What’s the purpose of this?!” she cries after the orc.

“Adar, stubborn, this one,” the loathsome being grumbles as footfalls draw near. How she would gift the fiend the sharpness of a blade.

“Adar…” Galadriel snorts, speaking to herself. “That is a name of honor among the elves. One your kind would know nothing about!” she cries, her voice hoarse with disuse.

“Honor… is such a relative ideal.”

She starts. She knows that voice. Her eyes narrow as Galadriel regards the speaker with skepticism and loathing, looking up from the boots planted before her. How had she not noticed the filth?

“Still, you do not understand…” the tall leader she had kept bound in a shed not long ago now stares down at her, then at the ashen ground between them. “We are more than a tribe, more than a legion. We are a family, bound by something deeper than blood. We sought a home, a place of freedom, away from the chains that have confined us… for so long.”

Galadriel’s eyes narrow further, her initial contempt now tinged with curiosity. “You sought a home and took it from others. Chains? You speak as if you were once enslaved.”

Adar’s gaze remains steady, his voice low but resolute. “We were. Enslaved by chaos, and after… by the savagery of a world that gave us no choice but to become what we are.”

She studies him, the flicker of something deeper stirring her heart. “And what are you, Adar, but a father to these beasts?”

His eyes hold hers, unflinching. “We are orcs, Artanis,” he says. “Uruk,” he repeats slowly, meaningfully, recalling their first encounter.

Her throat bobs. “How do you know my name?” The memory from before rises slowly from the depths, but now she desperately does not wish it to, though she knows not why.

“But we are also warriors, survivors, and yes, we are capable of feeling, of care… daughter of Arafinwë,” her captor follows—in Quenya.

He stands there, straight and expressionless, watching her.

Galadriel blinks. “You remember your mother tongue.”

One of the first… among the first… the Moringotto, he…

A shift in the air; the unseen wound pulses again—his, she senses it now—making her sick and there is no doubt: this fëa is twisted and fractured beyond hope.

He whom the orcs call ‘father’ tilts his head in silence, staring through her. “It is not my mother tongue.”

Galadriel struggles anew, despite knowing it is futile. “What will you do to me?” she snaps.

He watches, unmoving, and she detests him all the more for this pretense at civility.

“What would you have done to me, Arafinwëan?”

“You know my name, know of my family,” Galadriel shudders. Her features tighten. “When were you taken?”

He looks up at the reddened skies. “Long ago. Longer than you recall.” It is stated as fact, in a strange voice that drips scorn, but also—something else. “What does it matter?” the uruk asks the skies in a faraway voice.

Galadriel glances up at him, clad in remnants of First Age plate, the details long faded. “Answer my other question, then.”

His gaze lowers, meeting hers, his green eyes holding a flicker of something she cannot quite fathom. “Well, to tell you the truth…” Slowly he descends, level with her eyes.

Galadriel draws back.

“I find it strange… very curious indeed…”

He seems to want to reach for her; Galadriel lifts her chin in defiance, though his proximity feels… feels…

“... how swiftly the tables have turned.”

He closes his eyes, and Galadriel squirms as an image flares before her, like a veil embroidered in silver and gold.

Two figures, together upon a verdant hill. Fireflies, golden-green, and a warm hand on her knee.

...do you ever dream of freedom?

Her eyes flare open, meeting his. “...no… it… it cannot…“

He lowers his head, lets her simmer, suffer, toil.

“… you… the-the things you’ve done… you…”

The uruk meets her gaze then, a flash of misery in his darkened stare, so swiftly smothered she might have imagined it.

Galadriel looks closer: at the scars etched across his features, at what they disguise. His dark hair, contrasting sharply with his pale, ravaged skin; green eyes, once lit by Telperion’s enigmatic light.

“Do you still dream of freedom, Artanis?”

The words, the voice, hurl her spirit through a lashing of loss and memory: past the struggles of a new world, beyond comfortable ignorance and seas of sunken dreams.

Shivering, barely breathing, she shakes her head mutely. “You… you were gone… you are…”

The uruk stands, fists clenched at his sides. “I am what you see before you.” He looks at her one last time, then turns and makes to leave.

“Wait...” The word struggles in her mouth, ribbons of buried pain tangling them together. The sounds refuse to form. “Wait… “ she croaks.

I want you to live...

Her cry pierces through the mist, gaining berth like endless ripples in the tides of time.

“Oren!”

The uruk stops in his tracks.

※※※

In the dim light of a late hour, two elves lie beneath the glittering boughs of Irmo’s gardens. Artanis twirls her fair hair, shimmering gold and silver, then gazes up at the one whose presence seems to ignite this very stillness with vigor and depth.

“Do you ever dream of freedom, Oren?” she asks, her voice soft, laced with longing. Her head rests on his shoulder.

Oren’s eyes are the color of deep, wild forests, darker now that his expression turns contemplative. “Freedom is a concept that touches every heart, even those who dwell at the feet of the Valar.”

Artanis sighs, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “But here, even in this blessed realm, there are rules and expectations. Is it truly freedom if we are bound by the very ideals we impose upon each other?”

Oren’s long fingers brush her cheek, a tender gesture she absorbs like grass does dew. “Perhaps… true freedom lies not in escaping the rules, but in finding ways to shape them, to create a world where every creature can thrive.”

He’s been alive for longer than she. He’d known the old world. Perhaps that is the reason Artanis cannot comprehend him, at times.

“Do you not miss them? The starlit lands of your begetting? Home?”

Oren hums, his chest vibrating with amusement. He is warm, so warm, and she ought to have a care, but why should she? He does not follow the Noldorin laws as such, either way. Artanis finds she enjoys that, perhaps more than she should.

“Are you laughing off my honest question?” she demands, lacing her fingers with his.

“Home is here,” Oren says, placing her hand over his heart. “Where you are.”

Her spirit sings. They met during a festival once at the base of Taniquetil. Artanis discovered he was one of those who’d come, a child being, to the Blessed Realm after the Great March. His parents had perished on the way, after they crossed the mountains.

Artanis did not know of death. It frightened her, but fascinated her, and before she knew it, it was always more questions, more encounters, more, more, more, day after day.

Now her cheeks feel hot while the conversation delves into other depths of thought and reasoning, each word carrying a weight of dreams and yearnings roaming beyond the confines of Valinor.

The echoes of their heated argument still resonate through the halls, a stark reminder of the division breaking kin and kindred apart. Artanis paces, her eyes ablaze with determination.

Oren watches, a meld of concern and frustration on his sharp features.

“You cannot, Artanis,” he pleads, voice laced with worry. “The lands beyond these shores are warped, changed by treachery of the Moringotto.”

Artanis stops abruptly, her gaze locked to his. “And that is precisely why I must go. That which he stole is the last remnant of our former life here, Oren. It holds a power that must not remain in his grasp. We must retrieve it, attempt to restore the light swallowed by chaos, and gain our freedom by doing so.”

Oren’s hands clench into fists, his jaw set. “And what of us? What of those dreams, all those words of a future? Together?”

She reaches for his hand, her touch gentle yet resolute. “Our dreams, Oren, are woven into the tapestry of Arda. I cannot turn my back on this. I must go.”

“My dear, dear Artanis.” Oren sighs, his long fingers barely grazing her cheek. When hers encircle his wrist, his blood quickens, as happens much too often lately for his liking. “Would you go forth into the unknown, so eagerly hunting a darkness I long to forget? Did I not share of what lies beyond the light of Valinórë?” He watches the changing gleam in her eyes, brimming with light, remnants of the last heartbeat of a realm now withered and cold. Oren does not even consider his impulse as his thumb runs a soft line beneath one golden lash; her grip tightens around his hand.

“Look around us, Oren,” Artanis says with a sad smile. “There is no more light in Valinórë.”

A crystal-cutting gaze he’d come to know of the daughter of Arafinwë in her most decisive moments draws him hopelessly in, as does the stubbornness which now evokes a feeling buried beneath forgetful years of bliss: fear.

“I would go to fight it,” she continues, her other hand warm against his chest, fingers pressed over his heart, “to defeat it, and see a world you were forced to leave behind,” she hesitates, “one you could live in again, free, in the lands you once called home—your true home, and ours.”

Her hold on his wrist slackens, and despite the pull of his spirit, Oren pushes against the snares of need. “Prince Fëanáro speaks in the heat of despair,” he follows in his frank, unadorned manner, knowing well her usual stance on any matters concerning her half-uncle. “And yet, you follow the glint of madness in his eyes. You, Artanis?”

“But you forget, a prince he is no longer,” Artanis retorts, her pleading turned stone as she takes a step back. Death has found a king in the Undying Lands, and now a son takes up a father’s banners. “I follow the promise of freedom.”

“And what if all you find in Endórë is thralldom?”

He utters each word with care, a pointed pressure recalling old pains. She has begun to lose her temper, he can see it, and the rays of her will feel like the palpable brush of naked flame: distracting, bewildering. When was the last time his own composure and patience had slipped in this manner? Oren wills himself to stillness.

“You would have me stay behind, forgoing my family where I could aid them,” she says. “Like a craven.”

There it is. When Artanis feels cornered, she knows where to aim and at any other time, with any other occasion in the past, he might have been tempted to spar. But now Oren nears her, close, closer on quiet steps, his eyes carrying their own light. She once told him they must be akin to the cold reflections of stars in old rivers.

“I would have you live. This is a fool’s errand.” He appraises her stiff bearing, her fëa binding itself around her like a shield; and he remembers how one can be painfully, utterly alone.

The flickering candlelight licks against her features, enhancing the gold in her irises and the defiant sickle-smile on her lips. “My decision is final. You may choose to join my family, or to remain and tend to the ashes here.”

No sooner does she turn to leave than Oren catches her by the hand. “Please.”

He never begged anyone for anything in all his days. “Beware the one using wrath as their guide, for it will be their ruin. And yours.”

Artanis snatches her hand away; it hurts like a blow.

“I feel no fear. There are ones who can stay the flames of my uncle’s moods.” She regards him one last time. “We leave as soon as all is prepared. Seek me out if you choose to come.”

“And what if I choose to stay?” Oren calls after her retreating figure, receiving no reply.

※※※

There is no end to this. She slashes and cuts, parries and strikes down another beast, then another, and another. The daughter of Arafinwë struggles amid yet another battle, her fingers stiff around the hilt of her sword. They’ve reached the lands of Endórë through Ice and death, and the beasts of the enemy sprout in endless numbers. Not a day passes without a skirmish. Now, she looks to the left, gathering the state of affairs: her brothers each hold their own, her cousins are well enough—though still mourning the loss of Arakáno, the youngest. She seeks through the mayhem, meeting a pair of emerald-green eyes in a silvery visor.

She sighs in relief as Oren nods, continuing to fell enemies left and right.

At first, Artanis had hoped he would change his mind and join the host departing darkened Valinor for Endórë. She never imposed such on him, but in truth, would have been devastated if he hadn’t come. Yes, she is selfish. But he is here, and that is all that matters. After many arguments, he chose to follow her, their people. Oren was deemed a valuable source of knowledge besides, having walked the wilds of Beleriand where many had not.

They seek each other on the battlefield, no matter the situation, in every budding conflict. No matter the challenge, one truth remains: together they are stronger.

When he fails to appear in the sphere of her sight for longer than she is used to, Artanis wavers, but carries on. It is the nature of such battles. I will find him after, when we reconvene. We’ve done this before. It is always the same: a verbal lashing, an irate but relieved reunion, a reiteration of strategy.

They made the right choice to journey here. She sees no regrets in his eyes whenever Oren looks at her, his gaze her guiding light amid an ever twilight. She will find him later. It is always the same.

※※※

Galadriel snatches her arm away, unable to stand the touch of the orc upon her.

“If you do not let him help, the wound will fester. You may be immune to pestilence, but trust me, it will keep you well and weak for a long while.”

Galadriel stares at the uruk as his subordinate unfolds an array of bowls, pouches and strips.

“Trust you... what is he doing?”

“Drakgna is a healer,” says Adar—Oren—gazing at the gestures of his orc, eyes not straying her way.

Galadriel peers at him, unable to tear her own eyes away. It had taken her a long while to come to terms with who he is; what he’s done... is another matter altogether.

How had she not seen it? Back in that shed, she’d looked him in the eye and had not recognized him, had told him she would be the end of him and his ilk. Now it all seems to fit together, like a poorly done child’s guessing game. Yes, she remembers.

The sadness that lingered in his eyes always, the high cheekbones, the rich, sable hair—remnants, pieces of it all. The way he moves, the quiet confidence. The ruthlessness and cruelty… they are new, altogether new, but can she blame him? She wants to. She must. She should.

“I’ve searched for you then,” Galadriel murmurs, so faint no human ears would hear. “For days, weeks. Months.”

“And your search would have been in vain,” he says, and now the inflection of his voice strikes differently. “Lest you sought the deepest dungeons of the Moringotto, and even then…” he trails off, staring at the orc now bandaging her arm.

“When the War of Wrath ended, they did.” She’d buried him long ago, in truth. She’d learned to live without, found another. And now… now he is here. “Why did you not seek me out when you escaped?”

He laughs; it is bitter. “I have fought against my kind, at the end of all things, before the world was changed. I knew little of myself in those days, and remembered no one. Least of all, the trappings of my former self’s heart.”

“Trappings,” Galadriel mutters, hissing at the salve the healer is applying with such care it leaves her bewildered.

“Yes, Artanis. All was an eternal shackle, from the bindings around my fëa to the bonds fastening my limbs.”

She tries to hate him still, remembering what he’s done, what he’s brought about.

She cannot. She missed hearing her name this way, and it tastes of childish fancy, of a time when all was well.

“But… you were right, in the end. After all… now,” he gazes at his clawed vambrace, curls his fingers in his palm, “I know what true freedom is like.” His eyes stray toward the dying forest, to the orcs moving in broad daylight without issue.

“Oren—”

“I’d dream of you, sometimes,” he suddenly speaks, rendering her silent.

Galadriel hisses; the peculiar, rough bandage feels oddly cool on her burn wound.

“... most often, there was absolute darkness. And then…” he looks up at her, before his gaze tilts back down.

“... and then?”

Their exchange back in that shed flows through her mind, every word, every look and cold, acidic reply.

“You’d always remembered?” she asks when he falls into silence.

A nod.

“... why didn’t you…”

“Speak?” Oren asks, half a smile pulling at his scarred lips. “To what end? You were so driven, so angry you could not even see me.”

He throws her a side-glance, then looks back to the ground. “Our ways have long since parted.”

“Indeed, they have.” Again she is wroth, but not with him.

“It was always night in my dream, a choking void,” Oren continues, closing the subject. “It all began during the first years of torment—in the times between their experiments, I was left to linger in the dark. Unchained. I could not go far. They’d used something to blind me. “But then, you would appear, donned in flowing white, with stars and moonlight about you, your robes glimmering with them.”

Galadriel swallows. “Our last evening together, in Valinor.”

Oren stares ahead, listless. “It kept me alive for a good while, that dream. You always carried golden flowers, and lay them in my lap.”

“I never did that.”

“I know,” Oren says, and to her utmost surprise, smiles. “That was my own thought. They were fresh, the flowers. Alive. All that I was not.” He gazes at her then with a stare that holds the weight of a thousand years. “For that dream alone… I grant you your release from bondage. Once.”

She swallows. “Oren…”

She tries reaching for him despite herself; he stands. They are alone, the healer having retreated.

“That is no longer my name.”

Her voice is a desperate whisper, carried by the putrid winds. “Come with me.”

His gaze turns heavy, eyes glowing with faded light. “The paths we walk are our own. My kin, my children—there is a bond that ties us together. I cannot abandon them. You knew this before you even asked.” He produces a dagger, takes her hand, and cuts through the ropes.

Galadriel stands wearily, grimacing at the stiffness in her back and legs, the renewed blood flow making her dizzy. Nearly falling forward, she meets support by way of a chain-mailled arm. She looks him in the eye again. Yes, it is he. She takes a step back, heart heavy yet resolute. “Our choices shape our future. You choose to remain and lead those born of darkness.”

They stare at each other for a long time.

“Aye,” says Oren, “I choose it, Artanis. Just as you chose to come here, an Age and more ago.”

Galadriel nods, presses her eyes tightly shut. She whirls away from him. “You will be hunted.”

“I am well accustomed to it.”

A hand, warm and scarred, brushes against hers ever so briefly. “Go, commander. You killed your jailors, you plotted your escape. You know nothing of their whereabouts.”

“You know I cannot lie about this.”

There comes no answer. She swallows, turns around after a moment, an eternity of doubt.

“But there are those who lie to you,” he says.

Galadriel frowns. “What do you speak of?”

“Your allies… are not all what they seem,” Oren grins, all tenderness and reminiscence gone from the elf she once knew. Now the uruk speaks.

“No one is what they seem, are they, Oren?” she retorts, surprised at the flash of anger, suppressed from his expression.

“Heed me. Trust not the most gifted of them.” And with that, he smiles, a smile that rends her hapless and burning all the same.

She cannot find her words, not until he’s already walking away.

“What does that mean? Oren!”

She follows him, knowing she should not. But the burn within, leaving her raw and yearning for an Age, guides her steps, and she does not stop until her hand is on his arm, does not stop when she is suddenly drawn close into a crushing embrace.

This is all they’ll ever have. No one will ever know.

No one…

“... the river,” he murmurs, and she nods, reason abandoned as they drift together not far, towards a river yet untouched by the blight settled over the land. Feverish again, she swiftly discards her clothes, as she watches him do the same. She watches the scars, feels the muscle beneath as he crushes her in an embrace, delving with her into the water.

It is cold; beneath the river she kisses his mangled cheek, his chin, returns for air only to be drawn back and held, to feel claws scraping the skin of her scalp, gliding to the nape of her neck, down her spine. He’d always felt like home, and the wound to his fëa aches, hurts her too.

“... is this a dream as well?” Oren asks her, or no one, but she hears it, and knows he has spoken into her thought, as they used to do hundreds of years before when she was a sapling and he was her guide, her first love, her first notion of freedom.

It does not last long. He finds a spot to retreat to: a hidden cove close to the riverbank, unspoiled and fragrant.

She’s not felt the touch of another upon her skin for so long, and now every glide and warm slip of roughened, clawed fingers steals a sigh from her; Galadriel clutches at his back, finds herself biting at his kiss.

There is no tenderness: it all happens fast, rough, angry almost—on both sides. She gives him no ground, he yields none either. She moans into his famished kisses, wraps her legs around him, sets free the unmatched relief and flood of light drowning her within; gifts it to him.

She feels his pain, feels the dark repelling her, but he will not release her: he fights it, fights against the urges foreign to his first kin, instilled into him by warped intent. He protects them both, driving into her and burying his head against her neck, whispering her name in time with her sighs.

“I thought you… were dead…” she utters between kisses, hips tilting upward.

“I was,” Oren binds an arm around her, raises her as he sits and easily places her into his lap.

Galadriel gasps: he feels good, and she sees him now where she had not before.

“Oren…”

She thinks she sees a sickle moon, languishing in the sky.

“Oren, I…”

Her robes are white, the night is black. Above her, he is crowned with stars, his eyes are kind and his touch is gentle, and when she speaks the words, he lowers his head to rest upon her breast. “Is this my dream, or yours?”

“I do not know,” comes the faint reply.

But they know the truth: it does not matter.

※※※

Come morning, she awakens to the cold. Galadriel places a hand to her temple, then, seeing herself alone, swiftly dons her garments. Her pieces of armor, once stripped away during the first days of capture, now rest by the closest tree. Her sword is there also, in its scabbard.

Cautious, wondering where he’d gone, Galadriel takes a few steps, and between ancient trees she sees him. His back is turned. She waits.

“You must leave now.”

She’d expected this. “Are you certain this is your wish?”

A beat of silence, and another. “You are living your truth, Artanis, as I am mine. I cannot join you anymore than you can stay.”

It should never have been this way. The guilt she feels overpowers her, but somehow she yet stands.

“Remember what I told you,” come the last words Oren speaks before he departs, and his figure fades into the distance, silent in its wraithlike stalk; not once does he look back.

Galadriel turns away, wiping her eyes. She rushes, facing the horizon lying ahead beyond dust and poison. She walks.

One step, then another. She walks, and walks, thinking of the touch impressed upon her skin, burdened with longing, of a green gaze upon her. She walks until the sun pierces through the smog, brushing her with golden rays; she falls.

On her knees, her forehead against the cold, filthy ground, she weeps until she cannot, until there is nothing left to shed, until the pain has become a dried stream stinging her eyes and burning her chest. She cannot ask why, it would be useless.

The world is changed. All around her, it bears scars old and new—including her, including them. They each have their role set, the pieces are on the board, falling or advancing or forcefully flung aside. And yet, there remains a shard of hope; one forged long ago and living by the memory of warmth, nurtured once by two twined hands beneath the tinted skies of Valinor.

#finally posted this here #ruiniel:fanfiction #trop #galadriel x adar #trsb23

4 notes · View notes

hysterialevi · 4 years ago

Text

Hjarta | Chapter 17

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

A FEW MINUTES LATER

BJORNHEIMR

Sigurd dragged his feet across the uneven terrain, slogging through the dead woods that now served as Dag’s tomb. His hand shone vividly with a bright layer of red due to the blood that clung onto his skin, and his ears still buzzed with the echoes of his friend’s final cries.

As for Eivor, the jarl’s son appeared to be equally as harrowed as his companion. His eyes mirrored the frozen desolation of the bleak landscape sitting before him, and his face remained expressionless much like the corpses that now rested at Bjornheimr’s temple.

Both of them traversed the world like a pair of hollow shells, wandering through the dark in search of any light to hold onto. A black haze had blotted out the beam that once twinkled in their eyes, and it seemed as if the fire that once burned in them had been completely snuffed out.

Eivor just prayed this would be the end of their grief. It wouldn’t be long before they got the information they needed from Gorm, and the young man imagined they would soon be braving the seas again in search of the wretch’s father.

It was an endeavor that would only lead to more war, no doubt. There was a high chance that more people would die during their pursuit, and Eivor could no longer guarantee that even he would survive a second battle against Kjotve.

But after everything that had happened, he refused to shy away from this fight. Kjotve’s death wouldn’t bring Ulfar or Thora back from the dead, that much was true. But even then, Eivor hoped that -- at least -- it would serve as a balm to ease the pain now wracking his heart.

He didn’t even care about reclaiming his honor anymore. All he wanted was to bring this horrid war to an end. Far too many people had been lost to Kjotve’s barbarity, and Eivor’s only desire now was to deliver peace unto those who had suffered for so long.

It was something he was willing to die for at this point, and a part of him suspected that he would.

“Wait,” Sigurd said as they entered the village. He stopped in his tracks and gazed in the distance, looking towards the docks. “Is that Randvi’s ship?”

Eivor followed his line of sight, nodding in response. “Yes. Randvi and her men returned not too long ago. They arrived whilst you were dealing with Dag.” He paused briefly, giving the prince a grim face. “...I’ve already told her about Thora and Ulfar. She’s at the temple now with my father and Ingrida. They’re preparing for tomorrow’s funeral.”

“...How is she?”

“How do you think? She knew Thora and Ulfar even longer than I did. She... she’s beyond devastated.”

Sigurd sighed deeply, hanging his head low in regret. “...Damn it. I should’ve killed Dag weeks ago. I should’ve confronted him from the start. He had been acting so strange ever since we came to Bjornheimr. I shouldn’t have waited this long to do something about it. Perhaps none of this would’ve happened then.”

Eivor took a few steps closer to him, speaking softly. “You are not to blame, Sigurd. You had no way of knowing Dag was the traitor.”

The prince wasn’t swayed. “On the contrary, I was the only one who could’ve known. I was the closest one with Dag out of anybody in our clan. I should’ve been paying more attention. I shouldn’t have let my love for him blind my judgement.”

Sigurd shut his eyes for a moment and let out a breath, clearly exhausted from the day’s events. “...I’m sorry, Eivor. I know you don’t fault me for what’s happened, but even then, I still carry some of the blame on my shoulders. I must be more vigilant from now on. I can’t allow anything like this to occur again, and I won’t. You have my word.”

Walking away before the other man could respond, Sigurd left Eivor behind and simply pushed forward into the village, emerging from the forest like a shadow slipping out of the night. The despair that once dimmed his expression had been replaced with the flickering embers of a growing rage, and the Wolf-Kissed could almost see sparks igniting in his eyes.

As for the young man himself, he simply followed the prince from a distance and trailed along quietly, unsure of what else he could do to comfort his lover. A few of the villagers -- including Styrbjorn -- had turned their heads upon Sigurd’s anticipated return, and immediately brought their attention to the blood now staining his hand.

The color faded from the king’s flesh as soon as he noticed the striking pigment. He didn’t seem to understand what had transpired just yet, but the dreary cloud hanging over his son was enough to imply that something terrible had unraveled.

Styrbjorn approached the two of them, carrying a look of concern.

“My son...!” He called out, keeping his tone hushed. “Where have you been? What’s happened to you? Whose... whose blood is that?”

Sigurd exchanged glances with his companion, hesitant to answer. He didn’t appear to be any calmer than when Eivor first found him in the woods, and the younger man feared that it wouldn’t take much more to send him into a storm.

“It’s... Dag’s.” The prince admitted. “...I killed him.”

The older man fell into silence, taken aback by his son’s actions.

“You did what?”

“I had to,” Sigurd justified, steeling his voice. “Dag was the traitor. I had to get rid of him before he did anything else. I couldn’t allow him to harm more people.”

“A traitor?” Styrbjorn repeated in disbelief. “Are you positive? What makes you so certain he betrayed us? Did you find any evidence?”

“He confessed his crimes, father. He told me everything. Dag was the one assisting Kjotve. He was the one who informed him of our alliance. Ulfar was right.”

The king didn’t seem convinced. “I see. And was there anyone else around to hear Dag’s confession?”

“...No. It was just me and him.”

Styrbjorn shook his head in disapproval. “Then how can we be so sure that you killed the right man?”

Sigurd stared at his father in bewilderment, finally catching on to the man’s concerns. “...You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, son. But other people may not -- and for good reason, I might add. You just killed one of our own clan members because of a confession that nobody was around to hear. Nobody except for you. How can I accept that as evidence? How am I going to explain Dag’s death to our people? How can I convince them that what you did was not, in fact, murder?”

Sadly, Sigurd was in no state to process things rationally. The king’s doubt only added more fuel to the anguish that was already festering inside him, and his temper quickly took over like a hurricane commanding the seas.

“You can explain to them that I just killed the man responsible for Thora’s death! I killed the man who would’ve thrown the rest of us to the wolves. Had it not been for that rat, this village would still be in one piece. Thora would still be alive. I killed him because it was necessary.”

Styrbjorn was quiet in response, urging Sigurd to fill the silence.

“You think I murdered him out of indulgence? You know how much I loved him, father. He was my brother! I didn’t want to see him dead. But I did what was required to keep our clan safe. I finished what Ulfar started.”

But the king had nothing else to offer other than criticism. “You acted carelessly, Sigurd. There is no honor in slaying a man who cannot defend himself. You know this. If you truly believed Dag was the traitor, you should’ve brought him to me -- not slaughtered him in the woods. I could’ve held a trial to determine his judgement. His crimes would’ve been brought to light.”

“You think we have the time for something like that? Dag may have been reckless, but he wasn’t a fool. If there really was any evidence to find of his collusion with Kjotve, he would’ve destroyed it. We’d be investigating for weeks, if not months!”

“And what if there is evidence? What if we discover that Dag was not the only traitor in our midst? What will we do then, hm?”

Sigurd grew irritated. “We’ll deal with it. Just like I dealt with Dag.”

Styrbjorn sighed in defeat. “You rely too much on impulse, my son. You cannot take matters into your own hands like this. If you are to wear the crown someday, you must learn to respect the ways of our kingdom. A good leader enforces the law with a firm hand, but is never above it.”

The prince didn’t take kindly to that. “You are the last person to dictate what makes a good leader. While I’ve been fighting alongside our warriors on the battlefield, risking my life, you’ve been idling with a bottle in your hand, watching everything unfold! You say I’m reckless, but who else is going to defend your kingdom if not you?”

The older man turned away in shame, causing his son to descend even further into his tirade.

“Killing Dag was the only way to proceed, father. I wouldn’t have done it if I had any other options, but we are at a dead-end here. You don’t want me to act like this? Then you can swing the axe yourself next time!”

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sigurd cut himself off and took a moment to glance at his surroundings, suddenly realizing just how much attention he had drawn to their argument. Everywhere around him, men and women alike gawked at their altercation with a blatant sense of fear in their eyes, alarmed by everything they just heard. Not a single word was uttered amongst the small crowd that had gathered around them, and yet, it felt as if their very thoughts lingered in the air.

Looking at his father, Sigurd stepped away from the other man and slunk to Eivor’s side, backing down as if he were shocked by his own behavior. He appeared to be even more devoid of life now that he had argued with Styrbjorn, and within moments, he was desperately searching for a way out.

“I... I need to be alone.”

In the blink of an eye, Sigurd removed himself from the vicinity and retreated to the longhouse, aching for the solitude of his chambers. He left Styrbjorn and Eivor with nothing more than the company of their own thoughts, and disappeared as if he were smoke being whisked away by the wind.

In the meantime, the two men simply watched the prince vanish in the distance as the crowd began to disperse, granting them the luxury of privacy they so fervently desired. A portion of them already felt somewhat sheepish due to announcing their troubles to the public, and frankly, the only thing Eivor wanted was to lock himself in his room.

Unfortunately for the young man though, Styrbjorn didn’t seem ready to let him go just yet.

“Oh, Sigurd...” the king muttered to himself. “When will that boy learn...?”

Eivor approached the conflicted man, attempting to calm his nerves.

“Forgive him, my lord.” He pleaded. “Grief has befallen Sigurd. He made a great sacrifice for us today, cutting down his own friend like that. It will take him a long time to recover from this.”

Styrbjorn pinched the bridge of his nose out of stress, pacing back and forth in the snow.

“I understand that my son was only trying to protect our clan, but I must ensure he’s prepared to inherit the throne. We are at war, Eivor. There’s no guarantee I’ll be around by the time Kjotve is vanquished. The dawn of Sigurd’s reign could arrive sooner than he expects. He must be ready.”

“He is ready,” The Wolf-Kissed reassured. “He just needs time to heal.”

The king halted in his tracks and glanced at the younger man, inquiring about one other matter.

“Listen, Eivor. I hate to ask you of this considering everything that’s going on, but could you speak to Sigurd for me? I’d feel better knowing he wasn’t dealing with this alone.”

Eivor raised a brow. “Me? Why not you?”

“You’ve witnessed firsthand the animosity that stands between me and my son. Very rarely does Sigurd ever greet me with a smile. Whenever we’re together, it always feels like he’s angry at me, or frustrated. And the worst part is... I can’t even say he’s completely unjustified.”

“What do you mean?”

Styrbjorn sighed regretfully, dropping his gaze to the ground. There was a clear rein of hesitancy holding him back, but he knew that in order to help his son the best, he’d need to offer his full candor.

“Perhaps he’s already told you this, but... ever since Sigurd’s mother passed away, I’ve found myself continuously drawn to the allure of drink. It’s something that’s haunted me for years now. I’ve tried many times to put down the bottle, but in the end, it always ends up trapping me in its clutches. I’m not proud to admit it, but it’s the truth.”

Eivor nodded in remembrance. “Sigurd has told me about this, yes.”

“I’m not surprised. He often speaks fondly of you. It’s clear you’ve gained my son’s unwavering trust. Unfortunately however, I cannot say the same for myself. My relationship with Sigurd has suffered due to my addiction. I have not always been the father he deserves, nor given him the guidance that he needed.”

The king’s stone facade faltered briefly. “It breaks my heart to consider it, but I fear that my own son views me as a nuisance more than anything. A lingering shackle that keeps holding him back. Sometimes I even wonder if the boy hates me.”

The young man’s expression softened with sympathy. “...No, Styrbjorn. No. He doesn’t hate you. Even Sigurd himself has told me that he loves you. He just feels ignored.”

That caught Styrbjorn’s attention. “Ignored?”

“Yes. The last time he and I spoke about this issue, he expressed that he often feels like you don’t heed his advice; that his words tend to fall on deaf ears. Sigurd wants to help you overcome this, but he says you won’t let him.”

“It’s... true that I haven’t always kept my promises. I cannot deny that. But this battle is not so easily won.”

Eivor gave him an understanding look. “And Sigurd is aware of that. He knows you won’t be able to discard this overnight. But he just needs to see that you’re making some kind of effort. That will be more than enough for him. Trust me.”

Styrbjorn took the man’s advice to heart and quietly thought to himself for a moment, evidently shaken by this revelation. It was clear that a part of him drowned in guilt due to the discovery of Sigurd’s frustrations, but a hint of relief also twinkled in his eye now that he knew the boy still loved him.

“...I see.” The king said sincerely, gazing at the young man with an immense amount of gratitude. “Thank you for telling me this, Eivor. The path to reconciliation will be one laden with difficulties, but at least I can see where I must go. I will think on what you’ve said, and I’ll speak to Sigurd when the moment is right. In the meantime, could you talk to him for now? I fear that my presence would only amplify his anger.”

“Of course,” Eivor said with a firm nod. “I’ll check on him for you.”

“I appreciate it. Stay safe, my boy. Our struggles are far from over. I pray that the gods will extend their mercy to you from now on, and that you recover quickly from today’s tragedies. Peace is a distant reality for us at the moment, but not unreachable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

THE LONGHOUSE

SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Wandering through the longhouse’s dimly lit halls, Eivor followed the trail of torches as he made his way to Sigurd’s chambers, overwhelmed by the looming silence that was broken only by his footsteps.

The adamant walls of the building had blocked out any intrusive sounds -- including that of the howling wind -- and as a result, nothing but the low crackling of fire was present to accompany the thoughts screaming in Eivor’s head.

He just didn’t know how to feel anymore. When he first discovered Thora’s body, the agony that overcame him was so fierce it almost crippled him entirely. He felt like the gods had ripped a hole in the very fabric of the world, and the impact of Ulfar’s death only pressed harder on the weight that was already resting on his shoulders.

Still, he couldn’t imagine what Sigurd was experiencing. Even though Eivor was no stranger to the atrocities of war, he had never been cursed with the responsibility of striking down his own brother. The mere idea of putting himself in the same position with Randvi was enough to crush him, and he worried that the guilt would twist the prince’s spirit into something much darker. He just hoped he could help the man before it was too late.

“...Sigurd?” The Wolf-Kissed said gently, knocking on the surface of his door. “It’s me, Eivor. Can I come in?”

A soft rustle emitted from the inside, followed up by the muffled thuds of Sigurd’s boots. The door swung open after a few moments, and standing in front of him, Eivor saw the prince, looking somber as ever.

“Eivor...?” He whispered, still afflicted by the ordeal with Dag. “You’re here?”

“Yes. I know you said you wished to be alone, but... I was worried. You disappeared from our sight before we could even get a word in. I wanted to check on you. I hope I’m not intruding.” The younger man paused for a second. “...How are you feeling now?”

Sigurd’s gaze fell to the floor. “I... I don’t know, Eivor.” His posture slouched in remorse. “...I’m not doing well.”

“Of course not,” Eivor said in understanding. “Dag was like a brother to you. No one could do what you did and come out unscathed.”

The prince scoffed. “No one except for my father, apparently.” He turned away from the door and stepped aside, allowing Eivor to come in as he spoke. “Can you believe that man? We are this close to winning the war against Kjotve, and he’s more concerned about due process.”

Eivor followed Sigurd into his chambers, closing the door behind them.

“Your father just wants to make sure you’re ready to rule the kingdom.”

“Well, there won’t be a kingdom to rule if we don’t catch Kjotve soon enough. My father says I’m careless in my behavior, but I don’t recall the last time I saw him lifting a sword. What else does he expect me to do?”

Sigurd took a seat on the edge of his bed and sighed, completely drained of all vigor. “...I know I’m not perfect, Eivor. I know I still have much to learn. But everything I do is for the betterment of this clan. Why can’t my father see that?”

Eivor sat beside his lover, placing a comforting hand on his back. “He does see it. He may not be the best at getting his message across, but trust me when I say your father knows you have good intentions. He just worries that you’ll act with too much haste.”

The prince’s brow furrowed in curiosity. “Is that so? And what makes you so certain of that?”

“He and I talked after you left,” the younger man admitted. “He wanted to speak with you personally, but he thought that his company would only aggravate you more.” Eivor frowned in empathy. “...Your father thinks you hate him, Sigurd.”

Sigurd’s entire mood seemed to shift at the response, and for a split-second, it almost looked like he had completely forgotten about the rage he harbored.

“He does...?”

“Well, he suspects it,” Eivor clarified, “but he said that things are always tense between you two. There never seems to be a moment of peace whenever you’re together.”

The prince shook his head, eager to dispel his beliefs.

“...No,” he said softly. “No. I don’t hate him. I love my father, in fact. I just hate the things he does sometimes.” Sigurd leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I want to keep him safe like I promised my mother I would. It brings me no joy to see him endure any pain or hardship, but...” he let out a breath of frustration, “...he never listens to me! Whenever I try to help him, he only pushes me away. Once, I even dumped all our ale into the river to stop him from drinking, and he broke into a fury unlike anything I’d ever seen.”

A grip of fear took hold of Sigurd’s voice. “...That stuff is poison, Eivor. It’s going to kill him someday. The last thing I want is to see my father step into an early grave, but how am I supposed to help him when he won’t even help himself?”

Eivor brought his partner into a hug, allowing his chin to sit on the man’s shoulder.

“You need to be more patient, Sigurd,” he advised. “Ultimately, your father’s recovery is his own responsibility, but a hostile relationship won’t do anything for either of you. He’s still trying to move on from your mother’s death. Just like you’re trying to move on from Dag’s. Give him time.”

The prince let out a sigh and warmed up to Eivor’s embrace, finally cooling off from the heat of his argument with Styrbjorn.

“I... I suppose you’re right.” He conceded, turning to face the younger man. “...Okay, Eivor. I’ll try to make things right. Not just for my father, but also for you. I promise.”

Eivor smiled at that. “Good. It won’t be easy, I know. But it’ll be worth it.”

Sigurd sat up from his position and laid a hand on the Wolf-Kissed’s lap, diverting the focus of their conversation elsewhere.

“Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing, my love? I’m... so sorry about Thora and Ulfar.”

Eivor separated their hug and stared bleakly at the floor, trying to keep himself together.

“...I still can’t believe they’re gone,” he said. “I thought I’d be used to losing people like this after what happened to my parents, but it hurts just as much as it did all those years ago. Only this time, I feel like I could’ve done something. I wish I did.”

A tinge of regret blanketed Sigurd’s face. “Are you angry that I held you back during the holmgang?”

“No,” Eivor answered truthfully. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. You were only trying to preserve Ulfar’s honor, and to be honest, I’m grateful that you did. As much as I wish I could’ve saved that man, I’d feel even worse if he never reached Valhalla. I’m going to miss him more than words can describe, but at least I know he’s at peace now. At least I know he’s reunited with his wife.” A cloud of sorrow fogged the young man’s eyes. “...I just wish I could say the same for Thora.”

Sigurd’s nose crinkled at the memory of discovering Thora’s body. “Gorm is even more of a coward than his father. It’s a shame what he did to her. He will get the punishment he deserves, Eivor. I won’t let him get away with it.”

The Wolf-Kissed found some solace in the prince’s reassurance. “Thank you. I know there’s nothing I can do to bring Thora back, but it seems only fitting that the man who murdered her joins her side in Helheim.”

“And he will. One way or another.”

Standing up from the bed, Eivor straightened his tunic and inched towards the door, preparing to take his leave. He didn’t want to abandon Sigurd’s side just yet, but he also wanted to see how his family was coping before the day came to an end.

“Anyway, I’ll give you some space, Sigurd.” He said, pressing a hand against the door’s surface. “I imagine you probably want to be alone right now, and there are some things I need to take care of before the funeral starts.”

Contrary to his belief however, the prince didn’t seem to share his sentiments. “Actually, I’d like you to stick around a little longer. If you’re willing to stay, that is.”

Eivor halted mid-action, unable to hide his interest. “You would?”

“Your company is one of the few things that offers me peace nowadays, Eivor. If you want to take this conversation further, you’re more than welcome here.”

The blonde viking took a hesitant glance outside the door, still carrying the same concerns he had lugged around for the past two weeks.

“But what if someone finds us? Don’t you think it’ll strike them as odd that I’ve been with you for so long?”

Sigurd let out a fatigued breath, slowly rising from his bed. “...I don’t care anymore. All this death sitting on our doorstep has shown me just how precious life truly is. I have no idea if I’ll even survive this war, Eivor. I’m not going to spend what could possibly be my final days pretending that I don’t feel anything for you.”

He walked up to his companion, leaving no more than a few inches between them. “I love you, Eivor. And I’m not ashamed to say it.”

Eivor froze at the confession and simply stared at Sigurd in silence, entirely at a loss for words. It wasn’t too long ago that the prince nearly tore himself apart trying to keep their affair a secret, and yet, he was practically declaring his love from the top of the world now. He no longer cared about the rumors that would spread, or the judgmental glances he’d receive. He was finally done hiding, and Eivor wondered if it was time he felt the same.

“Forgive me,” the younger man replied, “I... I don’t know what to say. I just never expected to hear you say those words.”

Sigurd chuckled. “Neither did I. I used to berate myself without pause when I first realized I was growing attached to you. I tried so desperately to shift my attention to Randvi for the sake of this alliance, but... it never worked. Things only deteriorated for me, and as a result, my life turned into a never-ending battle. I was miserable.”

Eivor smirked affectionately. “And now?”

Sigurd returned the grin. “Now, I know what I want at last. I can finally see why the gods led me here, and I’m done pushing against this fate that the Nornir have woven for me. I’m done with living a lie. My only question is... do you feel the same?”

The Wolf-Kissed let his hand drop from the door and focused completely on the man in front of him, peering fondly into his eyes.

“Of course I do. You’ve always been there for me ever since you first arrived at Bjornheimr. The circumstances under which we had to meet will forever leave a scar on this clan, but I can say for certain that our encounter was a blessing.” Eivor beamed brightly at the prince, holding his cheek in his palm. “I love you too, Sigurd. And nothing will ever change that.”

Sigurd’s expression radiated with a vibrant joy upon hearing that, and he pulled Eivor even closer to him, gently pushing him against the wall. He pecked a small kiss on the younger man’s neck and held him securely by the waist, allowing himself to forget about his troubles for just a brief moment.

“Then let us cast away the burdens of our struggles for tonight, and cherish our final hours of peace together. The stability of this war is precarious enough as it is. If anything happens to us, I don’t want to leave this world with regrets. Freya gave you to me as a gift the day we met, and I don’t intend to waste it.”

Eivor closed his eyes in bliss and linked his arms around Sigurd, caressing him in his embrace. The prince’s touch soothed his skin like ice on a fresh burn, and for the first time in a while, he was able to let his mind roam free from its continuous torment. The bond they shared was something that provided Eivor with a tranquility unlike anything else, and he silently begged the gods to keep his lover safe.

“From here to Valhalla,” Eivor whispered warmly, “I’ll always be at your side, Sigurd.”

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed #eivor varinsson #male eivor #sigurd styrbjornson #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

13 notes · View notes

secretlysheikah · 5 years ago

Text

Tower troubles: Haze

Well after Tumblr decided to force close on me I finally got this chapter edited! I hope you all enjoy it.

As always, I do not claim ownership of the Linked Universe. That joy belongs to @jojo56830 Check them out! I’m just a dope who keeps writing things because I have no self control.

I can’t think of any trigger warnings, but let me know if I missed something.

Edit: I apologize if there’s mistakes with grammar or spelling, like I said I was having trouble fighting with tumblr while I was editing. So If you see something let me know!

Enjoy!

Start here:

Hyrule and Twilight moved Wild’s bed roll quickly, and once it was set up It didn’t take long for Wild to slide under the covers and pass out again. Twilight hadn’t left his side since and everyone could tell he wouldn’t leave without being forced. So of course everyone looked to Time to make the call. Time couldn’t recall exactly how he had gained the role of de facto leader but he just decided to roll with it rather than fight it. He wouldn’t mention it to anyone but he kind of liked the idea of being the father figure in some strange way. Being the father figure had it’s perks. It gave him new insights to how each person in their group handled stressful situations. Twilight for example, would often turn retrospective. Becoming quiet and stoic and often would step into the place of second in command. The downside to that however is the fact that Twilight would sacrifice important things like eating and sleep if he deemed it necessary. Taking that knowledge into account, Time stood from the side of the cooking pot where he was making another batch of scrambled eggs and went to sit next to Twilight with a sigh.

“How are you holding up?” He asked eyeing the dark bags that clung to the skin underneath Twilight’s eyes.

“Hm? Me? I’m just fine.” Twilight said nonchalantly taking care not to look Time in the eye. Time snorted, easily seeing through his stoic front and decided to cut right to point.

“Pup, you need to sleep.”

“No, I don’t. I told you I’m fine.”

Time gave him a flat look and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh really? How long has it been since you slept? By my estimate I would guess about a solid two days.” Time challenged and watched as Twilight worried at his bottom lip before he slumped.

“I’ve gotten some sleep since then,” Twilight said quietly.

“Don’t try to lie to me, you know I can see right through you.” Time responded in kind and put a heavy hand on Twilight’s shoulder.

“I promised I’d watch over him.” Twilight said shrugging off Time’s hand and sitting up straight again, setting his face into a determined mask. Time had a feeling that getting Twilight to sleep was going to be a battle in and of itself but he was ready for a fight. Time sighed and leaned back on his arms and stared at the quickly darkening sky above them. He could see the shimmer of foreign stars beginning to twinkle above them and he steeled himself.

“Alright, I can understand that. But I doubt Wild would want you to run yourself into the ground.” Time tried to reason but was met with a stubborn shake of Twilight’s head.

“What if something happens? I can’t risk it.” Twilight said as his eyes moved sluggishly to look at Wild’s sleeping form. In sleep Wild almost seemed to be completely at ease. If it wasn’t for Wild’s furrowed brow and the occasional small gasp that shuddered through his frame Twilight could almost believe it. Time joined him in looking at Wild and his eye softened. Wild twitched and groaned quietly and Time leaned over and gently laid a hand on Wild’s forehead. It was warm and slightly damp from sweat and fever. Time let his hand fall away and for about the millionth time that day he wished he could do something to help Wild.

“You don’t have to do this alone, You have seven other heroes here to help. Unless you think we’re incapable of protecting our own.” Time said calmly and watched out of the corner of his eye to gauge Twilight’s reaction. He could see something bubbling under the surface and watched as Twilight’s eyes hardened slightly at his comment.

“You know I don’t think that.” Twilight said hotly and Time sat up fully and faced him.

“Then what is it? Why are you so dead set on running yourself ragged?” Time pressed and the pained look on Twilight’s face spoke volumes. Time could feel the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“By the Goddesses Pup, are you punishing yourself?” Time asked in astonishment and the way Twilight set his jaw Time knew that was exactly what he was doing. Time could feel his heart break at the thought of his protégé beating himself up like this. Just how long had Twilight been torturing himself with his own guilt?

“It’s what I deserve Time, I could have killed him. Gods the look on his face when I… I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself.” Twilight whispered as a shimmer of tears glazed over his eyes. Time didn’t know how to respond. He knew anything he could say would just be dismissed off hand. So he didn’t say anything and just reached over and pulled Twilight into a hug. There was a second where he thought Twilight was going to push him away, shut himself down and end the conversation right there. But he was relieved when he felt Twilight’s arms wrap around his back. Time could feel a shudder running through his descendant’s form as he worked to keep tears at bay.

“It’s alright, we’re all hurting.” Time soothed as his rubbed circles on Twilight’s back, willing him to confide in him, to lessen his self imposed burden.

“How can I even call myself a hero when I can’t even tell friend from foe?” Twilight asked in a broken voice that was muffled against Time’s shoulder. Time squeezed him tighter as if he could stop the other from falling apart.

“We were all a victim of Dark’s illusion, punishing yourself like this will not help anyone.” Time whispered as he hugged Twilight tighter.

“Never doubt that while you are a hero it doesn’t make you infallible, you’re only human. A fantastic, brave, selfless, wonderful human.” Time urged pulling Twilight out of the hug to look him in his eyes. He could see the pain in them and Time squeezed his shoulders.

“The fact that you’re still determined to make things right and sacrifice yourself in the name of doing the right thing makes you one of the strongest heroes Hyrule has ever seen. I am so incredibly proud of you.” Time said sternly and watched as the tears that Twilight had been valiantly battling back for the past few minutes finally spilled over and streaked down his face.

“Go to bed, you can trust that we will protect you and Wild with our lives.” Time said letting his hands fall away from Twilight’s shoulders. Twilight nodded mutely and stood wiping away the tears quickly and moved to collect his neglected bed roll. Time sat next to Wild watching over him dutifully until Twilight returned, bed roll in hand and set up at Wild’s back and laid down to sleep.

Time waited for a little while after Twilight laid down to make sure he was actually sleeping. It took a few minutes but Twilight’s tense posture slowly relaxed, and soon Time could hear the slow soft breaths of sleep drift from the bed roll at Wild’s back. Twilight was completely exhausted but Time was sure he would wake up at the lightest of noises. So very carefully he stood and padded away to talk to the others.

“I see you’ve finally got wolf boy to sleep.” Legend said not looking up from the abandoned cooking pot. He seemed to be trying to salvage the eggs but it was a failing endeavor. Not that anyone seemed hungry to begin with.

“Not so loud, this whole situation has really taken a toll on him and I don’t want to disturb his sleep.” Time murmured softly casting a worried glance over to the sleeping pair on the other side of their small camp. There was no sign of movement and Time felt his shoulders relax slightly.

“Well he can join the party, it’s not like we’re doing any better.” Legend muttered acidly and was promptly elbowed by Hyrule.

“Don’t be cruel Legend. Honestly what has gotten into you?” Hyrule admonished in a harsh whisper and Legend had the grace to look ashamed for a split second before it was replaced with a scowl.

“Please let’s not argue, I’m not in the mood,” Time groused and sat on the ground with a soft thump. He felt suddenly tired and he just wanted to figure out the plans for watch and rest. Warriors seemed to sense Time’s exhaustion and gave him a nod.

“Alright, we need to figure out pairings for watch tonight,” Warriors said looking around at the small group of assembled heroes.

“Do we really need to have pairs still? It seems we’re out of danger now that we’re not next to that blasted tower.” Legend asked finally dropping the pretense of trying to fix the eggs to lean back against the stump behind him. Warriors shook his head.

“We don’t know that. Sure we had a change in scenery but now we don’t know where we are and we’re out in the open.” Warriors explained simply and was met with nods and shrugs in agreement. Legend shrugged begrudgingly and gestured for him to continue.

“We should also make sure we report anything we find suspicious,” Warriors continued and Time broke in with a question.

“What would you consider suspicious?” Time asked genuinely curious as to what Warriors would say.

“Odd noises, moving shadows, weird feelings, anything that would strike you as out of place.” Warriors answered as he gave the darkened field around them a distrustful scan.

“Do you honestly think anything like that will show up?” Sky asked softly, his posture straightening and his hand coming to rest on the hilt of the master sword.

“Like I said, there’s no way for us to know, and I would rather be over cautious then caught unawares.”

Time nodded approvingly, he was glad to have someone like Warriors around. Wars was a great strategist that always had a knack for finding the perfect strategy for defense as well as attack.

“Well who wants to be first watch then?” Warriors asked and looked around for volunteers. After a quick debate, watched boiled down to Warriors and Wind taking first watch, Hyrule and Legend taking second watch and Sky and Four for the third watch. Which left Time for the last watch of the night.

“I’ll join you for last watch” Warriors said firmly but Time shook his head.

“I’ll be okay, you need your rest.” Time argued and Warriors pursed his lips.

“No one should be alone for watch, it’s too dangerous.” Warriors reasoned but Time wasn’t convinced.

“But you’ll be tired, how much help will you actually be?” Time asked but Warriors just shook his head.

“That won’t be an issue, and even if I’m tired it’s better than being alone and get snuck up on.”

Time mulled over War’s logic. He didn’t want Warriors pushing himself too far but he couldn’t see another way around it. Still it took some convincing for Time to begrudgingly accept Warriors joining him for the last watch.

“Fine, but I don’t want to hear any complaining that you’re tired then.” Time teased and Warriors waved away his concern.

“Please old man, you act like I’m Sky or something,” Warriors shot back and Sky let out a small noise of protest.

“Hey! It’s not my fault I need sleep, you guys are exhausting,” Sky said with a laugh before he let out a small cough. An alarm bell rung in Time’s head and he eyed Sky with a critical stare.

“You okay Sky? Are you feeling alright?” Time asked letting a note of worry lace his words. Sky gave him small smile and shrugged.

“I’m fine, just had a little tickle in my throat.” He reassured easily and gave Time a lopsided smile. Time hummed in thought, he really hoped Sky wasn’t getting sick that was the last thing they needed. After a few more minutes of scrutiny Time nodded.

“Alright, but if you feel like you’re getting sick let us know.” Time said with a serious look and Sky nodded and gave him another easy smile.

“Will do. Now if you guys don’t mind I’m going to turn in. Don’t stay up too late.” Sky said getting to his feet and made his way to his own bed roll.

There was a little small talk after Sky turned in, but it felt strained. No one really had the energy to talk and any conversation quickly petered out into moody silence. It didn’t take long after that for the others to peel away from the group and make their way to their own beds. Time hung back lost in thought as the others turned in, his mind drifting back to the events of the last few days.

Why? Why did Dark suddenly show himself? They had been traveling around together for the last few months fighting infected monsters with no clue who was behind it, and now suddenly Dark decided to make it known that he was involved? No, something wasn’t lining up. What had changed? No matter how hard as he racked his brain Time couldn’t puzzle out the reason. Maybe he would bring it up to Warriors, he might have some insight that Time couldn’t see.

Time stood then, suddenly filled with a nervous energy that made him want to move. He grabbed the pot over the fire and emptied out the sad attempt at dinner. His eye drifting over to Wild and Twilight as the last of the slightly burnt eggs tipped out onto the grass. His mind turned over the little information he had, trying to find a pattern, a reason for the change in tactics.

It was clear that Dark wanted something from Wild, but did it actually stop there or was there something he was missing. He supposed Dark was testing the waters, testing for weak links in the group. That very idea made his blood boil. They all had their issues sure, but the idea that Dark was actively working to use those issues as a weapon against them made him sick. Time put the empty pot next to the fire suddenly angry and rubbed his face in frustration. He wouldn’t, no, couldn’t let this continue. He didn’t know how, but he would make damn sure that whatever plan Dark was scheming would fail.

Time grabbed his bed roll and walked softly back over to Wild and Twilight. As quietly as he could manage he set down his bed roll and laid down by Wild’s feet but found that sleep wouldn’t come. His mind continued to turn over the conundrum before him. But trying to figure out the plans of a madman was proving to be a bigger task than he anticipated.

Time flopped his arm over his eyes and tried in vain to sleep. He heard Wild shift and grumble uneasily in his sleep and Time draped his other arm across Wild’s legs hoping it would comfort him enough to dispel any nightmares he might be having. Time heard a grunt from Twilight and felt a dull thud of something flop across Wild’s shoulders. Time peeked out from under his arm and saw that Twilight had half draped himself over Wild. For a moment Time was worried that Twilight was awake but smiled softly when he heard a light snore come from Twilight accompanied by a small twitch of his fingers. Wild had stopped moving as well apparently soothed by the added weight. Time contemplated moving Twilight, worried that the added weight would aggravate Wild’s chest but thought better of it when he saw Wild’s lips turn up slightly at the corners.

Time covered his eyes again and made a promise to himself that come what may, he would do everything in his power to protect his family. With that firm promise set in his mind Time finally drifted off to sleep.

***************

Everything was a foggy haze half lit by the silver moon. The fog was so thick Wild could practically taste it, swim through it even. The taste of moss and trees turning lush autumnal colors and a faint sweetness of decaying things skittered across his tongue like dried leaves. Tall trees towered above him like dark sentinels around him and looked down on him like he was a lost child.

Wild was lost. Hopelessly so. He was no longer with his compatriots, next to a warm fire but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how that had happened. His feet were bare and his toes dug into the damp forest floor. He felt a stab of cold shoot through his legs. Was he dreaming? Wild squinted around, examining the new landscape and took stock of what he remembered.

Wild remembered the weight of a pelt around his shoulders. The smell of wood smoke and the pull of stitches. Wild rubbed at his eyes, and took a deep breath trying to ground himself. He remembered being in pain, and the hum of voices around him but he couldn’t recall what was said. He was injured right? Yes, he was sure of that now, so why wasn’t he in pain now? He racked his brain grasping at loose threads of memory but couldn’t get them to connect. It seemed the more he tried to connect the loose threads of his ragged memories, the faster they would flutter away like butterflies on a breeze.

“Alright then, I’m dreaming.” Wild muttered aloud finally coming to a decision though that revelation brought little comfort. He sighed and put his hands on his hips and took another look around the foggy landscape and thought of his next step but came up with nothing. He couldn’t really see father than a few feet in front of him. He couldn’t see a trail or even the signs of animals moving between the brush.

“Would it be too much to ask for a hint?” He grumbled but didn’t get a reply. Wild snorted in exasperation and tapped his foot. He didn’t like the idea of wandering around the woods. The last time he did that it didn’t end well and he didn’t like the possibility of being caught off guard. He shuddered when the unwanted memory of black water and hands holding him down tickled at the back of mind. He sniffed and wiped at his nose in an attempt to distract himself. When the memory still clung to his thoughts he dug his toes into the dirt again and hugged himself. He knew it was a pointless attempt at self comfort, he could tell there was no comfort to be had in this place.

“Fine, it’s my dream. I’ll just stand here and do nothing.” He yelled into the darkened woods hands flying into the air to emphasize his words. He was being petulant he knew but he was getting fed up with this. He just wanted to rest, to be still and not have to think, just for one Hylia damned night.

“Why does my subconscious have to be so cryptic? Would it kill me to have a dream that’s straight forward?” Wild complained to himself as he started to pace. The fog was unnerving him with how still it was. He could feel mist beginning to cling to his eyelashes and he wiped it away in irritation. There was snap of a twig somewhere in the distance and his eyes snapped to the noise. Suddenly tense like a deer being stalked in the woods. Wild’s eyes stared intently into the suddenly swirling fog and waited with baited breath.

“Bold of you to assume this is your dream.” A dark voice chuckled in his ear and he yelped in surprise and looked around wide eyed. An arrow shot past his leg and buried itself deep into the ground beside him parting the fog around it. He stared at it dumbly, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. There was a another whisper of a voice just behind him and the hairs on his neck rose.

“Run.”

Wild turned and ran, not waiting for another hint.

Small twigs and rocks crunched and cut into his feet as he fled through the woods. His breathes came out harsh and fast, matching the frantic pulse in his throat. He leapt nimbly around larger rocks and bushes trying to put distance between himself and his unseen pursuer. Whenever he seemed to slow another arrow would thunk into a tree next to him and he would redouble his speed. He couldn’t run forever, his legs were screaming with the effort of his mad dash and his head was beginning to spin from lack of oxygen. Coming to the realization that the chase wouldn’t end anytime soon if he continued his mad dash, he slammed his heels into the dirt and skidded to a halt. Wild crouched and spun to face behind himself as another arrow whistled past his head.

‘Think damn it, stop being reactive.’ He thought savagely to himself as he took cover behind a tree when yet another arrow carved a divot out of the bark of the tree next to him. Panting Wild scooped up the arrow and held it defensively. It wasn’t the best weapon but it was only thing he had, and he had to make it work. Peeking out from his cover he saw nothing but swirling fog, looming trees and shadows. The arrows seemed to have stopped for now and he stood and hugged close to the tree.

“Alright, so if it’s not my dream then whose is it?” He called out in a breathless wheeze and was met with more laughter. He grit his teeth looking for another place to take cover.

“You’re kind of an ass, you know that right?” Wild snapped as he dashed to another tree and grabbed a second arrow. There was the sound of snapping twigs as his assailant moved closer.

“How rude! Don’t you know who you’re talking to?” The voice said in mock scorn.

“Oh I have a guess, but what I don’t understand is why you’re trying to kill me. Wouldn’t that be counter intuitive to your goal?” Wild asked as he eyed another tree and judged the distance.

“Oh, Wild. Who said anything about killing you? I’m just having some fun. You did ask for a hint after all.” The voice taunted from the other side of his tree. Without hesitation Wild whipped around the tree and stabbed the arrow deep into the trunk on the other side. Wild felt a savage kick to his lower back that sent him sprawling into the dirt.

“You missed,” Dark said in an almost bored voice.

Wild snarled and rolled just in time to avoid the boot that stomped down where he just was. Wild sat up quickly and jabbed the second arrow deep into Dark’s thigh. Black mist hissed out from the contact and Dark gave a loud roar of rage and swung an arm that narrowly missed the side of Wild’s head.

Wild rolled away again and sprung up to face his dark counterpart. Wild watched as Dark grabbed the arrow and threw it aside. Black mist roiled out from the wound but Dark paid it no mind. His red eyes flared brightly as Dark cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

“Is that anyway to treat your superior? You should be bowing at my feet!” Dark roared and rested his hand on the pummel of his sword. A clear threat burned in his gaze and Wild matched it with a glare of his own.

“I’ll never bow to the likes of you.” Wild spat bouncing lightly from foot to foot getting ready to dodge any attack that might be thrown his way. They stood facing each other for a moment and Wild watched as Dark seemed to collect himself, taking a deep breath. His bright red eyes faded slightly as he seemed to force himself to calm down. Wild didn’t trust it and he tensed, ready for a fight.

“I’m sorry, I lost my temper there for a moment.” Dark apologized softly, hand falling away from his sword. Wild was caught off guard at Dark’s attempt at a casual tone. He squinted at his dark doppelgänger, still tense and he waited saying nothing. Noticing this Dark chuckled dryly and rolled his shoulders again in an unnerving parody of Wild.

“You must be curious, I know I would be,” Dark said casually as he eyed Wild.

Still Wild said nothing, only stared with hard eyes at Dark. Wild waited for him to continue but the silence stretched between them. Wild felt his hands start to fidget and he forced himself to be still. Just as Wild was about to snap from the tension Dark finally spoke again.

“The silent treatment, how predictable,” Dark nettled and smiled when Wild sneered.

“That’s alright, I just need you to listen anyway. You see I was impressed by your performance at the tower.” Dark continued and began to walk around him. Wild narrowed his eyes and moved to keep Dark in sight.

“You handled the other’s attacks beautifully you know. I’m sure that if you wanted you could have destroyed them easily. I was practically speechless, truly I was. Which gave me a new perspective on a possible new avenue for our relationship.” Dark said casually as he put his hands behind his back. The vision of contentment and ease.

Wild felt bile at the back of his throat and his tongue was growing numb with horror and rage. The memory of that day blazed brightly in his mind. The siren song of sword on shield rung in his ears and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. Wild was ashamed to admit that it filled him with a sick sense of pride. He was about to spit out a reply when Dark raised a hand and suddenly Wild’s jaw locked around his words. His hands flew to his mouth on instinct and he watched Dark smile.

“Please give me moment to explain myself.” Dark said with a wolfish grin. Wild glared at him and bared his clenched teeth.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that you’re healing has been hindered quite a bit. That potions and fairies aren’t quite as helpful as they once were maybe?” In a blink of an eye Dark was gone and Wild looked around himself with wide eyes. He was met with the sight of swirling fog and the faint sound of snapping twigs. A ghost of a laugh trilled from all around him and Wild huffed out an angry snort. Wild’s jaw ached from the magic keeping him mute.

No matter how hard Wild tried to pry his mouth open he couldn’t get his teeth to part. He tried to say words around his teeth but his vocal cords seemed frozen as well. Dark, it appeared was intent on keeping him quiet for now.

“At first I was just going to keep you weak and injured. Slowly wear the others down with the weight of their own worry and guilt while I slowly tightened my grip over your soul.” Dark’s voice chimed in the silent fog around him and Wild continued to scan the trees.

“But then it occurred to me, why have a puppet when I could have an ally instead?” Dark continued and if Wild could have said anything he would have been raging. Screaming his defiance until his throat bled. For now he curled his hands into fists at his side and focused on keeping himself a moving target.

“I see the look on your face, but hear me out. The others don’t see your potential! You’re absolutely devastating in battle, imaginative and quick witted. They’re wasting your talent.” Dark praised, his voice seemed to be behind him now. Wild slowly turned in a circle, eyes continually scanning in a futile attempt to find where Dark was hidden.

“If you join me I could hone your skills, make you unstoppable.” Wild felt a hand brush his shoulder and he spun to face it but was only met with more fog. A delighted chuckle rang out all around him and Wild felt a painful tug at his chest. He gasped and clutched at his heart as the tug became a burning pull. The feeling was akin to a fishing line being reeled in with a hook buried deep in the soft tissues of his heart.

“I could heal you, and you and me could rebuild your Hyrule. Make it better than before and redeem yourself in the eyes of the people you’ve failed. Hell, I can even make you whole once again, give you your memories back. And all you have to do is join me.” Dark said as he slowly walked out of the mist, one hand raised lazily in the air. Wild could see Dark’s fingers twitch ever so slightly as he talked.

Wild backed up against a tree breaths coming out in harsh gasps. He wanted Dark to shut up and let him think. He wanted the irritating pull at his heart to stop. But most of he wanted the traitorous thoughts that whispered in his mind to take the deal to be silent. Those little voices made him sick and he kept repeating to himself that it was all lies. Legend warned him Dark would try to manipulate him, this was just a way to try to gain his trust or play off his own guilt. No, he wouldn’t accept this. There was no way he would accept. Never. He repeated to himself with all the shaky determination he had left.

“Or maybe it’s not Hyrule or yourself you’re looking to fix,” came a whisper in Wild’s ear and he swung a desperate fist, trying to connect with Dark but was only met with empty air.

“I can help her you know, Zelda.”

Wild’s heart skipped a beat. His blood ran cold and he covered his ears trying to block out Dark and his slimy words that promised impossible things. Guilt ripped at his heart like a physical blow and it was all he could do to stay standing. Though he couldn’t see Dark anymore, Wild knew he was grinning an evil toothy grin knowing he scored a hit.

“You’ve seen her wake up screaming, weeping and broken. It must break your heart to see her that way. I could help her, heal her, make her whole again and take that pain away.”

Wild fell to his knees wheezing in broken breaths. Lies, it was all lies. Guilty tears pricked at his eyes and he curled in on himself but Dark’s words still found their way into his head.

“You left her alone for over one hundred years with the Calamity.” Dark’s voice whispered softly through his mind. The words caught like cobwebs on the shattered edges of Wild’s guilt and clung there like sticky sap on a tree’s bark.

“It must break you every time you see her screaming from night terrors or see how she flinches away from unexpected touches. Especially since you know it’s all your fault.” Dark said almost soothingly. Wild heard the crunch of leaves and stones as Dark stood in front of him. Wild didn’t look up, couldn’t look up, he felt chained to the misty floor by Dark’s words. In one fluid movement Dark sat on his haunches and gently brushed Wild’s bangs away from his face.

“If you help me, I’ll help you fix what you’ve destroyed by your constant failures.” Dark finished kindly, his hand dropping away from Wild’s face.

Wild finally lifted his tear stained face to meet Darks glowing red eyes. When had he started crying? Wild couldn’t remember. Wild was breathing so hard it shook his frame. He didn’t know what to think, his head was filled with conflicting emotions. Rage at Dark’s assumptions that Zelda was somehow broken warred with guilt over his past failures. Worst of all there was a horrible, desperate part of him that begged for the redemption Dark promised. He hated how his heart fluttered with a devastating hope. Hated how even knowing that it was all lies, just a means to an end, a small part wanted to trust Dark and his slimy false promises. Dark seemed to see Wild’s inner turmoil and he smiled kindly.

“This is a lot to process I know. If I were you I’d be reeling. Tell you what, I’ll give you some time to think it over. I’ve got plenty of time after all.” Dark said as he stood smoothly and turned and walked slowly away with an airy wave. His posture practically screamed his delight at the chaos he just caused.

Forcing himself to his feet Wild stood shakily and held his head in his hands. His mind was still screaming confused and conflicting thoughts and arguments and he fought to get them back into order. He felt the magic making him mute suddenly snap away and he coughed and gagged as the bitter magic seemed to drip down his throat.

“I promise, I’m going to kill you.” Wild called weakly after Dark’s retreating form and he heard a soft chuckle on the breeze.

“Oh, we’ll see about that. I would wish you a good night’s rest, but I think it’s about time for you to wake up.” Dark called out without turning around. With a wave of his hand Wild felt his body suddenly fall limp. Before his head hit the ground of the misty forest floor his eyes popped open and the sudden rush of reality crashed over him in a wave of pain and misery. It was going to be a long day, and he felt nowhere near ready to face it. But it wasn’t as if he had a choice. He never had a choice.

#legend of zelda #linked universe #wild linked universe #angst #tower troubles #fanfic #linked universe fanfic #linkeduniverse

58 notes · View notes

awkwardpenguinproductions · 4 years ago

Text

Perspective

Part 11 of the Dragon of the Yuyan

Read on AO3 | Series Masterpost

Bato usually takes his evening walk a lot earlier than this, so that he can catch the sunset over the water and marvel (two years away from home and he’s still not used to the sun actually rising and setting more than twice a year). Tonight, however, a series of events have conspired to make him late, and the sun has just set when he finally leaves the Abbey and heads down to the beach toward his ship.

A month after the skirmish, and his burns are still tender and stiff, but the sisters are well-versed in healing and Bato knows it’s nearly time to move on. Hakoda and the rest of the Fleet should be somewhere in the Eastern Earth Kingdom by now, and Bato is just waiting for his Chief to send word so that Bato can rejoin his brothers.

As he approaches his ship, a flickering orange light pierces the darkness, and his heart stops for a moment. Firebenders? But the only sounds are the waves of the sea against the sand and the crackling fire, so Bato keeps his hand on his dagger and approaches cautiously.

As he gets closer, he can see the silhouette of someone sitting before a campfire, someone with what looks to be a shaggy wolf-tail. A stick snaps under Bato’s foot, and the person jolts, standing and whirling around with a weapon in hand.

“Who’s there?” Calls out an achingly familiar voice, and Bato can’t believe it.

“Sokka?” He asks, stepping into the circle of firelight. And so it is, his Chief’s son, relaxing from his fighting stance.

“Bato?” His voice has deepened, and cracks on the end where it turns up in question.

“Who the what now?” Another voice asks, male and young, and Bato can see a small body resting on one of the legs belonging to a huge furry creature the size of his ship. Across the campfire from Sokka, Katara sits up in her sleeping bag and calls out, “Bato!”

Bato braces himself as both Sokka and Katara run over to hug him, with the smaller boy and another one, nearly fully grown and shrugging a quiver over his shoulder. “Sokka, Katara! It is so good to see you! You’ve grown so much!”

“Hi, I’m Aang, and this is Zuko,” the small boy says, bowing and indicating his taller companion, who also bows. Bato is about to greet them, but Sokka speaks before he can.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Is he here?” Katara asks eagerly.

Bato hates to disappoint them, but there’s no point in prevaricating, so he tells them where Hakoda and the fleet are and invites them to the Abbey.

His niece and nephew are delighted with his room, while Avatar Aang grimaces in poorly disguised disgust and the silent Zuko glances around with an appreciative air. Bato wants to ask the boy about the massive burn scar on his face, maybe compare battle stories, but Sokka and Katara command his attention, and his relief and delight at seeing them and finding them well overwhelm his instinct to be a good host.

They eat their fill of stewed sea prunes and talk. Aang tries to participate in the conversation, while Zuko doesn’t say a word, but watches everyone keenly, and Bato could swear that his eyes flicker gold in the firelight. That’s impossible, though— Sokka and Katara more than anybody know better than to trust ash-makers . Bato puts the thought out of his mind, and conversation turns to Hakoda and the Southern Water Tribe fleet.

When he tells them about the message he’s expecting from Hakoda, the kids’ faces light up.

“Really?” Katara squeals.

“When?” Sokka demands. Between them, Zuko looks up from the arrows he’s fletching, a small smile on his face.

“Any day now,” Bato replies, almost as excited as them. “Your father said he’d send a message when they found the rendezvous point. If you wait until the message arrives, you can come with me, and see your father again.”

Sokka beams. “It’s been over two years since we’ve seen Dad! That would be so incredible! Katara!”

“I do really miss him,” Katara sighs wistfully. “It would be great to see Dad.”

“It’s been far too long, hasn’t it?” Bato commiserates. He misses his brother warriors like he would miss his limbs. “I’m not sure when word will arrive, but when it does, you’re more than welcome to come along to see your father.”

Both the kids deflate suddenly. “It would be great, but we can’t,” Sokka says gravely. “We have to get Aang to the North Pole.”

“Even if we do have time to wait for the message, who knows how far we’d have to travel?” Katara adds with typical pragmatism. “We don’t have time for a long detour.”

Bato is disappointed, but also immensely proud, and knows that Hakoda will be as well, and says so. Sokka and Katara beam, and Zuko looks a bit relieved.

With the break in conversation, Bato turns his attention to the archer, and now that he has consistent light from the whale oil lamps hanging around the room, realizes that the boy really is just a boy, perhaps a year or so older than Sokka. The burn scar on his left eye dominates his pale face, despite being half hidden under shaggy black hair.

"You've been very quiet, Zuko, I'm sorry we've been so rude," Bato says, shooting a playfully scolding look at Katara and Sokka, who sheepishly smile and smirk respectively. "I'm Bato, first subordinate to Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe Coalition."

Zuko smiles, balls one hand into a loose fist, and taps the fingers against his mouth.

"Zuko doesn't talk," Sokka says with a shrug. "We don't know why––he's teaching us his hand language, but it's kind of slow going. He can write, but he hasn't really told us much of anything about himself. Can we tell him? He's trustworthy, he's basically my dad's common sense." Sokka has turned to Zuko, who is now eyeing Bato thoughtfully, and he can feel himself shiver as that gaze lays him open and reads him like a book. Those eyes glint gold again, and Bato has a bad feeling.

Zuko nods, short and sharp.

"Okay, so Zuko here defected from the Fire Nation, basically," Sokka states, quick and simple, like ripping off a bandage. "Aang had gotten himself captured by this seriously bad news Admiral, and Zuko got him out. As soon as Aang learns Zuko's language, Zuko's going to teach him firebending."

A firebender.

A firebender. Next to his kids. Traveling with the Avatar.

A firebender. In. His. Room.

The smoke from the cookfire is choking. Pain races up and down Bato's arm. The ash-maker is too close. Too close to the cookfire, too close to the kids, too close to Bato . The knife is in his hand before he even thinks to draw it.

"Bato!"

Katara sounds scared. She should be, she's sitting next to a firebender. Ash-makers killed Kya.

"Bato. Stop. Put it down."

Hakoda? But Hakoda's in the East.

"Bato." The voice rings with Hakoda's authority, and it pierces some of the haze that's settled over Bato's mind. "Bato. There is no threat. Put. The knife. Down. "

Bato blinks, and suddenly he's back, in his room at the Abbey, and when had he stood up? The knife falls to the floor beside his foot. Sokka stands before him, tall, so tall when did he get so tall, his own dagger drawn and held at the ready, half in front of a white-faced, kneeling Zuko being comforted by Katara.

"Bato." Sokka has never sounded more like his father than he does in this instance, and Bato almost snaps to attention on instinct. He drags his eyes away from the prostrate firebender to his best friend's son, who is studying him with a hunter's gaze, cool and assessing and sharp. When did Sokka transform from a goofy boy to this warrior?

"Bato," Sokka says again, steel threading his voice. "Zuko is under the protection of the Chieftain's Heir. He is not to be harmed by word or deed. Doing so is an affront to me, and to my father as Chief. Do I have your word as a Warrior of the Water Tribe?"

This man will make a great Chief someday, Bato thinks, as he drops to one knee and says aloud, "I swear by Tui and La as a Warrior of the Water Tribe that Zuko of the Fire Nation shall not be intentionally harmed by word or deed by my hand.”

Sokka nods sharply, sheathes his dagger, and turns to his friend, dropping to one knee and murmuring to him. After a few nods and headshakes, and one odd gesture where Zuko shakily places one loose fist palm out on his forehead and then stretches out the thumb and pinky finger, the firebender slowly gets to his feet and disappears out the door. Sokka and Katara share a look, and Sokka sits back down facing Bato.

“Okay, what in La’s name just happened?” He asks, pinning Bato with a hard look.

Bato shifts uneasily on his mat. “Where is he going?”

“That’s not the question right now, but he’s gonna go hang out with Appa for a while,” Sokka replies, waving a hand as though letting a firebender run around a peaceful Abbey was nothing to worry about. Sokka must have seen something of his worry on Bato’s face, because his blue eyes turned to sharpened ice. “Zuko has my trust. If it weren’t for him, Katara and I would have died, and Aang would be on a ship to the Fire Nation capital as a trophy. You’re on thin ice, though. What. Just. Happened?”

Bato bows his head. “Ever since your father brought me here, I’ve been… struggling,” he says quietly. “Fire is not the comfort it once was. Firebenders figure… prominently… in my nightmares. When you said that Zuko was going to teach the Avatar firebending… I’m afraid I lost my head a little bit.”

Sokka’s lips press into a line. “That’s not a good thing, Bato,” he says. “You need to get a grip on that, because to end this war we’re going to need Fire Nation allies. Including firebenders. We can’t afford to alienate people willing to work with us just because you can’t handle that they bend fire.”

Bato knows he’s right. Every word is exactly as Hakoda would have said, and Bato has every intention of telling his best friend exactly how much his son has grown.

“I suppose I should apologize to Zuko,” Bato sighs, running a hand over his face. He should probably talk to one of the sisters about his reaction, as well. They’re pretty well skilled in healing both bodies and minds, and he does not want a repeat of tonight when and if the issue of …firebending allies… comes up again.

Sokka nods, but Katara pins Bato with a frown. “It can wait until morning,” she declares. “Give him a chance to calm down.”

Aang returns, a bit obnoxiously cheerful in the solemn room, and Bato wonders at the Spirits who had seen fit to grant the world a child Avatar.

Zuko doesn’t return.

The next morning, Bato leaves his room and finds Zuko in the courtyard, practicing what look like bending forms. Aang sits nearby, watching with wide eyes. The older boy is stripped to the waist, even in the chilly morning air, and every movement he makes is controlled, precise, and calculated. There is no fire, most likely in deference to their current location, but Bato can easily imagine the flames bursting from Zuko’s strikes and trailing like ribbons from his kicks.

Zuko finishes his practice, spots Aang, and reaches the Avatar’s side in long strides. He makes a series of gestures, fluid and quick, to which Aang responds with his own slow, clumsy movements. Zuko corrects him, fixing the positioning of fingers and guiding the movement of hands, all with a gentleness that Bato would never have expected to see from a firebender. Aang tries again, and this time gets an approving nod. Aang beams and skips away. Zuko shakes his head, smiling wryly, and Bato takes the opportunity to approach.

As soon as he takes the first step, Zuko’s face snaps in his direction, his entire body going stiff and his expression wiping clear. The boy watches keenly as Bato comes closer, eyes darting here and there as though searching for weapons, but Bato had made sure to leave every weapon he has in his room this morning. No need to make the situation worse. He stops just out of his own arms’ reach, and is gratified to see Zuko relax just a little bit.

“Zuko, I would like to apologize for my behavior last night,” Bato says formally. “I do not know quite what came over me, but I will ensure that it does not happen again. I am sorry; I know I frightened you, and I sincerely apologize.”

Zuko’s posture slowly relaxes, although he never loses the military-erect stance. He forces a half-smile at Bato, shrugs a little, and makes a quick couple of shapes with one hand before striding off in the direction of the bathhouse.

Later that morning, Bato and the kids head back to Bato’s ship, and Bato takes them “ice dodging”, if it can be called such when dodging rocks instead of ice. Despite Zuko’s and Aang’s obvious inexperience with sailing, the kids all work together flawlessly, and Sokka’s use of his crew’s bending abilities is inspired.

When it’s over, Bato takes a bowl of face paint and conducts the Marking ceremony.

“The Spirits of Water bear witness to these Marks!” He intones, and draws the first mark on Sokka’s forehead. “For Sokka, the Mark of the Wise. The same Mark your father earned. For Katara and Zuko, the Mark of the Brave. Your courage inspires us.” When Zuko flinches as Bato reaches to draw the Mark on his forehead, Katara takes the bowl from him and draws it herself. “Your courage is especially inspiring, Zuko,” Bato continues, smiling at the young man. “I know that I didn’t give you much reason to trust me, and your decision to bend despite your fear that I might attack you showed enormous courage and trust in your fellow warriors. That is truly inspiring.”

Bato takes the paint bowl back from Katara and turns to Aang. “And for Aang, the Mark of the Trusted. You are now an honorary member of the Water Tribe, as is Zuko.”

He draws the Mark on Aang’s forehead, over the blue arrow, but instead of looking happy, Aang’s eyes are downcast.

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

“Sure you can!” Katara says brightly, while Zuko and Sokka look confused.

Aang wipes off the Mark and backs away. “No, you can’t trust me,” he asserts.

"What are you talking about?" Katara demands, and Zuko begins to look alarmed as Aang curls in on himself, and pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from his tunic.

"A messenger gave this to me for Bato," he says quietly.

Bato can only watch as the crew that had worked together so well just twenty minutes ago falls apart before his eyes.

Sokka shouts, Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs silently, and Katara stands staring at Aang with a heartbroken expression on her face until Sokka stomps away and demands, "Katara, are you with me?"

She pauses for a moment, but only a moment, and then her shoulders stiffen and she closes her eyes and replies quietly, “I’m with you, Sokka.”

As Sokka leads the way back to the Abbey, Bato glances back to see Zuko cuff Aang across the back of the head.

Everyone is packed and ready to leave within an hour, and after a brief goodbye at the Abbey gates, Aang and Zuko go one way with Appa and Momo, and Bato leads Sokka and Katara in the opposite direction.

They walk in silence for a long time, and Bato doesn’t really know how to lighten the oppressive sadness that surrounds the kids. He’s thrilled to finally be returning to his brother warriors, and he’s so excited to be bringing his niece and nephew to see their father. They’ve both grown so much, and Bato can’t wait to see the look on Hakoda’s face when he sees them.

A wolf howls in misery somewhere in the distance, and Bato feels his spirit howling in answer.

“That wolf sounds so sad," Katara says quietly.

"It's probably wounded," Sokka replies.

"No, it's been separated from the pack," Bato interjects. "I understand that pain. It's how I felt when the Water Tribe warriors had to leave me behind. They were my family, and being apart from them was more painful than my wounds."

Sokka has a pensive expression on his face as he turns to study the path they had just walked.

"Sokka?" Katara asks.

Sokka takes a deep breath, and Bato knows what he's going to say before he says it. "We need to go back. I wanna see Dad, but helping Aang is where we're needed the most. And Zuko… he can probably take care of himself okay, but if he gets to the North Pole and the Tribe doesn't believe Aang when he tells them Zuko's on our side… We need to go back."

Katara smiles. "You're right."

Bato is so, so proud of them he could burst. He strides forward and puts a hand on each of their shoulders. "Your father will understand, and I know he's proud of you."

There's only the slightest shake in Sokka's voice as he says, "Thanks, Bato."

"I know where to go from here," Bato continues, and fishes the map out of his tunic to hand to Sokka. "Take this in case you want to find us. I'll leave a message at the rendezvous point."

The kids each give him a hug, and Bato continues up the path alone.

It takes a month and a half, three weeks of which are spent sailing, but Bato eventually makes it to the cove in Chameleon Bay where the Southern Water Tribe fleet is anchored. During this time, the moon actually disappears for about half an hour or so, and Bato is terrified out of his wits until it reappears. He doesn't want to think about how that could have happened, so he puts it out of his mind until he's reunited with his brother warriors.

Hakoda embraces him with tears in his eyes, the strength of his hug around Bato's middle a testament to his worry. The men tease him about his "vacation", and Bato gives as good as he gets, ecstatic to be back with his brothers.

That night, around the campfire, Bato turns to his Chief.

"Hakoda," he says, "you'll never guess who I ran into."

Previous | Next

#atla #atla fanfic #awkpenproductions presents #dragon of the yuyan #part 11 perspective #full text post

6 notes · View notes

hisfavoritewolf · 4 years ago

Text

Oil

Another angsty one-shot. Warning for... Danarius being gross I guess.

Fenris stood in front of a mirror, looking perplexed as two slaves removed his shirt. Danarius approached behind them and Fenris bowed. He was confused, but he wouldn’t speak unless prompted to. He couldn’t question his master, even with how new and confusing this event was.

“Now, Fenris,” Danarius spoke as the slaves opened two containers. The smell of lavender filled the air. “Tonight is important… But it’s also important that we enjoy ourselves! It’s a festive occasion, after all!”

Fenris merely nodded, trying not to look too confused. He jolted and winced as the slaves began their work; Lathering him in fragrant oils. The smell was nearly overwhelming, paired with the stinging heat crawling through the pores of his skin. He stilled, taking deep breaths and focusing on his reflection. It was easier to gauge his facial expressions that way.

“You, dear Fenris, are going to make a wonderful main attraction,” His master chuckled, looking the elf over as his skin began to shine. “Rumors have been spreading of your physical prowess, so I’ve decided to let you be a part of the festivities.”

A smothered piece of Fenris loathed to think what that could possibly mean, but he nodded. Those nights in that cell were some time ago, but it was still there in his mind. The possibility was the perfect motivation to be quiet and compliant. Of course, that’s exactly what Danarius had wanted. His punishments were cruel because they worked, and perhaps due to his sadistic reputation being more than a rumor.

“Now, my guests will be very interested in you. Their curiosity is understandable, of course, and I won’t deny them if they wish to have a closer look at you. Do you understand?”

“No…” Fenris admitted. He couldn’t lie to his master.

“Hm… Well, I guess you’ll have to see for yourself. I’m not sure how they’ll react to you, either,” Danarius stroked his beard for a moment, then waved the other slaves away. He turned Fenris around and looked him over.

“One last thing…” He mumbled, turning to reveal a sword in its sheath. A Blade of Mercy, as Danarius had called it before. He gave it to Fenris, who slung it over his back and hunched slightly with the weight of it. “My perfect pet. Come, now. Shouldn’t keep them waiting too long!”

——————————————————————————————————

Fenris had seen the ballroom before. They walked through it, sometimes, as a short cut to other parts of the keep. He had not, however, seen it in its glory. It was packed to the brim with nobles and Magisters alike, all of whom stopped and turned to see their host and his prized slave come into view.

The eyes on him made Fenris’ gut clench. He set his jaw and kept his eyes forward, but soon enough the clamor resumed. The music, his master welcoming the crowd and introducing them to Fenris. There were so many sounds and voices and, soon enough, he pushed back into his mind. He wasn’t sure how he learned that little skill, but it was helpful nonetheless.

“This is Fenris, my rumored guard you’ve all heard so much about~” Danarius smiled poisonously, a hand on Fenris’ shoulder. They walked together to the main table and the master sat down at the head of it. The elf stood beside him, knowing full well he wouldn’t be sitting at all that night.

The Magister surveyed the crowd, all-too pleased by the expressions he saw. Everywhere from fear to curiosity, and some he felt he could definitely exploit later. A wicked grin crossed his features. “Don’t worry. I have complete control. He won’t hurt you unless it is by my command.” Boastful. Something so powerful and so dangerous under the control of an already-powerful Magister.

“You can touch him if you like! Nothing too… Scandalous, of course,” He smirked. Fenris felt something through his emotionless haze. A feeling he would only be able to place much later in his life as disgust. “But feel free!”

“Now, enjoy the party!” Danarius gestured to the crowd and, soon enough, it was back to its cacophony of merriment and drunk nobles.

The guests were pretty evenly split between those who were intimidated by Fenris, and those who wanted a closer look. Danarius allowed them to get closer to him, a few were even bold enough to trace curiously along the marks on his skin; Asking Danarius little questions about the Lyrium and how it came to be there. The master responded vaguely on purpose. Why would he reveal such a secret?

Fenris… Didn’t remember most of the night after the sixth or seventh person came to sate their curiosities. There was a vague memory of wandering the floor refilling drinks, specifically told by Danarius to seek out those who seemed nervous. It wasn’t to make them feel more comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, it only served to scare them further. Danarius took pleasure in watching them squirm.

As the last lingering guests started to say their respectful goodbyes, Danarius had Fenris open a new bottle of wine and that he pour two glasses. The Magister sat back with his newly-filled glass in hand and swirled the drink idly. He gestured to the other goblet, casting a look to his favorite wolf.

“To celebrate your progress and your perfect service, my pet,” He smiled, tipsy from the night’s celebrations. Fenris arched a brow, uncertain if it was a trick. Danarius laughed. “Go ahead, you’ve earned it!” He motioned for Fenris to sit in the chair beside him, and the slave obeyed.

“Thank you, master,” Fenris uttered. There was almost a sense of pride, of validation, as he was allowed something so far above his station. The wine was bitter and dry but it tasted of fruits and, eventually, it was enough to wash the rest of his stifled emotions away.

The two finished their little treat in eerie silence until one of the guests came back to ask a favor of Danarius. Fenris was dazed by it all, by that point. All he could feel was the wine buzzing in his head. He vaguely registered coin being exchanged, and even vaguer still was his addled escorting of the man to the guest quarters.

He gave into the amnesia of the following events. Just another forgotten moment to add to the steel lockbox in his head.

#One-shot #Dragon Age Fenris #Tales Spun ; One Shot #Codex: Fenris

2 notes · View notes

castellankurze · 6 years ago

Note

"let the record show that they were ill-equipped to deal with you", for gaius vs the shadowless, if it please you to write?

The ceruluem tanks at the docking mast exploded in sequence, one ground-shaking blast after another sending multicolored flames high up into the night sky. There was a beauty to it, of a kind. Come morning there would be nothing but a column of thick, black smoke, befouling the land for malms around as if hovered above naught but blackened, twisted scraps to mark the demise of the Praetorium.

A boot scraped across the ground. Amidst the havoc of the stronghold’s death throes, one living being yet dared draw breath.

His face was an impassive, inhuman mask of steel, his breath a harsh rasp through the filters attached to the helm. Gaius van Baelsar stumbled slowly through the carnage, hunched, struggling not to clutch at ribs he suspected had been broken in his fall from the Ultima Weapon. Every step blasted him with pain, and it was a struggle to draw breath as he swayed on his feet, watching everything - everything - as it was consumed in flame. Twenty years and more, drowned in chaos in a single night.

Amidst the haze of heat and the veil of pain, a part of him seemed to consider it apropos to mark the moment - an epitaph, in truth. There was a thing yet unsaid, and it was not right he end the day without it spoken. "And so,“ he breathed, "my conquest ends…Cid.” He lifted his head, but could spot no stars through the thick, black curtains. "In smoke…and ashes.“

Beneath his feet, something detonated, and the Black Wolf closed his eyes as the fires rushed up to claim him.

But then, of a moment, there came a screech of steel. Softened by the fires, rocked by the repeated blasts, the immense structure of the Praetorium itself split, an entire wall wreathed in flame collapsing to the ground in an earth-shattering impact. Gaius was swallowed by the fires as they twisted in the gale-force winds produced, and as he sweltered in his armor, waiting for nothing more than the breath to finally leave his lungs, it happened. Itself weakened by the ferocity of the night’s confrontations, the plate that armored his left arm had cracked, and exposed the housing of the wrist cannon incorporated into his regalia. With a series of pops that sounded positively soft compared to the earlier blasts, the ammunition cooked off, and suddenly lines of molten lead seemed to shoot up Gaius’ left arm.

He roared, and the all-consuming despair of a moment ago evaporated beneath the urgent, animal need to get away from the pain. The Legatus of the XIV Imperial Legion stumbled forward, all but blind beneath the smoke and dust, using his good arm to tear at the armor of his left shoulder, where his clothing had caught fire and now burned almost white hot. The weight of the wrist cannon thudded into the ground, and Gaius slapped at the remnants of his sleeve and his bare flesh, so raw from burns that he hardly felt the pain of the repeated blows as he sought to put the fire out.

Having started forward, he kept his feet moving, one in front of the other. Blinded by the smoke and consumed by agony, he had no thought to his direction - there was only the wolf, and the ferocious gnawing to escape the trap in which it had found itself.

—————-

His gait was that of a drunken man, his footsteps uneven, his body swaying from side to side as he crossed the rugged terrain to the west of the castrum’s ruins. He had seen no one - no one lived, Eorzean or Imperial alike. The unleashing of Ultima had burned the life from Castrum Meridianum as surely as an anthill beneath a descending boot. There was only wreckage. And memories.

The names played in his mind as if he were reading a report.

Tribunus Laticlavius Nero tol Scaeva: missing, presumed deadTribunus Angusticlavius Livia sas Junius: deceasedPraefectus Castrorum Rhitahtyn sas Arvina: deceasedPrimus Pilus Piotr rem Tarquin: deceasedPilus Prior Conaan rem Moti: deceased

A composition tallying the Legion’s dead, passionless and clinical. There was no emotion behind the names, as if he had never known them. Shaking with the aftermath of his burns, his chest screaming with every step as his broken ribs juddered, he had no energy to spare in mourning. Despite that, as the minutes passed and turned into hours, as the sweat soaked him and his head bowed beneath the weight of his helm, a part of him swore he did not walk alone.

Livia’s boots crunched in the dirt to his left, her gait sure and steady, utterly relaxed in her absolute assurance that she could kill everything in the room at a heartbeat should the need arise.

Rhitahtyn’s heavy tread thumped along somewhere to his right, a bulwark of a presence, ever mindful of his surroundings and ready with a plan for any eventuality.

Other officers came and went, precise footsteps in the measured pace beaten into them by the routine of the Imperial military, that vast machine which commanded life from rising to sleep. Gaius had built his Legion into a sterling example of that machine - a perfect weapon, efficient and lethal.

Until the night it had been crushed utterly.

—————-

To the northwest of Meridianum there was a mountain range which separated the deserts of Thanalan from the yawning waste of Mor Dhona. There, in the scrabble of the foothills, he found the gunship exactly where he had last seen it. Sheltered in a copse of trees, with a piece of camouflage netting thrown over its bulk, it was all but impossible to see from the air. 'Castrum Minoris’ Livia had humorously named it.

It had started almost as a joke - a Legion gunship developing a fuel leak had been forced to put down in the foothills, the crew walking back to Meridianum to report in. Driven to boredom at the time, Nero had flown out to effect repairs personally. It had been Rhitahtyn who had hit upon the idea of leaving the ship in place as an emergency transport. At a distance of several hours’ walk from the stronghold it was unlikely to be taken in the event of Meridianum’s loss, and a few hours’ work had disguised it from the casual eye until one was almost atop it.

There was a firepit, charred remains still resting in the circle of stones. Gaius stumbled past it towards the bulk of the vessel itself, all but falling against the lever to open the hatch and clambering into the machine. His helm rang against the metal floor as he finally pulled it off and gasped free air, passing his by-now cold gauntlet over his brow. The gunship had a small hold for transporting a squad-sized group into combat, and it was here he sat as gingerly as he could, his mouth making noises unbecoming a Legatus as his ribs begged for him to stop. He forced himself to strip his armor from his torso, ignoring the renewed pain as he twisted this way and that until he was bare-chested, his skin gleaming with the sweat with which he was covered, reeking. Beneath one seat there was a first aid kit, and Gaius opened it to withdraw a hypodermic. No time to be afraid of needles - fortunately the drug was intramuscular and so he did not have to hunt for a vein. Biting off the cap which sheathed the tip, he stabbed it into his arm with a hoarse cry and pressed the plunger down.

Next came the ointment, and it was like pressing ice to his burned flesh. The length of his arm erupted in fire anew as he slathered the stuff on and wrapped linen around the limb. His fingers were shaking by the time it came to tape his rib cage, and he was forced to hold the roll with his teeth as he finished tying it. A part of him swore that the sweat had got under his eyelids.

Then he sat, and breathed, and he was so fatigued he didn’t even realize his eyes were closing.

—————-

The fire crackled softly. Nero sat hunched, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Rhitahtyn teased that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Nero rejoined with some comment about the days he’d been working. Livia laughed at the pair of them, her scarred features twisted beautifully with her smile.

For his part the Legatus was quiet, savoring the night’s chill. These retreats to the so-called Castrum Minoris were becoming fewer in number, and soon would abate entirely. The XIV Imperial Legion was going back to war as soon as Nero’s project was complete and it would be irresponsible for the Black Wolf himself to be anywhere but at the helm of his command.

Rhitahtyn reached out to lightly shove Nero’s shoulder in response to the ever-present barbs between the pair. Gaius paid them only half a mind, distracted as Livia leaned against him, her silvered hair glimmering in the moonlight, and he shifted to put his arm around her shoulders as she shivered. Tomorrow they would be soldiers once more, but for tonight, for the four of them, the gunship and the fire were an all-too-briefly-offered sanctuary.

—————

His ribs protested as he snapped forward and his hand closed around the handle of his gunblade. There was sunlight streaming through the open hatch. He had slept all night and well into the day, utterly unprotected. Gaius took a breath, careful not to breathe too deeply and let Heirsbane down to set the weapon aside once more.

There were several water bottles, and he cracked one to drink and a second to walk outside and duck underneath, washing the sweat and ashes from his head and shoulders. He tore into one of the prepackaged bars for breakfast with the hunger of his namesake, and Gaius spared a moment to reflect on his his fortunes had changed, that a tasteless ration bar could be as fine a meal as any banquet served in the halls of Garlemald.

He changed the wrappings on his left arm, wincing but now keeping from making the undignified cries that had characterized the process in the dark of the night before. The burns from his weapon’s detonation covered his forearm and went well up to his biceps, and he suspected he would be changing wrappings for some time. Even opening and closing his hand made his eyes tighten.

Much of the day passed in a haze as he recouperated, going through the emergency supplies as he struggled to speed his recovery. That night he slept with the hatch secured, Heirsbane across his chest as he lounged across the crew seating, his only company the hollow eyes of his discarded helm. The morning afterwards he went out and pulled up the stakes that anchored the netting which hid the gunship from a careless gaze. There was spare clothing under the crew seats which he donned, discarding his sundered and blackened armor.

"Nero, Rhitahtyn…Livia,” he murmured when all was said and done, his voice catching briefly as he stood over the silent firepit. "Forgive an old wolf his hubris. Gaius van Baelsar rightly ought rest alongside you all, but I cannot join you yet. Though it take a lifetime, I will balance the scales. Even if I must do so alone.“

The gunship’s engine thrummed as it lifted from its resting place and turned about to set a course north-northeast towards Gyr Abania, and Ilsabard beyond. The landscape of Eorzea passed beneath him, but it meant as nothing now. To conquer the land had been the dream of the Legatus of the XIV Imperial Legion, but his eyes has been opened to the truth: that Eorzea was but a trifle compared to the true enemy of the Empire.

——————

It did not take a lifetime, nor, as it turned out, did he have to do so alone.

He found new allies: an elezen conjurer of flame and thunder whose face was marked by sharp-edged tattoos, and a stocky wielder of the lance who hailed from his own people.

They kept the prisoner pinned, the spellcaster’s foot planted one one wrist whilst the lancer’s blade struck through the other.

Gaius Baelsar crouched over the prone form of the black-robed creature, and leveled Heirsbane at his unguarded throat. "I have questions for you,” he said. "And first you’ll say, ‘how dare you, impudent mortal.’“

Even as the supposition was leaving his mouth, the ascian snarled in outrage. "How dare you, impudent mortal-” only to stop short with the sudden realization of playing into his captor’s hands.

Gaius smiled very, very faintly. "Now that the niceties are out of the way, I want to know more about your kind.“

#FFXIV #Gaius van Baelsar #ascians #kurze writes #fanservice friday #this sat in my inbox for a long fuckin time

18 notes · View notes

kivaember · 2 months ago

Note

If you could be a robot what would your wanna be?

ngl i would be command wolf from zoids bc im a mecha furry at heart

but if i had to pick a bipedal robot maybe steel haze bc... i-im a mecha furry at heart.............................

#you now know why i made asset 4's AC animal-like #coughs

10 notes · View notes

chrysalispen · 6 years ago

Text

ii. sullied, the whole world's fountains;

AO3 Link

In the wake of the primal's fury came the rain.

Hail and icy water, more suited to the autumn months than midsummer, beat down upon the ragtag remnants of the command pavilion, dripping in chilly rivulets from the slick oilcloth of the tents and turning the ground into freezing sludge. The back end of the storm cell that had set a raging blizzard upon the whole of Coerthas had ripped open from the influx of aether, confounding most serious rescue efforts.

The leaders of the realm's city-states and their military commanders huddled beneath the windbreak (for at this point it was little else), each in their turn staring out over the near-opaque haze of mist and smoke that blanketed what remained of the Carteneau Flats.

No one spoke in a voice louder than a murmur, rousing themselves only when messengers entered the area to deliver news. Dalamud's descent had disrupted and disabled most linkpearl communications, so the Grand Companies were in most cases reduced to runners on chocobo relaying messages from post to post.

Though none were thus far willing to say so aloud, most of the assembled were waiting for the storm's fury to lessen sufficiently that the Flats could be safely traversed and the dead could be cleared from the blasted wastes below. Any observer passing might notice that no voices were raised-- but just as was the case among the rank and file, the tension was so thick one could practically cut it.

Presently an elezen man in the bright yellow of the Twin Serpents knelt before Kan-E-Senna, proffering a sealed envelope. Conversation among the Padjal's circle faded from a subdued buzz to silence as they watched her take the document, crack open the seal, and unfold the parchment.

Pain twisted its way across her face as she read its contents, tilting the corners of her lips into a trembling downward arch.

"Seedseer?" Raubahn Aldynn said gently.

The big Ala Mhigan had a voice that carried and a laugh she could pick out in a room of thousands, but even he had been reduced by sorrow and shock to a shell of himself, forced to watch the endless parade of death along with the rest of them: the corses of friends and countrymen and adventurers who had fought beneath his banner, bundled into sackcloth and laid on a cart. There was some small hope for those who had been in the drop zone, but it was very small indeed.

He tried again.

"What news from the Twelveswood?"

Kan-E-Senna released a sigh that carried the weight of an entire nation.

"The Twelveswood burns," she said. "And Gridania fares little better. Fully half the city was destroyed. This missive is from Brother E-Sumi-Yan; he and the others go to quell the Greenwrath as best they are able. The Shroud will become nigh-uninhabitable in short order, I fear."

"Bloodydamned imperials," Raubahn swore, slamming one heavy fist on the nearby table. After a moment to collect himself, he continued in a quieter tone: "Will it spread, do you think? The fire?"

"The Wailers have protocols to build firebreaks. They are deploying 'round the large settlements." She folded the parchment and tucked it into her robes. "The worst of it is near the border with Mor Dhona, but this rain may serve to hold it at bay---provided the wind does not change course."

"If we need to deploy-"

"We have no one left here to spare as it is. I will have Vorsaile send people back to the Shroud as we are able, but we must needs take stock of what numbers remain." She turned to the runner, her kind smile strained at the edges. "Send word back to Bowlord Levin: Pray have the Black Boars aid in evacuations, and bolster all defenses at the firebreaks. They must hold, at all costs."

Timidly the youngster queried:

"What of the Garleans? They-"

"Will cause us no mischief now. The imperials have their own worries, likely to match our own. Now go, with all haste."

Hastily sketching a salute, the runner scurried out of the pavilion and back towards the post where he'd tied off his chocobo. She waited until he was out of eyesight before sinking into her chair and burying her face in her hands.

"Would that Louisoix's binding had worked," she murmured. "We won the day, but the cost..."

"I know."

"What should become of us all, if the Black Wolf--"

She didn't need to finish her question. They had brought their combined strength to bear against one, one imperial legion, and it was all the Grand Companies had been able to do just to hold them at Carteneau while the adventurers (which ones? her mind cried, overtaxed and frustrated and on the verge of panic. which adventurers?) had confronted Nael van Darnus at Rivenroad.

All here were painfully aware that the Eorzean Alliance had fought the Empire to a draw only because the XIVth Imperial Legion had elected not to take the field alongside her steel and magitek-clad brethren. Should they now choose to take advantage of the decimation Dalamud had wrought, Eorzea was in no position to offer even token resistance.

How will we recover? We have barely the means to see to the pieces that are left, much less-

Kan-E-Senna forced herself to push that thought away.

Time enough later to worry about Gaius van Baelsar. As she had said to the boy, the Black Wolf had his own problems, and she would not compound their woes by inviting trouble.

"Our own numbers were badly culled by the primal, and I don't doubt that Nanamo will have a damage report of her own for me soon," Raubahn said, into the prolonged silence. "But if there is aught the Flames can do to help, you have merely to say the word. U'ldah repays her debts. You know that."

"I know, General. Thank you." Her hands dropped into her lap, where they fidgeted anxiously for lack of Claustrum's smooth, reassuring grip. She'd propped the staff against the side of the tent where it stood still alongside the assortment of weapons from the others. "...I will be taking a unit into the Flats at cockcrow to search for survivors and heal the wounded."

"The storm will make it slow going."

"Even so, it is the least I can do. I would not sit here in relative comfort whilst others die in our names."

He did not protest further; both of them knew it would fall upon deaf ears.

"Very well. Merlwyb and I will take count of our people and our supplies while you do that," he said, glancing across the tents to where Admiral Bloefhiswyn stood in hushed conversation with her storm marshals. "We do have one more important matter to discuss before we adjourn tonight, and that's what to do with any prisoners."

"We are taking imperial prisoners if able, yes? That was what we decided?"

Raubahn grimaced. Her question was pointed, and for good reason; the argument on this point had been much louder when it had actually happened, and Kan-E-Senna had won only because Louisoix Leveilleur and the others had backed her (no doubt hoping for further intelligence-gathering), and now-

Now the wise old Sharlayan was gone.

Thal's balls, he thought dismally. So many faces gone or missing since the drop. And no time to take stock of the dead right now, much less scrape together the personnel for search parties.

"Aye, that's what we decided, right enough. You already know my opinion of it and Merlwyb's likewise, but we gave our word and we'll not go back on it now. She's passed the order along down her ranks and I've passed it down mine. For better or worse, if we find any of the enemy alive, we'll take them into custody where possible."

"Good."

"Mind you, I've told them if there's any too far gone or too hostile-" He stopped at her pained expression. "...I know, I know. But you are well aware these are likelihoods, Kan-E, and I'd rather not risk getting more of our people killed than we already have."

"Don't see what the point is in taking prisoners," Merlwyb said flatly, joining them at the table at last. Her storm-grey eyes fairly snapped with ire and her gait was a long and decisive stride; just as Raubahn's laugh could be heard in a crowd, Admiral Bloefhiswyn's very presence could fill a room on its own.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a waste of manpower, if we're just going to have them all swing from the hangman's noose the second they get back to the cities," she continued, leaning her weight against the other side of the war table with one hip and folding her arms across her chest. "I suppose it's not very honorable of us, but lining up the VIIth Legion on a gibbet is as good a warning shot as any to fire across van Baelsar's bow."

"No, Admiral," Kan-E-Senna said firmly. "I will not be a party to any such thing. No public executions."

Her blunt statement of dissent, as calm as it was quiet, cut through the agitated chatter of the gathering. As ever, she rarely raised her voice, but then she rarely found it necessary. Though the Padjal appeared young and delicate, all assembled in this room knew that the impression was a false one.

Even so, Merlwyb's expression grew positively thunderous.

"The White Raven dropped a swiving moon on our heads and we're supposed to what--let his forces frolic through the fields all the way back to Garlemald? To regroup so they can finish the job? You've seen the devastation!"

"I will be receiving a very close and personal view of it tomorrow morning. Far more than I shall ever want to see." She looked at them all in turn, her leaf-green eyes solemn. "I still say no. These people are prisoners of war and will be treated accordingly."

"War criminals, more like," the roegadyn snapped. She shoved her seat backwards in a gesture of frustration and braced her arms on the table's surface as she leaned forward. "And the distinction hardly matters."

"Seedseer, as much as I'd like to argue otherwise, she has the right of it. 'Tis not like the people of the realm will see it the way you do." Raubahn's rough-hewn face was pale, drawn, and haggard, for all that his words were carefully measured. "Should the enemy not suffer some consequence for the havoc they have wrought, we will be seen as ineffective--if not outright sympathetic to the Empire. Well you know that could cause trouble for all of us down the line."

"The majority of these soldiers were conscripts given little choice in the matter. To force them to-"

"People are going to expect-"

"...To force conscripts, Merlwyb," she repeated patiently over the angry interjection, "to pay with their lives for a circumstance they could not control goes beyond mere dishonor. It would be naught but cruelty, not to mention the very barbarism of which the Empire accuses us so freely. Such an act would only play into their propaganda."

"If Limsa gave a tinker's damn about the Empire's opinions of any of us," came the flat, matter-of-fact response, "we'd not have spent the last score of years and more harrying their patrols on open water."

She'd half expected that answer and couldn't help a smile. Still, it faded quickly as she returned to the matter at hand.

"Very well, then can we not agree there has been more than enough bloodshed on Nael van Darnus' account? On both sides?"

"Surely you don't believe the VIIth would have shown any of us the same compassion?"

"Of course they wouldn't ha-"

"Or," Merlwyb continued, "that the people suffering and dying for this folly will be satisfied with anything short of Garlean blood? Reparations must be made."

"And they will be made. But not like this, I beg you. Both of you." Kan-E-Senna cast a glance over Raubahn's shoulder, peering through the partially open tent flap to the cratered wasteland that had once been such an open, fertile field. Wreckage and earth were still burning in places below the cliffsides despite the pouring rain. "I harbor no more love for the Empire than either of you. But I look to what must be done in the wake of this disaster. What our people will need most desperately now, and in the coming days and weeks, is food. Shelter. Medical attention. What they do not need is a violent public spectacle, no matter how much their anger demands it."

"Then what do you propose?"

"Work-release, of course," she said simply, as if the answer were obvious. "We make of them wards of the city-states and set them to a labor of our choosing, then free them once their time has been served. They can help with rebuilding efforts. I suspect we shall need all the hands and backs we can find, and now is not the time to be selective."

Silence fell over the tent, then-- but Merlwyb was finally offering a slow nod of acknowledgement.

"A certain justice in that," she said, her concession somewhat gruff but no longer heavy with outrage. "They helped break Eorzea, so their punishment would be to help fix it."

Kan-E-Senna was far from ignorant of the particulars of statesmanship, and she knew that they should at least understand that aspect of her proposal, if naught else. As she'd hoped, it had struck true. The Admiral was, if not exactly mollified, a bit less eager for vengeance, at least in the immediate sense.

"That said, it's not likely that all of the prisoners are going to be conscripts," Raubahn pointed out. "There'll be purebloods among them too- true Garleans, not just the poor sods forced to fight under the ivory banner. Most of that lot aren't going to be grateful or cooperative no matter what we do, and I can't say I'm comfortable with the notion of a bunch of zealots walking free."

"I said nothing about letting any of them walk free, much less those like to remain loyal to the Empire regardless of circumstance." Kan-E-Senna left out a soft exhalation, relief lessening the furrowed lines that worry and fatigue had carved into an otherwise youthful face. "However, even in their case I do not think it fair-minded to condemn all for the obstinacy of a few. We will do what needs must, of course, but I would not put them all to the sword sight unseen."

The big man shook his head, but his expression was one of capitulation. Merlwyb wore a wry smile.

"I think you're being dangerously softhearted," she said. "But for the sake of argument, I suppose we can make the attempt."

"An attempt is all I ask. Despite our differences, they too are people." Kan-E-Senna's answering smile was serene. "And if I have learned naught else, it is that sometimes people can surprise you."

~*~

"Miserable bloody weather," Bryngeim Ahrmbraena muttered.

With an annoyed sigh the Seawolf woman braced one heavy boot against a mud-covered rock and wiped away a mixture of sweat, grime, and rainwater from her brow. In this weather about all the gesture did was move the dirt around her face. Mor Dhona's humidity was harsh enough in midsummer, but she'd vastly preferred the cooling canopy of the rainforest to the blasted waste it had become in so short a time.

As she took a moment to catch her breath, she watched the faces of the half-dozen men and women who followed her, their own faces pale and pinched with exhaustion -- all of them were running on next to no sleep, herself included -- and squinted into the smoke and mist and the sheets of cold rain to scry for any signs of life. For the last four bells, every now and then someone would catch a movement out of the corner of one eye only to be disappointed when it was just a battle standard or the bloodied ruff of a dead chocobo that had caught the northerly winds.

"Ma'am?" asked the yellow-clad Duskwight archer at her side, taking note of her scowl. Bryngeim glanced back over at him, then once again to the sorry lot trudging at her back, and wiped another handful of cold water from her face before adjusting the heavy axe resting on her shoulder.

"Ah, 'tis naught, Idront, pay me no mind. I was woolgathering for a moment. You haven't seen anything?"

The man's brow furrowed and he shook his head. Drops of cold rainwater flickered off the corners of his ears with the motion, but he barely seemed to notice. "No, ma'am. Nothing yet. Might be a good idea to spread the search out a bit."

"Hm. See if we can find anyone we might have missed? Not a bad idea."

"Yes'm. There's a sector a few yalms off-" he gestured to the vague suggestion of a shape through the mist, "-that isn't tagged yet."

It had been her idea to take a strip of bright-colored cloth from... repurposed Grand Company tabards, tie them to a piece of wood or any other bit of debris that might serve as a marker, and thrust them into the ground at set intervals to mark areas that had already been searched and cleared.

Some had thought it ghoulish, but to Bryngeim's mind the dead were hardly able to make use of the fabric; better they be used to enable the survival of the living.

"All right. Just keep your eyes open. Don't stray from line of sight." For all they knew the enemy was still out there, looking for likely 'savages' to cull. "Call if you need us. And if you come across anyone too far gone..."

She trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence. Idront looked away from her, the protrusion in his throat bobbing visibly when he swallowed at the implication of her words- but he gave a short, resolute nod before striding off into the wet haze. While they all agreed that it would be the height of cruelty to give anyone false hope, that didn't mean any of them relished the idea of putting down one of their own.

Of all those who had survived the crimson moon's descent, a few hundred survivors among the combined Grand Company units were able-bodied enough to take on active duty. Bryngeim's captain in the Foreign Levy had relinquished his command; his last act had been to suggest that each squad should take quadrants of those portions of the field that were still passable and search for survivors.

The surviving commanders in the Maelstrom had enthusiastically agreed to the notion, and for the last twenty-seven bells they'd been sending units out in shifts. What had truly amazed her was the way all of them, without really much discussion, had cobbled together what functioning units they could until further notice.

Thus far, they'd only managed to clear a small segment of the area a quarter-malm beyond the cliff where the interim camp had been struck. All of the reformed units were now taking turns looking for more survivors, with mostly middling success. They were to check every corse on the field for signs of life, without exception. Many allies had been trapped underneath destroyed machina, or beneath the dead themselves: too injured to walk under their own power but perhaps still able to be saved by the few remaining healers if their hurts were tended quickly enough.

It was dirty, grim, and thankless work, for all it was necessary. Every minute of every bell counted: every breath spent in idleness a breath that might be stolen from an injured ally awaiting rescue.

And further searches were becoming nigh impossible, now that the weather had taken such a poor turn. The temperature had plummeted in the space of the last eight bells, and a supercell had blown over Silvertear Lake, part of a massive front that scouts said was dumping snow on Coerthas in the middle of the damned summer, seemingly out of nowhere.

Worse, the storm had broken open over the Flats on the latter side of their shift. Had there been a better outcome they'd all be back at the campground seeking shelter in the mess pavilion with a pint and a bowl of whatever currently passed for rations until the worst of the storm had passed. But the sky wasn't going to stop pissing rain just because she didn't like it.

In the meantime, night was falling fast and the haze from the rain and lingering smoke had made visibility even worse.

By the Navigator, we'd be that lucky to find even one person as things are now-

There was a tug on her sleeve.

"Oi, Bryn."

"Hn?"

K'luhia Zhisi, a fellow privateer in the Limsan navy and sergeant as of twelve bells past via dead man's boots, was leaning in a conspiratorial sort of fashion towards her. The rogue's gaze drifted briefly towards the newcomers to their group before they settled on her friend's face.

"Guess I should've asked before, but... ye never said what the higher-ups wantin' us to do with the ruffmans?"

"Eh?"

"Garleans," she clarified. "Should we find any still breathin'. Are we supposed to... you know..."

Bryngeim faltered.

"Ah. That."

"Aye," K'luhia said with somewhat exaggerated patience, "that."

Shite. Obviously she'd meant to say something to the others as part of their briefing, since it was just as likely they'd find survivors from the enemy ranks as their own and they all needed to be prepared for that eventuality. But in the rush and the unending grind of the search and her haphazard attempts to fill her superior's shoes, compounded by encroaching exhaustion, she'd just... well.

Godsdamn it all, she'd forgotten to brief them about prisoners. Of all the basic things she could have forgot-

Twelve, L'sazha, why'd you have to go and get yourself killed?

Bryngeim pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head with a weariness that was in no wise an exaggeration, pushing past her grief. She had her orders regarding the imperial soldiers, all right---and she misliked them heartily, and she knew the others were like to favor them even less, but there was no help for it now.

"Brass says put down any that're too hostile or too wounded, but otherwise we're to take prisoners back to the camp and hold them until they can be moved."

As expected, a fierce scowl creased her underling's brow, nearly matching her own. "What- why?"

"You never mind the 'why', Lu. Ain't ours to be asking."

"The hells are we saving 'em for?!" K'luhia fumed, her ears flattened against her head with her displeasure. "They're murderers, thousands of times over! They deserve worse than death! If I were in charge I'd-"

"Sergeant." She saw the woman's twitching tail and ignored it. "You have your orders. Don't make me repeat them."

The rogue made something like a feral growl in the back of her throat but otherwise kept her retort to herself, sheathing the dagger in her right hand with an almost savage thrust.

In truth, Bryngeim wished she could agree aloud, but doing so would only undermine what little authority she had. She could not fault her subordinate for her anger. The breadth of her own grief and fury seemed nigh boundless and she didn't for a moment think she was the only one.

How many good men and women had they lost? Her own captain and best friend lay dying slowly and painfully in the Alliance's makeshift infirmary, his body burned nigh beyond recognition by Bahamut's unholy fires, beyond saving even by magical means, and he was but one of many. Scores more had died to the Empire's damnable war machine. Already there were rumors trickling down from the command pavilions that debris from the fallen Dalamud had laid waste to entire villages, that parts of the Twelveswood were on fire, that Limsa had partially collapsed in on itself--even noncombatants hadn't been safe.

How many more were they going to lose? To weather? To time?

"Lu, look-" she began, but before she could continue there was a shout some few yalms distant:

"Ma'am! Captain Ahrmbraena, ma'am, come quickly!"

#chrysalispen writes #reborn by fire #yet another self indulgent WoL backstory fic #ffxiv writing

2 notes · View notes

ffxivmingxiajiang · 6 years ago

Text

Prompt #9: Hesitate. Let’s Be Reasonable 4

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009857/chapters/48893213

4. There’s Always Something

Clack! Shiiiiing! Thud.

“Oof!” I fell for a feint, at which point Foulques promptly knocked me off my feet, aimed his spear-tip at my throat and withdrew.

“Again!” he commanded, settling back into ready stance.

It was the fourth bout already. The sun was starting to rise higher in the sky, and it was getting hotter. We were training in the fields of Central Thanalan. There was a job in Halatali that we were picking up together, but it would be some time before we needed to be there, so he told me to meet him outside Ul'dah, and well, here we are.

Three minutes later, despite my best efforts, I was once again eating dirt. I got up again. Yes, it was making me sore. No, I didn’t care. As a black mage it was fine if I stayed put, but as a lancer I needed to stop doing that.

“Again, please?” I asked this time. He paused to take a swig of water and raised his spear.

So we went at it again. I think this time I might have lasted a little longer. He signaled me to stop. “Take a breather. The last thing I need is for you to pass out from this Twelves-damned heat.“

"Ok." I leaned against a large tree and took sips from my canteen.

Some minutes later we were at it again. We settled into a familiar rhythm, dancing to the beat of wood and steel clashing.

Or, it would have been a dance, had I not been so clumsy. A second’s hesitation, the indecision of which direction to pivot, and I received yet another stinging bruise on my leg.

"Don’t hesitate!” Foulques’ admonishment cut through the haze of embarrassment. “Hesitation is the sign of cowardice. I did not take a coward as my pupil.”

“Yessir!" I raised my spear again.

Don’t think. Just do it.

Predictably, I got knocked flat on my back again- but he didn’t seem as disgruntled this time at least. I think that time was better. It took longer, or at least felt longer.

“Better.” Foulques clipped his lance to his back, signalling the end of the training session. “Let us be off. I would see how you will fare in an actual fight.”

Some bells later with my nearly getting lost on the way to Eastern Thanalan, we found ourselves in front of Halatali. I’d been here before, some weeks ago when I was practicing combat thaumaturgy, but, well, being a gladiator’s ring, there was always something in here for anyone that cared to try.

There were a few other groups of adventurers- a few healers, a few tanks, quite a few of the quick-moving fighters and a sprinkling of mages. It seemed like this one was going to be a big job. Someone whose name I didn’t know stood in front of the crowd, explaining that, in the midst of preparations for an exhibition, a large number of the beasts had gotten loose. It was suspected to be sabotage, so the sponsor of the job, in a very predictably Ul’dahn way of conducting affairs, had moved the event up. They also decided that the participants would include adventurers. Whoever could clean out their part of the arena the fastest would receive a prize on top of the compensation for coming out at all.

Foulques, apparently, already had his eye on a specific part of the arena. “Come,” he said, nodding towards the center of the pit. “We take the heart. Skill and courage cannot flourish without an appropriate challenge! Anything less is a waste of time.”

“Yes! Right behind you!” I had to jog to keep up with him. I’ll be honest, I have some misgivings. I hope the beasts won’t be as huge as the Lord of the Bramble Patch, but who am I kidding? They’ll probably be bigger. Not that it would be anything new. Giant beasts are part of the lifestyle. Maybe what I’m worried about is-

No. No hesitation. It’ll be fine. Foulques is here, so it’ll be fine- and if it gets bad enough, I have my magic. The fire will answer my song even if my tool isn’t quite right.

We waited in the sand-covered pit in the center of Halatali with three other sets of adventurers, waiting for the monsters we were set to defeat. We didn’t have to wait long as a small herd of various creatures ranging from aggravated aldgoats to enraged biasts poured out of the entry tunnels.

And so began the battle. We ran wild, all of us adventurers- and I was glad for the training he gave me this morning. It was as much of an exercise to avoid my colleagues as it was to avoid the blows of the beasts we faced. The aldgoats fell quickly- their patterns were predictable, after all. The biasts were a bit more difficult, but nothing terribly difficult.

“Is there nothing more ferocious than this?” Foulques remarked disdainfully as he felled a biast.

“Novelty wore off?” I asked as I struck one down.

“After the second one,” he replied.

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!

“…Well, looks like you got your wish.” I made my way over to him, scanning the area for the owner of the roar. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw what it was.

See, I was expecting a scorpion-thing, like Graffias. Or maybe a succubus, like what they had in Haukke Manor. No, we didn’t get either of those. Our entire group got a large and rather angry dragon that looked suspiciously like the one in the Longstop, except a slightly different shade of green and a smidge smaller.

"So, uh, you think this is what broke the monsters out?” I turned to ask Foulques.

The not- Aiatar roared and spat out a glob of poison that partially melted the sand near us.

“Probably,” replied the healer.

“At last, a worthy challenge!” Foulques said, and charged forward, steps behind the gladiator we were with.

“…Never mind." I scampered after them, catching up just in time to witness the not- Aiatar get confused between who to attack first, since one of the gladiators was taunting it, but Foulques was hitting it so hard he caught its attention. I got to work attacking its other side.

Between the four of us, the dragon was worn down fairly quickly- or at least, I thought so until it slapped the gladiator and sent her flying across a puddle of poison, stepped into said poison, and began to heal. Foulques darted after it, jabbing it repeatedly from just outside the bounds of the poison puddle, causing it to turn away from our gladiator while our healer patched her up. I saw it rear its head back, and Foulques went for its throat. I don’t quite know how I could tell but if he didn’t move over he’d get a face full of poison.

Don’t hesitate!

Thought stopped. Everything seemed to slow down. I ran to Foulques and shoved him under the dragon. I nearly rolled on top of him in my haste to get away from its breath.

"Limit break, now if you can!!” The gladiator shouted, grunted as the dragon turned and brought its claws onto her shield.

“What-?” he started to ask.

“I’ll handle that. Can’t move while I’m doing it though.”

He nodded and viciously attacked the dragon’s belly. I concentrated, focusing aether into the spear and driving it up three long minutes later.

Someone- Foulques- yanked me out from under the collapsing beast as it gave one last skull-rattling screech. “You need to stop standing still.”

“Aha, yeah. Sorry. How did I do?”

“You have gotten faster,” he answered.

“Yay!”

“However! You dropped your guard at the end! Do not stand there like a slack-jawed fool until after the battle has ended!” he admonished.

“Yessir!”

It wasn’t a bad run though, I think. We were paid a bit over a thousand gil, and along with materials from the beasts we fought, I’d say we got a pretty good haul. Adventuring with Foulques is already looking to be quite a lot of fun.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

#foulques #arr #almost everyone lives #mingxia #au #ffxiv #lets be reasonable #ffxivwrite2019

1 note · View note

segadoraa · 6 years ago

Text

Blinded Chapter 1: The Remaining Threat

“Varric needs help!”

Ellana shouted across the battlefield when she saw her dwarven friend get overtaken by a group of elf mages. Doing her best to deal with the group enclosing on her, she pulled electric force from the fade-enchanted prosthetic left arm that Dagna had fashioned her and, jumping back and drawing another arrow as she did, she launched a powerful attack that electrified two of the attackers. One of the remaining elves—a rogue—slashed her left cheek and she cried out as she felt her own warm blood dripping down along her face. Twisting her neck, she dodged out of the way as she felt chilled magic brushing past her left shoulder. She knelt and released a long shot that took down a faraway attacker, then jumped again to release a storm of arrows on the last two crowding her. They staggered at her shot and she finished her assault with a few arrows, then wiped the blood from her face as she turned west toward the battlefield.

Breathing heavily, she flexed her prosthetic arm and chanced a glance back at Varric, who seemed to be smothered by elves despite Cassandra and Dorian’s onslaught against them. Cassandra’s bright golden armor glinted in the retreating sun as she laid a powerful blow against a mage on her right, but she was blown back as two more took the fallen elf’s place. Sweeping the field, her stomach dropped as she realized their forces were being pushed back on all fronts. We can’t lose today, she thought. Not when they were so close.

She began firing at the overwhelming group near Varric as she strode toward them, hitting one elf in the neck as a spurt of blood announced his fall, but another quickly took his place. Her next arrow struck the elf in the shoulder. She blinked through the misty haze in her eyes and her throat clenched. If we can just keep pushing, maybe we still have a chance, she thought. Dorian released blinding terror, which seemed to catch a few of the elf mages off guard and they slowed, which gave Varric a chance to throw down some traps and Cassandra lunged. Slowly, they were able to get to Varric, who gave her a weak half-smile, then dropped to his knees.

“Dorian—” Ellana began.

“I know,” he retorted, cutting her off. “It’s a shame your apostate hobo isn’t fighting for us anymore. He was always better with the healing spells.” A look of concentration crossed his face as a feeble healing spell went through Varric. Ellana handed Varric one of the draughts from her belt and he seemed to recover slightly.

“Tell me that was the last of them and we can have a celebratory round now,” Varric said with a grimace, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The group paused for a moment, searching the grounds.

“We will need to call for a retreat,” whispered Cassandra darkly. “If we hope to continue our plans, we still need as great a force as we can manage.” Her eyes found Ellana and Cassandra’s gaze intensified. “We can still fight, after today. We can still win.”

“Fenedhis,” Ellana whispered, pulling her hand across her eyes. “You’re right. Tell everyone to pull back. We will try to regroup.” She tried to sound confident, but they had been trying to recover a powerful elven artifact—one that, no doubt, would give Solas the last bit of power he needed to tear down the Veil and send the waking world into chaos. It had been two years since she had met him in the Elven Ruins. Since he had finally revealed his plans as Fen’Haral, the Dread Wolf. Since he had taken her arm and left her without another thought…

Pushing those thoughts away, she raced forward to cover their retreat. Cassandra is right, she thought, we still have the runes. We may still have time. She fired an arrow into the heart of an elf pursuing a group of her retreating soldiers and sensed an elven rogue behind her. He raised his dagger to strike, but she lifted her left arm—her prosthetic arm—and almost smirked as the dagger collided with the powerful enchantment Dorian had set on it blasted him back. For good measure, she sunk an arrow into his chest, then continued striding forward. Her fingers were raw and her heart pounded in her chest, but she pressed on, leaping back and forth between attacks and providing cover as the rest of their soldiers retreated.

It was then she noticed an elf—no, Elvhen, she corrected, who had been watching her closely at a distance. He was much taller than the elves they had been fighting and carried a certain air of authority and power with him. When she met his gaze, he turned, leapt forward and bounded away from her, toward a crumbling Elvhen ruin. Curios. None of the others had fled from them, especially when her forces were clearly retreating. She exhaled sharply and started to follow the path the Elvhen had set, though he was much quicker than her. Definitely Elvhen, she thought, doing her best to keep up.

She finally approached the ruin and crept forward. She had lost sight of the Elvhen and tried to keep her cover as she carefully turned a corner. Gasping, six or seven Elvhen mages rushed toward her and she did not have time to dodge the full power of a of mind blast that sent her staggering. She felt her muscles fail and she staggered. Shakily, she knocked an arrow and sent it flying as a last attempt before she felt a force of magic freeze her to the spot.

“Na din’an sahlin!” He shouted in Elvhen. Now you die. She watched helplessly as he charged toward her with his spirit daggers drawn and she noted her arrow protruding from his right shoulder. She clamped her eyes shut and her throat closed. Not now, she prayed, not like this, but one of the other Elvhen grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Shaking from the cold that had her locked in place, she pried her eyes open.

“She is to be taken alive.” They looked at her and she felt a whoosh of magic as darkness crept along the edges of her vision. She tried to draw an arrow, to move at all, but the effort did nothing but exhaust her further. The Elvhen circled around her as the spell binding her broke and she fell, unconscious, to the floor.

She awoke, suddenly, grasping at nothing as her right hand clasped in the empty air around her. She reached with her left arm as well, but found that her prosthetic had been removed, along with her bow. Her back ached against the cool stone beneath her and she struggled to sit up, the effects of the magic inflicted on her still wearing off, as she took in her surroundings. It appeared she was in an elven ruin. The walls were well worn with weeds pushing their way through the stone and there were a few tattered pelts and furnishings that held a layer of dust as if they hadn’t been touched in years. There were no windows, only a heavy door through an archway that lead into the round room she was in. With a pang, she realized it reminded her of the rotunda at Skyhold, although it lacked Solas’s murals and the ceiling was almost low enough for her to touch. Not quite a prison cell, but the one point of entry certainly assured she had few options.

Pushing that thought aside, she rose to her feet to assess her condition and consider her next move. Shakily, she strode to the wall and traced her fingers over it, making a circle along the wall as she tried to perceive any weak points in the stone or hidden exits. Finding nothing, she turned her search to the stone floor, hoping for a trace of a hidden compartment, a secret passageway, anything that would lead her out of here. She crouched and scratched at the stone—fade-touched, she realized, and resigned herself to trying the door.

She crept forward, trying not to make any sound as she approached the only apparent escape from the room. She lifted her right hand to trace the heavy wood and, sucking in her breath, she pulled away as frost covered her fingers and a cool, familiar magic washed over her. The door had been warded. Solas, she breathed, stepping back. Steeling herself, she used what was left of her strength to run forward and bash her right shoulder against the door, only to be blasted back by a wave of ice that sent a chill straight to her spine. That ought to get his attention, she thought, rubbing her side and stepping back into the circular room.

Finding a spot where she would be in full view of the door, she slid down against the wall to resume her position on the floor. If he means to keep me prisoner, her thoughts raced and her heart clenched, then… what? She was unarmed and defenseless without her prosthetic against someone who possessed god-like abilities, let alone the command of an army that she had not yet been able to overcome. She fought against the waves of irritation and despair that threatened to overtake her as she considered her new role as Solas’s prisoner. She had been many things in the past years—hunter, knife-ear, Herald, Inquisitor, vhenan… she tried not to think of the implications of the latter as she heard muffled sounds outside the door.

“She has roused. Should we send for Fen’Harel?”

“No. He demanded she be taken alive but did not give further instructions. He knows she has been captured. We await further instruction.”

The other elf fell silent and she heard his footfalls retreating from her door.

So, this was to be it, Ellana thought, with despair slowing the pulse in her veins. I am to await the judgement of Fen’Harel.

She choked back a laugh at the irony.

Read more(in time) at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314771/chapters/48162601

#dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquisition fanfic #post-trespasser fanfic #dai fanfic #solavellan oc #solavellan hell #solavellan fanfic #solas #lavellan #romance #writing #fanfic #oc

1 note · View note

iwritesometimes · 6 years ago

Text

northstarfan

replied to your post

“okay so!! who's got some Netflixvania prompts for me??? you know you...”

The trio vs Elizabeth Bartley! https://castlevania.fandom.com/wiki/Elizabeth_Bartley

ty so much for the prompt and link!<3 i spent the morning in a Castlevania research black hole because of it (i am not remotely complaining about this). i’ve still jiggered the timeline so Elizabeth can be alive during the Netflixvania time period, i hope that’s okay! :)

castlevania gen, 3800 words, cw for reasonably graphic violence on and off screen

still taking castlevania and vampire hunter d prompts here!

***

It’s only good fortune the likes of which Adrian is both unused to and suspicious of that the attack comes when Sypha and Trevor are paying him a visit. Then again, it’s hard to call anything “fortunate” that leads to the mutilated body of a local goatherd and his wife, as well as their whole flock, impaled on stakes around the perimeter of the Belmont estate in the cold light of a December morning. Adrian stands looking up at the grisly remains with a grim look on his face, Sypha beside him and Trevor already beginning the unhappy work of cutting down the pikes, horror and anger in every swing of the axe.

“We should tell the villagers,” Sypha says quietly. “They...might listen to me, and stay in their homes.”

Adrian says nothing for a moment; a stake falls with a sickening thud, frost and goat bones crunching. Then, quietly, he murmurs, “I’m afraid that won’t do any good.”

He’s right. He wishes he wasn’t. The last glowing embers of the pyre they built to burn the bodies are still smoking at dawn the next day when the three of them return to the castle after a night spent fruitlessly scouring the forest, only to find three more mutilated human bodies on the castle’s doorstep. Sypha swallows a cry; they are...they are only children, three young women no older than sixteen. Alucard learned enough about medicine from his mother and enough about human death from his father to know that the girls died horribly and slow, but he tells neither Belmont nor Sypha this. He suspects they already know.

There is a letter, clutched in the frozen, bloodied hand of one of the victims. Adrian takes it, not thinking of what he is doing, unable to allow his brain to approach it if he wants to remain in control of his fury, but it’s too much for Trevor, who turns on a heel to stride toward the treeline and heaves up the meager contents of his stomach before he can reach it. Adrian’s hand shakes as he breaks the wax seal, pressed with a mark he recognizes.

Their fear tasted so sweet, Alucard.

The crossroads at midnight. Bring the Dark Lord’s remains.

***

“I don’t like this,” Belmont says for the fourth time; it had been unnecessary even the first, and now it just makes Adrian’s teeth itch. Sypha beats him to the dirty, quelling look, and Trevor grunts defensively, hand tightening around the Morning Star. “Well, I don’t. We have no idea how many of them there are or what they’re capable of.”

“Oh, we can safely assume they’re capable of anything,” Adrian says, low and deliberate. “Erzsébet never quite learned the meaning of self-control.”

“Is everyone you’re related to so charming, Alucard?” Trevor rumbles, acid in his tone. Adrian bares his teeth at him and gets the satisfaction of seeing Belmont flinch. Before he can offer anything further, however, his ears prick to the faintest rustle in the undergrowth, and he peers with eyes hazing crimson into the inky blackness of the nearby stand of alders. Sypha and Trevor see his head swivel, each of them stiffening in readiness and alarm.

At once, a dozen wraithlike women all in black emerge from the trees, just eerily floating white faces and hands, and in their midst, a flame of red and gold and pink silk, is a taller, painfully elegant woman so beautiful she hurts to look at. Adrian hears both Sypha and Trevor sigh softly at the sight of her, snaps, “Be on your guard,” not loud, but commanding. A laugh like chimes fills the air of the empty crossroads as the retinue of ghostly killers moves across the open field toward them, too weirdly quick and smooth to be walking.

“Why, my dearest Alucard, are you not going to introduce us?” Erzsébet says, her soft, melodious voice seeming to be in their minds rather than actually spoken. “I won’t be seen to be rude in front of your traveling companions.”

“Cousin,” Alucard greets her flatly. “Unfortunately, etiquette is the least of my concerns at the moment. You must know I won’t give you what you seek.”

“What I know is that eventually Wallachia will run out of sweet fresh virgins for me to leave at your door, and I shall have to go further abroad for fresh meat.” She and her coterie have drifted close enough now to see the silvery glint of moonlight on her fangs when she speaks. Her heavy, dark eyes gleam back at them out of a face from a masterful painting, long, black hair falling over her shoulders like water, disappearing into the darkness around her. “My own lands are running a little dry, these days. These are the best they had to offer.” She gestures regally to the women in black around her, all of whom stare back motionlessly at the three hunters huddled close in the pool of light under the lamppost. All of them vampires, and no doubt deadly, if Erzsébet thought them worth sparing the usual ravages of her appetites.

“You’re not leaving Wallachia alive,” Trevor tells her, barely controlled rage trembling in his voice; for all that he is not quite the average Belmont, when it came down to it, Trevor still relished the hunt and the kill of Adrian’s kind. Adrian had found it distasteful in the past, but at present…

“And who will stop me? You?” Erzsébet says, her gaze swinging to Trevor, with all the heat and weight of centuries and thousands of dead innocents. She leans in toward him a little, the loose neck of her dress slipping down a fraction by design. Adrian knows without looking where Trevor’s eyes are straying; he feels the man shudder, and suddenly his sword is in his hand, a warning gleam in the lamplight as he raises it.

“And me,” he says, voice like the steel of his blade, at the same moment Sypha says, “And me,” as flame blossoms in her palms. Adrian can’t help the faint smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth; trust Sypha to recover her wits first. Trevor isn’t all that far behind, however, Morning Star jingling as he passes the weighted end into his ready hand and lowers his stance to attack.

Erzsébet’s beautiful, serene expression suddenly twists, and it’s hard to believe in that instant that she had ever looked anything but terrifying. Pulling back, she raises her hand high in the air, and immediately the white faces of her guards melt away into the night as four glowing points of light like stars burst into existence around Erzsébet. “Pitiful mortals,” she intones, rising into the air as her stars orbit slowly around her. Her fangs grow long and drip. “Traitor!” she hisses at Alucard. “I will see the Dark Lord’s unholy work completed if I have to snap every bone in your body to do it!”

A black flash from the corner of his right eye is all the warning he has, before a wraith tears through the midst of them; the lightning-quick sparkle of a blade, and he barely gets his sword up in time to deflect it, sucking a startled gasp through his teeth. Fuck, they’re fast. Another flash, this time from the left, and he swings his sword, but too late; pain blooms in his side from the bite of a dagger, slashed too quickly to see, and then there is another figure, and another, cutting blood-red gashes in Trevor’s side, in Sypha’s hood - nearly taking off her ear.

“Oh, fuck this,” Belmont mutters, the chain of his whip uncurling with furious grace in his hand, whirling into a defensive screen around him; there is the bright, startling ring of metal on metal, and a white face stares through the glinting coils, fury in the black eyes and bared fangs, sword upraised and vibrating.

“Indeed,” Adrian agrees wholeheartedly, and swings his sword out in front of himself to give them all a little more room, even as he shifts into his wolf form, with its lower profile and better sense of smell and - importantly - significantly improved bite strength. With a snarl he leaps out of the circle of light, following the faintest whisper of air as it breezes by and sinking his teeth deep into...something. Something that cracks very satisfyingly between his jaws, as a high-pitched shriek tears the night. He jerks his head hard, flinging the vampire like a ragdoll against the ground, whereupon he pounces before she can recover, teeth flashing into her throat. Then he leaps again, claws raking, but he mostly seems to be getting clothing and hair.

“Sypha, stay close,” Belmont says, eyes darting between the white-and-black figures circling them just at the edge of the light, and the radiant floating menace above their heads. Erzsébet seems to be gathering energy for something, the air around her growing thick and hot. Sypha was already edging closer, their hips bumping lightly within the relatively safe clear spot created by his whirling whip, but the respite can’t last for long. She quickly swipes the blood away from the side of her face, quick flicker of her eyelids the only indication of pain, then brings her index fingers to her lips and breathes intensity into her flames. She traces a wide circle with her arms and around them rises a wall of fire; chattering screams of frustration and pain rise from outside it as the assassins shrink away from the deadly flames, and Sypha smiles a self-satisfied smile.

More snarling and ripping sounds from beyond the firelight preface Alucard bursting back through the wall, quickly falling out of his wolf shape and tumbling over and over a few times in his human form, faintly smoking. Quickly he pats out the singed edges of his cloak and stands, golden eyes still a little feral. “She’s transforming,” he warns, but by the time he’s said it, it’s happening: Erzsébet’s form seems to stretch and grow, her shape shimmering in and out of existence.

“Ssso you can play with fire, too, little Sssspeakerrrr?” That voice that was so musical and bell-like before is now more the sound of fingernails scraping glass, and then it is not a voice at all, but a high-pitched, evil hissing, reverberating from the massive green-scaled coils of a gigantic snake spilling out from under the flowing red gown. Her fangs lengthen obscenely, face distorting into something not quite animal, but certainly not human, and she looms over them, flamelike dress transmuting to actual fire wreathing her body. Those rotating stars swing inward, spiraling into the heart of the flame and heat, and then burst out from her, four blazing streaks of light. Trevor shouts in surprise and flings an arm around Sypha, both of them crumpling immediately into the dirt as fire shoots overhead; Adrian leaps into the air, flipping backward over one simmering contrail only to be blasted earthward by a second. Lights pop in his vision and he feels his skin blistering, struggling to heal; from a few feet away, Sypha cries out in pain, black shadows descending upon the humans before they can get back to their feet, and for a moment panic rises in Adrian’s throat. But then he hears the wet, rattling gasp of a vampire solidly speared through the heart, and he blinks to focus his eyes in time to see a forest of icy spines thrusting up from the ground all around them as Sypha lies facedown, palms flat to the ground, willing the water in the soil and air to take deadly form. Two of the black-clad ghosts are dissipating into smoke and ash before they realize they are dead, and another has been pinned cleanly through the midsection and now writhes there like a beetle on a pin.

The towering gorgon screams overhead, flames reigniting between her hands as she readies another attack, but Adrian leaps to his feet, fear for Trevor and Sypha making him double-quick, and hops with animal grace right to the top of the lamppost, flips higher, calling his sword to his hand already singing downward, arcing cleanly through both wrists. The sound she makes then threatens to split Adrian’s head wide open. He staggers as he’s falling, only barely getting the sword stuck into her serpent’s body and using the drag through her flesh to slow his momentum, raking a long, ugly gash in her side. He’s still batted aside by the clublike end of her tail, but manages to land on his feet, winded, but alright.

Trevor and Sypha are up again, the Morning Star flashing once more with purpose to fend off the remaining wraiths while Sypha plants both feet wide and gathers herself for a monumental burst of energy. A black shape suddenly streaks into the light toward her, and Adrian springs, throws himself between Sypha and danger, just in time to catch the business end of a fucking spear, partly with his sword, mostly with his shoulder. He grits his teeth in pain and, arching, throws the woman back, blood pouring freely from his shoulder and a soft, agonized sound rattling in his throat. The assassin delicately twirls her spear, makes a show of licking a rivulet of his blood from her forearm all the way up the shaft of her weapon to the trident blade; he hisses at her, enraged, and lunges forward, right arm hanging dead for the moment while his shoulder knits. He’s almost as deadly with his left, but his opponent cleverly redirects the jabbing point of his sword once, twice, a third time with the forked end of the spear, and then she’s sliding it up the length of his sword, blades screeching together, her eyes glinting murderously. It comes to Adrian in a flash, the embarrassing memory jolting him to action, and just as she closes with him, he rams his forehead into the bridge of her nose and prays Belmont doesn’t see it. No one could have been more shocked at the son of Dracula braining an assailant with his skull than his assailant herself, who staggers back, eyes already swelling shut, just off-balance enough for Adrian to lop off her head.

A violent displacement of air at his back recalls Adrian’s attention to the hunter and the Speaker behind him, and he looks to see Sypha dwarfed by the gout of flame she’s conjured, right into the gorgon’s hideous face. Trevor visibly falters, eyes flying wide at the size and intensity of the fireball; the wind blows hot in his and Adrian’s faces, bringing the smell of charred flesh and Erzsébet’s ragged screaming, and then she’s...melting, or so it seems, diminishing in a mirage-like wave until she is, once again, a woman in red silks, hunched and panting, eyes blazing red and hair a shining black halo suspended around her. Her remaining guards gather behind her again - only four left, all of them looking tattered and a little wild-eyed. One of them even reaches out hesitantly for her mistress as if to pull her back, only for Erzsébet to snatch her arm in one bloody hand tipped with razor-sharp nails and twist it until it breaks. The black-clad woman whimpers in pain and draws away behind her fellows, all of them coalescing into a single dark shape behind the Blood Countess.

“If you strike me down here, you murderous whoreson,” Erzsébet growls in three octaves, gaze burning on Adrian as if she could incinerate him where he stands, “you cannot imagine the destruction I will rain down on you and yours in times to come.”

Something in her voice rings so certain that Adrian feels hot dread pool in his stomach, but he clenches his teeth and carefully stretches out his right arm, feeling the bones grind and pop back into place. He settles his sword again in his right hand, straightens, left arm folded neatly behind his back as he meets her eye. “So be it, Lady Báthory. Then I will strike you down again, and again, as many times as it takes.”

She says nothing and gives no warning; in the next moment, there are simply four of her, phasing rapidly in and out of existence, arrayed in a straight line before them. The spectral images flash disorientingly, and then one solidifies, in front of Trevor, who can only partially dodge the fireball that erupts from her hand and catches his forearms raised defensively. He staggers back with a pained oath and claws off his smoldering bracers. Sypha flings a smaller fireball of her own, exhausted from magical exertion but interposing herself between Trevor and Erzsébet anyway. But the woman is already gone again, and Sypha’s spell fires off into nothingness. Adrian tries to follow the flickering shapes of her illusory form, but the wraiths are back to harry him, all four of them now, darting in and away, each time leaving a new and painful little slice across his chest and belly and face. And then there is Erzsébet again with a handful of fire that Adrian only just ducks, ramming his sword forward in the same instant.

He thinks at first he’s hit her, because his sword seems to meet resistance, but then it’s wrenched out of his hand and discorporates as Erzsébet herself splinters into multiples again. Adrian calls his sword back from the ether, only for a ghostly hand to pass straight through it and knock it out of existence again. He growls in frustration and leaps backward, trying to create space enough to rush her again, but he feels the bite of cold steel in his back and gasps in pain as the wraith darts away, her dagger bloodied and gleaming in the moonlight. The countess reappears in front of the hunters, who fling themselves apart as fire blazes between them; Trevor hurls the club end of his whip toward her and it passes through thin air, her figure blurring so dizzyingly fast none of them can figure out where she’ll be in time to hurt her at all. And meanwhile, the assassins grow bolder, circling like sharks scenting blood, and Sypha is knocked to her knees, blood streaming from a dozen or more gashes in her cloak and one wound in her calf bleeding especially heavily. Trevor whips Morning Star around them again in a bid for a moment to breathe, and Adrian catches his dark, fearful look from across the road and knows they can’t do this much longer.

He steadies himself, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine, and recalls his sword again - or tries to, but it flickers in his hand without actually materializing, then disappears, then reappears. In Erzsébet’s hand. He ducks a wild, inexpert swing and makes a grab for the weapon, but she is already gone. “Ah, enough!” he shouts, diving toward the gleaming shape of the assassin’s discarded spear on the ground and raising it, then, gathering his strength for a final push, phasing out of sight himself. In this in-between state, he sees differently, registering time as slower than normal; he can see the afterimage of Erzsébet’s movements like this, bright outlines of where she’s disturbed the fabric of reality, where her body is displacing air and heat. He keeps moving, the two of them almost in a dance with each other, each looking for an opening while trying not to leave one of their own.

Then, like a premonition...there! Adrian thrusts the spear forward with all his strength, and he feels it connect - really connect, this time, metal in meat, and Erzsébet shudders. He feels it in the haft of the spear. She fades into existence with the spear lodged right under her ribs, breathing shallow and expression startled. Adrian doesn’t give her an opportunity to regroup, only shouts in anger and exertion and pushes. She staggers backward, her weight now mostly hanging on the spear, and then Morning Star whips in, glittering death, and crashes into the side of her head, splitting her skull with a resounding crack.

A final piercing scream rends the air and Báthory Erzsébet disintegrates in a flash of light and a spatter of blood, her voluminous crimson dress fluttering empty to the ground. Adrian can only stare at it for a long, flabbergasted moment of complete, ringing silence, his brain offering helpfully, What the fuck?

With a faint whoosh, suddenly the last of the shadowy assassins disappears, fleeing into the night. None of the hunters bothers to give chase - actually, it’s pretty uncertain any of them even could. But Adrian isn’t worried; without their mistress, the vampires won’t dare harass the nearby countryside, knowing the three of them are here to protect it. And, after all...they were themselves only Erzsébet’s most privileged victims. He doesn’t think any of them would willingly carry on her task without her there to terrorize them into it.

Trevor is kneeling next to Sypha, binding her injured leg with strips of her ruined cowl and slapping her hands away where she’s attempting to pour water from her canteen over his blistered fingers. Adrian walks mincingly over to them and leans heavily against the lamppost, still breathing shallowly against the pain as whatever internal damage that assassin’s dagger had done slowly begins to mend. “Well done, you two,” he says, voice rough. Sypha smiles wearily up at him. Belmont snorts.

“Any other bloodthirsty cousins we should know about, Alucard? Hm? Perhap a ghoul of an uncle chained up in your wine cellar?”

“No, only my thirteen feral and illegitimate children,” Adrian rasps, straightening and moving closer to help lift Sypha up off the ground. She shoots him a look of alarm, and he raises his eyebrows. “I’m kidding.”

“No, I know,” she says, and bites her lip to stifle a whimper as Adrian and Trevor lever her up and get one of her arms around each of their shoulders. “It’s just such a crazy thing for you to say I’m wondering if perhaps you concussed yourself while using your head as battering ram.”

Adrian almost winces, catches himself just in time to keep his face absolutely expressionless. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever happened to having a little class, your lordship?” Trevor says, cracking a grin quite literally through the streaks of dried blood down his face. Adrian curls his lip and for a moment thinks he won’t dignify that with a response.

But, in the end, who needs dignity? “I figure if it works for a Belmont in a bar fight, any idiot can use it to his advantage,” he drawls, as the three of them pick their way back up the road toward the shape of their cart and, more distantly, home.

#northstarfan #castlevania #i write sometimes

8 notes · View notes

thankyouforchoosingoptionone · 6 years ago

Text

Eldritch Book one Cht 1

The salt on the wind left his lips dry and cracked, too many days at sea. He didn’t keep track of it he just tried to sleep the most of them away, though it's hard to sleep when you are force to stand, or other wise hang by the wrists as shoulder height shackles keep you bound. The chains of the shackles were engraved with Elven spells made specifically for him. The inhibit manna flow and prevented him from using his magic. The dark confines of his cell were made even lonelier when you count he was the only prisoner being transported. He sat against the white oak of the ship the best he could with the irons digging into his wrists.

He felt the irons bite, but soon he smiled to the sweet feeling of exhaustion and sleep. He was sure he was being taken to be executed, so this was luxury to him, a bit of sleep again. "You're not done yet.". He awoke to the sudden and deafening blow of a cannon ball through the hull, blasting apart the steel bars of his cage and sending a scatter spray of splinters all directions. "Good morning to you too…" He jests with a smirk in his cage. A bell starts ringing full speed above him, he laughs at the music of chaos the elves displayed. "The yellow skins act like they've never been attacked by pirates."

Outside the ship, a massive Golden wood built ship with crimson sails was attacking this prisoner cargo carrier. Cannons lined in triangular triple gun patterns on the top row, but single more tight together on the bottom. The figurehead bore 3 serpent like necks connecting to individual unique dragon heads. The elven captain, dressed in his fancy whites and blues, only could whisper to himself from fear, "The Ghidorah" .

Atop the helm of this battleship, the captain stood looming over a crew of mixed bloods. Hybrids, orcs, humans and one Sea Elf. The captain himself, dressed wearing only leather pants, a tightly woven burlap type shirt, and leather jacket, was the great Dagon Dragmouth. Orange scales covering the body of this lumbering Dragonkin, with his wings tucked onto his shoulders as a cape. He smiled with a maw of daggers as smoke left his nostrils like trails from a burning pipe. "Fire the Scatter!" . His command booms to the lower decks of his ship as a team of crew mates push forward one of the triple guns. The cannons weld together with one powder chamber in the rear, loaded with shrapnel of broken chains, rusted bladed, and fractured cannon balls. They ignite the fuse and the guns fire in a horrible noise. The shrapnel tears through the first hole made, making it big enough to fit a crew through.

The Wiseman looked at his right hand, the shrapnel cannons blown past his hand, ripping the one shackle off with little damage to his flesh. "That’s stupid luck. Thank you impossible odds" He jests to himself again and stops when the silhouette of Dagon himself shown through the light of the ship's hole. Small waves of water would manage to reach up to his feet as he walked past the broken threshold he made. He laughs as he witnesses thirteen elven soldiers lined up in their ridiculous Black iron armor with the gilded trims. Dagon draws two massive scimitar swords, the heat from his throat was so hot the Wiseman could feel it, "whoa big guy wait!" but his warning went unheard and the Flames from the Dragonkin went fast and hot, setting fire to much of the wood it contacted with. The elves seemed to vanish inside the flames, until it was done burning. Once his mouth shut The elves stood unharmed. Red Manna runes engraved in the armor they wore shielded them.

The Pirate lizard was taken back, growling and without aid at this level he stepped back. Suddenly, 3 portals opened around the group of soldiers. Purple rings of alien writings spin making these portals causing distraction to the elves and even Dagon at this moment. The first portal, directly above the elves, dropped a swarm of slime spitting winged creatures, like scaled bats with mouths on the belly and no head. The slime they spit was stinky and stuck to them very well. One small creature taking interest in Dagon spit at his face as well and flew off. All the creatures return to the first portal once all elves have been coated. Dagon wiped his face.

The other two portals released strange tentacles covered in some kind of chitin carapace, tipped with pincer claws found on crabs but wider with bowl like openings in the very center. These claw tentacles moved quick and made short work of the elven troops. Eviscerating and devouring them as they try to fight back. The elven steel cuts through the chitin easily but there are far too much of them and soon the tentacles retreat into the portals, having consumed all elves. Dagon looked upon the scene in awe and shock, but not horror. He turned his head to the laughs of the Wiseman who had one hand freed and seemed to be the source of this scene. His eyes burned a purple haze that matched the rings. This haze, while unworldly, faded away soon. The Wiseman smirks "let me out…we share an enemy.".

Dagon sheathed his blades looking at this human. He never had before seen that kind of magic, it gave him a terrible feeling of familiarity. He had questions and this human didn’t seem to be a threat to him. The sea elf ran down stairs with two gun axes in his hands, ready to take on whatever he thought made that noise. Not expecting to see Dagon freeing the sole prisoner on the ship. "Oi, Captain?! What made all that noise? And..All this blood" he questioned, looking down at his bare feet now slick from walking in the elven blood. The Sea elf had blue green skin, and a set of frills around his neck with green hair he kept tied under a red bandanna. His teeth were like shark's razor and serrated. Dagon smirks, "A new crewmate Innsmouth, mr. …?" The Wiseman smiled brightly, and kindly. You can call me Thomas…Thomas Eldritch."

Dagon drew a blade from his belt "Can you use one of these?" and gives the handle end to Thomas, holding the blade in his claw. Thomas nods taking the heavy steel with both hands and smiled again. Innsmouth tilts his head to the side at the grin on Thomas's face. "You sure Cap'n? He looks….Sweet like" Dagon walked past him with an impatience in his step and tone, "Better this than that unholy image he burned in my brain just before.."

Both Thomas and Innsmouth fallowed Dagon out of the smoldering underbelly of the ship. Topside his crew have subdued the last of the elves they did not kill. A few bodies scatter on the deck, mostly of the yellow skinned elven soldiers. Dagon came up the stairway to the topside. He looked at the ship around him "Tell me why a Highborn Prison ship has double crew here for one single man?" There was a clueless silence about Thomas, "Oh wait your asking me? Well because I'm the Aberration." Dagon, Innsmouth, and any crew in earshot looked at Thomas in disbelief. Thomas rolled his eyes, walking towards the captain's quarters of the elven ship and retuning with a log book.

The book was small and bound with linen that was resin soaked all over except the spine which remained soft linen. Leather straps acted as the muscle of the spine of the book. Dagon peers into the book of the last most recorded date. 6 weeks ago, and only one prisoner, Aberration was put in the last name category, leaving the first name blank Dagon looked Thomas dead in the eye, the silence broke with Dagon's laugh. "Of all the ships on all the seas, I find the one holding the oldest living thing on this world! And it turns out, the legendary Aberration the elves love to hate and hate to fear, is a Fucking Human!" Thomas laughed with him "I mean I'm far from Human at this point." They laughed together for a moment, until Innsmouth felt need to interrupt, "Cap'n, she's burning hot we best go now". Dagon wiped his jaw and nods, "Aye, leave the Yellow skins and take nothing. We have the big prize here". Thomas couldn’t help but feel his vanity make him smile.

The Pirate crew bind the legs and arms of the elven crew, leaving them aboard the slow burning ship they dared to serve that day. Innsmouth took the helm of the Ghidorah and began his sailing away. Dagon taking Thomas below deck to the Galley, filled with the smell of salt meat, pickled vegetables, and fermented fruits. "The stink of a real pirate ship" Thomas smirked as he looked around. Dagon nods proudly, "Aye, if you don’t want to puke you're not on a pirate ship. Go ahead mate get some fill in you. Damn highborns must've starved you." Thomas had no hesitation to begin his inhalation of the food and drink. Dagon laughed, knowing any prisoner on an elven ship would think this food Gourmet compared to the stale bread and cold slop the elves fed you. "Come back topside when you feel acclimated mate. We need to have words and I do my thinking in the wind.".

After eating himself a food baby belly, Thomas walked up the steps of the Ghidorah and felt the breeze of the wind tug at his long brown hair. He smiled, tearing off the rag garb tunic he wore leaving only his short trousers. He spread his arms to the wind and took a deep breath "Taste different, Don’t it?" Thomas looked to the port side of the ship, A young Uru orc boy smirked at him. His red skin covered in pirate tattoos, bearing no shirt and a face like a bald wolf "You got pulled off the ship, a prisoner. The air was bitter, gross, stale. But now the wind carries the taste of Freedom on the wind and it tastes sweeter right?" The orc smiled at him and walked up, offering his hand "Name's Jackoo, Quartermaster." Thomas smiled and shook his hand, then grimaced a bit at the orc's grip, "Remember my face, your going to know it a lot, and Remember my grip and hope I don’t have to use it again". Thomas laughed, his smile was goofy and entertained "I like you already, Just call me Th" "I heard your name, Eldritch. Know your place and we'll get along fine". Thomas had to tilt his head in confusion, "And what's my place on this ship?". Jackoo pointed to the bow, where Dagon stood staring at the waves. "That's for the captain to decide. Best get now".

Thomas approached Dagon slowly, not to disturb a man in thought. He was barely up to Dagon's armpits, the man was so big. Not tall but big, and wide. Dagon's voice lost it's rumble now, a beast calmed by the wind spoke to Thomas now, "My da once told me that the seas would take men to where they need to be. You just had to trust them. Break that trust, or doubt their hold and you damn yourself. Sailors only request direction, its her choice to take you there…" He looked at Thomas, "..and here we are, Two men of equal infamy to the Highborn Order. The sea pushed us together mate, now we must figure out if it's Damnation or Salvation."

Thomas looked at him listening close. Then he looked at the water below the ship racing past. "I hear the incredible urge to jump into that water or off of a really tall place like the nest up there." He jests pointing. "But the voices that actually are there wont leave me alone about my, air quotes, duties". Dagon just stares. This madness was just that to him, madness. "Why do the elves hate you?" He demanded. "You mean you don’t know that much?"

Dagon shook his head at the question when he wanted an answer "Everyone knows the basic Bull..Your a human who doesn’t age…from before history was written, and you preach gods that don’t exist and use magic that shouldn’t exist."

"Don’t forget the part where I was taught an alien language and now all humans and a few other races speak it. How's that for a mind fuck?"

Dagon smirked at the logic for a bit but then had to ask "What's and alien?" Thomas had to think. He smiled very manically when he found his answer, "Well, something so obviously not from this world that is a living being of some shape or form. Examples. " he spins his wrists upside down and forms 3 new small purple spell rings, creating the portals in the ring. The center most portal raises a small sentient warrior inside a glass dome. The warrior had 6 arms and 4 legs with segmented plates along the spine, scaled male going over the limbs. His weapons seemed to be tiny forms of riffles with jagged bayonetted ends. The left most portal made a sort of dog creature but made of stone. The creature was infant in state and sleeping softly. Woken by the angry cries of the warrior next to it, though the warrior was not attacking the dog. It was attempting to attack the right most portal creature with futility. The portal raised a beast that was mechanical in origins but with science unknown to the pirate captain. Colors of red green and yellow strings wove through plates and joints with sounds of fluids moving metal rods and cylinders to move limbs. The machine beast was also trying to attack the warrior but prevented by a glass dome.

Once he was sure Dagon understood the word Alien, Thomas returned the creatures through the portals and made the rings vanish. Dagon was dumbfounded, but he certainly took a firm hold of alien now. He quickly took annoyance to the joy Thomas got from watching Dagon. "…Well I got no more questions right now. So your going to help me out." he started walking back to the stairwell in the middle of the deck. "I am hunting a monster…and your magic is….well I Think I might have found some other kind of alien before I Found you..".

Thomas fallowed, his ears pinned to the voice of the pirate lizard. His hope rose a bit, he wanted the alien to be the same one who changed him those years ago. Thomas had so many more questions of his own he needed to ask that being. He held hope that the alien was not dead. Dagon lead Thomas to a chart room in the ship, no doorway just a corner that holds a map on each wall and a massive globe sitting on a table. Dagon Rolls the globe around and stops it, leaving his finger over the Sea of Monsters. Thomas tilts his head looking at it. "My da and I saw it there...before the beast took his life…". Thomas lost that hope now, but continued to listen. "What did it look like?"

Dagon's tone was low, solemn, and angry, "The beast was 4 times the size of this ship…scales covered it's body like amethyst tile plates. It's spine was traced with broken stone like ridges that stuck out to rip the wood from your keel. It's tail was a single long tentacle covered in tiny little hooks, just like the ones that covered is face…" "It's face..?" Thomas interjected. "Well if you call that mug a face, it bore what was like some freak leviathan squid as a head with the most hideous eyes. It's maw was several beak teeth that spit acid that burns flesh like my flames, it turns wood to mud and combusts in the water…I call it…the Nightmare Dragon."

Thomas nods and looked at the globe "I know what it is, I can help you kill it. But why chase that thing when you seem to be capable as a pirate alone? You are Captain Dagon Dragmouth the most famous pirate ever." Dagon picked up his belt at his sides and let out a deep sigh, "I'll be straight with you mate, I am mid way through my life, and I've yet to find my own MATE if you get me." Thomas nods, understanding the sentiment. "So I want to do one big thing before my…Hiatus lets call it. I want to be able to tuck a wee gecko into bed on a galleon I built myself. This bed will be that monster's bones woven into a glorious nest for my child, and that gecko will look up at me and go, 'Da, tell e again how I got this amazing luxurious bed Da oh please tell me again.' and I'll go on and tell them How I Took it on my own beautiful self to slay this beast in my Da's name just to build my spawn the most perfect nest!"

Thomas and Innsmouth both laugh, Dagon turned his head to face his second mate, "The fu..when did you get here?" Innsmouth salutes like an elf "Oh da please da tell me again" making Thomas laugh hard. Dagon growls at the two making them silent fast. "Point is mate, I want to give my family a legacy, or die trying. What say you Mate??" .

Thomas returned the stares Innsmouth and Dagon were giving him. He sighed a little bit, "What the fuck it'll be fun". Innsmouth and Dagon both cheered, as did Jackoo and the crew above who all eavesdropped through the stairwell. Thomas laughed, he brought Dagon's attention back to the globe. "that creature, we are going to keep the name Nightmare Dragon, so much cooler than what it's called, is going to just sit and huddle in the squid waters. One ship clearly wont work, you need at the least…4 galleons."

"how in the hell do we get 4 fucking galleons when we can barely keep track of 3 brigs?" Jackoo tossed the question at Thomas, who responded by putting his finger on one spot on the globe. Everyone leaned in to see the location, Seaport City. The only human city in the world. Innsmouth jests "Oh Excuse me Queen Annabelle but we PIRATES need to borrow 4 of your Galleons to hunt a monster that eats monsters and turns wooden ships into soup." Dagon smacked Innsmouth on the back of the head, "Seaport has no Dry Dock Construction laws, we can build the boat's ourselves…" Innsmouth rubbed his head and pouts defeated, while Jackoo thinks and looks at Thomas "But how do we fund that?" Thomas smiled, "Your Hunters, pirates, and enemies of the Highborn Order. Queen Annabelle will gladly trade with us any ink, meat, and Beaks you get from squid, as well as spoils taken by the elves."

Dagon nods "It'll take some years to do it, getting it off the ground earning her favor and what not." Innsmouth interjected again "some time means like twenty years or what ever, that’s fucking forever." Jackoo glared, "yeah for me, you’re a newt, he doesn’t age, and captain is a Dragonkin.". "Call me a newt again you mud born little.." Dagon growled, "Enough, we are sailing to Seaport…We build the Galleons to Eldritch's specifications, as long as it takes to do it.". The Ghidorah ship began it's sail towards the most diverse city on the planet, and home to the last of the human race.

#monsters #cthulhu #Kaiju #pirates #elves #orcs #dragons #dragon #magic #magics #gods #devils #eldritch #fantasy #writer #writing #write #writers #amature

3 notes · View notes

headfulloffantasies · 7 years ago

Text

Angel with a Shotgun

An AU I’ve been sitting on a long time. What if Sam and Dean were angels who fell to earth as babies? They are raised by Bobby Singer and grow up to be hunters, with a few extra perks as angels. They spend their adult lives on the road, evading the monsters and angels alike who want them dead.

Chapter 1 below the cut

Bobby Singer was not what you would call a righteous man. He had lived most of his adult life in a drunken haze. He was never an angry drunk. Rather, he was the same person drunk as he was sober; a grumpy belligerent malcontent. Not much had changed from age thirty to forty. His fourth decade passed with incident. The only anniversary he celebrated was his father’s death. He remembered his bastard father by pouring an extra shot of whiskey and searching the house for any traces of his father to toss in the fire. There were fewer and fewer memories in the grate every year.

On this anniversary Bobby could find only one scrap of an old shirt that had been used as a rag in the basement. As it went up in smoke, Bobby looked into the flames and knew. Next year would be the last. Next year he would scour the house and finally be free.

The constant background of M*A*S*H reruns were broken up by a screeching. Bobby jumped as the whole farmhouse started shaking. Dishes rattled in the cupboard.

Earthquake, Bobby thought with panic. The cable box started squealing and the lights flickered. What were you supposed to do in an earthquake? Should he jump in the bathtub? Hide in the basement?

Before Bobby could make a decision, the lights gave out entirely. Through the window a blinding light streaked across the sky.

A comet. Bobby’s brain supplied. He stood transfixed in the middle of the living room as the burning light passed overhead and crashed spectacularly on the horizon. The resounding boom shook the house again.

Then… silence. Darkness. Bobby’s racing heart thundered in his ears.

Just within sight was a glow of orange where the meteor had landed.

Bobby’s home was pretty far out of town. It would probably be awhile before the proper authorities arrived. In the meantime, Bobby unstuck his jaw from the floor and grabbed his worn cap. Might as well see if he couldn’t keep the fire from spreading.

The smoke and ashes floated like fireflies through the silent night. Not even the distant electric lights from Bobby’s neighbors were visible. The comet must have knocked out the power for the whole county. The wreckage of the crater was a long, burning strip of churned black dirt. Bobby wiped sweat from his brow. There was nothing here he could do, as far as he could see. The fire was already burning itself out. He turned to go. Then he heard it. A cry. Bobby froze. He half convinced himself he was hearing things when the sharp wail came again. There was something in the crater. Bobby approached warily, warding off the smoke with a raised hand. An unbidden thought of radiation from whatever the comet contained rose to his mind. But even if that was true, he was already exposed. Bobby crept closer and peered down into the crater.

Two babies were cradled against each other in the charred earth. Bobby could only stare as the one lifted a defenseless fist and waved delicate fingers. The other appeared fast asleep, undisturbed by the carnage around it.

Bobby was immediately reminded of the Superman comics he’d read as a kid. An alien child crash landed on a farm in the middle of nowhere. It was absurd enough to strangle a laugh from his stunned lips. The little waving baby let out another cry. It was a pitiful sound, the kind a child makes when they are alone and frightened. Bobby cautiously slid down into the crater. He stood over the two babies and stared for a full minute. The child wailed at him.

What was Bobby supposed to do? He didn’t know anything about babies. Even less about alien babies.

The screaming child suddenly quieted and looked Bobby right in the eye. They held each other’s gazes for a moment that stretched into infinity. Green. The boy’s eyes were a startling green. There was an uncanny intelligence in those eyes. The child knew him, Bobby was certain. And now the baby was waiting to see what Bobby would do next. The baby’s companion gave a little sleepy wiggle and blinked open wide eyes that immediately brimmed with fat tears.

That was it. Bobby could deal with one crying baby, two was to much. He leaned down and scooped the tiny infants into his burly arms. They were impossibly warm. But they wouldn’t stay that way out in the middle of the night. Climbing out of the crater was difficult with his hands full, but Bobby managed it.

The green-eyed child seemed content to stare at Bobby with his intensely solemn face as Bobby plodded back home.

His brother, that was how Bobby was going to think of them, had promptly gone back to sleep.

“What am I going to do with you?” Bobby asked the infant softly.

The answering growl did not come from the child.

Between the porch and Bobby stood the biggest wolf Bobby had ever seen in his life. Its black hackles were raised and saliva dribbled out between its massive fangs.

Bobby was frozen in fear. He couldn’t run. That thing would be on him in seconds. He couldn’t fight. Not with two babies in his arms.

“Hey!” A gravelly voice shouted to Bobby’s left. A figure in a trench coat faced down the wolf. The beast turned its snout towards the newcomer and snarled. The sound turned Bobby’s knees to jelly.

“Get inside.” The man commanded. It took Bobby a second to realize he was talking to Bobby. Then the man was running, away from the house with his coat flapping behind him. The wolf howled and bounded after him. Bobby unstuck his shaking legs and ran. He thundered up the porch steps and slammed the door behind him. Leaning back against the wood, Bobby panted hard. His heart couldn’t take any more excitement. But as he gulped lungfuls of air, something steeled in his belly. He couldn’t leave that poor sucker to get eaten by a mutant wolf. Bobby carried the boys into the living room and carefully set the two children down on the carpet. They’d be safe inside the house.

Then he grabbed his shotgun from over the backdoor.

The night was eerily quiet. There was nothing stirring as Bobby crept past the carcasses of abandoned Fords. The old cars stacked in Bobby’s junkyard twisted in towers of crushed metal. Every shadow was a threat. Every crunch of his feet over gravel startled him. Bobby’s heart hammered against his collarbone. Where could that monster wolf have gone? There was no howling, or growls. There were no screams either, thankfully. Bobby tiptoed around his property for what felt like hours. He didn’t find anything. Not a single paw print or drop of blood. No fur, or scraps of trench coat. But the man couldn’t have outrun the wolf. That was impossible. They had to be here somewhere. Bobby didn’t realize how long he actually been searching until the sky was streaked with pink.

Bobby finally gave up. He went back to the house, shotgun still at the ready. He had a notion about calling animal services to come find the darn wolf.

Bobby had almost forgotten about the boys in his house until their screams reached his ears. He raced up the steps, images of them being chased around his living room by the crazy wolf hovering in his mind. Bobby threw the door open. The babies were both sitting up on the floor and screeching at the top of their lungs. They were alone.

Bobby sagged with relief. “You boys hungry?”

Bobby set down his shotgun and went over to the closest child. He scooped him up. This was the one who had slept most of the night. He had a shock of brown hair growing almost straight out from his forehead. The child whimpered and kept crying.

“I don’t think I have anything you can eat.” Bobby mumbled. He made his way over to the kitchen, keeping one eye on the other boy shrieking on the carpet. One handed, Bobby opened the fridge. Bottles of opened liquor stared back. A head of lettuce purchased optimistically. Hot dogs, mustard, and re-fried beans.

“Guess we’ll have to go shopping.” Bobby mused. He thought dubiously about strapping two babies into the back of his beat up car.

“Plan B, then.”

Bobby settled the boys in his lap while he dialed the phone. They had stopped crying, finally, but they still made whining, unhappy noises every so often.

Ellen answered on the fourth ring. “I’m not speaking to you, Bobby Singer.”

She hung up before he could get a single syllable out. Bobby called back.

“If you call me again I’ll drive over there and chop off your bits.” Ellen threatened when she picked up.

“Ellen, wait.” Bobby practically shouted. “I need your help-”

“My help?” Ellen scoffed. “I should have known you’d call wanting something. You’re a bastard, Bobby Singer.”

“You’re right.” Bobby agreed quickly. That shut Ellen up. Bobby used her silence to his advantage. “I’m in a jam, Ellen. I’ve got two babies and I don’t know how to feed them. I don’t even have a jug of milk in my fridge.”

A long sigh scratched over the line. “I don’t even know where to start with that one.” Ellen admitted. “Do I ask why a person in their right mind would leave kids with you? Or do I start with your eating habits?”

“How ‘bout you start by bringing over some baby food and you can lecture me in person.” Bobby offered.

“... I’ll be right there. Don’t kill those children before I get there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ellen opened the door with three shopping bags weighing her down. Bobby met her with both screaming boys in his arms.

“I’d offer to help, but…” Bobby jostled the babies.

“For goodness sake, put them down before you drop them.”

Ellen had both boys diapered, fed, and swaddled in blankets before Bobby could blink. Somehow Bobby ended up side by side on the couch with Ellen, the green eyed baby in his arms.

“Where did they come from?” Ellen asked quietly. The child in her arms was dropping off to sleep again.

“You saw that meteor last night?” Bobby asked. Ellen nodded.

Bobby shrugged.

Ellen stared Bobby down with bug eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me? How drunk were you?”

“Hey!” Bobby protested. He told her the whole story, including the abominable wolf thing and the man in the trench coat.

“Maybe the kids are his.” Ellen offered.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Bobby asked incredulously. “They fell out the damn sky.”

“I don’t believe in little green men, Bobby.” Ellen said icily. “And if you want to keep these boys, you’d better stop thinking like that.”

“I don’t want to keep them. I want to get rid of them as fast as possible.” Bobby groused.

Ellen sighed, rocking the child in her arms absently. “You can call child services if that’s how you feel.”

Bobby frowned. Ellen was clearly trying to make a point, but it was over his head. If she would only speak her mind. But no, Ellen was a puzzle box. And Bobby didn’t have the patience or puzzles.

Ellen handed the kid to Bobby. “I have to go.” She explained. “Jo’s not much older than these two, y’know.”

Bobby walked her to the door.

Ellen hesitated with one hand on the doorknob. “Call me if you need anything else.”

Bobby spent much of the evening trying to ignore the babies. They seemed content cooing to each other as long as they were fed and changed regularly. At about eight o’clock the boys started yawning. Bobby tried to keep watching TV, but they were yawning so wide he could see their little pink gums. Bobby levered himself off the couch and then a thought hit him. How was he supposed to put the boys to bed? He didn’t have a crib. They couldn’t just lie on the floor, they’d crawl away. He considered calling Ellen. No. He had to figure at least one thing out for himself in this whole baby debacle. Bobby stared down at the boys. He left out a soft curse. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Bobby dressed in sleep shirt and pj pants for the first time in months. He usually fell asleep fully dressed in his chair. Sometimes he managed to stumble up the stairs and collapse on top of his quilt. It had been a long time since he slept properly in his bed. Well, he wasn’t sure he would actually sleep tonight either. Bobby carefully arranged a pile of blankets around the two boys to box them in on one side. He lay down on the other, effectively creating a barrier to keep them from rolling off the bed.

Bobby propped himself up on one elbow and watched the babies. They snuggled into each other, almost holding hands in their sleep. They were clearly brothers, sharing the same facial structure and nose. But there were so many other minute details that separated them. The green eyed one wasn’t as bald as Bobby first thought. He had feathery wisps of blonde hair clinging to his skull. His cheeks were already dotted with freckles. And he screamed a lot more than his brother. But the other could keep eating until Ellen had run out of milk. The brown haired one had brown eyes that flickered open for a split second before he settled again. Their tiny chests expanded and sank in tune with each other. They were so perfectly sculpted, from their tiny toes to their small ears. They were so fragile. Something in Bobby’s chest tightened. He realized he wanted to protect these boys. He felt a fondness for the little tuft of hair on the one, and the green eyes of the other. He didn’t want to give up these perfect boys.

Any notion of handing them off the child services died. He couldn’t abandon them now. Bobby scrubbed a hand over his weary eyes. He never intended to be a father. Not even when his wife had begged him. It seemed like the universe had different plans.

Ellen came over again in the morning, “To make sure you didn’t kill them in the night.” She said.

Bobby told her he was thinking about keeping them. Ellen’s eyes lit up. “Good.” She said shortly. She plopped herself on the couch and pulled a couple of bottles out of her bag.

“What did you call them?” Ellen asked, cooing over the green eyed one.

“I haven’t yet.”

Ellen straightened and leveled one of her acerbic glares at him. “Bobby Singer, you have had these boys for over twenty-four hours and you haven’t named them yet?”

Bobby ran a hand sheepishly through his hair. “Didn’t seem that important.” He mumbled gruffly.

Ellen propped the blonde one up so they were eye to eye.

“How about Joey?” She asked, wrinkling her nose to the baby’s delight.

Bobby scoffed. ‘They need better names than that.”

“You are not naming either of these boys Zepplin, Bobby Singer.” Ellen warned darkly.

“Of course not.” Bobby said, even though that’s exactly what he had been thinking. “What about Dean?”

“Dean is good.” Ellen nodded. “And the other?”

“I was thinking Samuel.” Bobby answered. Samuel was a good strong name. Samuel Colt had been a legend.

“Samuel Singer.” Ellen mused fondly.

“No.” Bobby said sharply. His gut boiled at the thought of giving these boys his father’s name. They didn’t deserve that, and he wouldn’t give his daddy’s ghost the satisfaction.

“Winchester.” Bobby said firmly. “Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

#angel with a shotgun #supernatural #fanfiction #angel au #sam winchester #dean winchester #bobby singer #chapter 1 #ellen

1 note · View note

crushingthebroken · 8 years ago

Text

jon fic part 2

(so this takes place assuming Jon and Daenerys did get it on during their boat ride, but their feelings are more complicated then one sided D&D’s cliche love story - and are quickly put aside for the greater cause of the war.)

The Great Hall's cacophony of voices grew louder, as many of the assembled lords and ladies talked over one another in their efforts; conversations were happening in every corner of the room. From his seat at the high table, Jon shook his head and rose from his seat.

“As I was saying, my lords – an alliance. Between North and South. This is the only sure way to stop the Night King and his army.” he stated, nodding as the room grew hushed, “but your suspicions about the Targaryens are not without cause.”

This was a calculated risk, he knew. But one that would result in the best outcome for both kingdoms. “I could keep us here for the rest of the winter discussing the various wrongs they have committed against both House Stark and the North at large...but that would be useless. I am not a Targaryen – so, who better to address your concerns then the very woman herself?”

Daenerys rose to her feet, having been seated at Jon's left. Every eye in the room went to her as Jon sat down, nodding respectfully in her direction. Folding her hands in front of her, she scanned the various faces, most of which displayed a cold hostility as fierce as the wind outside.

“I know the history of the North. My brother Viserys taught me all of the histories of Westeros when I was a girl. I know that the Starks ruled unopposed as Kings of Winter for thousands of years until the coming of my ancestor.” she paused, idly strolling in between the tables, “yet that time was far different then the ones we now face.”

She gestured towards Jon. “Your King came to Dragonstone of his own volition, seeking co-operation with me. With House Targaryen as a whole. It took some doing, but....I was able to see what the threat is that comes for us. All of us.” Her tone grew firm and commanding as the images of Viserion's death raced through her head. “I know the cost of the war to come if we lose.”

Pausing before the high table, she gazed to Jon before turning to face the assembled. Exhaling softly, she put her hands back at her sides. “And I now know that if the price of defeating the Night King and the army of the dead is a free, independent North...it is a cost I am willing to pay.”

The room grew loud as she took her seat, and Jon offered her a reassuring smile as he rose back up. “I know many of you have something to say. So please – let's hear it.”

Robett Glover was the first to stand. “You will forgive me if I am skeptical of your claim, Dragon Queen. How are we to know you will honour this pledge you make us now?” he asked, brows furrowed, “that as soon as this war is won you will not try to claim the North with fire and blood?”

Jon shook his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Yet before he could respond it was Sansa who had risen; from her seat to Jon's left, she gave him a glance before addressing the question. “Our King has put his trust in our new ally, Lord Glover. We must do the same else what is the point of having a King in the North?”

A smile crept over Jon's lips at his sister's words. She truly is a player in this game, he mused. “Daenerys Targaryen is not the Mad King. She is not Cersei Lannister. She is, by all accounts, honourable and committed to this alliance.” he stated, tapping his fingers on the table, “and if we cast her aside due to suspicion what kind of Northerners are we? When we say we will do something, we do it.”

Struggling to his feet, Wyman Manderly gestured in agreement. “The King speaks truly. We've received a dozen shipments of dragonglass from the South – all of it from Dragonstone. Why give us supplies if she means to attack us?”

Placing a hand on Longclaw, Jon rolled his shoulders. Lord Snow needed to be heard. “I appreciate the concern offered, Lord Glover. From you all. I know you may be apprehensive of our new alliance and position. But this is my decision – one that I have made for the good of our people, as I have always done. I have made it clear to Lady Daenerys that if she makes a move against us in any way, I will not hesitate to strike her down.”

He relaxed his grip on the handle. “Now, all of us need to be prepared for when the time comes. Lady Stark has already updated me on our food stores and battle readiness – we're doing well, but we still need as much as possible. Every last ounce of food, water, steel and iron – do what you can to scavenge it.”

A wave of dread seized Jon's stomach as he sat back down. The overwhelming feeling of the impending war to come – it crept up his spine and sent a shiver down his back. Sighing quietly, he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing as best as he could.

The Great War is here.

Watching as the snow fell into the courtyard, Jon sighed. His mind was still awash with conflict and problems – he had to endure every last one for the sake of what was to come. Lord Snow – the King in the North – had to see his people through the winter if any of them could dare dream of spring.

At his side, Ghost rubbed against his hand, Jon grabbing a tuft of the wolf's fur and petting him. It was good that his old friend – who had endured the loss of his own pack; all of the other direwolves save himself – had been able to endure his absence. It was hard on him to be away from Ghost; yet he knew that Winterfell was the best place for him.

“I wish you could have come, boy.” Jon mumbled as he took a seat. Ghost responded by licking his hand, tilting his head curiously, “but you're a direwolf. You are meant for the North – not the hot and sticky south.”

A knock at the door interrupted him. “My Lord, Lady Daenerys wishes a word.” came the voice of the guard.

Jon squeezed his eyes together. The night they shared – it still hung over him like a pallor. The day before their arrival at White Harbour; the fact they had given into...something, a kind of lustful haze that had gripped them in the weeks prior. I really sealed that alliance, didn't I.

“Send her in.” he commanded, rising out of his seat.

Ghost went to the door, sniffing and huffing at her as she entered. Daenerys for her part remained composed, yet Jon could see a hint of both fear and wonder as she went down to one knee and held her hand out for the wolf to smell.

“He's beautiful.” she whispered as Ghost licked her palm.

That brought a grin to his face. “You have two dragons – full grown, might I add. I think Ghost here pales in comparison; they would likely eat him right up for a snack.” Jon ran a hand down the wolf's back, “yet we've been through a lot together.”

Smiling, Daenerys walked to the window, staring out at the snow-covered horizon. “Do you think your banner-men will accept our alliance?” she asked after a moment's pause, her face painted with concern. “some of them don't seem too fond of the idea.”

“I wouldn't worry. They won't act unless their King commands it. And I have no plans to do that.” he stated, voice as firm as possible. Jon watched as she turned to face him, her eyes gazing into his with the same warmth they had that night at sea.

She took a step closer to him, and Jon felt his heart racing once more. “And...what about us?” Daenerys sighed, reaching out and gently brushing her hand against his arm. “Where do the two rulers stand?”

Where do we stand?

Jon could not put into words his feelings. It was almost a familiar sensation; one that had long disappeared from his mind – but not quite the same. Love? No, it was clearly not that – but it was far more then lust.

“I...don't know.” he sighed, feeling the warmth of her hand as she brushed it against his cheek.

Daenerys nodded, her lip trembling ever so gently. “I don't either...I haven't had these kinds of feelings in...in...a long time.” Her mind flashed back to her first husband Drogo – a man who, despite buying her in a trade, she had come to love.

Jon folded his arms to his chest and turned away. “I...need time to think. We both do. We can't let -”

“Who was she?” Daenerys whispered softly.

A stab of pain went through Jon's heart. “Her name was Ygritte. She was one of the Free Folk.” It hurt to even say her name; even though she was long dead, her remains burned so that she could not rise as one of the Night King's soldiers, he still kept her close to his heart.

Daenerys placed a hand against his fingers. “You loved her.”

Jon nodded, his vision growing hot with tears. “She died in my arms.” he whispered, his voice growing hoarse, “and...there's been no one else.”

She ran a hand along his cheek again for a moment. “You're right...that we need time. Let's not....not do anything....rash until this is all said and done. We can....figure out where we stand after the war has been won.”

Unfolding his arms, Jon wiped the tears away from his eyes. “Thank you, Dany.” he smiled, prompting her to laugh ever so slightly.

“Just...don't call me that.” she joked, leaning her forehead against his own, brushing her lips ever briefly against his. “We better...better get to work, Jon Snow.”

As she left the room Jon leaned against the wall for support, letting out a tortured sigh. The Night King was the true enemy – yet here he was, entangled in a mess of feelings and emotions for someone he barely knew. “I have to be a King...” he tried to tell himself.

You will find no joy in your command.

#jon snow #daenerys targaryen #game of thrones #asoiaf #fanfic #game of thrones fanfic #different au slightly

2 notes · View notes

nicksstoryvault · 8 years ago

Photo

Devotion

As Bucky engaged his approach through a sea of a rich socialites-the prissy upper class of the fashion industry, he eluded any contact with the elegantly clad raven, blond and copper-haired dames ogling his masculine dominance, he wore a sharp cut Armani tailored suit -midnight black, giving him a dangerous aura. His dark wolfish mane of chestnut was slicked back with bladed tresses fanned over the broad width of his flesh and metallic shoulders; everything about his devastatingly handsome chiseled visage carried the air of suave menace and roguish allure, the suit literally showcased the solid thickness of his sculpted torso, sleek curves of his slender hips and curved edges of his biceps. He was armed for the kill, slicing through the crowd in methodical and evading stride,

He was armed for the kill, slicing through the crowd in methodical and evading stride as his powerhouse body flowed gracefully with the dissonance of the music, just like when he trained in the Red Room, obeying the sharp tempo of the piano and twirling orphan ballerinas effortlessly on stage. He knew how to glide with each rhythm, and wield precision with his footing-tonight he felt the unquenchable urge to dance with his best girl-the love of his life; Selina Kyle, an untouchable and graceful beauty who mastered the elements of darkness, and left him breathless each time he stared into her ardent coffee irises.

Sometimes, he wondered if she was a spellbinding and ethereal goddess in mortal flesh-he still couldn’t fathom why she loved him, a damaged-butchered soul who had been unmade into a stone cold instrument of death. He deserved nothing for the sins that shadowed his reflection, but Selina gave him a chance to embrace the light freedom; to become a new man and he loved her for that. Stuffing his gloved hands into the pockets of his trousers, he bit on the swell of his bottom lip, feeling out of depth and lost in a haze of confusion.“Okay, Barnes, you gotta show her the ropes tonight, no backing down…”

Grumbling under his breath, Bucky halted in his wavering steps in the center, the intensity of his frosted steel-blue eyes scanned determinedly over the lavish dresses and cloth tables displaying polished trays of diced exotic fruit and various desserts that had the Paris flare, the scents of fudge and strawberry became intoxicating as he seized a rounded cocoa ball of sprinkled coconut and quickly stuffed it into his mouth, to ease the inrush of anxiety mounting through his heated veins. The flavor was sweet and infused with chocolate; fueling the ravenous influx of questing hunger. His left gloved hand grabbed another dessert off a tray, not realizing that the strawberry pastry resembled a shape of a pig. He took a sampling bite, tasting an explosion of rich jelly and sugar. His senses were blitzed with the infusion of flavor. “Hey, this stuff is pretty damn good…”

“You should try the chocolate toads, I hear they are simply to die for.” Bucky’s moment of intoxicating indulgence was disturbed by the slithering chill of a familiar German accent creeping up on him. The former Winter Soldier froze up, mid-bite on his second serving of strawberry cheesecake. A coldness enveloped him brought about by a gust of memories, which in turn were triggered by a conniving voice that was both sickly soft and sagacious. A cold metal table, a darkened room, merciless needles, blinding lights, and withering face of a middle-aged scientist with cold eyes behind thick glasses. “Of course, I would say the same of all the delicacies here that appeal to my sweet-tooth.”

It couldn’t be….

A dark look crosses Bucky’s once relaxed features. He sets his plate down and turns, metallic hand balled into a fist at his side, only to come to a puzzling halt as he takes in the man in front of him. Garbed in a plain black tuxedo, the short and stocky man before him was the striking visage of a demon of his tormented past. “Zola…” Bucky nearly hisses out, though his brow was pinched with disbelief. “You’re dead. You can’t be here.” The man in front of him appeared genuinely confused by Bucky’s somewhat hostile approach along with the name he addressed him by.

“Zola? I beg your pardon, but my name is Ziegler. Professor Albert Ziegler of Anthropology. Good to make your acquaintance, Herr…” The man in front of him wore no glasses, spoke with the same accent and professionalism as the man that made Bucky’s life a living hell for over a decade, but something about him was entirely off. His demeanor and approach was savvy but also benign as you’d expect from a complete stranger. And yet, Bucky couldn’t quash the feeling of unease he felt in this man’s presence.

“Is this some kinda of a sick game?” Bucky clenches his teeth from behind his lips. The lingering taste of strawberry and chocolate on his tongue was somewhat distracting, making him feel as if he were being carried away on a train while he struggled to remain focused on the man in front of him. “I don’t know how you’re here, or what the hell you want. But stay away from me, or I’ll use this to rip your throat out,” Bucky makes a show of flexing his metallic digits before the befuddled and now somewhat stricken guest who went by the name Dr. Ziegler.

Feeling the ominous presence of a dark storm waging through the ballroom; Selina wasted not a second to glide between the crowd, as her dark coffee irises settled intently at dessert tables where Bucky stood clenching in his metallic fist at his side. Behind webbed dark tresses hanging over his razor-edged cheeks, his steel-blue eyes gleamed fiercely in restrained contempt, evident to the hardened clench of his stubbled jaw; he looked like a caged wolf, snarling to deliver a lethal strike at his unknown tormentor. She didn’t need the Winter Soldier to become unleashed, not when the stink of HYDRA slithered in the shadows.

“Bucky, cool it down,” Selina beckoned him, her sultry tone edged with a hostile flare as her dark eyes glared intently at the elderly professor standing behind the dessert table, with a smug look tampering his wrinkled features. Right there, she felt the murderous command of instinct to pull out her Glock that was strapped along the curve of her low back, concealed by the rich black velvet of her dress molding over the lithesome and curvaceous lines of her svelte body - low cut to reveal the exquisite swell of her pale breasts and the graceful length of her bare neck.

Her evening attire for the gala was practical and lethally effective to engage the dance floor while radiating an elegant illusion of a modern aged Roman empress; Selina was a sleek feline unbound, dominating the flickers of shadow as her cool alabaster skin glowed against the softness of candlelight. Her silken long mahogany locks cascaded effortlessly off her back, as she engaged the stout framed stranger who had fallen into the crosshairs of the Winter Soldier.

She needed to obstruct the impulses of his savagery, distract Bucky from making a scene when his baleful temperament became a harmful force to contend against. With a brazen move, she seized his hand firmly, entwining her lithe fingers with his cool chrome digits under the motorcycle glow. “C'mon handsome, let’s show these rich stiffs how a kid from Brooklyn dances…” she implored in a whisper, hotly.

Though he was still severely distracted by the appearance of the man who bore a striking resemblance to the one who turned him into a killing machine, Bucky allowed himself to be swept away by Selina’s guiding hand. His steel-blue eyes glared threateningly at the supposed professor who matched his glower with a tight-smile that bore no signs of fear. Zola or not, Bucky knew something was off. Releasing a shaky sigh, Bucky registers Selina’s tempting offer and feels his anxiety begin to melt away into something more lax. Truly, he needed to let loose tonight and enjoy himself. Dancing with the most beautiful woman in the world seemed like the best way of doing that.

“Let’s give em a show, Miss Kyle.” He quips with a playful gleam in his eyes with a smile to match. His wolfish gaze moves over Selina, drinking in her elegant and sexy visage as she guides him towards the dance floor. The orchestra began to play a more upbeat, fast-paced waltz. Elegant and invigorating. Electricity sizzled between Bucky and Selina’s eyes, their fingers joining as each of them drifted into a familiar cadence that they practiced with each other for many years. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Careful handsome, I might enjoy this dance,” Selina purred with effortless snark, as he guided with fluid grace towards the center of the crowded floor, his cybertronic arm deftly braced over the fine curve of her lower back, metallic coolness penetrated through her skin, with painstaking voltaic pulses that recharged a fever in her veins. Lightning flashed against the interlude of a storm. The intensity was mounting, as gravity between them was defying limits of how long they could restrain the untamed influx of hunger.

Following the sharp tunefulness of harmony and a thump of percussion, Selina’s dainty hand strayed up to the width of his broad shoulder, curving just below his thick nape, and her fingers swept under his wolfish mane, until she adjoined with him in a perfect stance. The swell of her ample breasts pressed softly against the hard planes of muscle compacted over his sculpted torso; she inhaled the intoxicating, masculine scent of frosted mint, vanilla, and sandalwood wafted off him; blitzing her aroused senses to engage. “Just focus on me, James…” she implored gently, swaying her sleek–lithesome body against the subtle flows of equal balance, urging him to lead her.

Bucky said nothing, the need for words suddenly feeling trivial in the ambiance that was created by the inspiring music that surrounded them, and the flow of their graceful movements. Selina’s soothing words had somehow managed to smooth the coils of anxiety he felt. Thoughts of the stocky German professor had begun to evaporate as he was suddenly immersed in the flow of their waltz. The corner of his lips curved into something resembling a dangerous smirk, and he eagerly followed her instruction and took control of their dance.

Though his spirit was not as lively as the young man from Brooklyn in the 1930s, his body hadn’t forgotten the memories that were sewn into his muscles. Selina’s hands were held securely in his own, not too hard or too soft, but their joined contact was enough that she felt like an extension of himself, his other half. He guides her in close, left foot back, right foot forward, their sway and turns of their bodies were smooth as silk and enchanting as poetry in motion. Feeling bold, he twirls her suddenly, watching with wolfish delight as she expertly twirls on the tip of her toes like a ballerina, before guiding her back into his arms. “I love it when you do that,” he nearly murmurs hotly against her ear.

Feeling the cool minty caress of his enticing breath ghost along the curve of her jaw, as she effortlessly relaunched her grace against the solid expanse of his torso, Selina fell into a euphoric harmony. The rhythmic heat of their adjoined bodies thrilled her senses; numbing her bones when the metallic touch of his robotic-chrome hand traced an electrifying pulse deftly against the bare milky-white softness of her skin, purring silently for an infinite release of her caged soul, she tilted her head back with a slow arch of her back as tousled cascades of mahogany languidly flowed off his shoulder; purposely displaying the elegant lines of her pale neck to his tamed masculine hunger.

Selina almost looked forbiddenly wicked in the intermixed contrasts of shadow and halos of light, betraying her cool poise to challenge his melting restraint. She detected the war raging within him, the blaze of fueling determination to undo control and ravage soul- needing passion through her captured body. Smirking coyly, she curved her neck, cushioning her lips with liquefied heat dangerously over the stubble bristle of his throat. “You know we can take this floor, easy, really knock their rich asses off…Just like in Russia, soldier boy.”

Bucky was distinctly aware that around them, several of the dancing couples had cleared the floor and formed a circle with the rest of the guests as they watch he and Selina with awe. “You read my mind, darlin’,” Bucky’s smile grew wide, making him appear younger and more vivacious in the thrum of their waltz. There as a dangerous level of excitement in the air that came with the prospect of being the center of everyone attention with the most beautiful woman in attendance. So he pulled Selina closer until she twirls balletically into the opened embrace his arms with her back pressed against his chest. “Think you can keep up?” He dares with a touch of mischievousness, knowing how much Selina loved a challenge.

“Do I detect a dare, James Barnes,” Selina coyly purred, her tone held a smoky edge, as the fullness of her lavish crimson lips curved beautifully into a jovial smirk, her coffee irises flashed with a blaze of heat, beckoning the untamed beast inside him to devour her in second she temptingly arced the swell of her breasts over the thickness of his broad chest, muscles flexed at the ignited breach of their natural contact. Following accord to the sensual rhythm of their bodies, her lithe fingers traced possessively over his concealed metallic plates of his left arm as his hand deftly gripped the smooth black velvet of her dress; catching a glimpse of him boyishly gnawing on his bottom lip. She wrinkled her nose, just watching him master perfectly in parallel cadence with her poised steps of graceful sync. They fluidly balanced visceral power and elegance with every twirl, becoming sharp as cool blades, cutting through vestiges shadow, as their adjoined bodies mirrored each sway–heated and tangible pulse of precision and rhymic flow that made them appear invincible on the ballroom floor.

“Only an invitation,” he returned breathlessly, guiding Selina towards him after a vibrant twirl across the dance floor. Their movements were as fluid as flowing water with the force of stallions. The guests watched cooed and awed as the waltz neared its end. Bucky catches Selina into his arms, his hands cradling her exposed flesh firmly as he uses her momentum to dip her back. Her hair spills back like a cascading waterfall of mahogany, shimmering in the chandelier lights above. Their gazes snapped to each other’s with the intensity of an electricity not nearly as potent as the intoxicating allure. “You haven’t missed a step, Miss Kyle. Do I have your number?” he coaxed, the warmth of his breath hovering above her slightly parted lips, waiting for his invitation to be accepted.

Staring into the devious, heated shimmer of his leveled steel-blue eyes, Selina felt her dominance ousting as he captured her within that lightning storm of intensity, the feverish clamor of blood reached uncontainable levels, the minty coolness of his breath graced her skin with languid gusts, as she felt the intimate proximity of his soft lips edging with temperate desire; a hushed thrill possessed her veins, she tilted her neck back, exposing the lines and curves of her throat, coaxing him with a low, throated purr, as her crimson lips opened freely for him to steal a kiss. “Don’t be shy,” she beguiled smoothly, with a hint of darkness chasing her sultry tone. “I heard you really cut into’s girl’s heart, soldier boy…”

Not needing any further incentive, Bucky closed the gap between them and planted his lips against hers in a warm heady exchange. The taste of both mint and strawberries on his lips brought sent a jolt of electricity through Bucky's skin, while the intoxicating scent of lavender made him feel as if he were soaring high. Their lips remain closed against each other, the noise of the approving crowd was deafened by the thumping of their pulses in their ears. Their lips continued to move slow, gentle yet still possessing great fervor in their affection and desire for one another. Instinctively, Bucky's cool hand of metal reaches up and gets lost in the sea of mahogany curls while his other hand holds her up against him. The action felt so natural to him, he couldn't help but release a soft sigh of contentment as her soft cool digits touch his cheek and their lips slowly begin to part. "How was that for a closer?" He whispers breathlessly, opening his clouded blue eyes to gaze down into hers with sparkling intensity.

"A pretty good damn one, Barnes, but we’re not finished dancing yet..." Selina purred hotly against the heaviness of his set jaw, feeling his Roman nose arrowing into the softness of her flushed cheek as the impactful heat of their moist lips opened mindlessly to the blissful unity of their souls igniting. They were masterful and lethal combatants of shadow; knowing how to effectively adapt to the elements surrounding them, but the depth of romance was just like hand-to-hand melee, competing forces of carnal heat and coolness mixed into a combustive--unrestrained ecstasy. This was a just showcase of kitty play, a facade of a glimpse to what they held back within their free domain. The Winter Soldier and the Cat were two immortal entities of tragic pasts; that would never be reckoned with, and each moment they shared without the masks and guns, it was rapturous to delve further into--but tonight Selina knew that causal restraint had to become required, even though she wanted to really exhibit what true passion was to the rich suck-ups.

Releasing a vexatious sigh, Selina glided her palms gently over his broad neck, fingers possessively caressing his lengthy bladed dark tresses as she felt the bristled prick of his stubble rasping against her skin at the inducing moment his wide, smooth lips rolled fluidly against hers with an ardent pace, arching into a quirky smirk for once he captured her lips fully into sweet, fervent surrender. Their bodies solidified into paralyzed stance of rhythm and dominance; falling into perfect balance as their deepened to a euphoric surge of unhurried passion. Little did they know that malignant phantom in the crowd would obstruct their love, pull them into the cruel gravity of an unspeakable nightmare that would soon consume their hearts.

The sudden end to the music being played by the orchestra, followed by the thunderous applause of the audience watching them was a sharp reminder for Bucky and Selina of the world surrounding them. Leisurely, he brings Selina up and she gracefully finds her footing in front of him. Their gazes remained locked as they stood with flushed cheeks and an unspoken appreciation for what turned out to be one helluva dance that turned every head in their direction. Bucky was never one for attention, even in his youth when he rivaled almost every good-looking boy at school. He was about as timid as Steve was in that regard, but Selina, she seemed to be used to drawing a crowd, and just as used to shrug them off with a slight shake of her head, with a bemused smile to match. "Guess we drew quite the crowd." He whispers with a jaunty snort doing his utmost to focus on Selina, and not the cold- chilling reminder of a stocky German scientist that resembled his most despised enemy. Just as suddenly, he felt as if the jovial spirit that came from the dance had taken a sullen turn. "Gotta say, this party is starting to get a little too crowded for my taste. Feel like takin' a break, darlin'?" He asks, Selina hopefully.

"Don't tell me that old man is getting tired," Selina snarked back coolly, meeting the stark intensity glinting in his steel-blue irises, hooded underneath tresses; without missing a beat, she wiped her thumb with a dainty glide over the red smudge dabbed at the curvy edge of his kiss-swollen lips. Her dark eyes glimmered with devious flare, holding him into tangible submission, while he questioningly luminous glacial blue, unwavering daggers back at the elderly stranger looming near the dessert tables.

"I wonder how we can change that, handsome?" she coaxed with a naked dare, rubbing her stiletto heeled foot purposely against the rigid curves of his muscled calf, watching his eyebrows furrow into a taut pinch, evident to agitated pulse she undoubtedly identified thrumming in his unshakeable core. Maybe leaving the ballroom affair was a good idea after all. "Okay, we'll continue our dance elsewhere...Let's say your apartment's roof?"

"Sounds like my kind of fun," Bucky says, as enthusiastic as he could manage despite the anxiety he felt at being in proximity to a face he found so dreadfully familiar. Seeing Zola's face and hearing that sickening soft voice of his brought back a maelstrom of dark memories, some of which he hadn't even remembered till just now. He'd had enough of this party and right now he wanted to put himself as far away from this place as possible. Years of fieldwork had ingrained into him a sense of foreboding that came upon a familiar sight, and right now, he felt as if there was something horrific on the horizon. "C'mon. Let's get going," he says eagerly, threading his fingers into Selina's, then begins to guide her away from the dance floor and towards the southern doors of the ballroom. He was grateful Selina fell into step beside him and didn't object to his somewhat desperate retreat. The crowd surrounding them begins to disperse to allow them through. But the retreating couple's progress is halted suddenly by the intruding figure of Professor Ziegler, heading them off with surprising speed, applauding them with loud claps though his expression bore no hint of warm approval. "Fine show, you both put on," Ziegler says with a dark voice that sounded nothing like the German-accented snake he was impersonating. "Mr. Barnes. Ms. Kyle." He says, a dark sneer on his lips. "There was a time I would've sought instruction as to entertain my own wife. Alas, the time for that passed long ago."

“Well, it’s been fun, Mr. Ziegler, but we’re leaving...” Selina deflected with a collective semblance of restraint, her full lips curved into a practiced smile while tracing her deft fingers tenderly over Bucky’s chrome knuckles at the second she felt his robotic hand morph into a clenching fist. She could see right through the old man’s untrusting exterior, a devoid of humanity reflected back, flares of vengeance seared like red bolts of lightning piercing through a stormy abyss. She felt an ominous chill frosting over her heart; his whole proximity reeked of deception, almost like an illusionist displaying a fictitious reflection. She brushed her lips faintly over Bucky’s stubbled jaw, whispering out an imploring and cool tone, breathily. “Let’s go, handsome.”

"Leaving so soon?" Ziegler feigns disappoint as Bucky and Selina proceed to walk around him, unwilling to indulge a conversation with him any further. Dark eyes watch with the sharpness of steel, and the intensity of a storm seeking to wreak havoc. Tension riled through as the couple moved away with expediency as though they were a pair of fleeing misfits trying to make haste before being discovered for a mischievous act. There was an air of foreboding as the ballroom distant to the suffocating fog of anticipation. Ziegler discards his smile which turns to a sneer directly at Bucky's back. "I must insist that you stay for awhile longer." He whispers ominously. With a clench of his raised fingers, Ziegler acts as puppet-master manipulating invisible strings. Bucky freezes, mid-step just as he and Selina neared the exit to the ballroom. A startled gasp flutters past his lips, his blue eyes are wide with confusion. "W-W-What, I can't move…" Bucky stutters, panic engulfing him as if his throat were being ensnared by an invisible noose that was tightening with every second, while at the same time, his limbs were still like glue.

By the conscious of feline instinct gripping through her veins, aware of the intrusive presence of unveiled evil, Selina arched her back tensely, her jeweled coffee irises keenly engaged the old professor's viperous stare; upon watching glints of reawakened pleasure merging into feverish vehemence of morbid indulgence. He somehow had immobilized her Bucky. Her thoughts steered with rapid pace, as she collectively shifted her gaze back at the dessert table. Her lips curved into a controlled grimace, stepping in front of her subdued lover, shielding him with a protective stance. "What the hell did you to do him?" she hissed fiercely.

Undaunted by Selina's show of defiance, Ziegler ignores her completely as he maintains his invisible grip on Bucky. A cold smirk forms across his lips, cruel and sadistic in the underlying intent. With a flick of his fist, he turns Bucky around as if he were a statue on a turntable. The sight was harrowing as well as confusing to a few of the guests as they catch wind of the small commotion. "Why, Mr. Barnes, you look hungry after that exhausting dance. Do indulge yourself further at the dessert table," Ziegler pulls Bucky, who struggles, away from Selina's side. The former assassin couldn't say anything, feeling as if his voice had been strangled until it vanished in a knot of discomfort. His legs were like a moving tram he couldn't step off or gain control of. He wanted to scream out his anger, to flail his fists at the stocky man across from him who smiled at him with dark amusement. "Z-Z-Zol…a…" He sneered, his gaze loathing as he passes him by. He bumps shoulders with guests in front of him who scold him.

Even though his will was upheld into a debased enchantment, Selina ardently transfixed her dark eyes towards the commanded destination; watching Bucky's defiant efforts struggling to fight with every vestige of resistance he stowed; his steps weren't methodical and exacting with lethal precision, he was being weighted with a sluggish pace. His steel-blue depths clouded with gluttonous fog, as his metallic hand strained involuntarily as clenching fingers plowed through a layer of whip cream and fudge, he bent his head down, grunting out seethes of frothing breath, but when the professor whispered latin, he fell into automatic stupor, lifting a handful of gooey chocolate and parted his shapely masculine lips, as the magic infecting his will held his mouth agape. He began to fall into a piggish nature, creating a messy that was utterly repellent for Selina to watch. "No..." She ghosted out a tenuous breath, feeling her steeled resolve fracturing. "Bucky..."

Selina's voice had become as distant to Bucky as a passing train. His thoughts were obscured by the intoxicating aroma wafting off the numerous delicacies that were in front of him, tempting him as though he were a man starving in the desert. He paid no thought or worry as he stuffs his mouth with large handfuls of cake and pudding. A myriad of tastes explode across his senses from chocolate to strawberry. But the aftertaste they left was as acrid as rotten eggs. It was delicious as it was vile. He possesses no control as he unconsciously begins to spit up his food, staining his mouth and the clothes he wears as it spills. "Hungry…" he pants through a large mouthful, before stuffing more cake into his mouth, the frosting now coating locks of his hair. "Quite the charming specimen we have here, don't we? Is it a man, or a rabid animal?!" Ziegler boasts to the crowd in a mocking tone to rile their reactions. The crowd was in a divided state of both amusement and disquiet as they watch the scene unfold. Those who were too embarrassed to watch, hide their faces in a distraction while those with less shame guffawed and made cruel jokes at the display of gluttony. Bucky could barely hear them beneath his loud chewing, but as the need for breath becomes too much, he stops his chewing and feels a pinch of pressure in his stomach. A groan comes through his lips as the pressure moves upward until it escapes in a loud belch that ignites a chorus of disgusted groans from the crowd. "There I believe is our answer!" Ziegler laughs, picking up a pastry muffin from the table and proceeds to stick it into Bucky's opened mouth. "Eat up, Mr. Barnes. Show them what a real pig looks like."

No sooner than a second a later, a cold press of carbine steel dug noxiously into the wrinkling flesh of his frail neck, Selina was standing behind him, the graceful exterior of the elegant dove morphed into a uncaged, cunning feline, readying to slash her claws into the heart of the soulless monster who toyed with her lover. Fuming in rage, her lithe finger poised on the trigger of her loaded Glock that she removed from her heeled leather boot. The sloppy noises emanating from Bucky's stuffed throat overrode her emotions, as she struggled to content with restraint. Her lethal flare of murderous intent had compulsively ignited, and she wanted to see the professor's blood spray over the untouched cake he balanced on his age--spotted. "Leave him alone or I'll make you choke on that damn muffin," she warningly seethed, thrusting the gun's nozzle harder into his nape. "Your damn trick is over..."

The crowd begins to disperse in alarm at the sudden reveal of a concealed firearm brandished in their midst. The alarming spectacle had begun to escalate into something much more deadly and dire. Distressing yells and shouts blare throughout the ballroom, yet Ziegler adopts a smug and unintimidated posture, despite the barrel of a gun held against his neck. It was the look of a man who was much more beneath the surface of what he allowed to be seen. Unpredictable and deadly, he was as a serpent amused by the approach of an ant threatening him. Staring into Selina's eyes, he coolly responds, "Ms. Kyle, my fun has only just begun!" With a speed and strength betraying his form, Ziegler catches Selina's wrist and twists it with merciless intent until she releases a strangled cry and drops her weapon. "And you will not spoil it," his tone becomes darker, deeper with an ominous intent that sent a chill through the bodies of those who lingered to watch. Bucky continues to stuff himself, ignorant of the scene surrounding him and unable to stop himself from indulging. The professor leans slant-ways against the table beside him, narrowed eyes contemptuous as they watch. "You are truly a disgusting pig, James Barnes. However, I would not expect otherwise from one descended from your line." His cryptic words were like polished steel, no longer bearing a German accent, but something akin much older and vengeful. "Men hide their darkest sins beneath a false exterior of charm and duty. But the sins of the past do not go unforgotten to those that suffered their cruelty." With a gesture of his hand, Ziegler casts an aura of green energy over the desserts, even the one Bucky holds in his hand—defiling them with a curse of dark magic.

Controlling hitches of sob that ripped out of her throat, Selina reeled back, her fingers clutched over the bruised skin of her disjointed wrist. The pressure of throbbing bone created a nauseous wake, as she stumbled, losing her feline grace and collided onto the floor, her body cemented a kneeling position. She glared up at the mage, her coffee irises heated with subdued rage, before her focus steered back to Bucky. “James...” she mewled out a kittenish whisper, compelling herself to stare at the noxious green energy pulsating off the dessert tray, that was the moment, she realized the professor’s sickened game....He was thirsting to quench out his vengeance on Bucky. He was unquestionably a ghost from the past. Her dark eyes widened, and her heartbeat amped to a crescendo of pained desperation. “Stop eating, handsome...”

"He won't stop. Not until the ugliness within is brought out into the open," Ziegler gestures to the chilling sight of Bucky's listless hunger. His eyes were captivated on something unseen while chewing with a vacant look, unaware of the messy staining his face and clothes, just as well as Selina's desperate attempt to reach out to him. With each bite he swallows, there was a groaning shift in the outfit he wore. The baggy wrinkles faded as the garment of his coat became increasingly tight as if they had grown too small for him to wear. Ziegler, in his cold amusement, smiles toothily at the display. "Besides, I don't believe he wants to stop. Do you, my boy?" As if he were a collared animal, Bucky answers the call of his master with a tired shrug. "So hungry…" his tone is stuffed as well as weak, as if there was a true part of him inside crying out for help. His chewing slows to that of an exhausted heave, his face begins to turn a sickly shade of blue as if he were deprived of precious air. Ziegler watches, eye gleaming with anticipation as Bucky stumbles backwards until he slips and falls onto his back with a harsh noise. Once he collides, gas escapes him loudly into the room. The noise was like an alarm blaring through a graveyard, sparking numerous reactions from laughter to disgust among the guests in attendance. "Quite the repugnant creature you are," Ziegler mocks with a sarcastic chuckle. "S-S-Selina…" Bucky burps, spitting up a disgusting bile of cake and saliva from his mouth as he lays helplessly in front of her.

Listening to a resonance of unrestrained belching that erupted out of him, Selina remained unshakeable, despite the potent stench of rotten egg disgustingly seeping out of him.

She didn't care about the revolting tidal wave of the smell; instead of engaging the wicked mage with a high crescent kick, Selina lowered down to Bucky's level, wincing as her injured wrist flared, she rested naturally on her side, motionlessly impassive facing him with vivid tears welling in her coffee depths. Against the fringes of chaos invading their world, her hand tentatively reached for him, as she delicately wiped off the remnants of chocolate pudding and bile off the plump swell of his lip with a tender caress of her thumb. She could feel his heat, thermal and ever constant as he panted heavily, his glacial steel-blue eyes mirroring with unshed tears, he was on the verge of crying--they both were.

"I don't know what this bastard planning to do with you, Buck..." She halted in a terse breath, swallowing down another choked sob, she wouldn't submit to the approach of infinite heartache as a vengeful blade tried to pierce her. "...but you can be damn sure that I won't let him take you from me."

Her words were like a cool rag soothing a scolding fever. Bucky unconsciously leaned into her touch, but found himself capable of little else as his body was assaulted by stretching aches and gassy hiccups. His clouded stare focused up at her, taking in each flawless detail to her teary expression, from the smoothness of her alabaster skin, to the deep red of her strawberry lips, and finally the swirl of affection in her coffee brown orbs. He wanted to reach up and touch her, but his body felt as if he were being weighed down by a ton of bricks. He couldn't fathom what had happened as suddenly as it had begun, but it was as though his very being was being remolded as if he were made of clay. "R-R-Run…" he tells her with a strangled voice, which garbled into a strangled pull. "It would appear vestiges remain. Good, I had hoped to finally discard this pathetic visage and meet my foe, face-to-face," Ziegler says while stepping away from the table. With methodical steps, the stocky professor stands in front of the downed couple with an imperious stance that gleamed of power and authority. The crowd, as well as Selina and Bucky, watch with anticipation as the image of Arnim Zola fades in a glow of green magic until he's replaced by that of an older man with cleanly cut white hair and beard. He appeared elderly, but his eyes and stance presented a strength that was powerful beyond his years. "Ah…much better."

Selina inwardly winced at the encroaching haughtily cadence of senescent formality, the wage of her mounting emotions began to evinced a heated, turbulent duel of lethal reserve that suffused her resolve. Her pert nose crinkled against the rancid ---yecch odor enveloping over Bucky's conquered body; it was a dominant aggregate of acidic bile, cake batter, and unctuous pig; erasing the intoxicating sandalwood and minty scent of his cologne. He smelt utterly horrid, and the repeated belching never ceased. His tongue arced disgustingly over his upper lip, gathering another a taste of pudding. Turning her neck, Selina glared vehemently at the conceited professor standing in front of them, feasting on Bucky’s misery, his merciless intent unchanged. Expelling a seethe of urgency, she demanded the vile purpose why he had targeted Bucky, she wouldn't tolerate this aging chameleon's deviating jest of devolving her lover. "Who the hell are you, and what have you done to him?" she gritted, furiously, her dark eyes radiating fire.

"Who am I? Young woman, I am the resurgence of a once mighty society that was both legend and myth; power and fruition in this world," the old mage says bitterly, despite his prideful words. He bore the look and posture of a man forced to conceal himself for a vast amount of time while the world around him moved on, oblivious and indifferent to the atrocities of the past. He bore the dialect of an old scholar, yet spoke with the condemning tone of a radical corrupted by immense power. His hardened eyes focused in on the sight of Bucky and Selina on the floor in front of him, measuring them with sagacious intent. "Until deluded minds saw fit to hunt my kind and exterminate them from this world." He points a finger in Bucky's direction, bearing the authority of an accuser finally allowed to seek justice after so long concealed in shadows. "Your bloodline, James Buchanan Barnes, a descendant of King Sebastian William Barnes I. You are to blame for why my kind are all but extinct from this world. The hour of your reckoning has finally come, and it is I, Dagon of Mercia, who will carry out your punishment!" Drawing a knife from his pocket, the old mage marches towards Bucky and draws blood from his hand.

“Damn you,” Selina hissed ferally, quickly ripping off a piece the hem of her dress, wrapping it over the bloodied slice gouged into Bucky’s right palm, before she exchanged a heated glare at the snow-white haired mage who gazed menacingly down at Bucky, murmuring a disguised incantation of delivering virulent energy to infuse within his veins, warmth began to recede was coldness penetrated through her disjointed wrist, subduing her to remain grounded at Bucky's side, as vapors of rank odor of a gluttonous pig assulted her nostrils.

She felt inept of protecting him, the intrusive phantom standing in front of them, wouldn't offer mercy as he quested for vengeance. All she heard against the crescendo of her raging pulse was 'burgeon his flesh...' Her dark eyes grew livid as a burst of green tendrils, blindingly piercing into Bucky's chest, producing a throated outcry of unshackled agony as his blood-smeared fingers viciously clawed at the floor. "Bucky..."

Bucky could barely feel the blade that sliced across his swelling hand, but the feeling of warm crimson dripping down his wrist was too intense and chilling for him to shake off. He also felt extremely hot for some reason. Dagon's words echoed through his thoughts, filling him with confusion that made him think that this had to be a colossal mistake. But somehow, deep within his being, he knew that there was something off about his attacker, something familiar, and now there was only an unshakable sensation of dread clawing through him. He hisses as he attempts to acknowledge Selina, to reach out to her. But the once his eyes catch a glimpse of the startling image of patches of fur sprouting across his flesh, he begins to enter panic-mode. A yell, that sounded anything but human, erupted from his mouth. The noise was as devastating as a wild animal being taken out to pasture, and the guests in attendance shuddered and backed away, some even trying to leave but the doors were sealed shut by an unseen force. "The next person that attempt to leave will suffer his fate!" Dagon yells to the crowd, immediately pacifying them into a fearful submission. "What you see now is a deliverance of justice, and you are the witnesses!" He raves while drawing a glass vial from his pocket. He holds the tip of the blood-stained blade over it, and samples Bucky's blood into it. "I have waited far too long for this, and you, James Barnes, will know the suffering and humiliation that your ancestors deserved."

Shut the hell up!” Selina growled out of an erupted of provoked hostility, her voice carrying the fierceness of an untamed panther teeming to strike; she wouldn’t grant Dagon any regard of surrender.

Feeling momentarily paralyzed by a trigger of hyperadrenalized blood, she gazed dismally at the bloodied slit created by the mage's blade, vanishing under the bubbling expanses of fat on his shrinking palm, rigid knuckles disjointed and his clenching fingers merged into a swelling mass against the convergence of the sickening enchantment.

The redolence of pig was potently disturbing, as he stared up at her, his eyes glistening and pupils dilated as rims of black devoured the hawkish radiance of his steel-blue irises, and the shapely plumpness of his masculine lips deformed into a puckering and widened swell of moist flesh...The Siberian--Brooklyn warrior she loved was torturously evolving into a fattening creature by the seconds she had dared to fathom the unthinkable, disgusting sight of hard planes of enhanced muscle expanding into loose globs of flab. His smooth and ridged abdominal muscles ballooned up increasingly, as his shortening legs parted against the mounting heaviness, releasing a foul stench of noxious sulfur.

“Bucky,” she yelled out breathlessly, clamping her hand over her trembling lips, trying desperately not to inhale. His stoic, flushed demeanor sulked into an abashed grimace, avoiding her widened--horrified stare as a coating of pinkish bristles swathed relentlessly over his chubby features.

"What's matter Ms. Kyle, don't you want to kiss your beloved piggy..." Dagon's sinister voice raised wickedly as she blankly watched the sharpened edge of Bucky's dimpled chin sag into a layer of pudge. That was an extreme blow against her heart, quaking through her with ramming force. The sorcerous barrage of the mage’s wielded energy was morphing Bucky into a pig.

Relying on the command of feline reflexes, Selina hastily reached her discarded Glock, her coffee orbs settled deeply on Bucky, mirroring the unspoken devotion–eternal love that a unveiled bride would to her beloved groom, she stared into his glacial aquamarine depths, that always held striking intensity and coolness of a frosted blade, but now, all that stared back at her was a devoid of hell-bent defiance, just blurring tears of benumbed despair. Her hand lovingly cupped over his thick, furry jaw, as the heated, gracing touch became suddenly alarmed by prickles of coarse pinkish fur as he began to rapidly convulse against every torturous influx of white-hot agony arrowing through him.

She curved her red lips into a watery smile, offering him a sense of blazing hope, despite riding through a hellish nightmare. In those fleeting seconds of that relished and aching contact, she defied the curse, bringing tangible proximity back, as her lips openly seized his swollen mouth with imploring, liquid heat, feeling heavy gusts of his laborious grunts envelope her skin, as closeness was met against the voltaic rhythm of their heartbeats. Everything began to blur, as they fell into eternity, silencing a dying wish, and praying their love would vanquish the darkness of the possessive spell.

Emitting a throaty oink, and a vehement measure of steeped effort, Bucky softly rolled the arch of his shaky lips, painstakingly angling the swollen flesh over her mouth, fluidly tasting the exquisite infusion of passionate, feverish ecstasy as his Roman nose molded into a bulged mass reshaping into a piggish snout, and his lower teeth grew in harrowing length, resembling small tusks. The wetness of released tears dampened their cheeks, tousled, entangled tresses draped and their eyes closed in beautiful sync as they shared a deep and sensuous kiss one last time.

When she pulled away by the wrench of the mage's power, and she gazed into the distressed stillness of his soulful blue eyes, as green mist smoked over him, obstructing the visage of his chiseled and suave youthful beauty--he was fading in the thralls of Dagon's calamitous enchantment. "Just keep on looking at me, handsome..." she urged gently, lifting his cybertronic hand resting the coolness of metallic firmly on her cheek, holding onto him with every pulse of strength her soul could generate.

He tried to speak, but the only noise that came from his changing lips was a disgruntled squeal that sent a flare of dread throughout his body. He hoped that this was a nightmare he'd soon wake up from, that any minute now he'd wake to the smell of lavender and strawberries on his shoulder inside of his bedroom. But the pain and shifting in his body was too real to ignore, he felt as if he were being drawn and quartered but also imploding within. His very muscles were like ice being melted down to non-existence, while his bones were shrinking to inhuman size and shape. The crowd at this point felt remorse and dread claw through them as they were forced to watch the horror unfold. Too afraid to leave, and to look away lest the same fate fall onto them. Bucky ignored everything except the beautiful unshakeable visage of Selina hovering over him, cradling him close as if he were the most precious thing in the world. He would've wept were it possible, at the feeling of affection running through him. With the last ounce of strength, Bucky could only gaze up at Selina with his love reflecting at her. He knew whatever was happening to him, he wouldn't be the same. The man he once was would only exist within a devolved shell of a beast that no woman could love. He inwardly screamed in both rage and sadness, yet his body was helpless as the transformation began to consume his humanly visage; turning hands into cloven hooves, his mouth and nose into a snout, and body into pudgy -rotund fat. Dagon smirks with satisfaction, watching with everyone in the crowd as the transformation completes , and where there was once the charming visage of manly perfection was now the grunting and revolting sight of a fully grown pot-bellied pig, held in Selina's arms. "At last, my vengeance—my justice—has been granted." He chuckles evilly.

Feeling the unnatural heaviness of his pudgy weight pressed against her chest, the damning sense of induced defeat became a shockwave through her lithesome, curvaceous body; she was shackled down by incessant dread, her trembling arms were cradling over a tubby creature that was definitely a pig. His studded hooves dug into her, as he frantically strove for balance against the shreds of his black Armani dress shirt that was still wrapped over his enlarged girth.

Holding her steeled composure, irately, Selina's glistening coffee eyes dauntlessly glanced down at the disheartened and soul-wrenching sight of a blobbing tub of pinkish and chestnut fur sitting on a sagging mound of fat that was attached to his expanded belly. She felt utterly demolished. Bucky no longer existed in human reflection, the spell entombed him within a vessel of a dwarfed-sized, stout pig who still had patches of his dark wolfish fringe cloaked over his humped and furry shoulders. His chubby visage was different than a farm hog, Bucky looked almost parallel to a domestic pot-bellied pig.

Bucky didn't open his eyes, his moist snout was buried into her chest; her world collapsed---her reserves of defiance betrayed her as she registered the dejected and piteous oinking volumes emanating out of him with panicked heaves. "It's okay, Buck," she soothed brokenly in a delicate purr, restraining the overwhelming urge to cry.

The world hadn't changed to his perception, but Bucky felt as if he were crumbled like a ball of plastic and shoved into a disposable container. Within the secure embrace of Selina's arms, the former Brooklyn soldier forced himself not to break down and shudder into a batch of broken sobs and yells. His body felt like stuffed ham, his bones were constrained as if they were attached to a hollow base. He could fathom the extent of his transformation judging by the sounds of his own deep breathing that came out as stuffed oinks. Dagon's words burned in his ears, mocking him and carving out every miniscule of hope within him. His soul cried even as his body would not allow him to. Not just at the realization that he'd been turned into a fat pathetic pig, but that Selina hadn't abandoned him.

Nuzzling his snout deeper against her shoulder, the pig puffed hot air and shuddered with remorse. "Run, Selina." He says to her. Fear tore at his heart while the deafening silence of the ballroom weighed on him. Any moment now, the old mage could decide to turn his wrath onto her. That's the one thing that terrified Bucky the most. She had to make a break for it somehow. "Run…"

Run...Selina barely heard the sluggish timbre of his once suave and dangerously husky resonance being forced down by a distressed, throated grunts. She was anticipating at direct attack, at the very least from the old bastard who dared to curse Bucky into a snorting chubby beach ball with hooves; she was locked in the crosshairs, armed with a Glock, that would offer her only a fleeting distraction to escape, but she needed to carry Bucky out with her. It wasn't going to easy since he weighed 300 lbs of pure fat.

Tucking back a loose strand behind her ear, she became poised with a measure of control against the spiraling helix of devilish sorcery that penetrated her world. "Cats never run from a fight, handsome," she whispered under her terse breath, cupping her palm tentatively under his pudgy snout, feeling his laborious snorts gust over her alabaster skin as she tilted his wedged shaped head up, staring to the subtle and restrained tension reflecting in the still glints of light of his beady steel-blue irises that became palpable against the heart-wrenching moment dividing them into a realm of infinite entropy.

Despite the immense layers of flab and pinkish fur, Selia could still see him--Bucky-- the intensity of his defiant spirit and the brokenness of his tortured and raging soul. All she wanted to do, was laying on the floor, and spoon a protective embrace of her arms over him rotund piggish body, holding Bucky as her greatest treasure--her true love against the semblance of evil that invaded their eternity. The coldness of her feline essence possessed her emotions, she pressed her lips sourly into a grimace, her fingers splayed warmth over the swollen expanse of his sagging belly. She wouldn't discard him for the mage to play with as a leashed pet. She loved him too damn much. "I'm not leaving you to become this bastard's pork dinner...So quit it with the grunting and let me figure out how the hell I''m going to move your fat ass, Barnes."

The trepidation Bucky felt was quickly replaced by vexation. He knew just how damn stubborn Selina could be, and while it was a trait that could be endearing, it could also prove to be her undoing tonight. He would have growled in annoyance if it were possible, but his new form was capable of only squeamish oinks and lazy grunts. “Damn it, Lina. You need to listen to me…” he grunts protectively once he dares to look over his shoulder and sees the old mage approaching them. The measure of his stride suggested bad news, and Bucky wasn’t going to let Selina get caught in the cross-fire.

“Good, your thoughts and soul remain intact. I would have hated to unleash further wrath on an empty vessel,” Dagon sneers with a malevolent smirk stretched across his lips. His old eyes glimmered with a perverse excitement that reminded Bucky too well of the Hydra scientists he endured so much suffering from over the past 70 years. It made sense to him now why this crazy old mage had taken Zola’s face to get him unraveled before making his move. Now that he had, Bucky was right to suspect that he wasn’t done with him yet.

“You did not think the sum of my retribution would be exacted by mere public humiliation and transformation, did you now?” Dagon mocks, an evil chuckle forming past his lips. “Oh no, Mr. Barnes. My vengeance had waited centuries, and rest assured I will savor every moment of making you suffer, until you beg for me to end you.” There was a fanatical gleam in his eyes that only highlighted the madness lurking behind his blue eyes, his tone was ever dour and lethal as steel. “And when the time come that I do take your life…I will cast a spell that your mortal spirit never finds the peace that mine was so denied.”

“Come with me quietly, and I will spare your foolish lover that still clings to you.” He threatens, setting a jolt of fear into Bucky’s heart. Still curled into Selina’s embrace, Bucky resisted the urge to shudder in her arms as he listened to the mage’s words that felt every bit as real as the tub of fat hanging from his belly. Though he had tussled with magical threats in the past, none of them ever had it out for him as badly as this old man that claimed to harbor an ancestral grudge with him. He wasn’t just evil, he was crazy. And Bucky knew just how unpredictable and dangerous that combination was. He couldn’t let Selina get become a target just because she loved and remained loyal to him.

“Please let me go, darlin’” He tells her, pulling himself away, almost forcefully. He could feel his heart breaking, at both the loss of warm contact with her, as well as registered her broken whimper. “Can’t let you get hurt because of me. Never again.” He sniffs.

“Time for you to come with me, little piggy,” Dagon makes his way over to Bucky, his hand reaching out and preparing to magically tether him like an unleashed animal…

There was only one time in her hellish life when she felt incapable of fight back; that was twenty-eight years ago, hiding in her mother’s bedroom closet, forcing down tears as she listened to the death knells of a fury of bullets echoing in her rundown Narrows apartment. She was trapped in limbic shock, watching blood smear the carpet as Falcone's men unleashed their ruthlessness, murdering her beloved mother --after that night, the blaze of innocence was snuffed out, darkened by somber and indifferent entity of feline spirit, she welcomingly accepted that; prevailing in the thrilling afterlife --engaged in the crosshairs of seduction and death, wielding shadows as her weapons.

Now, she was balancing on the knife-edge, as the blade was piercing deeper into her safeguarded heart; surrendering Bucky into the hands of the wrinkled face devil felt condemning to discard, he deserved freedom, not another existence of being enslaved to obey the mage's insane pleasures of fattening him up with cake being forced down his throat while shackled to the bastard's heel. She would trade away nine lives in a heartbeat just to spend one with him. Listening to grunting protests emitting from the pig, she allowed dark embers of reawakened malevolence to fuel her lethal intent, gripping the Glock tighter with steady poise in her clutch, glaring unwaveringly at Dagon."You're not taking him...Bucky is coming with me," She gritted viciously, the gravity of her voice held an impending reckoning as a deadly semblance cast over her pale, elfish features, holding no sentiment of mercy, only cold deadened wrath. "...and if you touch him, I will make you scream in hell."

Dagon appeared only mildly amused, if not impressed by Selina's passionate threat. Having heard only whispers about her past as a reputable thief and spy, the old mage saw her only as a minor obstacle against his unassuming power. What skills she possessed in the art of combat bore little danger to him who had killed countless formidable warriors in the past. She was but a stray cat that needed to be house-broken and taught to respect those above her. A cruel smile forms across his lips at the wicked thought. "Your devotion to your beloved, while commendable, is also foolish. I can see you are a stubborn woman that makes play she is a feline that prowls the night," he taunts, circling the pair while assessing them. "You hunt trinkets for sport and find solace in the embrace of a one as dark and broken as yourself," he ticks his tongue with disapproval, finally coming to a stop mere inches from them. "If you wish to join him so much, I will oblige you, my dear. You will make excellent fodder for my insatiable appetite. We will see if you can be tamed as the black cat you so believe yourself to be!"

Selina became conscious of the rotating movement of his wrinkled fingers, as green tendrils of energy sickeningly pulsated out of his veins, creating a sinister aura, for the extent of the stilled moment, she felt the pace of her heartbeat amplifying as hot octane rushed through her veins, her dark eyes glinted back a bespoke dare while her hand graced soothing caresses over Bucky's humped back, easing down his heavy, guttural snorts. The old mage's face was unreadable, like a towering Spinx, monopolizing her challenge with lifeless serpent eyes. Obviously, a gun was a predictable choice of weapon, she needed to cunningly grasp onto invention, her eyes glanced at the heap of Bucky's clothing, searching for a combat knife, that he usually kept in his jacket's pocket. There was nothing. 'Damn it, Barnes,' she inwardly berated, roving her gaze over one of her heeled boots, the spike were jagged like a blade, something she would effectively utilize as an instrumental weapon. A wicked smirk played on her full lips, as she moved her hand downwards the boot, with a seductive graze of her lithe fingers. "Oh, that would be so much fun for you, except, don't you know that cats can't be tamed..." Lightning-fast, she broke off the chrome heel and threw it directly towards his position with no disruptive hesitance in her display murderous precision, she was aiming for his throat.

The mage had been unprepared for the unexpected attack, but his reaction was expedient enough for him to bring up his hand to shield himself. The pulse of magic had been a second slower than the speed of the sharp object hurled at him. An explosion of pain and heat ran through his body, originating from the palm of his hand that was now dripping furious crimson. Eyes wide, the mage stares at the sharp edge of a heel protruding from the back of his hand, penetrating his palm. Gasping, he stumbles back, blinking repeatedly as he works quick to nurse his hand and carefully remove the object. "Damned woman! You would dare?" He seethes, his facial features twisted into something demonic and irate as he glares at her with hate. Until now, he had presented himself as an unconquerable force before both his hated enemy, and the fools that openly watched him with fear. In the blink of an eye, his image was both diminished and challenged by the brazen act of a defiance. Rage coursed through him as he notes the smug smirk worn across his attacker's face. His pain forgotten, the mage rips the heel free, ignoring the flow of blood that poured down his fingertips. "You have branded yourself my enemy. Make no mistake, Miss Kyle, this is not over. Like your beloved, you will know my wrath."

"I look forward to that dance," Selina deflected stiffly, not falter betrayed the heated ferocity ghosting from her smooth undertone. A poignant ache flooded through her, as her coffee eyes guardingly narrowed back at the plump dwarf sized hog, who hardly balanced on his stubby hooves, and the width of his hanging belly. Though she wouldn't dare admit it, Bucky was kinda adorable for a short-round pig; his pink snout was puckered inward, making the chubbiness of his cheeks protrude and his ears were pointed, chestnut patches of fur gave him panda eyes.

She wouldn't allow Dagon to leash him up, the unadulterated dread still blitzkrieg into her heart, but feeling the thermic warmth of Bucky's pudgy, heavy body toasted against her skin, slowly down frenetic pulses hammering against her heart.The awareness of his everlasting love never evaded, despite he now existed as tubby pot-bellied hog.

Keeping Bucky from dislodging from her arm lock, her encompassing fingers gripped onto his pinkish and brunette fur, possessively while feeling a twitch of his cork-screw tail wiggle against her chest. As wetness gathered vividly in her dark eyes, Selina vowed in reverent silence to make Bucky's unsettling days comfortable while enduring the nefarious curse; mostly keep him anchored at her side until she would find a way to restore him back. Tapping his plump belly, with subtle urgency, Selina gently coaxed her enchanted soldier to follow her lead, while swiftly collecting his discarded attire and wallet.

Trying to ease the pig off her lap, Selina instantly registered sloppy munching noises coming from the disgustingly fat pudge ball as white sugar powder smeared over her velvet dress. Her jaw flexed and knuckles cracked into a balled fist, she coldly glared down at Bucky, watching his swollen mouth shift with each heavy sluggish chew, as nasal grunts arrested the depth of his voice.

Suppressing a hiss of revulsion with a mask of tolerance, Selina rubbed the rounded shape of his engorged belly, listening to an enraptured moan unabashedly escape from the pig's mouth when his head tilted upwards, conveying that he was sensually content by her beguiling touch, snapping him out of his unbridled-obscene gluttony. Tousled wavelets of her silken mahogany strands cascaded over his back as she leaned down to the level of his ear, whispering imploringly. "Come on, Barnes, off, I'm not carrying for fat ass out...”

Cautiously, Bucky steps away from Selina's empowering touch that was still capable of reducing him to a helpless captive to her charms. It was an odd pull, a familiar and pleasant one that brought fond memories to his turbulent thoughts. He savored the distraction from the harrowing reality he found himself in. Once he was brought back into focus, anxiety and fear quickly assaulted him as he shifts on wobbly hooves until he's leaning beside her instead of on top of her. "Sorry, Selina. I'll be good," he says with a deep grunt, finding himself vexed while setting his sights on the object of his unease across the room.

Dagon observed the odd pair with contempt in his eyes where the storm within had yet to calm, but rather shift in its lethal course. His wounded hand he clutched still bled even as he poured his magic into a healing spell. His magic was still weak as each day he was in the middle of a resurgence that would bring him back to form in a matter of weeks. He wouldn't waste the effort in taking both pig and woman as captives in his diminished state. No. Patience awarded him this small victory against the descendent of his hated enemies. He was confident that with enough time, the remainder of his vengeance would be paid in full. "You only delay the inevitable. When next you see me, I will have my due," he promises, his hateful gaze squared on the pig whose humanity still gleamed through the depths of swirling blue orbs staring back at him. Triggered by the storm of his anger, Dagon brings his uninjured hand up and mutters a teleportation spell that consumes him in a green light of magical energies. The crowd watching unravels as if they had been deprived of precious oxygen and mobility once they see that he's gone. Many of them make a quick dash and exit the ballroom, leaving only Selina and Bucky inside. The eerie silence that lingered in the once lively and uplifting ballroom was something that resembled a graveyard. The guests had scattered in wake of a force that spelled death and ruin. In an odd sort of way, Bucky missed the stormy turn of events that kept him from focusing on the cold reality that he was now two feet shorter, and over a hundred pounds heavier in the form of a gluttonous tub of pork. Victory and relief felt as distant as the sun on the horizon, and Bucky was left feeling the bitter taste of a solemn defeat. He wanted to scream, to unburden the anger he felt within at this ridiculous turn of events that had nothing to do with him directly, yet still impacted him in the most humiliating way possible. Instead, he felt his anxiety melt away by the brush of a cool touch behind his ear. Selina's presence wasn't just a reminder that he wasn't alone in this dreadful situation, but that he was still loved as well. The gravity of the events of the past hour quickly caught up to him and the pig whines, heartache gripping him as well as a swell of ardent affection for the brunette beside him. Selina stood by him, despite the risk to herself, and the repugnant form that had been forced onto him. The panic and fear he felt for her remained as he recalled Dagon's threat to exact retribution. But now that they were allowed a moment to breathe, Bucky felt confident that whatever the old mage had in store for them, they would be ready this time. His gaze finds Selina's, feeling a tug of remorse in his heart as he sees the watery and weary state of her expression. He knew this evening took as much out of her as himself, and there was nothing he wanted more than to take her in his arms and let the memory of this night fade away into obscurity. "Let's go home, darlin'." He finds himself saying with a hopeful tremor in his voice. There was nothing he needed more right now than an escape from this hellacious environment, and to feel the comfort of his own home surrounding him—and Selina curled beside him. He watches as Selina nods her approval, giving him a soft scratch behind his ears for good measure at the same time. The height difference was noticed almost immediately, and Bucky vainly tries to square his posture on his hooves to maintain some measure of dignity. He relaxes into a normal posture as their steps guide them out of the ballroom. In the distance could be heard the blaring of police sirens and chattering guests. This evening would go unforgotten by all unfortunate to have been witness to it. But for Bucky and Selina, this was just another Saturday in the long list of bad ones they'd faced and overcome in their unnatural lives. Whatever the outcome, they knew they would face this latest challenge, and come away from it victorious—together. The End.

1 note · View note