#that resentment grows and then it fades and sometimes bitterness strikes again and it’s how it goes. love is still there

[zeb-z]

I just think Tallulah gets to be upset about this. “It’s not Wilbur’s fault” “He’s not a bad dad” “He loves his daughter so much” yes! These are all true! And it’s not his fault! But he’s still not there. And Tallulah has gone through so much and still hasn’t seen him, the one time he was around was the one time she wasn’t, and all she has are letters and “I’m thinking of you always” and things that used to be theirs together, but he’s still not there. She’s waited and she’s been patient and she’s loved him all the same, and he’s still not there. Like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, from the happy milestones to the traumatic events, he’s still not there.

She knows that it’s not his fault, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s absent. That in and of itself just adds to the sorrow, because she knows why he’s gone, and she’s been told time and time again it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care, she knows this - it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, that it doesn’t hurt, that she doesn’t yearn for her father to be there more than anything in the world, and he’s just not there.

So yes, she gets to be upset, and be caustic, and stomp her feet and write bitter messages, and be angry and vitriolic, because she’s a little girl missing her father, who feels things with her whole heart and soul - and that means she gets to feel the ugly parts of it, too.

[lae-kes]

In the Ashes of War

Laerys held tight to her bundle of books as she scurried through the streets of Dalaran. The city bustled unlike it had in the past; vivacity had invigorated the citizens since the fall of the Legion, although an air of tension still flowed through the people like the lifeblood of their magic. Far below them, the very earth writhed, bleeding whispers of the very essence of Azeroth herself. And, to the west, the Horde marched upon the elven lands, led by their Banshee, that same essence in tow.

As word poured from the frontlines, Kaldorei magi begged the Kirin Tor for aid. Discussions took place behind closed doors, but the rumors were not far from the truth. Laerys kept her head down, listening to the hushed tones of conversation.

“...remain neutral?”

“...ell he le…”

“Like we’ll kick…”

“But innocents were killed!”

Laerys grimaced as she moved from the produce stall, away from the gossip. She strengthened her grip on her book strap and pushed through the crowd.

As she shoved past, her gaze landed upon a stained glass window. The intricate design depicted the Eye of Dalaran. It was not the only one. All across the city, the Eye was sewn into the very spires, sometimes obvious, sometimes not. But, the Eye was always watching.

For the first time in her life, the thought made her sick.

Well, not the first time. The churning of her stomach has grown more intensely in the recent months, a slow burning resentment. Her place among the Kirin Tor, shattered, because of a greasy old man’s sadistic anger against her family. Now, she stands under the watchful eye of several supervisors as a simple page. Stuck in libraries all day.

And Tor’s aversion to act against the Banshee Queen. She marched destruction against the Kaldorei. And the mages of the senate sat like dogs waiting for an order from a master that didn’t exist.

The Eye is not a sigil of wisdom, it is a mark of—

A person shoved past Laerys, knocking her books from her hand. “Hey!” She complained as another checked shoulder caused her to grunt. Her lips curled as she bent to retrieve her books. Another strike, and Laerys shouted incomprehensibly in protest. “Watch it!”

As Laerys rose to her feet, she watched as a flood of people ran out to the main street. And, she noticed the strong stench of charred flesh. The indistinguishable shouts of a bustling marketplace were not those of people talking over each other, but quickly devolving into panic.

A growling curiosity came over her, but Laerys decided to refrain. “A pyroblast incident,” she grumbled to herself as she adjusted her fraying tabard.

“The tree!” Someone shouts, their voice ragged. “Sh-she attacked the World Tree!”

Laerys jerked to a stop as horror filled her chest. The churning sickness came back with full force as she struggled to process the reality.

Voices of panic and rage began to grow. Many, however, attempted to control the scene. Laerys focused on her legs, and she pushed through the crowd. As she escaped the crowd, sprinting towards her home, she caught the sight of two elves, charred, burned, their robes tatters. They coughed and struggled to breathe. Each gasp twisted into her gut, sharp as a knife. Laerys ran faster.

She scampered up the steps of her home, shoving the large doors open. The maid gave a small exclamation as Laerys dashed past her, up the main staircase, to her father’s study. She did not wait for an invitation as she barged in.

The setting sun cast a warm glow in his personal study. Renth Kestle had a solemn look on his face as he puffed a pipe. The golden hour light made his white hair look red again. He looked up at Laerys before he casted his eyes down again.

“I know what—”

“What are we going to do, father!?” Laerys cut in. “What will the Kirin Tor do?” Her fists were clenched beneath her pale white gloves. Her face burned from the blood rising to her cheeks, and a throb came from her tightened jaw.

Renth set down his pipe as he sat up straight. He gave a defeated sigh. “I know your fears. Others from the Senate have been discussing this. I…” He stood and place a hand on his weathered face. Laerys became acutely aware of how old he seems now, the weight of the Legion assault taking its toll. The sickening tightness in her stomach reaffirmed its grip.

He let out a nervous chuckle. “We’re not in a easy position. We lost… so many magi, to the Legion.” Laerys let out a shaking breath as her gaze flitted to a small portrait of her mother. Her fall at the initial assault flashed through her mind before Laerys shook it from her mind.

“But we still fought back,” Laerys countered, stepping forward. She placed her hands on the desk. The position made her look commanding, but she was trying to keep herself from being ill. “We made the Legion pay for their slaughter.”

“And what did we get for it?” Laerys pulled back from the question. “Our world, broken. Peace, shattered.”

“To do nothing would be to condone that Banshee’s actions.” Her voice came out as a low growl, tinged with pain.

“The Alliance and the Horde move towards war.” He said somberly. “We can offer shelter and aid to the wounded, on both sides. We must remain neutral.”

Laerys scoffed, earning her a glare from her father. “We were not neutral during the Second War, not the Third. Not with Jaina in power. So why bow to Neutrality now, when that Banshee and her corpses burn the World Tree and harm innocents?”

“We are in no position—”

“None of the world is! Not the Horde, not the Alliance!” The room fell silent for a moment as Laerys let her words hang. The mage lights slowly began to glow brighter as the light of the day faded.

“To run into a war so foolishly when we have dedicated members—”

“Mother wouldn’t hesitate to fight against such injustice!”

Renth stared at his daughter. His face was plain, but the deep etched lines of accelerated age gave away his thoughts. “Your mother,” he began. He chose his words carefully. “She would not be foolish either.” He stepped towards his daughter with precise movements until he could hold her shoulders. He smiled a bitter smile. “I know, darling, how the flames of anger and disgust burn in your belly. But, the Kirin Tor is in no place to help, on either side. When Arthas and his Scourge sieged this city, many wanted to follow him to the ends of the earth to make him pay. But we knew we couldn’t. We had to rebuild our home, and pay respect to those we lost. We heard of how he marched upon Quel’Thalas, we were called upon. But we could not help. I knew that. Your mother knew that.”

Words failed Laerys. She remained silent as the dissonance wracked her mind. Part of her knew her father was right, that the Kirin Tor must remain neutral. But the other part screamed at her to call them all cowards who feared Sylvanas’ hand. She knew that the war was more important than neutrality.

“You look much like your mother,” he whispered sadly. Laerys looked up to see the sadness in her father’s eyes, and her heart sank. “You have her personality as well. You’re right, that she would not stand injustice, but she would know to pick her battles. She would rather help the wounded than fight the tyrant.”

Laerys nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in her throat. Her face stung. “She would be proud to see you. She’d still question why you’re not a battlemage like her, given your cryomancy. Especially now, with your growth of skill.” Laerys could not hold back a bitter laugh as her expression wavered between a smile and tears.

“I… Thank you, father.” Laerys pulled her shoulders back as she gathered herself. “I think I need some time, to think of… what I can do to help.”

Laerys’ own war waged on in her mind as she climbed her way to her room, the dissonance splitting her down the middle. The Tor, Dalaran, her people needed to rebuild, again. But to sit in silence against that banshee who assaulted the World Tree and Azeroth herself…

Runi laid curled at the end of Laerys’ bed. As the night dragged on, he listened closely to Laerys’ internal dilemmas. She did not sleep as the anxiety and rage gripped her. “I truly feel as though my time here is coming to a close,” she commented near sunrise.

Runi yawned as he exposed his underside. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Laerys grimaced as she got to her feet and paced her room once more. She hummed nervously as she reached into a jewelry box and removed a small pendant. She placed it in her bare palm and warmed the metal with her skin.

After a moment, she clicked open pendant, a locket. She looked upon the face of her mother, nearly 15 at the time of her portrait, a smile crossing her lips. Her eyes glanced and fell upon the man residing in the locket with her. He was much older than her, probably twenty-five or less at the portrait’s conception.

She got an idea.

“Runi,” she mumbled. “Runi!”

“What!?” The snake hissed as Laerys stuffed the locket into her coin purse. She snatched up her messenger bag and dumbed out most of its contents as she flung open her wardrobe. Clothes found their way haphazardly into the bag before she rushed to her nightstand. “Laerys, what, what is it?”

“We’re going to find him. My uncle.” Setting the bag down, she casted a quick charm of holding on the messenger bag and continued packing.

“You have an uncle?” Laerys continued packing, ignoring the snake. Outside, the horizon began to lighten in color. “Good talk, Lae.”

She waved off the snake as she picked up her staff and fixed it to her person. She gave the strap a generous tug, feeling the cool metal press into her bag, and Laerys paused.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking for anything she may not want to leave behind. A thought popped into her head, and she knelt to look beneath her bed. With a wave of her hand and a quick flash of arcane in her eyes, the cloaking spell melted away.

A warm, amber glow grew to bathe Laerys’ features. With a steady, almost apprehensive hand, she reached for the staff. With her first touch, Laerys gasped. The vision of her mother flooded her mind, her strawberry hair turning white. The vision smiled to her in her mind’s eye, and Laerys smiled back.

She pulled the staff out from under her bed slowly, as if it were frighteningly fragile. Runi craned his head over the edge of the mattress, his own scales becoming a warm orange. “Finally took her out again?” Laerys remained silent. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

She continued to ignore the snake as she pulled out the locket once more, clicking it open. Her gaze fell upon her uncle once more, a man she never new. He looked refined in the small portrait, a professional demeanor found in most Gilneans. He looked nothing like his sister; his features were sharp, stoic, with dull green eyes. Laerys’ mothers were soft, rounder, with large reddish eyes, just like her daughter.

Laerys closed the locket and pressed it to her chest. She rose to her feet before putting the staff away into the messenger bag.

She stood there for a moment as the sickening excitement shook her bones. Trembling, Laerys clasped the locket around her neck, taking several tries to get it right. Her fingers wrapped around the warmed metal as if in prayer.

When they opened, Runi rested patiently on his runic disc. He nodded to her. “Ready when you are.” Laerys smiled, bringing the same hand to scratch just under the snake’s chin. Runi gave an annoyed, but approving smile. “Alright, come on.”

“One more thing.” She led the pair to her mother’s study. The early morning light casted the room in shadow, barely bright enough to see. But even in the darkness, the dust of two years past, disturbed, floated around the room like snow.

Laerys inched her way through, casting a low glowing mage light as she searched. As if touching ancient, sacred documents, she rifled through the scattered papers and letters until her eyes landed on a stack of letters. Each letter had a broken wax seal with an elaborate “T” emblazoned into it. She turned the letters over in her hand before placing them into the pouch at her belt. With a protective pat, Laerys turned to leave.

She paused at the door to her mother’s study for a moment, her head low. Turning to face the room, Laerys took a moment to take in the room one last time. Her eyes stung from the dust and the threat of tears.

She raised a shaking hand, closing her eyes. She slowly began to mumble a spell. On the desk before her, a runic message began to take shape, the meaning of her words lost to the symbols of the encircling the arcane missive. As the message grew elaborate, an L took shape in the center.

“I love you, Father.” She said aloud, one last time as her eyes opened. The magical blue glow faded from her gaze. A low hum emanated from the message, echoing her last words.

Laerys gave a nod to the room, and then to her snake, before she set off down the grand staircase of her home and out into the streets of a slowly waking city.

The door to her mother’s study remained open, just barely. The soft hum seeped quietly into the hall.

[havendance]

Still Alive

My entry for day 7 of kwami swap week. In which I sort of continue day 1.

“Once upon a time, long, long, ago, there was a turtle who fell in love with a butterfly.

“When he was with her, the entire world seemed bright and beautiful, just like she was. He spent all of his time with her and when they were together, he was so happy that every day felt like it would never end.

“But after a couple weeks the butterfly died, and the turtle had to keep on living without her. Time passed, he found many other people he loved, one or two of them were even butterflies too, but none of them could replace the his butterfly, the one he had loved. So the turtle kept trudging through life, seeing  and experiencing much, but always mourning the love he had lost.”

“That’s a sad story, Grandpa.”

“Sometimes life is sad.”

“What if I don’t want to listen to sad stories?”

“If you want to inherit the turtle miraculous one day, you have to understand that you will life twice over. You will watch everyone you know die. That is the price you must pay.”

“But if I take the miraculous won’t you die?”

“I’m an old man, Petra. I’m ready to see my darling butterfly again.”

The first pair of heroes Ivan can remember are himself and Mylene. A butterfly and a turtle. An unlikely pair for sure, but one that Paris needed and welcomed in their time of need. When their work was done, Mylene stopped being Swallowtail, but he had never stopped being Bouclier.

The old man had seemed to think that Ivan would be a good guardian and he taught him well. Ivan knows everything there is to know about the miraculous, there are even things that he figured out himself. But taking up the turtle’s burden came with it’s own costs. His darling Mylene died long ago, as did their children. He has outlived so many generations that he has lost track of descendants that are still alive. All except Petra.

Petra is his grandchild, there are quite a lot of greats before the grandchild in her title, but Ivan is old and has lost track. Her maman doesn’t pay much attention to her, so he’s all but adopted her as his own. Her youth livens up the place. He’s teaching her to be the next guardian. But he’s making sure she understands what she’s getting into. She’ll at least know that much more than he did so long ago.

“What are you doing, Grandpa?”

“I’m choosing a pair of heroes to defend Paris.”

“But they’re always saying that we don’t need heroes to make things right. They’re saying that they can solve any problems themselves.”

“They always say that, but they never mean it.”

The second pair of heroes are a peacock and a bee. Mylene is still alive and she is the only butterfly in his mind. Ivan can’t bear to see anyone but her wear the broach. So he avoids choosing a wielder for it. Eventually a butterfly will spread it’s wings again, but for now it continues to sleep.

The new heros do their job well. They are a flashy pair, but one that never the less gets the job done quickly and efficiently. They defend Paris against it’s petty criminals and little villains, but most importantly they give the city hope during one of its bleakest moments and darkest times.

Eventually though, they clash and fight, overstaying their welcome. They grow too petty and proud to work together anymore and cause the people of Paris to turn their backs and become resentful and bitter. As they turn on each other, the city they once fought to protect turns on them.

The first whispers come from student radio stations that broadcast only at night, and poorly written articles and arguments from people who don’t think. “Maybe, we don’t need heroes.” The idea gains ground.

Ivan manages to read the currents and pulls back the heroes he created before they can do any more harm. It’s too late to undo the damage already done though. Ivan’s mistake will affect him throughout the decades to come.

“Can I help you choose this time? Since It’ll be my job eventually?”

“Of course, Petra. You’re certainly old enough.”

“Okay, I’ll get the chest.”

“Go right ahead.”

Ivan waits a long time before he risks choosing another pair of heroes. Mylene is the one who encourages him to face his fear of failure. When a new technology leads to abuses and corruption, he chooses a new wielder with her encouragement. This time he chooses one that can act discretely, working with the current instead of openly opposing it when the mood has grown so hostile.

The fox is a natural choice, one that plays tricks with the mind, no one will know about them unless they choose to reveal themselves. Their partner is harder to choose. And in the end, Ivan ends up donning his mask once more and taking the wellbeing of his city into his own hands. The fox is a, well foxy, sort of person, he prefers to wage his battles words rather than with fists or weapons. He has a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue.

Nobody tells stories about Loki or Tortue, nobody even sees them. The ones that do see, don’t remember. They just see the effects of the heroes work and congratulate themselves on a job well done. Ivan sees no reason to make the truth known.

Ivan stays friends with the fox, even after they set aside their masks. It’s yet another person who he eventually outlives. Ivan didn’t realise how fleeting life could be until his is  stretched out longer than most people even dream of living.

“I can see them, Grandpa! They’re really out there and fighting, and being heroes!”

“You did give them the miraculouses.”

“I know, but seeing it makes it feel real.”

“It does, doesn’t it.”

“I hope they succeed.”

“You chose well, I don’t see any reason why they wouldn’t.”

Ivan feels more confident after choosing Loki, but he’s still cautious and he waits a long time before deciding to choose again. When war strikes and Paris comes under attack, he realises that he truly has no other choice. This isn’t a job for just any heroes, this calls for a truly extraordinary pair. He chooses the wielders with the utmost care this time, they are a black cat and a ladybug and must fit together perfectly, two halves of a whole.

This time, he doesn’t make a mistake. The two of them are just what Paris needs in the chaos. They defend, protect and heal the people. The hostility toward heroes starts to fade, little by little, remaining no matter what the heroes do. Lucky Buf and Panther don’t seem to mind, they fight on regardless, to busy saving the city and falling in love to care much about what he citizens think. If they do care, they certainly don’t mention it to the friendly old couple living down the street.

Ivan is relieved to see their competence. Mylene is getting old and she’s too stubborn to agree to leave the city for somewhere safer. He knows that this will be the last pair of heroes she sees. She loves watching the heroes at work, remembering her own time as Paris’s hero.

Lucky Bug and Panther go out in the same way they come in, with a bang. Literally. They sacrifice themselves to prevent Paris from being targeted by the lasted superweapon that people with more money than morals have come up with. Ivan pretends to be a old uncle and discretely retrieves the miraculouses off their dead bodies. Their death comes as both a shock and a relief to Paris. Relief that they’ll live another day, shock that the heroes that they had almost grow to love are dead.

It doesn’t surprise Ivan as much as it probably should. They were always a passionate pair. He can imagine how their last conversation must’ve gone:

“They say Paris doesn’t need heroes,” Lucky Bug would say, “Are you up for proving them wrong?”

“You bet! I’ll always be by your side Bug,” Panther would reply.

“It’s a shame we have to end things so soon.” Lucky Bug would say, voice filled with false bravado.

Panther would just shrug. “Till death do us part.”

Ivan couldn’t see it ending any other way.

“Why are you giving me this? It’s your’s. It’s always been”

“I think you’re ready to inherit it, Petra.”

“But if I take it, you’ll die.”

“Haven’t I already told you, my dear? When you get as old as I am, you don’t fear death anymore. I’m ready to move on.”

“I, I’m still not sure.”

“Take your time, think about it, I’ll wait.”

After that the memories of the heroes fade more into a blur. Mylene dies, and he lives on. Eventually, he outlives their children and grandchildren. Time and time again, more frequently than before, he chooses heroes. Times are changing more rapidly than he ever thought possible. A fox, a bee, a peacock, once a black cat and ladybug, take up arms to defend Paris. Even a butterfly spreads its wings.

Miraculouses are lost and found. Mistakes are made fixed. Sometimes wielders fight each other, other times they fight together. The attitude towards them never quite changes though. Some heroes are more welcome than others, but Paris always feels at least a little resentment towards them.

So much time passes, governments rise and fall, political parties say one thing this moment, and change their minds completely the next, new technologies are developed and others are rediscovered. Living for nearly two hundred years tires a person out, and Ivan starts to look for a successor.

He finds a potential one in his some-odd great grandchild, Petra. Her mother was a young, unmarried, student who was relieved to find help in raising her with the friendly old “Uncle Ivan” down the street. She visits and calls occasionally, but having a child was never part of her plan.

“I think I’m ready now, Grandpa.”

“You’ll be an excellent guardian, Petra.”

“Wayzz, Transformez-moi!”

AN: I’m back again with my final entry! More turtle!Ivan this time, only angstier. Because apparently I can’t participate in a fandom week without writing angst, or really write much of anything. Writing these has given me an attachment to turtle Ivan that you can’t talk me out of.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my entries! I’m currently working on a multi-chapter fire emblem fic, so that’s going to be the next thing I publish. This isn’t the last of my works for miraculous ladybug though, not by a long shot.