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2.43 S1 Chapter 2.3 - Dracula and Princess Briar Rose

3. GIRL’S MIND

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Seiin High School was located on a slope at the foot of a mountain, and it took twenty minutes to walk there from the shopping district in front of Nanafu Station. That was why the height difference between the school building and other facilities was so severe. The mountain behind the school building was flattened, and the first sports ground and the slightly narrower second sports ground were arranged like terraced fields, and the outdoors court was on the slope that ran beside those two grounds. That slope was about a hundred meters long, and it was the perfect course for hill running.

The dirt road, which had absorbed the sweat and curses and vomit from thousands of athletes since founding and was trampled down firmly by them, was bone dry from being exposed to the scorching September sun. The regulars were holding game-centered finishing practice for the Spring Inter-High volleyball qualifiers coming up later this month, so during that time, we first-years were assigned to do basic strength training. Our second-year senpais who weren’t on the bench were in charge of it, but these second-years were far stricter than the third-year captains.

“Ayano! Who said you can rest!? Get up and run!”

Our senpais’ angry voice flew at Ayano, who was sitting down halfway up the slope. Somehow, she managed to get up and unsteadily meandering up to where we were, before covering her mouth with an “Urp” and sinking down again. Without giving Ayano time to rest, they scolded, “If everyone’s here, then go down now!” We didn’t even have the energy to complain and came down the slope with our faces hanging down like exhausted slaves. Ayano, standing up while wheezing, was on the verge of tears. Ah, she might throw up… When I saw that, I felt like I was about to puke too, so I decided to not to look back at her.

I didn’t have it in me to reach out my hand today. In terms of physical strength, I was just as exhausted as Ayano, but it was just that I refused to sit down out of pride. I felt gross. My hips felt heavy. Sometimes my vision would suddenly go red and black. I think…that is coming. It was supposed to be still around four days away, so I got careless. Once I became possessed by that thought, I couldn’t stop worrying about the inside of my underwear. How many more times did I have to go up? Do I wait until club activities were finished? What would I do if I run to the washrooms right after and it really comes?

…It was no good. I had to tell them.

“Senpai…”

I called out to my senpais in a fidgety whisper, which was startling for me. Though it shouldn’t be something embarrassing because I saw other girls coming forward about it from time to time, I had to muster up all my mental strength to broach that topic.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

When I told them, I was unexpectedly readily allowed to leave for a short period. Apparently I looked sicker than I felt. Because I, who never whined like Ayano did, told them about it with a ghastly pale face, and it actually made my senpais panic instead.

I was strangely embarrassed about that certain time of the month that every girl had, and even in places where there were only girls, I was afraid to talk about it. Being afflicted with heavy menstrual pains didn’t suit a masculine girl like me if I do say so myself, and I felt like if people knew, they would judge me or be put off.

“Long hair doesn’t suit Ibara-chan.” —I felt like I was letting that kid down, the one who determined my character with an innocent smile. They would probably be picturesque when they fell asleep with menstrual cramps because they were so small, dainty, and fragile.

My motto was to stand up straight and walk with big steps, but I was currently slouching slightly and my stride naturally narrowed. While praying that I didn’t run into anyone, I hurried to the club room building. I was able to get out of club activities, but my crisis hadn’t actually gone away. I recalled not bringing my pouch with me because I didn’t think it was coming yet.

It would be bad if I just rummaged through Ayano’s backpack without asking her…I don’t want to go back now and ask her either…What should I do, what should I do…

There were several boys taking a break in front of the drinking fountain of the club room building. Crap, this was bad timing… I straightened my spine that was bending forward and casually walked past their backs. As I began to walk up the stairs, feeling gravity pulling at my hips ten times more than usual, I ended up slouching again, and right then,

“Suemori Ibara-saaaan. Please show us your panties again today!”

Hearing jeering voices from below, my hands immediately went to my butt. Four or five boys with stupid grins on their faces were looking up at me on the stairs, forming a weird cluster like giving each other neck locks. Were these the same idiots who told Ayano to show her panties last week?

Should I try to run upstairs and escape to the club room? But turning one’s back to the enemy is out of the question! Or should I run down and try to bring down divine punishment to these middle school-looking stupid boys—my head didn’t know what to do, so my body was at a loss, and my left and right feet twisted in a weird way and I ended up missing a step. My legs opened wide and one leg plunged through the gap between the steps, hitting the inside of my thigh hard. This impossible dullness from Suemori Ibara of all people!

“Woah ho, Suemori’s so lame!”

The boys laughed, but they too were indeed a bit flustered. The shame was more unbearable than the pain, and tears welled up in my eyes. The pain of a bruise was nothing compared to the shameful sight of spreading your legs above boys’ heads on the day your period arrived.

And then, someone from behind grabbed me by my arms and pulled me up.

“…Are you alright, Ibara-chan?”

A somewhat gloomy voice came down. The first thing I saw as I craned my neck, half suspended in midair, was red lips and a thin chin, so close that I panicked and pulled my face away.

Kanno, with a sports towel covering his head, was looking down at me worriedly.

“Don’t, don’t touch me!”

I pushed Kanno away without thinking and clung to the railing of the stairs. Kanno awkwardly withdrew his hands, which had lost their place, and apologized as usual. “I’m sorry…” It seemed like I had refused to let him help me up, but I simply didn’t want my body to be touched by Kanno right now… The stupid boys were still looking up at me from below the railing, so I squeezed my throbbing thighs together.

“Oh, okay…Ibara-chan.”

Right after Kanno looked like realized something, he pushed me to the back and stepped forward. My body, which had been hidden in the shade of the eaves, was now exposed to the sun, and I almost shouted, “Ah!” Right at that moment…

Bang!!

A metallic roar pierced my eardrums. My heart shrank, and the sounds that were about to come out of my mouth and the tears that had welled up in my eyes receded.

Kanno had kicked the railing. The towel had fallen, exposing his pale face.

As the shaking of the metal lasted faintly…

“Sorry, but please don’t tease people too much.”

That was said by a voice so meek and subdued that it made you wonder what was that outburst right before. It was directed at the boys who had stiffened in a mass below the stairs and were openmouthed, probably having braced themselves for an angry voice.

“Ibara-chan, come here.”

As though nothing happened, he dejectedly went into the shadows of the eaves again, called out to me and climbed up the stairs. I was rooted on the spot from amazement, but Kanno beckoned to me with his hands behind his back with a “Hey” and I crab-walked up the stairs, mindful of my bottom. Kanno went straight past the girls’ volleyball room that was second from the front and nimbly passed through the outside passageway that was already narrow but crowded by the junk overflowing from each room.

Relegated to the very end of the second floor, in a spot where it was a hassle to get in and out of, was the boys’ volleyball club room. This was just my own impression, but aura of losers was leaking out from the door gap.

“No one’s here right now, so feel free to come in. I just came here to get my stopwatch because I forgot it.”

Kanno said, opening the door and going in. There was no way I could just walk into the boys’ club room and say “Pardon the intrusion” if I was told “Feel free to come in.” As soon as I cautiously peeked in from the door, an indescribable smell of sweat hit me. It was completely different from the scent of the girls’ room I was used to smelling. It wasn’t mixed in with artificial smells like antiperspirant spray, just the smell of bare sweat. It couldn’t be called neat and tidy by any standard, with equipment, personal belongings and trash lying around, but I wondered if it was because we had three times the number of members that it looked emptier than the girls’ volleyball club room. Or, maybe it was simply because girls had more stuff.

Kanno opened the door of one of the lockers, rummaged around, found something and handed it over to me. It was a rectangular object with a short edge of about ten centimeters and long edge of about twenty centimeters, with a colored plastic bag wrapped around it. Its shape, size, and tight packaging, as well as the drugstore logo printed on the bag. A girl would recognize what it was right away, but—why was it coming out of Kanno’s locker!?

“C’mon, take it.”

Kanno said in a muffled voice, sticking his head halfway into his locker. Vividly reminded of a vampire who felt safe being in his own coffin, the picture was strangely familiar.

“And please close that door when you’re done. People will think I’m a pervert if they see this, so…”

“No, you’re enough of a pervert already…?”

Kanno awkwardly tossed it at me, like he was unable to bear its weight, and I had no choice but to yelp and catch the thing that flew. Hmm, there was no mistake about it, this feeling and lightness. There were probably about twenty-four inside to use for many days.

“I didn’t have it because I wanted to have it. I was sent to buy it before…They were probably betting on something, but when I came back, the guys who ordered me to do it were getting yelled at by a third-year and it ended there, then I wondered what I should do with these… I couldn’t have anyone see me have them, I couldn’t throw them away, and if I brought them home, my mom would probably faint.”

“They even made you do that…? When was that? Why didn’t you tell me? I did warn them to stop it.”

“I guess June…? I know you aren’t very good at talking about things like this, Ibara-chan, so I thought it would embarrass you if I talked about it…” June meant that Kanno had this in his locker for three months.

“So, please, use this.”

Kanno said, poking a third of his face out from the other side of his locker. Oh, I’m saved. For a moment, I was simply grateful, but——

I belatedly realized what this offer meant, and my face instantly turned hot.

“Wait, h-how did you kn…you, you really are a pervert…”

“I am not a pervert. It’s unfortunate. It’s rather obvious when you see it, you know? I’ve been practicing with girls since middle school… Don’t girls feel tired and look sick?”

“Yeah, but even other girls don’t know.”

“Huh? Really? But even when I’m there, they say things like, ‘Do you have that today?’… You always look like you’re in pain from the twentieth to the twenty-third…Wait, today’s still the sixteenth.”

“Just wait a minute and be quiet. How did you grasp my…you know…”

The important words wouldn’t pass through my throat, and I turned bright red, my chin wobbling. For me, it was a disgusting, taboo word to even say, something that would force me to transform into an unclean creature I didn’t want to be.

“That’s because I’m always watching you, Ibara-chan…”

“So you’re a stalker, creep!”

“No, you have it all wrong! Don’t call me a creep.”

When I cursed at him unthinkingly, Kanno hurriedly added to what he said with a hurt look on his face.

“I’ve always been your fan, that’s what I meant by always watching you…ah, it does sound kinda stalkerish, but I’m not…um…Ibara-chan, you always saved me, and that’s why I’m here in the girls’ club. If you weren’t here, I would have quit a long time ago, and I might have even quit school…My parents are just overjoyed that I’m going to high school, but they’re shocked that I’m joining the volleyball team again, and that’s all thanks to you. Volleyball is fun. You were also the one who taught me the fun of volleyball…You were the best at volleyball, you were always cool, confident, someone who I could never be on par with. But, lately, I’ve been wanting something more, and, um…”

He retreated into the shadows of the locker once again while restlessly shaking his gaze left and right, and he was coughing so much that I was wondering if he had trouble breathing. No, how should I put it…if someone who didn’t know him saw his behavior, he really would seem like a pervert, but…Kanno, who didn’t talk a lot normally, was earnestly talking like he was scraping up the fragments of words scattered all about his body. Unconsciously overawed, I was unable to interrupt. When he calmed his breathing and faced forward like he had resolved himself, his wandering eyeballs had settled, and his gaze was fixed on my face. He straightened his body that seemed like it was going to snuggly fit into the locker at any moment, and ah, that was when I was reminded that he had overtaken me in height a long time ago.

“Um, I like you, Ibara-chan.”

Right after he said that while looking me in the eye, fire erupted from his face with a thud and he covered his face his hands, exclaiming stuff like “Uwah.”

While Kanno found himself in a fix all by himself, I…

I was so calm that it was uncanny. It was not the time for going into raptures over being confessed to by a boy for the first time in my life.

So it’s like that…

While I was listening, something got stuck in my mind. It was in past tense, all of it. In other words, in Kanno’s head, I was no longer an existence that was cool, confident and the best at volleyball. It meant that the current me was “something I could be on par with.” Even I was very well aware of that, but the fact that I was told that from Kanno’s mouth when I was supposed to take a little more time to come to terms with it within myself was a shock that was like having my head chopped off by a guillotine, and with that shock…

The feeling of something somewhat warm sliding down my inner thigh finally overwhelmed me.

“Ibara-chan…?”

Kanno cautiously raised his face.

The me who was a supreme existence for Kanno had nowadays fallen to the point where I could be obtained if someone wanted me. No matter how much I aimed for the top, I would never be able to jump higher than I did now, but Kanno was undoubtedly continuing to nimbly soar higher and higher at this very moment. Instead of attaching extra fat to his chest and buttocks, he would be covered in more and more supple and strong muscles.

I guess you don’t remember anymore…

“Long hair doesn’t suit Ibara-chan. You’ll look more handsome if it’s shorter.”

That was something said to me. From the smallest and most delicate kid in class. Putting a spell on me to shun being a girl and be cool and handsome, he became independent from my protection before I knew, and on top of that, confessed to me, like I was a clown.

It was now clear that the scratchiness that I felt within me every time I saw Kanno was jealousy and hatred.

“…Sorry, but no.”

Kanno’s eyes widened for a second, and then his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“The only thing I feel for you is jealousy. You were lucky enough to be born a boy, and without using much effort, you were able to snatch what I want so bad but could never get. You grew a lot, I see… Did you know? I haven’t grown a centimeter since a year ago. My jump power is dropping. I’m gonna be less and less able to jump, just like Ayano. I don’t want that… I don’t want to be Ayano. Being so heavy and shameful-looking, just lumbering around close to the ground…”

“Ibara-cha…don’t…”

When I said Ayano’s name, Kanno suddenly interrupted me with an accusatory voice. I was irritated, wondering if he was finally going to talk to me like he was condescendingly admonishing me. I was very on edge.

I noticed that Kanno’s gaze was directed over my shoulder towards the outside hallway. When I looked back, sure enough, Ayano was standing there. She was holding a sports drink and towel, and her eyes were wide.

What did I say just now—? I was horrified at the words my own tongue wove together.

“Oh, um, Ibara-chan didn’t come back, so I came to check on her, but well, I half did it because I wanted to skip,” Ayano was speaking quickly with a shocked look on her face, and then forced an “…Aha!” like she just remembered to do it. “Ah, haha…that’s right, that’s why I’m useless. I get fat too quickly and it’s no wonder that Ibara-chan hates me, so, so don’t worry about it…”

She suddenly cast down her face with the whitish smile and spoke in a small voice.

“They, they’ll get angry if we don’t back now…I’ll go on ahead...”

She said and turned on her heel. Without looking anywhere but forward, she ran past the girls’ volleyball room, swinging the big butt I had shamed just now and disappearing down the stairs. The sound of squeaky footsteps stamping down the steps became distant.

“Ibara-chan, you have to go after her.”

Kanno grabbed my arm. I, who was frozen, jumped, but my legs didn’t move. If I took even a step forward from here, my blood will…

“It-it’s fine, it’s fine, we’ll meet in practice soon anyways, and she’ll understand once I talk to her… It wasn’t like I was talking about Ayano, just girls in general…”

Of course I was lying. It wasn’t about girls in general or anything like that. While I was blathering to Kanno about stuff that was just me taking out my anger from the ends of my prejudiced mind, it was definitely Ayano who I had been picturing in my mind with contempt.

***

When I returned to practice, Ayano, who was supposed to have gotten back before me, was nowhere to be seen. When my senpais asked me with concern, “Ibara, are you alright?”, I subconsciously put on a tough front and said, “Everything was completely fine. Sorry for all the trouble,” and despite worrying about Ayano, I did the rest of the regimen with the same enthusiasm as everyone else.

When practice time ended and the outside court, which had been roasted by the late summer sun, was finally in the shade with a somewhat comfortable wind blowing, Ayano returned.

She was with Kanno. No way, did he go searching for her…? She whispered something to Kanno, and then came to inside of the fence while awkwardly shrugging her shoulders. Kanno was seeing Ayano out and he himself didn’t go inside, just watching from outside the fence. The sports towel was once again snugly tied around his head.

Ayano first ran over to the captain, received a scolding, and then joined us as we were putting away the net.

“Wh-where did you go? Ayano…”

I made my face up like nothing had happened and called out to her, but she didn’t meet my eyes. I wondered where had she been until now—the tip of her nose was red from being sunburnt. “Ayano, Ayano, what happened?” “Why did you come with Dracky?” Immensely curious whispers immediately surrounded Ayano, and I was shut out of the circle.

Apologize, apologize, apologize, apologize… Just chanting that in my mind like a prayer to Buddha didn’t lead to action. Was I such a dawdling coward? In the end, I wasn’t cool or confident when it really mattered.

Clang, the fence shook violently.

On the inside of the fence, all of the girls’ team ducked their heads as they turned around, and then there was a sudden stir. Kanno gripped the fence with one hand and crouched down like he was hanging from it.

“Kanno!?”

I immediately ran over to the fence. I changed my mind on the way there and turned ninety degrees, rushing out the gate and went outside the fence. I rushed up to him and got on my knees, and when I touched his shoulder, it was hot—!? Kanno’s five fingers, which were still caught on the fence, slipped off and hit the ground. “Kan…” When I pressed his shoulders and tried to look into his face, the towel he covered his head with came loose and exposed his face.

The other members who belatedly gathered at the inside of the fence cried out.

From the bridge of his nose to his cheeks, a dense, closely-packed rash had emerged, and his skin was flaming bright red like he had blisters. Ayano’s slight sunburn couldn’t compare to it. The members in the front row were being pressed against the fence by the pressure from behind and blatantly trying to move back. “Hey, stop pushing!”

“Don’t…Please don’t look…”

A feeble voice leaked from Kanno’s mouth. He fumbled for the towel and pressed it against his face, curling his back and cowering. The rash also appeared on the back of his hand, peeking out from his long sleeves. Ibara-chan, his small voice entered my ears, and I unconsciously brought my drawn back face close to his.

“…I’m sorry for getting carried away…I know, I’m a total disgrace, and I’m nowhere near equal with you, Ibara-chan…So please, don’t…don’t go saying silly stuff like that…don’t say things that will make you lose your friends because of me…”

There was no one to make fun of, but without knowing what to do, and me and the rest of the team could do nothing but stay frozen in place from confusion. While we had been told that he had a health condition, it didn’t mean we could truly imagine the reality of it, so we thought it probably wasn’t as serious as everyone said, so that was probably why we could mess with Kanno so lightheartedly.

The only one who moved was Ayano. She went around the fence and ran over to our side, thrusting me away and switched places with me, putting the unfolded bath towel on top of Kanno’s head.

“I’m sorry, Dracky, you were with me the whole time, I’m sorry, and thank you… What should I do? Should we go inside the school? Can you walk? Senpai, please call the teacher!”

Ayano at that moment was not slow and sluggish in the slightest. She was quicker and braver than anyone. As though her voice released them from their paralysis, everyone regained their movements. The third-years ran to get their phones to call the advisor. Some came over to help Ayano while others carried over a cooler box.

Amidst all of that, I was the only one who was unable to take any effective action, just sitting on my butt in a daze.

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#2.43: Seiin Koukou Danshi Volley-bu #2.43: seiin high school boys volleyball club #2.43 book 1 #2.43 translation

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reckoningss · 6 years

Text

Park

Summary: A chance encounter at the dog park opens some old wounds as well as doors to new beginnings

Pairing: Frank Castle (Punisher) x Reader

Warnings: Fluff

Wordcount: 4.2k

A/N: I’ve been so inactive lately and it feels really good to write again. Feedback is always welcome.

Nootka explodes across the dog park at what feels an awful lot like lightspeed after the purple tennis ball you’ve just thrown, kicking up a spray of dirt and pine needles in her wake. You watch her go, lean muscles rippling beneath the sheeny remnants of her expertly cropped summer coat, as she distends, her entire length airborne before she draws in and her feet contact the ground and rocket off again. There’s joy in it. Peace in watching your two-year-old flat coat retriever jet around the ballpark disturbing the autumn leaf litter, tongue flapping from the side of her mouth- pink breaking up the cold starkness of her black face.

She finds the ball near the base of a tree, barely pausing with a dip of her head as she retrieves the toy and pivots to make her way back to you. The trot back is leisurely. Casual - the way she picks up her paws as she jogs, the ball wedged neatly within her teeth.

You clap your hands, bending at the knee a bit. “Good girl, Nootka!” A pair of amber eyes light up at the sound of your voice and she picks up her pace. You’re never stingy with your affirmation and she - in turn - is always exceedingly responsive.

When she’s halfway back to you though, you catch a streak of grey in your peripheral vision. It intercepts Nootka, slamming into her and knocking her off course. A tense growl rips the air - guttural and angry. You answer it with a yelp and take off at a sprint, your booted feet clumsy through pine straw and fallen leaves.

“Nootka!” you skid to a stop a few feet from the pair of dogs as they circle one another - your heart in your throat with the realization that you’re not entirely sure what to do. You’re not too keen on jumping between two angry animals, even one as familiar as Nootka, especially not one as big as the interloping pitbull.

Pitbull.

You pause to survey the scene, your pulse slowing ever so slightly. The tennis ball lies a few feet away, completely forgotten. Nootka’s tail is wagging a mile a minute and she growls again, but you recognize the sound as playful as she lifts a paw to shadowbox at her new friend. Seeing you, she stops and sits back on her haunches politely. Noticing his playmate’s now reserved behavior, the pitbull turns around to peer up at you. Instead of looking chastened though, his tail begins to wag so violently that his entire rear end moves, wide mouth lolling open in a goofy grin. That’s what really gets you; you kneel on the ground, a smile cracking your cold-chapped lips. The dog sniffs your offered palm before pressing his wide head into it, demanding affection.

You sigh. “Where’s your dad, Max?”

A shadow falls over you blotting out the faint warmth of the autumn sun. You already know who it is and don’t bother to look up yet, instead scratching Max behind the ear just the way he likes it. You can feel the impatience radiating from behind you though, so eventually, you turn around and squint up at him - Frank Castle.

He’s already looking at you, studying you, but you don’t shrink beneath his gaze. Not like you used to. He says nothing, dark eyes sliding over to your dog and the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“Hey, Nootka girl.”

She loses all sense of good behavior at that, up from her seated position and rising on her hind legs in a second flat. Frank catches her front paws in his hands like they’re dancing and you scowl. It’s a bad habit that Frank encouraged and one that you’ve been hard-pressed to eliminate during his absence. He notices your disapproving expression and releases Nootka’s paws, allowing her to drop back onto all fours.

He says your name expectantly like he’s been saving it. Holding onto it for a moment like this. “It’s been a while.”

You shrug, stuffing your hands back into your pockets. “I needed a while.” Your gaze stays trained on the dogs as they play, familiarizing themselves with one another. His gaze bores into your profile. “Max looks good. Healthy.”

It draws Frank’s attention away from you and back toward his dog - eyes following the strong slope and pull of the pit’s muscles as he moves. You’re right. He looks better than he did when you last saw him, they both do.

“He’s alright,” Frank says in that noncommittal way, “he’s been a little lonely.

Frank wants you to look at him - really look at him - but you don’t. Bending, you retrieve the tennis ball and brush away dying blades of fescue with absent-minded fingertips. You tuck it into your pocket and squeeze - the rubber give of it reassuring.

“You should get him a friend.”

Frank huffs a breath through his nose - the ghost of a laugh. Shakes his head. “He had one. Once upon a time.”

A wispy finger of fall wind sneaks up the back of your peacoat and tickles your spine. You remember. When you were together, Frank would sometimes show up at your door in the middle of the night. He’d show up in all states of dishevelment with Max on a leash, the brawny dog’s grey fur sporting browning patterns of blood. Frank’s blood.

“Just a few nights,” he’d say, “I just want him to be safe.”

And you would take him in, wash away the blood with warm water in your small bathtub and put out two bowls of food in the morning. Neither of you would sleep while Frank was gone. You’d lie in bed and worry and sometimes in the shuttered moonlight, you’d catch the glint of Max’s amber eyes flickering toward the door from his spot on the dog bed beside a sleeping Nootka. Wondering where Frank was.

“You and me both, bud,” you’d whisper to the dark.

“That’s not the kind of friend he needs.” Your voice is hard and cold - sharper than you’d expected or intended. You don’t take it back. Why apologize for the truth? “I couldn’t afford for you to die in some alley and leave me with two dogs.”

Frank says nothing, just ducks his head a bit the same way Max does when he’s been scolded and you feel slightly vindicated. Only slightly. Dating Frank hadn’t been easy. Leaving him had been even harder, and seeing him like this - for the first time since you’d broken things off, might just be hardest of all.

It’d been a Thursday, or maybe Friday. Early in the morning and deep, deep into the night when you showed up at Frank’s door for a change, Max’s leash clutched tightly in a shaking hand. You hadn’t expected him to be home, hadn’t expected the door to swing open, revealing Frank in a black wife beater, angry lacerations littering the skin of his arms and face between clouds of blue-yellow bruises. He relaxed when he saw you, his posture settling into comfortable vulnerability. That’s what probably hurt the most - he let his guard down for you. You’d shoved the leash into his unprepared hands, the words tumbling out of your mouth.

“I can’t do this. Can’t keep watching you run off to go kill people and get killed and pretend that everything’s fine.”

And then you’d left. Told him not to stop by anymore, not to call. He didn’t fight you. He’d seen it coming - known how close to the edge you were getting with his late night rendezvous and constant vendettas. Frank had let you go.

That part hurt too.

Frank settles into the silence - used to it. He expects you to break it, to make small talk uncomfortably. Little does he know how much you’ve changed in the intervening six months, how close you’ve gotten to the silence, how much you’ve come to enjoy it - taking solace in it. And you won’t bend now, not to make him comfortable. So you stand - side by side - early autumn wind whistling between you where words should be. You watch the bronze sun slide down the sky and nestle lazily behind the trees, Nootka and Max haloed in orange as they tussle.

Eventually, you check your watch - 6:29 PM - and pull the braided cord of leash from your deep pocket and let it unfurl.

“Nootka!” she pauses her antics for a moment, large head cocked at the sound of your voice. “Time to go!”

She returns to you obediently, sitting still as you latch the leash to her collar. Beside you, Frank calls to Max and does the same. Done, you wait patiently for Frank to finish with Max and straighten, the worn black leash clutched loosely in his hand; when he does, you offer a stiff smile and an even stiffer hand for him to shake.

“It was good to see you. You look good. Both of you.”

Frank regards your extended hand as though he’s never seen anything like it, distrust and disappointment apparent in his usually guarded expression. You don’t blame him. It’s a pitiless show of distance - a power move - your way of showing him how far from beneath his sway you are.

Frank shakes his head a little, throwing one shoulder up in a shrug - you think - meant to indicate direction. “We’re going the same way if I remember right. At least for a little.”

He’s right, and there’s no point lying to him.

Max pulls against the leash - an uncharacteristic show of impatience from an otherwise well-behaved dog. Nootka yawns.

“Let me buy you a coffee.”

What could it hurt?

“One cup,” Lines have to be drawn somewhere. “To go.”

Frank bares both palms in acquiescence. “Fine by me.”

The walk, thus far, is pleasant. Quiet, though not for lack of trying. You’re reluctant to open up to Frank again and he knows it. You wonder if he can feel the chill rolling off you, ice hindering your every move, running through your veins in his presence. There was a time when you did nothing but burn for Frank, but he’ll be damned if he finds any warmth in you now.

Nootka follows her nose to the underside of a trashcan and she pauses to sniff before jogging back up beside you.

“I see you killed half of the Lower East Side last month.” The authorities aren’t sure who was responsible for the massacre but you know Frank and he doesn’t deny it.

A familiar hardness sets itself in Frank’s jaw, though Max doesn’t notice. He turns his head up toward his owner, that signature pitbull grin wide on his face. Beneath the thick corduroy of his jacket, you see Frank’s hands flex into uneasy fists.

“Only the drug lords.”

You snort a shallow laugh before you can contain it, frustrated with Frank’s skewed morals.

“They were recruiting kids to run that shit for them.” From the corner of your eye, you watch his eyes dart as he talks, the gears in his head ever turning. “Coercing more like. That’s just sick.”

You turn away so he doesn’t see the way you purse your lips, saying nothing, though he’ll feel it in your silence all the same.

Frank cracks a sardonic smile. “Uh huh,” he raises a hand, pointing one thick, scarred finger at your temple - its tip floating in your peripheral vision. “You’ve got nothing to say because you agree with me. You know I’m right.”

You bat his hand away from your face and glower. “On what the problem is, yes, but not with your solution!”

“See that’s the problem with all you kumbaya types and the politicians and the cops. Yo-you say you want real solutions. Real solutions. But you’re not ready to do what needs to be done to get real results.”

“You don’t get to decid-”

“But I do!” Frank stops in his tracks and Max’s head snaps up at the rise in his voice. “I do! Because I’m the one who does it. I don’t need a committee. I don’t need bureaucracy or a vote - I take the trash out.” He claps his hands together theatrically. “I make the decision.”

You keep walking, anger singing too hot in your veins to stand still. Frank falls into step beside you. “That’s why you can’t make that decision. You can’t kill everyone!”

It’s Frank’s turn to snort and you bristle.

“So what happens, Frank? You ‘take out’ everyone that you think should go and who’s left?”

“You!” Frank reaches out and stops you in your tracks, large hands cupping your shoulders and turning you toward him, sending a jolt through your body. His face is so close to yours all of the sudden. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at him and your breath catches in your throat. “You’re left. You and the soft people like you who see sunshine and silver linings everywhere.”

His hands are burning through the layers of your clothes, through the wool and the cotton until you feel the familiar ghost of skin on skin. His eyes soften and his voice does too. “And me - the one that protects you.”

You shudder despite the coat, in spite of his warm gaze and his hands. Shudder due to the proximity and remember. Your favorite moments with Frank had been the ones where you felt safe - early mornings spent in bed wrapped in his arms, hours spent in the gym with him teaching you to jab and block. Late nights when he would return to you from God knows where doing God knows what, deep kisses and even deeper silence as he held you and in holding you promised to do so forever.

Frank lets go of your shoulders and angles himself down the sidewalk again, a tense set to his shoulders like he used to get when he would feel all too much. You watch him disengage, deftly quashing the welling emotions and replacing them with cool, steady grit and you miss his eyes on you. You miss his touch.

The wind ruffles his black hair, sliding airy fingers through it the way you wish you could. He’d worn his head shaved when he was with you, the style accenting the harsh angles of his face, highlighting the bruises and the cuts that often adorned his sharp cheeks. The scars are still there now but they’ve faded, his weathered visage softening into a veteran’s face. The mask of an old man. You’d never imagined that Frank would live to see old age, but you’re beginning to let yourself hope.

“Come on.” His voice is husky, throat heavy with his feelings and your searching gaze. “We’re not too far.”

The four of you shuffle up to a coffee shop called “Dreggz,” an overturned coffee cup hanging on the end of the hand-painted sign with a single drop of coffee dangling from the rim. You kneel to tie Nootka’s leash to the bike rack outside and then accept Max’s leash from Frank and do the same. The two immediately lie down beneath the rack, happy to rest in one another’s company.

You scratch Nootka under the chin. “Be good.” Max gazes at you expectantly and you rub the crown of his wide head until his tail thumps the ground contentedly. “You too.”

Your knees crack when you stand and turn toward the shop. Frank’s already holding the door open for you. A thin mechanical chime sounds as you step into the cafe followed by Frank and he lets the door swing shut behind you. There are already a few people in line, a handful of busy millennial creative types in thick horn-rimmed glasses and even thicker blanket scarves. It’s warm - warm enough to make you realize how cold it is outside - so you rock from foot to foot several times and blow mouthfuls of air into your hands and Frank does too, the two of you like horses congregating lazily in the paddock at dawn.

You aren’t sure how to act here, inside four walls and beneath a roof with other people around and Frank beside you for the first time in months. So you ignore him mostly. The air is heavy and contained, the essence of coffee beans and chocolate passing in and out of your lungs again and recirculating about the space. You lean out of line a bit - letting Frank step in front of you - fingers grazing over the iridescent packaging of some holiday bundle, gaudy and cheaply opulent in a middle-class sort of way - the cellophane crinkles between your reaching fingertips.

That’s when it happens; a man - some self-important, self-made entrepreneur type - steps in front of you. It’s rude, but you would be just as content to let it be if he hasn’t jostled you while he cuts in line, one imperious elbow catching you in the rib as he shoulders past you. You grunt at the unexpected contact and shuffle away to maintain your footing and Frank turns around. He lays eyes on the man and just holds him there, deadlocked in a dark, sinister gaze.

The self-made man finally realizes he’s being watched and shoots Frank a look with raised brows.

Frank, unmoved, just keeps staring. “Do you know how a line works?”

“What?” Self-made man looks confused until he follows the line of Frank’s inclined head back to you. He hikes his thumb back like he’s indicating a cow at auction. “She wasn’t in line.”

“She was.” You can tell Frank is on the edge of something - anger, violence - you’re not sure, but you wonder what it feels like to live your whole life ready to blow. “I know because she was in line with me.”

Self-made man shrugs and hikes his thumb back again. “That’s not what I saw, but feel free to go back there and stand with her, guy.”

By now you want to interject, step between the two and stop the flow of testosterone and over-inflated egos. Remind them both that you’re still there, but Frank beats you to the punch again. He steps toward Self-made man carefully, the thick soles of his boots sounding solidly off the tiled floor.

“You wanna reconsider?”

Frank grinds the words out quietly like they’re coming from between two huge, crushing millstones. He’s standing close to him now, close enough that Self-made man can feel his breath. Close enough that - if Frank were an animal - he could smell Self-made man’s fear and maybe he is, maybe he can. Close like a man who knows he can win any fight he picks - any day. Frank looks over the man’s head at you, brown eyes meeting brown eyes. He knows just what you’re thinking.

“Please reconsider.”

There’s no ‘please’ about it, you can hear it in Frank’s voice and Self-made man can too and he nods. “S-sure.”

He steps out of line and lets you step forward, nodding at you as you go. Frank holds out a hand like a cordon, blocking him from getting to you - not that he’d try - and then lets it hover mere millimeters from the small of your back, like touching you but not, until you’re safely in front of him. Then he stands close behind you like a warning, his nearness almost like an arm around your waist, possessive in an intangible, warm kind of way.

By the time you reach the front of the line, Self-made man isn’t even behind you anymore; the barista smiles up at you serenely from beneath chic bangs. You order a tea - pomegranate - to soothe your aching sweet tooth and Frank orders coffee - black - to match his grim outlook, you think. You almost laugh at that. The cute barista says the total and Frank goes fumbling in his pocket behind you, all chipped nails and calloused fingers. But you’re quicker on the draw, jamming your ready credit card into the waiting card reader. You ignore Frank burning holes into the back of your head, knowing he’d half prefer to rip your card out and pay himself, but certain he won’t make a scene. He grumbles something useless instead.

While the receipt prints, you chance a glance over Frank’s shoulder through the wide plate window. Outside the dogs lie beneath the bike rack, patient and lazy. Max’s fat head is propped up on Nootka’s back.

“Dogs ok?” Frank doesn’t even bother to look, murmuring the words near your temple instead.

You hum a yes and turn away just in time to accept the ridiculously long receipt and a warm cup of tea sitting neatly in a cardboard sleeve.

When you pocket the receipt and go outside and untangle the dogs and their leashes from the bike rack, you prepare to cut ties, to loosen yourself from whatever semblance of comfort you’ve fallen back into with Frank. That is until he offers to walk you home.

“Just halfway,” he says, “I won’t escort you all the way to your door.” He grins that grin that you used to love, once upon a time. The kind he grinned on your first date and then only a handful of times after. It’s pure, almost shy, free of any semblance of the man he became long before he found you.

You take a sip of your tea, reveling in the tangy sweetness for a moment too long, to give the impression that you’re thinking when in all actuality, you both know the answer. You don’t know why you nod but you do - maybe because your tea-warmed abdomen is thrumming with that all too familiar feeling. For most people, one look from Frank opens up a black hole in their stomach, guts churning with fumbling anxiety, but when he looks at you, oh, it gives you butterflies.

You nurse your tea as you walk, burning your tongue with small sips every so often and letting the cup function as a hand-warmer more than anything. Frank all but chugs his coffee then crushes the paper cup in his hand before tossing it carelessly into a nearby trash can. The dogs walk out ahead of you, Max’s shorter legs churning double time to keep up with Nootka’s long, graceful stride. Their tails wag happily in the air.

When you reach the intersection, the parting of roads that marks halfway to your tiny apartment, you take a step into the street, prepared to separate yourself. From this, from Frank. You move to plunge into the empty air before you and let a ceaseless river of cars and bike couriers flow between you and months of memories and what-ifs and late nights praying and hoping and wondering. You turn back with one foot still in the street so you’re just as likely to be swept away from either side.

“Goodbye, Frank.” You mean to say it simply, like stating a fact, but do you hear...regret in your voice? You aren’t sure.

“Thanks for the coffee.” Frank says the words like he wants to talk about so much more than coffee.

He leans in then and you let him. He leans half into the street and cups your shoulder and kisses your cheek and lets his lips linger there as if he’s searing the kiss into your skin so you can take it with you. You turn at the last fleeting moment just as he’s about to pull away, crane your neck and catch the corner of his lips with yours - like a whisper. Like playing tag with mouths instead of hands. Frank just stands there, his lips caught by yours like he doesn’t know what to do. Maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t last for long, because the next thing you know he’s kissing you back, full on, squarely kissing you. His mouth is bittersweet against yours and he drags one big hand along your waist and then winds his arm around and pulls you in. You have both feet on the sidewalk now, both feet firmly on land again and then not so firm when you lean up onto your toes and wrap both arms around his neck. A nearly empty cup of tea, resting comfortably on his broad shoulder.

You could get lost in this. You do get lost in it, if only for a moment, and when you surface, Frank presses his forehead to yours and smiles that smile again. You move to step back, to disengage yourself from this heady, giddy haze of coffee and kisses far better than they ought to be, but you can’t move.

You both look down to see that Nootka and Max have encircled you both with their leashes at least three times each in opposite directions, cocooning the two of you together like a pair of lovesick mummies.

Nootka - having expended the length of her leash lowers herself onto her haunches and pants casually. You throw your head back and laugh but the action nearly throws you off balance and you teeter for a moment before Frank shoves a hand into the pocket of your peacoat and steadies you.

You chuckle gratefully, and lean up again, pressing more of a smile to his cheek than a kiss.

“Your place or mine?”

Frank and Fall, what more could you ask for?

#Frank Castle #The Punisher #Frank Castle x Reader #The Punisher x reader #Frank Castle fluff #Frank Castle fic #Frank Castle imagine #The Punisher fic #Punisher fic #Punisher imagine #Punisher fluff #Defenders #Marvel fic #MCU #Frank Castle x you #Punisher x you #Avengers fic #Defenders fic #My writing

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whispersafterdusk · 5 years

Text

The Master’s Apprentice - ch 6

Time passed quickly when all he let himself think about were his lessons; some days Kestrel introduced something new, some days she made him review what he'd already learned. He had reached a point where throwing frost, water, fire, wind, or lightning was second nature, able to do so in the blink of an eye with both hands aimed in front of him or pointed in different directions (and he'd even managed to get the spray radius almost up to that of a two-handed cast - something he was definitely proud of).

He'd also been introduced to casting earth and rock spells (there really wasn't any better descriptor for those) and, because of that, had learned that one of the locked doors he hadn't been able to explore opened into a very long, gently sloping staircase that led to a large storeroom. ((Continued below cut))

"This sort of magic will strengthen you against physical sorts of damage similar to a ward's defense against magic and allow you to change the landscape around you but, unlike with fire, frost, or lightning, you aren't able to simply create earth or stone out of nothing...I have yet to figure out why," she'd explained.

Within the storeroom were stacks upon stacks of wooden logs, carefully preserved bolts of cloth, empty bottles and a variety of tools and pieces of things to repair the tools; at the very rear of the room where there had once been logs was where Kestrel set him to practicing these new spells -- he'd called stones from the ground and shaped the soil, and had dug the back of the room out further (and learned that yes, she had not been exaggerating when she'd said that moving earth like this was difficult: the harder he pushed outward the more the soil he was exerting force on and the effort required to keep moving it kept increasing exponentially unless he was careful with how he pushed and adjusted things).

Between the earthen spells and his ever strengthening wards (practice, practice, practice) Onmund was actually confident in his own defense - far more than he'd been at the College, that was for sure. He'd been trapped down here, by his count, for about five and a half months and he was already well advanced beyond what he imagined his peers were at.

Of course...it was difficult to think about them, or about anything else on the surface; nighttime was the worst time to be alone with his thoughts. His supposed immortality aside, it hurt to think that he'd never see anyone he knew again...he'd never love or get married, have a family, he'd never adventure and see what the world had to offer. He was trapped in an elaborate hole in the ground, and would possibly be here until the end of time itself...and at night when his tired mind caught him unaware the realizations cut deeply, and made his eyes burn and his heart ache.

And strangely, it made him wonder how Kestrel had managed to be alone for so long. From the little snippets here and there he gathered that she'd been alone for nearly fifty years or so before he'd fallen down here, and that while she'd had quite the number of apprentices they had been spread out over long periods of time interspersed with even longer periods of total isolation. How had she not gone mad? How had she wrestled with the feelings of loneliness, of regret and longing? She still refused to tell him her exact age and he knew she had to be ancient...perhaps it was a question of time needed -- time needed to mourn and miss things, and time to heal and move on.

He still hadn't asked her what had happened to the man before him; she didn't talk about him aside from the odd comment here or there, explaining how whatever she was teaching him was something she'd discovered alongside that previous apprentice, and she'd let slip no hints whatsoever about who he'd even been or how long he'd dwelled with her.

It was a mystery he woke up one morning deciding he needed an answer for: if the previous apprentice had been gifted immortality then where was he? Surely, after all her warnings and sympathy about Onmund being unable to ever leave, she hadn't actually LET the other man leave.

"...may I ask you something, before we begin today?"

"Of course."

He hesitated a moment, slowing to a stop about halfway to the Hall of Mirrors; Kestrel took a few steps more to notice he'd paused before she stopped and turned around.

"The spell you have on me... If you created that with your last apprentice, and it also gave him immortality...why were you alone when I fell down here? What happened to him?"

She smiled faintly and shook her head. "I was wondering when you'd work up the nerve to ask about those that came before you. Follow me, I will show you something."

She turned around and started back down the hallway but instead of the Hall she went to her own room; Onmund followed and once he was inside saw that her room was nigh identical to his in layout save for a flat table-like structure covered with a cloth in the center of the room, a coffin of white wood that stood next to a wardrobe, and a polished, pale brown wooden coffin on a wide, tall stone slab where a bed should have been. With a very intricate, complex wave of her hand and an uttered word the stone slab ponderously moved aside to reveal a hole carved into its middle -- Kestrel walked over and stepped down onto the first rung of the stone ladder within the hole and, when Onmund followed her a moment later, he found the ladder went down for quite a ways (and it was tight, claustrophobic even - barely wide enough to fit his shoulders).

Eventually his boots landed on a chilly stone floor, with the only light being that pitiful amount that managed to make it from the hole at the top of the ladder down to this level; he suspected they were even deeper down than the storeroom had been and this room was absolutely frigid and their steps echoed in the space.

Kestrel conjured a series of very tiny magelight orbs - each about the size of her thumb, and sent them into the room in a flurry of light where they twinkled like fireflies; as the room steadily filled with their golden glow Onmund's eyes widened at what they revealed:

Coffins. Heavy iron sarcophagi lined the walls to either side of what was essentially a stone vault - he could count twenty seven that had their lids on, and five more that stood open with their lids set perpendicular across their tops. Each one shimmered in the magelight, their tops and sides polished to a sheen and with what he assumed were names carved near the heads.

"Here before you you see the apprentices of the past -- and before you ask, all save for one of them died of old age," Kestrel said softly. "And, not all of them died down here... I have moved from den to den over the years but did not want to leave them behind, buried and forgotten."

Onmund took a few careful steps into the room before looking back to her; Kestrel nodded to him - she apparently didn't mind if he took a closer look.

Jyrmi, Brellin, Evulme, Balur, Agati... Each closed coffin that held a body bore a name and not a single speck of dust, and all of the coffins were finely crafted. He walked halfway through the room, pausing where the magelights had stopped at the border between dim light and darkness; the room continued on but Kestrel had purposely not sent the magelights back far enough to fully light it. The coffins to either side of him were empty...were there just more empty ones back there?

(And exactly how far ahead did she plan? It was a chilling thought that one of these had almost had HIS name on it).

"I - I guess I understand why most of these would be here," he said slowly, looking back at her from over a shoulder. "But I don't understand why you'd show me this - if he was immortal he should still be alive. Why did he die? Is he even down here? Are one of these his?"

Kestrel conjured a much larger orb this time and sent it rocketing to the far end of the room - Onmund shielded his eyes as it raced by him - and there it stopped against the back wall, revealing a single pathetic, lonely wooden coffin shoved into a corner.

The wood looked old and dry rotted, it had no name; it was coated in dust and dirt and looked neglected. He gave Kestrel an uneasy look and she slowly strolled toward him between the line of coffins.

"I am not so isolated here as I've made you believe," she started. "I can choose to observe the surface world. It's possible to come and go from here if you know how to navigate the web of protections that surround this place. Many of my apprentices I observed for years, watching them grow and gauging their ambitions, until I offered them a chance to learn from me and plucked them from the life they had. He was one of those...a very ambitious, curious man. Oftentimes he was shunned for radical ideas and his penchant for asking questions, challenging 'common' knowledge. He leapt at the chance to learn under my tutelage - I was offering him exactly what he desired, and he was the perfect companion in all aspects...TOO perfect. I foolishly loved the man - it was difficult not to. That was why I couldn't bear the thought of outliving him, but I couldn't bring myself to turn him either."

Onmund looked back to the wooden coffin again - it definitely didn't look like it belonged to someone that was loved. "What happened?"

"We began to craft our spell... And when it seemed we had succeeded we were both especially cautious not to be too hopeful but also incredibly drunk on the rush of our triumph. For twenty years we carefully monitored him - his appearance, his mental and physical health and needs. Nothing changed. We declared it a victory. And when he was convinced he had immortality with no adverse side effects he went to rid himself of me - the romance had been a ruse."

She said it all matter-of-factly, with hardly any emotion, but Onmund himself was incredibly disturbed and confused. "I...but... But he needed you for the immortality...why would he try to kill you? HOW did he try to kill you? I can't so much as sneeze in your direction without going unconscious."

She laughed softly and rested a hand on his shoulder. "At the time we didn't realize it was shared characteristics...our intentions hadn't been to share, but to gift. And once he thought he had his gift he no longer needed me, just the vast amount of knowledge that he coveted and the freedom to move forward on his own, the-" Kestrel abruptly stopped, biting her lower lip. "-the thing be damned," she finished after a pause.

"Thing...?"

"The thing we guard. That he and I once both guarded out of fear for what it could possibly do," she elaborated. "For all I know he decided he could control that too, and needed me gone so he could take possession of it. I don't know and I don't care, and it's too late to ask him now. To save myself I was forced to kill him, and once he was dead I felt everything I'd gained from him fade...to say nothing of how it feels to have your heart so cruelly broken."

A silence fell between them; Onmund couldn't help but stare at the coffin - his predecessor, right there in front of him, and by all accounts a traitor, a liar, and a would-be murderer.

"So he tried to attack you, failed, and you killed him. Like you almost killed me?"

Kestrel shook her head. "No no, when the spell was between myself and him it wasn't able to kill, and did not prevent him from harming me...it wasn't until after that - much, much later - that I figured out how to add that in. I am not taking that chance again." She turned on a heel and began to walk back to the ladder; the large magelight orb over the coffin in the corner extinguished and, as she walked by them, the other tinier ones began to as well.

Onmund hurried to follow her so he wouldn't be left alone in the dark, and it was a very long climb back up into her room; his arms and legs were burning by the time he hauled himself out of the opening and rolled off the stone slab onto his knees, sitting there in the floor and waiting for the slab to slide back into place before he used it to push himself back to his feet.

She was already moving toward the cloth-covered table and with a flourish yanked the cloth free; the table was a sheet of mirrored glass marked with runes and etched with constellation drawings. At her gesture he came over to look at it -- it was amazing craftsmanship and he'd not seen anything like it before, and he wondered what its purpose was but assumed she'd be telling him if she was showing it to him now.

"This..." she said quietly, running her fingers lightly over its smooth surface, "is a scrying table. A means to look at things from far distances - assuming what you're looking at isn't warded to block your sight."

"Scrying... I've heard of that, actually," Onmund murmured. He too reached out a hand to rest his fingers against the silvered glass; it was cold to the touch and he could feel a sort of latent power within it - something that would awaken with the right application of...something. "I didn't realize you needed something like this to do it though."

"You don't," Kestrel laughed. "You can use a simple map and a pure crystal - I prefer quartz - but it's considerably more difficult, and I dislike doing things the hard way for no reason."

"How does it work?"

"It's a combination of invested magicka from the caster, a high degree of mental focus, and knowledge of your subject or target," she explained. "Having something belonging to someone you're wanting to scry helps but it's not required."

Onmund leaned forward, admiring the etchings and designs within the mirrored surface. "Will I learn how to use this?"

"Of course...though, don't get your hopes up, it will be awhile. It takes a lot of mental training that we've not gotten to yet."

The thought of being able to scry his family, his friends...to be able to see them again, even if it was just through a mirror, was a very tempting, attractive thought. "I definitely want to learn."

With a soft chuckle she placed hands on his shoulders and turned to guide him out of her bedroom. "In time. To build a house you have to have a sturdy foundation - likewise, to climb to new heights with magical skill you must first have a solid foundation of knowledge."

"Yes, yes, I get that," he said with a small laugh. He took a few quick steps to get out in front of her, shrugging off her hands. "What are you showing me today, then?"

"I think today is a fine day to review," came her answer as she stepped ahead of him and led the way to the Hall of Mirrors.

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

Onmund had gotten into the habit of keeping a bound book of blank parchment sitting on his desk - something he thought he could have used as a journal, to leave some record of his discontent and attempts to find freedom again - and yet he hadn't done that at all. Every morning he instead placed another tally mark in a row to keep track of how long he'd been here; by his count he'd been here eight months and six days exactly, which hardly seemed like any time at all.

There were mornings where he woke before Kestrel came for him and he would sit at his desk and read sometimes but far more often he would retreat into daydreams -- he wondered how long the others had looked for him before giving up, how long they'd waited to let his family know he'd "died," or IF they'd even told his family yet...he knew his family would demand a body to be buried which the College obviously couldn't give them. How angry would his parents be at them? Or at HIM for refusing their wishes to be a hunter or farmer and becoming a mage, and (no doubt in their eyes) dying because of his idiotic choice?

There was a part of him that thought he should hate Kestrel for all this...but he didn't. And he also thought that he should still be trying to escape despite the spell that could kill him with a thought...and yet, he didn't want to do that either (and not just because he'd die). He hadn't even given it a thought in...a month, maybe more. The things he was learning here he felt he couldn't learn anywhere else and...well.

Kestrel was a good teacher - a good master mage. He had a lot of learning to do before he'd be advanced enough to help her research or anything like that but she never held that against him. She was firm but kind, never talked down to him, patiently helped when he asked, kept his curiosity and eagerness alive and strong with each new thing, and carried herself with a confidence no doubt born out of untold years of experience - that she seemed terrified of whatever it was that they guarded down here...he wondered if it was better if he never found out. But he knew he would, eventually -- Kestrel's lessons this week had been of mental strength: sharpening his focus, withstanding mental assaults, broadening his ability to multitask (multicast?) rapidly by demanding he juggle several spells or problems all at one time. He'd thought at first that this would be the precursor to learning how to use the scrying table - and maybe it was part of that - but the last few days she'd really doubled down on increasing his mental defenses.

She was preparing to tell him about the thing that was down here with them. She had to be.

Another week went by, and then another. Her lessons didn't change from the mental exercises, nor did she allow him time to practice anything other than that; it was starting to become a bit nerve wracking waking up each morning wondering if today would be that day.

And yet when that morning finally came he found himself oddly calm -- he'd been anticipating this for weeks so maybe it wasn't too strange... Well, he supposed that he hadn't really been afraid of the Eye of Magnus at first either as he had no idea what it was at the time (and look at what'd happened with THAT).

With little fanfare (and hardly speaking) Kestrel led the way back to her room and moved her coffin and the stone slab aside again; they climbed in silence down the stone ladder to the chilled mausoleum and then walked by the dim light of a single magelight orb to the far end of the room where the wooden coffin of the last apprentice sat. Kestrel veered toward the corner opposite of that coffin and seemed to simply disappear into thin air, though the air itself appeared to ripple like a pond's surface. Onmund paused, uncertain of what he'd just seen, then Kestrel's disembodied hand stuck out of the midst of the air ripples and gestured for him to come closer.

He did and felt the hair on his arms stand on end as he passed through some sort of magical field; looking back out into the room was almost nauseating as everything visually rippled, like he was at the bottom of a deep pool looking upward. There was a semi circle of runes carved into the floor and up the walls that were only visible if he was standing within it and Onmund swore his teeth were vibrating from all the power concentrated in this one tiny area; it was a very bizarre feeling overall but it did look as though they simply stood together in a rune circle as the walls and floor still remained - or appeared - solid.

Kestrel then began reaching out to runes etched into the walls, touching them rapidly and in a sequence Onmund had no hope of following; he heard a deep thrum, and felt it in his bones too, and then a sliver of the wall disappeared -- it was a sliver just barely wide enough to let Kestrel slide through turned sideways, and it was a considerably tighter fit for his larger frame. By the time he'd squeezed through he was panting and shaking a bit from the sudden onset of immense claustrophobia and jumped a bit at Kestrel's cold hand on his arm.

The light that came through the gap in the wall seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness in this room; there was a sharp border at the edge of it's light - very sharp, like something solid stood there but Onmund couldn't see anything...but he could feel something. Something that scratched at his mind, a mental tickle, a hissing that rose and fell with the cadence of someone speaking...something in this room wanted his attention. A sense of unease filled him and he clamped down with the mental protection spells Kestrel had been drilling into him for three weeks; the scratching and whispering became quieter, but didn't go away completely.

Kestrel's fingers dug into his sleeve - she hadn't let go of him since they'd stepped into his room. At her quiet word a magelight orb appeared above their heads and its light too cut off abruptly about ten feet from them as though a wall was casting a shadow there, but all Onmund could see was a deep darkness.

"I am only going to show you a glimpse," she said quietly. "I don't dare risk anything longer than that. Are you prepared?"

"I...I think so."

Kestrel kept her hand on his arm but tugged and pushed him ahead of her, positioning him so he directly faced the darkness; only then did her hand move from his arm to his waist and her other came up to rest at his belt as well.

Then the darkness dropped, and the whispers and scratching hit him with renewed strength.

It wasn't language as he recognized it - it wasn't words. It was...emotion, and images. He didn't even fully grasp what he was looking at as he wrestled to keep the wordless whispers at bay -- he saw a brief glimpse of something black and shining like obsidian, spiky and about the size of a book, and as his gaze fell on it he felt a compulsion to pick it up and put it on.

Whatever it was wanted him to wear it - it was a powerful artifact and Kestrel had no right to keep it from its rightful wielder. He saw himself as Arch-Mage in a spiked crown, guiding young minds without fear of persecution or concern about what the damned Nords thought of his College. All he needed to do was cross the room, pick it up, put it on, and he'd be free of his damned slave master as well.

And between Kestrel's firm grip on his hips and his own struggle to stay put he managed to cut through the scratching and non-noise, through the compulsion; he grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut - NOT looking at it shut him off from the desire to grab the...the whatever that was, though it did little to silence the noise in his mind.

And then it went silent - or as silent as it had been when they'd first entered; his heart was beating rapidly and he felt a little lightheaded, and put a hand to Kestrel's on his hip and took comfort that yes, she was still there. When he finally worked up the courage to open his eyes he found the strange wall of darkness was back in place. Everything had returned to normal.

He shrugged Kestrel's hands off and, on unsteady legs, squeezed himself back through the gap in the wall and into the mausoleum, falling against one of the nearby empty iron coffins and trying to get his heart rate and ragged breathing back under control. He was only faintly aware of Kestrel coming out through the gap behind him and replacing all the warding spells; his heartbeat was impossibly loud in the quiet, and he didn't argue when she gently slipped one of his arms over her shoulder and in turn slid one of her arms around his waist and half guided, half carried him back to the far side of the room to lean him against the wall beside the base of the ladder.

It felt like an age had passed before he composed himself, and when he looked up to Kestrel she wore an expression devoid of any emotion.

"What... What did I just look at?" he whispered.

Kestrel slowly lowered herself down to squat on her heels in front of him, looking him in the eyes. "I call it the Crown of Domination... I know very little about it. It bears the power and mark of Molag Bal, and I suspect it might have even originated in Coldharbour. Even before I lowered a few protections to let you see it you still felt its influence, yes?"

He nodded weakly. "I - I did, yes. I felt something trying to claw its way in, and there were whispers that weren't actually words, but I understood what it wanted me to do. I don't even know what I really saw - just...spikes, and a black shine."

"It compels whoever looks at it to put it on...I'm not nearly brave enough to try and figure out what is meant to happen if it's worn," she said softly. "Are you all right?"

"You keep that thing down here...so close to where you sleep?"

She nodded. "I found it hundreds of years ago, entirely by accident. I was unprepared for it, and my apprentice at the time..." She shifted, turning to place a knee on the floor to balance herself as she looked back to the lines of coffins. "That's her - third from the left. There was once a time where I used my illusions to live freely among mortals...she was my only apprentice but we had partnered with several scholars from the capital to unearth what we'd been led to believe was a Black Book. It most definitely wasn't - we all fell under some sort of...ensnaring mental magic. One of the scholars closest to the crown put it on, and before I managed to break free of the spell he had already slaughtered my apprentice and all but two other men. When I struck him down the other two fought to claim it themselves and killed one another."

"That's awful..." His hands were shaking and he clenched them in his lap, blowing out a breath. "And you don't know what its supposed to do?"

"No, I do not. Did you see visions? Promises of power?"

He nodded. "I saw myself as Arch-Mage, teaching others...unafraid of the Nords and their stupid attitudes toward magic. And free of you and your spell," he added after a pause, glancing up to her uneasily.

She turned around, looking thoughtful; carefully she folded her legs under her to sit on the freezing floor. "It may very well be it just shows you what you desire, or what it thinks you desire. I can't be certain because what it initially showed me was nothing I had ever wanted once in my entire, considerable life."

"I've never thought of ever rising to the rank of Arch-Mage. I just wanted to learn," Onmund murmured. He again glanced to her and then quickly looked away -- he didn't want to be Arch-Mage, and he'd thought that he didn't want to leave either...he thought he'd come to terms with that. But if the crown showed him something it thought he wanted - if it was going to show him whatever it needed to to make him put it on...

With a huff he forced himself to look back at her - he would try to understand his own thoughts on that half of it later. "If that thing is so dangerous, why risk anyone else? If your last apprentice actually did want that crown for himself -- I mean, is the spell on me enough to protect or deter me from that? What if it DOES get to me somehow?"

She smiled kindly at him. "It won't. My wards and simple distance between you and it has worked for far, right?" At her question he nodded. "You have nothing to worry about. And as for why I would risk other apprentices...it was always my hope that we would find a way to safely destroy it - or, well. A way TO destroy it, period. Maybe you will be the one to help me with that goal...I certainly hope so."

Onmund was silent a moment, letting that sink in; he might technically be a captive but if they found a way to destroy the crown then he'd be a hero, and there'd be no reason to stay hidden away down here. "-if we destroy it, we could leave, right?" Kestrel tilted her head, looking at him curiously; that she hadn't immediately said no encouraged him. "I mean, if we don't have to guard that thing anymore, we could just go back to the surface. You said you used to hide among mortals - there'd be no reason to stay hidden down here anymore, right? And there'd be no reason to forcibly keep me with you either since there's no secret left to keep. Not that I'd leave," he added hurriedly. "You've taught me a great deal and I want to learn more. But...if the crown is gone...?"

With another kind smile she leaned forward to pat his shoulder, then stood and moved to the ladder. "It's fine to dream of the world from time to time, but don't let it distract you from what we must do."

"I understand. I understand a lot better now."

"Good. Go and rest...we'll begin again tomorrow."

#The Master's Apprentice #tma #The Master's Apprentice - ch 6 #Onmund #AU #Skyrim

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sunbrights · 7 years

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could you do 14 w kuzupeko??

14: “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

This one has some disturbing content – please read with discretion!

(Leave me a number and a pairing and I’ll write you a thing! I’m slowing down on these a little, but they’ll definitely all get done. Thanks for your patience, guys!)

Munakata gets lucky. He catches Peko off-guard, hits her hard, and takes her down.

Fuyuhiko sticks his arm out the window of the sedan and puts three bullets in his shoulder.

There’s a frenzy after that, but it doesn’t last long. It’s an armored car, which Sakakura knows; the spray of bullets that hits the passenger side door has to be mostly for show. Under the cover of the noise, the Future Foundation falls back. They drag Munakata away, then turn tail and run.

Predictable. It’s embarrassing, is what it is. Sakakura should leave that shit at home.

Peko just lies there, through all of it; from this angle he can only really see the flutter of her hair against the dirt. When the commotion quiets, she doesn’t get up.

He tucks his revolver in his waistcoat and kicks the passenger door open. The ride-alongs in the backseat follow suit without needing to be told. They spread out, to keep his perimeter.

He follows the slope of the hill down to her. He understands where she fucked up, now: it stormed a few days ago, and the soil here is loose. She must have lost a split-second of footing, and it did her in.

She’s gotten far enough along to roll over onto her back, but not any further than that. The wound carves up from her hip to her ribcage on the left side, a nasty, messy piece of work. It’s not deep enough to have hit anything vital, but the blood spills and spills and doesn’t stop. The stench of it hits him first, and fills him up until his head spins.

He stops by her feet, and her eyes roll open. She isn’t putting any pressure on the wound.

“That was fucking stupid,” he tells her.

Her chin dips down towards her chest. It’s supposed to be a nod, he thinks.

The oozing pool of blood around her is turning the dirt to black, thick mud. He kneels in it, and relishes the way it squelches under him, lukewarm. “S’why I’m here,” he says, fishing in his jacket. “I’m here. I got it.”

Three bullets in Munakata’s shoulder means three bullets left in the chamber of his revolver. He flicks it open and shakes them out into his palm. “Fifty-fifty shot,” he marvels. “Shit, I didn’t even do that on purpose. I just fucking hate that asshole.” He puts each of them back, evenly spaced in the chamber. He tries to show her, but her glassy eyes won’t leave his face.

“It’s even,” he tells her. “It’s fair. You and me, we each got a solid shot.” He snaps the chamber back into place, and spins it with the flat of his palm. “It’s perfect. Like it’s fucking meant to be.”

Her bloody right hand grasps at the dirt.

“I got it,” he says again. He flips the gun around to hold it by the barrel. “Gimme your hand.”

She can’t do it on her own. He has to swing one leg over her waist to get the right angle on her, and the extra weight on her pelvis actually makes her wince, a fascinating tangle on her face.

He wants to stay like this. He wants to wring the pain out of her, until it’s written across every inch of her, but neither of them have that kind of time right now.

He bends over her, and tucks her loose hand into his. He curls her palm around the grip, sets her finger on the trigger, and settles over her, elbows splayed on either side of her head.

They’re chest-to-chest like this. He can feel every labored breath of hers, rising and falling against him, so he tries to match her, breath for breath. It’s slow and uneven enough that it makes him feel like he’s choking.

He makes her press the barrel of the gun against his temple.

Panic closes in from all sides. There are tears gathering on her bottom lashes. They’re close enough to kiss, but neither of them do.

It’s perfect. It couldn’t be more perfect if they’d planned it themselves.

“Ready?” he whispers.

Her chin dips down.

He squeezes her finger around the trigger. The hammer snaps down.

It clicks harmlessly in his ear.

Adrenaline rushes out. His fingers turn limp. She can’t hold it up by herself, so the gun goes clattering into the dirt next to her head.

He has to turn his face down against her collarbone. It’s unsportsmanlike to gloat, but the grin splits his face open anyway, and the laughter tears itself out through the gaps. “Fuck,” he chokes. “I fucking win. Holy shit.”

He rolls off of her. It’s only when his stomach peels away from hers that he feels how much the blood has soaked into his shirt, enough that it clings to his ribcage, wet and warm. The bloody mud pit next to them has gotten wider, too. Clumps of it stick in his hair when he hits the ground.

She breathes in: long, but shallow and rattling. He forces himself up to his hands and knees. He can’t miss it now, not after that.

He manages to get her head settled in his lap. From here, he has the best view: he can watch how the dark red stain spreads through her clothes, and how the wider it gets the paler she becomes. He can see the cold sweat on her forehead, count her breaths, feel the sluggish beat of her pulse until it’s gone.

Her eyes are shut.

They’re not screwed up, the way they were before. They’re smooth, calm, serene. He tucks his fingers against her neck, just to be sure. She’s still there. He should have time.

“Peko,” he whispers.

Her eyelids lift halfway. She looks up at him, eyes dull. He pulls her bangs away from her forehead so he can get a better look.

She looks so sure, so settled. That’s not how this is supposed to be at all. He won, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t get to feel any of it. They’re supposed to feel it together, him watching her slip away and her watching him suffer it.

He can already feel it, the chill creeping beneath his sternum, and she isn’t even fucking dead yet.

(Her skin is so soft under his fingertips, feverishly warm. His heart thrums in his chest. What is he supposed to do, when he’s all alone?)

Her eyes slip shut again.

“Hey,” he barks at whoever’s there, beyond his shoulder. “Get Tsumiki.”

They do. They bring her, and she sinks to her knees behind him, arms sliding around his neck and shoulders. She sets her nose in his hair and breathes in the stench of blood.

“Is it happening?” she whispers. She peers past his shoulder, down into Peko’s face, and sucks in a little gasp, almost a moan. “Oh. It is, isn’t it?” She smooths her palm down his stomach, where Peko’s blood is still fresh and damp. “You’re so lucky. There’s nothing else like it. Knowing that she’s gone forever, that you sat by and watched it happen… You’ll never hear her voice, or smell her hair, or touch her hand…” Her voice wobbles and cracks. Her nails dig in, sharp. “It’s everything.”

“Shut up,” he spits. “And get the fuck off of me.” He drags his fingers through the curl of Peko’s hair on her shoulder. They get stuck on knots and tangles. “Patch her up.”

Tsumiki’s sliding fingers freeze on his shoulder. Her breathy lilt flattens to stone. “What?”

The gun is lying in the dirt next to his knee. He snatches it up, and shoves it haphazardly behind his head, against her ear. The hammer clicks when he draws it into place. “Did I fucking stutter?” he hisses. When Tsumiki doesn’t move, he drives the gun harder against her scalp. “Patch. Her. Up.”

She oozes out from behind him. She glares at the dirt, her face tight and dark. “Weak,” she snarls at nothing. “They never deserved the time you gave them, beloved… They never understood… Not the way I do…”

She tears back Peko’s jacket to get at the wound underneath. The mess of black, coagulated blood makes her smile, and it’s like the rage was never there. She giggles, drawing a spiral with one fingertip. “Wake up, Pekoyama-san,” she croons, face bent low. “You’re not leaving yet.”

Peko’s eyelids struggle open again. She bypasses Tsumiki completely to stare at him, and her gaze is cloudy, confused.

“You’re with me,” he snaps, “until I decide. Got it?”

She reaches her right hand out toward his face. She only gets part of the way there, the tips of her fingers smearing tracks of blood on his cheek before she manages to catch his chin.

She whispers, “Always.”

#fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #sdr2 #me: turning nice prompts fucked up 2k17 #i hope you still like it anon!!!#thank you for asking!!!!#i promise i don't do this on purpose rip #i got like no work done last week but i'm AMPED UP this week #anon #memes #sunwrites

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alnilam-fr · 7 years

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sixteen tons, part one

@jollyroger-fr @hellkite-fr @fr-owlistuff @puffins-and-bears @tirnaillclan @ianlestraud-fr @starongie @jadedragons @fr-mar@majestyrising @almaren-fr @intergalacticsock

Some people say a man is made outta' mud A poor man's made outta' muscle and blood Muscle and blood and skin and bones A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong

Baleen rolled her shoulders, tilting her head up into the dim grey sunlight that filtered down through the clouds of steam rising where the obsidian lava floes met the sea. The watery light gleamed on her broad back and scratched wings, blackened with dirt. Taking a deep breath, the Guardian dived over the edge of the cliff and down into the bruise-dark seawater below.

The first sting of saltwater on her bruises burned, and a burst of bubbles escaped her mouth as she roared in the dark water. A cold upwelling from the abyssal depths reached the surface here, turning to a dark steam as it met the burning land, and Baleen swam down deeper into the cold water. The thick layer of blubber beneath her scales muffled the first shock of the cold, but she could feel it working at her exposed ears and the tips of her claws. As she swam deeper, pushing herself through the silty water with great beats of her white wings, the sharp-biting coldness of the current numbed her aching muscles, and she sighed with soft relief.

Once she reached the seafloor, Baleen settled into a coiled heap in the black coal-dust mud and stretched her talons, rolling onto her back in the rough, slimy mud. The muffled ringing of alarm bells startled her from her doze, and she breached the surface in an explosion of black spray.

Cave-in.

The fog had grown thicker, a burning kind of dusk lying heavy over the sea and the volcanoes rising in the north. Baleen swam toward land with powerful strokes, and heaved herself up onto the dusty beach as the bronze bells sang their death-knell. She took a second to shake the water from her scales and then ran toward the mines with a great rolling stride.

“How many?” she demanded, shouldering her way through the crowd. She stood head and shoulders above most of the other dragons gathered around the collapsed shaft, and the thunder-boom of her voice rang out over the crowd.

“Five,” coughed a thin Coatl by the name of Manta. He halfheartedly brushed some of the soot from his feathers, as though checking that they retained their tropical blue-green brilliance. “Caspian, Nor’wester, Actinian, Constellation, and Hammerhead. We can hear them in the shaft, but they’re far down.”

“Who’s the overseer on duty?” someone asked in the crowd.

“Kraken,” came the response, with a groan. He was like to be already in the town’s pub drinking away his silver.

Baleen lashed her tail, shoving her way past Manta to the shaft entrance. The mouth of the shaft was clogged with boulders, and the great iron support beam was twisted down across the opening. Beyond the boulders, there was only the hot hungry womb-darkness of the Flamecaller’s mines.

“Can you hear me?” she called, and the gathered crowd fell silent. Constellation’s brother Harrier was weeping softly, and Actinian’s mother crumpled silently into a heap in the choking dust.

“We’re here,” called a voice, faintly. “Norwester an’ Caspian are hurt.”

“Shaft’s gonna fall apart soon,” someone else sang out. Hammerhead, the team’s tunneling expert. “I can hear the knock-knock-knocking getting closer.” Hammerhead always was touched in the head. Baleen’s mother said the Snapper had breathed too much blackpowder, while they were still using it to blast the mine tunnels.

“I’m coming,” Baleen roared back. “We’re coming down for you.”

“But we can’t possibly get that unstopped enough to fit a dragon through,” cried out Harrier through his tears. Baleen bared her teeth, triple-rowed like a shark, and Harrier flinched back and twitched his antennae.

She turned back to the collapsed mouth and braced her shoulder against the largest boulder, heaving it aside with a great push. The boulder bounced down the slope of scree, and Baleen grabbed the next, and the next, pulling them free of the mouth and hefting them down the side of the mountain. “Get some ropes there!” she bellowed, her voice bouncing from the slopes of the mountain to the steaming cliffs at the edge of the water.

And she grabbed the iron beam in her forelegs and lifted, her barrel-chest pressing against the metal as she pushed it upwards. Something clattered down in the mines, and one of the trapped dragons cried out.

“Hold steady!” shouted Hammerhead. “Another move and the shaft’s sure to come down!”

“We can get out now, I think,” the first voice called. “Harrier, are you up there?”

“Constellation!”

Baleen’s legs trembled, and she gritted her ivory shark-teeth and flattened her ears. The edge of the beam bit into her shoulder. “Here,” someone called behind her. “Throw those ropes down!”

A spray of dust and loose rock fell from the ceiling of the shaft as the ropes were threaded down and knotted. “Here comes Caspian,” called Constellation. “And Actinian after him.” The two Coatls appeared in the darkness, wide-eyed and heavy with soot. Actinian’s mother cried out and ran forward to pull him past Baleen’s legs, out into the dusky light on the shore.

“Send up Nor’wester next,” Baleen gasped.

“His leg’s hurt bad,” Constellation said. “I’m going to try and help him out. Can you throw us another rope?”

“Here,” Manta hummed. “Try makin’ a sling.”

“Working on it,” called back Constellation. After a few more moments, the ropes tightened. “We’re set!”

Baleen closed her eyes, red and green exploding on the insides of her eyelids like the toxic flowers that grew heavy on the mountainside in the summertime. She took a hoarse breath. She breathed. She breathed. She breathed.

“Hammerhead!” Constellation shouted. The Skydancer’s pinions quivered nervously, and he reached out to grab the Snapper’s thick talons. With one last, massive effort, Baleen forced the shaft open wide enough for Hammerhead to roll through, and then her legs folded and she felt something heavy strike the side of her head.

You load sixteen tons, what’da ya get? Another day older and deeper in debt Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go I owe my soul to the company store

“Baleen!”

Baleen opened her eyes and coughed weakly, a lightning-bolt of pain running through her skull and down her neck. She spread her wings, and the homespun blankets slid off her back onto the floor. There was a kunzite lantern hanging from the ceiling, casting a soft stained-glass pink glow over the floor.

“Granny,” Baleen croaked.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” cooed her grandmother, a small and sandy Guardian as wrinkled as the old apples she kept in the back of the cabinet. “Have some tea. I put sunshine in it for you, for the soothin’ of your throat.”

Baleen laughed painfully. When she was a hatchling, Granny had explained what sunshine looked like by holding up a jar of honey to the window, and the feeble misty light that filled their waking hours had turned to a pale gold. She had called it sunshine.

Sunshine didn’t feel real, after spending her life in a dusk reeking of thunder and sulphur fumes. Baleen was halfway convinced, most days, that Granny had just made it up, a pretty word from story-books. (She believed in stars. She had seen a star once, many years ago, when the smog-clouds parted for a bare minute. It had been silver and cold and very, very far away, like a candle seen from underwater.)

“Granny,” she said, taking the mug delicately between two talons and sniffing the green-smelling steam, “You can’t afford to be using honey. Where will we ever get more?”

“Where will we use it, if not today?” replied Granny, the same old argument as always as she tucked the nearly empty jar of golden honey far, far back into the cupboard, with the dried herbs and the old wrinkled apples. “Now rest. Trench says you’re to be working again in the morning.”

Outside, the heavy gray of the fog faded into an all-encompassing charcoal black.

#flight rising #fr lore #c: baleen #lore

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satyr-syd · 7 years

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Kouda likes hiking in the mornings best. He loves life at UA, but sometimes it can be a little nerve wracking. The time when the sun’s peeking over the horizon, giving just enough light to see, but not blazing down from the middle of the sky, and when the animals are just beginning to stir, before the chaos of UA life begins - that’s Kouda’s favorite time to hike.

There’s a mountain near the dorms that lies undisturbed by UA facilities. He comes here every Sunday. This many months into dorm life, it’s become routine by now. Kouda got permission from Aizawa to hike up here, provided he stick to the path and tell people where he is.

Sometimes Jirou or Tokoyami will come with him. He appreciates their company; he likes having a friend to hike with. Plus, they can scare off the bugs for him. As much as Kouda loves nature, sometimes his fear of bugs holds him back. He especially hates the summer when the bugs come out. When he was younger, all the other kids would always ask him to use his quirk to summon beetles for them to catch, and it was always embarrassing to explain to them why he couldn’t.

Luckily, it’s nearing winter, so it’s not so bad that he’s out here alone. The weather is perfect; a cool breeze counteracts the effects of the bright sun. His boots pat against the dirt as he follows the trail he takes whenever he comes up here. A call of a bird directs his attention to the sky. A black kite sails overhead, wingtips glowing gold in the lazy sunlight. Kouda watches as it suddenly dives into treetops, no doubt snatching up a rabbit or shrew for breakfast.

It used to bother him, watching animals eat other animals. He understands now that all animals need to eat, and some animals need to eat other animals, and that’s the way it is. That’s the cycle of life.

It’s still a little sad, though.

Kouda crouches down and mumbles, “Good morning creatures of the grass and trees, follow me on my trek through the flora of this godly mountain, if you would like.”

A dozen mice scramble up to his side, soon joined by a few rabbits. He stands up, and beacons them to follow as he takes to the pathway once more.

He walks with the animals for a half hour in silence. By now, he’s almost halfway up the mountain.

Suddenly the rabbit in front of him comes to a halt, ears perked up. Kouda looks up and listens carefully; he can hear rustling of leaves, shoes crunching against the undergrowth.

A figure bursts through the bushes, and the animals scatter.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Bakugou comes out of the bushes, dressed in a black workout jacket and cargo pants hanging low on his hips, a red backpack looped over his shoulder.

Kouda’s jaw almost drops. Bakugou was the last person he expected to see out here.

Apparently Bakugou thought the same.

“The fuck you are doing out here?” Bakugou glances at his boots and backpack. “Hiking?”

Kouda nods.

Bakugou gives him another look, the walks out onto the pathway up ahead of him, continuing on without a second thought.

Happy to have someone else with him, Kouda comes up to Bakugou’s side - keeping a few feet between them - and starts walking next to him.

Bakugou stops, and looks at him.

“You don’t talk much,” he states.

Kouda grins nervously and shrugs. It’s true, he’s not much of a talker, unless he’s using his quirk. Since he was little, he primarily used sign language around his single hard-of-hearing mother, so he didn’t need to talk much. The habit stuck when he entered school.

Bakugou gives him one more look, then continues walking. Kouda followed a moment after, and they walk in silence, the only noise from the wind whispering through the autumn leaves and the sound of birds chirping as they fly high in the sky.

As time goes by, a small horde of animals begins following them. With Bakugou’s uncharacteristically calm demeanor, the animals are comfortable around him. They walk closer and closer, until he and Bakugou are being followed by a small army of shrews and rabbits and foxes and even a few deer, like ducklings behind their mother.

Kouda decides walking with Bakugou is nice. He keeps a fair pace, not as fast as Jirou and not as slow as Tokoyami, and doesn’t try and force conversation. There also seems to be less bugs around them. Kouda wonders if it’s because Bakugou’s sweat smells bad to the bugs. Like a natural bug spray. Or maybe they’re just scared of him, Kouda thinks, smiling to himself. Who could blame them?

Suddenly Bakugou pauses. The animals stop with him. Then he hurries off the path, disappearing into the trees before Kouda can follow.

Huh? Was he supposed to follow? Or was Bakugou done, and he wanted to leave? Kouda lingers in the middle of the pathway, tapping his fingers together while he debates what to do.

Kouda’s just about the ask a fox to follow him when Bakugou comes trudging back, a massive stick in his hand. Without an explanation, he continues forward, dragging the stick behind him in a perfect line.

Kouda looks at the animals and shrugs. Not what he was expecting, but he can understand the joy that comes with carrying a big stick. He hurries to catch up with Bakugou, careful not to tread on the line he makes.

Bakugou watches the trees tops like a fox on the hunt. Kouda watches him watch the forest. Kouda wouldn’t have pegged Bakugou as someone who appreciates nature, but he did hear from Kirishima that Bakugou liked hiking, so maybe this shouldn’t have been a surprise.

Suddenly Bakugou stops. He tiptoe toward a tree next to the pathway, eyes wide and focused. He eases the branch against the tree, aiming for a small spot on the trunk.

That’s when Kouda sees the beetle, and his blood goes cold.

He can only watch at the beetle crawls from the tree onto the top of Bakugou’s branch. Bakugou lets out of a shout of victory and parades the stick around in the air, oblivious to Kouda’s fear. Kouda tries to step back but Bakugou smirks and shoves the branch at him.

The beetle is nearly as large his finger and it is two inches away from his face.

Kouda bolts, stumbling backwards and falling against a tree trunk five meters away from Bakugou and the branch.

Bakugou flings the stick over his shoulder. “The fuck is wrong?”

Kouda points his finger to the branch and shakes his head.

He glances at the branch, and back at Kouda, and takes the beetle off the top of the branch and into his hand. Kouda holds his breath, watching the beetle like a hawk. Bakugou just flings it into the trees, far away from them.

Trying not to act as embarrassed as he feels, Kouda recovers his composure and hurries back next to Bakugou, hands clenched in front of him awkwardly. They start walking down the path again. The animals were scared off in his fright, and Kouda doesn’t want to take the time to call them back.

He twiddles his fingers as he waits for Bakugou to comment on his fear.

“Doesn’t your quirk make you an animal whisperer or something?” Bakugou asks skeptically.

There it is. Kouda nods.

“And you’re afraid of bugs? That’s stupid.”

Kouda looks down at his hands. He knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help it. They’re just so creepy, they have too many legs and they’re too small and they’re definitely not soft. He knows he can deal with bugs when he has too, thanks to Jirou, but only when he absolutely has to, and that’s good enough for him.

“A quirk is an extension of yourself,” Bakugou goes on. “If you don’t use it to your maximum capacity, it’s like you're leaving part of yourself behind. That’s just fucking dumb.”

Kouda never really thought of it like that before.

Is he really just content mastering part of his power? Everyone at UA gives it their all. Jirou made her ears bleed just so they could pass their end of term exam. Kouda needs to do his best to support than all too, and if he wasn’t using the full potential of his quirk, then he wasn’t doing that at all.

They reach the peak in no time, the edge of a sloping cliff that overlooks the UA campus. Of all the aspects of the mountain, Kouda’s favorite thing is the view. From here, they can see all of UA spread out before them, as tiny as a children’s play set. He spots the dorms, where the rest of their classmates are probably sleeping in on this Sunday morning.

Bzzz.

Kouda flinches. Oh dear, what was that?

Something brushes against his arm. Gulping, Kouda looks down.

There, on his arm, is the largest, creepiest moth he’s ever seen.

“KKYAAAAAA!”

Kouda leaps up, shaking his arm wildly as he runs around in circles. Suddenly his foot catches on a branch and Kouda finds himself tumbling headfirst down the cliff face. Adrenaline rushes through him as he grapples for something to hang on to. He catches on to a root, and hangs on for dear life, huddling against the rocky wall of the cliff face.

Once he’s sure he’s not immediately going to fall to his death - and that the moth is long gone - Kouda peeks down.

“EEEEK!”

The cliff slopes down at a steep incline and it’s a long, long way to fall. What are his options? He can call a deer, and grabs its horns to pull him up, but he doesn’t think a deer would be strong enough to lift him, but maybe two deer? Or perhaps -

“Gimme your hand!”

Kouda looks up. Bakugou is bending over the side of the cliff, hand extended towards him.

“The fuck are you waiting for, dumbass?” he barks, opening his hand again. “Take it!”

Having witnessed Bakugou’s quirk in action, his outstretched hand is almost as terrifying as bugs, but Kouda takes it without hesitating.

Their hands clasped together, Bakugou yanks him up and over the peak, sending them toppling over into the soft dirt behind them. Kouda rolls and bumps into a tree. His chest heaves shaking breaths and he clutches the ground below him, thankful for a solid surface.

Once his heart has and the adrenaline has started to fade, Kouda pushes himself up into a sitting position, back resting against the tree trunk.

Bakugou’s sitting in the dirt a few feet away, shaking out his arm.

“Thank you,” Kouda tells him.

Bakugou looks up at him, eyes wide in surprise. Kouda expects him to say something along the lines of “So you can speak!” or “I see what you mean about the bugs,” but he doesn’t say anything at all.

Maybe his way of saying thanks for Kouda not patronizing him by saying “Wow, I didn’t know you could rescue people!” or something that insinuates Bakugou isn’t hero material. Knowing Bakugou, probably not, but Kouda can imagine it anyway. Words unspoken are sometimes more important than anything that can be said.

In lieu of words, Bakugou stands up, smacks the dirt off his pants, grabs his bag, and heads down the mountain without looking back. Kouda lifts himself up and hurries after him.

Out of all their classmates, Bakugou scares him the most. He figures most of their classmates would say the same. It was a little difficult to imagine the guy who wanted to be called “King of Explodo-kills” as a hero, but right then, Kouda had no trouble at all.

About halfway down the mountain, Kouda notices a spider crawling on Bakugou’s shoulder.

Kouda freezes in his tracks. He feels his heart thundering in his chest, senses still heightened from his encounter with the moth. He watches its spindly legs creep along Bakugou’s jacket, making its way toward his neck.

Kouda gulps and steels himself. After Bakugou saved him, he want to do something in return. He wants to support his classmates, even if it’s scary. He’d done it once. He can do it again.

He starts muttering before he can think too long about it. “Oh, eight legged beast, venture far into the wilderness, long ways away from here, if you please.”

Bakugou whips around, right as the spider jumps of his shoulder and onto the ground. “The fuck are you saying?” Bakugou asks.

Kouda points to the spider. They watch as it scurries across the dirt and climbs up a tree. Kouda shudders, trying forget the sight of those creepy crawly legs.

“I thought you said you were afraid of bugs?” Bakugou asks.

Kouda smiles sheepishly and nods.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow. Kouda thinks he sees something like satisfaction, but maybe he’s imagining it. He certainly feels satisfied with himself - maybe even proud. He knows it’s just one spider, but like his mother always tells him, little steps move you forward, too.

The make it back to the dorms before anyone else is up.

“You gonna hike up there next weekend?” Bakugou asks him.

Kouda nods.

“Same time?”

He gives a thumbs up.

Bakugou gives him a crooked smile. “Maybe next time we’ll catch some bugs to leave them on Kaminari’s bed. That’ll teach him not to fuck with me when I’m cooking again.”

Kouda shakes his hands no but Bakugou just gives a barking laugh and walks upstairs.

Kouda smiles to himself. Looks like he gained a new hiking partner. Today’s adventure was not at all what he was expecting and maybe a little terrifying, but Kouda can confidently say that he’s looking forward to next week’s trip.

ao3 | based on this hc | more like this

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha fic #katsuki bakugou #kouji kouda #meant to be platonic #adventures with bakugou #my writing

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cloudbattrolls · 4 years

Text

Homecoming

Rhyssa || The Ruins of a Long-Abandoned Jade Cavern || Perigees Ago

Jaws closed around the rainbowdrinker, crunching up her many thoraxes and abdomens, her pretty little faceted eyes that did all the seeing since she’d lost the ability to grow ones in her skull, segmented legs and clear fluttering wings alike consumed by that damn beast in the forest.

All she could think was aw, hell, not again.

She never died, not really. It wasn’t allowed. But in the times between reforming, she couldn’t do much of anything either. It was like a troll’s sleep, without any dreams. Rhyssa couldn’t dream; she thought it must be fun, some weird lump of a big fleshy brain making sounds and images shoot through your noggin for no reason.

More fun than waiting to reform in her stupid hollowed out egg, cracked and half in pieces from her original exit as she slowly formed enough wasps to think again. It had been better when the cavern wasn’t so noisy; when Mama had been in a condition to keep it free of pests. But now all sorts of animals had crept down here, even a small lusus or two.

When she’d been awake more, they wouldn’t have dared. They knew what was good for them.

The white wasp swarm that crawled out of the ancient eggshell was sluggish and much too small to form a body yet. It was damn dark down here too; the only light came from the faintly glowing fungus clusters on the walls, and insect eyes couldn’t see far anyway. But she could feel well enough, all her antennae waving to pick up the movements and smells in the cavern, which mostly consisted of small furry scurrying things that reeked.

Damn, she missed the surface. She loved Mama and all, but...

A great shifting came from deeper in the cavern, causing small rocks to fall from the ceiling as the floor rumbled and stopped. Rhyssa wished she had a mouth to sigh with.

Instead her wasps buzzed their displeasure, resignedly taking flight and dutifully making their way toward the deep pit where her progenitor had slept for nearly a fifth of her lifetime.

A mouse scurried out of the way and she nearly killed it out of spite. This was her space, dammit. But the insects flew on instead.

What would the trolls call the time Mama had slept? A thousand sweeps? Something like that. She’d never cared much for their calendars that marked off single sunsets and sunrises like they were important. Nothing changed that quick. Nothing that mattered. But maybe she had some memories of days and nights she’d loved enough to make storage hives for them. She couldn’t recall now, not with her swarm so small.

At least all she had to do right now was fly - even if it was painfully slow as the dirt and cracked stone sloped down, down, down. She was so damn hungry. If there’d been a troll nearby she would’ve drank all their blood, no matter how cute they were.

There was no fungus light down in the bottom of the pit. She could hear Mama’s breathing, smell her familiar dusty scent. The darkness was so thick she felt it cover her like a blanket, her many small wings beating it as if it were a solid thing.

Rocks and sprays of dirt were dislodged as Rhyssa’s mother rolled halfway over, her deep breaths sending small eddies into the air as her offspring landed to avoid the breeze.

Mama. Wake up. I gotta tell you something.

A feeble flicker of awareness came from the slumbering brain. Nothing more.

Mama! I know I don’t have blood for ya, but listen! I found the worm!

No response.

Rhyssa wanted to scream, but again, no damn mouth. A mouth she’d lost trying to help her ungrateful mother. The mother she’d made a whole town for, looking after them, keeping them happy, even learning their names. Getting their blood for her.

She knew it wasn’t the old biddy’s fault, not really. Mama barely knew what was what these nights.

That didn’t stop her from using her stingers to jab her in the side.

It took who knew how long of that before mama finally answered, before Rhyssa felt her great blind eyes opening and sensed the change in her progenitor’s brain, the irate consciousness reaching out to her own.

My child is dead. They are all dead. Except you and the butterfly and the isopod. You stay far away in your troll shells and forget me.

Rhyssa rolled her eyes in spirit. She often had, when she could still grow them, before they’d been taken away. She so missed eyes with pupils.

I send blood down here the most, you hag. Ya want a postcard? Ya can’t even read it.

The answering reply was passively disdainful, in a tone Rhyssa knew, resented, and did her best to ignore.

The butterfly sends more.

Oh for the love of - just listen. I found a worm, and sure, I can’t for sure say honest to goodness it’s our worm yet, but I’m gonna find out.

If the worm hadn’t died they would come back from my egg. They never did.

Okay, I admit that’s an issue, but at least have some hope, would ya? I’m tryin’ to help. Dunno why I bother. Not like you care.

A long, gnarled leg, segmented and covered with hairs, lashed out at the swarm.

Rhyssa mostly dodged, but a few wasps were too slow and got squashed. Normally she’d barely notice, but in her minimized state she felt the loss keenly, her thoughts becoming less clear. She’d wake up in the egg again if she wasn’t careful.

I’ll take your hands too. Your legs. Your mouth. I gave you that body. I can take it all away. Why you keep being such a disappointment when you were once so perfect is a tragedy.

I got a name, Mama.

The words were weary. Resigned. The tone of someone who had tried and failed to explain the same thing more times than she could possibly remember.

We all got names. Do you remember yours, Mama? What the trolls called you, before they forgot?

There was a long, long pause as the wasp swarm waited tensely in the dark, having landed and huddled together to present a smaller target. To save her strength.

Rhyssa eventually realized her mother had gone back to sleep, heavily breathing once more.

Typical.

She began the slow, dull flight back up, back into the mushroom-light and the vermin tracks and traces, stinging and killing some sort of pouched thing that wandered too near for the hell of it.

She settled back in her eggshell, drawing strength from her origin, the shape she had taken for her own so long ago.

Back when the empress was young. Back when she could make her own eyes, when she had a different name.

When Mama had known hers, and been worshipped as was right.

The trolls had yelled it, whispered it, cursed it. Raised a glass to it. They’d cowered in fear from it, from Rhyssa and her siblings, when they had been numerous and strong.

She had never questioned Mama back in those nights, never wanted to. She’d had everything she could want.

It had been a fine thing then, to be a child of Ozryel.

#cloud writes #Rhyssa #coo #the children of ozryel #drop that plot title like it’s hot #i write for the nonexistent crossover audience of family drama and insect swarm fans

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