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tenspontaneite · 3 years

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Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 23/?)

In which a Healer visits her patient, three unfortunate children have a very cold day of travel, and Corvus learns something unexpected during his convalescence.

(Chapter length: 14k. Ao3 link)

Warnings: non-graphic descriptions of respiratory illness, an amputated limb, and non-consensual administration of medical treatment. Discussions of suicide and mercy-killing. Depictions of early stages of adapting to a new physical disability. Mentions of cold-related injury in background characters.

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A runner came for them early. Early enough that Sarli and her apprentice had barely risen. Seeing as Sarli was not yet presentable, Cairon answered the door; she listened to what little she could glean of the conversation through the walls.

She heard “Yes,” and “yes,” again, and then “I understand. I will tell my master.”

Sarli finished dressing and went out to receive the news. “Well?” she questioned, once her apprentice was within her line of sight, and he straightened.

“The castle requests our attendance to the prisoner at our earliest opportunity,” he reported. “And there is someone to show our way to the new cell waiting outside.”

She considered this, and the urgency it implied. It was fortunate that they had no appointments booked until the afternoon, apparently. “Have they any news of his condition?”

“Sick, and weakening.” Cairon was succinct.

“Unsurprising.” Sarli went to her medicine cabinet and opened it, considering the arrayed items with a careful eye. The infection was surely still persisting, so, something for the reduction of fever. The lilium, of course, for pain. It would be well to bring an anti-inflammatory, too. Perhaps several. And, if the elf persisted with his reticence, then…the needle, too.

She plucked a few vials and bottles from her shelves, then went for the other assorted basics of bandages and disinfectants, and handed some of it off to Cairon to pack while she wrapped the rest. And then there was nothing but for the two of them to leave their House of Healing and follow after their waiting escort.

The elf’s new prison was apparently in a wing of the castle proper; or so she surmised when they did not divert for the dungeons once through the castle gates. She supposed the stipulation of moonlight cut off many of the more secure below-ground options; she had been very clear in specifying that some amount of moonlight must be upon the cell for as close to the entire night as possible. She wondered how they’d managed it.

Once they were through the inner doors, one of the Crownguard took up her escort. “Healer Sarli,” she greeted, with a nod of respect. “If you’ll follow me? Your patient is waiting.”

“Of course,” she said, and so they followed a little further. The castle was well-guarded today, she noted. Very well-guarded. And increasingly so, as they progressed into a wing that did not seem designed for prisoners at all. “Is this not a residential wing?” she asked at last, a little nonplussed by the finery of the halls she crossed. Cairon, too, seemed a little narrow-eyed about the affair, though he did not speak. His eyes marked each and every Crownguard as they walked.

“Diplomatic wing,” corrected their escort; despite her professionalism, there seemed a hint of unease to her countenance. “I’m afraid your stipulations for all-night moonlight access were difficult to manage, Healer. The diplomatic quarters are empty for the moment, and they have always had high security anyway, so it was decided that one of the rooms should be converted for use as a cell. The windows are…larger, here.”

Sarli raised an eyebrow. She supposed there had been no call for the crown-castle to host Moonshadow prisoners before, but even so… “Surely that must have been rather a lot of work.”

“Less than you’d think. It was mostly a matter of replacing the door and putting a cage on the window. And stripping the room, of course.” The Crownguard hesitated for a moment. “It did take the night, though. The prisoner was only moved here two hours ago.”

She paused. “So, then, he has had no moonlight this past night.” Although her tone was neutral, she thought it plain that she was not pleased. Beside her, Cairon looked grim.

“Regretfully, no.”

Sarli pursed her lips, and said nothing more until they reached the cell.

It was apparent when they reached it. The door was thick and iron-banded, adorned with bolts and keyholes and chains. It was a sharp contrast to the finery of the rest of this area of the castle. There were two Crownguard directly outside the door, and several more posted the length of the hallway. Evidently, they were taking no chances with the elf that had slain the King. The effort they’d gone to was testament indeed to how valuable they considered this prisoner.

There was also a man who was certainly not a guard of any sort, waiting for them. He looked up as they neared, eyes sparking with recognition. Clearly, he knew her by the robes. “Healer Sarli,” he greeted, and offered a short bow. “You have been anticipated.”

Sarli stopped across from him and eyed him appraisingly. No sign of military conditioning, but a certain self-assurance to his manner regardless. He seemed sharp-eyed and shrewd, and was dressed smartly in predominantly dark colours. She recognised his like. “There has been no tribunal yet,” she observed, a little startled to see an observer from the Crow Lord’s office here.

He nodded agreeably. “There hasn’t. I believe they aren’t in any particular hurry to hold one either, since it will be a moot point if the elf doesn’t survive the new moon.” The man’s eyes slid from her to Cairon, then back again. “I am Teyron. I will be present for any and all meetings between the prisoner and his guards and visitors of any kind.”

She inspected him. “Seeing if there is anything to glean from non-exceptional measures?” Her voice was dry.

Teyron smiled. “That, too.”

Sarli shook her head. It was like that, was it? Very well, then. She supposed it mattered little to her. Cairon seemed a little confused, though, so she turned to him and said “This is a member of the Crow Lord’s office. He is here to gather information on the prisoner via the passive methods of observation and insight. He is also here to ensure no one attempts covert communication with the prisoner during visits.”

She was watching him closely to be sure he understood, and was satisfied to watch him fall briefly still. “I see,” Cairon said, in the end, eyeing the Crow Lord’s man with some mixture of caution and curiosity. “Is that standard for prisoners of war?”

“It’s standard for prisoners with a covert operations background,” Teyron said affably, and inclined his head to the door. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Sarli approached the door as one of the Crownguard reached over to slot a thick key into the mechanism. When it was opened, she allowed Teyron and the guards to precede her, then followed without further ado.

She lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking stock of the room. If this had been ambassadors’ housing, she could only imagine it had been for lesser members of a delegation. The place was well-lit, but it was not large. Even stripped of its finery and furniture, it was emphatically not large. A servant’s posting, perhaps? Even such a lowly use was beyond it now. It was utterly bare but for the trappings of a prison. No bed, not even a pallet; but there was a chamber-pot, she was glad to see. That was certainly more than the Lord Protector had provided.

As the Crownguard had said, there had been bars affixed around the broad window of the impromptu cell; the mortar barely looked dry where they penetrated the walls. She thought humourlessly on how much work it would be to rehabilitate this room when it had expunged its use as a prison.

And then there was the prisoner himself. Her patient. The guard had not thought to mention the chains affixed to the wall, but he was well-secured by them. There were cuffs at his neck, both shins, and the surviving arm, all held fast by long chains that coiled around him like darksteel snakes. They seemed to allow him a surprising range of motion, and Sarli guessed that he would easily be able to reposition himself in front of the window, should he desire. And yet, he had made no attempt to do so. Instead he was slumped backwards against the wall, peering narrowly at them; he seemed too weak to hold himself fully upright.

Sarli inspected him in a fast, evaluative moment, then stepped forwards. “You will remember me, I trust,” she said, and approached without ceremony to lay her pack down. Cairon trailed at her heels, silent and watchful. “I am here to continue your treatment.”

The elf did not reply. His eyes slid from her to Cairon, and then to Teyron. There they lingered for a while, dark and suspicious. She supposed he must be aware of what that man represented. At all times, Teyron would be watching for any opening or weakness implied in his reactions. The elf had already been silent and taciturn, and she doubted this would help matters.

So she sighed, and beckoned Cairon over. The Crownguard followed as well, which she noted with some asperity. The territoriality was reflexive; a Healer should not be managed in her treatment of a patient, nor crowded in such an unseemly manner. “Are you a Healer’s assistant as well as Crownguard?” She questioned the woman, annoyance lending sharpness to the words.

“Begging your pardon, Healer,” said the Crownguard. “I am protection. He has sufficient leeway in his chains to attack you.”

“And perhaps that would be a legitimate concern nearer the full moon,” Sarli said. “But for the moment, my patient is so weak he trembles at supporting himself upright, even leaning on a wall. If I cannot stop him, my apprentice will. Step back, if you please.”

Two faces went disgruntled at once: the Crownguard’s, and the elf’s. The latter, she supposed, was unhappy with her entirely accurate characterisation of his weakness.

“As you say, Healer,” The Crownguard conceded, finally, and did step back. Satisfied, Sarli went to her work.

Her first order of business was to give her patient a thorough looking-over. In plain daylight, his inhuman skin-tone was more evident, but the sickly pallor held to it nonetheless. His face was a little too pale, and the shadows beneath his eyes were dark. She felt for his pulse, and found it shallow and laboured. His temperature was somewhat higher than preferable, though not yet dangerously so. She inspected the stump of his arm next, removing the bandages and gauze, and noted that it had healed very little at all. It was not bleeding, but the edges of the wound had made no visible effort at sealing, even as careful as her stitching had been. Sarli saw that it was at least not visibly infected, even if the inflammation was severe. Finally she gestured for the stethoscope and listened to his lungs again. Their condition was more advanced now, though she could have surmised that merely by listening to him breathe.

For his part, the elf bore the examination stoically, flinching only the first time she touched him and then not at all thereafter. At last she sat back and observed him. “Will you take your medicines of your own accord?” she asked, and he blinked slowly at her. There was no hostility in his eyes, only a weary resolution. Outside of the dark, they lacked their uncanny phosphorescence, and seemed a great deal more human.

“I will not,” he rasped, as he had once before. The Crow Lord’s spy watched avidly from the corner.

She inclined her head. “I respect your pride, and your force of will,” she said. “But it is my duty to heal you.”

The elf’s eyes slid briefly to Teyron again. She expected him to remain silent after reminding himself that they were observed, but he surprised her. In that terrible rattling voice, he said “Your duty, to heal one who is already dead.” It was not quite a question, but had the taste of one regardless.

Sarli considered the words, feeling in them some edge of a culture unknown to her. There was significance here that she was not privy to. “I know nothing of the ways of your kind,” she said at last. “If you think you are already dead, then perhaps you are. I cannot heal a corpse. But I am human. If you are not beyond my aid, then the alleviation of your suffering does remain my duty. I will see it done.”

He exhaled, and the sigh would have been silent if not for the crackle of his lungs. He descended into a brief, painful series of wet coughs, then he met her eyes. They were oddly steady. Again, that rasping voice: “I have heard of how human healers alleviate suffering.”

In the corner of her eye, Sarli saw Teyron shift, less with interest than with wariness. She could read the thoughts, there. The elf’s words were not quite an overt invitation of a more permanent mercy, but they skittered close enough that an information specialist might fear what she would do.

And well he should. It would be easy, after all. No one could stop her from mixing the lilium a little too potently. It would spare him his pain. Spare him the suffering of the next few days. Spare him the inevitable torture that would come, should he survive.

Sarli regarded the elf, expressionless. Beside her, Cairon was very still. “You speak of the mercy-killing that a Healer may practice as if you would invite it,” she said, at last, and he made no objection to the words. Just watched her. “You refuse to eat or drink on your own, and accept no medical aid that is not forced upon you. In this regard, you behave as one seeking to die.” Sarli watched him, and nodded to herself. “…But I think that there are limits upon that intention, for you. If you truly wished to end yourself, none could stop you. Yet you have not.” Slow and deliberate, she set the stethoscope fully aside, and reached for her medicines. “If you will not do it yourself, do not ask it of me. I will not be the instrument of your destruction.”

The elf looked away, deliberately taciturn. There was a flicker of frustration in his expression, but nothing else. She wondered if he had been wishing that someone would take the decision from him and enact his death themselves. She wondered if his strange culture, such that it was, forbade direct suicide. Either way, he had not died, and he was not yet upon the nadir of suffering and despair that would see her change that.

Not yet. But she had given the quiet death before, and might well give it again, should there be a need.

Silent, she gestured to Cairon, and received the needle and the lilium from his hands.

“Know this, my patient,” Sarli said finally, and watched the elf’s eyes turn guardedly her way. “Once Mercy becomes a knife, there can be no more Mercy thereafter. But where life persists, there is Hope of change.” The words sat holy upon her tongue, and she lingered for a moment beneath the weight of them. She exhaled, silent, and finished “This is a lesson that the centuries have taught us very well, and that you would do well to learn.” Then she kept at her work, eyes steady on her tools. She did not look for her patient’s reaction.

When she lifted her eyes to regard him, he was very carefully expressionless. If her words had provoked any response in him, he was allowing none of it to his face. Stoicism stared back at her. There was a light tremor in his living arm; she eyed it, finished her assembly of the needle and reservoir, and reached out to prick the skin. He barely twitched as the lilium joined to his blood, soon to bring him the relief from pain that she had promised; but only that. No more. Her Mercy was not yet a knife.

The elf endured the treatments in silence. She had come prepared for the notion that he might not accept medical aid, but even so, the medicines that could be administered to the blood were not many. The lilium, yes. The anti-inflammatory as well. But she had no recourse to treat his fever if he would not drink. She sighed, and set it aside, well within his reach. “If you change your mind about accepting medical treatment, this here is for your fever,” she said, and he glanced at it. “It will aid your body in fighting the infection. Consider it.”

He blinked, slowly, then looked deliberately away. Apparently he was done with speaking for the day.

She accepted it, and then finally rose. Her old bones ached from kneeling for so long, but she refused to show the duress; she handed the bags to Cairon and then turned to leave. “I will return tomorrow, in the morning,” she stated, to the Crownguard and the observer both. “If there is any change in his condition before then, send for me.”

They murmured their assent and bowed lightly as she left; she waved off her escort and left with Cairon without ceremony. He was very quiet, saying nothing, and watching the guards they passed on their way through the castle. Though his expression was well-schooled, she knew him well enough to see his unease.

Once they were upon the streets, surrounded by the hubbub and bustle of the castle-city, he finally ventured to speak. “Did you mean what you said back there, master?”

She glanced at him, and found him looking troubled. “I rarely say anything I do not mean, Cairon,” she answered, just a little wry. “But perhaps you should be more specific.”

He looked away, not meeting her eyes. “’Where life persists, there is hope of change’,” he quoted.

Sarli considered it. “Yes. I spoke it truly.”

“You believe that.” He was not one to doubt her word, but he seemed searching now. Uneasy in his skin, as though the answer mattered to him. “Even for…him.”

‘Even for the assassin that slew the king’, went unspoken. Or perhaps, ‘even for an elf’.

For a moment her heart burned with familiar anger, familiar grief. But those were the trappings of Sarli-the-person; thus Sarli-the-Healer breathed out and cast them aside. “Even for him, Cairon, yes.” she said. “Hope is a beacon to every soul.”

The comment occasioned some glances from the people around her; and well it should. It was not lightly that anyone devout spoke ‘hope’ aloud, and a Healer was always devout. “I wouldn’t think someone like him has much in the way of that,” Cairon said, after a moment, and though it wouldn’t be clear to a stranger whether he’d meant hope or soul…

She stilled a little, and cast him a warning glance. She looked deliberately around at those around them. He took the admonishment and fell silent until they were alone again, walking to the mouth of the Valley, and near to home. Then she spoke, before he could, as if no time had passed at all since his badly-placed comment. “His prospects are ill, yes,” said Sarli, “but not hopeless. Never hopeless. You should know better than that. Certainly you should know better than to express such a sentiment in public.” It was a rebuke and a warning both. He should know better. Few indeed were the people who would not.

He flinched as though struck, and did not try to defend his words. Good; if the wrong ears had marked her apprentice saying such a thing, it could cast a shame on her, to have taught him so poorly. And that was the best of the potential negative consequences.

“Perhaps you need a reminder,” Sarli allowed, opening their door and easing herself through. Cairon glanced warily at her, setting out the bags, and she went directly to the bookcase. She pulled out a leather-bound tome, bloody red, a lotus engraved on the cover in metallic silver. It was the work of moments to find the correct passage, and she presented the book to her apprentice without preamble. He took it in his hands and stared at it as though it were a live snake, for all that he had certainly heard and read its scriptures before. She commanded, “Read.”

“…The tools need cleaning, master,” he offered, hesitating. “The medicines need putting away.”

“I will do it,” Sarli said at once, and then again: “Read.”

Again, he hesitated. And then his eyes fell upon the page, and its old sacred tale. He winced at it, very slightly, then finally exhaled. Sarli knew then that he would do as she had commanded, and turned away to begin attending to the tools of her trade; behind her, out of sight, words as familiar to her as her own breath filtered into the air upon her apprentice’s voice.

“’When the Last Light came to Her, She was lingering silent among the death-shrouds, and Her hands were wet with the blood of mercy’…”

Learn, she bade him, in the privacy of her own mind, and finally felt her heart settle from the clamour his public heresy had set it to. It could have been worse. He hadn’t spoken loudly, and his phrasing had been ambiguous; the onlookers might well think he was calling the person-of-discussion soulless, rather than hopeless. Still unsettling for someone not aware of the situation, but not dangerous.

And dangerous it would be, should anyone find him – a Healer’s apprentice – to have verbally denied that the Last Light existed for everyone. Even the lords, even the royalty, secular as they were, would never say such a thing where someone might hear.

Her apprentice thought himself very subtle, and often he was. But not always. And certainly not around her.

Be more careful, Cairon, she thought to him, though she did not speak. I will not always be here to protect you.

“’…this is a dark time, and its shadows may stretch for many years. / But I have something to show you, and I wish for that you will take heed. / So come with me, and I will show you Hope / In the dark of a thousand shadows…’”

---

She was warm; she was comfortable; she didn’t hurt. Rayla slept, and slept very well.

The lilium kept her under for the first span of the night, blotting out the shifts and sounds that would ordinarily wake her. It ebbed after a while though, and a thin edge of pain made her blink groggily awake. The tent was not dark; Bait glowed in his sleep, and the egg glowed too. That was normal. Everything was fine. She went back to sleep.

A while later she stirred again, feeling the warmth of the tent ebbing as the night’s cold encroached. But it wasn’t so bad. She went back to sleep.

Later, again, she woke with the disorienting sensation of sudden and unexpected contact. She made a surprised noise and cracked her eyes open to look. Callum had burrowed himself into her side, all curled-up, like he was cold. The lilium must have still been in effect, because all she did was sleepily think oh, that’s nice, take a drowsy moment to appreciate his warmth, and go back to sleep again.

The final time she woke that night was to a dragging awareness, somewhere in the back of her sleeping mind, that something was amiss with someone’s breathing. Not right. Not normal, for the middle of the night. She dragged herself to consciousness, eyes opening. She checked Callum first, who was still plastered against her side, deeply asleep. This time she had enough presence of mind to feel flustered about it. There was nothing wrong with him, though, so she turned her head to inspect the rest of the tent’s occupants…

…and found Ezran sat upright, plainly awake, running a hand calmly and absent-mindedly over the shell of the dragon egg. He didn’t look like he’d only recently awoken, either. He had the look of someone who’d been sitting up for a good while, quiet and weary in the night’s stillness.

After a moment, he seemed to notice that she was watching, and his eyes slid her way. He looked so tired. “…Hi, Rayla,” he said, voice hushed and quiet, as if to avoid waking anyone else up.

She blinked, then squinted, half sitting up. “What’re’y’doing awake?” she questioned, words a little slurred and incoherent from sleep. “It’s only…” she groped at her Moon-sense, which was growing rather weaker as it waned. “…three. Three’n the morning.”

“Huh. Is it.” He seemed vaguely interested, as if he’d had no idea what time it was before she told him. And…she supposed he hadn’t. What must it be like, being human, not knowing at all times what the time was? She made an impatient noise at him, and then he seemed to realise she’d asked a question. “Oh! Um.” He glanced down at the egg in his lap, hesitant. “Zym’s awake.”

Rayla frowned. She’d been worried, in a half-asleep sort of way, that he’d maybe been kept up by nightmares, or grief, or both. But… “And that woke you up?” she surmised, and he nodded tiredly.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Can’t get back to sleep, either. It’s…hard to be asleep, when someone’s in your head being all…awake.”

She considered that, thoughts slow and groggy. “You tried putting him down?” she asked, eventually.

“Yeah,” he said again, morosely this time. “It helped a little, but not much. He’s just…awake.” He patted wearily at the eggshell. “He used to be mostly-asleep all the time, before the storm. Now it’s more like he’s…I don’t know, a regular baby or something. Asleep a lot. But not all the time.”

She’d heard elf parents complaining about their babies keeping them up all night; she thought of that with a vague sleepy humour, finding the circumstance of the baby Dragon King keeping the child King of Katolis awake to be weirdly amusing. Unfortunate, though. “That sucks,” she said, eventually, still struggling to manage anything more coherent. She did not feel properly awake.

“Mm.” He shrugged tiredly. “Not much I can do about it, though.” His eyes slid back her way, and lingered. “Did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet…”

“Kinda,” she supplied after a moment. “I could tell someone wasn’t asleep. Wanted to check everything was alright.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Ez watched her, eyes just a little too luminescent in the dark for it to be normal. It could have just been reflection from the egg…but it wasn’t. “You should try to go back to sleep, then,” he said eventually. “Just because I can’t get back to sleep doesn’t mean you need to be awake.”

Rayla accepted the sense of that reluctantly, aware that she was tired and really did want to sleep, and that there probably wasn’t anything she could do to help Ezran by being awake. But, even so, it felt a little wrong. “I can sit up with you, if it’d help,” she offered.

He shook his head. “Nah. Thanks, but…it wouldn’t really help anything. And you need your sleep.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have a baby dragon in your head being unhappy about how squashed he feels,” Ezran pointed out.

She sighed. “Fair enough.”

Callum chose that moment to make a tiny murmuring sound and curl a little further into her side, all balled-up, one hand settling with its fingers curled over her waist. She stiffened, abruptly reminded that he was there, being cuddly, visibly so, and Ezran was awake to see it-

Even tired as he was, Ezran very plainly did see; his eyes flickered to his brother, and a trace of a smile lifted his lips. “At least one of us is getting a good night’s sleep,” he commented, with a lightness to the words, like the sight had pleased him somehow. “He looks pretty comfy there, huh.”

Her shoulders hunched defensively. She half wanted to turn away, to shield Callum from view, but it was a little late for that. Instead she held herself stiffly motionless, cheeks prickling with heat, and said “He’s just – cold. He’s cold and I’m the biggest warm thing around. That’s all it is.”

Ezran barely twitched before shaking his head. “Nah. Callum’s just like that, when he sleeps. He’s either moving about and kicking the covers off or he’s hugging. He doesn’t really have any in-between. You should see him at home – he usually just ends up hugging a big pillow or something…” He tilted his head, looking at them. “But, yeah, maybe he’s cold too. He does look kind of…balled up.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was cold, but then she noticed he’d picked his cloak off the floor and slung it around himself. He didn’t look too chilly. “Right.” She muttered, self-conscious, and tensed a little further when Ezran cast his brother a thoughtful look and reached over.

He touched his fingers to Callum’s neck and smiled. “He’s so sleepy,” he said, affectionately, and lingered there for a few moments longer. “And, yeah, he’s a little cold.”

“I said so,” Rayla said, vaguely soothed by this apparent corroboration, but-

“And he’s warm and comfy where he is, and it’s nice.” Ez finished, drawing his hand back, settling with the egg again. “Or that’s about what I can get from him when he’s asleep, anyway.”

She didn’t say anything, but could feel the flush rising in her ears. She was entirely, acutely aware of the weight of Callum against her side…and the way that he, too, felt pleasantly warm. In the end she made a sort of vague, disgruntled noise, too embarrassed to offer something more coherent.

Ezran looked at her, then. He seemed almost curious. “Do you not mind, though?” he asked, inquisitive. “I remember you were annoyed about him moving around in his sleep, around when we first started travelling. And now he’s cuddling you.”

Rayla looked away, face hot. “…If you try to push him off, he just comes back,” she muttered in the end, half-exasperated and half-flustered. “He doesn’t even wake up. Just…” She nodded towards him without actually looking, because she wasn’t sure she could particularly cope with the sight of Callum’s sleepy face and messy hair right now. “Easier to get a full night’s sleep if I just leave him.”

She didn’t realise her misstep until a few moments later, when she became aware of Ezran’s silence. She looked up at him, and found his watchful gaze on her. “So it hasn’t just been tonight, huh?” he asked, plainly picking up on what she’d given away. She grumbled again, but didn’t answer, averting her eyes. More thoughtfully, as if to himself, Ez said “And you don’t mind.”

“Who says?” she retorted, disagreeably. She’d certainly minded plenty near the start, after all.

But, again, Ezran was thoughtfully quiet, for long enough that she eventually glanced back at him. In the shadows, the faint luminescence of his eyes was striking; something she’d expect more of her own kind than his. With those eyes on her, he said again “You don’t mind.” It wasn’t at all a question, and strangely, her breath caught. She found she couldn’t answer.

Ezran looked at her with such a solemn weight of knowing that she felt stripped bare, felt exposed, as if she faced a priest of the Moon's Shadow instead of a ten year old boy. A priest of the Shadow, with the eyes to see the secrets hidden beneath her skin. She stilled, oddly shaken, until the moment passed and Ezran nodded, eyes falling on Callum again.

“Good,” he said, softly. “That’s…good. Callum needs more people who’ll care about him.” Before she could flush at that, he smiled. “And he always has been pretty huggy.”

Uncomfortable, Rayla glanced down at Callum’s sleeping face. Only half of it was visible at the moment, with how he’d smooshed it into her side. “I noticed,” she said, a touch dryly. Then she hesitated. “Ezran…” He looked at her inquisitively, and suddenly it was hard to force the words out. “You…are you going to tell…” she trailed off, not even entirely certain what she was asking.

He fixed her with that oddly penetrating look again, as if he knew what she was trying to say better than she did. As if he understood, even without having touched her at all. “Am I going to tell him he gets cuddly with you when he’s asleep?” he offered, now with a little spark of mirth in his eyes. She stared narrowly at him, suddenly absolutely certain that he was enjoying this. “Or that you’re okay with it?”

There was something about the way he said that last part. Teasing, like he meant something else. Something more horrifically embarrassing, like ‘that you’ve got a huge crush on him’, or possibly another equally terrible equivalent. Was she imagining it? Did he actually guess that she – or was she just overthinking…?

She looked at him again. At the tiny smile, the knowing look, the glimmer of mischief.

Yeah, he knew. Or at the very least, he knew more than she wanted him to.

Her face burned, and her shoulders hunched as she looked away. She’d hoped to keep this hidden from him, even despite his empathic abilities and uncomfortably astute people-reading skills. She’d been an idiot. It would never have worked for long.

“Any of that,” she agreed, in the end, not meeting his eyes. She was so hyper-aware of Callum’s presence now that it almost itched, that she wanted to push him away. But she didn’t want to risk him waking into this conversation, of all things. As it was, she was thanking the stars for how much of a sound sleeper he was.

Ezran smiled, tilted his head consideringly at his brother, and hummed. “I guess I won’t tell,” he decided, in the end. “Callum can be kind of slow about this kind of thing, so it’ll probably work out better if I don’t say anything. At least for a while.”

What was that supposed to mean? Slow about what? What would work out better?

Still. She could at least appreciate the decision he’d apparently made. Rayla glanced at him warily, but though he was clearly having a good time with the topic, she didn’t see any duplicity in him. Her shoulders eased a little, and she sighed. “Thanks,” she said, begrudgingly.

“Plus, it’ll be way funnier to watch you guys if I don’t tell,” Ezran added helpfully. Rayla glared at him. “What? It’s true. Last night was already great, with how you laid all over him like that, his face was hilarious-“ at her tiny strangled noise, he cut off, looking at her inquisitively. “What? Do you not remember?”

She hadn’t, until he’d mentioned it. But now…the memories were hazy, and dreamlike in that characteristic lilium-drugged way, but they were there. “I do now,” she muttered, tense with mortification, suddenly awash with the recollection of how nice it had been. Drugged-Rayla had found such an entirely uncomplicated contentment in the whole thing that it warmed her even now. “Ugh.” Then, since he already knew, and she might as well: “This is exactly why I was worried about taking the lilium.”

Ezran stared at her. “It is? I thought it was because you didn’t want to act weir-“ He stopped. “Ohh. I get it. You don’t want to act all crushy around Callum.”

Her shoulders went up, and she reflexively looked down at the human prince pressed into her side to make sure he was still soundly asleep. Thankfully, nothing had changed on that front. Still- “Shh!” She hissed at him, prickling with self-consciousness.

Undaunted, he said “You were fine, you know. Just kind of cuddly. Cuddly’s fine.” He indicated his brother’s sleeping form, as if to present it as evidence. Rayla followed his gaze and pinked. “He’s, you know, a cuddly person. So he was surprised, but…” Ezran shrugged.

She intensely wanted to escape this conversation. But it wasn’t like she could just…leave. Opening the tent would waste all the heat and leave them all properly cold for the rest of the night. So she did the only thing she could: “Enough talking,” she said, firmly, ignoring the flush in her cheeks. “You should try to go back to sleep now.” Seeing him open his mouth to object, she added sharply “Try. Even if you can’t. Laying down with your eyes closed is still better rest than being up and awake all night.”

“Aw, fine,” Ez accepted, and eyed her. “You’d better try to go to sleep too, though.”

She sighed. “I will, Ezran.”

He extended a hand over his brother’s side, littlest finger befuddlingly extended. She stared at it warily, uncertain what he meant by it, and after a moment he prompted “Pinky promise?”

“What in Xadia’s name is a pinky promise?”

“A promise you make by linking your pinky fingers and shaking them,” he explained. “Means you can’t break it. So?” He waggled the finger.

She’d always thought they were called ‘pinkos’. “I don’t have pinky fingers, Ez.”

Undeterred, he said “That’s okay. You can just use your last finger. It’ll count.” So, sighing, she relented and extended her left hand to link fingers with him. He shook it twice, very solemnly, and then the promise was – supposedly – sealed. He looked very satisfied with himself. “There,” he said, and leaned back. Then, true to his word, he gathered up the egg again, repositioned the grumpily half-asleep Bait, and planted himself down on the ground, eyes determinedly closed.

It looked kind of comical, actually. His face was a little screwed up, like he was trying to stubborn himself into unconsciousness.

Glad for the reprieve from the uncomfortable conversation, and mindful of the weird human finger-vowing custom, Rayla settled back down herself. Callum hadn’t shifted much when she sat up before, and didn’t shift much now. He just pressed his face into her shoulder instead of her arm. She glanced at him one last time, for a very long moment, and then closed her eyes. Sleep followed soon after.

---

Rayla woke again a few hours later. It was a while past dawn, and though the Moon would still linger above the horizon for a few hours yet, its recession pulled at her. Habit brought her awake with unerring ease at that sensation, so she blinked her eyes open and rose. Callum mumbled incoherently as she displaced him; she glanced at him quickly, but was relieved to see he was still asleep.

She sighed, quashing the increasingly-familiar flutter in her chest, and carefully extracted herself, reaching out to pull his fingers out of the wool of her jumper. That complete, she shuffled over to the tent doors, noting that Ezran had evidently managed to get back to sleep at some point…though, he was stirring now. That was unusual. Usually he slept as deeply as his brother, and didn’t budge even when she moved about. He sat up and yawned as she started undoing the door toggles, blinking sleepily at her. “Morning, Rayla,” he greeted, after a moment, voice rough.

One look at him and she recalled the middle-of-the-night conversation they’d had, and the mortifying details therein. She offered him a wary half-smile, folding the tent-door back. Instantly, it was colder; the air between the two tent layers made goosebumps lift on her skin, even with most of it swaddled in wool. She shivered, but reached outwards for the next door anyway. “Morning,” she echoed, after a moment, fingers working carefully at the toggles. Her left hand prickled with a strange numbness as it moved, clumsy as if cold, even though it was just as warm as the other one.

The outer door opened, and the air from outside was so frigid it felt like a slap in the face. She grimaced, inhaling sharply, and that inhale half-burned her lungs with the biting chill. “Ugh,” she said, and a few seconds later, Ezran made a similar noise as the air hit him.

“Oh, wow,” he said, sounding a little impressed. “I guess the tent really does make a difference.”

“That’s kind of the point, yeah,” she agreed, then forced herself outside.

It was a very bright morning, even now. The sun had just about poked past one of the mountains, and the sky was a pale, clear colour almost devoid of clouds. What little cloud-wisps there were moved noticeably; it was still relatively windy. She squinted against the brightness, then ventured out. Frost crunched beneath the boots she’d apparently slept in.

There hadn’t been any more snow in the night, so the area she’d cleared hadn’t particularly filled in, but it was white anyway. She frowned at her footprints, stamping a few times experimentally, and confirmed that it really was just frost. Frost, at least a couple centimetres thick. She turned around and found it had settled on the exterior of the tent as well, turning the whole thing pale and icy-looking. “Ugh,” she said again, disgruntled, knowing that they’d need to clear that off before they could pack it.

She’d headed over to the burned-out campfire by the time Ez followed her out, having pulled his boots and his cloak on, shivering. “What’re you doing?” he asked her, as she piled in their remaining firewood and went for the flint. He had Bait in his arms, the toad looking half-asleep and as grumpy as ever.

“It’s a cold morning,” she said. “Better have a hot drink or something before we go. It’ll do us good. Plus, I think our meat is all frozen, so we’ll need to heat up breakfast, too.”

“Oh, right.” He paused for a moment to think. “Can I help?”

“You can take the scarves and gloves and stuff off the snow-people,” she offered, dryly, and nodded to the line of icy sentinels at the edge of camp. “Since you and Callum apparently forgot to do that last night. They’ll need warming, too.”

Ez winced. “We did forget.” He sighed, put Bait down by the fire, then trotted off to obey. He returned a short while later with some particularly frosty winterwear, which she put close-ish to the burgeoning fire. Hopefully not close enough to catch alight. “Are we going to wake up Callum soon?”

She glanced consideringly back at the tent, which she’d left entirely open. “Cold will probably wake him up on its own soon enough,” she estimated. “But sure, why not.” So she stood and went, Ezran apparently deciding to follow. She found Callum curled up and shivering on top of her cloak, chasing the last vestiges of warmth, shifting like he was on the verge of awakening. She rolled her eyes, then reached through the tent-layers to poke him in the thick wool socks over his feet.

He giggled, apparently ticklish, and squirmed when she poked him again, and then finally cracked his eyes open. He peered at Rayla, then at Ez, as if not awake enough to comprehend what he was looking at. “Cold?” he offered, in a sort of incoherent questioning complaint, and then squinted at the brightness of the light from behind them. “Mm…too bright. Shut the curtains?”

Ezran snickered. Rayla lifted an eyebrow. “No,” she answered, helpfully, and watched him blink a few times more. He frowned.

“Tent,” he realised, seconds later. “Camping. Mountains. Right.” Finally he pushed himself up, then frowned. “Why am I on your cloak?”

Beside her, Ezran’s face was suddenly beset by an enormous grin. Rayla pointed her finger at him sternly and said “No.” Turning back to Callum, she added “…Probably it was warm, or something. Give it here, though, I’m getting chilly.” She ignored Ezran’s expression and prodded Callum until he was up and pulling his boots on, then reclaimed her cloak. He seemed to wake up a little when she started struggling to get it around her shoulders alone; for all that her hand didn’t hurt at all anymore, the motions for pulling clothing on still tugged unpleasantly at the wounds on her arm and shoulder, and she was all-too-aware that the lilium had worn off.

Rayla sighed, and lingered in place while Callum sat up to help her with the cloak. She was getting used to that, but it still rankled a little. She carefully didn’t look at his face, too aware of Ezran watching them.

“Thanks,” she said, when he was done, then receded from the tent doorway. “Now get up. We’ve got a long way to go today.”

“Don’t we have a long way to go every day?” he asked, pulling his boots on, and she snorted.

“Generally, yes. But considering how many days we’ve been sat around lately, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

He seemed a little surprised to see the fire re-lit when she led him out, but settled under the explanations of breakfast and a warm drink easily enough. “It’s a good idea,” he agreed, a little ruefully, settling to hold one of his icy gloves over the fire, just far enough not to burn. “I feel all numb and cold and stiff, kinda. Would be nice to warm up a bit before having to move.”

“We’ll all feel fine when we’re walking.” Rayla shrugged, and checked on the water. “But, yeah.”

A while later, when they’d all had some pine tea and they’d boiled some meat into a bland but serviceable semblance of breakfast, he glanced at the stiff way she was holding her arm and inquired about her pain levels.

She blinked at him owlishly. “Hurts, but not any worse than usual?” she offered, shrugging. Almost on reflex, she flexed her bad hand, as though to chase some of the familiar stiff ache from it, but there was just…nothing. No pain at all in the hand itself. In the wrist, sure, but the hand?

It didn’t feel normal. But it didn’t hurt, either. She wasn’t sure what to think about that.

He noticed the motion, of course. “Is your hand bothering you?”

She sighed, and looked away. “No.” Her voice was a little short. It didn’t hurt. It was bothering her, though, just…in a way she wasn’t sure she was ready to think about yet, let alone talk about.

He accepted that easily enough, even though he plainly wanted to press further; he was so annoyingly considerate. “Alright. Well, I was just wondering…” he glanced at her arm, hesitated, then went on. “…if it’s been long enough that it’s safe for you to take willow bark again. So you can take something for the pain while we’re travelling.”

Rayla blinked, nonplussed.

“You didn’t think of that, huh?” Ezran spoke, observing her reaction, and she frowned.

“I didn’t,” she said, after a moment, and considered her injuries, invisible past the bandages and several layers of clothes. “It’s…hm.” Eyes narrowing a little, she thought about it. It wasn’t like there wasn’t still stuff going on under the surface. Willow bark probably would slow or disrupt that. But, at this point, the seal on the wounds was solid enough that it wouldn’t necessarily be dangerous.

“Rayla?” Callum prompted, when she’d been quiet a long time.

“I think it’ll make me heal slower,” she concluded, after a while. “…But, now I think about it, I’ll barely be healing at the moment anyway, so…I might as well?” She shrugged, and felt a little lighter; it was undeniably cheering to think of maybe having some painkillers to tide her through what would be a pretty physically-demanding day.

She’d already got caught up in the relief of that idea, so was a little taken-aback when Ezran squinted at her and said “Why not?” She frowned at him, confused, and he elaborated. “Why aren’t you healing at the moment?”

“Oh.” Somehow, even after spending so long with them, confirming every day that they were human…she’d forgotten they wouldn’t know. So, with a false nonchalance, she nodded towards the sky, where the pale crescent of the sinking Moon still remained, washed out in the bright blue of daylight. “It’s New Moon soon,” she explained, averting her eyes from theirs. “It’s just…like that. For Moonshadow elves.” She scowled a little. “Especially without moondust.”

“Oh, right.” Callum nodded, as if remembering. “You said you’d be weaker at new moon. I didn’t know it affected stuff like your healing too, though.” He hesitated, looking at her. “How far away is it?”

Rayla grimaced. “Three days, ish. Including today.” She hadn’t in her entire life seen an unmedicated elf at New Moon. The ones who were crazy enough to go without moondust hid themselves away for the duration. She didn’t know what it would be like, but…

“And it’s already making you heal really slow?” Ez seemed morbidly interested. “Even days away?”

She was quiet for a while, uncertain if she wanted to admit it. “My healing, and my senses, and my strength.” Her voice was curt. “I’m weaker already. It’s not so bad yet, but in a day or so…” She shrugged. “No avoiding it, I suppose, but I’m not looking forward to it.” It was nagging at her, even, in a strange insistent way that she wasn’t used to. There was an animal awareness in the back of her mind, intent on the waning Moon, itching and whispering at her as if to say that she wasn’t safe, she wasn’t secure, she needed to find somewhere to hide before it was too late…

Callum and Ezran shared a glance. “Can you tell us what to expect?” Callum asked, trying for pragmatism, though she could tell he was worried.

She snorted. “No, not really. People tell a lot of stories about natural New Moon, so it’s hard to know what’s true.” She squinted at the sky. “I’ll have a better idea the day before, though. By then I should be able to tell how hard it’ll hit me.”

He hesitated. “Is it…” he seemed to struggle for the words, and she looked at him until he managed it. “Will it be dangerous? For you?”

Her first instinct was to snort dismissively at the notion, but then she paused. “…No, probably not,” she estimated, after a little more thought. “If I was sick, maybe, it could be a problem. Or if I was more badly injured.” She glanced at her arm consideringly. “We get sick easily, at New Moon. If that’s worse off of moondust…” A pause for thought. “I suppose the worst case scenario is my arm getting infected.”

Callum looked dismayed. “Rayla, that is dangerous. Infections are bad.”

She glanced at him. “Yeah, they can be,” she acknowledged. “But worst comes to worst, we’d just have to hold out for…Half Moon, I suppose, or anything past it. That’s one bonus of not being on moondust.” She grimaced at the thought. “Moonshadow elves off moondust are pretty impossible to kill with infection, near Full Moon. So, there’s that.”

She didn’t mention, because she doubted it’d help anything, that people tended to tell tall stories about the extremity of weakness that the New Moon brought. Stories that indicated that an unhealthy elf could sicken and die so quickly that they were gone before the Moon could turn back. But she wasn’t that unhealthy. She had injuries, maybe, but she didn’t have anything that could suddenly get worse and really mess her up. She should be fine.

Her hand, though. She recalled the weird experience she’d had the first time the binding had loosened, and twitched. If the human healer was to be believed about the dangers, that could have been the sort of thing that’d go wrong at New Moon. But, thankfully, she was plenty past that now.

The words had apparently reassured Callum, at least. “Well, thank Mercy for that,” he sighed, then looked at her curiously. “So, if you have a sick Moonshadow elf, do you take them off moondust to help them recover, or…?”

Rayla rolled her eyes at him. Trust Callum to get curious about the details of it. “Not if it’s close to New Moon,” she said. “Then they’ll just get worse. Or – actually, they get better for a day or two, then they get worse fast.” It was something she’d been taught about, with regards to first aid in the field. If someone was sick or severely injured near Full Moon, you stopped their moondust, and the influx of magic would sort them out once the drug left their system. But if the Moon was waning, it wasn’t worth the risk.

“But the full moon makes you recover,” he said, thoughtfully. “Do you heal faster, too?”

She glanced at her arm, momentarily pensive. She wondered what it would look like, when the Full Moon had passed. “Yeah.” Shaking her head as though to dispel the thought, she shoved a jar of icy cooked meat into Callum’s hands, and said “Heat that up, would you? I’ve got some packing to do.” She took that opening to escape the conversation, too-aware of the throb of her wounds and the strangeness of her hand.

She left the boys by the fire as she went around the snow-banks, pulling the wrapped slabs of frozen meat she’d shoved in there for cold-storage yesterday. The venture had been successful enough that divorcing the supplies from the surrounding ice was a little challenging; the snow had turned icy, and clung to the packages in sharp-edged clusters. Finally she brought it all back to the cleared space and got to work.

It was an annoyingly long time until they were ready to leave. Heating up breakfast took time, getting frost and ice off of their stuff took time, getting the contents of their waterskins to melt into something drinkable took time, and getting their gloves into a fit state to be worn took time as well. Rayla was fully impatient when at last they could put the pot away, and even then…

Reflexively, she tried to pick it up one-handed. Left-handed. It felt heavy; her hand shook, and her wrist ached, and the pot slipped from her fingers. A pot, and it was too heavy to hold. Her jaw clenched, and she reached with the other hand instead. She lifted. That, at least, was properly effortless.

Is it always going to be like this? she wondered, dismayed, keenly aware of the unhealthy fatigue in her wrist. Then, ruthlessly, she shoved the thought away. She tucked the hand carefully against her side, and went back to the increasingly-familiar awkwardness of trying to conduct camp chores with only her right hand available.

The dull ache of her damaged wrist harried her until, eventually, she took some willow bark between her teeth and chewed for long enough that all her pains went a little further away. It wasn’t as effective as the lilium, but her mind was clear, and it was a relief not to have to travel with her wounds searing at her so terribly.

“Right,” she said, when everything was finally in order. “Let’s get moving.” She pulled on her gloves at last; the fabric itched and tingled strangely on the skin of her left hand.

The boys checked their snowshoes, hefted the straps of their bags, then tromped over to her where she waited at the edge of their former camp. She settled her own straps over her uninjured shoulder, glanced around to make certain they’d not forgotten anything, then started walking.

“Goodbye, snow-people,” Callum said to their icy constructs, both boys waving the things farewell as they left. Despite herself, Rayla shook her head at them, and smiled.

---

The snow was icier today, and a little easier to walk on with the snowshoes. That was a mercy, considering literally everything else was harder.

Just a few days ago, the initial burst of mountain-hiking had set Callum’s legs to aching more fiercely than he’d ever experienced in his life. He’d acquired soreness from combat training plenty of times over the last few years, but that didn’t hold a candle to the stiffness of legs unused to walking uphill for days on end. Then the thundersnow had happened, and he’d had a chance to recover. There’d been some walking yesterday, but not enough to reduce him to the same state as before.

He suspected that would change today.

The going was almost entirely upwards, and it was steep. Even with the snowshoes, it was hard to find his footing, and in places he pretty much had to climb, bracing his hands against rock directly in front of him to pull himself up. Ez, being considerably shorter, needed to be helped up those parts, Bait riding in his sweater to free up his hands.

It made him miss the first few days of their journey, a little; back when the ground had been level enough he’d been able to draw as he walked. Now he didn’t dare look at anywhere except where he was putting his feet.

…Most of the time, anyway.

He couldn’t really help staring around with wide-eyed wonder, sometimes. Every time they crested a slope or finished climbing the steeper sections, he could look ahead or behind and see the mountain range sprawling out around them. The angle wasn’t quite right for him to see all of the way they’d come, but some of the lowlands were visible anyway. They looked impossibly green and verdant from where he was, up on the mountain with its snow and ice.

It was weird to think that, mere days ago, he’d been somewhere warm enough to not feel the chill biting at his fingers. There wasn’t even much sunlight to help warm him; the clear skies of the early morning had given way to a patchy, sullen layer of clouds. It made for some pretty scenery, what with the rays of light casting between them over the landscape, but it didn’t soften the chill at all.

The cold wasn’t all bad, though. It created some really beautiful things. Callum found himself admiring the branching twigs of a leafless shrub, eyes following the strange frigid crust they’d accumulated. Ice clung to the undersides, an inch long, in an odd rippling pattern that made his hands itch for charcoal. Ice was on everything today, but this looked different. Where most every other grass and shrub around them was white and lumpy with thick frost, this looked clear and almost glassy. He tilted his head to see the watery light glimmer through, thinking of how he’d shade it.

It was then that Rayla nudged him, breaking him from his reverie. “Something interesting?” she asked, eyebrow raised. He offered an embarrassed laugh.

“Er,” he said, and indicated the shrub. “Just…that. The ice on it. It’s pretty.” He shrugged.

She looked blankly where he’d pointed. “…It’s twigs.”

“Pretty twigs,” he insisted, lips twitching. “The ice is really interesting! Sort of…wave-y? Ripple-y?”

“Kind of like icicles, maybe?” Ezran suggested, sounding a little winded as he leaned in to look. He evidently wasn’t having any easier a time with the walking than Callum.

Callum eyed the shrub appraisingly. “Yeah, something like that. Like sort of…lengthways icicles.”

Rayla shook her head at him. “It’s ice on twigs,” she said, exasperated. She was smiling a little, though. “Nothing special.”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Callum announced, in staunch defence of the icy twigs in question. “And I want to draw it.”

She rolled her eyes, then reached out to tug at his cloak, beckoning him onwards. “Uhuh. Sure. But later. Now’s for walking.”

He mock-saluted, hand to his chest, and walked.

It was tough going. A mere hour later, his head was fogged with exertion and his legs were burning, and he seemed constantly out of breath. It wasn’t as though he was unaccustomed to the feeling of tightness in his chest, of labouring for steady breaths for what felt like hours on end – but it was distinctly different to experience it free of the usual panic or distress. He got out of breath during training, sure, but – not like this. Not in this strange, persistent way, where even the short breaks they took didn’t seem to help.

Given the exertion, it took him a while to realise that the breathlessness was a little weird. A lot of the walking was more like climbing, and it made sense to be panting during that. But they came to a plateau around midday, and walked on nearly-flat ground for a good fifteen minutes, and he still couldn’t quite catch his breath. “…Is it just me,” he managed, between gasps for air, “or is it weirdly hard to breathe today?”

Ezran’s breath was huffing and puffing too. “Not just you.”

Rayla glanced at them, and then at the mountain range ahead of them. “It’s the altitude,” she said, plainly, and both of them turned to blink at her, still plodding numbly onwards.

Callum frowned. “What?”

“Why we’re finding it harder to catch our breath,” she clarified, waving at the mountain. “It’s altitude. When you’re up high enough, the air’s thinner. Harder to breathe.” She shrugged. “And we’ve climbed a lot today.”

“…Oh,” he realised, nonplussed. Ezran, for his part, seemed too busy staring exhaustedly at the sky to have many thoughts on the matter. “Isn’t that mountain-sickness?”

“Same thing, different names.” Rayla agreed, pausing to stretch out her legs and shake them a little, as if to dispel some stiffness. Whether it was the oncoming new moon, or just the harshness of the ascent, she seemed to actually be feeling the exercise for once. “We must be past three thousand metres now. That’s when most people usually start getting mountain-sickness.”

He considered asking what that was in feet, but didn’t quite get around to it before his brother spoke. “That’s a lot of metres.” Ez mumbled, tiredly.

Callum glanced at him, then back at Rayla. “Should we be…worried, about this? I don’t know much about mountain-sickness, but can’t it get pretty bad?”

“We’d need to go a lot higher for the breathing to be an actual problem,” Rayla said, shaking her head. “But let me know if you get weird headaches, or feel sick, or dizzy. That’s the stuff to watch out for. For now, though…” She hummed pensively, and narrowed her eyes at the scenery. “…I’m thinking we won’t have to go much higher than this. It’s not like we’re trying to summit anything. We’re just trying to get onto the next mountain.” She tilted her head to scrutinise the route. She pointed out a vaguely-sloping plateau a fair distance away, somewhat lower on the mountainside than their current position. “I reckon we can start going down again that way, and then find somewhere to camp past there. That’s got to be a couple hundred metres lower. Should be easier to breathe.”

“Sounds good,” he sighed, and lifted his face to a cold breeze. He hadn’t expected to be grateful for the freezing weather, but with how hard he was working…if it had been warmer, he might have passed out by now. He pulled in a few more unsatisfying breaths, then pushed onwards.

After about half an hour, they stopped ascending quite so viciously and instead began a meandering up-and-down path along the mountainside, heading steadily downwards. This was when Callum discovered that going down mountains was just as hard as going up them, albeit in different ways. It was so icy that they had to take it painstakingly slow, and even then he felt constantly on the edge of a nasty fall. His toes crushed together at the fronts of his boots, beginning to grow sore.

The third time Callum slipped on ice and had to be steadied from falling face-first down-slope, Rayla went away and snapped a branch off of a large pine, shearing off its needles with her blade and scraping off most of the bark. She judged it against his height for a few moments before unceremoniously chopping several inches off the end. “Here. Walking cane.” She said, presenting him with it, and went off to go find another branch, which she prepared for Ezran.

They mumbled thanks at her, exhausted, and continued their descent with somewhat greater poise than before. The descent pulled at different muscles to the ascent, so his legs weren’t complaining quite as much, but the fronts of his toes were starting to hurt in that sharp way that suggested there’d be blisters soon. He’d never had blisters on the front of his feet before, and wasn’t especially looking forward to the experience.

The pine-canes weren’t sturdy, and Callum snapped his after less than an hour. By that point though he didn’t need it as much, so he just went without until – finally – Rayla glanced at the sky and announced their lunch break. “Oh, thank Mercy,” he muttered, dropping his backpack with abject relief and collapsing to the ground.

Ezran lowered his with rather more care, but made an incoherent noise of gratitude when he finally sat down. “Shouldn’t that be Fortitude?” he mumbled, tiredly. “Since we made it this far without falling over?”

“Speak for yourself,” Callum huffed, wiping a hand over his face. Even through the gloves, he thought he could feel the livid heat of his skin, warmed by exertion. He imagined he was probably super red-looking right now. “I’ve fallen over tons of times. Or…nearly fallen, anyway.”

Rayla lowered her bag and the tent pack carefully, as though being mindful of her other shoulder, then collapsed with obvious relief beside them. “You have a god of not-falling-over?” she asked, sceptically, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“Not a god,” he said back, just a little amused, eyes closing as he panted for breath. “Paragon.”

“You have a paragon of not-falling-over?” she corrected, and when he opened his eyes to glance sideways at her, her lips were twitching.

He snorted, then closed his eyes again. He half wanted to turn over and plant his face directly into a snow bank. It’d help him cool down, at the very least. “Pretty much,” he sighed, and after a moment of consideration, did reach to his side and pick up a handful of icy snow. He smooshed it onto his face, the ice crystals a little sharp-edged on his skin. “Endurance, and willpower, and keeping going even when stuff’s hard.”

“Fortitude’s a good Paragon for us right now, I think,” Ezran said, sounding exhausted, and Callum offered a wordless hum of agreement.

“If this had been an official mission, people would’ve sent us off with him, you know,” he said, almost wistful. “They’d have said ‘Fortitude follow you’. And ‘Prudence guide your feet’. That’s traditional for big or important or tough journeys.”

Rayla offered a dubious hum. “Well, this journey’s definitely all three of those.”

For a while, they just laid there, getting their breath back, trying to cool down. Callum’s under-layers began to feel cold and clammy with the sweat, indicating they’d probably smell terrible later on. He was too tired to bring himself to care.

Eventually, Rayla pulled herself up, even though she plainly didn’t want to. “Right,” she said, determinedly, in as bull-headed a manifestation of Fortitude that anyone could have asked for. “Food. We can’t take too long with this break, so…food.”

Callum made a face. “I’m really not hungry.” In the wake of the sheer exertion of the morning, eating seemed unthinkable. The mere notion turned his stomach.

“Yes you are. You’ve just not cooled down enough to feel it,” Rayla refuted, pragmatic, and went for the reserves of cooked meat she’d put in her bag. “It’s hard to eat after exercise, but when you’re on a stupid long journey, you do it anyway.” She opened the jar and waved it aggressively at them. Both of them complained pitifully at her, but she wasn’t having any of it. In short order they’d both reluctantly withdrawn a portion and sat up to start nibbling on it.

“You’re like aunt Amaya is about breakfast,” Ezran muttered, mouth part-full, chewing around the bite he’d taken. “She’s really bossy about that too.”

Rayla looked nonplussed. Plainly, she wasn’t sure what to think about the comparison.

“Imagine if we told her that,” Callum put in, uncertain whether to be amused or alarmed at the thought. “Wonder how she’d react to being compared to an elf.”

“She’d definitely make a pretty weird face,” Ezran offered thoughtfully. “She’d probably be glad Rayla’s making sure we’re eating, though.”

She grimaced at that, looking like she’d swallowed something sour. “Don’t know about that. She’d just stab me for running off with you two in the first place.”

Callum opened his mouth to protest, remembered the depth of his aunt’s sentiments for elves, then shut it. “…Well, I mean…”

“Don’t worry, Rayla,” Ez said, reaching out to pat her on the knee. “If you ever meet aunt Amaya, we’ll make sure we’re there, and then we can convince her to be nice to you. No stabbing.”

Rayla glanced at him, expression slightly pained. “…If you say so.” It was very obvious, from her face, that she had absolutely no intention of going near their aunt if she could help it. Not for the first time, Callum wondered what kind of reputation Amaya had in Xadia.

“We can keep teaching you sign language, too!” His brother went on, determinedly cheerful. “I bet she’d be too surprised at an elf trying to talk to her properly to, um,” he searched for a word.

“Stab me, clobber me with her shield, or throw me in a dungeon?” Rayla suggested, and both of them made faces at her. Callum, for his part, had recently seen Rayla contend with what would surely have been a fatal stabbing if he hadn’t tossed her assailant off a cliff, and wasn’t particularly keen on imagining any Aunt Amaya variations on the affair.

It was uncomfortably easy to picture, though. He’d seen one of his aunt’s famous Battalion sparring sessions, and she was…very, very good at fighting. Struck suddenly wordless, he said nothing.

Ezran shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Rayla sighed, and for a moment, looked down at her left hand. She flexed its fingers carefully, slow and methodical, and Callum remembered how she’d been looking at it earlier. For all that she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, she’d seemed…unsettled. “Well,” she said, quietly, after a moment. “I guess sign language is…probably pretty good exercise, for this hand.”

“Keeping it moving, helping circulation?” Callum supplied, after calling back to mind the Healer’s advice. “Yeah, I guess it would be. We could do a quick bit of it now, while we’re resting?”

She eyed him, then rolled her eyes. “Suppose. Might as well make it something useful, though.”

“Like what?” Ez asked, intrigued.

“Like watch signals. Check-ins, and stuff. The kind of thing my lot would use ictus for.”

“Huh,” Callum blinked, and thought about it. It wasn’t like he’d not seen military sign language terms being used before, given who his aunt was, so… “Yeah, sure. What first?”

Rayla, apparently, had been drilled thoroughly enough in proper silent report-giving enough that she had a list of important terms ready to go. She determinedly worked her hands through learning the signs to demand a status report, report all-clear, report a problem, and report possible enemies in the area. It was all pretty basic, but she clearly wasn’t used to learning this sort of thing, and…well. And her hand was obviously giving her problems.

He didn’t comment, because he could see she didn’t want him to. But it was slow to move. The fingers trembled strangely in certain positions, and didn’t quite seem to respond right. Several times, between his demonstrations of new signs, he saw her flex the fingers and shake the hand, as if trying to dispel some stiffness that wouldn’t quite deign to leave...

“That’s probably enough for today,” he decided, once she’d navigated her hands through a quick practice exchange of an all-clear status report. “Or, at least, for now. Probably won’t sink in, if we try for more.”

She blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, probably,” she agreed, and glanced briefly at the way ahead. “We should be moving again, anyway.”

“Next time, we’ll teach you something more fun,” Ezran promised.

She glanced his way, smiling a little as she hefted her bags over her one good shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like talking about your favourite foods, maybe?” he suggested, picking up the bag with the egg carefully, and kneeling to let Bait jump onto its top, riding there like a monarch in his carriage.

“That sounds like a good way to get ourselves stupid hungry with nothing good around to eat.” Despite the words, she sounded amused.

Callum thought longingly of the castle meals, and regretted not eating more at lunch. Rayla had been right; he really had been hungrier than he’d felt at first. “Still nice to think about,” he said wistfully. “Give us something to look forward to when this is all done.”

“Suppose.” When he looked at her, she looked a little wistful herself, as though she were caught in similar thoughts of home.

As they started to walk, he glanced at her sidelong, and eventually asked “So…what are your favourite foods, back home?” If, as she’d claimed, everything in Xadia was magical…did that include the food? What did magic food taste like?

She hesitated for a moment, like she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to say, or even if she wanted to. But then she smiled, still wistful, and started describing her favourite Xadian fruits and berries to them, and which ones she’d learned to find and pick herself in the forest she apparently lived in.

He listened to it all, interjecting with questions here and there, and…though she was pretty sparing with the details, started to get a better idea of the place she’d grown up in. A forest full of magic, and wild fruit vines growing on trees tall enough they’d probably overshadow the cliff his home castle was built on. Trees tall enough and immense enough to carve houses out of. It was so fantastical to imagine. Thinking of the wonders of Xadia, waiting so far ahead, made it a little easier to keep walking.

The hour passed like that, with easy curious conversation to take their minds off of the travel, and in the end Callum felt lighter than he had in days.

Even if Rayla wouldn’t tell him what was in a moonberry surprise.

---

In the wake of the storm, the Healer’s house grew busy, and from his sickbed Corvus bore witness to it all.

The first day, there was a stream of miners displaced from the mountain by an avalanche. Broken bones on two, sprains on a few more. A day later one of the same group, only recently recovered from the mountainside, was brought in hypothermic and near-dead, losing two toes and a finger to frostbite before she was stabilised. No one had died, apparently, but it had been a near thing.

Now, the whole town was effectively on standby, waiting for the weather to improve. The tail-end of the thundersnow was still lashing at Verdorn’s periphery, for all that the mine-folk apparently thought it had moved past Farel – and, accordingly, the mines – by now.

“It’ll be another day before it’s safe to go back there,” said the Healer’s wife, a woman named Serris, who oversaw the mines and was apparently rarely home. “So in the meantime, we’ll just have to do our best impressions of directionless layabouts. At least you lot have the excuse of injury, eh?” This last comment she directed at her battered fellows in their beds, a good-natured jibe, and they jeered back at her.

“I’ll be glad to see a little more of your face in the meantime, at least,” said the Healer Marla, her voice dry. “And if you’re so offended by being a layabout, you can come help me mix these salves.”

“A harsh taskmistress, my wife,” commented Serris to the house’s residence, amused, before she went as commanded to help with the work.

Corvus quite enjoyed the company, in honesty. He’d grown accustomed to travelling and serving with the Battalion, and though he was frequently detached for his tracking endeavours, he missed the camaraderie of his fellows. It was good to have people to talk to, even if most of them were as bedridden as he was. And, with little else to do, they all spent a lot of time talking. He was recipient to a lot of questions about his current mission, which he couldn’t answer, and a lot of questions about the Battalion, some of which he could. He admitted when asked that he’d been told to stand by and heal, so wouldn’t be heading anywhere soon.

“I’m to get transportation to Greatport if I can do it without risking myself,” he said, a little wistful. He liked Greatport. If he had to convalesce anywhere, it would have been a good choice. But… “Apparently, I’ll have to hold off on that for a while, though.”

“You certainly will, master Corvus,” Marla said severely, without even looking up from her mixing. “Horseback would be terrible for you as you are now. It’s waiting for a cart to take you or nothing, and we’ve a while until the next of those is due to leave.”

So that was how his days passed, in the thick of the storm. He tried not to spend too much time worrying about the General, or the princes. For better or for worse, he was off the mission now. He just…wished he could have done better. If he had, maybe the princes would be safe now. Instead, he’d undoubtedly driven them straight into that deadly storm, with their captor potentially too badly injured to see to their safety.

He tried not to fret. But it was hard to avoid, when he had frostbitten testaments to the dangers of the mountains convalescing around him. The elf wasn’t the only danger to those boys, was she? And his failure had sent them straight into that gauntlet. He’d wanted to save them, but instead…

Still, Corvus did what he could to avert his thoughts. He’d sent what information he could to Amaya. There was nothing else he could do, at this point.

Except:

“The tavern had some interesting visitors today,” said Serris, after returning from checking in with her workers at the tavern in question. She shot a piercing look at Corvus as she spoke. “A couple of kids, one of ‘em in Crownguard armour. They said they’re tracking that elf.”

Corvus straightened on his headboard. So did everyone else in the house of healing. “Kids?” he repeated, then processed the Crownguard part. There was only one Crownguard he knew of who was young enough to easily be called a kid. He was suddenly at full attention. “Siblings?” he questioned, intent. “A girl with dyed hair? Her brother the Crownguard?”

Everyone was looking his way, now. “You know them?” Serris guessed, after a moment.

Lord Viren’s children, here? “I’ve met the Crownguard,” he said, slowly, mind working furiously. They were tracking the elf? That made no sense. That wasn’t a job for Crownguard, it was a job for the Battalion, the military – for him. And the dark mage…

He thought ‘elf’. He thought ‘dark mage’. Then he thought, ah.

For a moment, it all seemed to make sense. He considered Lord Viren with unease, and everything he’d heard of the man, working so closely with the General. Perhaps he wasn’t content with what could be harvested from the five felled Xadian assassins. Maybe he wanted the sixth, too, and had sent his daughter and son out to that effect…

…except, that didn’t quite fit.

“…Is that what they said?” Corvus asked, after a long silence, aware of the sudden quietness of the room of convalescents. “That they were after the elf?”

Serris eyed him, cautious. She folded her arms. “They tried to hide it at first, but, yeah. They didn’t know you were here, either. Seemed interested in that. They might come visiting soon.”

Corvus made a noncommittal noise, and tried to pore over his thoughts, tried to identify what tasted wrong about this situation. He’d been on a low dose of lilium for days now, and it slowed his mind more than he cared to admit. He needed his wits about him now, because there was something off here. Something important.

Slowly, through the fog, he drew the discrepancies from his gut into his mind.

Viren was Lord Protector now. If he wanted a pursuit of the elf, why not make it larger-scale? Why send only his children? Why not work with General Amaya, who was expressly pursuing the elf already, and surely had the best knowledge of the resources available? Soren certainly wasn’t a trained tracker. He doubted the girl, the dark mage, had that sort of training either, at her age-

He stopped. Examined the thought.

Dark mage. Tracking. Were there spells for that sort of thing?

For the first time, he felt an inkling of anger. If they had a way to find the princes and they’d been withholding it…!

Except that wasn’t right either. They said they were tracking the elf, not the princes. And, at this point, the news that the princes were actually alive probably hadn’t spread very far. So…Lord Viren had sent his children, a talented but inexperienced Crownguard and…a dark mage…in pursuit of an assassin thought to have slain royalty. Why? Were the ingredients worth so much to him? Was there some other motive?

…He’d sent his children covertly. Hadn’t given word to General Amaya, or Corvus would certainly have been notified by now. He wanted that elf found, and either he didn’t trust the General, or…

Or, there was some other motivation at play here. Something secret. Something, perhaps, that the Lord Protector would only trust to his own family.

Corvus recalled, all at once, that the elf had her wrist bound by magic. It was what had given him the advantage in the fight with her, knowing about it ahead of time, knowing what to target, what to exploit…and the Healer had said it was dark magic, hadn’t she? Dark magic, when there were only two dark mages who the elf might have encountered. One of those mages was now here.

Something isn’t right here, he thought to himself grimly, and felt his fingers itch for a quill. Amaya needed to know about this. But…

He sighed. Kora hadn’t returned in a while, so he could only assume she’d been put to work on the other end, relaying vital information to those places and people she was bound to. If he wanted to report, he’d have to do it by the town’s rookery, and send it to the Crow Office for redistribution. That would take time, and he still didn’t have the full story. If the Lord Protector’s children were here – if he could talk to them-

He needed to report. But it would be better to wait until there was more to say.

“If they ask…” Corvus said, slowly, to a dozen keen pairs of ears. “Tell them where to find me. I think we need to talk.”

End chapter.

Chapter Notes: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OGBo7nKVDIfWjhxGe90fwaS3lP0IfQJ3?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

This chapter's notes cover: travel details, the Crow Lord’s office, Hope, Mercy scripture, Moonshadow religion, rare Moonshadow elf abilities.

Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

Author Notes:

So. It’s been a while. You can pretty much completely blame that on a single scene, which blocked me so hard that it actually kicked me directly out of the fandom. I’ve never had that happen before. I had to slowly claw my way back via my other tdp fics. The scene in question is written now, thankfully. I deferred it to the start of next chapter out of desperation, and then managed to write it all in a mad burst of inspiration the other day.

Various things have happened in my life that you can, like, vaguely catch hints of if you read back on my tumblr, if you’re into that sort of thing. Otherwise:

Credits: more Hogarth inspiration for one Sarli line in this chapter, specifically 'Where there is life, there is hope of change'. It's not word for word in the text, but there was definite inspiration there. I can't quite remember which book it was – In Extremis, maybe? Middle of its series, in any case.

Next chapter is done, and I’m very excited about it. It has some fun content, but most of all: it has my favourite Runaan plotline scene. I wrote it a long time ago, relatively early on in piaj development, and have been in love with it ever since. I’m so excited we’re finally to the point of me being able to publish it. I’m going to write a fucking huge author’s commentary section for that chapter’s extended notes, I have so much to say about it.

For now, though…I like this chapter a lot, actually. I’ve reread it so many times while trying to block-break over the last few months, and normally that would make me sick of it, but I still love it. Really enjoying starting to get to The Good Stuff. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Or some sort of stat enrichment! It’s incredible fuel for the writing engine.

#tdp fic #rayllum #tdp callum #tdp rayla #piaj chapters

39 notes · View notes

imaginewarehouse · 3 years

Text

𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞: Being the slightly overbearing mum friend at Cloud 9 and being horrified when you find out that Marcus is living under the store- so you offer the extra room at your apartment, at least for a little while.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐬: Nope, I don't think so. I did take liberties on why Marcus was living under the store, though.

"Mateoooo, I saw you come down here, and I don't wanna work, so I've followed you. Totally not creepy," Still, having explained my presence, I still see no Mateo. Hm. I wander further into the bowels of Cloud 9 and feel a chill drag goosebumps up my arms- jeez, its cool down here. Like a dungeon. Why didn't I bring my sweater? "Mateo?"

"Oh, shit- "

Ding ding ding! I found him. I speed up and turn around a corner.

"Aha! Are you alone? That didn't sound like- Marcus!" My eyes widen. Woah. I have just walked in to what looks to be a teenage boys bedroom without the posters with naked women on them and green aliens with big heads. Mateo and Marcus are both sat amongst this with stale-smelling ramen. "Marcus with no pants, hello, what are we doing in here and why does it look like a 16-year-old boy called Connor exploded his whole personality in here."

Marcus raises his eyebrows expectantly and I put two and two together. Ah... he decorated the place. I look to Mateo instead out of awkwardness.

Mateo looks a little bit shocked, before passing the apparent atomic javelin on to me. "He... is living here."

3...

2...

1...

Suddenly the formerly 'cool' temperature down here becomes arctic. My head snaps to the side and I zero back in on Marcus, who suddenly looks nervous. Oh, and he should. "You're what!?"

"I- It's not so bad! I got my posters in here, and I have water, and a TV. I mean, I'm peeing in jars, but- " I look to Mateo now, like 'Is this man out of his goddamn mind??!', and get a shrug back before I return my gaze to Marcus, crossing my arms. "Its only until I find somewhere better, but with these new hours, I... " No words come out; He just shrugs and shakes his head, pitifully, like 'Its not going to happen,'.

"What happened to your mum's place?? Its freezing down here!"

"Her boyfriend moved in... "

"Oh, boy." My eyebrows furrow. That sucks. "Marcus, why didn't you tell us? I'm sure someone would've done something! I would, at least. You know I'm looking for a new roommate- even if it wasn't permanent, you could at least have a place with hot water and a toilet!" Well the store does have bathrooms but... Marcus. Its best not to engage him when it cones to weird things.

He opens his mouth, jaw dropping and gaping for a moment, but I don't stand down. Yes, it would be weird to have Marcus in my home, but I could get used to it. It would be better for him to be there, anyway, then homeless! He's annoying- not Satan.

"... I can't handle much of the rent... "

"That's okay, I'm handling it pretty well on my own!- I have a second job."

Marcus moves his feet to face me more directly rather then Mateo who is still silent and... kinda still, actually. Frozen. What did I walk into? Marcus sets down his ramen and holds his hands together gratefully. "I'll chip in as much as I can, promise. Thank you so much, for this."

"Awesome! I'll help you move your stuff when my shift's over." A pleased grin spreads across my lips.

He gets suddenly nervous at the idea of moving his stuff. "Oh- I don't... really want people... to know... "

"Oh- We'll be totally incognito, I promise." I wink, and tap the side of my nose all conspiratorial-like.

He flashes another bright grin, matching mine.

#Superstore Imagine #Superstore #Superstore x Reader #Imagine #Mateo Liwanag #Mateo Liwanag x Reader #Marcus White #Marcus White x Reader #Superstore Mateo #Superstore Marcus

86 notes · View notes

nightjarteeth · 3 years

Text

Day 4 of the Midsummer Masquerade: Sensory Deprivation

(thanks to CrinklyTinfoil for helping me write the spicy bits <3)

Word count: 3258

Pairing: Valdemar x Finch

Warnings: lemon, tentacles, sensory deprivation, nudity, no actual penetration

(for those who follow my writing, this fic diverges from this chapter of Vervain, Mugwort, & Other Magiferous Plants. this is in no way necessary reading, though.)

“Would you like to see the dungeons?” Quaestor Valdemar asked inquisitively, touching their fingertips together.

“After all, I’d say you’ve earned it after getting past that lock.” Their words implied that Finch was being treated to a reward, but Finch got the distinct impression that they really just wanted to show Finch whatever horrors were lurking down there.

“Oh, no thank you,” Finch replied a little tersely. “I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your valuable time, after all.”

And more importantly, they were more than eager to leave this dark, damp tunnel the Quaestor had lured them down with the promise of a supposedly “intriguing lock.”

As Finch turned to leave, the Quaestor made a pointed coughing noise.

“Are you quite sure about that? You know, I’ve recently acquired some… let’s say, specialized new equipment I could show you. I’ve been looking for someone to test it out on for a while.”

Finch paused. Specialized equipment…?

Wait a second. Was this related to that Midsummer Masquerade thing?

A few days ago, Finch had found an envelope surreptitiously slipped underneath their guest room in the palace. Inside was an invitation written in stylish scarlet ink — and it appeared to be playfully alluding to its intentions, rather than stating them forthright.

Finch had furrowed their brow as they deciphered what exactly the invitation was getting at. It seemed to be a clandestine event… of a decidedly more adult nature.

“Is this some sort of… sex party?” they’d muttered. They approached their door, cracking it open a notch and peering out in an attempt to see who had slipped it under the door. There was no one there.

Whoever had given them the invite had disappeared abruptly, leaving their identity a mystery.

They glanced down at the parchment again.

“Hmmmm. Nope, won’t be attending whatever that is,” they concluded. Finch would be the first to describe themself as a private person — they weren’t a big fan of parties to begin with, much less sexually-inclined parties. To put it lightly, this Midsummer Masquerade thing wasn’t their cup of tea.

For the last two days, they’d been using the invitation as scrap paper, and had nearly forgotten about the upcoming event.

But now…

Perhaps the Quaestor themself had been invited to the Midsummer Masquerade, and was struck in a mood. And perhaps they also preferred to keep such activities private.

Arriving back from their train of thoughts, Finch looked up again. Valdemar’s red eyes were fixed upon them, interestedly waiting for their answer. Finch felt their face flush a little.

Even though just a minute ago they’d been considering how creepy Valdemar was, with their peculiar mannerisms and open adoration of the plague, Finch found themself reevaluating the physician.

They… weren’t unattractive. Actually, once you got past a few minor details — like how they never seemed to blink, or the strange bandages swathed around their head — Finch had to admit there was a certain elegance to their figure.

And who knew? Maybe some experimentation with some questionable equipment in an underground dungeon could release some of the tension of the last few days.

“I have to admit, I’m… curious about your equipment,” Finch confessed, wincing at the accidental euphemism.

“Oh, wonderful,” Valdemar replied. “I’ve been looking to find someone to test it out on for ages.”

They seized a bar of the iron gate, and it juddered open with a loud creak that echoed along the stone tunnel walls.

“In you go,” they instructed, beckoning Finch to walk inside a small elevator that looked like it could just barely accommodate a single person.

“Can two people really fit in there?” Finch asked, unconvinced.

“Don’t fret your little mind over it,” the Quaestor assured them in a not-very-assuring voice. “It will be a tight squeeze, but I’m absolutely sure you won’t mind.”

Finch entered the elevator, noting that the metal platform beneath their feet shuddered a little as they placed their weight on it. How stable was this thing, exactly?

Valdemar moved in swiftly after them, and their chest pressed in closely alongside Finch’s shoulders. Somehow, when they stepped upon the platform, it didn’t shudder at all.

“See? Very comfortable,” Valdemar said, resting a chilly hand on Finch’s head. “Down we go.”

With no indication of them pulling a lever or pressing a button, the elevator rattled on downwards.

Finch shivered against the coldness of Valdemar’s perfectly-still chest. Were they just imagining things, or… did the Quaestor somehow not have a heartbeat? It didn’t feel as if they were even breathing.

But before they had time to fully evaluate this, the elevator had come to a stop, and the iron gate was opening once more. Outside, there was nothing but pitch darkness.

“Well? Come along,” the Quaestor said, looking back behind at Finch, who was not budging.

“Hmmm, that’s right, you need additional lighting. Well, I wouldn’t want you stumbling on anything — an injury might ruin the integrity of the whole experiment. I’ll be right back.”

Valdemar momentarily left Finch with no light except for the dull red glow of whatever magic powered the elevator. Then, they emerged from the dark with a torch in their hand.

“That’s better, yes? Now follow me,” they instructed.

Now that the torch illuminated the area in soft orange brightness, Finch was able to take a decent look at their surroundings. The dungeon was spacious, looking like a place that formerly held a great deal of activity. Tables and chairs were strewn about, with an empty operating theater set at the dead center of it all.

As Valdemar led them through the room, Finch took note of how many of the tables were equipped with sturdy-looking leather straps. One of them still had polished scalpels and a bonesaw arranged neatly across its surface.

Finch gulped. They had a feeling that whatever “equipment” Quaestor Valdemar had mentioned might be of the BDSM variety… but how much could Finch really handle?

“I’ve been searching for a volunteer for this simply forever,” Valdemar wistfully sighed in the meanwhile. “It would’ve been much easier back in the days of the Red Plague — there was no shortage of potential participants in the dungeons back then… but nowadays finding someone sturdy and willing can be a real challenge.”

That’s a very strange way of saying that you’ve been having trouble finding sex partners lately, Finch thought, but kept quiet.

“When I saw the schematic a fellow scientist invented, I simply couldn’t resist recreating it myself. This will be so much fun.”

The way Valdemar said the word “fun” made Finch’s stomach turn in knots. Either this was going to be a weirdly enjoyable time, or it was going to be the most frightening moment of Finch’s life.

In any case, this was bound to be an intense experience.

Eventually, Valdemar stopped at a stone archway with a dark room beyond its threshold.

“It’s right in here,” they said, shining the torchlight so that it illuminated the room.

Finch peered in. The room was empty, with no visible contraption they could see… and then they glanced down at the floor.

Set into the stone tiles was a circular black pool of water. The orange light of the torch flickered over its mirror-like surface, revealing nothing of its depth.

“Wait, what is that?” Finch asked, a nervous twitch entering their normally stoic expression. This… was not what they had been expecting.

“It’s a sensory deprivation pool,” Valdemar replied, their voice laced with excitement. “And you’re going in it.”

Finch felt at that moment that they would’ve been more comforted if there’d been the table with the scalpels and bonesaw inside the room. At least that would’ve been more aligned with the BDSM situation they’d been previously anticipating.

For the first time, they began to question if this whole invitation really was a sex thing.

“I’m going in there?” they asked, taken aback.

“Oh, yes,” Valdemar answered matter-of-factly.

“Is… there anything in that water that I should know about?” Finch asked next, peering into the opaque surface of the pool. It was all too easy to imagine some deep sea leviathan idling under the surface, waiting for someone to dip their toes in.

“Goodness, no. The water’s far too salty for any extant species to survive living in it. And don’t worry about sinking, either… the primary purpose of all that salt is that it’ll allow you to simply float in the water.”

“Any further questions?” the Quaestor asked, suddenly far too close to Finch’s ear. Finch paused for a moment, trying to think of any excuse to get out of this situation they’d foolishly signed up for.

But before they could even formulate a response, Valdemar had already taken their silence as an answer.

“Good, good. Then you may proceed to disrobe.”

Finch hesitated, wondering if they should wait for the Quaestor to leave the room before stripping their clothes off. Instead, they tilted their head at Finch, red eyes looking directly at them.

“If you’re nervous about disrobing in front of me, you needn’t be. I can assure you that whatever’s under that cloak of yours will not surprise me. Unless, you’d rather I leave you in total darkness to remove your clothing?”

“No, that definitely won’t be necessary,” Finch quickly replied, not fancying the idea of tripping over their clothes in the dark.

They weren’t particularly embarrassed about being nude, but they had to admit that the Quaestor’s unyielding gaze was a little unnerving.

Finch turned away to undress, the dungeon air chilly against their skin. When they were fully naked, they looked back. The whole time they were undressing, Valdemar’s eyes hadn’t moved, their face expressionless and giving nothing away.

Finch couldn’t decide if this was vaguely arousing or downright creepy.

They cautiously clambered down the stone steps leading down into the pool. To their surprise, the water was pleasantly warm to the touch.

“All the way in,” Valdemar instructed. “And then situate yourself so that you’re floating on your back.”

Finch did as they were told, leaning back into the pool and letting their limbs go limp. Just as Valdemar had said, they floated with no difficulty, the water seeming strangely supportive of their weight.

“...now what?” they asked after a moment. Gazing up from their position in the middle of the pool, they glimpsed a razor-sharp grin.

“And now I leave you in the dark,” Valdemar said, and turned away.

“Wait! What exactly is supposed to happen to me in here?” Finch asked, suddenly concerned again.

“That’s the whole experiment,” Valdemar stated. “Examining how the mind reacts when deprived of stimulus… Well, there’s all sorts of delightful possibilities. The schematic suggested that it might induce hallucinations — oh, I do so hope it does induce hallucinations.”

Without another word, Valdemar moved toward the stone archway, and the orange torchlight was extinguished. Finch found themself absolutely alone.

If I died in here, it’s likely that no one would ever find me, they thought. Experimentally, they moved a hand in front of their face. Nothing — their eyes didn’t detect even a hint of movement.

After several more minutes, however, they began to feel their mind calm. The chamber was perfectly silent and still — unlike the rest of the bustling Palace, which Finch was still adjusting to staying in. In the complete dark, it was unexpectedly easy to forget that they were deep underneath the building, trapped in a creepy dungeon.

With the pleasantly warm water beneath their body, Finch noticed the tension in their muscles start to gradually fizzle away. Maybe coming down here wasn’t actually an awful idea, even if this hadn’t been the experience they’d expected.

Just as their body began to truly relax, Finch felt a current of water move underneath them. They braced themself. It’s probably just from whatever mechanism’s warming the pool, they rationalized, trying to keep calm.

Then, something smooth and whip-like brushed against their ankle.

Finch jolted on instinct. They thrashed in the pool, trying to regain their balance, but was thrown off by the sheer buoyancy of the water. Finally, they were able to grasp at the pool’s edge, sputtering and panting raggedly.

There couldn’t be anything living in here, could there? The water was, in fact, too salty — Finch could taste the bitterness of it on their lips.

An idea sprang to mind. Maybe this was one of those hallucinations Valdemar was talking about — one of the results they were hoping for. After a few minutes of no sign of further movement in the water, Finch released their hold on the slippery stone edge.

Slowly, they allowed themselves to drift back out into the center, once more closing their eyes and concentrating on staying calm — a more difficult task now, with their heart pounding in their chest as they floated along the surface.

It had to be just their imagination... but underneath, they felt the water shift again, as though something was rising from the depths.

Finch tensed slightly, taking in a deep breath. Halfway through it, the breath caught in their throat as they felt that soft brush against their ankle once more. They focused more intently this time, trying to ignore it.

Whatever hallucination this was shouldn’t concern them. Hell, this experience might be an opportunity to learn something about themself. What would their mind come up with when left alone in the dark?

There was only one way to find out.

The whip-like appendage slowly began winding around their ankle. Finch shivered, their skin feeling as if it were on fire.

Finch felt their limb pulled, the motion deliberate and almost experimental. Whatever was in the pool with them was behaving in a very intentional manner, ruling the possibility of “sea monster” out of Finch’s mind.

On impulse, Finch opened their eyes, but there was nothing to see but the dark. Briefly, they considered reaching their hand out to try to touch whatever was currently wrapping up their exposed thigh and causing their heart to beat wildly.

For a moment, they stretched out their fingertips, only to release them back into the water. Just hallucinations — that’s what the Quaestor had stated. No point in reaching for something that wasn’t there.

A small gasp escaped Finch as in an abrupt motion, the tendril that gripped their leg began to move upwards, sliding between their legs and over their torso.

The water shifted again, and Finch bit down hard on their lip as they felt another tendril join the prior one, sliding gently between their legs as it did so — and sending an alarming spark of pleasure crackling up their spine.

Finch had started to breathe more heavily, feeling the urge to press their legs together onto the unidentifiable tendril as their toes curled. The prior tentacle that had snaked up between their legs prevented this, though, and so they were left a bit of a panting mess as they drifted in the dark.

Then, several more tendrils erupted from beneath, rippling at the surface of the water. They coiled around each of Finch’s wrists and ankles, seizing them firmly.

The message was clear: stop moving.

More tentacles continued writhing up Finch’s body, wrapping them in a peculiarly soft grip. Their chest, arms and legs were soon wrapped and unwrapped as the appendages below seemed to explore them. Soft touches trailed across their body — trails of fire that made Finch’s face redden more and more with every second.

Just. A. Hallucination! Finch frantically reminded themself, trying and failing not to react.

Finch stifled a moan, their hands balling into fists as the tentacle situated across their nether region pressed down none too lightly, rocking back and forth in an investigative manner.

Their bare skin prickled with sensation, and they once more frantically fought to stifle a cry as a warm glow enveloped them. These were some very vivid hallucinations, Finch frantically tried to justify to themself.

After all, if they weren’t hallucinations, what else could they be? Finch literally couldn’t think of any other possibility… but then again, it was difficult to think at all at the moment.

Finch sensed their face going red as they felt a tentacle lightly wrap about their neck. A soft tip stroked down their jawline, its motions careful and precise, like a doctor making an incision.

Another stroked across their cheek, pushing damp hair off to the side as the slit between their legs began to burn with an absolutely vicious heat. Finch felt trapped and slightly frightened, which apparently was really doing it for them judging by the sensations coursing up and down their body.

The appendages continued to glide over their skin, seemingly keen to explore every inch of Finch that was available. Sparks exploded inside of them as the tips of the soft feelers paused on their nipples, beginning to twist and play with them and leaving Finch feeling ever-so-slightly dazed.

They weren’t sure how long they floated in the dark before the shivering and quaking of their body began to mean they couldn’t possibly hold still a second longer. They twitched and shook in the unyielding embrace of the tentacles that had extended from the depths, their breath coming in shallow gasps.

It was as this happened, their world disappearing into a vision of noiseless pleasure, that a surge of heat swept through them. They gasped, and if sinking in the water had been possible, they were sure they would’ve surrendered to the depths below them.

One by one, Finch felt the tentacles fading away. They slipped from between their legs, and removed themselves from their chest and arms. Finch heard the soft splash of water as what they imagined to be thick writhing shapes disappeared back underneath.

The last one to go was the one that lingered about their neck. With one last caress of their chin, it slowly released, sliding gently back into the depths and leaving them once more floating unhindered in the water.

After a few minutes in the perfectly-still darkness, Finch detected the orange light of the torch in the corner of their eye. As the room swam back into view, they felt themselves become reoriented once more.

Finch looked upwards. Valdemar loomed above them at the edge of the pool, head tilting with curiosity.

“You’re back,” Finch noted, hurriedly getting out of the water and desperately hoping Valdemar didn’t notice how flustered they looked.

“Hmmm? I never left the room,” Valdemar informed them. “After all, I had to examine you during the course of the experiment.”

Finch immediately flushed. What… had they seen?

“And besides,” Valdemar added, cracking a sharp grin. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun in that sensory deprivation pool alone.”

Finch decided that for their own peace of mind, they were not going to ask any further questions on this matter — or think too hard about the worrying implications of what Valdemar had just said.

Instead, they asked another question.

“Quaestor… by any chance, have you ever heard of an event called the ‘Midsummer Masquerade?’”

“Midsummer Masquerade…?” For a moment, Valdemar looked genuinely confused — an unexpected sight.

“Ah. I do recall finding an invitation delivered to my estate — but as a rule of thumb, I don’t attend such events unless my presence is absolutely required. I never opened the envelope,” Valdemar replied with a shrug of their shoulders.

Of… course, Finch thought.

Naked in the cold depths of the dungeon, Finch started putting their clothes back on.

#my first ever lemon #woohoo #vesuviaafterdark #midsummer masquerade #the arcana game #quaestor valdemar #valdemar #mc finch #fanfic #lemon #minors dni #it really is hjallan mating season huh #nightposting

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traitorousheroes · 3 years

Text

and she greeted the End as an old friend

(Hannibal/The Magnus Archives Crossover. I've had this sitting in my drafts for over a year, and its technically finished, although originally it was going to be part of a series.)

Case #0170723

Statement of Abigail Hobbs, regarding her fathers and her subsequent deaths at their hands. Statement given directly by subject on July 23rd, 2017 to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins...

The London streets were cold in the early morning, very different from the warmth of Italy. In a way they reminded her of Lithuania, of the dungeons beneath the old Lecter estate. The moth that Will had left was still beautiful, even as the skin sloughed off and spiders spun their webs in the empty eye sockets. There had been echoes of death that clung to the very stones of that place, but nothing that was unique, except for the fact of who it had affected. Those that it was continuing to affect.

Abigail pulled at the braid that covered her missing ear as she walked up to the Magnus Institute. Pressing her hand against the door, the feeling of being Known overcame her. The Eye focused on her as she stepped through and into the foyer, and she could feel that it wanted what she had come here to give. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Unlike her own patron, the Eye was unused to waiting.

“Excuse me,” she said, walking up to the main desk.

The woman who sat behind it looked up at her in surprise. Her name tag read Rosie, which seemed to fit the woman.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I was hoping to make an appointment to speak with Elias Bouchard?”

“I’m not sure that Mr. Bouchard has any openings in his schedule for the next week,” Rosie said, flipping through a planner. “If you’d like, there looks to be an appointment open in a fortnight-”

The phone on her desk rang. Rosie gave her a small smile and held up a finger as she picked up the receiver. Abigail could hear the sound of a male voice on the other end, though what he was saying was indistinct. Rosie looked back up at her, confusion on her face as she listened to whatever the man on the line was saying.

“Of course, Mr. Bouchard,” she said. “I’ll let her know.” Rosie put the phone receiver to her shoulder and turned her smile back to Abigail. “Mr. Bouchard says that he has an appointment open at around noon. In return, he asks if you would be willing to give a statement to the Archives.”

“Of course.”

Rosie relayed her acceptance to him, giving a perfunctory goodbye and hanging up the phone. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you down to the Archives.”

Abigail nodded. Rosie turned and walked further into the building, her heels clicking against the stone floor; Abigail’s own shoes, a pair of comfortable flats, made no sound in comparison. They walked past a set of large wooden doors, above which sat a plaque that read Artifact Storage, before coming to a set of stairs that led down. At the basement landing there was only one door, which sat innocuously against the left hand wall. The plaque above it was similar to the one upstairs, but read Archives instead. It also appeared to be damaged with what appeared to be some sort of fire suppressant caked on the upper right hand corner.

Rosie opened the door, revealing a surprisingly large room with two chairs on the wall next to the door. Four desks sat in the middle of the room, each one stacked with paper and knick knacks. On the far left hand side of the room there were offices, one of which had a plaque next to it stating Archivist. A piece of paper was taped over the name holder below it, with the name Jonathon Sims printed on it. There were another two offices beside it, though neither of them had any designations. The door to the furthest one was cracked open slightly, letting her see what appeared to be a cot wedged against the wall. A small kitchenette sat against the back wall, the sink filled with what looked like used mugs.

“You can wait here if you’d like,” Rosie said, gesturing to a chair. “Would you like a coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Abigail replied, taking the seat. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you need anything before they arrive, I’ll be at the front desk.”

Abigail nodded, letting her smile drop as the woman left. She let out a deep breath, all the air leaving her body in a deathly rattle. The air in the room was silent as the grave, not even the spider spinning its web in the corner making a sound to disturb it. She could feel the cold as it overtook her limbs like an old friend embracing her, her sight disappearing behind clouds of milky white. The echoes of death that lingered in the Archives were tantalizing in their amount. There was the faint tang of Corruption to them, a hive mind bound to flesh screaming out in unison as their lives were snuffed out.

“I think she’s dead.”

“Christ, not again.”

Abigail drew herself back from the deaths of the Flesh Hive, a curl of satisfaction settling itself in her chest. A faint whirring caught her ear as she acclimated back to her body, the sound like the VCR from her childhood. She blinked, clearing away the clouds that had settled over her corneas. One of the men who had been talking yelped, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor as he stumbled away. Abigail rolled her neck and stretched her fingers, chasing the torpor away.

As she focused on the two men in front of her she smiled. The one who yelped was braced against a desk, his eyes locked on her. The other had drawn a knife, the edge pointed at her chest. It was obvious that he had never used one before, not only for the slight tremor that transferred from his hand to the blade. Abigail took a deep breath, feeling her lungs reinflate with a wheeze.

“If you wanted to kill someone, you need to point the blade a bit lower,” she told the one with the knife. She raised her hand slowly and wrapped it around his own. He flinched at her touch, but didn’t resist as she pulled him closer and set the knife right below her sternum. “Press in and pull down to disembowel them. If you want them to suffer,” she said, dragging his knife down lower to her abdomen, “you can cut across and perforate their intestines and let them bleed out.”

“Let go,” he said, trying in vain to pull his hand from her grip.

Abigail didn’t, pulling it up so that the edge of the knife rested against the scarf that wrapped around her neck. “Of course, you can also cut the throat. It’s a bit harder than they make it look in the movies, but your victim is aware the entire time they choke on their own blood. Though the blood loss makes the pain feel almost non-existent. It’s almost peaceful.”

“Please,” the larger, terrified man said, “let him go.”

“Of course,” Abigail agreed, releasing the hand that held the knife. The man stepped away, the knife clattering to the floor between them. He rubbed at the skin she had touched, as if doing so would erase the feeling of it.

“Are you okay Tim?”

“Fine,” Tim spat. “Just dandy in fact. There’s only something else that wants to kill us here, Martin. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I’m not here to kill you,” Abigail said.

They both looked at her sceptically. She sighed, bending over and picking up the knife from the floor. Both men flinched as she did so, but neither made any movement to get closer to her. It was a passable knife, though the edge was a bit dull when she tested it against the tip of her finger. Folding it back, she stood and held it out to Tim, whose gaze had turned wary. She waved it, and he reached out and took it like a snake striking at prey.

“What are you doing here then?” Martin asked. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Rosie let me in. I’m here to make a statement for the Archivist.”

“You’re here to make a statement,” Tim said, his tone disbelieving.

“I need to give it to the Archivist,” Abigail said. “It’s very important that I do it now.”

“Well, Jon isn’t here right now,” Martin told her. “We could set you up with some pen and paper if you’d like-”

Whatever he was offering was cut off as a man stormed into the Archives, almost running into Tim. He looked between the three of them, his eyes cataloging the two men before looking at her. Abigail felt a tingle of power spread over her skin as the Archivist focused on her with the full weight of the Eye.

“What are you?” the Archivist asked, a thread of power snapping out at her.

“Someone who came to give a statement,” she said, neatly sidestepping what he intended her to answer with another truth.

The Archivist grimaced, accepting what she said while still knowing that what she said wasn’t what he wanted. His shoulders slumped as he let go of what little power he had mustered against her. He rubbed at his eyes with a scarred hand before letting out an annoyed breath. He stalked over to the office marked as his, leaving the door open behind him. Abigail looked at the other two, who seemed unsure of what they should do. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her remaining ear, she went to the Archivist’s door.

“May I come in?”

“If you want to give a statement, yes,” he said shortly. “If you’ve changed your mind, I’m sure you can find the way out.”

“I’m sure,” Abigail said, passing through the threshold and shutting the door behind her. There was a click-whirr as the tape recorder on the Archivist’s desk turned on. She raised an eyebrow which he returned drolly. “I hope you don’t mind me ambushing you here, Archivist.”

“As long as you aren’t here to kill me, I’m sure we will get along fine. And it’s Jon, please. And you are?”

“Abigail Hobbs. It’s nice to meet you, Jon.”

“At least one of us is happy about this. You said you’re here to give a statement?”

“Yes.”

“What about?” Jon asked. For all that his tone implied disinterest, there was a hunger behind his eyes.

“My deaths,” she said simply. “Should I just start, or...”

Jon nodded, his posture straightening as he looked her directly in the eyes. Abigail met them directly, letting the Eye in. She took a deep breath, letting the memories flow out.

“I knew from a young age that my dad was different. He wasn’t too different, not in any way that would make anyone suspicious. He worked a blue collar job, but a lot of people in my town did. It paid well enough, and we were happy. Or, at least, I was.

“My dad never really let me out of his sight. I just thought he was overprotective, especially when I hit my teenage years. It wasn’t until I caught him sitting outside my junior prom that I thought it was weird. He played it off, saying that he was worried about someone spiking the punch. Which, I mean, someone did, but that’s part of the high school experience. But it was soon after that when he got super weird.

“I wasn’t a fan of hunting, but my dad was really into it. He always bagged his allotment during deer season, which meant that we had enough venison for the winter. I think throughout my childhood I ate more deer meat than hamburgers. But that year he took me with him during deer season. He said it was important that I learned how to hunt. He had this weird look in his eye when he said it. Like he was sizing me up like one of his bucks. So I went with him and bagged one. I didn't like it, and I don’t think he liked the idea that I didn’t like it. I thought it was just the fact that he wanted to share it with me.

“After that, he never took me back to his hunting cabin. I can’t say I wasn’t happy about it, because it honestly creeped me out. Mom had put her foot down on the amount of antlers and hunting trophies in the house, but the cabin was absolutely stuffed with them. The upstairs was full of antlers and hooves. I thought he would have sold some of them to collectors or hobbyists, but I don’t think he ever did. I don’t think he thought that would be honoring them.

“That was a big thing with him. He used every part of a deer. You would think there would be some kind of waste, but he was very careful to limit that. It's probably what stopped him from being caught for as long as it did.

“I guess you don’t really pay attention to a lot of American news over here. Which is fair, since I never really paid attention to what happened over here. Plus, there are a lot of serial killers in the States. And I’ve met more than most people. Including my father.

“Like I said, my father was really overprotective. The therapists I talked to, afterwards, said that it wasn’t my fault what happened. That he was just sick in the head and that it manifested in him hunting girls who looked like me and eating them. And they were mostly right. Only they didn’t know that he used me to pick them out. He was a good hunter, you see. And a good hunter knows how to stalk his prey, how to use bait to get them where he wants them. I was his bait. And I knew it.

“I wasn’t scared of him. I don’t think any of the therapists understood that. Even after everything, I never was afraid of him. It wasn’t even fear of what he did when he was hunting. Because the only thing I wanted to do was survive. I wanted to live past whatever happened. If that meant helping him choose his prey, I would do it. In his own way, I think he thought I was close to him, close to the Hunt that drove him. He didn't realize that I was already marked for something else.

“From what I’ve learned about the Hunt, my father wasn’t fully under its influence. Certainly not enough to become something... more. I think that’s why one of the Web’s agents decided to press. I think he was curious to see what happened. He called our house, and when I picked up the phone he asked to speak to my dad.

“He told me afterwards what he said to my dad. That the F.B.I. was onto him, that they were coming for him. But my dad just hung up the phone and continued cooking breakfast. My mom didn’t notice anything different, which I guess is a small kindness. When we heard the car pull up outside he grabbed her and put the knife to her neck. He walked her to the front door, slit her throat, and tossed her onto the front porch. She bled out not knowing why it was happening.

“I should have run the moment I saw him grab my mom. But I couldn’t. I was so afraid, but it wasn’t because of him. Even when he came back, the knife in his hand wet with my mother’s blood, I wasn’t afraid of him. He whispered how sorry he was in my ear, that he loved me, and I still wasn’t afraid of him. It wasn’t until the man from the F.B.I. rushed into the kitchen and my dad slit my throat that I realized what I was afraid of.

“It was the same reason why I had picked out the girls for him to kill. I didn’t want to die. The man from the F.B.I. killed my dad, and still the only thing I could think of as I choked on my own blood was that I didn't want to die like this.

“I did though. For less than a minute on the operating table, my heart stopped. It was enough for the thing that had marked me to deepen it's hold, but not enough for it to claim me completely. That came later. Instead I was dragged into the Web’s games.

“His name was Hannibal Lecter, and he became my father. If it’s a manipulation of the Web for me to think so, I don’t really care. He did do that, of course. It’s in the nature of those who weave. But he cared for me, cocooned me in safety, for a given value of the word. Of course, I was simply a pawn in a game to get him what he really wanted.

“The F.B.I. agent who killed my dad was like me, marked. But the one who held claim on him had more of an influence. I think he would have happily gone through the rest of his life being a conduit and repository of fear if Hannibal hadn’t caught him in his machinations. The Web is always interested in what the Eye does, after all.

“Will didn’t know what Hannibal was. Anything of what he was, really. Remember how I said I’d met more serial killers than most? Hannibal was one as well, and fairly prolific. The Web’s influence helped, letting him make horrific displays that fed it and let him express himself. That same influence let him blind Will to the fact. Not that he needed to do much, other than let Will’s brain cook itself. I’m not sure when he decided to let him live, but I played a part in what came next.

“Hannibal took my ear with my permission. Or, at least, as much permission as the Web needs. We faked my death and framed Will for it. Then he left me to my own devices in a house by the sea. He told me that when the time was right, I would come back and meet him and Will. That we would leave and go somewhere far away to be a family.

“It was a lie, of course. A pretty lie, but a lie nonetheless. Or maybe it wasn’t. I’ll have to ask Hannibal when I see him again.

“It always comes down to choices. And Will chose to stand against Hannibal. He saw the manipulations, the cocoon that Hannibal had put him in, and chose not to become what he wanted. It made him angry. You probably think that monsters can’t get angry, but they were human once. And under everything, they still are. It just depends on how much they want to acknowledge it.

“I asked Hannibal how he would kill me once. He said he would slit my throat like my father had. And he did. He severed me from his web; the same hands that had saved my life, ending it. And I felt the same fear. I didn't want to die. I wanted to live.

“Will tried to save me, but Hannibal had gutted him. The last thing I saw was myself reflected in his eyes. And my life Ended.

“I don’t remember making my choice. Of giving myself over to the power that had claimed me. I know that I made the choice. And so I woke up in a body bag, my own blood caked across my face and clothes, breath rattling in lungs that did not need it.

“I’m still not sure how I got out of the morgue without someone screaming about a dead girl returning to life. There wasn’t ever any news coverage about someone stealing my body from the morgue. I do know that the grave that bears my name is empty; they held a closed casket funeral to hide the fact that they don’t know what happened to my body. I wouldn’t be surprised if they think Hannibal took it. I hope no one ever asks him about it. I want to surprise him.

“That’s part of the reason I came here. He’s up to his games again, from what I’ve seen, and he’s dragged Will back into it as well. So I wanted to leave them a message. I’ll be on the Silver Coast, waiting for them. For as long as it may be until we see each other again.”

Jon blinked, his eyes losing the manic need that had filled them during her statement. Abigail watched as he seemed to sink into himself, a pall of weariness weighing down his limbs. Despite it there was a brightness to his complexion, as if he had just spent the day lazing in the sun.

“Statement ends,” he said. The tape recorder clicked off, leaving their breathing as the only sound in the room.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re of the End, then?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not what I would have expected,” Jon said.

Abigail shrugged. “We can’t all be grim reapers and shambling corpses. Do you need anything else for the statement?”

“No, I think you’ve given us enough details. Not that it would be easy to follow up on, considering.”

“Kind of hard to explain talking to a dead girl?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve talked with the dead. You seem more at peace than some of the others.”

“I’ve had time to get used to it.”

“Yes, I imagine so. Do you need help finding your way out?”

“I actually need to go speak with Mr. Bouchard. Could you direct me to his office?”

“Um, yes,” Jon said. He looked perturbed at her question, but she imagined he wanted her out of his domain as soon as possible. “Up the stairs, past Artifact Storage, then take the stairs to your left and it will be on the second landing. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll leave you be, then.”

Abigail stood up from her chair and opened the door. Four sets of eyes looked up as she left the office, with Martin getting up from his desk as she walked past. She heard him say something to Jon as she exited the Archives. Unlike when she had entered, the doors to Artifact Storage were open, with what looked like a few people examining pieces on long tables. Following the instructions Jon had given her, she went up two flights of stairs. As she began to walk across to the door marked Head of the Magnus Institute, it opened.

“Ms. Hobbs,” Mr. Bouchard said. “Please, come in. I do believe we have matters to discuss.”

#hannibal #the magnus archives #abigail hobbs #jonathan sims #tma au #martin blackwood #tim stoker #mid-season 3 of tma #technically season 3 of hannibal #elias bouchard #thwrites #end!abigail hobbs #web!hannibal lecter #eye!will graham

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seventhstrife · 3 years

Text

SubScorp Week 2021 Day 3: AU Part 2

I hate that I have no self-control and have to make multiple posts for this lolololol

On AO3.

Part 1

When Hanzo woke, he knew immediately that he was not alone.

His eyes snapped open and he lurched upright, disoriented and tense.

His surroundings were unfamiliar, a fact that filled him with certain dread. His last memory was of trying to leave the bed of snow he'd been pushed into, how the dragon had only allowed him to stand so that it could nestle him into its side and curl up as if for a long rest. He remembered the deep, content cadence of its sigh as it settled with its huge head on Hanzo's lap.

As cold as it was, smothered in the dragon's hold, he'd been oddly...warm. And while Hanzo was no one's pet or prisoner, he was not so foolish as to disturb such a fearsome creature when its mood was in such a mercurial state, weakened and tired as it was. He'd resigned himself to being a dragon's pillow and had fallen asleep right there, hopeful that he could slip away in the small hours of the morning.

But waking up in an entirely new place had not been part of the plan. He barely took in the dark, polished stone of the room he was in or the thick furs that covered him across the lavish four-poster bed.

His surroundings were terrible for their strangeness, but what was worse was the man seated on the bed beside him, legs crossed, watching him. It was hard to see in the scant light that poured through the window as the sun just barely began to rise, but he thought he could just detect a small smile on those bearded lips.

"Good morning," the man greeted in a low, pleasant tone.

Hanzo went rigid. His hand snapped down to his side, but his weapons were gone—of course.

He risked exposing himself, but allowing capture was worse.

He summoned his flames, of a mind to send the man across the room with a ball of fire before he could so much as twitch—but the moment his light banished the shadows from the man's face, Hanzo stilled.

...It was his eyes. Pale white, nearly translucent, but in the flickering pulse of Hanzo's flames, they shined with a breathtaking iridescence that shifted with countless colors.

Pale-skinned and broad-shouldered, muscular arms bared by his dark robes, thick black hair pushed back from his face and beard trimmed short—he truly was a stranger to Hanzo in every sense of the word.

But, that scar. Those eyes. Hanzo knew those eyes.

The man's smile grew slightly, as if he knew exactly what Hanzo was thinking, and he threaded his fingers together, planted his elbows on his spread knees and perched his chin atop his hands, as if to better study Hanzo.

"Do you recognize me, pyromancer?"

Hanzo pursed his lips, wary. But even when he glared harder, tried to see some sort of flaw or deception, his eyes continued to scream a single truth.

But he did not have to admit it.

"I—I am clearly unwell," Hanzo said instead.

Without taking his eyes off of the man, he backed up until he was at the edge of the bed and quickly stood, head darting around as he tried to get his bearings, find the door. He looked back to the stranger and curled his fingers into a fist, flames threatening on the horizon.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"As impressive as your fire magic is," the man answered, "You would have succumbed to the cold. I thought it best to bring you to my home."

His home? Just judging from the simple, yet refined furnishings and ornate, carved walls, Hanzo assumed he was in some sort of palace.

His brow furrowed. This was making less and less sense. Some traveling lord had stumbled upon Hanzo and had simply—taken him in? In what appeared to be his own chambers?

No nobleman was that kind or giving. Hanzo knew.

Hanzo's skin itched with the desire to flee. Unfamiliar surroundings, unfamiliar company—he did not have any wish to linger here, at the mercy of this strange man and his stranger (familiar) eyes.

"Whatever you intended by bringing me here, it does not matter." Hanzo's face hardened. "You will not keep me here."

"No," the man agreed softly, making Hanzo pause. He was still smiling. "I imagine you do not succumb to anyone's will but your own."

The words caused a flicker of uncertainty to pass through him, though he did not allow it to show on his face. Why was nothing about this man proceeding as he expected? If Hanzo woke up, kidnapped to some strange, impossible palace in a snow-plagued, forsaken mountain, he should be caged. His captor should be talking to him through the bars of a prison, in his personal dungeon, not casually and comfortably sitting on his bed while Hanzo threatened to burn him.

...Somehow, some way, this is a trick. It must be.

It felt safer not to speak, so Hanzo did not. His eyes darted to the door, waiting across the room and, unfortunately, behind the man.

"Your weapons are there," the man said, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm behind Hanzo, and indeed, when he warily glanced over his shoulder, he saw the overlooked table tucked into the corner of the room, where his blades had been laid neatly and carefully across a length of soft cloth. "Forgive me for taking the liberty, but I thought it best to divest you of them so you could rest more comfortably."

Hanzo glared at the man for a long moment. He only slept comfortably when he was armed these days.

Still, Hanzo accepted the invitation to take his things and he did so in quick, efficient movements, keeping the stranger in his line of sight at all times—not that it mattered, as the man did not so much as a twitch from the moment he'd awoken. His eyes tracked Hanzo without a blink and it was perhaps that which kept Hanzo on his guard. His utter stillness, the watching—Hanzo was rested, armed, and could think of a dozen ways to incapacitate this man in a few seconds, yet he felt overwhelmingly like an unwitting creature, soft and vulnerable, ignorant of the hunter in his midst, readying for the pounce.

Hanzo glanced at the door, had no more than thought of taking his first step towards the exit when the man spoke once more.

"Of course, you may leave whenever you wish," he said genially. "But you did not answer my question, pyromancer."

Hanzo's lips thinned. Uncertainty and unease blossomed in his chest.

"...no, I did not. I will not."

The stranger's head tilted and an expression of open amusement alighted on his face.

"Is it so terrible to accept?"

"It is impossible," Hanzo stressed, eyes narrowing. But, despite himself, his determination to fight faltered. He could not deny a certain curiosity, for all that he did not believe in magic such as this.

The man shrugged, affable as ever. It made Hanzo glare at him even more fiercely. It was irksome, how agreeable he was being...

Finally, the man moved, gave his back to Hanzo as he swung his legs off the bed and rose. Hanzo tensed when the man faced him and approached.

"That is far enough," Hanzo said in warning, raising two burning fists when the man was just outside of arm's reach.

"I have sheltered you and returned your weapons," the man pointed out. "Can you not accept I mean you no harm?"

"That remains to be seen," Hanzo replied, stiff.

Still, the man only seemed amused. He placed a palm on his breast, directly over his heart, and bowed, deeply.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Kuai Liang."

A strange name for a strange man. It was oddly fitting.

Kuai Liang rose and those pale eyes of his fixed on Hanzo with the same intensity that had yet to lessen since Hanzo had first met them.

"May I know your name, pyromancer?"

Hanzo almost refused him, simply on principle. But...Kuai Liang had sheltered him in his home, had given him back his weapons, and he had shown no sign of wishing harm upon him.

It went against every instinct within him, but slowly, warily, Hanzo lowered his arms as the flames in his hands gutted, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin.

"...Hanzo. Hanzo Hisashi."

Kuai Liang's eyes brightened with pleasure.

"Hanzo Hisashi," he repeated. The way he seemed to savor it—Hanzo could feel his hackles rising once more. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Kuai Liang stepped to the side, gestured with an open palm to the door. "Allow me to escort you," he said. "I'm afraid you will be easily lost without a guide."

Hearing that this building was that great a size did nothing to ease Hanzo's unease, but he supposed he had no choice.

"Very well."

Kuai Liang smiled.

Hanzo had hoped for a quick, silent walk, and to be able to put this entire strange encounter from his mind forever. Instead, when they'd only just left Kuai Liang's chambers, his stomach gave a loud, insistent cry.

Hanzo kept his gaze firmly on the ground, mortified as Kaui Liang turned to him in a sharp, surprised movement.

After a slight pause, Kuai Liang offered, "I have food if you wish—"

"No." Hanzo took a deep breath, tried to will back the rise of heat he could feel on his face. It was more important to leave this place. He could hunt for something once he was gone. "I am fine."

And, of course, his body chose that moment to betray him once more with another growl, sudden and painful enough he could not check the urge to hold his aching stomach. He could not remember the last time he had a decent, filling meal...

"I'm afraid I must insist," Kuai Liang said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I would be a poor host if I did not see you fed and prepped for your long journey down the mountain.”

Hanzo attempted to protest, but it was a losing battle and he was forced to follow after Kuai Liang, lest he truly be lost in his vast palace.

It was harder to remember the urgent need to be gone from this place when the smell of cooked meat grew stronger the further they went, and then impossible when Kuai Liang opened the door to a small cooking room, where a large flank of meat was still roasting over an open fire against the far wall.

The smell was heavenly and Hanzo was briefly hypnotized by the sight of hot, sizzling fat dripping from the meat, how it fell into the fire with a soft hiss and caused new bursts of the incredible aroma to permeate the room.

Perhaps...there was no harm in eating—so that he would not collapse on his hike, of course. It was only sensible to accept a meal when it was offered freely.

He tried not to seem too eager when he sat at the small wooden table Kuai Liang beckoned him to, but when Kuai Liang carved a generous portion of meat onto a large platter and served it to him, his smile twitched, threatening to grow wider at whatever expression Hanzo had.

It was slightly embarrassing, being caught so obviously, but Hanzo did not care the moment the meat first touched his tongue. Hot, tender venison, succulent and delicious. If he were a weaker man, he might weep.

For a while, there was only silence as he ate. It was not until he'd partially satiated his aching stomach that he realized Kuai Liang had not served himself.

He glanced up, unnerved to find Kuai Liang watching him, chin propped in one hand, a slight smile still lingering on his lips.

He appeared so...satisfied, by the sight of Hanzo eating. It made Hanzo freeze.

He glared.

"...Stop watching me," Hanzo demanded.

Kuai Liang's smile widened, but he acquiesced, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He tilted his head back against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, looked for all the world as if he were simply meditating.

The way he kept instantly accomodating Hanzo—it was very annoying.

Hanzo resumed eating but did not stop glaring at Kuai Liang, trying—in vain—to puzzle him out. If Kuai Liang was aware of his staring, he did not seem bothered by it in the least.

This vast palace, Kuai Liang's own status, seemingly that of a man of wealth and power—he did not make sense. In Hanzo's travels, he had never heard of such a person having domain over this corner of the land, and yet here he was.

Who are you, truly?

His curiosity could not be denied, no matter how much he tried to quell it.

"Where are the people?" Hanzo finally asked.

It was perhaps not his most pressing question, but it was the one that was safer to ask. Down the labyrinthine halls to this modest cook's area, Hanzo had not seen nor heard so much as a whisper of another soul. Even here, in what was clearly a servant's domain, there was no one else to be found. Yet, a palace so large would need a large staff to maintain it.

Kuai Liang's eyes opened. "There are none."

Hanzo frowned, chews slowing, but Kuai Liang did not take back his words, just watched Hanzo back.

"...You live here by yourself?"

Kuai Liang inclined his head.

"How is that possible?"

Finally, Kuai Liang glanced away from him. His eyes dropped and his entire demeanor was suddenly—dampened, somehow. A subtle sort of sadness crept over Kuai Liang and it made Hanzo forget all about the sharp hunger pains that had burrowed into the pit of his stomach.

"Like you, I am the last of my kind."

...Oh. It was no secret that Hanzo's people were long gone—hunted to the brink of extinction for nothing more than sport. Mercenaries and outlaws, lowlifes and lords alike had participated in the massacre, eager to boast their fighting skills and claim the prestige of slaying an exotic, powerful pyromancer. If any of Hanzo's people still walked the lands, Hanzo had not met them. He hoped he never would. They were safer—he was safer, alone.

A life of constant movement, never settling anywhere, never staying in one town long enough for anyone to learn his name—it was a life he'd resigned himself to, one he thought, perhaps, suited him, even, but there were times when he felt the aching bite of loneliness. Of a muted, mourning despair that he would pass from this world without a single soul to notice his absence.

It was not a life he would wish on anyone.

"I...I am sorry," Hanzo finally said. At least he traveled, could outrun his feelings when they threatened to unmake him completely. To walk the same empty halls, day after day, ceaselessly reminded of a time they were full of life—he shied from even imagining it.

Kuai Liang blinked and a rueful smile replaced the understated, melancholic expression. Somehow, the smile made Hanzo's chest ache more.

"It was a long time ago," Kuai Liang dismissed.

Hanzo was not placated. He looked straight into Kuai Liang's eyes.

"But it is still difficult," he observed quietly, and Kuai Liang's smile, absurdly, stretched just a little bigger.

"You see right through me."

He stood, took Hanzo's demolished plate and returned to the roasting spit.

"No man is a fortress, and I am afraid I am no exception to this rule."

His voice was soft and steady as he refilled Hanzo's plate with another generous portion, but even when he set the dish before him, Hanzo could not move his eyes from Kuai Liang, aware of how something more lingered in the air, the same something that had remained unspoken since he'd awoken.

Kuai Liang did not return to his seat. He stood, looking down at Hanzo, and the impression that his next words would be important grew.

"I rarely leave my home. I hunt what I need and want for little else. But I have grown weary of solitude. And, if you'll forgive my forwardness," and here Kuai Liang broke eye contact, straightened, and crossed his arms behind his back. He took a moment, and Hanzo found himself all but holding his breath.

"I came down from the mountain in search of a mate." Kuai Liang's pale eyes met his, and the earlier look of determination intensified. "And I have found one. You."

A ringing silence stretched.

Hanzo's mouth opened, closed. Opened again. But there were no words. He could not think of a single thing he could say to such a proclamation.

His face felt hot.

Kuai Liang's head tilted. "Have I broken you?" he asked, amused.

His tone finally snapped Hanzo out of his shocked stupor and he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the wood floor.

"I—You—NO."

"We are well-suited for one another," Kuai Liang argued.

"You know nothing about me and—" Abruptly, Hanzo realized how completely absurd this conversation was. "Absolutely not."

"I know that you are brave, honorable, and compassionate." When Hanzo opened his mouth to protest, Kuai Liang stepped closer, just past the bounds of propriety, but Hanzo could not muster the will to burn him. "It would have been easier to leave me to die, but you intervened on my behalf, and even tended to my wounds. What more proof do I need of your worthiness?"

Hanzo stared at Kuai Liang, stricken. He had been ignoring the obvious, glaring fact that had been shouting at him since he'd first met Kuai Liang's eyes, but now that truth refused to be ignored.

His brow furrowed and he stared into Kuai Liang's eyes, wished he could doubt his own, but could not.

"You...you really are the dragon from before..." It was impossible, ridiculous—but the evidence was too plain to ignore.

Kuai Liang smiled. "I knew you were the one the moment we looked at one another." Another step closer, where their chests nearly touched, and Hanzo told himself he would push Kuai Liang away and run—in just a moment. "My ice, it can be unpleasant for a normal human. And in moments of passion, even harmful."

Kuai Liang raised his hand, slowly, tentatively, and though a part of Hanzo's mind, defensive and wary, screamed that he use his flames, now, he did not want to harm Kuai Liang.

The gentle, cool touch of Kuai Liang's fingers brushed across the stubble on his cheek, whisper-soft.

"But with your abilities, you could withstand me." Kuai Liang's eyes fell, hooded and dark with desire. His gaze seemed to pierce straight through. "Yes, you could withstand me well. You are very strong."

"We are complete opposites," Hanzo argued, because clearly he was the only one who had not taken leave of his senses.

"Opposites, yes," Kuai Liang agreed. "But also equals. Compliments. I would have it no other way."

"Well, I will not have you," Hanzo claimed hotly, and his eyes narrowed in a fierce glare.

Far from seeming dismayed by his refusal, Kuai Liang only watched Hanzo as if he were an intriguing puzzle.

"You find me unsuitable in some way?" he asked. "Or, perhaps, you bear the claim of another?"

"I—" It would have been better, to lie, but that was one skill Hanzo had never possessed. "That is not—"

Triumph surged to Kuai Liang's gaze. "If I must prove myself, you need only say so. I can offer you much."

Hanzo finally pushed away Kuai Liang's touch with a sweep of his arm and took a few steps back. He would not hear any more.

"I do not want anything from you. I do not belong here, with you, in—that way. Whatever you believe you see in me, you are mistaken."

"I see only that which you have shown me." Kuai Liang watched him steadily, so sure. "You could have a home here. You would no longer have to hide who you truly are, or be forced to run any longer. You could be free."

Hanzo sucked in a sharp breath, shook his head harshly in the next instant. "You—you can not promise that."

"I can," Kuai Liang simply said.

He pushed Hanzo's chair out of his way, closed the distance between them once more. Hanzo flinched away the first time Kuai Liang reached for him, but Kuai Liang only paused, waited patiently, before resuming the movement. And the look in his eyes, gentle yet firm, kept Hanzo still when he took Hanzo's hand.

Kuai Liang raised Hanzo's hand, placed his palm atop it so he cradled him in his grip like something precious. Hanzo could not recall ever being touched in such a way. He wanted to hate it, but he did not.

"A few days," Kuai Liang proposed, voice a low, beseeching murmur. "Stay with me here, for just a few days. Let me show you what it could be like to share a life together. If you still wish to leave after that, I will respect your wishes. I will take you down the mountain myself."

An automatic denial sprung to his lips, but one look at Kuai Liang's eyes—pleading, soft, and filled with lonely, naked longing—killed the words before he could draw breath.

Hanzo looked away, to the strong, slightly cool and affectionate clasp of Kuai's hands around his. The weariness he always battled in his long journey, heart-sick from constant flight and avoidance, bloomed to an almost unbearable degree, threatened to swallow him completely.

"...A few days?" Hanzo eventually asked, voice unsure and wary.

Kuai Liang squeezed his hand and hope brightened his gaze.

"That is all I ask."

If Hanzo had not been wavering before, that expression would have unmade him; never, had he been beneath the force of such great, bare hope. To say anything else would be cruel.

"...Very well." He darted a quick look at Kuai Liang, glanced away immediately at the sight of his warm, wide smile. "Do not make me regret this," Hanzo warned.

Kuai Liang raised his arm, only smirked when Hanzo's eyes went wide, and placed a gentle, unbearably lingering kiss on the back of his fingers.

"I would not dream of it, Hanzo Hisashi."

#subscorpweek #@summertrapped #@maagspies #@subscorp-week #my stuff #my fics #subscorp

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buglife · 3 years

Text

Bend and Not Break - Ch 3: A Brand

Read here on AO3 :3

(please there is not nice stuff ahead with implied torture so be careful!)

Well, wasn’t this a predicament.

Monomon looked over her notes with a careful eye. It took three prisoners to get her even close to figuring out what was currently harming her son. It had taken hours and she was starting to get a little frustrated by her lack of progress.

So far, she figured out that what she had was a complex neurotoxin with trace elements of other toxic extracts. She identified hemlock and arsenic at the least, which tickled her since Quirrel used to eat those with no trouble. However, the delivery method was directly into the blood stream so there was no time for the digestive system to break down the toxins and neutralize them. So that just proves that they wanted her son dead and wanted him dead fast.

With that reasoning, she had no problems planning what she was going to do to the next prisoner on her list. There was going to be a fifth but sadly Tiso said she couldn’t have that one. Oh well, it made sense to keep at least one alive. She didn’t ask too many questions, she was too focused on her work to ask why. Ghost had sent a messenger to her every hour to update her on Quirrel’s condition and he had started to take a turn for the worse. The only thing she could do was send up advice on how to keep him comfortable and try to head off any permanent damage.

The last messenger had just departed from her makeshift lab and she slowly turned her head to look at the dragonfly strapped to the chair. He was shivering, his eyes wide as he watched her every movement. He had heard the screams and he most likely knew what was going to happen to him. It made her feel a little better that he was experiencing even an ounce of terror her son must be feeling. But it wasn’t enough, not for her.

Tiso had told her he had a lead on a possible antidote, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Not when it’s her son on the line. She grimly put down her notes and grabbed a fresh syringe. It was time to get back to work.

She refused to fail her child, not now, not ever.

-----

Tiso and Xena had to nearly fight their way through the crowd gathered outside the palace. News on what had happened had reached most of the Kingdom by now, so a vigil had been set up that seemed to get bigger every-time he looked out the windows. Candles and flowers were all over the place as various bugs prayed or tried to comfort each other as they collectively hoped for the King's safety. He was glad that the people were so worried over the nerd, especially when he saw the effects it was having on the prisoner walking with them.

Her name turned out to be Lara, and she had wisely decided to talk. She kept her head down, antenna pinned back in discomfort as they picked their way around the crowd. Her hands and wings were bound under the cloak, hiding the fact she was a prisoner from view. Hopefully, she was beginning to see how wrong she was, but her redemption wasn’t Tiso’s problem right now.

“You should have let me take Pickles with us.” Xena complained. All three of them were wearing heavy cloaks over their armor and bindings in an effort to blend in. “We could have gotten through the crowd faster.”

“That would be the complete opposite of being stealthy, I think.” Tiso deadpanned, keeping a hand around the arm of the ladybug beside him. “We don’t want them to see us coming, and your beast is hard to miss.”

Xena huffed in response. They all finally were able to clear the crowd, leaving the vigil behind as the headed to the Capital. Lara was silent most of the way, seemingly stewing in guilt. When they finally arrived at a rather opulent mansion, she stopped the both of them.

“Here. Like I said. There’s private guards inside and more people like...like me.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “They are probably all there...celebrating.”

“Well it won’t be a fun time for them all for long.” Tiso looked around the street and Lara tried to follow his gaze.

“But...it’s just you two, right? Even being Knights…”

Xena shook her head and made a gesture with her hand as she looked into the darkness in the alleys. Then, several pairs of eyes glittered in the soft light, and they were everywhere. Lara could see dark shapes stealthily climb their way to just above each window and door. They must have called in all the guard for this raid, as Lara lost count as they took their positions. A few were hanging back, most likely there in case someone tried to escape.

“Welp, time to crash a party,” Tiso said, bringing his shield out from under his cloak. He flashed light off the shield three times, and then suddenly, everything went into motion. Guards smashed their way through windows and doors and the screaming started. Each scream was getting cut off one by one as both knights leisurely strolled right up to the front door.

A guard helpfully opened it up from the other side and both knights and prisoner quickly ran inside. Guards were throwing bugs to the floor, quickly shackling them up so they couldn’t escape. The ones that tried to fight back were quickly shown that that was a mistake to make.

“This is outrageous! I can’t believe you would break into my home with no ri-” A rather obnoxious and nasally voice was trying to argue, and was only succeeding at pissing off the guard trying to arrest them. Apparently, they got so frustrating that the guard simply tossed them through one of the large ornate windows inside, spraying glass everywhere. The bug being thrown was clearly someone of wealth and power, judging by the sheer amount of gold on their person. The round bug couldn’t stop themselves from rolling and they ended up right in front of Tiso, who helpfully stopped them with a boot.

“Well well well…” Tiso grinned as he turned over the bug to see their face. “If it isn’t the little grub that got himself banned from court and stripped of nobility for being a gigantic prick.”

Said bug was not a grub, but they started to sputter in anger, mandibles flinging spit as they tried to put words to their rage. If anything they proved they were just so. They were a Jewel beetle and figured himself to be hot shit among the rest of the upper class, and was known for his tantrums. No wonder why he got put in a perpetual time out. Tiso for the life of him, couldn’t remember his name, but sure remembered his annoying, grating voice.

“Unhand me this instant you peasant!” His limbs wiggled, but he was trapped on his back and unable to get up. “I did nothing wrong to warrant this harassment!”

“I would figure treason is a pretty good justification.” He rolled the angry bug to another guard, who began to shackle them up. “Take him to the dungeon and put him in the worst cell we have.”

“Right away sir.” Two guards managed to get the beetle on his feet and made their way to a caged cart waiting outside, already filling up with prisoners. As soon as they were gone, Tiso turned back to Lara, who was still boggling at what was going on around her.

“Hey.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face, shocking her back into reality. “Where do we get the antidote?”

She glanced around the room, before pointing. “Here,” she said, indicating a locked door to the side. “That’s where the make the poison, at least, I think they do. I wasn’t allowed to go down there, and I don’t have a key.”

“We don’t need a key.” Tiso hefted his shield over his shoulder.

“Be careful,” Lara said, looking to the door. “It’s stairs behind there, I think it goes to the basement.”

“Alright then.” Xena pointed to a pair of guards that seemed to be free for the moment. “Stay with them, and do not move. Cooperate with them and answer any questions they may have.” Her tone left no room for argument, and Lara nodded and did as she was told.

Tiso readied his shield, and then threw himself at the door. The door rattled on it’s hinges, the lock vibrating from the hit as Tiso readied himself again. It four solid bashes for the door to finally crack enough where the lock simply fell apart. Everyone paused, listening, but there was only silence.

He gestured to Xena and a few other guards to follow as they silently and carefully trudged down the stairs. Soon they could hear snippets of voices and the further down the went, the clearer the voices became.

“Please….please don’t! I don’t want this! Stop!” There was a voice, sounding feminine and high. They were sobbing, words forced out between the rare times where they could catch their breath. They sounded absolutely miserable.

“This is for the good of the people,” answered another voice. It was deeper and held a cold edge to it. “It wouldn’t be so hard for you if you just cooperated.”

“I won’t! I won’t!” There was a sharp, zapping noise and the sobbing voice screamed. A flash of light blinked from the crack under the door and the sobbing melted into soft weeping.

Tiso took position around the door, Xena to the other side. He held up his hand, and folded down a claw counting down from three. When he reached zero, they both turned and kicked down the door. It practically flew off its hinges and collided hard with someone on the other side. Judging by the shout, it was the deeper voice they hit. Both knights and their guards swarmed into the room.

What awaited them was a terrible sight.

A scorpion was chained to a chair, crying in pain, her tail and stinger stretched out behind her and strapped to a bench. One of her eyes was swollen shut and there were cracks in her chitin, deep blue bruising blooming under the softer skin-like parts of her belly and sides.

Xena gasped, glancing at her pincers, thin and long instead of the more common large variety. “Holy shit, that’s a deathstalker!”

“A what?” Tiso was standing on the door, pinning down whoever was underneath. Whoever it was, seemed to have been knocked for a loop. It was easy for him to grab the limbs poking out from under the door and putting cuffs on them.

“A deathstalker.” Xena sounded awed. “They have some of the deadliest venom among bug-kind. Incredibly rare and secretive as a people.”

The scorpion continued her crying. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I couldn’t stop them!”

“Stop wh-?” Tiso’s eyes landed on a few jars filled with yellow fluid sitting on what appeared to be a work table. There were other bottles and jars that were labeled, but his eyes were drawn to the jars of fluid. Then he looked down at the bug, a beetle it seemed, squished under the door. The jar they were holding had rolled away, also containing a small amount of the same fluid. He glanced to the stinger, strapped down and leaking slightly from the tip, some incredibly angry charged lumaflies in a jar beside it.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“That’s...that’s fucking sick. I can’t…” The ant could barely think of a response to all of this. He heard a few guardsmen behind him, also boggling at the situation. He took a deep breath, and addressed them. “You know what to do, gather evidence and look everywhere. Someone send a message to Monomon and fast.”

The rest of the guard went about their duties, carefully checking cabinets and the walls, looking for anymore surprises. One waited around long enough for Xena to tell them exactly what the message should say, before they raced upstairs to deliver it. With that taken care of, Xena went about freeing the scorpion, who was still babbling, moving as carefully as she could to prevent anymore pain.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Shh, I know. You’ll be alright. I know this wasn’t your fault.” Xena was rarely the type to be gentle, but this was a situation that definitely required it. “We’ll get to you to a doctor and you’ll be okay. You’re safe now, they won’t be able to hurt you anymore.”

“But...but they said they were going to-” The scorpion wobbled and collapsed back into the chair, her limbs spasming and twitching. It seemed like she wasn’t going to be able to walk under her own power.

“You two! Get a stretcher!” Xena barked at some of the guards. As they went to fetch one, Xena knelt down and took her now freed pincer in her hand. “Everyone is okay, we’ll talk about that later. What’s your name?”

“Poppy.” She seemed to be calming down, but instead of outright sobbing she started to shiver. Xena took off her cloak and set it around Poppy’s shoulders. She knew what shock looked like and she didn’t want this poor arachnid to suffer anymore than she had too. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for a stretcher to appear and Xena helped her on.

Once Poppy was secure, she sent them back to the palace to be seen by Monomon. Until they can verify a doctor, the scientist will have to make due. She at least had extensive experience in patching up the wounded and could at least make the scorpion comfortable. She made sure to include in the message that she was a victim and not one of the collaborators. Making a note to check on Poppy later, and turned to look at Tiso.

She sighed.

Tiso had the beetle pinned to the floor, and was threatening them with a bottle of collected venom. “Where’s the antidote, asshole!”

“I...I-” They sputtered and tried to wiggle free.

“Wrong answer!” He started to unscrew the jar. “Lets give ya a taste of your own medicine!”

Xena sighed. “Tiso…”

“Yeah?” He inclined his head at her, ignoring the beetle freaking the hell out under his boot.

“Give the bastard time to answer.”

“Fine,” he pouted. He screwed the lid back on. “Tell me where the antidote is. And before you stagshit me, I know there’s one. Because nobody ever made any poison without one in case they fuck up and stab themselves with it. So. Where. Is. It.” He punctuated each word by poking the beetle in the face, hard.

The beetle coughed and moved an arm to point at the work table. “B—blue bottle,” he wheezed.

Xena walked over to pick up the bottle, scrutinizing it. “There’s no way we are just gonna use it without testing it first.”

“That’s what Monomon is for.” Tiso grabbed up the beetle and clicked their arms behind their back. “Let’s get this all packed together quickly and bring it over.”

“I told the messenger that that’s what we were going to do.” Xena grabbed a spare box sitting around, and began carefully packing up all the bottles and notes that were on the work table.

“I’m never gonna get to smooch my girlfriends at this rate.” Tiso sighed. “We’ll be in the dungeons forever processing all of this.”

“Cry me a river, I’m not gonna be able to smooch mine either.” Xena handed the now full box to a guard and sent them on their way. “Let’s just focus on our work, we got lives on the line after all.”

“Yeah I know, but I’m still allowed to whine about it.” The beetle found himself wincing as Tiso dragged him up the stairs, letting them hit every stone step on the way. “I’ll see you back there soon, I’m gonna take in the prisoners.”

Said beetle was now sorely starting to regret his current life decisions.

-----

Quirrel was quickly getting frustrated. He found himself in the archive library, nooks and crannies stretching as far as he could see. The various scrolls, books, and stone tablets were scatter haphazardly and he had to put things right. But he couldn’t read the words in order to sort them, or he’d pick up a tablet for it to change into a book. There was so much to do, and he couldn’t even get something as simple as reading correct! Mother would be home soon and she always expected her library to be put back in order. He was going to get a scolding for this, for sure.

Truly, this was a nightmare.

“You cannot read because this is a dream.” Came a voice from behind him, suddenly making the air less foggy and thick. Quirrel whirred around, startled into dropping the stack of books he was carrying. He didn’t notice them falling apart into motes of essence as he lost his focus, looking to the figure sitting in one of the armchairs instead. “Surely, the proclaimed ‘Scholar King’ would know such a thing.”

They were a tall, elegant bug dressed in reds and blacks. Quirrel wasn’t quite sure on the species, they looked like a blend between a moth and a firefly. They were lounging, watching Quirrel with bright red eyes. Then, with all the manners of a showman, they straightened up to smile at him, and gestured with a bow.

“We’ve met before, though I understand if you are having trouble, due to your circumstances.” Their voice was deep and smoky, with an undertone of mystery and confidence. It was very familiar.

“Come and sit,” they gestured to a chair that suddenly appeared next to theirs. “We have much to discuss, and not so much time to do so.” A small table with a teapot appeared before them, still steaming hot and smelling wonderful. Oddly enough, there was a strange glowing red jar next to the honey and tiny sandwiches. He didn’t quite know what to do, but he did know that this bug was not going to harm him, somehow. So he walked over to sit, watching as the archives twisted and melted, changing into a cozy room with a lit fireplace. Quirrel sat, glancing to the jar. It had a very ominous feeling that made his chitin itch and a primal dread well up in his belly.

“Don’t mind that, it’s for me.” The bug continued, they poured out some tea and handed Quirrel a cup. They opened the jar and plucked out a few red marbles and dropped it into theirs. They stirred it with a smile and took a sip.

“What was that?” Quirrel was now intrigued, watching the other bug take another sip before holding the cup elegantly in their claws.

“Nightmares, my friend. Your dear spouse prunes them from their kingdom and saves them for my child and I.”

“Wait...you eat nightmares?” Quirrel glanced to his own cup, antenna twitching in thought. Spouse? He had to think hard for a moment, and took a sip of tea. It tasted like happiness, and it helped to jog his memory as he felt the pain in his head lessen somewhat. Spouse...spouse...a tall bug, no, vessel appeared in his minds eye. They were once so little and they were now big and elegant. They were a...a…Ghost.

He suddenly could remember Ghost. The first time they met in the Temple of the Black Egg so long ago and how the years flew by and suddenly they were married. They were rulers. He took a moment to remember exactly what they did besides ruling, and it came to him.

Ghost did go into the dream realm and told him about clipping away the nightmares from their subjects. Some, they left, if the dreamer needed or deserved them. So this was….

“Grimm?” Quirrel hesitantly voiced, “The Nightmare King?”

“Correct.” Grimm smiled as he took another sip of tea. “There’s the intelligent bug that causes a certain god to swoon.”

“So that means….”

“You are in a nightmare, yes.”

“It doesn't feel so bad?” Quirrel pondered, his tea somehow staying warm. “How is this a nightmare?”

“Because you are very sick, my friend. Do you remember what happened?” Grimm set down their cup, folding their claws together to regard Quirrel with intense focus.

Quirrel closed his eyes and thought, digging deep down into his own mind. “I was...with Ghost. In public. There were flashes then...I don’t remember?”

“Flashes hrm? Do me a favor, and take a look at yourself.” Grimm pointed with a claw, and Quirrel followed his gaze.

There, on his abdomen, was a nice gash. Certainly not deep enough to kill him, that’s for sure. But there was something…strange about it. Looking past the blue of his own blood was...another color? It was...yellow? It mixed together, turning his blood green as it trickled down his side and on to the chair. It seemed to vanish as soon as it touched the fabric. He touched his wound and felt only a numbness in response. Now that he saw it, he remembered.

“Someone tried to kill us.”

“Indeed, they did. And you were poisoned.” Grimm tilted their head, seemingly pleased that Quirrel had remembered so quickly. “Thankfully, your assassins didn’t take your biology into account.”

“Pillbugs are resistant to poisons.” it dawned on Quirrel. He was poisoned, but he wasn’t dead. He was...in between?

“Yes. You, however, are quite sick, and your friends and family are worried for you. Especially, your spouse, and my friend.” Grimm snapped his fingers, and the wound vanished like it was never there.

Quirrel took a moment to think, mulling over the obvious question.

“Am I going to die?”

Grimm shook his head with a soft smile. “Not likely. Everyone is working hard to bring you back to the waking world. Until then, I am here.”

Quirrel leaned back. “So...are you here to just eat my nightmares? Why are you here? Not that I don’t mind the company, I am just curious. Surely you must have something more important to do.”

“I owe Ghost greatly. Because of them, my daughter thrives. They cared for them even before the beginning of new Hallownest. They have provided a way to be sure that they will always have the scarlet flames they need to grow, and a way for us to feed without resorting to parasitism.” Grimm sounded fond. “So, I decided to keep you company until you awaken once more. It’s the very least I can do.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Quirrel smiled. “Tell me, have you visited any interesting places outside of Hallownest?”

“I have, shall I tell you about them?”

“Please.” Quirrel sipped his tea and decided that perhaps, this wasn’t the worst way to pass the time. He needed to wake up, but that wasn’t in his control, he just hoped everyone would be alright until then.

-----

Ghost has yet to move from their husband’s side. Time seemed to come to a crawl, and they found themselves hanging on to every labored breath, every intake of air that Quirrel managed to take. There was always that split second of fear when they thought he had stopped breathing, only for him to thankfully, take another breath. It was exhausting and everything inside them ached for their beloved, helpless to do anything. Monomon of course, sent up advice. They had used cold water in an effort to bring down their fever. Made sure to keep their gills moist as a way to keep them hydrated. They dared not try to make him drink anything, not with their breathing so bad. They were trying so hard.

They found it ironic. All the power in the world but they couldn’t heal the ones they love the most. They could destroy all they want, but they couldn’t fix things this complicated.

They didn’t want to think about what would happen if things were to go terribly wrong.

They had nightmares before of losing Quirrel, back when they still slept like a normal bug. It had started during their journey through Hallownest before they defeated the radiance. Quirrel was one of the few positive experiences during that horrible time. Every time they saw him at some new place or another, they felt safe, and happy. It was like being offered a warm cup of cocoa when you were freezing to death, desperate to grasp onto any scrap of goodness you could find. Quirrel definitely fit the bill, and he and the others reminded them of what they were fighting to save.

Even when they finally got up on the growth they missed and took the throne, they still feared losing their best friend. Said best friend eventually turned into an awkward romantic interest and it was downhill right into the feelings from there.

They looked down at the bundled up pillbug and they could sense that he was dreaming. It was certainly better than being in agony, and he hoped that his dreams were of good things.

“Quirrel,” They crooned softly and rested their chin on his arm, afraid to place it on the usual spot on his chest in case it hindered his breathing. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but please don’t go. I love you.”

The only reply they got was Quirrel’s hand twitching as one of his nerves misfired.

The door opened softly and Ghost snapped their head up, alert for any type of danger. They had failed to protect Quirrel then...and they weren’t going to slip up again.

Thankfully, it was one of the few people they trusted with their life.

“My child,” Mato quietly shut the door behind him. “I came as quickly as I could.”

Ghost shook, feeling tears once again prickle in the corners of their eyes, threatening to spill over and stain everything again. “Father…”

The large bug crossed the room with scarcely a noise and pulled Ghost into a hug. They nuzzled into the warm fluff around his cloak and let their tears fall. “Father...I’m scared.”

“I know you are. It’s part of loving someone.” He rubbed small circles into their back, a way he learned that they liked to be comforted. “I know this is a very frightening situation for you, so I’m here to help.”

“I’ve been watching, and I h-”

“All day?” Mato let go to look into their eyes.

“Yes, and -”

“Did you eat? Sleep? Drink water?”

Ghost had to take a moment to think of an answer.

“Then you need to do both and you need to do it now. No butts, no excuses.” Mato turned them around and started to march them to the kitchenette in their apartment.

“I am a god, I don’t need to do those things.” Ghost knew better than to fight it, letting themselves be led to the icebox. Mato raided the inside, pulling out a bowl of leftover stew and pouring a glass of water.

“You may be a god, but I am still your father and I know that you need these things for your own sanity.” Mato passed over the stew, which quickly vanished into the void of their mouth. “You need to take a break, and take care of yourself or you will burn out and we’ll have two injured bugs on our hands.”

Ghost nodded mutely, accepting the glass of water and draining it as well. They didn’t know if they were imagining things or not, but it did make them feel a little better. Mato watched, nodding in approval.

“Good, now you rest, and I will keep watch over the both of you.” He had grabbed them again by the shoulders, and was leading them back to the nest.

“But you just got here, you must be tired too.”

“I can manage a few hours enough to let you rest up a bit. What kind of father would I be if I couldn’t give my child time to recover from a terrible ordeal?” Ghost was picked up and placed inside the nest next to Quirrel. They reflexively moved to hold them as Mato pulled the covers up around them. They started to purr, hoping that Quirrel could feel their love for him, even in the world of dreams.

Mato started humming, moving around to tidy up and starting a fire in the fireplace. It was the music of care and support that eventually lulled them into a state of peace. The stress of everything had taken a toll on them, and it didn’t take long for them to fall asleep, curled up next to their husband.

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aire101 · 3 years

Text

Ferrum Ch. 6

Link to Master Post

They were being over run.

For every monster Peter took down, two more took their place.

This was a mistake— they never should have come here. And it was all his fault.

“Peter! Get out of here!” yelled Tony from across the room, where he was dealing with his own hoard.

“No! I’m not leaving!” Peter yelled back.

“Damnit Kid! We can’t beat this on our own! You’ve gotta go!”

“I’M NOT LOSING YOU AGAIN!” screamed Peter as he slashed through the last monster in his immediate vicinity. He needed to get to Tony, something was about to happen, he just knew it.

He spun around seeing Tony faced off with two monsters. He was smiling a pain-filled smile. Almost like when—

“You’re not losing me kid, because I’m—”

Tony’s eyes widened as a blade ran through him from behind, where another monster stood hidden in the shadows.

“I’m… Iron Man.”

Peter couldn’t breath.

He tried to walk forward but his feet wouldn’t move.

He needed to move. Tony hadn’t disappeared yet. If he could just get there before…

Tony fell to his knees, his hand held up in front of his face, which was contorted in confusion. As Peter watched, lines of burning energy began coursing through Tony’s body.

“Why Peter… why didn’t you tell me…? Why didn’t you help…?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I tried!” sobbed Peter as he too fell to the ground.

“It’s ok, Peter,” came a familiar, soft voice from beside him.

Peter slowly looked to the side, and there knelt Aunt May.

“Aunt May, I tried… But I couldn’t and he’s gone. I can’t…”

“It’s ok, baby,” she said, her hand gently running through his hair. “I know you tried. It’s just that everyone you love dies. That’s just the way it is.”

Her words were like a knife directly to his heart. They hurt. More so because they were true.

All around him stood his loved ones— Ned, MJ, Happy, Mrs. Leeds and Angie, his parents.

Uncle Ben.

They stood there with sad smiles on their face.

Until they shattered into polygons.

“Why?! Why do they leave?” cried Peter.

“You know why Peter… Everyone leaves,” said May, before she too shattered into nothing.

—————

Peter woke with a start.

Waking from nightmares was always an awful experience, but now that he was regularly sharing a room with someone it was especially stressful. He couldn’t let Tony know how bad his dreams were. If he knew that, he’d press into what they were about.

And he couldn’t explain that. Not without admitting to a lot of half-truths and lies.

So he just laid on his bed while his nerves and emotions roiled. Experience told him trying to go back to sleep was pointless, but getting up risked waking Tony—

Peter looked towards the other bed, only to sit up in confusion when he saw the bed empty.

Where was Tony?

Peter checked the lower left corner of his display for the Aincrad local time… definitely the middle of the night.

Concern about questions related to his nightmare was replaced with concern over Tony’s whereabouts, so Peter slipped on his shoes and stepped out into the hall of the inn.

Despite the late (early?) hour, the tavern down below still held a decent amount of people. A handful were slumped over on the table, obviously looking for a warm place to sleep but unable to afford a room. Others sat together over glasses of ale talking amicably into the night. But he found Tony sitting over by the hearth alone, helmet on and nursing what looked like a cup of that coffee drink they called ‘kaf.’ After their trip back to the Town of Beginnings a few days ago, Tony had gone asking around about where he could get his hands on the ingredients to make the stuff. Turns out getting the ingredients was the easy part, actually making a decent cup of the stuff required some points in the cooking skill. Despite that, Tony continued to make and drink his awful concoctions.

For a moment Peter considered just going back up to their room. But the thought of going back and lying restlessly in bed was as unappealing as sleep itself.

“Hey, you know that stuff won’t actually wake you up, right?” said Peter as he plopped down in the chair across from Tony.

“Just like the alcohol can’t make you drunk,” said Tony. If he was surprised by Peter’s appearance he didn’t show it.

“Wonder what the point is in incorporating them at all then,” said Peter.

“They’re habits. Good or bad, people depend on habits. Just another thing to lull us into a sense of normalcy. If we’re in here long enough, people will probably start to forget that they’re trapped in a digital prison, and begin to wonder why we’re fighting to get out,” said Tony, before taking another sip.

“Hmm,” hummed Peter, before settling into quiet, staring into the flames of the fireplace.

They sat there in companionable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, before it was broken by Tony’s voice, soft with question.

“Are you sure about this Pete? Word is a good two thirds of the dungeon is explored already, but several hundred have died in the last few days doing so.”

Peter didn’t answer immediately. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure about it. In typical form, his hesitance had little to do with his own safety and everything to do someone else’s.

The memory of his dream and a creature running Tony through with a blade from behind returned.

No. Peter Parker wasn’t sure at all.

But Spider-man… Spider-man knew what needed to be done, and he did it.

He had managed to keep Tony from taking any hits so far, he would just have to keep doing it. He would get better. Faster. Stronger.

He would get them out of this game, and then he would find their answers as to where Tony was and how he had come to be in this game. Did Ms. Potts— er, Mrs. Stark know he was still alive? If so, why hide it?

“Considering our uh… RL life choices, there’s a pretty good chance of us dying on any given day,” said Peter, trying not to choke on the words, memories of blood and stones and ash rising. “I’d rather die doing the best I can to help others than sit around watching others die instead. It’s what I’d do in the real world, so its what I should do here. We’ve talked about this. All the way to Tolbana, in fact.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Tony, in the same uncharacteristically soft tone.

“How about you? Just because I’ve decided to work on clearing the game doesn’t mean you have to. I could probably find a clearing party to join up with. I’ve heard a few parties talk about setting up guilds even,” said Peter, with mixed feelings. On one hand, he really didn’t like the idea of letting Tony too far out of his sight. On the other, if he stayed back Peter would probably worry less about keeping Tony alive and could focus more on his own battles.

Tony scoffed at the idea though, so Peter guessed that was out.

“There’s no way in hell I’m sending you off into that labyrinth without me,” Tony replied.

“Well, guess that settles it then,” said Peter with finality.

“Right. Well, I guess I’ll go and check our equipment before we head out, since we’re both awake. Unless you want to try and go back to sleep?” asked Tony, standing up and slipping down his visor.

“Nah, I’m awake. So we can head out whenever. You did sleep some, right?” asked Peter as he stood as well.

“I slept as much as I need to,” answered Tony evasively.

Peter rolled his eyes. Tony’s sleeping habits in the game were as bad as they were outside of it.

“Ok, I’ll go pack up then.”

—————

The floor one labyrinth was a cavernous maze of halls and chambers crawling with Kobold Troopers— the first humanoid monsters they had come across in the game. Unlike the previous creature types, they could use sword skills like players and NPCs. This made Peter's 'don't let Tony take any hits' job far more complicated than he had expected.

"Damn it, kid! Stop taking my hits! You're going to get yourself killed!"

"No I won't, I'm careful about keeping an eye on my HP," responded Peter as he swallowed down a potion.

"You wouldn't have to keep such a close eye on your HP if you would just stop throwing yourself into hits!"

“Well, if you would stop getting yourself into positions where you’re going to get hit, maybe I wouldn’t need to! You’re not in an impenetrable armor anymore,” Peter grouched back. But as soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them.

He couldn’t see most of Tony’s face through the helmet’s visor, but he could tell by the tightening in his posture that the words had hit harder than he had intended.

Peter sighed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not the reason I’m getting hurt. But you really do need to stop leaving your back open. You can’t take hits in a fight like you’re used to, and there’s no FRIDAY to keep an eye on it. Just me.”

For a moment Tony didn’t answer, but eventually he nodded.

“No, you’re right. I’m used to having a margin of error in a fight because of the strength of my armor or FRIDAY having my back. I’m not used to being so squishy when I fight. Rogers used to gripe at me about the same thing,” said Tony. “Which was pretty hypocritical on his part considered how he threw himself into things— I guess I’m not too surprised about that at this point— but the fact still remains true. Sorry, I should be better at this than I am—”

“I don’t want an apology. And I know habits are hard to break. Just… try to keep more of an eye on it?”

“I will, but I also want you to stop taking all the hits. We’re both about the same level, so I can take a few as well, you know. I won’t shatter on contact,” chuckled Tony, though Peter could tell it was forced.

The visual of Tony shattering into polygons wouldn’t leave Peter’s mind.

“No promises, so you better keep up your guard,” muttered Peter, before he started walking further into the labyrinth.

From behind him he could hear Tony sigh in exasperation, but he followed along at Peter’s back.

In every RPG Peter had ever played, when you ‘entered the dungeon’ you traveled down through floors until you found the boss room. In SAO’s labyrinth it was all an up-hill journey with no definitive floor levels, plenty of trick rooms, and not a soul to be seen. He had snagged the map data from a large group of Clearers he’d met in the pub their first night in town, but even with four more days of exploring it, there were still massive chunks of blank spaces. One of which they were mapping out now, and five hours in they had yet to stumble on another player. All Peter could say was that they had to be nearing the top of the column soon. Or at least he hoped so. Enough people had died in here already.

The halls were mostly silent as they trekked through the labyrinth passages, the only sounds Peter could hear was the soft echo of their footsteps.

Eventually they came upon a turn into another hall, and as soon as Peter saw what lay beyond, he froze.

It was the Boss Room. It had to be. Rough hewn stone walls were replaced with smooth slate, and the double door set into the wall before him was like nothing they had seen in the labyrinth yet. Three times the height of an average person, ornate lattice scroll work ran from top to bottom down the middle of each door, with a central metal push plate featuring two intertwined serpents.

Tony came around to his side and gave a relieved sigh before pulling up his map. “Finally, I’ll update our map data with a notation.”

Peter nodded absently feeling lightheaded. They had actually done it. They had found the boss room. Just a little longer and they would move to the next floor…

And once they had proven they could… Maybe things would get better.

Peter smiled and turned to ask Tony if he wanted to head back to town now…

That’s when he heard it. The faintest sound of the shuffle of feet from the darkness.

“Mob!” shouted Peter, drawing his sword just as the first Troopers rushed them from the shadows.

Tony quickly switched into fighting stance, drawing his two-handed sword and parrying a Trooper’s slash away.

As Peter jumped into the fray, he tried to do a head count.

One—two—three…

Four—Five—Six…

Definitely outnumbered, but so long as he kept an eye on them it should be fine.

Vertical— horizontal— slant—

The trooper burst into polygons. From the corner of his eye he could see Tony disperse of another trooper.

As they fought, on habit the two of them drifted together until they were back to back.

A well placed sword swing shattered another kobold, only for another to take it’s place, its barbaric hand axe coming in for a hit.

Peter wasn’t quite quick enough and the hit landed, taking some of his HP down with it. Peter would not give the kobold another chance at a hit, and in a few moments it was dispersed just like the rest.

Over all, the kobolds were not especially difficult. But for every one Peter felled another took its place…

Then another.

And another.

This was far more than the six he had originally counted… they just kept coming.

Just like his dream…

He couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t. It was just a dream.

‘Everyone leaves.’

His next strike hit a little harder than he meant, causing the kobold he was fighting to shatter but also causing him to stumble forward away from Tony, allowing a kobold to step into place between them.

Fear froze him as he saw the kobold raise it’s axe overhead, coming in for a direct hit on Tony, who was turned away, unawares.

“TONY! BEHIND—!” screamed Peter, trying to get to Tony.

It was like slow motion. Tony turned, but the axe was nearly on him already. He wouldn’t be able to block. He wouldn’t be able to move.

No, no, no… he couldn’t do this again, he couldn’t—!

“DON’T TOUCH HIM—!” Peter cried, as he slashed his sword wildly.

He couldn’t reach him in time!

The axe struck true.

But it was stopped by a purple polygon with an identification tile that read ‘Immortal Object.’

For a moment Peter’s mind went ‘blue screen’ while it tried to compute what he was seeing.

Tony on the other hand didn’t seem to pause for a second, rather he threw himself with abandon into the throes of the fight, no longer bothering with attempts at defense, letting each hit bounce off the strange shield that apparently kept hits from connecting.

Peter pulled himself together, swallowing down a potion before returning to the fray. After a few more rounds the waves of the mob tapered off until only Peter and Tony were left standing.

Well, standing was relative. As soon as the mob was finished Peter sunk down to the ground, his head in his hands as the mental fatigue of the battle along with all the ones before it came crashing down on him.

Immortal Object.

“Come on kid, we need to get out of here. There’s no telling what the re-spawn rate is this close to the Boss Room door,” said Tony, putting a hand under Peter’s arm to pull him up.

Peter stood up and followed along as directed, keeping one hand on Tony as they went. Every now and then they would come across a pair of Troopers, but Tony easily dispatched them and they continued on their way.

Peter wasn’t sure how long they had been walking, but at some point he realized he could hear the sound of voices up ahead.

As they turned a bend a party of players came into sight. The player at the head of the group was a man with blue hair, dressed in bronze armor with a longsword at his hip.

“Hey!” called Tony, waving them over.

Most of the group eyed with some suspicion, but the blue haired one walked over, a small but amicable smile on his face.

“Yes, do you need help?” he asked politely.

“Nah, we’re alright. You’re part of one of the larger clearing parties, aren’t you?” asked Tony.

“Yes, in fact I’m the leader of the group. My name is Diavel,” he answered.

“Good. Look, we found the Boss Room up ahead.”

That certainly got their attention. Diavel’s eyes widened for a moment and his face lost its politeness and settled into a more serious gaze. He glanced at Peter, who knew he was showing obvious signs of exhaustion.

“We didn’t open it so I’m not sure what’s inside, and we were swarmed by a large Trooper mob right afterward,” Tony said, answering the unspoken question. “If you open your map I’ll give the info to you.”

Diavel nodded, opening up his map. A few taps later and the exchange was done.

“We will go back quickly and start gathering a raiding party this afternoon. Should I expect to see you there?”

“No, I don’t think so. Just make sure this info gets out,” said Tony, a hand Peter’s shoulder as he starts to move away.

“I will see it done,” said Diavel, with a nod. “Everyone, lets hurry back to town! There’s work to be done!”

And with that the group turned and ran, presumably back towards the entrance to the labyrinth.

“Alright, that’s done. If you need to stop we’ll stop, but otherwise we’re going to keep going until we’re back at the inn. Don’t worry about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, I’ll take care of rest,” said Tony, as they began to walk in the same direction.

Peter did as he was told, and put one foot in front of the other.

Step, step, step…

Immortal Object.

Step, stumble, step…

“I can’t remember things passed a certain point…”

“The last thing I remember is the meeting with Kayaba…”

What did it all mean…

Step, step, step…

“I’m thinking of skipping on meals for a while. I’m kinda curious how long it takes to actually start feeling hungry in here.”

Put one foot in front of the other, Parker. Almost there…

“I slept as much as I need to.”

Immortal Object—Immortal Object—Immortal Object—

AI Development

Peter stopped.

Peter couldn’t help but wonder… Was she aware of what she was?

No. No way. No fucking way—

“The problem was that in order to do further development and testing it would require me to deep dive into their systems, and for reasons I’ve discussed with you earlier today I was entirely unwilling to open myself up to that.”

“Peter… Hey, are you alright?” asked Tony, a worried crease in his brow that was so familiar. “Are you still with me, kid?”

Was it even possible? Who was he kidding, if anyone could figure it out it would have been him. But then how did it— he— end up here?

“Ok, now you’re really starting to scare me kid.”

Unbidden, the memory of the mural from the night he entered SAO came back to him.

Slowly, Peter started to take steps again.

“Good, that’s good. One step at a time and we’ll get there,” said Tony.

Peter did as he was told, and he slowly made his way out of the labyrinth while trying to come to terms with a fact he couldn’t look away from.

Mr. Stark was dead. He always had been.

Tony was an AI.

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corancoranthemagicalman · 3 years

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4, 11, or 42 with destiel? I'm thinking intently about Them

Okay so here’s the thing.

I thought, “oh wow 4 (An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose) will be so interesting!!! I’ve got the perfect scene in mind!!

Wait. Wait I kind of want to establish what sort of mindset Dean is in for this to happen. Okay, let me establish the scene and the mindset. Well, I don’t wanna vaguely reference this thing so let me just—

15k later here is your accidental brush of the lips followed by a pause and going back for another. If you well and truly do not want to read this whole thing (and I shan’t blame you) if you skip to the second line break, you’ll have the scene. Like, it probably could have stood on its own but this happened.

Read it On AO3 (or skip to the good stuff undercut)

50 Kisses Prompt List 💕💕

The motel room was quiet. Dean was grateful to be miles away from Florida. The Midwest roads were more familiar. Baby took every inch of road greedily, happily, without cars burning rubber all around her. Steepling his hands on the table in front of him, Dean felt his leg bounce with anxious energy. The small, clay dolphin stared back at him with beady eyes.

He looked up when the bathroom door opened, Cas stepping out without a word. His freshly washed hair clung to his skin. The wound on his shoulder was bright red and raw, but healing. Dean pressed his lips together.

“I can patch that for you.” He nodded to Cas’ shoulder. It was probably the first thing Dean had said to Cas directly ever since they had left Marissa’s apartment two days ago.

Cas paused in his trek toward the bed that held his duffle bag and a sleeping Jack. He inhaled slowly, grabbing the bandages before moving to sit at the table beside Dean. Their knees were a hair’s breadth from knocking against one another. Wordlessly, he handed Dean the gauze and ointment before shifting to place his shoulder between them.

Dean took the ointment, squelching some of it into his palm. He exhaled shakily, slathering it gently over Cas’ wound. Cas barely winced and yet the muscle of his arm felt tense beneath Dean’s hand.

When Dean began to wrap his shoulder, Cas spoke. “Dean,” he called in that gentle, charged way of his. He didn’t continue until Dean could tear his gaze away from the angry wound, look into those blue eyes. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Dean pushed, reaching for the scissors so that he could cut and secure the wrap. “That’s what we do. Save people. Hunt things.”

“Dean,” Cas whispered, putting his hand to Dean’s wrist and halting his movements. “You saved my life. Jack’s life.” He sighed. “I don’t care that you think this a thankless occupation. I thank you.”

“Cas,” his name felt ripped from Dean’s throat. It felt desperate. Just as desperate as he had felt in that fucking dungeon months ago. A lifetime ago. Where Dean was speechless but begging Cas not to go. Not to say that. Not to bring them both past the point of no return by acknowledging this.

But it was there. The elephant was named. It was stampeding in Dean’s chest and rioting. Thundering and booming in his ears and sending lightning through his veins. They were here and Dean couldn’t ignore it. Or he could—he could—but he had been ignoring it. Ignoring it by pretending it didn’t mean anything. By saying that there was no elephant and thinking that Cas would just be here.

Cas’ gaze flickered over Dean’s face like a waning candle. He was looking for something. Dean wished he knew what the hell Cas was searching for. He would give it to him. He’d give Cas anything he wanted—

He knew what Cas wanted. Cas fucking told him what he wanted.

Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find. Or maybe he found what he was expecting. Nothing new. Nothing new from Dean who just refused to acknowledge his best friend’s love confession. His dying love confession.

“We appreciate it, Dean.” He said finally. “Not only all the people you save, but Jack and I. We appreciate you, Dean.”

“I know how you feel, Cas.” Dean spoke sharply, perhaps a bit callously. Cas didn’t flinch though. He looked goddamn resigned.

Cas sighed, “I know you do.” He smiled sadly. An echo of that night. “I told you.” Looking at his hands in his lap, Cas huffed a laugh under his breath. He pulled his shoulder away from Dean, straightening in his seat. “Regardless, you know what I think of you. You know that I…”

Dean swallowed heavily. “Yeah, Cas. I know.” Dean reached for the supplies on the table, fingers attempting to catch the gauze tape in his grip. Instead, the tape rolled, threatening to fall off the table’s edge. Dean reached forward thoughtlessly, not realizing he was leaning into Cas’ space until he was there and then—

Soft.

Cas’ lips were soft even with a barely-there brush of their lips. Dean pulled back, the tape forgotten as it clattered to the floor. Quiet enough that it didn’t wake a sleeping Jack, but loud in Dean’s ears. Cas looked at Dean with wide eyes, crystal blue attempting to peer into Dean’s soul.

Dean rested his palm on the table, his forearm brushing against Cas’ bare skin. Inhaling sharply, Dean leaned in again, this time with purpose, tilting his head and brushing his nose along Cas’ cheek.

A sharp inhale from Cas as his eyes fluttered shut. Dean could almost feel it against his own eyes. Something like a butterfly kiss. Parting his lips slowly, Dean tilted his chin until he could feel Cas’ lips beneath his again. Dean’s lips pressed into a firm line, a reassuring pressure against Cas. Cas gasped, shuttering and opening his mouth for Dean to press in deeper.

Taking the plunge, Dean held Cas’ face in his hands, fingers clutching at Cas’ cheeks as Cas, in turn, grasped at his wrists and held him in place. Dean returned Cas’ gasp, inhaling the breath from Cas’ mouth. He could feel his mouth quiver and his body shake where he held himself against Cas.

When they pulled apart—however long it was—Dean held his forehead to Cas’. A lump formed in his throat, closing off his attempt at words. “Cas—”

The pad of Cas’ right thumb swiped at Dean’s cheek, taking him by surprise. He sucked in a shaking breath, opening his eyes to watch as Cas gently swabbed at his cheek. Those damnable tears—the tears Dean couldn’t get out of his head for months—were present in Cas’ eyes. They made his gaze look like an ethereal, shimmering pool.

Dean had seen those tears every time he closed his eyes. Every nightmare he had. But in all of that terror he had experienced in that moment, he had forgotten what Cas was saying. That Cas said he was happy. That the Empty—the Shadow—whatever the hell it was—only took Cas when he was happy.

And now here he was. Happy. Happy enough to cry about it, but without the looming threat of a deal or a god or anything that could take him away from Dean.

“You can’t leave,” Dean whispered, voice scraping a raw path up his throat. “You can’t, Cas. I won’t survive it again.”

“I swear that I will never willingly leave your side,” Cas sighed, fluttering his eyes shut and leaning to press another sweet and slow kiss to Dean’s lips. When he drew back, Dean felt life breathe back into him again. Inhaled it, gobbled it, choked on it until his tears came anew. “I promise, Dean.”

Dean choked on a wet laugh, stealing another soft kiss that Cas was there and offering. “I want you to stay.” He whispered his confession into Cas’ mouth, opening the kiss further, deepening it further. Tame, but reaching. “Please stay.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” Cas sighed, fingers raking through the short hairs against Dean’s neck with one hand and his right hand clutching in an achingly familiar way against Dean’s shoulder. Dean steadied himself by gripping at Cas’ waist, holding him to the edge of his seat and meeting him halfway.

“God, I love you,” Dean laughed, ducking his head and peering at Cas from beneath his lashes. “I love you.” He said again. Because he could. Because he could stare at this elephant and call it by its name, parade it about and drape it in bright colors with pride.

Cas smiled and it reached his eyes. Dried up his happy tears and flashed his gums. “I know,” he spoke in that gentle rasp of his, like the purr of Baby’s engine.

Dean laughed again, quiet and mindful of Jack. “Oh, you’re such a bastard,” he swallowed Cas’ low chuckle, felt it in his chest, and hungrily asked for more. Cas hummed into his open mouth, a satisfied noise that Dean hoped to hear every day for the rest of his goddamn life.

Ramble On drew them away, Dean’s phone lighting up on the table and alerting him to a call. He sighed, pressed a tight-lipped kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth for good measure before answering his phone.

“Hey, Sammy.” He rasped, his voice low and gravel-filled. Dean cleared his throat between his words and Sam’s.

“Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Sam asked softly, his little brother’s concern near palpable.

Dean cleared his throat again for good measure, flickering his gaze to Cas. “Nah, I was up. What’s up?”

Sam gave a relieved-sounding sigh. “Finally finished the leg up to the rendezvous. Garth was pretty excited. I think it’s going to work out.”

Leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes, Dean ran a hand over his face. “Good. That’s good,” he answered, and he meant it. He felt fingers intertwine with his own and looked to Cas in surprise. Almost naturally, Dean squeezed his grip on Cas’ hand.

“Marissa’s walking better,” Sam informed Dean. “Alpha healing worked out pretty well. Sometimes I forget how good of a shot you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean huffed, but couldn’t keep his lips from quirking into a smile.

Sam laughed on the other end of the line and Dean could imagine his eyes crinkling with that puppy dog look of his. “Nothing, old man,” he said affectionately. "D’you guys wanna meet up in Sioux Falls? We could visit Jody and the girls.”

“Sounds good to me,” letting out a sigh, Dean turned to face Cas fully. “Claire and Jack can catch up. I’m sure you and the book club have got a new chapter to gush over.”

Dean could see Sam’s rolling eyes at the remark, but Sam let it slide. “And what are you gonna do?”

Dean grinned, pulling Cas’ hand up to his face, just pressing his lips on Cas’ knuckles for a moment. “I could go for a midnight cruise.”

Cas’ eyes sparked, smile warming like caramel under the soft motel lights. He squeezed Dean’s hand in return.

“Alright. I’m checking into a motel for the night. I’ll call you guys in the morning when I’m on the road.”

“See ya then,” Dean signed off, removing the phone from his ear to hang up. He swiped the red button before turning to face Cas. “I know you and the kid usually share a bed but—” he started.

Cas chuckled under his breath. “I think I might be persuaded.” He teased, dominating eyebrow arching on his forehead in silent challenge.

“I can be very persuasive,” Dean retorted, leaning again to press another soft, earth-shattering kiss to the lips of an angel.

#ask c #requests #jitter-bugss #IT JUST KEPT GETTING LONGER I AM SO SO SORRY #I WAS LIKE IMMA DABBLE SOME BASIC PLOT AND BS IT #BUT THEN THE PLOT DIDNT BS IT???M #and I didnt even have a full case in here either #like I STILL skipped to the good bits #well dang #I fully assed it #spn #spn fics #ask game

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snowdice · 4 years

Text

Big Bang Editing Story [Day 2](Part 2)

I’m going to go ahead and start a new thread. What’s been done of this story already is under the cut.

If you’d like to block these proceedings, please feel free to block the tag proofread stories. I will reblog this post with the parts of the story I do today.

Chapter 1

“Please?” the younger teenager said as he threw his arms around Logan in a hug. Logan gave him a disgruntled look when a stray arm bumped some of the papers on his desk and one that he’d been using fluttered to the ground.

“Patton, I have work to do.”

“You work all the time,” Patton pouted back at him.

“I’m the crowned prince,” Logan reasoned. “There is a lot for me to do.”

“You’re not even doing royalty business tonight,” Patton pointed out. “You’re just reading your book.”

“But I have to do some tomorrow and if I agree to a sleepover, we both know neither of us will sleep.”

“We’ll sleep, I promise!” Patton said.

Logan gave him a skeptical look. They had been having these sleepovers for a decade at this point and in none of them had Logan ever actually slept. On the contrary, Patton usually kept him up long enough that Logan was so tired he couldn’t fall asleep and then the boy himself would pass out leaving Logan to stare grumpily at the ceiling.

“Future Royal Advisor’s honor?” Patton tried, eyes hopeful. “Come on, we can play dress up.”

Logan glared at him. “I am 17 years old,” he reminded.

“I’ll do your hair,” he tempted. “I’ll even let you read a book while I do it.”

The look in his friend’s eyes and the fact that he really was quite good at hair started to weaken Logan’s resolve.

Patton, knowing him so well, saw his tenacity faulter and pitilessly pressed his advantage. “Mama made fresh cookies today,” he said. “They’re the ones with strawberry jam. We could sneak into the kitchen and steel some in the middle of the night.”

“Considering you are the head chef’s son and I am the prince, it would hardly be considered stealing.”

“But it’s more fun that way,” Patton argued with a laugh. “Come on, you need to have some fun. You’ve been stressed out lately.”

“This is fun,” Logan said with a frown, gesturing to the large book in front of him.

“I know,” Patton said, “but your brain has got to be tired from reading all of that Latin and Sand’s Kit.”

“Sanskrit.”

“Gazuntite.”

Logan sighed. “Why did father agree to make you the royal advisor in training?”

“Because he knows without me, you’ll send your entire life sitting at this desk reading your book.” Patton scrunched up his nose at him.

“I would also do my royal duties.”

“But sometimes you need to relax,” Patton said. Logan opened his mouth. “Really relax. No super encoded magical books that make me dizzy looking at them. We’re going to play dress up, eat cookies, and read silly books, and that’s final.”

“Oh, I’m being commanded, am I?” Logan asked, an eyebrow raised. “You’re really going to try to command your prince? You’re lucky I don’t have you tossed into the dungeon.”

Patton hopped off the chair he’d pulled up to Logan’s desk and scrambled a few feet away. “You’d have to pull yourself away from your book to do that,” he said, sticking out his tongue at him.

Logan glanced down at his book. Reading the Pragilium text despite its difficulties had been his life’s work since he was a small child, and it was something he very much enjoyed, but he was tired from his duties and his lessons the last few weeks and not in the way he would be if he agreed to Patton’s sleepover. He looked up at Patton. He was shifting back and forth on his feet, a smile on his face. The book could wait.

Logan carefully closed his book and stood from his desk chair. Patton was already giggling before Logan lunged for him.

Patton was a lot more agile then Logan was himself and knew the castle just as well since he had been brought to live here when he was just starting to walk, yet he was clearly slowing his place so Logan would not lose him. They ran through familiar corridors, careful to not slam into the stationed guards as the slid around corners. They ran past the large window that gave the best view of the castle garden and Patton avoided the spiral staircase that would let out near the kitchen where his mother was currently preparing that night’s dinner. Instead, he made a dash through the smaller dinning hall, unused at this time because they had no important guests, and then hung right to bolt towards the wing with Logan’s own private quarters.

The guards that stood in front of the double doors to the private hall, stepped aside easily at Patton’s approach. Patton pushed through the doors and they swung shut behind him.

“Traitors,” Logan accused, shooting past them through the door himself.

The guards only seemed amused by his accusation.

“Help!” Patton yelped. His still light tone didn’t worry Logan that something was actually wrong, but it did make him wonder who he was speaking to. That became clear, however, when he noticed his father standing at the end of the hall outside the entrance to his own bedroom. Patton sprinted past Logan’s bedroom and directly at the king.

“What is going on here?” Logan’s dad asked amused as Patton darted around him to use him as a human shield.

“I made Logan stop working and now he wants to throw me in the dungeons.”

“Well,” Logan’s father said. “It’s a good thing I’m king and can overrule him then.”

“Thank you, Thomathy.” Father chuckled at the nickname, and Patton poked his head around the king to stick his tongue out at Logan once again.

“He’s sticking his tongue out at me!” Logan pointed out. “Surely that counts as some sort of treason.”

“Does not!” Patton claimed.

“Does too!”

“Does not!”

“Stop it!”

“Make me!”

“I would, but you’re hiding behind my father like a coward,” Logan argued.

“He does have a point there, Pat,” Father reasoned. Patton just wrapped his fists into the man’s robes and shot him a piteous look.

“Oof, Pat,” Father said, rubbing his chest as though it ached. “That look is a shot straight to the heart. Is someone trying to assassinate me?”

“No,” Patton said. “I wouldn’t let them.”

“Hmm,” Father replied, reaching out to ruffle his hair and then stepping away from him. “I can always count on you Pat. I have to head to a meeting now. Keep our troublemaker out of mischief for me?”

“Oh, I’m the troublemaker?”

“Of course, Thomathy,” Patton swore, ignoring Logan completely. “Can we use the jewelry box for dress up?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Father agreed. “I won’t need any for a while. Just keep them safe.”

“We will,” Patton promised. Father smiled at him and walked towards the entrance of the hall. He paused to press his palm to Logan’s cheek briefly before continuing and disappearing through the doors.

Logan turned back to Patton. “It seems you have cornered yourself,” he pointed out.

Patton glanced around himself. He had, in fact, sequestered himself in the end of the hall. The only possible avenue was into Father’s bedroom and he’d likely locked the door behind him if he was going to be gone to a meeting. Patton giggled when his predicament set in. “Truce?” he offered.

“Not a chance.”

“No! Logan! Truce!”

Logan took a menacing step towards him.

“Defensive offence!” Patton shrieked and charged at him.

The air was knocked out of him when Patton slammed into him. “Ugh, Patton, why?” The arms that had wrapped around him squeezed hard. “I’m being attacked! Guards!”

To the guards’ credit, one of them did stick their head through the door just to make sure. Patton waved at them.

“There is no respect for the crown in this entire castle!” Logan sputtered when the door closed once again.

Patton released his waist finally, and instead grabbed his hands. “Come on, I bet I can pick out a good fun book from your dad’s library for you to read during our sleepover.”

“My book’s fun.”

“And easy,” Patton stressed. “We’ll have to wait for the cover of nightfall to steal the cookies, but there is plenty to do until then.”

“Fine,” Logan said with a put-upon sigh, though he honestly didn’t feel any true resentment. He wondered if he’d regret his decision to agree to Patton’s ‘sleep’over in the morning.

He would find in the years to come, that he very much wouldn’t. For, many, many reasons.

Chapter 2

Virgil hated this. He really, really hated this. To think he wished he was back in training camp. He yearned for General Landon’s mistreatment like he imagined most children desired their mother’s affection. He tried not to sniff too loudly from his place behind the foul-smelling bags he’d hid behind in the small shed long enough ago that his legs had long since cramped.

He could tell from small window opposite him that the sun had set recently, though it was not quite last light. Soon he would have the cover of darkness and would have to move from this spot. That was almost worse than staying cramped here forever and starving to death in the shed. He felt sick. He felt so sick. He didn’t want to be here.

A noise startled him, and he flinched down further behind the bags as someone pulled opened the door to the shed. A man made a groaning sound and set gardening tools down on the table with a clank. Virgil did not want to imagine all the ways each of those things could kill someone, but his brain didn’t give him the choice.

Virgil focused on breathing as quietly as he could even when the thoughts in his head made him want to pant. The man continued to put away the tools in different places in the shed. Virgil tried to curl even tighter into his already tight ball when he strayed too close a few times.

The man finished his work and wiped off his hands on his shirt. Virgil expected him to turn and exit the shed, but instead he called out. “I can see your hair.”

Virgil froze, and when the man turned to look right at his hiding place, he let out a small whimper. He tried to scramble away when the man took a step closer to him, but there was nowhere to go but to press himself up against the back of the shed, the man’s body between him and the door.

They sized each other up for a long moment. Could Virgil make it to one of the tools if he moved quickly enough? He didn’t know. He doubted it and there was more than a likely chance that he’d reach for a tool himself with his much longer arms.

“You here to steal food from the castle garden?” the man finally asked.

Well…no, not at all. He wished he was here to steal food. How should he respond? What was the most tactical answer? He cast his mind back to his training. There were a few options when faced with this situation, but he didn’t know which was the best one. The most obvious explanation was to go with his cover story and try to say he worked in the kitchen, but this man worked with the garden. There was every possibility he knew people in the kitchen. Another strategy would be to agree with whatever he said and hope he came up with a reasonable explanation on his own… but that explanation seemed to be that Virgil was a thief. Would he immediately be dragged in front of the king or have his arm chopped off or something else horrible? He could try spinning it around on him by asking him questions back and confuse him. He could ask him why he was here or if he was the one stealing food. That would be stupid though, he was obviously the gardener. That would probably just piss him off and make Virgil’s fate worse.

Virgil couldn’t breathe.

“Hey kid,” the man said. “What’s going on?” He had crouched down in front of Virgil and the fading light from the window finally hit the side of his face the right way to light up the currently black tattoo on his face. Virgil blinked. He was really glad he hadn’t just lied in that case. He did not comment on the marking or otherwise indicate he knew what it was. That would breed questions about why he knew what the man was. Why was the man a gardener if he was a multrum? It didn’t make any sense.

That didn’t matter now however, Virgil needed to say something, and it had to be the truth.

#not writing #just talking #proofread stories

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nekoabiwrites · 4 years

Text

Of Princes and Potions 2 - Chapter 8

It’s finally here!!!

This chapter kicked my butt for so long, but I am so happy with how this turned out! I’m going to link the masterlist near the top, so that it’s easy to find since it’s been a while since I posted a chapter of this.

https://nekoabiwrites.tumblr.com/post/187149767680/of-princes-and-potions-masterlist

AU: Royal/Fantasy Pairing: Logince Words: 4961 Warnings: Mention of deceased family, some tears, Janus is Demitri. Anything else, please let me know!

Summary: The day has arrived. The king brings them down to the not-a-dungeon dungeon to show them, allowing for everyone to have some form of resolution.

Footsteps echoed as several pairs of feet descended the stone stairs. The king led the group, torch held high above his head to light the tightly winding staircase. He also paused every now and then to relight the mounted sconces that he came across. His son was barely a step behind him, the prince’s anticipation fuelling his impatience and almost causing the two to collide multiple times. Keeping a safe distance back, Logan and Demitri followed silently. The two seemed to be equally as lost in thought as the other, though no one in the group could blame them. They were about to come face to face with others of their supposedly deceased race. Virgil followed up at the rear, keeping an eye on everyone in front of him. Once Roman had almost fallen over his father for the fifth time, Patton called upon the knight captain to light the torches instead of himself – to save them all from potential injury.

It felt like they had been heading down for far too long – and Roman made sure to comment on it at least twice - before the ground levelled and they reached a small door. Patton stopped and turned, gathering everyone’s attention. He rested a hand on the wooden door, “We’re here. Are we all ready?” A murmur of agreement and wave of gentle nods answered him, “Well then, here we go.” The door creaked as Patton pushed it open and stepped through. The rest of the group filed in after him, awkwardly congregating just off to the side of the door. It was clear from the height of the room they had entered, why their trip had felt so long.

The space they currently occupied was dome-like in shape and two double doors led out on either side, with healthy looking plants and a couple of simple benches filling the rest of the area. Upon closer inspection, small vents were cut into the structure, allowing for the natural light from above to pour in without being entirely obvious to the eye. A sign caught Roman’s attention and he stepped closer to read it, “When doors are shut, be cautious of noise.”

“Ah, yes. As you may have noticed,” Patton spoke in a hushed voice, “there are gaps that allow for the sunlight. I couldn’t just leave them with only candlelight, but it did pose a challenge as now they could be heard. Signs like that are common in the places where these holes are, so please don’t be too alarmed. Now, through here.” The king began to head towards the left door, followed by the rest of the group.

Even if Patton hadn’t told them that the space they were in used to be used as a dungeon in a previous time, it was readily apparent, though clear steps had been taken to help remedy the feeling of imprisonment. The hallway had been widened, both in width and in height so it was far more comfortable to walk through. Where bars originally should have sat in the rock walls, wooden sliding doors were now in place giving each one a far more homely, innocent look. Indentations where candles were placed had been greatly increased in size so that the light poured out in all directions and made it far easier to traverse.

Patton’s lips twitched into a proud smile as he wandered through the hall, “We spent a long time trying to make it less uncomfortable down here. There were many more changes I would have loved to have made but we didn’t quite have the manpower for it, or the freedom.”

“Freedom? But you are the king. Surely you could-” Roman started, only to be cut off by Patton’s raised hand.

“While I would have been able to with the power I hold from my position, it would have put the residents in far more danger. So, I had to compromise.” The king explained solemnly, a wistful gaze just barely being visible as he turned his head.

Roman hunched over very slightly as the twinge of embarrassment from his query affected him. It made absolute sense, but he didn’t consider it. He berated himself internally for a moment, before a hand gently brushed against his own and brought him out of his mind. The prince glanced to the side to find Logan walking directly beside him, eyes fixed forward with a slight tinge of colour to his cheeks the only indication that the action was purposeful. Roman couldn’t help but smile and link their fingers together in order to hold the mage’s hand, which caused their gazes to meet for a moment along with a gentle shared smile.

“Are you ready to meet them?” Patton asked suddenly, now facing the group. Behind him was another set of double doors, practically identical to the ones they’d entered the hallway through. “Past here is the communal area, where they spend the bulk of their time. I mean, I would rather not spend my time in these cramped corridors.” He chuckled to himself yet no one else reacted, “Anyway, follow me.” Patton pushed open the door, bathing them all in bright light.

As each of the men entered, their jaws dropped one by one at the sight before them. The ceiling was high and curved, with a large chandelier hanging from the highest point. Other similar doors and matching crevices from the hallway lined the front area they were currently standing in, all seemingly leading into other matching hallways that likely held more rooms. Groups of people were relaxing around the space on chairs and benches; seemingly chatting away happily or playing games. Some were passing through to the deeper part of the room, stepping under the wooden walkways suspended high against the wall. They couldn’t make out what was further in through the throngs of people, but it seemed to be far busier down there.

Patton was standing beside his fellow men, watching as they took in the impressive space he’d created. He waited patiently for a minute before addressing them, “So, I assume you’re all quite impressed?”

Virgil simply nodded, while Demitri and Logan were looking around their fellow Yitra with unreadable expressions. Only Roman responded verbally to his father.

“You did all this? Without anyone knowing?” The prince asked in awe, gesturing to the space. He couldn’t quite peel his eyes away to even look at his father, though the sudden turning of heads towards him was making it slightly easier.

Before Patton could respond to his son, one of the older residents approached and bowed to him before speaking, “Who are these visitors, your majesty?”

The king turned quickly to address the elder, though his eyes strayed for a moment and caught the stares of the surrounding people. Patton then smiled warmly and began to speak, mostly to the elder but with enough projection for him to be heard by the audience that had now gathered, “My sincerest apologies. I must have frightened some of you by bringing strangers into your space. I assure you that we all mean no harm. This is my son, Prince Roman Sanders, and his partner and our royal wizard, Sir Logan Pendry. Beside him is Demitri Candor Issra, who looks after the castle’s animals and our newest captain of the guards, Sir Virgil Alastair.” Many flinched at Virgil’s name, but Patton continued on, “I know you may have your reservations about their intent, but I assure you whole-heartedly that they all wish for your safety and only came to see you all. I hope you will treat them with the same respect they shall provide to you.”

Before Patton had even finished, two bystanders approached Logan. “Pendry… Is that truly your name?” One of them asked in a hushed voice, almost as if the name itself was a secret. The mage simply nodded and the two Yitra shared a glance before beckoning him to follow. “You, as well. Please follow us. There are things you must see.” The other said to Demitri, who obediently stepped forward. The four walked towards the deeper section of the room, not even giving a backwards glance.

Roman went to follow after his partner, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned his head sharply to look at his father. They stared at each other, having a long silent conversation. Both of their expressions continued to shift as they tried to get their points across without a single sound. While the pair were distracted, the elder stepped around them and approached Virgil. “I would like to speak with you, Sir Alastair.”

Virgil’s panic started to rise, but he did his best to look as casual as possible. “O-oh okay.” He agreed, cursing himself for stuttering. The elder made no comment and simply led the captain to a table, where the two sat down.

The royals eventually seemed to come to some form of agreement. Roman huffed in annoyance and stepped back to stand beside Patton while Patton looked around for a space for them to rest. “Shall we sit?” He gestured to a free bench nearby.

“I suppose.” Roman said shortly.

They sat in silence, simply watching the underground dwelling people go about their day. Patton did watch Virgil for a short moment, seeing that he was currently sat with three more of the elderly Yitra at the table and was having some sort of deep conversation with them all. He couldn’t help the small warm feeling of pride that started spreading through his chest at the sight. Then he noticed his son sat with his arms crossed and a small pout. Patton thought for a second before turning his attention back to the populous at large, “Logan did mention to me earlier that there was something you wanted to discuss with me?” Patton prompted casually. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Roman glance over to him, his expression changing to one of guilt.

“Ah, yes. I… had forgotten about that once I saw this. Though now that I remember, I am feeling far worse…” Roman confessed with a heavy sigh. “I wanted to… apologise. For what I said. Back in the infirmary that night. I was… frustrated and angry. I have always thought of you so highly, as someone to look up to and imitate when it came to important matters and royal duties. So, when I thought you had kept all these innocents imprisoned and you agreed with the townsfolk, it cut me to my core.” His gaze was directed away from his father. Roman couldn’t bring himself to look at the man who’d raised him. Not once had he spoken this aloud, even to himself. And yet, here he was, sitting in a repurposed dungeon, spilling his heart out. “I understand now. All I can say is… I am sorry if I caused any hurt with my words or actions.”

“Roman…” Patton’s voice was soft and emotional. His arm wrapped around his son’s shoulders comfortingly, as tears began to well up behind his eyes. “I assure you that I was not hurt. At least, not as much as you may think. I understand your anger. It was a lot to handle, especially in one night. You care so deeply for others, especially those you are close to, that it sometimes comes out in a burst of emotions. It is commendable that you are able to notice the wrongs from your actions and apologise accordingly. It’s a wonderful quality to have, especially in a future leader.” Patton couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up as Roman turned his gaze to him in shock at his words, “Oh, come now, Roman. It cannot be that much of a surprise.”

“I just… I was not expecting you to say such a thing. Especially now, of all times.” Roman explained, still in a state of disbelief.

“I’m simply being realistic, son. There is nothing to worry about. You still have much to learn.” Patton grinned, squeezing his son’s shoulders, “And as someone you look up to and your father, I am willing to teach you!”

The prince winced slightly, “Ah… so you did pay attention to that… wonderful.” Roman stretched out his arms and took a breath before returning to his normal self, “I would be more than happy to learn from you, father. There is much I now want to speak to you about, especially after seeing this. I want to know if there is any more I can do to help.”

Patton wiped a tear before finally embracing his son, holding him tightly, “I am so proud of you, Roman.” Eventually, the royals parted and smiled at each other. Then Patton clapped his hands and went to stand, “How about we go and check in on Virgil? I think he might like some familiar company about now.”

Upon glancing behind his father, Roman stifled a laugh. Virgil was now surrounded by younger Yitra, all of whom seeming to be looking either confused or close to starting a physical fight with the elders at the table. “It does look that way. Let’s go and save him.”

While they went over to speak with Virgil, not one of them could have guessed what Logan and Demitri were currently experiencing.

They had been led by their two guides deeper into the room. They both were swivelling their heads around, trying to take in all they could see. High up off the ground, a wooden platform lined the entire wall with several ladders attached against the walls beneath, allowing access. This area was about twice the size and as loud as the previous. On the ground level, different coloured carpets were laid upon the floor with some people – likely some form of storekeeper – calling out to the people perusing the place to try and persuade them to look closer and buy their wares. It was strange in Logan’s mind that things such as stores or merchants would exist in an isolated community, but the thought was pushed from his mind when he got called over to the nearest ladder. Once up there, Demitri gestured Logan to look down from above. It was surreal. Both of them weren’t still fully believing what their eyes were seeing. All of these people, that created this busy underground, were their fellow Yitras. They had spent their whole lives thinking that they were alone, or at least just two of very few that remained in their country, and yet here they were in the hundreds, maybe even thousands.

“Follow us this way, please.” One of their guides spoke up, breaking them from their thoughts. Demitri moved first and Logan trailed behind, looking at the upper space they were now walking through.

More doors lined the walls up here, though almost all of them were propped open so you could see inside. Most of them looked to be like small classrooms, which Logan was infinitely interested in. He wanted to explore, find out what they taught and what books they might have. But he instead had to hurry along to make sure that he wasn’t left behind. They walked past more of them and Logan was able to see a few kitchen-like rooms, a small library, a few more permanent looking shops and some alchemic studies that looks almost as messy as his did back in his tower. Finally, they stopped at a closed door.

“In here.” The two guides gestured.

Demitri cautiously pushed open the door, peering around inside before stepping in. Logan followed as quickly as he could, not wanting to be left alone outside. It shut behind them, their two guides apparently choosing not to come along. The room was sparsely decorated; the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a large wooden desk sat in the centre surrounded by chairs. In the one behind the desk, an unfamiliar old man sat, one of the leather-bound books open in front of him.

Upon hearing the door shut, he looked up and adjusted his glasses. “Oh, hello. What can I help you with?”

Logan and Demitri shared a glance. Neither were sure why they were here, but their best bet was to introduce themselves. Logan was quicker, “We were brought here after two of the residents heard our names. I am Logan Pendry, and this is Demitri Candor Issra. We ca-” The mage didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

“It cannot be…” The man behind the desk stood, staring at Logan as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was truly there. With careful steps, he moved around the desk and crossed the room. He reached out in an attempt to touch the mage, but Logan flinched slightly in response. The man seemed to break from his reverie and a gentle sadness crossed his features. “Come, sit down. There are things I simply must show you both.”

The men took their seats as the stranger shuffled around, running his finger across the spines of the books on the shelves. He suddenly stopped and looked over to them, “Many apologies. I realised I hadn’t introduced myself yet. You may call me Morely. I look after the records we hold on every birth and death that had occurred from our kind for generations.” Morely went back to searching the shelves, “We were privileged that the last two kings were benevolent enough to have not destroyed all the records prior to the conflict, which means we hold- Ah, here’s one of them.” He was speaking absent-mindedly until he cut himself off, hefting the large book from a lower shelf.

The binding looked fragile, as though it had seen many years, so Morely was handling it with such care as he placed it on the desk. He took his seat once more and cautiously began turning the pages, looking as though he were searching for something in particular. Neither Demitri nor Logan spoke a word. Both of their minds were running wild with thoughts of what they hoped to find in the records in the room, likely knowing that the other was thinking something similar.

After what felt like an age, the elder man turned the book towards the men and gestured to a specific page, “Here is something I think you will find of particular interest, Sir Issra.”

Demitri was up on his feet in an instant, eyes directly on the spot that Morely had gestured to. As he read the words, he felt as though something inside of him was finally lifting. For the first time in years, Demitri was able to see and know the names of his parents, of siblings he lost, of older family members he only saw as a baby. Every part of his family was listed on the page before him. It was overwhelming. As his legs began to shake ever so slightly, Demitri went to sit down, but Morely stopped him.

“There is something on the next page I would also like you to see.”

With the barest of touches, Demitri turned the page slow and careful. What greeted him felt somewhat like a punch to the gut whilst also being a comforting embrace. An old hand-drawn picture of his father, mother, himself and his siblings that had been completed only days before the massacre happened and they all looked happy...

Demitri stumbled back into his chair, hand pressed over his mouth as he did his best not to cry – something he was failing at quite miserably. As much as it may have seemed as though he was devastated, Demitri would be quick to assure anyone that asked that he was in fact extremely happy. Simply knowing the names of his family and seeing them even in a static moment from the past was more than enough to give Demitri some form of closure. Gentle pressure on his arm had him turning his gaze to Logan, who was doing his best to comfort him in this moment.

Over at the desk, neither noticed much as Morely took the picture from the page and placed it to one side. “I was told to keep this for a day when you visited. It is yours now.” Morely said, carefully handling the book once more to place it back on the shelves. Demitri thanked the man quietly under his breath, through his tear-laden voice.

“And for you, Sir Pendry… I have this book.” Morely had the newer looking book in his hands almost immediately, as though he knew exactly where it had been kept. Once again taking his seat, the record keeper turned with practiced motions to a page before handing it over to Logan. The mage was hesitant but took it.

He read slower than Demitri did, taking his time to fill his mind with every word. This was his first time seeing any name that was related to his own. He had only been around the age of 4 when he was left at the orphanage and could just barely remember anything about his mother, so this was utterly new. Logan paused abruptly once he read the name of his father.

The book was lowered from his face. He stared across the desk at Morely. Logan’s mouth opened. Then closed. He could not find the correct words to form what he wanted to say. After a moment, Logan managed to croak out a few words, “Is… this correct?”

Morely smiled warmly, “I can assure you that all our records are indeed accurate.”

Logan turned his gaze back down and re-read the name before him. “So… is this…?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it, something inside trying to hold back his sudden hope just in case it could hurt him more.

The record keeper stood. He walked around to the front of the desk. With the utmost care, he removed the book from Logan’s already weak grip and placed it back on the desk behind him. The two then finally made eye contact once again. Morely simply smiled warmly, “It’s been far too long, my son.”

A beat of silence. Not a single person moved. Then Logan, in a rare display of non-magically enhanced intense emotion, flung his body off of the chair and onto the man in front of him. His arms held tight, tears slid from his eyes, his body shook heavily. It was hard to believe, hard to comprehend, but it was what was written. Morely was, in fact, his father.

Demitri went to quietly excuse himself from the situation, heading towards the door as the father and son embraced but Morely’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

The animal handler hesitated, “I just… felt as though you two would like some time alone. To catch up and such.” He started to back away to the door again.

“Please do stay. There is so much I would love to discuss, with you too. You have been the one looking after my son for these years. I am sure you have some stories to tell.” Morely grinned at the thought, it only widened when Demitri snorted in amusement. He quickly turned serious again, “There are things I must explain to you both as well. I am sure you are wondering why you have never been told about all of this…” That got Demitri to agree to stay.

After the emotions had simmered down and Morely had gotten both of his guests a drink, he explained as much as he could whilst Demitri and Logan did their best to not interrupt. The record keeper told them a story of the previous king; how he’d made a vow to leave Morely’s family in peace if he came along to the castle to help with the running of the underground city – as his wife was human and they had only recently found out they were to have a child shortly before he left. The very same vow was made with Patton once his father fell ill and was on his deathbed. He explained that Patton came to him when Logan had been rescued from the streets of Dawnwich, telling him of his son’s misfortune. It had destroyed Morely to know that his wife had likely passed, but he could not bring himself to allow Patton to put his son underground with him.

“I told him that I would rather you live freely and safely within the castle, able to see the world and people around you, than being stuck down here with the rest of us.” Morely said, his shoulders heavy and slouched, “His majesty did try to protest, but I refused outright to accept his decision. It was foolish and could have put me in danger with any other monarch, but he is different. And so, he kept you above with everyone else.”

“But why would Patton keep it a secret from Demitri?” Logan asked unprompted.

“He wouldn’t tell me the full reason. His majesty simply told me that-”

“I wanted him to be in a better state of mind; healthier and wiser.”

Logan and Demitri turned their heads to the new voice, finding Patton standing in the doorway of the records room with a smile.

Demitri rolled his eyes shortly after, turning away once more, “And I suppose my involvement with Logan was a part of this, Patton?”

“It was a happy coincidence, but I did hope it would help you, yes.” Patton said as he approached the desk and stood beside it. “I wanted you both to have grown before you came here – well, once Morely rejected my proposal to have you live down here with him, Logan – so that you could handle knowing it all so quickly. I did not want either of you to hurt if you came here. So, I waited until now. I am sorry, if you find my reasoning unfair.” The king bowed to them, in a show of respect.

“I, for one, thank you for what you did. Both of you.” Logan spoke up, voice regaining strength. “Had you not allowed me a place to live above the ground, there are so many things I never would have been able to experience and… people I would have never met…”

Patton grinned knowingly. They finished up their conversation and the three guests headed back out into the main hall. “You know where I am if you ever wish to find me.” Morely said with a wink and a smile before he shut the door behind them.

“I think it’s about time we returned to the castle. I’m beginning to get a little hungry.” Patton patted his stomach, his brow furrowed exaggeratedly.

Demitri went to respond but was cut off by a loud cheering from the front half of the room. “What is happening down there?” He asked, walking ahead to peer over the railing of the wooden platform. Logan and Patton were not far behind and they were all surprised to see Virgil… showing off?

They quickly descended the ladder and hurried over to the group, managing to find a spot where they could see everything. Roman and Virgil were seemingly having a duel, though both were being very gentle and placing their blades more than swinging them at each other. The surrounding crowd was enjoying it, shouting out support for whomever they wished to ‘win’ the fight, though it was clear that Virgil was likely to come out on top – despite Roman’s desire to best him.

Virgil ‘landed’ the final blow and over-powered Roman, the sword in the prince’s hand falling to the side as he fell to a knee in defeat. The knight captain smirked playfully and sheathed his sword, “Even in a simple match like this, I still win.”

“Oh, hush!” Roman demanded, pushing himself up so he could loom over the knight once more, “I was simply putting on the best show. I could most definitely best you in a true duel!”

“Sure.”

Roman gaped for a moment before catching sight of the rest of their party in the crowd. “Father! Tell Virgil I could most certainly defeat him!”

“I have never seen you do so, Roman, but I believe in your ability.” Patton spoke carefully, choosing his words so as to remain neutral. He also managed to bring the attention to himself in doing so, allowing him to inform the surrounding people that he and his party were to return to the castle above. “I am sure that you will be seeing some of us return in the future for visits. We thank you kindly for being welcoming and understanding to us all. Goodbye.” The group began their trek back through the hallway lined with doors and up the staircase.

Roman hung back to walk alongside Logan, noticing that the mage was lost in thought. He carefully slipped his hand into Logan’s own, trying not to surprise him too much. The effort was ultimately in vain as Logan abruptly turned his gaze to Roman, only to relax a moment later. “Apologies. I wanted to offer comfort in this time.” Roman muttered under his breath, so only Logan could hear him, “You were deep in thought. You have no obligation to tell me what happened, though I am willing to listen if you need to speak of it.”

Logan’s lips turned up into the smallest of smiles before he leant in and pressed a short kiss to Roman’s own, “I am aware of that. I think it would be best to wait until we are back above ground to speak.”

The two quickened their pace, catching up to the elder men in front of them who had just reached the staircase, fingers intertwined the entire time.

Previous —— Next

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drawlfoy · 5 years

Text

Joint Custody

masterlist request guidelines i’m technically on hiatus until oct 15 but if i really like your request i’ll take it

pairing: draco x hufflepuff!reader

request: oh yes, from maybe late july? i’m sorry for getting back so late to this one

summary: your pet snake is a snake in more ways than one...for example, befriending the most obnoxious boy in your year.

warnings: language, snakes (so if that’s a fear i don’t recommend this)

a/n: ohhh gee it’s been a while hasn’t it? i’m working on my ucas rn, and as an american with literally no one in my area who knows anything about it, i’d be happy to get tips from anyone who knows about oxford ppe. i hope you guys enjoy! i’m taking a little break from mirror, mirror rn since i have no idea what to do w that. also i have never owned a snake so i apologize if i say something incorrect about the care of y/n’s snake

word count: 3,692

tags tags tags @accio-rogers @geeksareunqiue

music recs: i listened to random music so idl

Y/N dug through her knapsack, her fingers brushing past everything but the scales she wanted to feel.

“Monty? Monty? Where are you??” she whispered, flinging her bag onto the potion table and opening it so the light illuminated the insides. Her worst suspicion was confirmed: her magically shrunk corn snake was completely gone.

“What’s the matter, Y/N?” her friend Luna Lovegood asked from the opposite side of the table, her eyebrows scrunched in concern. “Are you missing something?”

“Er...” She took one final sweep of her pockets and her bag before sighing in defeat. “Yeah. Monty is gone again, but this time he isn’t listening to me.”

“Off to snack on nargles, I presume,” Luna said, a smile drifting across her face. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. He wouldn’t put himself in danger and he’ll always come back to you.”

“Thanks, Luna.”

“Of course.”

With that, her Ravenclaw friend turned and left for her next period, leaving Y/N to deal with the situation alone. She weighed her options: she could, technically, just summon her snake, but then she’d risk smacking him into a wall and injuring him. She could also ask Snape for his help, but one look at the greasy professor confirmed that, as always, he wasn’t in the mood to make the life of a Hufflepuff any easier.

Y/N scanned the room, noting that there was no yellow snake on the floor of the dungeons. He really could move fast when he wanted to.

“Who’s this?”

A familiar voice caught her attention behind her...no doubt originating from the Slytherin section. Against her better judgement, Y/N turned around to see Draco Malfoy staring down at his hands with a wonder she had never seen in his eyes before. Further examination made the cause clear: Monty was curled around his fingers, hissing contently.

“Hey!” Y/N said, catching his attention. “That’s my snake!”

Malfoy’s head shot up, his eyes filling with realization as he connected the yellow and orange colors of the pet to Y/N. “Oh? It seems as though he chose to come over here on his own accord. Probably got sick of being a house traitor, isn’t that right?”

To Y/N’s horror, Monty seemed to agree with the sentiment, slithering up his arm.

“That’s my snake, Malfoy, give him here,” she snapped, holding her hand out. he raised an eyebrow, running a finger down Monty’s scales.

“Don’t do that! Snakes don’t like to be pet!” Y/N was positively fuming as she saw how her pet didn’t even react badly to the physical contact--even though he was supposed to.

“That’s interesting,” Malfoy mused. “He doesn’t seem to mind it when I do it.”

“If you don’t give him back now, I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” Y/N said, whipping out her wand and pointing it at him to emphasize her point. Amusement flickered across his face.

“Okay, okay, you can have him back,” he said, gently unwrapping the snake from his arm and placing it back into her hand. His thumb brushed her palm in the process, and she was surprised to feel how warm it was. “Just remember that if you’re ever sick of hufflepuffs, I’m always here.”

He directed the last part at her snake, affection creeping into the edges of his tone. Once he seemed satisfied that Monty understood, he turned around without another word, grabbed his things, and left Y/N to stand in shock.

Draco Malfoy likes my snake?

The unthinkable happened the next Saturday night. Y/N was getting ready to go spend a nice study session in the library with her roommates and went to grab Monty from his perch, only to find that he was simply...gone.

“Monty! Monty!!”

While she wasn’t a parselmouth, she knew for damn sure that the snake knew she was looking for him.

“Monty, I’m going to put you in a cage if you keep doing this to me,” she scolded, sifting through her room to try and locate her pet. He was, unfortunately, nowhere to be found.

A very scary realization crept into her mind as she worked. Y/N hadn’t seen Monty since dinner...and there was no way that she could be sure that he was even in her room to begin with.

Oh, Merlin, I’m the worst snake owner in the history of snake owners. I didn’t even realize that he was gone...

Once she was sure that her room was snake-free, she burst out of the dorms and into the common room, where she asked everyone if they had seen Monty. There was a unanimous and concerning no from her housemates, only serving to raise her stress levels.

“Retrace your steps?” a particularly worried 7th year proposed. “Monty couldn’t have gone far...and plus, you both get along so well. There’s no way that he’d just leave you like that.”

Y/N nodded and burst out of the door, running down the corridor the way she had just come from and yelling her snake’s name.

She reached the dining hall entrance in record time, panting as she placed her hand on her knees and breathed. She really should’ve just gotten an owl or a cat like everyone else.

A flash of blonde caught her eye, and she turned to see a rather amused looking Malfoy leaned up against the wall opposite to the door.

“Looking for something?”

“You git! Where is he?” Y/N pointed her wand at him and clenched her other first, trying to regulate her breathing.

“I had a feeling you’d come back,” Malfoy said lazily, kicking off of the wall and striding closer to her. “For the record, it wasn’t my fault. Your snake must’ve gotten into my pocket during dinner.”

“He got from the Hufflepuff table to the--”

“Slytherin table? Yeah, I know, I was impressed too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled a hand with a yellow snake curled around long, elegant fingers. “It seems like he has a preference.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, offering her hand to Monty and inwardly rejoicing when he chose to slither onto her.

“Okay,” he responded, seemingly unbothered. “Are you at least going to thank me for taking care of him?”

Y/N studied him for a second. “No. Putting him in your pocket and waiting for me to find you doesn’t count as taking care of him.”

He snorted, stuffing his hands in his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I can see why he likes to get away from you every once and a while. How did you even get into Hufflepuff?”

“What are you talking about?” she increduled (i don’t think that’s a word but whatever).

“I’ve only spoken directly to you twice, and both times you’ve managed to offend me,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine how your roommates deal with you.”

“They start by being tolerable people,” Y/N spat, slipping the hand that held Monty into her pocket, “Something that you ought to consider.”

“Ooooh.” He mimed twisting a knife in his heart. “You got me there. Touché.”

“I’m going to see my friends,” she said, glaring at him. “Please come directly to me if Monty ever bothers you again.” She began walking back down the hall, taking extra care to make the ride comfortable for Monty.

“Wait,” he called after her, causing her to stop in her tracks. “He really doesn’t bother me.”

She spun around to face him. “So?”

“Er...” Malfoy scratched the back of his neck. “Look, clearly he likes both of us, and I have a feeling this is going to happen again, so... do you want to just split the time with him?”

“Split the time with my own pet?”

“I actually really like him,” he confessed. “And it’d probably save you the stress of having to deal with constantly losing him...I know that snakes sometimes get bored with just one owner.”

“How do you know that?” Y/N asked.

“Er,,,” He stumbled over his words. “Just...perks of being a Slytherin, I guess. Nothing to think too deeply about.”

Y/N huffed, thinking over the proposal. No matter how much it pained her, it appeared as though her snake actually did enjoy Malfoy’s company.

“Okay. Fine. You have to learn how to take care of him, though.”

“No problem,” he said quickly. “Can I have him tonight?”

“What, need him for a ritual or something? Is it time sensitive?”

He laughed. “No. If I needed a snake, I could just serpensortia my way out of that issue.”

“Fair enough.” She paused before sticking her hand in her pocket again. “I need to go get his food and perch, then. I’ll be back in a moment, okay? You can hold onto him if you’d like.”

Draco seemed to visibly brighten at this remark, nodding and holding his hand out. Y/N tried not to take note of how immaculate his hands were as she allowed Monty to slither back onto his palm.

<^>

Y/N gathered her items quickly, ignoring the glances from her confused roommates.

“I’ll explain later,” she promised, darting out the door before they could ask any further questions.

When she showed up at the meeting place, she was relieved to see a bored looking Malfoy cooing to the snake twisted around his hand. He blushed a deep red when he saw that she heard him.

“Took you long enough,” he drawled.

“I’ve never heard you sound like that,” she said, chuckling instead of acknowledging his previous rude comment.

“Sound like what?”

“You? Cooing to Monty?”

“You’re going batty.” He scowled, putting his hand intertwined with Monty into his pocket.

“Sure. I’m guessing you want to go to the Slytherin dorms?”

“Congratulations on your deductive reasoning,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes and starting off at a brisk pace. “Try and keep up, will you?”

<^>

On the way, they spoke about official terms: each would get the snake for two full days, and they would meet outside the Great Hall to transfer the equipment. Malfoy was adamant that they not tell anyone about the deal--something about how his parents would die if they knew he was sharing a pet with a Hufflepuff. Y/N was adamant that he finance the portion of food that he was using, which he initially protested to but eventually gave in.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Malfoy began once they stopped in front of the Slytherin common room entrance, “But thank you. For being open-minded. I know we aren’t on the best of terms...”

“No, this is most certainly not good-bye,” Y/N interrupted. “You need me to show you how to set up the perch in your room. And, of course, I need to demonstrate how to feed him. He’s very picky.��

Malfoy swallowed, his hand pausing before the bricks that obscured the entrance.

“Okay. All of the older Slytherins are out at Hogsmeade right now, so I can probably sneak you in.”

“Isn’t Hogsmeade closed to students after 5?” Y/N questioned.

“Yeah. We have our ways.”

With that, Draco muttered the password that she couldn’t quite catch and pushed open the door that appeared.

“Be quiet, though,” he cautioned.

They entered the Slytherin common room. and Y/N was blown back by a gust of damp, heavy air. It smelled like the inside of an expensive, appointment-only store.

“This is kind of cold and unfeeling,” she told him as they neared the entrance to the boy’s dorms. Malfoy looked like he was going to snap at her to be quiet, but something made him freeze.

“Shit. The wards.”

Realization flowed into Y/N. “Oh...oh, how could I have forgotten...”

“Can you just show me how to set it up here?” He asked, nervously passing his hands through his hair.

“No, no, I can’t,” she said. “I wish, but I need to see the layout of your room...there are specific requirements as to where the perch can be placed...”

Malfoy mulled over this for a few moments before letting out a long sigh. “I can’t levitate you past the wards. I have to carry you across.”

Y/N paled, even though she knew that that was the only possible way to make it happen. “Okay. I’ll leave the stuff on the ground. You help me over and then bring the perch and food.”

She set her things down and awkwardly stepped closer to him. Malfoy seemed just as uncomfortable as he held out his arms.

“Turn around and loop your legs over my right arm...like that...”

Before she knew it, she was scooped up off the floor and on the other side of the wards, the expensive silk of Malfoy’s suit pressed up against her cheek. She was surprised, yet again, at just how warm he was compared to his usual cool demeanor.

Malfoy set her down on the ground, and grabbed the box of snake supplies. “Last door on the right.”

<^>

“So you scored a single, huh?”

Malfoy’s room was made up of just a one large bed instead of the standard three that she saw in Hufflepuff dorms, and she couldn’t say that she was surprised. The Malfoys had the connections to get these sorts of things.

“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly. “Anyways, show me what to do. Monty is getting antsy.”

Y/N made quick work of unpacking the perch and locating an appropriate corner to place it. Showing Malfoy how to feed the snake was easy, and before she knew it, they were done.

“Enjoy Monty,” she said as they made their way to the ward again. “Let me know if anything weird happens or if you have any questions.”

Malfoy simply nodded and opened his arms again, signaling that he had to pick her up to let her out. She obliged, turning around and looping her legs over his arm, allowing herself to be scooped off of the ground. It was strange, really, getting moved so gently by someone who she thought, until recently, wouldn’t spit on her if she was burning to death. They were just over the ward when the common room entrance opened and the sounds of many Slytherin teenagers--albeit drunk Slytherin teenagers--filled the room. Malfoy’s face turned sheet white and he spun around, striding back towards his room.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Put me down!”

He didn’t answer her until they were safely inside the room, the door locked tight.

“They’re normally not back until midnight,” he said, his tone rushed. “It’s hardly 10:30...I don’t know what they’re doing here...”

“That’s okay, we can just wait until they all go to bed,” Y/N told him, placing a hand on his arm. “No worries.”

“Er, yes worries,” he corrected, moving further away from her. “Saturday all-nighters are very common here...you aren’t leaving this room until morning.”

“Are you joking?”

“I wish.” His eyes nervously darted around the room as he wrung his hands. “There’s nothing we can do right now, unless you know a very strong disillutionment spell...which I suspect neither of us do. They’ll be out in the common room for a while, and honestly, I should probably join them.”

“You’re just gonna leave me here?”

Malfoy seemed rather conflicted, but he screwed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply. “Yes. I said I would meet them afterwards. This way you can sleep, too. I won’t be here.”

“Are you sure I’m not intruding?”

He let out a shaky laugh. “No, you are, but it’s not your fault. Just stay here and don’t let anyone in unless it’s me, alright?”

“Alright.”

He got up and made to leave. “Oh, and, Malfoy?”

He turned to face her. “What is it now?”

“I don’t want to sleep in my school uniform,” she told him, her face darkened by a blush. “Do you have anything that I can borrow? Just a shirt or something?”

She could see his jaw clench before he ducked his head down and walked over to his dresser, tossing him the first shirt on top.

He was out the door before she could properly thank him.

<^>

Y/N took a long time to fall asleep, but when she finally drifted off, she was out like a light. Malfoy’s bedding was heavy and smelled like green tea and ink, something that she wasn’t expecting but most certainly appreciated.

So, when Y/N jerked awake just a few hours later, she was a little frustrated.

“Hey, hey, Y/N, wake up.”

She opened her eyes to see Malfoy standing over her, holding a candle and looking very tired. “What is it?”

“They’re gone. You can leave now.”

She groaned, turning over and searching for her clock--only to find that it wasn’t there, as this wasn’t her room. “What time is it?”

“3:20. Now are you going to get up, or do you want me to drag you out?”

“You said I could sleep here,” she complained, hardly completely awake yet. “And now I have to walk all the way to my dorm from the dungeons? At night? I don’t think so.”

The candle highlighted the frown etched into his face. “You should go.”

“This is the situation you created,” she countered. “You told me you were pulling an all-nighter. Why don’t you?”

He sighed, this time a staccato puff, and placed the candle holder on the nightstand. “Sorry I lied.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” she mumbled, turning back over to drift back into sleep.

“Wait, wait! What am I supposed to do?”

“That’s for you to figure out. I’m going back to sleep.”

“But you can’t just--”

“Sh.”

Y/N let herself fall back into the realm of dreams, but not enough to completely lose consciousness. She was aware of a few sounds of movement from the room she was in--she assumed it was Draco, Draco, that sounds much better than his last name--but it wasn’t enough to motivate her to lucidity.

However, when she felt the bed on her opposite side dip, that was more than enough.

“What the hell, Malfoy,” she snapped, shooting upright.

“Can you please be quiet? I’m sorry, it just so happens that you’re refusing to move from my bed, and I have no other options, unlike you.”

“I don’t want to argue right now! Can you just go somewhere else and let me sleep in peace?”

“I could say the same for you!”

The two sat in a heated silence until Malfoy finally took the high road.

“I’m sorry about this, but I’m offering you one last time to carry you over the wards. If you don’t want that, I’m going to sleep in my own bed whether you’re in it or not.”

Y/N swallowed. “Okay. Okay, fine. I’m not going to leave.”

“Goodnight.”

<^>

Y/N wasn’t totally sure what woke her up--perhaps it was the breath on her neck, or the warm arm that was draped over her side, or the tickle of something that felt suspiciously like very vine hair on her cheek--but when she did, her heart almost stopped.

Malfoy had slung an arm around her waist, pulling her closer than what was comfortable. His face was mere centimeters from her own, and every time he exhaled, a few rogue strands of pale hair brushed her cheek.

This was not good. She had to do something--but the most unethical part of her did not want to. Malfoy was no doubt going to be upset when he woke up to see this, and she needed him to be in a good enough mood to let her out of the boy’s dorms.

“Malfoy?” She broke the silence, softly nudging his side with her elbow. He groaned, burying his face into her neck. “Malfoy!”

Y/N gave him a swift shove, effectively detaching him from her.

“Er...what?” He shot up, looking very alarmed and confused. “What?”

“You have to carry me out of the wards, remember?” she told him, slipping out of the covers and pulling them off him. “We should get going as soon as possible. There might be people out in the common room the later it gets.”

He seemed to understand the problem as he swung upright and ran a finger through his ruffled hair.

“I’m sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“Sorry about what?”

“For, er, touching you, I know that I shouldn’t have done that,” he clarified, turning away from her, but not quickly enough to hide the blush on his cheeks. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s okay,” she mused. “I guess if we’re to have joint custody of Monty, we should get to know each other anyways.”

Malfoy froze for a second before he gathered his bearings. “Er, yeah. Yeah, good point. For Monty.”

Once he seemed ready, they left the room, Y/N giving a wave to Monty, who was curled around his perch.

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry about him,” Malfoy told her, spinning her around by her shoulders and opening his arms to pick her up again. She looped her legs over his arms again, leaning back into him and allowing her to lift her up and take her over the ward.

He set her down softly after making sure the coast was totally clear, looking down at the ground immediately after.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said quietly. “For everything. Sorry I was a bit of a pill last night.”

“’S only fair, I’ll been worse to you.”

Y/N couldn’t see for sure, but it appeared as though the very outer corners of his lips had turned up.

“I’ll see you in two days? Outside the dining hall?”

“Yeah.” He sounded almost breathless, like he was winded or something.

“Okay, well..I think I’m going to go,” she said, backing away. “Feel free to show up to the Hufflepuff entrance if you want any help. Or if I’m not there, then you can normally find me in the library, or you can always ask in potions...”

She trailed off once she saw that Draco’s face had broken into an exasperated but amused expression.

“Okay, I should go then.”

“Yeah, me too.”

With that, Y/N turned and left the Slytherin common room with the feeling that that was certainly not going to be the last time she was going to be there.

final a/n: i didn’t know how to incorporate actual fluff in here and i shouldn’t even be writing this rn lmaoooooo but here it is and i’m so sorry if it sucks i haven’t proofread

#draco x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco x oc #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x oc #draco malfoy x y/n #harry potter imagine #draco lucius malfoy

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katekarnage7 · 4 years

Text

The Pill

All right, so, I made a post a little while ago asking if anyone would be interested in reading a fic where I physically, emotionally, and mentally destroyed our favorite bard. Apparently, this is something that a *lot* of people want to read. So, here ya go! Here’s the original post and the AO3 link if you want to see those.

Tags will be at the bottom and if you would like to be tagged in future chapter(s) of this story, let me know!

---

The tiny pill with the opaque casing and the milky white magical substance that always seemed to glow, could fit in the palm of Jaskier’s hand and still look insignificant. However, it was anything but.

His fingers fumbled to lock the door of his inn lodgings behind him as he rushed to the bed. He collapsed onto his knees, wincing at the sting that erupted through them before grabbing the bag he had hidden beneath the bed. He tore open the bag, his adrenaline running on high and pushing all other thoughts out of his head, as he grabbed the box within. Inside the delicately carved boxed, there sat a vial, and inside that vial? An infinitesimally small pill. The substance that filled the opaque casing glowed so brightly the entire box shined with a soft, ethereal light.

He ripped open the vial and tossed the cork aside, upturning the bottle and watching as the pill fell into the palm of his hand weightlessly. A tremor ran through his body as he remembered the circumstances of which the pill came into his possession.

Tears filled his cornflower blue eyes and slipped down his frozen, tinted pink cheeks. He promised himself he wouldn’t cry. A rock tripped him up as he desperately made his way down the mountainside and he fell, hard, onto his knees. “Fuck!” tore from his throat, leaving him to double over with a hollow chest and aching heart. As soon as the aches subsided, he allowed numbness to take their place. Numbness, he decided, was far better than the fucking destroyed feeling Geralt had left him with. The worst part however, the reason why he wasn’t turning around to punch the daylights out of Geralt of Rivia was that… he had to leave. He would always give the oaf whatever he wanted, would always stick around even though Geralt was quite literally fucking around with a mage, and if he didn’t leave now, he never would.

He pounded the ground once before clambering to his feet. He would not cry over Geralt of Rivia. He would not cry over the White Wolf or the fondness his heart felt for the witcher, or even the warmth that used to permeate every single bone in his body when he was with him. The Butcher of Blaviken did not deserve his heart or his tears.

So, he walked. He walked down the mountainside, down a path that would surely lead him away from his so-called friend. He fought creatures and nearly died as they desperately clawed at his body. He escaped and walked until the muscles in his legs cried out in pain and screamed at him to falter, and yet, he didn’t. Distantly, he strummed a few strings on his lute, longing for the sound to come out as beautifully and transcendentally as it once had. Instead, it came out broken and discordant. Perhaps, he supposed, like him.

And so, the bard kept going. He wandered from town to town, desperately trying to sing happy tunes that would bewitch the masses, and yet, they fell flat. Soon, his purse became light and his stomach empty. Any new material he wrote rang out sadly and, in the midst of a quickly ratcheting war, no one wanted to hear sadness. They had enough of it and so had Jaskier.

He sighed as he threw the last coins he had onto the bar and managed to get himself lodgings for the night. The stink of piss and ale that permeated the backwater inn was nearly enough to run him out of the town entirely, but alas, the inn was cheap and Jaskier was tired.

He stumbled up to his room and collapsed onto the bed, waiting to fall into a fitful sleep. Of course, that simply wasn’t in the cards because, for some incomprehensible reason, the world of the supernatural could never leave him alone. A whoosh of dust and dirt whipped up into a frenzy, forming a circle in the middle of the room, and Yennefer stepped through. He cursed and stared at the mage, who wore a stunning black dress, which Geralt would find delicious, he thought bitterly.

“Yennefer?” he asked, his voice broken. He nearly gaped at how pitiful it sounded.

“Hello, little bard,” Yen said with an air of disinterest.

“What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see your lovely face, but I thought you and Geralt had run off into the sunset together. Gone off to slay monsters and weave chaos.” Jaskier couldn’t help the spike of bitter pain that ran through him. After all, it used to just be him and Geralt, going off on their adventures and skirting the line of life and death. Then, Yennefer came along and fucked it all to hell.

Yennefer let out a breathless, half-laugh. “I’m not traveling with Geralt at the moment, little bard, and I’m not here for idle gossip. I’m here to warn you of certain… events that are transpiring in Nilfgaard.”

“I know. They’re having their usual; food, women, wine, and a little bit of that pleasant chaos. Causing right hell for the townsfolk and making them all tighten up their purse strings.”

“Right, well, they’ve caused Cintra to fall. I came to warn you that Nilfgaard soldiers know of any and all involvement when it comes to our dear witcher, and you might find yourself in danger.”

“Lovely. Perfect. Just another example of Geralt’s wonderful presence in my life. Now, I’m trying to get some well-deserved beauty rest and pesky sorceresses like you interrupt that,” Jaskier said, lying back further on his bed and hooking one ankle over the other. He raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

“My point, bard, is that if a Nilfgaard soldier gets a hold of you, your resolve to be a good little dog to Geralt likely won’t hold,” Yennefer said, stepping up to the foot of the bed and watching Jaskier with those unnervingly vibrant violet eyes. “So, if you’re captured, you’re to take this.” She opened her palm to reveal a vial, inside which a small pill sat.

“Ooh, wondrous. Is this your latest in a string of attempts to get me killed, mage? If it is, it isn’t exactly subtle. What if I don’t take your little pill, huh?”

“Then you betray Geralt and all of the Continent. How’s that for side effects?”

Jaskier snatched the vial from her hands, not wanting to admit how, even though Geralt had tossed him aside like he was nothing more than a common dung beetle, he still recoiled at the thought of hurting him. “What does it do? Make my toes shrivel and fall off? Burn off my eyebrows and put warts all over my luscious skin?” he quipped, throwing Yen a sharp grin.

“Pray you never have to find out,” she said, turning her back on Jaskier.

“Oh, well, that’s very specific. It’s not like you could bloody tell me what would happen. No, no. You’ve got to be all ominous and darkly mysterious about it!”

Yennefer chuckled and threw Jaskier an almost smug smirk before another portal swallowed her up.

“Bloody mages.” Jaskier bit back the urge to throw the vial to the ground and smash it underneath his heel. He unhooked his ankles and relaxed further into his bed, turning the vial over in his hands. One pill, imbued with magic, most likely, seeing as a mage gave it to him. He popped the vial open and allowed the pill to topple into his hands.

It held a glow he knew right then would haunt him forever. He held it up, bringing it closer and closer to his face, until-

A series of loud thuds rang out, bringing Jaskier back to the present. His time was up. Now or never, he supposed, and brought the pill to his lips. The door slammed open just as he forced the pill into his mouth and swallowed. A blur edged at the corner of his vision as a soldier, dressed in coal black armor with what looked like veins etched into the metal, stepped forward.

Jaskier got to his feet and put on his trademark smirk. “What took you so long, you lovely, strapping young men? I swear, I’ve been lonely and utterly saddened here just waiting for you. Even had time to powder my nose and don my best fineries.”

The knight drew a small dagger, not bothering with his sword, and stepped closer to Jaskier, until they were nearly sharing the same air. He wore a smirk of his own. Though, in Jaskier’s opinion, it was far cockier. Jaskier was, if nothing else, humble. “You think you’re so funny and so damned smart, bard, but we found you,” he said, bringing the dagger up and pushing the tip of it up against Jaskier’s neck.

“I wasn’t hiding, d-darling.” The words fell from his mouth with a slight slur. He chuckled breathlessly, nervous, but unclear as to why. The knight’s face began to blur and the colors of the world began to run. Unsteady on his feet, he swayed, inky black mixing in with the unfocused world, and he fell. He crumpled to the ground and allowed the world to go dark.

---

He awoke to a splitting headache and a disabling fuzziness all over. His mouth and throat felt like they had been stuffed full of cotton. Then, the world slowly shifted further into place. He had been stripped of his shirt, leaving him in only his trousers. His wrists ached, bound by manacles he then found himself strung up by. Instinctively, he yanked at his bindings, trying in vain to free himself. “Shit,” he mumbled.

Where the absolute, ever-loving fuck was he?

His gaze flicked around the room, consuming every detail. The ‘room’ was actually a cell in what was clearly a dungeon. Puddles of disgusting water dotted the floor and the putrid stench of mildew and rot filled the air. A grate sat in the ceiling directly above him, allowing light to cascade down and bring sharp clarity to his bound form. A table sat off to his right and upon first glance, you might not see anything wrong, and yet, a cold, immobilizing feeling struck directly into the center of his chest. It made his heart beat faster and his palms slick with sweat. On the table sat a tray of knives; thin and thick, long and short, sharpened and dull - as well as whips, needles, and a small device with three metal bars and a screw on the top, presumably to tighten it.

However, he didn’t have time to ruminate as, seconds later, the metal door directly across from him was thrown open. A man with a scraggly beard in a dark jacket with equally dark trousers, flanked by two men in black, veined armor stepped into the room.

The bearded man stepped closer to him, an unnerving smirk upon his face. “Do you know who I am, bardling?” he asked, his deep voice soft and malicious.

With his bound wrists aching and his mind still fuzzy, he could only reply, “No.” He winced as his voice cracked.

The bearded man’s brown eyes fixed on him as he started circling around him with the air of a man who had long since been a predator. “Well, I know you, Jaskier. Oh, I’m sorry. Should I say Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove instead?”

Julian? Was that his name? His fuzzy world couldn’t comprehend it. So, instead, he did the next best thing; running his mouth until things made more sense. “Is there a reason I’m strung up like cattle or are you just living out some of your deepest, darkest fantasies? Well, I can’t say I’m opposed. Though, bondage isn’t really my area-”

“Silence. I don’t care for idle chatter. You see, I’ve heard you have some very pretty songs to sing about a certain witcher.”

Julian - Jaskier? - clenched his jaw. His head whirled, thoughts spinning in a chaotic void of emptiness. “I haven’t the faintest idea what on earth you’re talking about. If I’d met a witcher, you’d have heard about it. Trust me on that one,” he said.

The bearded man’s smirk never faltered. “Looks like the little lark refuses to sing for us. How terribly tragic.” His tone indicated, however, that it was not terribly tragic at all. Slowly, the man shed his jacket, revealing a thin, cream-colored shirt stained with dark spots of… blood. It looked like it had never been washed since its purchase.

The man crossed to the table with the tray on it and picked up a long, thin blade. He twirled it in his fingers, eyes holding contact with Julian’s own. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia and his little lion cub.”

A spark of annoyance mixed with pure, unadulterated desperation roared in Julian’s gut. “I don’t know this Geralt you speak of or the-the lion cub! I swear it! Just let me down from these cuffs and we can have a nice chat about-”

The first cut came as a shock. Burning pain erupted from where the blade met his skin, slashing a strip just below his collarbone. “Fuck,” he hissed as blood slipped down his chest in small rivulets.

“I’ll ask again, bardling,” the man said. “Where is Geralt of Rivia?”

“I don’t know!” Julian cried again.

And so it repeated. The bearded man would ask a question, Julian would reply with the only response he had, and a cut was made. Over and over, it happened until blood spilled down his chest, painting it into a stomach-turning portrait.

Eventually, the man grew tired of his knives and turned to whips. The loud crack came and pain burst across his skin. Tears spilled down his face, mixing with sweat. “Please!” he would beg and cry, and still the pain would not stop. With every moment, his world became sharper, and things began coming back to him.

Then, the man set down the whip and grabbed a butcher’s knife. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia, or I will start cutting off your fingers. You need those to play your precious little lute, don’t you, lark? Don’t you need them to play your tunes of mutants and monsters?”

Julian’s throat had long since been filled with razors and had been made raw by hours - or was it minutes? Days? - of screaming. “Please,” he croaked.

The man simply sneered and came close to him; close enough for Julian to feel the other man’s hot breath on his face and he allowed his eyes to slip closed. “Disgusting witcher’s whore,” the man spat. Julian winced as he felt the spit land on his cheeks and chin.

Seconds later, a fist made contact with his face, and his eyes filled with stars. The tangy copper of blood permeated his mouth and he coughed it up, allowing it to dribble down the sides of his mouth. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see his fingers get mutilated. Then, the tell-tale sound of footsteps rang out, then a clatter of metal on metal, and finally, the thud of a heavy, metal door slamming closed.

His eyes opened and he found the room to be empty. The tray had been left on the table, tools stained with blood. His blood. Bile rose up his throat and, before he could stop himself, he threw up all over the stone floor. He couldn’t even wipe his mouth for god’s sake.

Blood still oozed down his chest and pain overwhelmed him. His throat and wrists shared the same raw ache and his torso screamed in agony. Whoever Geralt of Rivia was, he had condemned him to this.

It wasn’t long after that day that the dripping started.

---

At first, it felt good. A nice drip of water that was a welcome change from the pain that riddled his body. It fell from the grate above his head and he reveled it in, enjoying every moment. However, the torture continued. Julian wasn’t sure how long it went on. He just knew that, when the sun went down, one single meal would be brought to him and he would be fed. Beyond that, he ate nothing and drank nothing. Sometimes, he almost thought the knight giving it to him looked… sympathetic. However, that simply couldn’t be true, even if it was always the same man. The days soon blurred together in a flurry of screams.

He found it easiest to repeat a couple of words over and over.