#wasting precious time and energy that I think costs him the match in the long run

[randanopterix]

Did you guys like that Jake Lee vs Yuki Yoshioka match

[rainpuddle13]

19. playing with each other’s fingers

Ross&Demelza

I apologize, @veryflowerobservation, for taking so long to post this. It sorta got away from me :P I hope you enjoy!

This fic is a prequel to Tears and Sunflowers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was an ungodly hour.  This having to get to the airport a minimum of four hours before an international flight was for the birds.  Their flight to New York was scheduled to depart at 8:35am.  Ross didn’t even know why he bothered to attempt to catch a few hours of sleep the previous night. Demelza was practically vibrating with excitement in the bed next to him. She had never flown before. So he’d done the only thing he could do in that situation -- help her work off some of that nervous energy -- and he bore the marks on his shoulders to prove it.  He just felt sorry for the very nice elderly couple who were occupying the room next door to theirs at the hotel.

He checked his watch with a groan.  

6:21am.

He thanked the good Lord above for exclusive traveler lounges. If he had to queue with the masses in the main terminal, he might not be responsible for his actions. That early in the morning, access to only that swill that passed for coffee at Costa, and masses of travelers with varying degrees of comportment would have him seriously contemplating murder. It would be a very poor defence if he was brought before the crown court, but surely an understandable one.

“You should eat something,” he said to her after she kept fiddling with the fingers of his hand resting on the knee if her crossed legs. They were cuddled together on a small sofa in a quiet spot where she could take in all of the hustle and bustle of the enormous lounge. There were quite a few people for that early in the morning, but there was so much space that it hardly felt crowded.  He could feel her leg bouncing as she wiggled her foot. “The food is usually pretty exceptional.”

“I don’t know if I could,” she told him, weaving their fingers together and stilling her fidgeting for a moment, “too excited.”

Ross snorted softly as he was never one to be too nervous or tired to eat something. “You could get a haircut or a massage instead,” he teased, glancing over to see the expression on her face.  The Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse Lounge at Heathrow was an overwhelming place with all sorts of over-the-top posh amenities.  She was impressed they’d been picked up at the hotel and delivered to the airport in a private car and then were whisked through priority check-in and security in a matter of minutes.

“Really?” she asked, eyes widening with the obvious sensory overload she was experiencing.

“Yes,” he assured her, chuckling a little, and knowing her head would have exploded if she knew how much two upper class tickets had cost.  “There’s a spa too and shower rooms.”  Ross had wanted her first international flight to be comfortable and memorable, but he feared it might set her expectation a bit high for any future trips they might take. There was a far cry between the pampering in upper class and the indignities of the overcrowded economy class.  It was just as well because he would need the extra legroom these days with his stiff knee.

She pressed a little closer to him and her fingers toyed with the heavy rose gold band he wore on his left ring finger that matched the more delicate one she wore.  “You want to eat something don’t you?” she inquired.

“What I actually want is coffee,” he paused for a moment, his stomach answered her question with a low grumble, “and I probably could nosh on something.”  He’d opted to keep his eyes closed for a few precious minutes while she got ready instead of sending for room service, safe in the knowledge that there would be an abundance of food and drink provided by the airline.

“I can try to nibble on something.”  She pressed a kiss to his scruffy cheek before standing up and holding her hand out to him and he couldn’t help but notice his beautiful wife attracting the attention of several of the men around them. Demelza was comfortably dressed in jeans that showed off her long legs to perfection and a deep gold turtleneck topped off with a rich brown leather jacket, and her glorious crown of red hair was barely contained by a loose braid.

Within a matter of minutes, he was attempting not to guzzle a cup of expertly brewed Sumatran coffee while waiting for his fry up to be brought to him.  Demelza carefully sipped her steaming cup of tea, but left her plate of assorted breads and pastries untouched.  He reached across the cozy dining  table to snag a flaky and buttery croissant off the plate.  

“You’re going to eat everything off my plate aren’t you?”  he asked when she raised an eyebrow at his thievery. 

“Noooo,” she swore, her eyes following the heavily laden plate an attendant placed before him followed by another to replace his near empty coffee cup with a fresh one.

He picked up the knife and fork to start in on the perfectly poached eggs after a liberal dousing of pepper. “You too can have your own plate. All you have to do is ask.”

“I don’t think I could!” she insisted, stabbing a bit of roast potato and grilled mushroom with own fork. 

“Likely story,” he snorted, pushing his plate to the middle of the table so she could graze more easily. This was a common occurrence with her -- insisting she couldn’t possibly then proceed to demolish his plate in fairly short order. It always happened when he ordered something that was absolutely terrible for him, but so very good for that exact reason. Anyone else and Ross would find the behavior less than endearing.

“Are you going to tell me why we’re going to New York?” she queried while attacking the fried bread to smear in the runny eggs he had somehow managed to get a few bites of before she could turn her sights on them. “Not that I’m complaining mind;  I’ve always wanted to go, but it’s a long way for a few days.”

It took everything in him not to blurt out the reason for what seemed like a sudden weekend jaunt across the pond, but actually had been in the works for months. She loved Van Gogh. The Met was having a once-in-a-lifetime exhibit. How could he not take her?  “I told you I really wanted good pizza.”

“Oh, Ross,” she sighed in frustration, then changed her tactic.  “You’ve been to New York before then?”

“Loads of times,” he answered, slathering strawberry jam on his croissant since it was becoming abundantly clear  he wasn’t going to get to eat the breakfast he’d ordered himself,  “though it’s been a few years now.  Father used to go fairly regularly for business and would drag me along.”

“What did you do when you were there?”

“I used to spend a lot of time at the natural history museum and the New York Public Library.”

“Of course you did,” she smiled fondly as she spoke.  She was well aware of his love of doing research and learning.

“I like dinosaurs,” he said matter-a-factly, "and the museum has an amazing exhibit.”  It was true. He did like dinosaurs, even now, and he’d wanted to dig for them up until the point he discovered girls were infinitely more interesting, and alive.  Demelza didn’t need to know that bit though.

“You are such a boy,” she said with a shake of her head. “What else did you two men do on the town?”

“Sometimes we take in a show or go to dinner at fancy restaurants.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was trying to teach me a bit of culture.  One time we went because Papa wanted to see Van Morrison at Radio City Music Hall.”

“Really?”  

He chuckled, surprised that little piece of information had taken her by surprise. She did know his father pretty well at this point.  “He is a fan.”

“I’d say so. He can be so impulsive!”

“You have no idea,” Ross drawled, tamping down some very unpleasant memories from his youth that she need not be burdened with,  “you didn’t know him in his heyday.”

She smiled fondly, and it warmed Ross’ heart that his wife and his father got on like a house on fire, but he could not help the occasional flare of jealousy it caused. “I bet he was quite the charmer back then,” Demelza giggled.

“You’d probably be married to him instead of me,” he said with a fair dash of bitterness. There were still a few things he just could not let go of and he knew it as childish to hold on to them for as long as he had, but then logic and his father were often mutually exclusive.

“I dunno about that.” Demelza reached across to take his hand with hers, twining their fingers and giving them a little squeeze, her eyes going soft as she looked at him. “I sorta kinda love you.”

“Only sorta kinda?” he teased, pulling her hand up to place a playful kiss to her knuckles.

“From the first time I saw you in the library,” she confessed, her cheeks suddenly blooming pink.

“Is that so, Mrs Poldark?” That was news to him and he was most definitely intrigued.  Ross had known he was a goner for Demelza the first time he laid eyes upon her, even if it took him months to actually admit to himself, and then even longer to let her in on his feelings. He’d had no inkling she’d felt the same. So much wasted time.

“Saved by the boarding call,” she crowed when the announcement of their flight interrupted their playful banter, and quickly began gathering up her things. The head of the cute little calico stuffed animal cat he’d surprised her with that morning was peeking out of the top of her purse.  The airplane charm that had been on the ribbon about its neck had quickly been added to her bracelet.

He grabbed up his laptop bag to sling over his shoulder and his cane. “Don’t think for one second that this conversation is over.”

“Not if I can make you forget about it,” she said with what could only be described as a diabolical grin.

He eyed her with great suspicion. It wasn’t in her nature to be scheming that much he did know, but she was definitely up to something. The question was going to be whether or not he’d survive whatever it was.  “And just how do you plan to do that?” he challenged.

“Oh, I dunno,” she purred, taking his hand before pressing in close to him to place a very sweet and demure kiss to his cheek.  “Have you ever heard of the Mile High Club?”

[youngster-monster]

shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

-

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

-

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

-

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

-

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

-

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

-

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

-

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

-

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

-

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

-

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

[shadowsfascination]

Shadamy Swordland | ch. 5 | Lead the Way!

It was still early and therefore dark on a cold February morning when a caped Shadow and a cloaked Amy silently prowled around the academy grounds. Crossing the main square once again to get to the outskirts of the district, a blanket of fresh snow softly crackled under their shoes. The snow covered the herringbone-laid brick on the streets and the lack of daylight gave the snow a blueish glow. It sure has something enchanting-, Amy though to herself.

Treading lightly in attempt to make as little noise as possible, Amy exhaled in her already cold hands. The warm vapor of her breath felt nice on them for a brief moment, but they quickly grew even colder than before. She always wore gloves, but the her usual ones were thin and she forgot to put on her winter gloves this morning. Even when she’d placed them on the table next to the door, that was.

Shadow wasn’t much affected  by the cold. He’d wrapped his scarf around her neck and provided her one of his sweaters as well before they’d hit the road. It wasn’t hard to captivate his scent like this and it reminded Amy of the time she had had a secret crush on her trainer. Before every training session she used to ‘accidentally’ put her coat over his on the coat rack. It provided her coat with his masculine scent and she would secretly dwell in it afterwards. Back in the days it’d felt bittersweet to her because he wasn’t interested in her and she believed of them to have neither future or potential together.

While walking in silence through the cold morning Amy wondered why they were walking in the first place. Now that she’d learnt about his special ‘chaos’ skills, he didn’t need to hide them any longer- from her that was. Shadow explained to her that using his special skills, like warping, cost a high amount of energy. With the gemstone Shadow liked to refer to as a ‘Chaos emerald’, believed to be far away from South Island, there already was little energy to begin with. The thought of wasting the precious energy for every little thing was to be unheard of to him and so they trothed onwards through the snow.

The pink hedgehog researched every bit of information available about the tale yesterday. With the help of her dear friend Miles she collected a remarkable amount of notes on the subject when she left the library. Amy felt inspired and was eager to start this adventure, especially when the actual hero of the story was involved right here, right now. Still, she felt a little uneasy because she felt like some of her notes were missing. A couple of lines got stuck in her head and she couldn’t remember whether they were something she read or written down. Her mind drifted off and she went through yesterday’s events one more time:

__________________________________________________________

“Plagues, Miles, loosen up!”

'Miles', which was Tails’ his actual name, handed his friend a paper towel to wipe her hands before diving into the historic tales together. According to Amy he took his duty of keeping the books in his library in the best condition possible way too serious. The fox had, uncharacteristic as it was, assertively told her: ‘my library, my rules’.

Amy did as she was asked and grasped a notebook from her bag. In a zealous way she penned down everything that seemed important for their search, making sure the lay-out of her notes looked like a summary for a test. She dug through the pile of books Tails had picked out for her. She chuckled when she saw the many small, coloured pieces of paper sticking out of their pages. She was lucky to have a friend like him, even when there actually was no test to prepare for.

Amy lost herself in the exciting facts she came to know. Tails busied himself with other things like speaking to visitors and organizing the books on the countless shelves. Aqueous sunlight shone through the tall, stained-glass windows, drawing long shadows every time someone passed by. The colours of the glass-paintings broke the light into more subtle beams. After an hour or so, Amy’s eyes grew tired from the pleasant warmth of the sun through the windows, slowing down her pace. She yawned and decided it was time for a break. Tails went out to the kitchen to make them some tea.

Amy wavered through the things she wrote down and contemplated about where to start searching for the gemstone. She fell back in her seat and fixed her gaze on the ceiling and was surprised to find wood-carved illustrations on some of the beams.

The guardians of the jewel are echidnas… she quietly muttered.

Amy walked up to a bookcase and started looking for the letter ‘E’ until she found an informative book about Echidnas. She grabbed the book rushed through its’ pages. A map of their planet, portrayed on the next page showed the various locations of well-known echidna populations throughout the planet. She read out loud:

“‘Echidnas can live anywhere from mountainous peaks to deserts… They are able to cope with extreme weather…’”

Suddenly the door was swung open and a blue tornado-like wind whirled through the library, swirling up loose pieces of paper to spread them all over the place. A thumping of footfalls on the wooden floor accompanied this outburst of chaos before coming to a stop and bumping into the table because ‘it’ reduced its’ speed too late. Amy’s quills were blown into her face and she hurried back to the table. Her notes fluttered around and a well-known blue hedgehog laid clumsily spread across the table; Sonic the Hedgehog.

Sonic was a student like her, training to become a knight within the high order of knights like Shadow. He was Blaze’s student, who was a close friend of hers. It was a shame the cat had so little time to hang out, Amy thought when thinking about her friend. Sonic and Amy got along fine, but didn’t talk that often.

“Whoops… Hi Amy!”

“My notes! Sonic… look at the mess you’ve made!”

She impatiently tapped her foot at him, her hands planted on her sides.

“What are you waiting for? Go help me gather them!”

He jumped up and hastily grasped some notes. Amy collected some as well and snatched the untidy pile of the now crinkled pages out of Sonic’s hands.

___________________________________________________________

Amy swallowed. Either Sonic or Tails could have found her missing pages.

Well, can’t do much about it now, so I gotta let it go.

She shrugged the thought off and stepped forward into much more white than she expected and gasped when ice cold snow dripped into her boots.

“Right on time.”

Rouge waved at the two she could barely believe got together. Shadow’s breastplate reflected the fierce light from the now upcoming sun. Rouge squinted her eyes and covered them with her hands. She was clothed in a thick robe, matching gloves and boots and a purple, turtleneck-like scarf was wrapped around her neck.

“Tone it down, will ya? I’m already not too fond of being out in the sunlight.”

“Tough luck. Now, shall we?”

He pointed to the east from where they were standing, to an entrance of a cave. The females nodded and the three of them footed their way to the foot of the mountain. Leaving the countless fir trees and the snow behind when entering the cave, Rouge couldn’t be more pleased. The climate in the cave was damp and warm, noticeably less cold than the outside air, much to her satisfaction. Amy used an easy sacred art spell to light the torch they brought and she stepped forward to lead the way.

“I’m not complaining or anything, but why are we in this place?”

“The tale says that the stone is guarded by the designated echidna family. Echidnas like to dig.”

Rouge was already halfway through the breath she’d drawn to protest when she sensed something that cut off her opposition. Even though Amy’s starting point was built on a hasty conclusion, she might be right, Rouge thought to herself. Casting a spell under her breath, Rouge attempted to draw out chaos affected spores in the air. They showed her the amount of present chaos energy in her surroundings. Even when there were none to be found yet, Shadow caught on to the increasing activity of her sacred arts.

“Trust me. I’ve done plenty of research and I’ve got a real good feeling about this.”

“It’s a little too early to trust you already, hun.”

“For starters: don’t call me that.”

In the blink of an eye Amy drew her rapier and with a swift, yet threatening move she swung it towards Rouge, forcing her to a stop. The bat blinked before lowering her eyelids. Amy found it hard to name that expression. All she knew was she didn’t care for it. She felt mocked in a way. A grin spread across Shadow’s muzzle, a hint of that mocking expression Rouge had playing his eyes.

“You don’t wanna mess with her, Rouge. Especially when she’s angry.”

“Second: I don’t think you have much of a choice but to trust us.” Amy said.

“Geez! Fine, I’ll drop the nickname if you insist.”

“I do. By the way, I’ve been wondering: how’d you two meet?”

Amy hid her rapier in its’ sheathe again. Shadow and Rouge shared a glance, the flickering light of the torch casting a warm glow on their skin.

“Go ahead, tell her. I couldn’t care less.”

“Rouge used to be a member of the high order of knights. We worked together for a period of time. She was fired though because of a rather unfortunate incident.”

“Hmph! Coward! ‘Unfortunate incident’?! You don’t even dare to call me a thief, do ya?”

“Trust me, when it comes to being blunt, you’re outmatched, but unlike you I don’t enjoy putting someone on the spot and talk trash.”

“Anyway…!”- Rouge snorted, ignored Shadow and increased the volume in her voice. “I endeavoured  to steal some beautiful regal gems, got caught and have been an outcast ever since.”

“Why did you do that?” Amy asked her.

“I was pregnant and in need of money.”

“You had your loan, right? That should’ve been more than enough.” Shadow said in a crude way.

Without anyone being aware of it they had stopped walking. Rouge turned towards Shadow with crossed arms.

“You’re such an oblivious fool, Shadow! No knight in the high order can have kids while serving. They would’ve fired me either way. I was about to become a mother without a job and a roof above my head. Desperate times call for desperate measures! And on top of that: those jewels were absolutely gorgeous! It’s a shame I didn’t get my hands on them.”

Shadow’s ears fell back, gaze fixed on the ground by now. Even when she didn’t see his eyes, she read his shock from his posture.

“You … didn’t know?”

“Correct. The board clearly left out the pregnancy part when they explained your departure. How despicable.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. Let’s forget about it already.”

“That’s no way to treat a lady!” Amy hissed.

“I never even noticed you were pregnant at the time.”

“Again: not surprised. The Shadow I knew was never the least bit interested in women or anything even slightly related to romance, sex or intimacy. That sure changed.” Rouge shifted her eyes to Amy, who smiled an awkward smile.

“I told you before: don’t interfere.”

“I’m not. Just saying it as it is.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re in a relationship, for crying out loud! Believe you me, I’ve never had an interest in you like that. Though I couldn’t help but wonder who on the planet could ever manage to break down those sky high walls you’ve put up over the years. I haven’t seen you in ages, Shadow. To see this cute pink hedgehog beside you… I’m just surprised you know…”

Amy was unsure whether this was a compliment or if Rouge was belittling her, which was sure to be a mistake. She locked eyes with her lover, who simply shrugged and told her Rouge wasn’t wrong about her being cute.

“I have to admit I’m impressed, Amy. You even got him to defile his oath and break the rules he’s so hang up on to follow.”

“Let’s drop the subject and just keep walking, okay?” Shadow sneered.

While continuing their search, Amy asked about Rouge’s kids. Rouge unravelled they were twins; a boy and a girl who were at the age of 4 now. The bat seemed fine with her questions and so Amy asked everything she liked to know and didn’t hold back. The pregnancy had surprised the now mother of two at the time. Somehow the guy who knocked her up wasn’t around anymore and it was just her and her two little troublemakers, as she called them.

Gradually the atmosphere between the trio got a friendly note to it. Rouge even teased Shadow, setting him on edge by saying he didn’t need to worry about the kids being his. With aggravated frown and deadpanned expression he stated it was an unnecessary thing to say. He could feel her eyes bore into the back of his head and pictured the kind of grimace that surely curled her lips.

They hit a bifurcation from where the tunnel divided into two separate corridors. Rouge drew out the chaos spores in the air to determine which way to go. They looked like a turquoise equivalent of fireflies. They swirled around in the air for a moment and then concentrated on the left corridor. It was the first time Amy witnessed a visible form of chaos energy and she was mesmerised by it.

A self-complacent smile curved the full lips of the bat-woman when she passed by Amy, her curved hips swaying as she did so. She lead the way while following the swarm-like chaos spores. With every step they made into the corridor its’ amount increased like a silent promise they were on the right track. The trio, now filled with curiosity and excitement, picked up the pace and Rouge peeked around the corner. She abruptly came to a stop and gave a muffled cry.

“A dead end?!”

Rouge cursed out loud, addressing the spores like they were a person who’d betrayed her. The three looked up to the bolt of energy whizzing above their heads. Shadow tapped at his cheek with his index finger, clearly brooding over the possibilities.

“Maybe not.”

Shadow stretched out his arms and absorbed the chaos energy from the spores to grasp the hands of the others next. At their touch a blue-greenish luminary flash gushed through them, increasing both their transparency and transcendence. He briefly informed them about his plan to jump through the ceiling, letting their chaos-affected bodily forms break the molecular structure of the rocks apart. The two women strongly disagreed with his plan. Feeling rather confident about this, he decided not to care about their opinions. He simply grabbed one of their arms and jumped up.

“This should work!”

_________________________________________

Summary: Shadow, Amy and Rouge begin their search for the gemstone after Amy thoroughly prepares their adventure with the help of her dear friend Tails. While on the road, Rouge opens up about surprising events from her past. ______________________________ Pffft, this felt more like a puzzle than a story to me. Never have I dragged so many alineas up and down the page to fit everything into place. I also struggled with translations of figure of speach here. One of the downsides of writing in English for me... Even so, when I translated a small part of ch 1 into my native language, it felt both off and odd to me. Also: sorry about the lenght!   - Like always: share your thoughts if you will and send me a not for annoying typo's or grammar mishaps. I'd really appreciate it! <3 - I uploaded this and some other stories/oneshots on AO3 recently. Username's the same as always

@shadamyheadcanons : promised to keep you updated 

[winterisakillerwrites]

Of Truths and Consequences - Part One

One shot: Last Minutes & Lost Evenings 7.1/16

Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)

Genre: Angst

Summary:   They say confession is good for the soul, but at what cost?

Rating: T

Warnings/Author’s Notes:  This is part one  of the seventh part of Last Minutes & Lost Evenings, this series is currently on-going and will flit back and forth between past, present and future.

Previous

‘I’ve been skirting round the rim of doing something

Brave, and not just standing, but jumping in

Of making circles into squares, of laying down

The bare facts like a burden I can’t bear.  

And I can almost find the words, but I can see the way you’d

Fold your hands, speak my name like a curse

Upon your pretty lips, the pressured white behind your fingertips

And when you see me for all that I am

I couldn’t make mistakes to make a difference anymore.

I’d throw myself down on my knees, at your hands,

And beg you for forgiveness for my fuck ups and my faults.

And maybe you’d relent and release some hope for our forever,

Lift up your precious hands, and then bring yours and mind together’

Plain Sailing Weather – Frank Turner

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing; standing there before her closed door. I shouldn’t be here. He’d battled with himself the entire way from his home to her door; he didn’t have any right coming here, talking to her. Not now. Not after all this time.

But he couldn’t get her out of his head. Their chance run in had played through his mind all throughout his meal with Ben and, truthfully, for the majority of the week that had followed.

Ben had cottoned on that something was amiss with his friend almost as soon as Tom had sat down. And he’d wasted little time in questioning him on it. Tom hadn’t had the energy or desire to protest that he was fine or merely tired. He’d had enough of lying; nothing good had ever seemed to come of it. He simply ordered himself a drink and prepared to finally put to words what had been spinning round his mind for the last six months.

As the two men drank, Tom slowly poured his heart out. He told Ben everything; how he’d met Rosemary, the growing attraction he’d tried to fight; to mask as something, anything, else. How long they’d carried out their involvement without speaking of what they were doing or why. The way he’d finally realized he loved her and the fear that that realization had unleashed. How she had finally put words to what he had unconsciously known for the longest time and how that had crystalized his plan to protect her, to push her away for her own good. Just how hard it had been to walk away, how hard the last half a year had been. How he’d fallen into a similar pattern with Natalie, though admittedly with the boundaries he’d lacked before. His guilt and disgust at himself for the way he allowed himself to treat the women he’d pulled into his life. About seeing Rosemary again, learning she had moved on, and how it physically hurt, even though he had known it was a pain of his own making.  

Ben, to his credit, sat and listened to Tom ramble on without saying a word. Tom knew that his silence would not last for long; he could see the questions and disapproval burning in his friend’s eyes. And he knew that he deserved whatever censure Ben would throw at him. And Ben did not disappoint.

“You are an idiot,” The words were even, matter of fact, and hung in the air between them.  “And a selfish one at that.” Tom could only nod his head in response. What else could he say? He’d thought the same thing countless times since that day. But he’d plowed on regardless, so certain in the knowledge that he was right. That what he was doing was right. Of all the arrogant notions…

“I get it, Tom. Really I do,” Ben started once more after it became clear Tom wasn’t going to add anything to the conversation at that juncture. “But you just can’t fly off half-cocked like that. It’s not just your call, mate…What do you think Sophie would have done had I done that to her?” Ben queried, his gaze narrowing at Tom’s shrinking form.

Tom sat silent for several moments before answering, “She would have torn you a new one.” And he could picture it far too well. He liked Ben’s wife; she was more than a match for his friend, bold and self-assured. She wouldn’t have taken Ben deciding something so major without her knowledge nor consent well at all. Hell hath no fury…

Ben laughed in earnest, “Too right she would and I wouldn’t fucking blame her for it.” He sighed, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve really cocked things up, my friend. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

It was Tom’s turn to sigh. It hurt, having his thoughts echoed by someone he trusted to be nothing but honest with him. There was little joy in knowing that he’d been right. He had cocked things up on an epic scale and now he hadn’t the first idea how to fix it or if he even had the right to try. But God, he wanted to. “What do I do?”  He whispered, more to himself than to his friend. “How do I fix this?”

Ben clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Leave it be, Tom. Just leave it be.”

But Tom couldn’t seem to. No matter how he tried to occupy himself his mind would circle back around to Rosemary and the look on her face. He wanted desperately to make it right; to let her know that the problem was never her. It was him, always him. He couldn’t shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, if he could explain then it would bring some infinitesimal amount of closure for her and maybe for him as well. And then maybe…

As he stood before her door, hand raised he wondered again if this was the right thing to do. He ached desperately to see her, to tell her how sorry he was. To tell her that he loved her, both then and now, even though he knew it would make little difference. He had lost her and he doubted anything would change that. But she deserved to know. Didn’t she?

His knuckles wrapped against the painted wood of the door. He stiffened slightly as he heard her voice, muffled and indistinct but decidedly hers. Panic gripped him. God, this wasn’t a good idea. He inhaled sharply as the door opened.

Surprise merged into confusion then concern in the depths of Rosemary’s hazel eyes. She stood, staring at him her arms crossed protectively against her chest. “What…Tom, what are you doing here?”

He swallowed against the panic that rose inside him. “I just…Can we talk?”

Rosemary blinked in confusion before gathering herself enough to ask, “About what?” She hadn’t moved her arms nor stepped aside to allow him entry. He would have been surprised if she had. God knows I would slam the damned door in my fucking face.

“About what happened between us.” She flinched at his words and it tore his heart. He had to fix this. To try to make it right. He owed her that much.  “Please, just let me say my peace and I will go. Please.”

Her eyes narrowed and he could see the warring indecision in her eyes. And in that moment he wanted desperately to hold her; to soothe her. But that wasn’t his place. How was he supposed to provide comfort when he was the one who had caused the pain in the first place? Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. God, he just didn’t know.

Several painfully silent minutes passed before she stepped aside. Torn between gratitude that she hadn’t slammed the door in his face and sheer terror at the enormity of what he wanted to confess, what he needed to confess, Tom stood frozen. Could he really do this? Did he have the right to do this now? To drag every back up again? Would she understand why? Would she hate him for it? The all too familiar doubts and uncertainties plagued him. He wanted to run. God, he wanted to run. But it was far, far too late for that now.  

Steadying himself, Tom walked past Rosemary and into the flat. He heard her follow and close the door. His eyes wandered over the tiny living room, taking in every small detail. It looked the same. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. So much had changed, but this tiny part had remained the same. Memories threatened to overwhelm him. So many small, happy moments had happened here. He sobered almost at once. All of those memories had been overshadowed by his own fear and stubborn need to protect her. He froze once more.

He heard her clear her throat behind him. “You wanted to talk…So talk.” Her voice was steady, far steadier than his was sure to be. He swallowed again before curling his hands into fists and forcing himself to turn around and face her.

The words didn’t seem to want to come; not at first. He started and stumbled to a stop for what felt like ages until finally, finally, they tumbled out. How he had lied to her, how much she had meant, still meant, to him. Why he’d done it. How dreadfully sorry he was for the pain he knew he’d caused her.

He watched her face as he spoke. Wanting, hoping for some sign of her thoughts on her face. But she stood, her face empty, lips drawn together in a tight line.

“I don’t understand,” Rosemary uttered after several moments of silence had passed. Her eyes locked on his; confusion, hurt, and disbelief shining in their depths.

Tom ducked his head, unable to hold her gaze. Hating himself for the pain he caused her. That he kept causing her. “I didn’t mean it. What I said to you that day,” he started, slowly raising his head. “I love you. God, I love you. But I’m not good for you. My life isn’t good for you. It would have torn you apart and I couldn’t have that. I’m sorry. Oh Rosie, I’m so sorry.” The words poured out of him, he couldn’t have stopped them if he tried.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed.

He flinched at her words; at the anguish in her tone. I did this. My fault. He wanted to pull her to him; to hold her, to comfort her. But he hadn’t the right. He’d thrown it away that day and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to earn it back.

Her eyes narrowed, anger swirling brightly. “What gave you the right?”

The words hit him like a physical blow. He stared at her in disbelief, confusion and pain coloring his features. “What?” he breathed.

“I said,” she began again, taking a breath, her voice cool and steady. “What gave you the right?” Her eyes were burning into his. “How dare you decide what I can or can’t handle? How dare you treat me like a fucking child who doesn’t know their own mind? How fucking DARE you.”

He stood, frozen. He didn’t know what he could say in answer. She was right. Of course she was right. He’d acted out of concern, misguided as it was, but he hadn’t stopped to consider what she wanted. What she felt. He’d decided, in all his arrogant glory that he knew what was best for her. For them both. He was stupid and cowardly and so utterly selfish.

“I am so sorry,” he started again, knowing the words were far too little and far, far too late. “I was selfish and careless and I know it doesn’t fix anything. That this doesn’t change anything. But I am so desperately sorry.” He could feel his eyes burning, the tears threatening to overwhelm him.

She stood there, arms crossed protectively across her chest. She didn’t speak but he could feel the rage of emotion pouring off her. He kept doing this. Kept hurting her. He shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have confessed. Here he was, once again, selfishly putting his need to confess, to explain, above all else. Guilt flooded through him. God, why didn’t he ever fucking learn?

“I think you should leave.”

The tears did spill then.

He nodded silently. She had every right to tell him to leave; he couldn’t blame her for wanting him to. He had gone and done the exact same thing to her again. He had allowed himself to unload his guilt onto her to ease his own conscious.

“Goodbye, Rosie.”

Next

[asktemmie-frisk]

The Transcendent Temmie (aka Final Frisk) (ゴッドモードアーク (Goddomodoaku) (God-mode Arc)

As Talrok flew into the mountain feeling triumphant in his mission, Rhonda's body ended up fading away into energy, which followed Talrok into the mountain. He laughed maniacally as he thoroughly enjoyed the image in his head: billions of humans being turned into monsters, each of them encased in their own soul power in order to initiate the metamorphosis. Then his voice boomed outward to every last human in the world. "Now, awaken my precious amalgamations of man and monster, and take over this planet!" He commanded. "Change every last human into monsters! Let no one remain human, no matter the cost, for they are guilty of all crimes against monsterkind AND their homeworld, and they will ALL pay for their tresspasses in blood and dust!" He let out a crazed guffaw as the amalgamates covered the CORE entirely. Then the entire mountain glowed white. "HUMANITY ENDS TODAY! ANYONE WHO OPPOSES ME WILL BE DESTROYED!" He cackled as he lost even more sanity and humanity. Then the humans that came to Frisk and Chara's aid got their souls taken out of their bodies. The souls ended up bathing their respective owners with their power and cocooned them all. The humans desperately tried to force a way out, but to no avail. All the humans in the world followed suit. The transformation of humans into monsters was beginning to go in full swing. Chara looked at them all, shedding tears angrily. "We're too late. I'm sorry, everyone. We failed." She softly cried. Asriel hung his head for a couple of seconds, then quickly perked up as an idea came to him. "Chara, Frisk, I know how to stop him!" He declared, grabbing Chara and Frisk's attention. Frisk stopped banging on the barrier and ran to Asriel. "Really? We can still stop him?" Chara asked, perking up a little. "Yeah. Now he may have become a god, but we still have a way to beat him; one of us has to ascend to his power level." "What? How would we...even..." Frisk realized why Asriel was saying that. "Oh! Asriel, I need my soul; I can't just kill myself so you c-" "NOT ME. YOU." All the monsters gasped at the notion. Frisk was taken aback at the idea. "What? How? We don't have any human souls at our disposal." "Correction: YOU DIDN'T have any to use. I do. And I want you to take them. All of them." Frisk became lightheaded at the idea now. He was in shock. He never absorbed a soul before, and he didn't know how to. "But Asriel, I don't even know how to absorb a monster soul. Let alone a human one. Even if I did take them, I don't think I'd be a match for him. I don't even know whether those six would be enough!" Everyone, especially Chara, had an epiphany as the humans that were being changed levitated into the sky quickly. "Well, in that case...take mine, too." Asriel said, ready to go all the way. Frisk's friends and family stepped forward to him. "Asriel...oh, my God." "Frisk, you have my permission to take mine as well." Asgore said kneeling to Frisk. "And mine. You may do as you wish with it at this point." Said Toriel, doing the same. "Hey, bro. You need extra firepower? Look no further." Sans said, pointing his thumb to himself. "That's right, brother! I, the great Papyrus, will gladly lend my power to you!" Papyrus said, bowing to his family. Alphys, Undyne and Mettaton made their offering to Frisk as well. "Take that bastard out! Let your true power shine, Frisk!" Mettaton said, holding his arms out to offer his soul. All the monsters from Mount Ebott stampeded to Frisk's location. Frisk was shocked at what was happening. His people were offering their own souls to help him out. "Hey, Frisky Dingo! Take me, and I'll help you rip him a new one!" Said Undyne. "I can help! Just let me, and you won't regret it this time!" Said Alphys. All the monsters learned of what was happening, and they all offered themselves to Frisk. Chara stepped forward. "Frisk. It's time. Take my soul, and save this world, partner." Chara said tearfully. She kissed his hand and gave him a little space. As the monsters kept clamoring, Frisk finally spoke. "ALRIGHT! Alright! I'll go. Just give me a moment." "Hold your hands out to mine, Frisk." Requested Asriel. Frisk did as he said, and Asriel transferred the six human souls to Frisk. Then Frisk doubled over. He strained in pain as the power of six human souls flooded his entire being, empowering him enough to feel invincible. As Frisk caught his breath, he stood back up. "Wow! I feel...AMAZING! I'VE NEVER FELT SO ALIVE! I feel the power! This is awesome!" "I know. Now take our souls, and we'll help you kill Talrok." "Really?" "COME ON, LITTLE BUDDY! YOU CAN DO THIS ONE!" Shouted Burgerpants from afar. All the other monsters cheered Frisk on. "That's right. The fate of the universe rests in your hands now, Frisk. Help us take care of it." Begged Asriel. "Got it." A rainbow, flame-like aura surrounded Frisk entirely before his soul exited his body. "Before I do this, I need to know one last time! Are you absolutely sure I have permission to take your souls?!" He asked. "YES!" Everyone yelled. "Well, in that case..." Frisk's soul opened up entirely, and it showed what it can really do. "ALL OF YOUR SOULS ARE MINE!!" Frisk declared as his soul started sucking in everyone. All the monsters that were trapped in the mountain were being absorbed by Frisk and his soul. Even Chara was being completely absorbed. His body started emiting such a radiant light that it bathed the entire area in white. Then suddenly, the light stopped shining abruptly. Frisk was much taller. His dog ears were hanging downward, going past his shoulder blades. Frisk smiled while hanging his head down menacingly. "Finally." He said calmly. "I was so tired of never living up to my true potential." He tilted his head up slowly and opened his eyes. He had become a god with the help of all of his people. "Hey, where is everybody?" "We're in here, Frisk!" Said a voice in his mind. He traced the source to his soul, and he followed it enough to see everyone was inside him. He saw his people in a dark void with an invisible floor. "Whoa. This is my soul?" Frisk looked around, seeing all black initially. Then a soft hue of red showed itself around the area. "Yeah. This is what your soul really looks like, I guess." Chara said as the environment gradually changed color from red to cyan. "If you ask me, it looks too big." Asriel said, astonished at what he was seeing. "I don't know what made me think I should've ever tried to take your soul." "I still can't believe I actually absorbed all of you." Said Frisk. "So, what happens now? Besides the obvious, of course." "Well, as of now, all of us can lay claim to control your body." Replied Chara. "As a soul fusion, as long as we're inside you, we ARE you, and you're us now." "So that's why I can talk to you guys." "That's right. Right now, all of us can hear everything that you say, see everything that you see. Right now, you and I are closer than ever, Frisk. You and I are one." Frisk blushed a little and gave a modest, shy smile. "Oh, and after this is all said and done, I wanna go on a date with you." The Dreemurrs all felt a small twinge of surprise when Chara said those words. Frisk hesitated at first, but he voiced his thoughts. "Really? You wanna go out with me?" "Yep. Look at you with your strong, firm arms. Wasted on the others, you are." Chara and Frisk started a flirt fight, and Asriel could sense what Frisk and Chara were thinking of doing. "Well, I have been. Hundreds of times." Frisk said, holding Chara close to him as she returned the embrace. "You know, we could make this count right now, you know? Make you a man, make me a woman. We could do it right now, and nothing bad would happen." "They might peek." "I might let them." Frisk and Chara grinned deviously before Asriel interrupted the moment. "Excuse me, Fri-" "TALKING TO MY GIRLFRIEND!!" Asriel immediately shut up at how fast Frisk snapped. The quote echoed loudly within the confines of Frisk's soul. "What Asriel meant was we need to stop Talrok, remember?" Toriel said, trying to hide the ever-so-slight arousal Frisk and Chara accidentally transferred to everyone. "Oh, yeah. Alright, let's go." He said, getting his head back in the game. "I'm serious. After this, let's you and I go on a date." Reminded Chara. "To be honest, there's nothing I'd like more than to spend time with you. But for now, Talrok's going down!" After Frisk said those words, he came back to the real world. Before he could do anything, Asriel and Chara grabbed his shoulders by the soul. "Let us do it this time." Said Chara. "Chara-" "We're inside you right now, Frisk. You can trust us now. We'll let you live. We promise. Just let us take control, and we'll take it from here." "Chara..." "Bro, time to let us have a go at him." Said Sans. "You've been on your own too long. Time to let us help you out this time." Frisk took a deep breath and stepped out of control over his body. Frisk's friends and family stepped up to control. "Okay. Who wants to go first?" "I will." Said Asriel. Then he directed Frisk's body like a puppet. "Are you there, Talrok?" Asriel said through Frisk's body. "It's me, your protegé. FRISK KAMINA YASUHIRO!!" Everyone flew through Talrok's barrier so fast, it shattered to pieces as Frisk's soul absorbed the magic from it. The final battle for the world was beginning. Soon the fate of everything that existed then, and will exist in the future, would be decided by a boy and his people, or a madman and his cronies and victims.