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firefly--bright · 3 months

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blooming hearts.

jean kirstein x reader, reincarnation a.u.

chapter two - germination.

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The universe had taken a special liking to your case – something akin to a cruel author or a puppet master that decided strings to your fate despite your opinion or permission. You had to play the role that was fitting to the narration given to you, and the story started like this – two starstruck lovers, carved out of the same stone, shaped from the same dust, shaped into something that could be called beautiful.

The universe – you’d given it the power to, in all fairness – had twisted and turned your strings, playing them until they were frayed and fragile. And you're reminded about how much everything hurts after a particularly hard dream. You woke up in a sweaty panic, feeling the remnants of pain blooming over the side of your stomach and taking root till your chest and the end of your thighs. And then the tears rolled in with an even stronger tremor as the voice – its always his voice that makes you cry like this, hunched over and clutching yourself to provide comfort that will never come until the morning does - whispering in your ear, telling you something, giving you an answer which disguises itself as a plea, telling you to hold on. His voice is the only thing you hear which you consider a good thing because youd do anything but sit with your own thoughts. His voice is more welcome to you than your own, even if it’s usually honeyed tones are filled with despair and tears.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he repeats. Your eyes are blurry and even if you could remember his face, you think, you wouldn’t want to because you know it’ll only bring you more pain. You try to get your fingers to reach out and hold his cheek like it’s done countless times, but theyre numb to the point where you cant even tell if theyre there or not.

His voice ceases as he sniffles, and you feel a tear rest on your cheek. “no, we’re – I was going to take you to my mom’s house, you’re- you’re here, yeah? Im here, youre here, we’re okay.” He says, and you want to nod to tell him that you are and that he is and that you will accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asks you to. But you don’t realise that the end of the earth is here and now, and this dizzying vision of the person infront of you thinks that despite the world ending superficially with the ground rumbling and fiery titans charging towards it, his world has already ended. Your eyes are closed and youre bleeding so much and the world is ending in both regards.

You slept. The world ended.

There are people calling out for him. Connie’s voice is panicked and hoarse, calling out his name. it falls deafly on jean’s ears as he catches your eyebrows furrowed in pain and he wishes he could take it away from you, and your skin is so pale now and he feels himself shaking and hears you take in shallow breaths, trying to hold on. You’ve been brave, he thinks, and asking you to hold on is the most selfish act he’s committed.

he kisses the tip of your nose, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. He cant bring himself to smile but he wants your last sight to be of him smiling – of how you’d always made him be. So he does, a little, and then he sees you smile too and the world is ending and he cannot do anything but tell it – tell you – “I love you. Goodnight, poppy.”

The strings of his being were frayed and fragile. Jean wondered if it would stay as such in whatever other life there would be. If sasha’s theories on birth and rebirth were true, then jean prayed and hoped and held on to his strings till his dying breath. Held on to the hope that you’d meet in another time, another universe, another world and would mend his strings just like you had done in this one.

And this was how it was going in the other one – two star struck lovers, their names etched on the same paper with the same ink, bled into something that could be called beautiful. It could. It would.

It had to.

Jean’s hopes were wearing thin, however, as his eyes stuck to the door Infront of him, observing the time on his phone that was ticking a little too fast. You were over fifteen minutes late to your weekly visit to the shop. He sighed, his eyes travelling from the glass doors to his phone to the daffodils he had saved for you on the counter.

Man, was he pathetic.

No he isn’t, he reasons with himself. He has good reason to be this eager to see you. Not only did he have something to give you, his shift also ended in fifteen minutes which was a fact that you knew about, after which he had plans to go to a café with Marco, Connie and Sasha that the former had been begging them to visit for a week now.

Checking his clock again – its been seventeen minutes now – he stares at the daffodils again, sighing. The petals are fresh and sprayed with water, the afternoon sun lighting them beautifully. Jean observes, reaching out to hold them, their stems perfectly cut and brightly green.

the flower on the field stands the test of time. He’s been observing it for the past ten minutes, glancing at it from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know the name of it, just that it’s coloured red and has paper-thin petals that made filter the sunlight as it reflects on them.

“I’m here to devote myself to the cause of humankind, sir!”

Jeans eyes follow the guy. He looks like he’s going to piss himself under the watchful and quiet frankly terrifying gaze of Keith Shadis.

Poor guy, jean thinks to himself, glancing back at the flower, sighing. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he was made to stand here, lined up with kids around his age wearing the same uniform which in his opinion was counterintuitive considering the agonizing heat. Looking up from the plant, he noticed someone doing the same as him; staring holes into the flower, watching it as it moved slightly with a hot breeze. They were three people away from him, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find them pretty. Jean averted his gaze back in front of him when he saw Shadis walking down the row, asking the person jean was previously ogling, “cadet! Get your head out of your ass!”

Jean tried not to smile at his wording, and how you seemed to be shaking slightly.

Your shoulders straightened immediately, saluting as you spoke, “yes sir!”

“introduce yourself!”

Jean was only half listening, his eyes going back to the plant, wondering how it withstood the test of the blazing hot sun and the dry ground. He remembered his mother telling him something about how different types of plants required different types of soils when he was a kid, and he wondered if this flower needed less than the others. It was remarkable, he thought, how the flower grew beautifully conditions that jean wouldn’t expect it to tolerate.

Jean regained his senses and snapped himself out of his thoughts just before Shadis finished talking to the boy next to him. The man stood in front of jean and in an instant, he regretted every judgement he held towards the others as he towered before him. Jean was incredibly aware about how he held himself, noting how the sweat he didn’t bother to wipe was now dripping slowly from his temple to his cheek, how his shoulders weren’t squared and how acutely incorrect his stance was and he suddenly understood everyone that introduced themselves before him.

Jean saluted, closing his eyes and introducing himself loudly. “I’m jean Kirstein from Trost district, sir!”

“why the hell are you here?!”

Jean paused, thinking of his wording before responding. “i.. want to join the military police brigade and reside in the inner district, sir!” he could feel people looking at him as his hands started sweating. “I see. So you want to live in the inner district?”

“yes, sir!” he answered. His best bet was to be honest as he had always been. He was determined to not let his inner panic show on his demeanor, holding himself straight and not breaking eye contact with him. Before he could register it, however, he was knocked down with a searing pain in his skull. The man had headbutted him. Jean kneeled down on the ground with his hands clutching his head in vain efforts to stop the buildings of a headache.

“who gave you the permission to sit?! If you cant handle that, you’ll never make it into the military police brigade!” his voice booms, worsening jean’s pain.

Eventually, the pain faded just as Shadis’ footsteps did, moving onto his next victim. Jean stood carefully with the help of some kid next to him who either had an absurd amount of freckles, or jean was seeing things. He nodded to him as a thank you, wiping his hands on his trousers as he felt another pair of eyes on him, observing his moves. He eyes scanned his surroundings, bending forward a bit just to catch the glimpse of your eyes.

You gave him an apologetic smile with a thumbs up as if you knew each other. Jean was sure he didn’t know you, and he scowled with a nod before he leaned backwards again. Whatever was this kid’s problem?

Looking back, jean would’ve changed a lot about his story if he had the power to, but ironically, he wouldn’t change the first time he met eyes with them. He remembered how, later, they told him that the flowers he was glancing at were called poppies.

He sighed again, blinking himself back to reality, trying not to think about them. Of course, the universe had other plans because all his mind plagued him with were visions of them – a faceless, blurry vision with a distorted but warm voice who he knew he was supposed to love because of how often his mind went back to them. It has to be muscle memory, he thinks, because he’s pulled into these visions when he’s near something specific – the most prominent one being the one he just saw. With how much he surrounded himself with flowers, he expected it. Selfishly, in the beginning, he welcomed it.

He relished in the feeling that spread through his bones after he saw them again even if it was the heavily watered-down version of them and he also admitted that selfishly, he went as far as to stay back after closing time just to bask in it, in everything that seemingly made his mind remind him of this stranger.

But after he met you, he started to regret it.

Man, he was selfish. Pathetic and selfish. But could he blame himself, really? He assumed they’d present themselves as time went on, as he met more and more people who were like him. Hell, he’d even met Moblit Berner, and though he couldn’t remember much about him, he did feel the soft recognition the man held towards him from behind the library desk. And as the years without them went on, his hopes dwindled. Maybe they’d found someone new, maybe they had no interest in strange dreams and their meanings.

Jesus, the more he thought about it, the worse it made him feel. He’d thought about quitting his job just so he could get away from his mind’s assault. But then that would mean he wouldn’t get to see you, which made him feel even worse.

He glared at the door, pleading internally for you to arrive and open the doors, presenting yourself like an angel, make him momentarily forget about his inner questionings. He turned his phone on again, glancing at the time. Twenty-one minutes since when you’d usually be here, nine minutes until he clocked out.

Jean sighed again.

You sighed again.

Levi Ackerman and his damned tea shop, you thought, glaring at the ticking clock on the counter. In all honesty, this could have been easily preventable by coming up with a clever excuse to him, but you couldn’t meet your eyes to him while also having to spill out a half-baked lie about why you couldn’t cover a shift. You were just forgetful enough to not think about flower boy and how this shift would inconveniently fall on the same day and time that you would usually visit him. Besides, it was Isabel who had pleaded you to cover her shift, telling you she had an ‘important thing to attend to’, something you suspected to be a date with a girl in her class who she would describe in vivid, picturesque detail to you, who just so happened to finally ask her out on a proper date last week.

You sighed again. Yes, this was your fault. Yes, you wouldn’t have said no even if you hadn’t forgotten about visiting flower boy.

You laugh nervously, shaking your head. “nope. Just bored.”

Levi cleared his throat from behind you, wiping up an already clean mug. You turned around with an apologetic smile.

“you expecting someone?” he asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

His eyes narrow further, and you try not to shrink under his gaze. “I’ve known you for half a lifetime, kid, you can’t lie to me.”

Shaking your head vigorously, “really, I’m not. I just… had to cancel plans to cover the shift.” After a brief pause, you continue with panic. “not that I wouldn’t! i was just thinking about, you know, if-“

Levi shakes his head dismissively. “just pay attention. Don’t need another angry customer.” He says, turning around and working on the next order, reading off of the cup with a scowl. He had very specific and pretentious tastes, often silently judging customers for their complicated orders. Youd be caught dead voicing that, though. You turned back around, facing the door, waiting for customers to walk into the store, observing if anyone sitting down at one of the tables needed anything.

From your carefully gathered perception towards the universe and its twisted, confusing strings, you had to be told a name to remember faces from your… past life? At least, that’s how your ex-captain had explained to you after you had almost fainted while giving your interview for the café.

you remember it without any hinderance.

you had come across the café countless of times; it being one of the best ones in campus with an affordable array of caffeinated beverages, you came across the open position for a barista, a piece of neon orange paper stuck on the front of the store against the glass. You dressed for the part, walking into the shop with a wavering confidence and a deep breath to calm your nerves.

It was Isabel who had greeted you with a bright smile. You had smiled back, told her you were here for the open position, and her eyes and smile widened with excitement, nodding and calling out levi’s name.

only, you knew that name.

you didn’t know how, considering the fact that you’d never seen him work the front of the house in the month you’d visited this store, but it felt familiar in the sense that you had heard yourself call his name out in determination. You could hear your own voice laced with anticipation and a deep, settling dread and had to touch your heart to get it to stop beating so much.

noticing your now pale features and a look of far-away wonderment that Isabel herself had felt, she led you to the back of the shop with a gentle arm around your shoulders. You’d been apologetic, telling her you didn’t know where this was coming from and trying to remember if you had had enough water before entering, if you had eaten something new the past week, only to come up blank, the only thing your mind kept picturing was those god-awful creatures, along with a feeling of hope that had been long snuffed out, only to be kept lit over and over again. You remembered thinking that you had somehow simultaneously never felt this feeling before – unwavering hope accompanied with the dread that came before her – but also felt like you had always felt it.

The next thing you knew, you were sitting in front of Levi himself, and Isabel pushed a glass of water towards you with a kind smile, and you remembered introducing yourself to him. You remembered how he’d then closed his eyes, and his shoulders relaxed. He opened his eyes and looked at you warmly and with a familiarity that shook you.

“why are you up so late, kid?” his voice called out, startling you. your failed attempt at sneaking around to find some warm milk to calm your nerves enough to fall asleep now came into light as Captain Levi and his stone cold gaze scrutinized you from head to toe in your striped, scouts-issued pajamas, looking up from a pile of paperwork in front of him, organized in neat sections on the table. You inhaled with widened eyes, finding your wording to explain yourself, only to mumble out a weak, “couldn’t sleep.” With a shrug.

You swore you didn’t know him but it felt like you did. Before you could think too much about it, he held his hand out for a professional handshake, only that the words that followed weren’t as professional. “Levi Ackerman. Welcome back, kid.” And then almost everything just made sense.

He all but nods, turning back to his work without another word.

his eyebrows lifted just a bit, wordlessly asking you to explain more. You cleared your throat, now aware of how disgruntled your appearance must’ve looked with mussed hair and crumpled clothes and bleary eyes that blinked slowly – wanting to catch some rest but being unable to.

“just wanted to make some warm milk so I could sleep.”

You scurry past him and rummage through the cabinets to find a mug. This cabin was a new change in scenery to you and the rest of the squad, and you still found yourself being confused at where the bathrooms were. As you heated up your milk on the stove, you turned around, leaning your back on the counter, observing the captain and his workspace – hunched over, squinting at the text, his right hand holding a pen that hovered atop the parchment. A cup of tea in front of him, going untouched, and if there was anything you knew about your captain, it was that he drank tea while it was still hot, refusing to let it sit out for more than a minute at a time.

You cleared your throat again, catching the man’s attention. “would you like another cup of tea, captain?” you asked.

There was a pause for a moment, and you observed Captain Levi as he blinked and looked not at you, but as if you weren’t even there. You glanced at the table and then up at him again, “captain?” you asked, enough to snap him out of whatever he was thinking about.

he inhaled, sitting up a little straighter than he was before, nodding, his hand motioning you towards him cup.

you blinked away the tears that threatened to claim your eyes, opting to push captain’s cup towards him with a small smile. He threw you a glance, nodding in thanks. You turned around to wash the dishes that you were sure he’d reprimand you to not keep in the sink overnight, missing the way the captain’s shoulders relaxed and eyes softened after he tasted your tea.

There was comfort in the silence and warmth that spread throughout the small kitchen as the stove crackled softly, and you removed the milk from the stove, pouring it into your mug, sipping slowly as you watched the water to boil. You searched for a jar of cardamom that you had found in the supplies Section Commander Hange had snuck into the cabin, cracking it open and adding it into the tea sieve along with the leaves. You let the leaves bloom into the water before adding a splash of milk that you had saved from your cup. It was an all-too-familiar task that brought you back to your childhood with living in the inner corner of Shinganshina. You were rarely home, often going to your aunt’s place in Jinae, but whenever you came back, your father would tell you to make him tea as he worked. It became a routine, and you’d often add something extra on special occasions or if he looked rather stressed.

you were in Jinae when the titans first entered, safe and sound and far away from your family. You got wind of the news through rushed whispers and loud men that either complained about the military or rejoiced in the fact that they resided in the safer parts in the walls.

The same expression that you didn’t fail to miss as you shook his hand feverishly. You smiled back at him, relief sitting on your shoulders, finally feeling a little less alone. Captain Levi – although he told you not to call him that – filled in the gaps for you over a cup of tea, the taste of which you recognized instantly to be your own, told you how this…situation worked. He didn’t understand much of it himself, he informed, but how him and his partner decided to view it instead as some sort of reincarnation, the kind that was adjacent to the ones the religions preached about, just more of an obvious interpretations. The dreams you had were moments you had seen and lived through in your past life – the creatures, he told you, were called titans. The only way you could properly remember every detail and access all of your memories with the proper faces and remember their laughter clearly was after you’d heard their name in full.

It took you a long time to get your head wrapped around this whole idea of there being a past life and you being a part of that world just as much as you wished to be a part of this one. It all left you feeling infinitely more out of place, more than you had felt before and you wondered if the people that you kept dreaming about still wanted to know your name. if their curiosity grew larger by the day or if they were sick of not knowing you or if they were sick of the exact opposite.

Selfishly, you also thought about flower boy. You thought about him not telling you his name, you thought about him hiding it from you specifically so that he wouldn’t have to hear yours, but those were only silly musings you shook away before you could think too much about them. It was just like the universe to do something so beautiful yet turn it into a puzzle, into yet another equation for you to solve.

Who knew if these other people that you used to be so fond of would even want to meet you? Or if you’d be friends without the context of this cosmic contract, if they’d find you enjoyable without them feeling indebted to owing you a friendship just because you were close in some other life under wildly different circumstances.

And why was it, then, that when you repeated your own name in front of the mirror that night, you couldn’t recognize the person you used to be? The person you supposedly were? The one that was loved and knew how to love tenfold? Why was it that even knowing your own name and saying it made you feel only more alien to yourself? It felt like a joke. You were given the answers now, but not the satisfaction that should’ve easily come with it.

You sighed again, a sound that was caught by Furlan, who turned towards you after having just stepped behind the counter, taking Levi’s place. “what’s up?” he asked, tying his apron around his waist.

“nothing, I forgot I had to meet…someone today, and then I took up the shift and now im kind of sort of regretting it,” you said, whispering the last part. Even if Levi wasn’t within earshot from what you could tell, you didn’t want to take the risk. It was stupid and silly of you to still be a little intimidated by him, considering everything, but it was a thing that hadn’t changed. Hell, you embraced it. It meant you were doing something right, feeling the same way you had been feeling across another life.

Furlan smirks knowingly, “oh, flower boy?” he asks.

You shrug, rolling your eyes, turning your back towards him to hide your lie. “no,”

You could hear his smile through his hum even with your back facing him. The shop was pretty empty, which allowed you to simply just be for a few moments without having to professionally interact with customers. You leaned on the counter, glancing at the small vase placed next to you, filled with an arrangement of flowers – baby’s breaths accompanied with orchids coloured brilliantly purple as if the earth was saying something important. Some leaves spilled from the edges of the vase and your finger gently pinched one of them between your index and thumb, feeling its veins under your touch.

“be careful out there,” he says, speaking your name with a smirk on his face. “don’t wanna get distracted by my charms.”

You elbowed him in his ribs, wiping that smile off his face. “sure. As long as youre careful too. Don’t wanna die before me, do you, flower boy?” you said, smiling at him with the same soft teasing he had held before.

He kept his promise, as did you. You walked with him and another stranger you couldn’t quiet place, talking about how this war was far from over and had even more complications than before, but all you could think about was that you’d fight any battle as long as it was for them – your friends. When the other one went silent, and when the weight of his words deemed too heavy,, you spoke up again. “how’s your head?”

He touched his bandaged forehead, smiling softly, “feeling better. How are your ribs?”

You shrugged, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “perfectly fine.” You lied, not wanting to worry the two of them. Turning to him, however, you asked your question softer than before. “how’s your arm?”

He seemed to study your face before answering. “why? Wanna hold it?”

You could hear your other friend sigh in disbelief. “you’ll never change, huh?” you ask, shaking your head softly, your eyes never leaving his.

He shrugged. “and you wouldn’t want me to, poppy.”

And you remember thinking how yes, you wouldn’t want him to, but you’d also love him if he did. If he became someone unrecognizable, you’d be able to hold his hand and trace every little wrinkle on them without even having to open your eyes, and you’d be able to find yourself through them. Youd be able to find the world and by extension, your love, through them, and then close his fist with your heart still in it.

But you don’t say any of that. You simply shake your head and mutter out a “whatever,” as the three of you continue walking, all bruised and scarred with proof of what was and what will be.

And then, in a flash, you remember the first time he called you that nickname. In the packed dining hall that would become like home to you in the next few months, the one that smelled of old wood and warm but flavourless soup. You had sit opposite from him, and after his eyes flashed recognition, he leaned in a little bit closer to you for his voice to reach across the table with all the commotion around you.

“youre the one that was staring at that plant, right?” he asked with a smirk, ready to call you an insult, but all of that dissipated when you leaned in a little too, smiling before giving him an answer. “yeah. Theyre called poppies, by the way. I saw you looking at them too,” you said with an unwavering brightness in your eye, excited to finally be able to talk to someone about all the things you had learnt during your stays with your aunt. He nods slowly, leaning back a little again, as you tell him what soil poppies need to grow, what weather was a perfect condition for them, and after you were done with your ramble, he leaned back in again.

“you’re kinda nerdy about this,” he remarks. You don’t take offense and jean thinks about how the kids in trost would laugh at him not being as discreet as they thought they were being for the things jean liked to do, and everything he ever had – every hobby, every inkling of talent or care towards his family or open affection – was knocked down before it had the chance to be built. But yours was already towering with no intentions of coming down. you just nod with the same smile.

“its an interesting topic, flower boy.”

His face turns red almost immediately, as red as the poppies from that morning. “never said it wasn’t.” he mumbles, his hand in his cheek as he glances down at his food. “whats your name?”

“were you not paying attention during introductions?”

“in case you forgot, I was looking at those damned flowers too.”

“so you’re also kinda nerdy about this.” You said matter-of-factly. He scoffed. “no. you don’t even know me.”

“well, whats your name, then?” you ask, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes with an unserious smile.

“im not just gonna give it to you. Whats your name?”

You breathe out a laugh. “what makes you think im gonna give mine to you, then? You get what you give.”

“so you’re just going to call me flower boy?”

You shrug. “at least I have something to call you.”

“I have something to call you too.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest, his face scrunched up. You were enjoying this and he hated it.

“hm? Like what?”

There was a pause. He blinked as he watched your smile grow the more the silence stretched. His mind grasped the one thing that made sense to him. “poppy.”

That seemed to get you. You looked at him, surprised with your brows slightly raised and lips slightly parted, nodding slowly. “good. So that’s what we’ll call eachother.”

He shifted in his seat, looking at anywhere but you. “whatever.”

You took that as a win.

The bell chimes, alerting you of new customers entering the store. You stand up straight, plastering a polite smile on your face as you waited for them to decide what they wanted. From what you could tell, they were a group of friends – talking casually with one another.

“im telling you guys, this place is amazing.” The one in the front said, turning behind himself before turning back to you. He flashed you an apologetic smile for the noise that he carried with him. Two people behind him were talking amongst themselves, seemingly unaware of the public space. One of them donned an orange knitted beanie, folded on the bottom while the other had her hair in a ponytail with long bangs framing her face, wearing a short yellow sweater coupled with a white skirt. There was another one behind them, but they were looking down which made it difficult to view their face.

“oh my god they have tea cakes-“ the one with the ponytail said.

“of course they have tea cakes, this is a tea shop.” Orange beanie answered with his eyes glued to the large menu behind you.

“jelly… isn’t jasmine a flower? How is it a tea?”

“maybe they do it like they make wine.”

“well how do they make wine?” after which there was a pause.

The one in front – with freckles dotted on his face – leaned in a little, “im so sorry, we’ll need a minute.” You shook your head with the same smile, finding amusement in their back and forth. “it alright,”

“they don’t step on jasmine petals to make tea, guys.”

The one that was behind all of them answered, still not looking up. He was looking at his phone, you noted with a glance at him. his voice sounded a little familiar, but with the dull chatter around you through the store, you couldn’t be certain. you nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you. “jasmine tea is made from dried jasmine flower. We infuse the tea leaves with them while brewing,” you note with a smile.

The one with the ponytail looks at you, her head whipping around at the sound of your voice. She steps a little closer, “that’s insane-“

“so you’re saying, technically, tea is like weed?” orange beanie asks, his eyes wide.

You nod. “yep. Technically.” You say, your smile widening at his expression. Freckles breathes out a laugh. The one at the back finally lifts his head up.

Oh.

So you’d end up seeing him today anyway. The universe was strange.

His eyes met yours and time stopped, if only for a bit, if only until the other three talked amongst themselves to discuss what they wanted. A small smile graced his features, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he bowed his head a little, telling you an answer you already knew – he saw you.

You shook your head, your smile turning softer, more genuine.

“so, what would you guys like to order?”

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primordyalsoul · 11 months

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howl, the cat, peeking in for snacks ? does she have more snacks ? it's been a year since he's last visited but does she have some more snacks ?

@swynfyr || a familiar face . . .

Her footsteps are gentle upon the pavement, as silent as snow and just as fleeting, the red depths of her gaze now shallow, vacant, taking heed not of the identical buildings, identical streets, blurring into a grey mass, barely squinting in the unrelenting sun that beat upon her nape, scalding. How many times now had she walked this path ? How many weeks had passed indistinguishable from the last, days, minutes, whittling down to naught that could sustain the infinite within, who, hungry for more, ate at its own tail over and over till body and soul was numb ?

She turns the corner in a wisp of blue, clockwork motions betraying no hurry to meet the sterile walls of what could not be called 'home' anymore than this body could be called 'hers' with how languidly it moved without mind.

Then she's stumbling, almost tripping over an obstacle in her path, snatched back into the tangible that reminds her for just a moment that she's here — the flitting panic of unbalance, the brush of something soft circling her legs and pulling her attention back down.

❝ It's you, ❞ A gentle lilt of familiarity warms a tone usually so barren as she stoops to greet him, seeing the dark fur alight with gold from the sun, the intelligent green eyes that softened her own gaze. ❝ You remember me ? ❞

Memory is such a fragile, fickle thing, often shattering her grasp no matter how carefully she tries to cradle it, slicing her open with the shards of its absence, inflicting wounds she could never treat no matter how often the scabs bled, uselessly aware the dull ache in her fractured self with no means to mend it —

— but she remembers the gentle meows of the cat that bumps against her knees now, remembers his affinity for oranges and those striking eyes, and the recognition blossoms with warmth in her bleak heart ( for here was a moment, however fleeting in this present, of her self, intertwined with another life, a shared moment that yelled back against unyielding oblivion: I was here ! here is someone who remembers me fondly, as I remember them ! )

Now, she reaches out without thinking, not in listless disconnect of her self, but in a moment of her own human yearning to touch, and though her hands are cold, they are gentle as they pet his fur, the softness between her fingers prompting a small smile. But still, it falters as she realises she has nothing to offer but her own empty hands.

❝ I'm sorry. I don't have any oranges on me. ❞

#penddraig #verse ; rei ii.#((I WAS SO HAPPY WHEN YOU SENT THIS TY KATHHH))#((she missed him..))#((i was gonna have her either take him either to her flat or a shop to give him soemthing but i didnt want to make this too long HJKGDKH))

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spacedikut · 4 years

Text

exam help ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: a self-indulgent blurb about spencer helping with exams :) 1.7k

a/n: first fic of the year :D happy 2021!

masterlist

Another anguish-filled screech reverberates from your and Spencer’s shared office, bringing even your pet fish in the tank to attention.

It’s the third one this hour. Spencer tries to ignore it, just like you told him to, but God you sound like you’re in pain and Spencer can’t exactly ignore that, can he? He loves you and cares for you and- oh. A thump reaches his ears. A textbook, maybe? Did you punch your textbook?

He considers for a moment that the neighbours will be alarmed, perhaps call the police or tentatively knock with a, “Is everything okay in there?”

It wouldn’t be the first time.

What would he tell them? Oh, my apologies, my partner has exams coming up and just told me they get why unsubs do that now. I am also terrified.

There are many instances where Spencer feels useless. During his job, when his mother would have an episode, when his friends have problems he just wouldn’t understand. But, somehow, and maybe controversially, this is the worst type of uselessness. The type that leaves him staring at the wall, questioning everything, the type that makes his stomach drop because all he can do is watch.

He’s been watching you for the last two weeks. He’s sick of watching, of being no help, and he needs to do something before he breaks and does something illegal.

(The illegal thing is doing your exams for you - not illegal as in, perhaps, murder)

Your frazzled head pops out from the office, one hand rubbing your eyes and a permanent frown etched on your face, and with a fragile voice you ask, “Can you make me a coffee, please?”

Now, Spencer feels hypocritical, but he has to say it. “Another? Are you sure?”

He sees the internal battle within you, how you try your hardest not to snap. It’s not his fault you’re stressed. He’s just trying to help. “Yes, I’m sure. Please, Spence,”

“Of course. I’ll bring it in.”

“Thank you.” With a pained smile, you’re gone again into the dark abyss of where you’re studying.

With quick, ingrained movements, Spencer makes your coffee with too much creamer and marshmallows. Unusual, yes, but your current diet consists of coffee and whatever he can force you to consume – like marshmallows.

But then, hello, he spots a chocolate bar haphazardly close to the bin, grabs it, and hopes you let him watch you eat it.

Stepping into the room as quietly as possible, he’s smacked in the face by the smell of lavender. It makes him nauseous, the intensity of it, quickly followed by a lurch of his heart because you poor thing, you’re being crushed by the weight of your degree – literally. The other day you purchased an insanely heavy weighted blanket and you’re drowning in it.

Now, if you were to ask Spencer who the most beautiful person on the planet is, he’d say you in a heartbeat. He’s thought that since you first met and, years later, still stands by that. But now, right now, glowering at him in the dimly lit, lavender drenched study that you used to love oh-so-much? You have the face of a French bulldog, all grumpy and furrowed and too many creases on your face to make Spencer feel like he’s actually helping when he places the coffee and snack on your desk.

Despite the crabby expression, your words are filled with love and appreciation – which happens to be Spencer’s favourite mix. “Thank you, my love.” You take a sip of the coffee, hum in delight, and for the first time in days there’s a spark of something other than torment. “You’re the best.”

Spencer’s hand holds the back of your neck and he places a series of soft kisses to your temple, mumbling, “I love you. Very much. Is there anything else you need?”

“Death.”

“Okay. I’ll work on it.”

At that, you grace Spencer with a weak half-smile. It’s enough to overwhelm Spencer, overflowing and only able to be shown through a chaste, encouraging peck on your lips and a half-hug, Spencer bent at the waist to hold you in your desk chair. He noses your hair, hoping his closeness will alleviate some stress, before stepping back and praying his eyes tell you everything he wants to say but know will elicit annoyance from you.

I love you. Take care of yourself. Rest, please. You can do this, but not if you over exert yourself. I love you.

Your eyes tell him, I’ll try. I love you. And that’s all he can ask for.

But when he leaves, shuffles past his bookshelf, his eyes catch sight of an old file that reminds him of when he was preparing for his own exams.

He gets an idea.

+++

It takes another two days, full of late nights involving work that isn’t staying up and distracting himself with books to avoid worrying over you and how late you go to sleep, and reading that leaves Spencer in awe of you and everyone in your field.

A part of him is amazed by how he wheelbarrowed the resources behind you without you noticing, another is worried about that fact, and the rest of him is excited that he can finally do something that will actually help. At least, he hopes.

(When everything is said and done, despite being endlessly grateful, you also inform Spencer that simply being there and being him and getting you coffee every time you ask is more than enough, really)

With pride, he leans back on the couch, observing his creations on the coffee table. There’s plenty of different colours, all representing a different topic, and he presses the thumbs up to like the Youtube video he was using to ensure his handwriting is easy to read.

Flashcards. Hundreds, if Spencer counted correctly. The textbooks he stole – borrowed – from under your nose lie next to his feet, the weight of them combined more of a workout than he’s (voluntarily) done in eons.

He only hopes you don’t think it’s too late, think he’s overstepping or-or that he’s doing those things that he’s been accused of before – thinking he knows best (he does, but whatever), overbearing arrogance, an unwillingness to hear and accept other people’s way of doing things.

He just wants to help. He wants you to know he’s here for you, no matter what you need. This is the thing that lets him believe he’s doing something, something good and useful. Spencer just wants to be useful.

He’s convinced you to eat a proper breakfast – fruit, oats, bread, meat, a whole buffet – and you sense something is amiss when you hear slow, tentative footsteps creeping from your bedroom.

Spencer, still in his pyjamas, glasses perched on his nose, approaches with a shallow box in his grasp. You swallow your bite, turn to face him. “What’ve you got there?”

The box is slid onto the counter next to your plate hesitantly, as if he regrets his actions as he’s doing them. Peering in, you see a blur of colour, stacks on stacks of rectangular paper filled with writing and questions and even a tips! section.

You pick up the first batch, all light blue, and flick through them, heart getting bigger and bigger with every word you read. And when you realise what they are, what Spencer’s done – for you – your heartrate has skyrocketed and the watch on your wrist is asking you if you’re okay.

“You made me flashcards?” You ask, in awe, again looking at the love of your life to find he’s already staring at you.

“I did,” He tells you, apprehensive and scared, already backtracking, “But, if you don’t think they’re useful, or-or you think I’m overstepping – I’m not trying to, I promise, I just thought…” He starts nervously shuffling and reshuffling some of his creation. “Flashcards are known to engage active recall and metacognition. Research consistently finds that applying metacognitive strategies tends to ingrain memories deeper into your knowledge, and that this kind of active recall retrieval practice leads to one-hundred and fifty percent better retention than passive studying, so…”

Your hands have a mind of their own, pulling what feels like an endless amount of cards out and turning them in your hands, from the questions on the front to the answers on the back, the ones with hints and advice and there’s several with doodles that are so Spencer you hold them to your chest. You’re so enamoured by this man that is still rambling and bumbling because he takes your silence as distaste.

“I just- I hate seeing you so stressed, so I made these. You don’t have to use them, of course. They’re not even that great. It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, you’re beyond capable, or that your methods don’t work- Just, personally, I love flashcards. I used them all the time when studying, even though I didn’t really need them, so perhaps a change of medium would do you good-“

A warm hand on his own that keep fidgeting stops him mid-stream of consciousness.

“Thank you,” You say, earnestly, “Really. These are lovely.” You leap from your seat, wrapping Spencer in warmth and love and care, and he shivers when he feels your hot breath on his ear when you repeat your thanks again and again.

When he pulls you even closer, so your torso curves into his own, you feel the lightest you have in weeks. You’re in the arms of the man you love, who knows you love him too and you know loves you so much – enough to spend several nights reading your cursed textbooks so he could create something that might help – and now you’re confident that you can do it. With the help of Spencer and his lovingly hand-made flashcards, you can do it.

And if, somehow, it goes awry, that’s okay too. Because you’ll still have Spencer, your number one fan, who will be there to comfort you and advise you in any way he can. He’ll never let you doubt yourself, never allow a self-deprecating joke if he can help it, because if he has to, he’ll love and support you enough for the both of you until you can do it yourself.

The world feels a little brighter, your breaths feel a little lighter, all because of Spencer. So you kiss him, murmur love against his lips, and get ready to take on whatever dares to come your way.

+++

tags: @pinkdiamond1016 @bluerose512 @andreasworlsboring101 @roses-and-grasses @ta-ka-shi-ma @ogmilkis @chiffonchronicles @rexorangecouny @unmistakablyunknown @goofygubler14 @gublertoon @averyhotchner @wheeledup @shadyladyperfection @joodeduarte @calm-and-doctor @

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x y/n #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #mine #the end is super cheesy but #eeeeeeeeeeeeee

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kinnoth · 3 years

Text

Thor knows the end, but he has always known the end. Ragnarok has never been a mystery to him, to any of them. Every story ever told of Asgard ends in fire and in the darkness of nothing if one lets it go on for long enough. The Aesir have always been a doomed people: blood-loving, battle-loving, ever scratching for one more piece of glory to hold onto before the lights go out.

In truth, Thor had never expected to make it so far, and, perhaps, looking back on the trajectory of his life, he had never deserved to make it so far. The story of his life, as it has been charted, was ever one in which he would burn for a little while, then blaze for a while more, and then fall in a streak of fire, celebrated by his armies and ill-remembered by those he had conquered.

He was meant to have burned with his kingdom. His father would have burned with his kingdom. It is what is said of him in every attestation, that Odin Allfather loved his people and his kingdom until the end of both: because it was rightful, it was honourable, because it was foretold. Because Odin Allfather understood the sacrifice of kingship and the beauty of things that end.

Only greedy Thor, arrogant Thor, could have denied these people their rightful, honourable deaths. Only Thor could have snatched up these people from the glory of their own fates, and for what?

Space is cold after the fires of Asgard, cold and empty. The spiralling arms of the world tree cannot house a houseless people. All the sparkling stars that hang like fruits from its branches cannot feed them.

Thor leads his people to their doom, but he can find within himself no remorse for it. He has his brother back, standing tall and proud again beside him. Thor is not a stupid man, for all his great faults. He knows that his brother is dangerous and that he is disloyal. He has proven himself to be cruel and selfish and vain.

And yet, Loki moves beside him like his shadow as he circles through their huddled masses. Loki is good with them in a way that Thor isn't, in the way that their mother was good in the times after calamity. He touches their blackened hands and he talks to them lowly, with soothing words and gentle manner. He spins amusing tales for the children and listens, soft-eyed, to the lamentations of their mothers and fathers. They are Asgard's potters and weavers, merchantmen and clerks. They carry with them nothing but the clothes on their backs and the children in their arms. Had they been warriors, Thor might have led them and paid their way across the worlds with their swords, but as they are, they have nothing and want for everything.

He passes what assurances he can on to them. He tells them that they will be safe, that their children will not go hungry. He tells them tales of Midgard, of its glass cities and its gleaming black roads. He tells them of the rich, green hills of the Norsemen that Odin Once-King had declared would be their new home.

He feels Loki watching him. Somehow, he had forgotten how that had felt -- Loki, moving his head and his hands in subtle enquiry when emotion catches his voice; Loki, rephrasing his soldier's brusqueness into something easy and smooth; Loki remembering the details to his stories where he had forgotten. They had had a thousand years of companionship between them before these past ten in conflict and yet somehow, Thor had forgotten how it had felt to hold the weight of Loki's attention, familiar and following, as steadying as any hand.

Thor watches him as well, and, in the liminal moments in between, he drags them away from their duties and cloisters his brother away from the others. In private, Loki wears his quiet differently: his rounded shoulders find their angles and his tired eyes grow sharp and ready. Thor has him read for him the obscurities in their astronomical maps that Thor does not know enough to understand. They discuss the merits of various courses through the terrain, how to balance the preservation of their fuel next to the dangers of the shipping lanes. Loki is as studious and serious now as he is in Thor's memory. As he listens to Thor and thinks on his answers, his hand drifts absently up to his chin in a gesture he has not lost from childhood, and Thor feels again the stirring fondness he has only ever felt for his careful brother, lost in thought.

But Loki has not yet fully returned to him. It is clear in the way he stops in his sentences before they disagree and cuts away his gaze, the way he avoids Thor's hands in moments when he would not have before noticed Thor's touch. Perhaps he never will return, not wholly, and be as he was once, but Thor makes himself glad for what company he can have of him. Certain things have changed between them now in ways that he cannot hope to recover, and so Loki, though never a stranger, is perhaps more courteous than he has earned the right to be, blunter with his rebuke and shallower with his smile than Thor remembers. It is the measure of distance that Loki holds that serves to remind him always that, while Thor may again have a brother, he does not have a friend.

Perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps they can work together and they can lead their people, and Thor can put aside his ache for a better world and content himself with what he has. Because for all that he would like to do it, Thor does not trust his brother, even as he knows that he would not want to endure this long life without him. And perhaps he, too, is vain, but -- for this fragile truce between them, this makeshift peace -- he would have damned them all a thousand times without a second thought. Loki is here, and Thor believes again, as he did when he was young: that with his brother at his side, there is no quandary in the universe that the two of them cannot conquer.

Still, he startles when he feels a hand lay across his back. He is half-asleep, hunched over their star maps and logbooks again, looking for ways through disaster as though, if he looked long enough, he could divine new meaning into the numbers. He looks up to see Loki drawing his white hand back into the shadow of his cloak, a plaintive expression clearing quickly from his face.

"You are tired," Loki says. His voice is soft and unreadable. "You should rest."

"Yes," Thor replies. He had been dreaming, but of what, he doesn't remember now that he is awake. Impressions of fire and shadow splinter under the weight of waking until all that remains is the metal taste of urgency and guilt in his mouth. He sets his palm over his eyes and scrubs until all he sees again are stars. They are twenty-two jumps points outside of Asgard and he doesn't know how they are going to make it to twenty-three.

When next he looks up, Loki regards him with a look nearing sympathy. "Come with me," he says, and it is a testament to how truly tired Thor is that he follows without question. Loki leads him through a warren of utilitarian back rooms, storage spaces and servants quarters stripped bare of the Grandmaster's glitter and sculpted luxury. There is a narrow wire staircase twisting up past the rafters, and then Loki brings him into a room.

Something about the arrangement of it strikes Thor as immediately familiar, though he cannot place how. There is a low bed pushed against the wall and shelves built above it. From the ceiling hang bundles of scented dried things wrapped in scrap cloth, and on the far wall is a wide window, looking out into the void. Pale flame flickers to life in the brazier by the door and this is Loki's room, from back home, Thor realises, his private royal chamber scaled down to fit this space the size of a pauper's cell.

Thor touches the brutally bare wall. They are so close to the engines here that he can feel them humming beneath his hand. He steps after Loki into the room and passes his fingers over the fire as he walks. There is no warmth and so he reaches into the centre of it and picks up a glowing ember. It pulses like a living thing, faintly green around the edges. Foxfire, he recognises, Loki’s magic used for the crude banality of lighting a room. "Is this where you've been sleeping?" he asks, unable to keep the reproach from his voice.

Loki has opened a hidden compartment and is unpinning the cloak from his shoulders. He looks strange and unguarded for a moment, and Thor is sorry to have spoken without thought. Loki looks away. "You did not wonder?"

Thor shrugs with deliberate disaffectedness. "I didn't think it was any of my business," he says. He peers around the corners of the doorway. There is a bath beyond a half-closed door and, next to it, a meagre kitchen. It is odd to think of Loki, imperious and supercilious, cooking meals for himself off of one small hob. It is odd to think of his brother living sparsely, when their mother’s one enduring criticism of him was how he spent too freely. How much more of his life has Loki concealed from him? How else has he lived that Thor does not know?

Loki emerges from his closet, much the same but with all his dignity drawn about him once again. He plucks the coal from Thor’s hand and uses it to light the other lamps around the room. “This used to be my room when the Grandmaster took me out on his excursions," he explains. "I didn’t think anyone would mind it if I took it up again. Of course, I didn’t spend much time here,” he adds as he gives Thor back his ember. “The rooms downstairs, housing Asgard's people, those were for his guests. They are much more comfortable.”

Thor takes the glowing coal, holds it in his palm again for a moment before tossing it back into the brazier with the others. “And what were you then?” he asks suspiciously. A species of confusion mated to a kind of rage creeps up into his chest, but he pushes down on it with the ease of long practice, until naught but a faint abhorrence emerges into his conscious thought.

Loki smiles. ”Household.”

"Here,” he says before Thor can unravel his unease. A dark, ornate bottle appears between his fingertips and uncorks itself with a pop. He presses it into Thor’s hand. “Have a drink with me."

Thor twists his mouth. “Are we out of clean glasses again?” A fragrance at once sweet and sharply medicinal wafts up from the open neck. The liquid itself is nearly black.

Loki gestures as he folds himself onto the ledge by the window. He pulls a knee up to his chest and leans his cheek up against it. “Would you accept a glass from me?” he asks demurely.

Thor snorts. ”You are right, I would not.” He hesitates a moment longer before crossing the room and going to stand next to his brother. The universe spins out, endless, outside of their ark, colours of a bruise casting ghostly lights against Loki’s back and the side of his turned face. “It used to be one of your favourite tricks for your guests to find some nasty surprise at the bottom of their cups.” He offers his brother a wry look as he hands the bottle back.

Loki’s smile is small but not fully unhappy. “That was childish of me,” he agrees.

”You put snakes in my cup at my coronation.” Thor points out. “We were not children then.”

”Weren't we?" Loki asks lightly, and Thor's hackles rise, the prickle on the back of his neck like static before a storm. Loki is in some sort of mood tonight, not wholly hostile, but unsettled somehow, and Thor has ever known him to be changeable. He lifts the bottle in a sardonic salute and, smirking, tilts back his long throat and drinks deep. The glass slowly drains to clear as Loki finishes, gasping with satisfaction. He holds up the bottle, still three quarters full. "There, brother, you see?" he says, as he wipes the corners of his mouth. "Nothing to fear."

Something about the dark stain of Loki's mouth perturbs Thor in a way that strikes him wary and short of breath, but he takes the bottle back. His voice pitched low, he asks, with a cheer he does not truly feel, ”So what poison do you intend for the both of us then?”

Loki shakes his head and laughs. “No, not even poison.” His eyes are wet and a little unfocused. "Will you not drink?"

Thor hesitates a moment more but then, he too smiles shallowly and drinks. The liquor is hot on the tongue but surprisingly light, fruited like wine but without wine's cloying sweetness. He swallows. ”That is very fine," he says approvingly. The drink’s warm fingers spread down his throat and into his chest where they begin to pick at the knots tied up there. "I did not know we had anything near so fine on this ship. Is there more of it?" He tilts the bottle to read the label.

Loki scoffs. "Not enough to water your entire kingdom, if that's what you mean."

“A pity then.” Thor takes another generous swallow and the warmth spreads. These Sakaarian spirits are stronger than Asgardian mead, and Thor is beginning to think that he prefers it. “The kingdom could use a good watering after what it's just been through.” He raises the bottle. “A salutation then, to -- what are we drinking for?”

“A victory?” Loki shrugs. He moves to make room as Thor gingerly lowers himself down onto the seat next to him, careful to keep his distance. “Anything you like.”

Thor laughs hollowly. “That was a poor victory then, if that's what you'd call it.”

In the flickering light, Loki’s pale eyes shutter and he grins his brief and bitterly mirthless grin. He looks away and drinks, then leans again on his folded knee. “Do you grieve?” he asks perfectly without inflection.

Thor stops. He sees Loki’s fingers flexing white at the knuckles around each other even as his face remains impassive. His shoulders are set in perfect right angles to his spine. “You know,” Thor says contemplatively, “if you would have asked me that ten years ago, around the time you were still putting snakes in my cups, I would have said yes. I would have drank for our golden halls and our gleaming city and all of our sun-loved fields. But now." He sighs. Loki glances at him, the only indication that he is even listening. His eyes are wide and waiting. Around the room, the pale fires sputter in their wicks and spin. He has stopped his breathing. Thor reaches for him and lays the backs of his fingers lightly along his arm. Loki winces, takes a breath, but does not pull away.

Thor feels his own misgivings be gentled, and says softly, "I suppose that's what a loss as great as this shows you. When you have no choice but to choose, you pick out what's really important from the rest and you are happy that you get to keep it. We have lost so much, but it could have been more." His hand slowly flattens to curl around the lean muscle of Loki’s arm. Thor can feel the heat and the solid weight of him, welcome and familiar in a way that little else has been in these recent years.

"Brother," he begins softly. "Will you not grieve--"

"But what of all your worshippers?” Loki's expression when he turns is hard and terrible, red-rimmed eyes above a hooked sneer, and held in such rictus as if he were an animal trapped under thick ice. “Your great armies? Your Warriors Three?” he intones, as he yanks himself away from Thor’s touch, drawing back into himself once more. "Your Lady Sif?"

Thor draws his hands back into his own lap, stricken. What feats these hands have wrought, what power they hold, and yet he cannot claw back into them an ounce of his brother’s confidence. Has he not tried? Has he not let Loki draw near, examine every part of him and find him wary and uncertain, but sincere? He remembers the tentative proximity they had devised in the first night aboard the ship. Loki had asked and Thor had allowed him to draw him down, to examine his disfigured eye and to cleanse it and close what he could, to touch his fingertips through his shorn hair as he did it. What had that been but Thor's hopes laid bare? What had that been but Thor's soul beckoning: look at me; see me; recognise me; if we cannot be alone together then we will truly be alone.

Thor breathes deep and says, lowly, with a line of resignation understriking the words, “Have you brought me here to start a fight then, Loki?”

Loki's face, ruddy and savage with emotion, flinches violently. He blinks and then, as if swept by a great wind, his expression clears. “No, forgive me,” he says, his voice cool and easy. "I am." He shrugs, and, after a moment, waves his hand. The spinning lights right themselves. Another bottle appears between his fingers. He hands it to Thor and then he returns to himself, perfectly neat and self-contained.

Thor hates, suddenly, all of this, every measure of it: his brother’s carefully constructed dispassion and the way he will not fully meet Thor’s eyes; the choking fist of his own fear that this is how it has to be now, this is how they are going to be to one another from now on. Loki sits curled in on himself like a loose fist protecting a bruise and Thor is no more permitted to unfurl him to test his injury any more than he is to go back and undo Ragnarok. This he mourns, more than all else: that he used to know his brother, and he was known by him, trusted and was trusted. It used to be that when they were together, Thor had believed in immortality.

He is gripped by the sudden urge to touch Loki, as if that would make any difference, as if that would make anything better. It used to. He thinks it used to. Thor remembers how easy it had used to be to know where he was and how to make his way back because Loki would find his hand and guide him. He wants to take Loki by the shoulders and shake him, or to reach underneath the curtain of his hair and put his hand to skin.

But instead he is here, in this insatiable present that takes and takes and lets him have nothing back. Loki holds himself placidly as if nothing at all has been said or transpired, and Thor's despair turns to cold fury.

"Odin was right, you are devious and disdainful and difficult to love," Thor says icily. Loki looks at him, properly, finally. His eyes are open with surprise and confusion. Good. If Loki wants a fight then Thor is more than happy to give him one; he is hungry for Loki's pain, if he can have nothing else. Thor spurs on, heat rising up his neck and behind the sockets of his eyes, "You've found reason to hate everyone and everything that ever had the misfortune of crossing your path. Nothing is ever good enough for Loki; no one is ever good enough for Loki. There would always be something, some way you could distort an honest word into something evil, turn even the truest praise into injustice. You are so twisted we could use you as a corkscrew."

Loki recoils as if physically struck and Thor feels a rush of cruel satisfaction to see him hurt. Loki should hurt. If Thor must hurt than Loki can hurt. It is their basest of axioms: whatever Thor has, then Loki must have too.

"Little wonder why you were no good king," he spits, unsheathed now, seeking blood. He wants to see Loki break. "You look for shadows and schemes because your heart is filled with nothing but shadows and schemes. Little wonder, too, why you could not content yourself with the vast privileges of your station. You were Asgard’s prince and my brother and Odin's son, but still you found a way to be claim misuse. It is like you run from happiness. You are incapable of being grateful." He shoves the bottle back toward Loki with such force that it topples off its broad base. The fine spirits pours out of it in fat gluts.

His brother regards the drink soaking into his floor and splashing over his shoes. His pale face is awash with an awful flush. With a jerking gesture, he rights the bottle and the black liquid funnels itself back into it. He drinks for a long moment and then sets it down. His stillness has taken a different quality, wound and waiting, like a pendulum before the downswing. "I was not your brother, don’t you remember?" he says lowly. "Not your father's son, not your people's prince. I was nothing. That is what I ran from, being nothing."

Thor feels tension string through his muscles. Fighting he knows; fighting he can do; fighting comes naturally to him even if his heart is breaking. "You were one of us," he retorts through his teeth. "You were loved."

Loki lets out a great bark of a laugh and wheels to his feet. "I was not," he says poisonously. "Great Thor, mighty Thor, golden Thor, loved by all. Easy to love." He is pacing, his long strides eating up the little distance of the floor so that he has to turn every fourth step. His movement is disjointed, unhinged. Thor is reminded again of his brother, wild and caged, wreacking ruin upon himself when given nothing else to destroy. "Of course you wouldn’t see it," Loki scathes. "It is so difficult for the beloved to see that not all share in their condition, after all."

Thor draws back, raises his chin. His pulse is in his ears. He should never have come in the first place. He could have lived with what peace they had between them, and now he won't even have that. "Mother loved you," he challenges, his voice rising. "I loved you."

His brother flips his hand dismissively. "You loved everyone, what’s one more."

"I loved you best!"

Thor is on his feet as static gathers in the air. Loki stops, holds his gaze steadily, breathing hard. "I was happy," he says after a moment. "Perhaps it was never to any great effect, but I was happy once. But then, I was not who I thought I was." He drags in a breath and wrings together his trembling hands. "And I did not know what I know now." He stands in the middle of his sparse, dark little room and looks, suddenly, unspeakably small and lost. Thor steps toward him, but his brother looks up and fixes him with a glittering stare and he stops.

"So I have been selfish and self-serving, but who else but I served Loki-prince?" he says bitterly. "I was faithful to Asgard for over a thousand years and saw nothing but ashes for it. So if I took the things that Asgard would not give me in the end, ought I to be sorry?”

Thor huffs and breaks his gaze to hide his discomfort. "You were prince of the Nine Realms," he replies darkly. "What could you have possibly wanted for that could not be furnished to you?"

Loki snarls, "I have never had what I truly wanted, have you?" The room flares bright white for a moment and Thor startles, whirling about. Loki's foxfire pulses threateningly in its brazier.

Thor crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. He will not be cowed by a display of theatrics. "I had everything," he lies even though he knows it is not what Loki means.

Loki goes stiff and then, all at once, the venomous rage empties from his sharp face. He asks with a sudden, pleading sorrow, “Then do you not want?”

Greedy Thor, arrogant Thor does not respond, but his brother meets his burning gaze and seems to see through him. Thor’s heart is caught beneath his chin. He doesn’t know what Loki sees, but he prays that it is not everything.

Loki searches him a moment longer but then looks away. Thor feels a cavernous feeling as if he has been assessed somehow and found lacking. But Thor has won: his brother is crying and doing a poor job in hiding it. He waits for the satisfaction to come and to chase away the guilt.

But then Loki turns. "You're not the first I've disappointed with my unworthiness, brother," he says, quiet again, still again, distant. "You are hardly the first to cast me out because I did not suit. Hate me if you want, then," he says, a fissure opening beneath his smooth voice, "but I never hated them, your friends, your family, or Asgard. I only ever hated how they hated me, and yet you still loved them for it." He spreads his palm and light gathers between his fingertips. Thor knows what that is.

Thor lunges for him, his pulse in his ears, crossing the room in three quick strides. He seizes his brother by the wrist and Loki's pocket dimension snaps shut; whatever implement he was retrieving dissolves back into the darkness. Loki jerks away instinctively but Thor holds him tight. "I am not casting you out!" he cries. He crowds into him with his body, Loki stepping back for his every step forward until the wall stops them both. Thor pins his brother's arm. Loki looks jolted a moment, confusion opening his face as Thor leans his weight against him. They are both breathing hard. "I am not," he repeats.

Loki shoves at him with his free arm, his hand balling and gripping him menacingly by the open collar of his chest plate. "No?" he asks, acid hissing through his voice once more. "Odd, then, how that was what it sounded like."

"I was only angry," Thor says, his mouth dry, bracing, expecting the violence of his brother's anger. "I didn’t mean what I said." But Loki isn't fighting him. Thor knows how his brother fights, has been stung by those deadly hands often enough; he knows that his brother is not a man easily mastered. But Loki gasps, as though Thor has hurt him, and beneath Thor's agony and his racing pulse, a black thrill runs him through. He changes his grip on Loki's wrist, and pushes his shoulder back until his arm bends up above his head. Loki lets him, watching. Thor's mind races; his terror mounts. He feels powerful. "Brother, I didn't mean it," he rasps. "Don't go." He is trembling.

Loki's eyes grow narrow. "Oh, Thor," he breathes, "are you frightened?"

"Yes," Thor says readily. "Is that so surprising to you?" He needs to let him go, but instead his grip tightens on Loki's arm. He feels Loki's throat working, the subtle movements of his head and neck, and he feels, again, the stirring, ugly cruelty that has lived inside him all his life. Its pulse fills his mouth, like a separate thing from his own. Thor's blood and body ignite for one indomitable moment before the guilt overruns him, his own self-disgust. He puts his face into his brother's shoulder so that he might avoid his incising gaze. "Yes, I am frightened," he says hollowly. "I did not want this."

Thor is lowly and vulgar and undeserving of being called a man. He is the very basest creature, captive to his vagaries, caring for nothing but his own comfort and gratification. He will destroy this cobweb peace between them for an upper hand, drive his brother away in a fit of pique, and for what?

He feels Loki stiffen as Thor's misery makes him dull and heavy. "Want what, be specific," his brother hisses. He shoves at Thor again, curses crackling in his fist this time, no mere punctuation.

"Any of this. All of it," Thor mutters thickly. His feels his own breath hot on his face as the leather shoulders of Loki's shirt repel it back to him. The trap in his throat cannot contain his every secret, and what spills out does so like a cut vein. "Odin’s kingdom, the crown, the fate of Asgard." He squeezes his eyes shut and grieves that he cannot even be with Loki, cannot ask of him to share a drink without Loki's bad faith and his own bad impulses coming between them.

They truly are ruined, he thinks, as he counts his brother's quick heartbeats through his palm, and Thor can be neither the man he wants to be nor the man he needs to be anymore. "I did not want for them to take me," he says. "I did not want to become that which I hated, what you hated, what had killed you and our mother and made our father a stranger to us. I thought I would rather die, but now it is here anyway, and there is nowhere left for me to run."

There is a pause and then Loki says, his voice soft and careful. "It is kingship, brother. It is what we were born to do."

Thor lets out a breath like a sob. "It is a rotten job, Loki. It is rotten to its core." He lifts his head and searches his brother's face. "It consumes you, it becomes your world until your heart may hold nothing but it, and your soul may love nothing but it, and you would rather see your queen die for it and your sons disgraced for it rather than lose even a fraction of it."

Loki is not crying anymore. He looks upon Thor with such bewilderment and concern that Thor wishes, once more, to hide his despair, but that his brother deserves to be looked in the eye. "Would that I were only a man," he continues. "Would that this were only an occupation of a father being passed to a son, but it is not. It is a wolf at my door, brother, and I must let it in, but I cannot do it without you beside me."

Loki's brows are pinched, his iridescent eyes wide with honest heartache. He lifts his hand from the wall and Thor lets him go. He feels a touch alight on his temple, between the chevroned scars on his scalp. "I did not think it would hurt you so," his brother says in wonderment. He touches fingertips to the corners of Thor's eye where his sorrow has gathered but not fallen, and Thor only wishes that his brother could let himself be held.

"You are better made for it than I," Thor tells him as Loki tugs on him and Thor's head falls back down against his brother's throat. Loki hums and lays his cool hand lightly along the back of his skull, stroking contemplatively. Thor allows himself to be pacified, and the shameful, screaming something in his heart quietens for the moment, as it only ever does beneath his brother's hands. He sighs. "I need your strength and your wisdom and your friendship, Loki." He fists his fingers into the flanks of Loki's shirt and pulls meaningfully. "You asked me if I did not want, and that is it. I want you here with me. I want us to be friends again."

"We cannot be friends."

Thor looks up. His brother's eyes are wet but he smiles beatifically. "We cannot be friends," he repeats. "I will serve Asgard, I will be your brother, and I will serve you, but even I, poor fool that I am, must keep something for myself. Don't you see?" he says, his voice cracking with a building fervour. "I am as you say that I am: unworthy and ungrateful and the keeper of my own misery. I used to wish that I wasn't, but I am. And I must keep something, or else I shall have nothing at all." His fingers flex unconsciously on the edge of Thor's plate armour and, with a crunching snap, the metal rends beneath them. Loki hisses.

Thor stops him. "Loki, brother," he says, picking up his narrow hand and enfolding it between the both of his. Loki quakes, on the verge of something, and Thor sympathises even as he doesn't know what it is. He keeps his eyes cast low as he presses their hands together. "It's all right, I understand," he says, even though he does not. "Enough, hm? We are both fools." He shakes him lightly. "That's enough."

Loki's bruised hand spasms and he almost jerks it back into himself by instinct, but that Thor grasps him gently by the wrist and does not let him go. Wild-eyed, his brother stares at him, uncomprehending, first, and then recognition comes back into him. "Yes," Loki gasps. "I'm sorry. I." His fingers curl within Thor's rough palm, and warmth drifts through the pulses of Thor's blood to have his brother holding his hand again. "I am sorry." He drops his chin and looks away.

Thor shakes his head. "I have my own wrongs that I have done, and it has only been these recent years that I have had occasion to think back on them. You are right, you know," he says, smoothing his thumb over the back of his brother's knuckles for emphasis. "I have, in the past, regarded myself too highly, and I saw it as my natural right to trample over those who were less fortunate that I."

Loki huffs a little breath. "It is not difficult to do when you are the best." He wipes at his face with his sleeve and offers to Thor a smile, small and self-deprecating, but sincere -- a delicate branch, newly budded, tentatively extended but an offer of peace nonetheless.

Thor returns his smile. "No, I suppose it isn't, but I am sure that doesn't excuse it. Loki," he says, and it is as if he is finally undoing a weight that has always hung around his neck, "I am sorry."

His brother's expression remains deceptively pleasant. "For what? Be specific," he says again, a flat whisper, either soft or deadly but which refuses to reveal itself to be either.

Thor knows; he has known for a while now. His errors were ever small slights, little wrongs, but together they built a wall between them as high as the sky. But now, his brother knocks on the other side, and his humility is a small price to pay to see it torn down. He is ready to be done with it now, here, at the end of the world. "For what I said, just now" he says. "For speaking over you, in years past. For behaving as if you owed me your obedience," he says. "For taking it for granted that you were my brother and," he sighs expansively.

"For never seeing you for yourself, I suppose," he muses. He puts his hand to his brother's shoulder and stands back enough to look Loki in the eye. "You are your own man. Your path is your own to take, and though we may walk together, we do not belong to the same fate."

"You do not belong to me," he says, watching Loki watch him and knowing that, this time, he has been heard. "You are my brother, but you don't belong to me."

Thor holds his gaze with all the plain equanimity he can summon and releases his brother's hand. He waits for him to draw it back, but Loki only closes his eyes, for one slow moment. When he opens them, they are the color of sunlight passing through a calm ocean and for once, no drowned secrets lie beneath. "You have grown wise," his brother muses. He laughs, and it is a bell-clear sound, beautiful and weightless. He bows his head regally. "Worthy Thor, I am honoured."

Thor laughs, his throat thick with relief as Loki steps into him once more. He leans his cheek against Thor's shoulder and allows him to take his weight. Thor settles his arm around the back of Loki's body, and holds himself so still that he almost stops breathing. "Do you still hate me then?"

Loki settles into this new posture, his hand still resting lightly in Thor's palm. "I could never hate you," he says easily, as if this were ever plainly evident to anyone who has wished to learn it. "I was angry with you, but I never hated you."

Thor lifts his eyebrows and laughs aloud, surprised. "You have turned over a new leaf. That's more honesty than I've heard from you in aeons, brother."

Loki shrugs. "There's no harm in it now," he says. He turns Thor's hand over and idly traces his fingertip along the tendon between each knuckle. Thor's heart clenches. It was only ever his brother who would touch him like this and Thor cannot remember the last time Loki had touched him. "There are none now amongst the living who would laugh at me." A pause. "I am sorry about your friends."

Thor hums gravely. "So am I." He drops his chin gingerly atop his brother's dark hair and breathes deep of the scent of him. It is familiar and as warming as drink. He sways them together, lightly. "But they each died a warriors' deaths, and when the turning of the world comes and death comes for all of us, I shall see them again in Valhalla and be happy for it."

"Then let us drink to that." Loki ducks beneath his arm and goes to retrieve the bottle. Thor feels the loss but he follows him gladly, still holding his hand. Loki holds the liquor aloft. "To the turning of the world. To Valhalla," he announces. He drinks and, so close, Thor can see his throat working as he swallows.

When his brother presses the bottle into his hand, Thor looks at him. He says wryly, before he drinks, "Loki, we are not going to die for a very long time yet."

Loki snorts. "That is optimistic." He draws Thor back down onto the widow ledge, and Thor goes with him. Thor decides he can accept the substitute when Loki sits close and pushes them together, shoulder to hip.

"You don't believe that," Thor needles him, knocking him with his elbow. "You haven't changed so much that you would maroon yourself on a doomed ship, if you truly thought it hopeless."

Loki re-balances himself and rolls his eyes. "Well I still might leave if it suits me. You said it yourself." He flaps a hand blithely, but the cut of his words is prickly, "I am my own man, after all."

Thor's lips tighten over his teeth. "Will you?" Something hard and challenging flattens his voice, some sudden thunder, like the sort that breaks upon a fine spring day. "Are you going?"

Loki looks at him levelly but then he sighs. "No," he says peevishly, ducking away, "but I don't see why you can't just play along with it."

Thor moves the bottle away when Loki reaches for it. Loki frowns at him, annoyed, but Thor holds his gaze, unblinking, until Loki flushes beneath his pallor and looks away again. Thor doesn't let him. He catches his brother's face with his palm and turns him, his thumb holding firm upon the hard angle of Loki's jaw. Loki lets himself be turned. His face is hot. "I'm finished with playing that game with you, brother," Thor says, all humour gone. It is as if he is doomed to have this same conversation forever. He thinks back to all the times before that he has begged for his brother's constancy, and, like a mirror reflected back on itself, it is as if he looks endlessly into one image. "I will not grieve you a third time," he says. "Stay or don't, only choose one and do it."

Loki blinks rapidly. "Do you want me to stay?" He sounds choked and breathless.

Thor releases him. "Of course I want you to stay, I always want you to stay." Exasperated, his hand drifts up toward his crown to sweep in past his hair, only to remember, once it is there, that he has no hair to push back from his face. He has forgotten where and when he is. "If it were up to me, you would have never left me in the first place, but I am not your tyrant."

"No," Loki says softly, his hands twisting together in his lap. "No, you are only my brother."

Thor shakes his head and drains the rest of the drink in one swallow. "You know, historically, every time we try to talk about this, you cause a great big fuss, we fight, I beat you, and then you leave anyway." He scrapes irritably at his beard. "So do forgive me if I tire of retreading this path again."

"That was before," his brother says. He pulls his knee back to his chest and leans against it, away from Thor. His hair spills like ink over his shoulder and he looks at once exhausted and boyish, self-conscious and ancient. "And I will not apologise for it."

Thor rounds on him. "Who's asking you to?" he snaps. Loki does not respond. Thor scoffs. "So, what? Is that it? One last drink for old times’ sake?"

"That's not it."

"Then what is it, Loki?"

"Here," Loki says, producing a new bottle, amber in colour and heavier than the last. "Drink."

Thor takes it. He rips up the cork and drains the bottle with spiteful obedience. It burns. "If you're trying to get me drunk so it hurts less in the morning, it's not going to work."

"Did it hurt before?"

"Of course it bloody hurt, you blistering idiot," Thor spits. He feels fragile, cracking along his edges. "I thought you dead, twice. I drank Asgard dry the first time and I simply left after the second."

"I know." Loki slips his hand back into Thor's. It is as much comfort as it is concession, but Thor takes it anyway, pressing tight.

"I know you know." They were the worst times of his life, his world collapsed in upon him with him still trapped inside. He can hardly remember them at all, only in bursts, only in non-specifics, but of course, Loki had not intervened -- indifferent, always, as if Thor and the way his world was ending were specimen in a jar. Thor scrubs his face and holds his palm there over his aching eyes. "Thrice damned, since when are you so solicitous after my feelings." He would pull himself away from his brother's touch, if only he were not a coward.

Loki leans into him, puts his head again on Thor's shoulder. His touch and voice are faint. "I always care about your feelings, brother. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I --" He trails off, stops.

Thor waits a beat, and then a scowl forms heavily over his brow. "Is this some new habit of yours, starting sentences and then... " He gestures. When Loki does not look away this time, he urges impatiently, "Well? You what?"

"I cannot seem to disregard your dislike for me."

Thor rolls his eyes. "I've always admired you, Loki, you know that."

"Do I?"

Thor throws up his hands and leans back against the windowglass. "Cleverest man in Asgard!" he exclaims. "Cleverer than our father -- my father," he corrects irritably, "yes, all right." He looks at his brother, whose cautious eyes regard him as a that of cornered beast's regarding the hunter. Thor looks at him directly, unyielding. "You're strong Loki, and you're brilliant, and you might have been wiser than Odin one day. We all thought it; mother said so all the time. She always said that if I were ever to rule, that there was no better man than you to have at my side, and I thought it to. You have the head for rule, and the heart--"

Loki shakes his head violently, compulsively. "Not the heart, no. I've never--" He is vibrating, his eyes screwed shut, and he does not seem able anymore to choose his own words. "You, you, you're beautiful, you're perfect--"

"Brother."

"No, you see, I could never see past it, I tried." The set of Loki's face wavers, his pale eyes trapped between two incompatible realities, both truths. He looks angry and hopeful, terrified and desperately sad -- snared between belief and doubt. Thor knows that feeling. It is the same feeling caught within his own breast. "I couldn't envy you for it, so I tried to hate you, but I couldn't. Even when we were apart, even when I thought you lost from me for good, down in that cell." He covers his face with his palms as if to stopper his own voice, but all he says next it is only muffled instead, "And I could never be happy. All I could ever do was want for things that I couldn't name and couldn't get."

Thor sighs. "I know. Brother, I know." He remembers the devastation that had wrecked him when he thought Loki dead, the way his insides had grown to ice and splintered as Loki had gone cold between his arms. He remembers how Jane's little, lukewarm hands had brought him up from his knees and he had looked at her as a stranger, comprehending at last that he was in a world of strangers now. His brother was dead and he would never know happiness again.

Loki's eyes search his. Thor doesn't know if he can put to speech what it is his brother is looking for, but he prays that he will find it. He chafes Loki's hand in both of his and, lost for words, presses his lips to the back of his own palm. Loki's breath shivers. He whispers, "It is not fair when I've never had room in my heart for anything but you."

When Loki kisses him, it does not feel like a surprise.

Thor responds swiftly, sweeping Loki into his lap and holding him there as Loki's vicious mouth yields beneath his. His hands seek skin, and it is given to him freely, gladly; Loki bends to meet him and his clothes part beneath Thor's hands like butter. Loki tastes of quicksilver and of the sun through new leaves, of midwinter firelight and the air after a storm. Thor remembers, now, every touch that has brought them to this, every brotherly assurance, every passing glance, every bruise -- and behind it, always, this bare and incomprehensible yearning.

Loki moans, intimate and open, and the unnameable becomes named, the shame given absolution. The whole of his life snaps suddenly into complete and perfect focus. This has been his monster all along, this clawing want, this unspeakable hunger so constant that it burned at the bottom of his every breath. Unaddressed, unacknowledged its whole long life, it had deformed him.

As Loki's mouth smears over his cheek, as his light fingers find the seams of their crude, hewn bodies and rend, it feels like standing up after a lifetime spent in a bend; it feels like the first full breath after only ever having sipped on air. Thor knows freedom for the first time he can remember, and the gnawing teeth behind all of his fear and worry and strangling precautions draw back into their ugly heads. The great inviolable question of his soul finds its answer at last: it was Loki. It was only ever Loki.

When he seizes the back of Loki's head and returns him to his mouth, his brother sighs. Thor can feel something stubborn inside of himself give way beneath the hot silk of Loki's skin and the cold marble underneath, and then, all at once Thor can feel Loki pouring through him, subtle as smoke, sharp as electricity, and when Thor pushes back, Loki opens his soul to him in welcome.

It is elemental, organic, as the way fire consumes or how the heavens turn. It is like every colour bound together into one, like sunlight. Thor can see himself through Loki's eyes, the familiar geography of his features mapped and given beautiful names: the cheekbone by which Loki has measured all other faces; the precise warmth and weight of his hands between which Loki finds his solace and his comfort; his stubborn mouth which Loki has learned for its every curve, its every salacious expression.

Thor smashes open the long-kept reservoir of his own stolen inspections, his persistent fascinations, and a flood rises within him of Loki's every aspect which he has held in covetous admiration: the fine and twining musculature of his neck and arms; the sharp, watchful intelligence behind his eyes; the deft, sinuous migration of his fingers as he weaves his spells.

Loki holds Thor within himself and Thor knows, all at once, a love so personal as a love of self, glorious as a love of empire, so desperate as a love of air or water or sustenance. Loki lives within all of him and Thor knows now that he lives within Loki as well. They have been half of each other's lives, the whole of the other's hearts, and now with the crude boundaries of their bodies and minds dissolved, Thor knows who he is. He is Loki's. Loki is his. This is truth.

Loki gasps through his open mouth, sparks igniting in his vision through Thor's eyes. Thor matches him and the both of them tremble beneath the glittering weight that has settled, diaphanous and encompassing over their shoulders. Loki buckles and Thor hides his face into his pulse.

When he catches Loki into his arms, it feels like coming home

Thor comes into himself again in pieces. When he opens his eyes, it is difficult to remember how to see again through just his own one eye, how to feel with just his skin. Loki clings to him, draped over his lap, his clothes in ruin, his limbs shivering and soft. They breathe together, as one lung, and Thor cannot stop himself from seeking the white skin of Loki's neck. His brother moves against him and captures his mouth with his own gasping mouth. His hands spread over Thor's shining arms, caressing, while Thor threads his fingers into Loki's dark, soft hair.

When Loki breaks them apart, it is so gentle that it feels like a promise rather than punishment. Thor moans. "Again." The music is his voice is lost beneath the crush of his desire.

But Loki holds him fast, his panting mouth mere breathes away, only when Thor moves, Loki does not rise to meet him. He shakes his head. "I only wanted to see," he says, as if through a dream. He touches Thor's cheek. His eyes are still shut, and he moves so slowly and clumsily that Thor steals another kiss from him before he can do anything about it.

Thor chuckles. He draws Loki's thumb into his mouth and works the knuckle with his teeth and tongue. Beneath the flickering, golden light, his brother's eyes are nearly black when they open and Thor can hear his naked want calling to his own. Thor grins. "What can I show you, brother?" He shifts a subtle measure and, for a moment, Loki's weight comes off his knees and seats fully into his lap.

Loki's breath catches. He draws his finger from between Thor's teeth and wets his curving lip. He presses his brow to Thor's, shuddering. His voice crackles as he whispers, "How it might feel to be whole."

"What do you mean?" Thor hums. His eye drifts open and then shut, and every time he closes it, he can feel the afterimages of Loki's every thought. He reaches out, touches a stray, cold curl of his brother’s building anxiety, and feels it disintegrate into light. Thor tugs on Loki's hands, kisses the hinge of his jaw and a hard coiling knot of it begin to dissolve. Loki protests faintly but he begins to struggle. Thor clamps an arm around his waist. "No, there, sit there a while," Thor insists, putting his bearded cheek against his brother's beating chest and feeling it scratch though Loki's skin. Loki grasps at his forearm. "Stay," Thor says petulantly. "You said you would stay."

"This is absurd," Loki complains. He shifts on his knees, poorly balanced on the narrow seat. "I am too tall for this."

"I don't care." He touches the back of Loki's hand on his arm and Loki lifts it readily. Thor lines their fingertips together and Loki slips his in between. He wants to put Loki onto his back and learn the taste of his heartbeat through his skin. He wants to touch his hidden thoughts and secret melancholies and learn their every shape and texture. He wants to spread his brother out into pieces, evenly, meticulously, until he is naught but motes of shimmering dust and Thor is the same.

"I do not think I could bear it if you tried for decorum right now." Thor lifts his head, smiling, his throat fully bared, and Loki touches it in wonderment, his protests forgotten.

"I would know..." Thor hears his brother murmur, so low that Thor thinks he might have imagined it. But then Loki smiles. "Take me to bed then." He kisses Thor softly. "I am cold."

Thor lifts him easily, and Loki lets him -- he lets him, god, the things Thor can do now that Loki will let him, now that he is permitted. He sets Loki atop the bedclothes and Loki watches him with unadorned hunger as Thor steps back and works deftly at the clasps and buckles of his chestplate.

"Come," he calls quietly when Thor is sufficiently bare, and he receives Thor into his bed as if he has been doing it all his life. Ensconced within the bedsheets, Loki arranges them so that they are half on top of one another. Thor kisses him again and Loki makes small, infuriating, amenable sounds as his hands drift aimlessly over Thor's skin.

But Thor wants more. He would bring Loki to the very brink of his own body, damp-skinned and pleading for Thor's mercy.

Loki groans and shivers as Thor manoeuvres him beneath his body. He would bend as Thor would bend him; he would unfurl however Thor would unfurl him. Thor knows this. He tastes his brother's anticipation and acquiescence like spilt wine. Already his elegant hands manacle themselves to the crossbars of his headboard at Thor's behest, his flanks and front spread and stretched deliciously for Thor's tasting mouth.

Thor cups his palm beneath the bend of Loki's knee, and lifts it smoothly back. The colours of Loki's mind ignite and darken. "I would know thee by thy body," he says, but it is Loki's oaths that come out. Loki groans. Thor blinks, returns, and slowly grins.

"And I would my body give to thee," Thor finishes. He waits a moment as the disbelief twists his brother's face and then resolves. Loki looks at him, new marvel in his eyes. He surges suddenly and kisses Thor, and then Thor is awash in his brother's soaring relief, his bottomless joy. His mind comes away lurid with the places of his body that Loki has imagined Thor's hands, his mouth. Loki shuts his eyes as Thor lays him back. He covers his face with his wrists. "Yes," he breathes. "To thee."

The great yawning pit of his want joins Thor's in the bottom of his stomach, as Thor fits them together and then fits himself inside.

Loki moves with him, pulled by the same tide, moved by the same moon. The geography of Loki's soul opens for him and Thor arrives upon it softly. Loki fills him, envelopes him, and Thor touches through his every thought and sensation as it passes through his grasp. It will never be enough, Thor despairs, though he is not certain if it is his thought or Loki's when it emerges. This was what Loki had meant; this was the danger all along. They've been given a single mouthful of kindness and now must know what it is to live without. They could each live ten thousand years and spend every minute of it in each other's arms, and it would not be enough.

But Loki shakes his head and opens his dark eyes. "It can be," he says, almost voiceless. "It has to be." He pulls his heels into the small of Thor's back and brings him closer. "I could not bear it otherwise." He winds his fingers into the damp buzz of Thor's hair and pulls him down to him. "Kiss me and let us dwell no more on it," he says, and Thor does as he is told, grateful, overcome, knowing the end but willing for forever.

Power builds within his body, ready and aching. Outside the window, a swirl of cosmic dust churns, violet explosions flashing through violet clouds. He glows beneath his skin, but Loki opens his mouth to him and catches his kiss as if he were tasting rain. He shudders as he comes, as Thor follows him, as Thor's blue lightning fills him, holds him gently, wreathes them both.

Loki allows him fold them together again afterwards, allows Thor to arrange them so that they can see each other as they lay together breathing. Thor's pulse is quiet within him even as his heart hums with one harmonious note. The great storm of his life, the one he had never even known he was weathering, has ended. Thor is clean, new, and the long, long past recedes easily beneath the placid waves. He looks into his brother's smooth, flushed face and he sees his future.

Thor puts his lips to his brother's brow and smiles against his skin. "I adore you," Loki says in a small voice. His fingers tighten at Thor's waist and Thor lifts his chin so that Loki may tuck himself beneath it.

Thor laughs drowsily. "I know that," he says. "You don't know how glad it makes me." Loki's dark hair has fallen from its part and it drags in cool coils across Thor's arm. Thor puts his hand through it, sweeping it back and his brother looks up at him, his eyes sober.

"I do," Loki says. His mind, always working, momentarily quietened, moils once more. Thor frowns. "It is beyond reason, brother. It is more than anything; it is more than life." Placating, Thor touches his cheek and Loki turns into him immediately. He kisses Thor's palm. "You could skin me like a lamb and my last thought would be how I love you," he says fiercely.

Thor turns his face. "I would not," he says, horrified. "I would never." Loki's brows gain a troubled furrow but he looks away, assenting. Thor strokes the furl with his thumb until Loki relinquishes it. He takes Thor's hand and kisses it once more, then lets it slide back into his hair. Thor strokes him and says more softly, "And what does it matter if it is beyond reason, if I am the same?"

"No, but can't you see?" Loki drops his head into Thor's shoulder again. "This --" he gestures miserably. "This is unnatural."

"How do you mean?" Thor lets him hide. If it makes it easier for him, Thor will hide him from himself. "So we are lovers now," he says and feels Loki's breath hitch. "So what? We share no blood, and even if we did, who would challenge it?" He strokes the line of his back until Loki breathes again, however raggedly. "We are kings of Asgard, brother, what authority reigns higher?" A laugh escapes him on a wet, choked breath and Thor rocks him, lightly, forming himself around the warm, solid, precise weight of him.

"Don't cry," he says. "Don't make yourself miserable. We've found each other now. I love you, and I have wanted you all my life." He kisses his brother's damp cheek. "I was blind not to see it before but I do see it now."

Loki pulls back and looks at him. His smile is wistful and pained. "You may say to me every beautiful word that I have ever wished to hear, and it would still be true." He unwinds himself from Thor's limbs and rises up to his elbows. Thor touches his arm, deploring the loss, as Loki wipes at his face with the backs of his wrists. "It is not the quality of love but the quantity of it," he says bitterly. He pulls at Thor's grip. "Let go," he says, quieter. "When you touch me, I can feel you inside my head."

"Yes," Thor accedes cautiously, but he does it anyway because his brother asks, "and you're inside mine." Loki sits up from the bed in one determined movement and slides off the side. Thor sits up as well, alarmed. "What's the matter?"

His brother is at his closet, and Thor watches as, one at a time, pieces dissolve from their hangers and resolve themselves on Loki's skin.

"Loki." Thor crosses the room to where Loki is standing and catches him by the elbow. A wall of dread goes up in his brother's mind, but Thor pushes past it, back into the centre of him. Loki turns to him, expressions of fear and fury, gratefulness and regret warring in the tiny movements of his brow and lips. Thor kisses him, and as before, Loki returns it without hesitation. Thor steeps into it every measure of affection he can muster, every tender feeling and assurance. His brother falters, but he steps into him. His hands waver as he slips them around the back of Thor's neck.

"Tell me what is the matter," Thor says again as he pulls his brother back into his arms.

Loki shakes his head. "You don't understand, I never." His hands fist against Thor's shoulders as Thor absently tucks a strand of his dark hair back behind his ear, and he nearly sobs. Loki takes a breath. "You know nothing; you deserve to know," he bites out. "This is not you or me. We are cursed. Odin cursed us."

Thor flinches at the sound of his father's name before he can stop himself. "What?" he demands. "How?"

His brother laughs wetly. "You know, I hoped you'd be drunker for this. You're always so much more tractable when you're drunk. You don't ask nearly so many questions." He jerks, but Thor's arms have been turned to stone. "Unhand me," he says unhappily.

"No." He can feel his brother's self-recrimination and doubt, his panic like an acid bubbling beneath the an indelible anger. He can feel his need for flight. It hits him like a fist and brings up to the surface all of Thor's own dread, his own terror.

Loki struggles again, but Thor is unmovable. "At least let me finish dressing," he scolds.

"No," Thor intones. "Explain it or don't, it matters very little to me." He looks at his brother, his eyes hard. "What do I care for curses, Odin's or no? Sod him, he was an old man with an old man's schemes. What did he know? My god, Loki, Loki." He holds his brother to him as if that were all that would make the difference, and cups his hand to Loki's face with all the murderous adoration of a cheated supplicant. "If you leave me again after this, I will never forgive you, I swear it."

Loki shakes his head. "It was he who made us like this!" he cries. One more time, he shoves at Thor, and this time Thor lets him go. Loki rounds the room, his hands flying, frantic as loosed birds. "That's why he took me," he says. His eyes are wide, landing on nothing and everything. At last he sits himself again on the edge of the bed. "I was never meant to be your brother." His head sinks into his hands, muffles his voice. "But only that I turned out," he gestures, "as I am."

Ice runs down through Thor's veins. "What do you mean?"

Loki looks up at him from above his fingertips. "Did he never tell you how he lost his eye?"

"Yes," Thor replies, crossing his arms, "he told all of us; it was never a secret. He traded it to the Norns for the wisdom to rule his kingdom."

"Yes," Loki agrees, "to rule, to ensure his line evermore." He breathes deep and sits back, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "Without slander, what do you know about the Jotnar?"

Thor sighs. He is reminded of when they were young, when his brother would try to teach him philosophy by irritating him with questions until he found the answers. "They are giants," he answers dutifully. "They are fierce warriors, they are... Blue?" Loki looks at him expectantly. Thor shrugs belligerently. "I do not know what you wish me to say."

"How do they fight?"

"With their ice magic--"

"Yes." Loki holds up one long finger. "Magic."

Thor rolls his eyes. He remembers this too, when Loki used to lead him to answers and make him feel like an idiot for not grasping their significance. "I do not understand," he concedes.

But Loki keeps going. "Your grandmother, your father's mother, who was she?"

Thor frowns. "I never met her, but she was a great lady of--"

"She was a Jotun," Loki pronounces. He stands back up again and begins pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back as if in recital. "She betrayed her race and coupled with an Aesir, your grandfather, who made her a new body, a white body," Loki gestures to himself, to the pale skin of his torso that Thor had marked in worship. “She, in turn, gave her magic to her many sons, of which your father slew one by one until Asgard was his alone. That is the custom, is it not?"

Thor shakes his head, his mouth dry. He feels like he's falling, like his earth is moving beneath him, and like Loki is the only still point he can conceive, but that he won't hold still. "But I was never asked to slay you."

Loki makes a dismissive gesture. "We'll get there," he says, distractedly, "but for now consider this: your father's line runs thin. He has slain his brothers for his father's kingdom and his mother's magic but neither will have him -- he is not the most worthy, only the most brutal."

Thor feels an old instinct of obligation stir within him to defend the Allfather's name, but what does he know? What has he ever known except for what his father had taught him? He had doubted, of course, but it was ever unspoken, all spoken words too close, somehow, too loud.

Loki continues without mercy, "Odin paid the Norns, and they gave him wisdom." He spits the word. "And when it was time for him to get his get, he married a Vanir witch, your mother."

"Our mother," Thor snaps.

Loki startles, but then he sees Thor's face. "Yes," he concedes, "all right," but he goes to Thor then and slides himself back into the empty spot left next to him. He kisses Thor briefly, just left of his mouth, and then takes his hands and leads him back to the bed. Thor lets Loki sit him down and then himself over his lap. He loops his hands around him at once and lets his brother feed him the warmth and calm of his body.

Loki continues more softly, "Mother gives him Hela, you see, and he crafts her into a killer. But once the killing is done, she outlives her usefulness to him. And so now he needs another child. Someone who will rule after him."

"Me."

"Yes," Loki says, and he lays his long hand against Thor's face. "You, my brother." He says it with a sudden tenderness, as if he were sorry.

Thor swallows his agony so that Loki might see nothing but stone in his face. "Tell me the rest then."

Loki leans his head against his anyway. "Vanir magic is learned, so cannot be given, and it is not true seith," he says. "And Odin will not give up what he killed so many to take. So you are to have no magic of your own, no magic to give to your heirs, no magic for the whole of Odin's line because he cannot let go of anything." He nods in resignation. "So he goes to the source."

"Jotunheim," Thor finishes for him. How the old rage he had felt towards Odin those years back pales now in the light of this clarion fury. He who had cast them as worthy and unworthy, as noble and ignoble, who cast himself as justice and judge -- he who was himself a murderer and a thief. Thor had faced his father's many faults, counted and mourned them and had privately abjured him as a king but loved him still as a father. How can he love him now? "He takes you."

"Yes." Loki sighs, and Thor would keep him here forever if he could, as though he could be shielded from the rest of the world's misery by Thor's body. "I was Laufey's only child, you see. I had the purest blood to share."

"And then?"

Loki begins a gesture with one hand but then lets it drop. "Then he binds us," he says tiredly. "It's a simple enough ritual. Even Odin Death-Bringer could do it. I did--" he says. He swallows. He closes his eyes and leans into Thor. They hold each other up. "I suspected something of the sort," he confesses. "Years ago now, I went to speak to the Norns. They laughed when I asked them to answer my questions. They're greedy, you know. They answer to no one without a price."

Thor's hands tighten along his brother's hip. His pulse is already in his mouth, but the horror comes anyway. "What did you give them?"

Loki waves him off impatiently. "Nothing of importance, nothing you'd miss."

"Tell me anyway," Thor demands.

"I have seen my death."

Terror runs the very heart of him through. "Brother," he rasps.

Loki shrugs evasively. "I don't know when," he supplies, as if that were an assurance.

"Tell me how it happens at least."

"So that you might defy the Norns?" Loki looks at him, and Thor stares back, conceding nothing, stubborn even as he knows the immutability of the fates.

"It is nothing," Loki says at last. "It's innocence, and what good have I ever had for innocence? But they showed me what I wanted, and I found it where they said I would." He holds his hand up and the light of his pocket dimension shines again.

Thor reaches out on numb instinct, alarmed. "Wait, hold on."

But what emerges is nothing he recognizes, only a piece of silver, the size and shape of an egg, striated like the rings of a tree or of a thumbprint. Thor reaches out for it, but Loki pulls it back. "Don't touch it," he says softly. "I don't know what would happen if we both touched it. Nothing good, I suspect. They'll want to go home."

"It's--" Thor begins, but some part of him already knows.

"It's our souls," his brother tells him. It glows, faintly with its own dim light that seems almost blue against Loki's skin. "I found them buried beneath the roots of Yggdrasil. They weren't doing anyone any good there, so I took them. I thought maybe I could work to separate them, but," he shrugs.

"Here," he says. "Hold out your hand." Thor does so, and Loki drops it into his hand from a height. Thor turns it over, examining. It is heavy, heavier than he expected, but the shape does not hold, smoothly amorphous in his palm. The striations, as they had appears, are not striations at all but folds of beaten metal.

"Why?" he asks. It had been warm to the touch at first, but quickly he feels his skin going numb as if of cold. He tosses it into his other hand. The vessel warms comfortably this time even as Thor flexes his fingers until the feeling returns.

Loki twists his hands together in his lap and shrugs. "Odin needed to bind me into his line somehow, and so he did it in the most obdurate manner possible." A color of deep shame crawls up his pale shoulders. "You were to be my collar and my chain and now you see now how gladly I would have worn them. How happy I would have been to let you unmake me. What a different life we might have had--" His voice pitches and cracks, Thor reaches to steady him, but he regains himself.

"But as it turned out, I could not take up the necessary utility to give you heirs, and so he was forced to made us up this farcical brotherhood. It wasn't his fault," he says sardonically, "how was he to know? What difference is a Jotun man to a Jotun woman to a Jotun dog to an Aesir. We are all monsters after all."

Thor is frozen within himself. The whole of his history, of Asgard's history, has been turned on its head, and he would say that his brother was lying; he wants to believe that his brother is lying, except that he feels Loki's misery and fear and repudiation. He feels Loki's sour heartbeat in his own chest.

"Loki," he says, but Loki is gone from him, and though he holds the weight and warmth of him, he might as well hold to him an armful of air. He has so many questions and no way to ask them, no words that he can put together that will not cut his brother deeper than the wound he has already opened himself. "I'm sorry," he says instead. "Truly I am. If I had known --"

"What?" Loki turns to him. Every line shows on his face, and his eyelids droop in exhaustion. "What could you have done? You were a child, same as me, and Odin's crimes, such as they are," he gestures dismissively, "he will never pay for them." He draws himself back and slides from Thor's lap.

Thor doesn't know where he stands again, doesn't know where to begin. Gone is the certainty they had only just discovered as Loki crosses the room again and finishes dressing himself by hand. Thor watches him. "It isn't fair," Thor says softly.

Loki scoffs. "I do not tell you this for your pity," he sneers.

Thor shakes his head. "It is not pity, brother." He looks at his brother and silently wills him to look back. "Only that I grieve for you."

Loki sighs. He glances at Thor from over his shoulder. "You're a soft-headed fool," he says more quietly, "but I thank you." He looks down at his gloveletted hands. He is silent for a long while. "I want you, but," he says finally, then stops, and he laughs bleakly. "My god, I wish that I could have come by you honestly." He picks at his own knuckle, twisting the edge of his nail around the white joint.

"I wish that I could have met you in your father's court, or on some matter of diplomacy. I wish I could have glanced you from across a battlefield and felt my breath be taken. Your great and noble heart could have been the greatest prize I ever won, and I could have--" A line of blood splits across his finger and he stops. "We could have had each other honestly."

Thor shakes his head as he watched his brother suck the blood out from his small wound. "You would have hated me," he says hollowly. "I would have been insufferable." Loki's face twists and he scoffs. Thor stands, but goes no further. "I am only am the man I am today because of my brother." Loki looks at him, his eyes red. "I am yours, Loki," he offers quietly, spreading his hands, "as surely as if you had made me.

Loki smiles. "My very own god of thunder." He is fond beneath his bitterness. He sniffs and wipes surreptitiously at his cheeks. "For all that is worth when he cannot be anyone else's."

Thor grimaces. His hands land back at his sides, "I told you," he says. "I don't care a fig for Odin's plans and I still don't. I know my own mind. I told you that I've wanted you forever, since the cradle. Not even you can make me give that up." He knows this now, what a blind man could have seen. When he was frightened, when he was uncertain, when he was in pain, it was never Odin he went to, or Frigga, once he was out of skirts. He went to his brother. He was valiant for his father; he was gentle for his mother, but it was his brother's scorn that taught him to be kind, and, in the end it was his brother's death that taught him what it meant to be king.

If Thor could bring himself to touch him, he could make him know all of this, but Thor has taken from his brother enough to last ten lifetimes. So he tells him instead, "I am yours because without you I would have never been myself. That is fate, as I understand it." Even from across the room, he sees Loki's pale features warring again against his own unkindnesses. Thor finishes as plainly as he can, "One way or another, my life would not have been my life if it did not lead me to you."

Loki takes a step toward him unthinkingly. "I know. I am the same," he says hoarsely, but then he laughs. With the air of telling a good joke, he says, "So you see then, brother, I do belong to you after all. I never had a choice. We never had a choice. But I --" he looks at Thor with an expression full of entreaty. "I have been a slave to his devices my entire life. I cannot even conceive what shape my life might have been without his hand in it, and even now that he is dead, still he has a hold over me."

"I know," Thor says. He reaches out his hand and Loki takes it almost gratefully. He puts his arms around Thor's shoulders and so that Thor is permitted to fold himself around him, to put his cheek into his hair and breathe as if he could stain his lungs with him and keep him next to his heart forever. Loki's mind floods back into his and Thor wills him to quiet where he will be quieted, tries to soothe him where he will not. He murmurs, "It's not right, beloved. It's not fair."

Loki huffs, "Beloved."

"Aye, if that is not too forward."

His brother pauses. "It is proper," he concedes, but Thor feels a floret of pleasure bloom across his heart.

Thor laughs quietly. "Then, beloved, go. You owe me nothing, and I do not bind you. It was shameful of me to have tried." Loki pulls away and looks at him, confused, but Thor only kisses the angle of his temple and says, "I cannot right the wrongs that have been done, but I will do no more."

He steps back away from Loki and takes his hand in one of his. From the other, he produces the silver vessel. Its light pulses gold and warm in his palm.

"My brother," he says solemnly, "your lot is my lot, your hurts are my hurts, and if your soul belongs to you alone no longer, then neither does mine."

Loki clenches Thor's hand and shakes it insistently. "Brother, you don't know what it is you're offering."

Thor gazes at him soberly. "You said it yourself, what good is it doing anyone buried beneath that tree. You said they wanted a home."

"Yes but," Loki shakes his head, "you will never get it back. They will go evenly between us and, Thor, someone with greater skill than I might still be able to undo this, but if we do this, that hope is lost."

"What is it that you want?"

Loki's eyes search his face wildly. "I--" he stammers. "It's you, isn't it?" He looks bewildered and awed. "You know that. It's always going to be you."

Thor offers up his hand again. "Take me with you, then," he says, "whatever you can carry. Whatever you can fit inside your pocket." Loki laughs. His eyes are wet again but perfectly clear. Thor leans their heads together. "I can imagine you walking the skies and slipping between the stars. I can imagine the world’s only you can discover -- green worlds brimming with life. Crystalline worlds that the suns never shine. And maybe one day," he says, hushed, "when you've walked your fill, you will return, and I will welcome you into my hall and then, if you would like to stay, you can stay."

His brother breathes out quick and Thor can feel the tendrils of his breath caressing his face. "You have beautiful dreams," he whispers. "I used to wish I could live inside your dreams."

"I have never heard of a Jotun wanderer. I should like to think that my brother could be the first."

Loki nods but he says, "Wouldn't I be lonely, though? Walking alone." A beat. "I have never heard of an Aesir wanderer either."

Thor hums. "No, I suppose the Aesir are a warrior people. There isn't much wandering to be had save the travel of fighting."

"Would you come with me, if I asked you to?" Loki lays his hand carefully over Thor's chest, over his heart. "Would you walk the stars with me together?"

"Ah," Thor says, even as he feels Loki spinning tales inside his mind, great adventures across the stars, grand discoveries, quiet moments when the two of them can be alone. He pushes them gently aside. "But Asgard must have her king, but more than that, her chief protector. I cannot leave her as she is, vulnerable and unguarded."

"Brother, please," Loki says, pulling back and looking Thor fiercely in the eye. "You have spent your entire life in service of Asgard. I know," he says hastily before Thor can interject, "that that is what a king is, but even now that you are king, will you not have one thing for yourself? One dream?" he asks, his smooth voice making it sound so reasonable. "One thing that can be unquestionably and only yours? You are more than what you can do for others. You are so much more than a strong back that carries. My love, please," he says as he presses his lips to the palm of Thor's hand. "You have never had a choice either."

"No," Thor accedes, touching his brother's stained cheek, "but I would see these people safe from harm"

"And if they were safe, and then?" Loki asks breathlessly. "When there are no more wars to be waged or conquests to be had? When you have done your duty to these people, what then?"

"Then." Thor frowns outwardly, but he knows. In his heart, he knows. Kingship is sacrifice; it is a duty greater than his duty to himself. These people have nothing and want for everything, except for a king. How could he take that from them as well?

But I don't see why you can't just play along, says his brother's voice, so Thor lets himself smile slowly. "Well, I don't know. Where would you want to go first?"

Loki's face breaks then, as a storm that ends, as a new day that dawns, his smile warmer and brighter than all the sunlit summers Thor has ever known. He leans into the line of Thor's body. One hand fits into Thor's as their bound souls take up, at last, their rightful thrones. Thor feels hot and the cold and then nothing new in particular. Perhaps that is what it feels like to be whole, or perhaps it is simply only something that Thor has already found.

Loki's other hand curls gently over Thor's thundering throat. He says, "Then I can be happy--"

A moment later, his world explodes.

#thorki #thor #loki #thor/loki #accessibility for people who can't get on ao3 for whatever reason #soulbond but make it cursed #this is supposed to be post Ragnarok and literally minutes before infinity war #the idea is we take all the bad characterisations in IW and endgame and we give them context and weight so that they are sad instead of suc #be ready to see a lot of this shit bc i have a lot of notes to post about this fic #internal thor tag #internal thorki fic tag

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just-another-ficwriter · 4 years

Text

Ghostin’

Pairing: Bucky x Reader, Steve x Reader (Past)

Words: 1300ish

Warnings: Heartbreak, angst, mentions of being shot, blood

Summary: She can’t help the pain she feels, Bucky just wants to fix it.

Notes: Based on the song Ghostin - Ariana Grande

Neither of them saw it coming.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her.

But now here he is, laying in her bed, their bed, and he can feel her beside him with every harsh rise and fall of her chest.

He can hear her laying there.

Even if he pretends he can’t.

It’s been 586 days since Steve left her, left him, behind and sometimes it still feels as raw as those first few hours.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

Shallow, hollow, breathless.

She looks so much smaller here now, than he remembers her just a mere few weeks before.

Her voice is raspy, it catches in her throat and comes out in a choked whisper. He’s the first one she’s spoken to in days, the first person she’ll let anywhere near her and still, she doesn’t look up. She just stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the wall, barely blinking.

He doesn’t know what to say, but she doesn’t need him to speak anyway, just needs someone there, someone to listen to her, someone to keep her company so she doesn’t fall further into the hole she’s already struggling to escape from.

And who better than Bucky Barnes; a man who knows exactly what she’s going through. A man that probably feels as broken as she does.

“It hurts Buck.” A sob erupts from her chest, sucking in air that burns its way through her lungs and Bucky almost collapses at the sight. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Bucky had always been sure he could never hate Steve no matter what he did, but right now he was pretty damn close.

Sometimes Bucky forgets she’s not the same person he found in that room. He can still see it though, the pain hidden behind her eyes so skilfully, while she pretends it doesn’t exist.

Sometimes he catches himself tip toeing around her like he had that night, never wanting to cross the wrong line, never knowing the right thing to say, even now.

After all this time, after everything they’ve shared, he still doesn’t know how to fix this.

He doesn’t know how to stop the nights she cries when she thinks he can’t hear.

Days, weeks, months.

Bucky loses track of time, let’s it’s slip through his fingers. He doesn’t count the nights he spends sneaking across the compound, seeking her room in the dark, never thinking twice when she calls him.

He listens to her as she lets it all out. Listens when she curses Steve out for loving Peggy more than he could ever love her, listens to her cry over the fact he choose to go back to his past instead of furthering any future they could have had.

Sometimes he cries too.

Two broken souls, searching for something they’ve lost, within each other.

They’re the only two that can really understand how the other feels. And there’s something oddly comforting about that.

It’s the guilt now, that consumes her more than anything.

Guilt that she still cries over a man that left her while lying next to another that makes her feel nothing but love.

Bucky had been her saviour, her anchor, her sanity.

And she repays him with loud nightmares, calling out for Steve while she’s asleep, silently wishing he hadn’t left so she didn’t have to feel this kind of pain.

She loves Bucky, yet she keeps breaking his heart.

164 days pass before she attempts to resume her normal life.

There’s no baby steps, no easing her self into it over time, no precautions. Nothing.

Instead she leaps, full throttle, no looking back, chasing everything and anything to take her mind off it.

An easy, casual movie night with their friends that she could barely look at once he left, turns into an overseas mission within a week.

Bucky knows it’s too fast, but he’s too afraid to tell her. He doesn’t want to be the reason why the spark in her eyes that’s slowly returning, fades back to darkness so he just agrees to go with her instead.

He doesn’t notice how she’s being careless until it’s too late.

Two bullet wounds, a lot of blood, hours of surgery and Natasha fusses around him like he’s the one that needs looking after.

She can read him like a book and the thought makes him uneasy. He knows she can see it too, the lines are becoming blurry, feelings are getting confused.

He barely survived Steve leaving, he’s positive he won’t make it through losing her too.

Bucky hates the part of him that wishes she’d just let go.

As he stares at the wall ahead of him, keeping his breathing at a steady pace so she doesn’t know he’s awake, he feels his heart ache with the familiar realisation that part of her will always love his best friend.

The thought breaks him.

And just when he’s sure she’s drifted back to sleep, he feels a hand reach for him across the bedsheets, making him do something he hasn’t dared to do before.

He turns around and holds his breath. “You okay doll?”

A blazing argument, heated words, fire in both their eyes.

It’s the both the end and the beginning of something.

Bucky just can’t take it anymore. Three weeks after getting shot she’s volunteering to go back out again and he just sees red.

He refuses to watch her be so reckless, to throw her life around like it means nothing.

Her mission of self destruction had to stop and so he’d screamed at her.

And she screamed right back. Fingers pointing, small hands shoving harshly at his chest, tears in both their eyes.

“Why do you care what happens to me!” She shouts in pure rage, so much anger radiating from her, so oblivious and he just snaps.

“Because I love you Y/N!”

Silence.

She just stares at him, eyes softening a little in realisation and suddenly he thinks he’s done the wrong thing, confessing a secret that had weighed him down with such cruel guilt.

He turns to leave when a soft hand lands on his wrist and gentle lips find his.

“I’m sorry.”

Exhausted, fragile, heartbroken.

She sees it all on his face when her eyes meet his. A sea of blue, his secrets hidden within their depths, and they both fall apart.

He pleads for her to stop, wipes away tears from both of their cheeks, insists she has nothing to apologise for.

But she knows she does. She knows he hears her.

They can’t pretend anymore.

“I don’t know why you’re still here.” It’s stupid and it’s desperate but she says it anyway. Because deep down she really doesn’t understand.

How can a man like Bucky Barnes feel anything for her, when she’s so broken.

“Because I love you Y/N.” He doesn’t hesitate in telling her, two strong hands holding her face so that she’s staring right at him, clinging on to what they have for dear life. He has to make sure she knows he means it. More than anything he’s said before. “I promise nothing will change that.”

A promise he intends to keep.

Even when a heavy hearted Steve Rogers shows up at their door 2 months later seeking Y/N like he never left.

Ghostin’ Taglist: @learisa @im-just-star-dust

#bucky barnes fanfiction #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes one shot #marvel fanfiction #Bucky Barnes edit #Bucky Barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #Bucky Barnes x reader

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kris-shinnie-pride · 3 years

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Leon Kuwata, The Ultimate Baseball Player, is the first Blackened of the first Danganronpa game. We literally barely see any of him. Why am I so attached to a character who didn't even survive through Chapter 1? One word: ✨Projection✨

Also I want people to appreciate him as a character more:(

What we know about Leon:

He has been playing baseball for a while and always hated it, according to the man himself. He hated practice the most and avoided going as much as he could. To rebel against the image everyone expected of him, he dyed his hair, got numerous piercings and grew a goatee. He met a girl who liked rock stars and to impress her he gave up on baseball and started pursuing a career in music instead. Even after all of that, however, in his Free Time Events Leon says that he misses baseball and that he wants to play again, even just a little bit, and so he asks Makoto to play with him.

Personality:

When it comes to how he acts Leon seems fairly laid back and charming. He appears to be a bit of a womaniser as he develops some sort of crush on Sayaka fairly quickly after meeting her. He has a fragile sense of identity ever since who he currently is, is a product of his rebellion in order to spite the authorities in his life. He abandoned his passion because of them and he changed everything about himself to symbolise that fact. When he first introduces himself and Makoto points out how he has physically changed a lot if compared to that one photo where he has a shaved head Leon responds quite aggressively. Kind of like a child throwing a tantrum. He says he refuses to cut his hair and dye it back to normal. He then talks about how much he hates that picture of him and then brings up how much he hates baseball. The Leon we know doesn't know who he is yet. All he knows is that he doesn't want to be what everyone else expects him to be. He wants to feel like he's in control of his own life and so he discarded everything he used to be in favour of what we meet him as.

Defending My Boy:

Leon (if we ignore the fact that memories of 2 years were erased) is in his first year if high school. Meaning that he's 15/16 years old. He is a child. So being put in a situation such as a Killing Game was definitely terrifying for him. Being trapped with a bunch of strangers and fearing being murdered as well as not being able to leave unless you do murder. Being invited to the room of a pretty girl only to be attacked and almost murdered by her but getting away at the last second...and then seeing an opportunity. An opportunity to leave. At the time the rules of the trials were not yet explained so all Leon knew was that he had to kill someone. He didn't know he had to kill everyone else in the process too. So when he saw the chance to strike, the chance to free himself and go home and hate baseball practice again like he used to, he took it. Can you blame him? Again. This is a desperate teen forced in a horrible situation. When it was revealed that you had to kill everyone else to leave or you'd be killed yourself Leon could no longer back down. He couldn't confess. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place and so he had to play the cards he was dealt. And he ended up losing anyway.

Projection Time❤:

Leon do you like baseball or don't you man? I think the answer is yes. Say, if you like a school subject like physics, for example, but you don't like how it's taught in schools or you don't like the teacher or the homework or any other specific part about learning physics. You will start assuming you don't like physics as a subject when that's not the case. Now apply that idea to Leon. He likes baseball but he hates practice, he hates the restrictions surrounding his appearance and he probably hates the pressure of being an Ultimate at the sport. So he concludes that he hates baseball itself. But then he gets away from it all. He isn't forced to play baseball while he's in the Killing Game so he can reflect on his feelings. He then realises that he misses baseball and that what he hates is the circumstances he was forced to play baseball under. Baseball is his passion but that passion was taken away by others who wanted to capitalise off of it. Leon had no passion for a while, so when he had the slightest motivation, in the form of a girl he had a crush on, to chase something else, aka music, he jumped at the opportunity. When you don't know what your passion is then even shallow motivators such as that one will get you excited. I do think Leon liked music too, but it was never his passion. It was rebellion against what everyone expected him to be, against everyone who forced baseball upon him until he got sick of his own passion, it was for the hope of something new to make him excited and to give him the feelings that baseball used to give him, it was for a girl. But it was for him too.

#leon kuwata #danganronpa #danganronpa spoilers #thh spoilers #nef's posts #this is mostly my interpretation on him as a character but yeah❤

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clintbartonswife · 4 years

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i’d trade my life for yours

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier Summary: Jaskier will be loyal to Geralt until his last breath, this he swears. Notes: im sorry. descriptions of torture. mentions rape (not graphic in the slightest, more like an allusion, but tagged it just to be safe), major character death. This is the bad ending, for a nicer ending read the series below :) masterlist || nicer ending (p2)

Jaskier had always felt too much, falling a little bit in love with almost everyone he meets. The seamstress from Beauclair with the deepest green eyes he had ever seen, the knight from Kerack who had muscles the size of Jaskier’s head, the innkeeper and his wife from Rinde who had the warmest smiles he had ever seen.

All loves that he treasured, yet let go after a night or two, the heartache keeping him company until he found another gorgeous person to fall for.

When he finds Geralt at the ripe age of 18 it’s different, for once the bard doesn’t want to leave, a nagging feeling pulling him along the path by the Witcher’s side.

His love grows easily, from that of shallow appreciation of his honey golden eyes to a fierce want to protect his love from those that scorn him in every village they visit, a need to nurture the fragile relationship they were building.

It’s only Jaskier’s luck that the only person to ever intrigue him enough to stay seems to want him to leave, impenetrable walls built around his heart.

So, Jaskier writes songs of their travels, being respectful of Geralt’s boundaries whilst still trying to provide as much tender love and care as he could without scaring the Witcher, all the while falling deeper and deeper in love.

Everything starts to go wrong after the djiin.

He watches through the window as his heart breaks with every thrust of Geralt’s hips, the Witchers disinterest (which he had assumed was general Witchery distance) suddenly making more sense - he just didn’t like Jaskier.

Still the bard stayed, sewing his heart back together with every step he took beside the Witcher. His affectionate touches didn’t falter, not allowing his own personal hurt to affect his Geralt negatively. He still deserved as much softness as he could bring himself to provide - Melitele knows Yennefer wasn’t providing that.

Jaskier funnelled all of his creative energy in to his songs, more and more of them staying in his private notebook, too personal to be sung in front of Geralt, let alone the general public.

After each time they met with Yennefer, Jaskier was there to pick up the broken pieces the Witch left behind, baring the brunt of Geralt’s bad mood for a week after she had gone, heart chipping a little more each time as his hatred for the woman grows.

The last straw was the dragon hunt. The whistling winds whipping Jaskier’s hair in his eyes as Geralt’s words lashed out at him, vicious and hateful.

In the following two weeks, Jaskier drank to forget, falling back into old habits and into strangers beds with a new desperation.

The young farmer with hazel eyes - not as beautiful as Geralt’s. The miller’s daughter with blonde hair - not light enough.

The people begin to blend together, yet it doesn’t work. The heartbreak still radiates through his body, numbing him from any other emotion.

He’s too drunk to register that Cintra has fallen.

Too drunk to hear the rumours of the bounty on his head.

Too drunk to notice the Nilfgaardian soldiers entering the tavern.

Too drunk to defend himself against their arms that steal him away that night.

When he awakens the next morning, head throbbing with the familiar pain of a hangover, Jaskier is hit with a wave of nausea.

Turning his head to the side, he reaches for the bed-side table, blanching when he finds his arms restrained. It takes a few seconds to register that he’s in unfamiliar surroundings: the distinctly tavern smell (of weak ale and piss) gone, the slightly scratchy linens of the bed replaced with a hard wood surface.

Unrestrained panic swelled up in the bard’s chest, his instincts kicking in as he tried to mimic sleep.

‘Just breathe slowly, keep your eyes closed and stay calm’ repeated through his brain, sounding suspiciously like Geralt’s voice.

“-the bastard up yet?”

“He wasn’t the last time I checked, no sir”

“And no sign from the Witcher?”

“None sir”

Jaskier heard a scoff as the door opened, two sets of feet stopping at the side of the chair. Unnerving silence fell for a few seconds, before a heavy kick was given to his ribs, punching the air from his lungs in a loud exhale.

“Now listen here, bard” the bigger of the two men all-but-growled, looming over Jaskier as the singer blinked heavily to clear the daze that had settled over him, “We’re going to make this real simple. You tell us what we need to know, and maybe we wont kill you”

Scrunching his nose in disgust, Jaskier considered his options, “What is it that you want to know?”

Another scoff.

“Maybe he’s not so useless after all” the tall man sneered, exchanging an amused glance with the man stood in the corner, “Tell us where the Butcher of Blaviken is”

Self preservation was forgotten as the nickname stirred up anger deep inside Jaskier, the unfairness choking him, “I’m afraid I don’t know any butchers, not the biggest fan of hanging around long enough in towns long enough to befriend anyone in that profession I’m afraid”

That earnt him a sharp slap, the sting helping to ground him.

“Don’t try to be smart. Where is the Witcher - Geralt of Rivia?”

“Oh, I do know him” Jaskier answered, tone kept light and conversational, “Of course I haven’t seen him in months so I’m afraid I’m really of no use to you gentlemen”

Another slap.

“Now that must be a lie. Why would the Witcher leave his little whore behind?”

Now that one stung, the frown forming on Jaskier’s face before he could stop it.

“Aw, struck a chord with that, did I? He found someone else I assume - though Melitele knows how anyone can lay with a monster like -”

Rage finally overflowing, Jaskier spat in the man’s face, “How dare you call him a monster. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be”

A bitter chuckle, followed by a punch that left the bard tasting copper.

“I think you might actually be in love with that thing” he said, amused, “That just makes this all the more fun”

Jaskier held eye contact with the man, glowering as he slowly spat out the pooled blood onto the floor.

“Tell me where he is”

“No”

Two punches to his stomach, and a hard kick to his shin.

“My sister hurt me worse than that for stealing her brush when we were seven” Jaskier sneered.

“Where is he”

A backhand across the face, followed by three hard kicks to his ribs.

“Toss a coin to your-”

Another heavy kick to his stomach, winding him slightly as he keeled forward, a burning pain spreading over his chest.

“Oh valley of plenty” he wheezed, forcing his head back up to stare at his captor’s face.

The day carried on very much the same, Jaskier working through his repertoire of songs as he was beaten black and blue, the lyrics keeping him focused and alert.

The man in the corner just stood and watched, his silent presence looming over the beating.

“I must say” Jaskier eventually huffed, directing his words at the man in the corner, “Your indifference to this situation is highly annoying. Are you not enjoying the performance?”

His question was met with another heavy hit to his stomach, the skin there surely covered in a patchwork quilt of forming bruises.

“You bore me”

The voice was cold, cutting through the pain like a knife and replacing all feeling in his body with the need to flee, an innate wrongness surrounding the man.

He stepped forward into the light, pink eyes flashing at him, “I think it’s high time we shut you up”

The taller man grinned, a shark-like expression that just added to the bard’s discomfort, moving behind him to grab him by the sides of the head, tilting him so that his neck was bared to the room.

They’re going to slit my throat, Jaskier thought absently, half delirious with pain, this is it.

The slimy tendrils of magic prodding at his mind made Jaskier’s eyes widen in panic, struggling against the bonds in a fruitless effort to get away from the unsettling sensation.

No. No this was so much worse.

He could handle pain. He could handle taunting words and harsh treatment. The one thing Jaskier couldn’t handle was fucking mages.

“No - “ he gasped, voice distorted by the angle of his head, “please-”

Yellow eyes. Lips curled in to a snarl.

The mountain.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

No. No no no no no no no. Not this. Anything but this.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, its you, shoveling it?”

White hair. Curled fists.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands”

Wet eyes. Shattered heart. A wasted life.

“Damn it, Jaskier!”

And it looped. Again, and again, and again,

“Ready to talk, bard?”

His eyes fluttered open, eyelids heavy, fighting to remain closed.

“Fuck. You” he hissed, words mangled through gritted teeth.

The mage smirked, fingers reaching for his temple again, “Very well. It seems like one hour wasn’t enough”

The last thought Jaskier had before being pulled back to the mountain was one of horror, that one hour had felt like an entire day.

When he came to once more, Geralt’s voice still ringing in his ears, Jaskier realised there was a new man in the otherwise empty room.

“Going to talk yet little birdy?” the man asked, voice far too light for the circumstances, his posture reminiscent of those that approached him in taverns with hopes of charming him into bed that night.

The realisation occurred to him as he noticed his hands were free, a rusty cot added to the corner of the room.

“No” he whispered, the horror palpable in his tone.

“Well that’s too bad” the man sneered, his too-rough hands dragging him out of the chair and towards the cot.

The irony was that in that moment Jaskier would’ve given anything to have been back on that mountain, Geralt blaming him for everything, rather than be faced with his current reality.

Of course, the mage wasn’t kind enough for that.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how many days had passed since his capture.

What he did know was this: his throat was too sore to speak, ruined from both abuse and lack of water; his body was so mottled that it looked like he had begun rotting, greenish-yellow marks covering almost every inch of his skin; his back shredded by the impromptu whipping session earlier that morning; and he wasn’t sure he could muster a smile, even if informed of the untimely and gruesome death of Valdo Marx.

But, no matter what they threw at him, he would not betray Geralt.

He had made this vow to himself during a quiet moment on (what he guessed was) the second day, that no matter what faced him - be it further torture, mutilation and eventually death - he would not speak a word of the little information he knew.

He may have ruined Geralt’s life, may have annoyed him with his incessant and unwelcome company, but one thing Jaskier could give him now was his undying loyalty, the one thing that no one could take away from him.

They wouldn’t take away his love.

So he breathed steadily as he looked as his hands, tied down firmly to the arms of the chair, taking in every detail of the calloused fingers that made him the famous bard that he was today.

“Last chance. Where is the Witcher”

Jaskier just grinned, the smile bloody and insincere.

“Fucking your mother I would imagine” he croaked, withholding the wince of pain from the strain on his throat, instead widening his grin at the look of anger on the man’s face.

With a growl, the man brought the hammer down heavily on Jaskier’s left ring finger, smiling sickeningly at the bard’s agonised scream.

“Where is he?”

Head fuzzy with pain, Jaskier scowled and spat his blood in the man’s eyes.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed around the small room, Jaskier’s scream ringing out as another two fingers were smashed.

The line of questioning continued until all of his fingers were unrecognisable, the bard humming ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ through tears as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

“What a shame” the captor said, fake sympathy swimming in his cold eyes, “Looks like you’re worth even less than you were when we found you. What worth is a bard if he cant play anymore?”

The man pretended to think, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Of course! A brothel worker!” He paused, tutting again and shaking his head, “No you cant even be that, we’ve made you far too ugly”

Jaskier tried to ignore his words, focusing on his rattling lungs instead, forcing them to inhale and exhale.

Unconsciousness crept forward, the pain finally overwhelming him, Jaskier falling into it’s open arms gladly.

“-cher isn’t coming for him. We’ve had the word out for two weeks and got nothing”

The words drifted in to Jaskier’s cell, the conversation prying him from sleep.

“So what do we do? The bard’s not talking”

“We were meant to give a destination by yesterday”

“So we make one up, blame the bard when it comes back empty”

“… That could work”

“Then I’m guessing we kill him afterwards?”

“Theres no reason to keep him”

“Well-”

“You’re not using army funds to feed just so he can be your personal whore, Cahir would skin you alive if he found out”

Jaskier huffed a laugh at that - the realisation that his worth had finally been reduced to what his father had called him all those decades ago, ‘a worthless whore’, ‘useless to polite society’.

The conversation carried on, though Jaskier’s mind drifted, thoughts racing yet head surprisingly clear. He shifted in his seat, only slightly to the left, wincing as the healing whip wounds on his back pulled open again, the stinging pain keeping him tethered to consciousness.

Not for the first time, he wondered where Geralt was. Safe, that he was sure of, hidden from the greedy eyes of the Nilfgaardian army if their unhappiness was anything to go off of.

Had he found Cirilla yet?

Was Roach okay?

Was he taking proper care of himself?

And - in even his lowest moments - he found himself wondering how Yennefer was.

If she was handling the break-up better than he did.

If she was safe, happy, looked after.

Or maybe, perhaps even back with Geralt. The three of them playing happy families while Jaskier rotted in a cell and waited for a hapless death.

Being on your deathbed gave you a lot of perspective, Jaskier had realised, and he found it hard to even hate Valdo on occasion (until he regained some energy from a piece of stale bread thrown at him and immediately felt disgusted that the thought had even crossed his mind).

As the fog in his brain seemed to seep into his dimming vision, his thoughts returned to Geralt’s eyes.

“Goodnight my love”

The news reached Geralt as they were passing a backwater town.

“The bard Jaskier - I swear it was! They dragged him out t’wards the Nilfgaard base”

“Tom stop jabbering, they would’a been shouting that from the rooftops if they got ‘im”

Coldness seeped into the Witcher’s bones as the words registered in his brain, his eyes flying to Yennefer. The sorceress was looking at him with pity in her eyes.

“I can try scrying-”

“Please”

Ciri watched in awe as Yennefer set up her equipment that night in their camp, bouncing with barely restrained curiosity at all the new instruments that the mage seemed to summon from nowhere.

The young princess’ enthusiasm calmed Geralt slightly, focusing on her youthful movements instead of the dread that settled over him at the thought of Jaskier’s current situation, guilt hitting him every few minutes as he replayed their last conversation.

‘If life could give me one blessing-’

“He’s in Neunreuth” Yennefer said, looking up with a solemn expression, “in a Nilfgaardian fortress”

“They were right” the Witcher breathed, utterly defeated.

“So we’re going to get him right?” Ciri asked, enthusiasm now dampened by the morose mood emanating from the two adults.

“Of course”

Yennefer quirked her eyebrow at his firm reply, before nodding in agreement, “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow”

Geralt knew the second he stepped out of the portal that something was wrong.

“He cant be here” he thought aloud, “It’s been abandoned”

Yennefer frowned, her expression telling him everything she refused to say out loud, “He’s here”

“No”

Striding forwards, the Witcher advanced on the old manor house, nose picking up on the scent of Jaskier’s blood the second he reached the front door.

“No!”

Strides turned in to a sprint as he chased the scent, denial still swirling through his brain as he got closer and closer to the muted wildflower scent.

“Jaskier”

The name fell from his lips as his knees gave out from under him, the sight of his bard’s limp body hanging from the chair punching all the breath from him. The smell of rusted blood was overwhelming, a pool in the corner dating back months.

Geralt sat there, disgusted by himself as he imagined how long Jaskier had waited for him to come and rescue him, how long he had stayed faithful to a monster.

He wasn't worth Jaskier’s life.

He wasn't aware he was crying until Yennefer laid a hand on his shoulder, “Geralt-”

“No” he hissed, struggling to his feet and moving over to the bard, “he cant be dead - he -”

Eyes wild, he turned around to face the sorceress, rising to his full height, “Fix him. I know you can - you did it last time”

“Geralt-”

Anger overtaking him, he pulled Jaskier’s limp body into his arms, unaware of how much his own hands were shaking.

“FIX HIM. YOU NEED TO FIX HIM NOW”

“Geralt stop”

“YOU NEED TO FIX HIM” he shouted, falling to his knees again, cradling the cold body in his arms as he sobbed, “Please fix him, Yen I need - I need you to fix him please”

The woman sighed, brushing a hand over Jaskier’s temple, looking for any sign of life.

“He’s gone"

Geralt’s cries could be heard in the next village over, lasting well into the night.

Not long after, tales of the White Wolf, Princess of Cintra and the Raven Sorceress were spread far and wide, the image of Cahir’s head on a stick engraved in the public’s minds.

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onemilliongoldstars · 4 years

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 32

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

32/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Three: Chapter 11

Lord Pike’s eyes are as cold and merciless as the ice of The Wall, and there is not a flicker to them as his hands tighten around her neck, an iron band cutting into her skin. He does not seem to hear her gasping cries, or feel the prying of her fingers, her nails digging so deep that warm, sticky blood spills across their skin. She tries to feel around behind her, but there is nothing she can use as a weapon, and his weight is so heavy on her chest that she can scarcely breathe. When she opens her mouth to scream again, no sound comes out and his eyes glint, his fingers tighten. Her head spins, and she reaches up to claw at his face, his eyes, her nails scouring through his skin until it looks as though he has been mauled by a wild beast. Beneath her fingers, his skin begins to crumble, and she watches in horror as it peels away in long, bloody strips, falling away to reveal an empty face behind it.

The touch to her shoulder jars her so violent that she startles awake with a gasp, jerking away from the touch. Through the dim light she makes out Harper’s figure, holding out a candle and hesitating over her.

Her eyes are creased with concern, one tendril of curled hair falling out from her braid as she takes a slight step back. “I’m sorry, your majesty, you wanted to be woken before the dawn?”

Her breath seems to return to her in staggered stages, and she pulls air back into her lungs. Her voice is weak and broken when she answers. “Yes, yes I’m sorry Harper. I was just startled.”

Concern still lingers at the corners of Harper’s gaze, but she gives a nod and turns away to light the tapers around the room and stir the fire into life.

Clarke pulls in a slow, unsteady breath, watching her with vacant eyes. Her fingers ease up to touch softly at her neck, the ghost of a bruise tingling beneath her fingertips. It seems impossible that her nails are not caked in blood, and her throat not hoarse with screaming, and bile rises in her throat when she thinks of Pike’s skin falling away into her hands.

Harper must sense her disquiet, because she breaks the silence with mindless words as she draws the water and warms it over the fire. “The weather should be fair today, your majesty. The sky was as pink as a peach last night. Summer will be here before we know it.”

“Yes,” Clarke eases herself slowly from the bed, wriggling her toes against the cold slabbed floor. “I do so long for it.”

“We all do,” Harper smiles, and steps behind her when she settles into the chair in front her looking glass. “Will you wear your crown today, your majesty?”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head, reaching out to run the pad of her thumb over a rose petal in the vase before her. “For today, I think I would like to forget I am the queen.”

The sun has risen by the time she descends the final sandy steps onto the private docks behind the castle. It is already a warm day, and she is glad of the hazy, light fabric of her dress, baring her back and her arms just as she used to when she was young and care free in Highgarden. Her hair is pulled back into soft golden braids, a golden, rose shaped clasp keeping them together, and a light stole is draped over her arms, in case the weather turns. The dock is quiet in the morning sunshine, but for Lexa, Anya and Lincoln, waiting patiently beside the low, bobbing pleasure barge. Lexa is dressed more lightly than Clarke has ever seen her before, with britches and a white linen shirt, pulled with a honeycomb stitch at the top of her arm. Her tunic bares her arms and is fastened down its front with silver direwolf pins, her hair pulled back in a simple braid.

As she approaches Lexa turns and offers a smile so wide she is caught off guard for a moment. Gone are their secret smiles of the past, shared glances hidden in the embers of their forbidden love, and in its place is something that seems to have risen from the spring itself, its head turning to the new sunlight. Her heart stutters, as it hasn’t since those fateful days in Winterfell so very long ago, and she feels a flush rising to her cheeks as Lexa nods her greeting.

“Clarke.”

“Lexa.” She returns, as she crosses the final few steps that separate them. She has to dig her nails into her hand to keep from reaching out and touching Lexa, so great is the depth of her feeling. Though they cannot be heard here, there may still be eyes watching, and it wouldn’t do to stir any unrest in the people. “Have you been waiting long? I apologise, I slept poorly.”

“No,” Lexa’s brows twitch with concern at her words, but she doesn’t comment. “No, not long at all.”

“Your wolves are not with you,” Clarke observes, as they fall into step walking down the dock together towards the pleasure barge. When Lexa shakes her head, Clarke cannot help but press, eager and curious. “I have never seen you without them.”

They come to a stop beside the barge and Lexa turns to look at her with eyes that see straight to the deepest parts of herself. “Perhaps,” She muses, softly, “they know that I don’t need them, not here and now.”

The words catch at her tender heart more acutely than she expects, and when Lexa offers her hand out to help her down the gangplank onto the barge, she finds that she is trembling at the touch. They board one after the other, their guards accompanying them. The pleasure barge is a long, shallow vessel, towards the front of which a low bench is hidden from the sun by a canopy of hazy curtains. Clarke sinks into the cushions there, and after a moment of hesitation Lexa joins her. The curtains swing about them, and though they are not alone, the illusion is almost as good.

Behind them, Clarke’s most trusted and expert oarsmen push away from the dock so silently and smoothly that she barely realises they are moving until the dock begins to slip away and leave them with only a distant view of the city.

Lexa must notice her glancing over her shoulder, because she asks, quietly. “Are you worried about leaving it behind? If only for the day?”

Clarke pauses and considers her words, glancing back at the imposing towers of the Red Keep, reaching up into the blue sky as if they intend to pluck the sun from its perch themselves. Part of her worries, a part of her that she expects will never stop worrying, but it is not enough to draw her back. “No,” She answers honestly, and Lexa’s smile makes her eyes shine.

As they sail smoothly from the harbour, Clarke runs her hand over the embroidered cushions below them, trailing her fingers across the golden stitching.

“It’s beautiful,” Lexa comments, obviously watching her, and Clarke nods.

“It was made for King Thelonious and his wife, to allow them to leave the city in privacy and luxury.”

“I never met the king’s wife,” Lexa admits, “But I hear she was a beautiful and clever queen.”

“So do I,” Clarke offers her a small smile. “King Thelonious loved her very dearly. He was never the same after her death.”

Lexa’s gaze holds hers. “They were lucky to have each other, even for such a short time.”

Warmth and peace washes over her, as it always does when Lexa looks at her so deeply and truthfully, as if she is the thing she is most sure of in the whole world. Clarke has to glance away, to keep herself from flushing and stuttering like a fool, and after a moment she manages to find her words enough to speak.

“Aden once told me about your mother, he said that she was the only woman your father ever loved.”

“They were very devoted to one another,” Lexa admits, “Or so I have heard,” Her voice changes, catching and breaking over some unspoken emotion. “I never met her.”

Clarke reaches out and twines their fingers together, keeping her voice soft. “You must miss her.”

“No,”Lexa conjures up a smile which is as false as a mummer’s mask. “How could I miss something I never even knew?”

“A bird caged for all of its life will still miss the sky,” Clarke counters, and squeezes their fingers to ease her words. “You can admit it, I won’t think any differently of you.”

“I know you won’t,” Her thumb rubs a gentle circle over the smooth skin of Clarke’s palm.

They are disturbed by Octavia clearing her throat obnoxiously from beyond the hazy curtains. Clarke glowers at the hazy shadow of her shape and she catches Lexa biting back her smile as she calls out.

“Yes, Octavia?”

“Your majesty,” Octavia must take that as her cue, because she puts her head around the curtains and can’t look either of them in the eye when she says. “There are refreshments for you, would you like them brought in?”

Clarke purses her lips, annoyed despite herself, and then nods curtly. “Yes, that would be fine I suppose.”

“Thank you, Octavia,” Lexa puts in, still trying not to laugh at Clarke’s utter lack of manners. They settle back onto the bench as plates of dewy strawberries and goblets of cool, watered down wine are delivered by their guards and set upon the low table before them.

“The sea here is so beautiful,” Lexa comments, as Clarke picks up a strawberry. “So blue and clear and bright.”

“There are legends of mermaids in these parts,” Clarke tells her, offering out the plate of fruits. “Sirens who would steal away sailors’ hearts with their songs and seduce them with their beauty.”

Lexa’s eyes linger upon her face. “I think I understand their plight.”

—-

They finally slow when they reach a spit of land, barely big enough to call itself an island, with sandy shores and a few rolling hills on which long grass and a smattering of trees grow, some hanging heavy and colourful with their fruit. The island has no dock and so their shallow ship simply slows to a stop amongst the sandy shores, bobbing back and forth in the clear water.

Lexa gazes out onto the spit of land and her brows furrow, “Where are we?”

“This is royal land,” Clarke explains, as their guards busy themselves preparing to disembark. “Nobody comes here but the king or queen.” She cannot help but smile at the blush that dusts Lexa’s cheeks when she adds. “We will be completely alone.”

“I see,” Lexa tries to hide her smile, “Would you like me to carry you to shore, my lady?”

“Not at all,” Years of practice with Wells make it easy enough for her to follow Anya and Octavia into the water. Slipping her shoes from her feet, she gathers her skirts in one hand and holds the other out for balance as she slips from their vessel and into the warm, shallow waters. The sand shifts beneath her feet and for one horrifying moment she thinks she might fall, but rights herself just in time.

When she looks back to the boat, Lexa’s astonished expression draws a delighted laugh from her and everything feels light and delicious as she watches Lexa pull her shoes from her feet and follow her into the water. When she too stumbles, Clarke holds out her hand to steady her and Lexa laces their fingers together, holding tightly as they make their way together up to the beach. The sand is warm and soft beneath their feet, and their fingers stay laced together even as they find their feet.

“Ser Lincoln and Captain Snow will go on ahead with the servants, your majesty,” Anya says, once they have approached. “And ensure everything is safe and set up. We will follow,” She indicates to herself and Ser Roan. “Just in case.”

Clarke gives Lexa a wide smile and she feels filled with a childlike glee as she leads the way from the beach to the well trodden path through grass and trees.

“Where are we going?” Lexa looks to her, expression open and curious, and Clarke squeezes her fingers.

“You’ll see.”

They tread their way carefully through the undergrowth, their shoes still held in their hands. Beneath their feet, the grass is as soft as sheepskin, warm from the sun and sandy, and Clarke luxuriates in the feeling as she walks. Together, they make their way to the highest point on the island, their fingers never untangling from one another, exchanging soft conversation. Though the air is warm and the sun glows down upon them, it feels as if they are back at Winterfell again, sitting in the library or walking the battlements, so comfortable is their quiet conversation.

“This place is beautiful,” Lexa says, as they walk through a grove of orange trees. “So quiet and peaceful.”

“The best is yet to come,” Clarke promises, with a smile, and guides them into a clearing.

Still shaded by orange trees, before them the gentle rise they have been climbing falls away sharply into the sea, and the view it exposes is a breath taking expanse of crystal blue waters. In the distance, the mainland is visible: the tall towers of the Red Keep and gathered around it like sycophants the rusted tile roofs of the city. Upon the ground are spread rugs and cushions for them to lounge on, hazy strips and fabric hanging from the trees to keep the hot midday sun from their faces, and a spread of breads and cheese, meats and fruits, is awaiting them.

Lexa casts her a shy, surprised smile. “You planned this.”

“Of course,” Clarke fights against the beam that is threatening to spread across her features. “Won’t you sit, my lady?”

With a smile Lexa sinks onto the floor, settling upon the cushions. She turns back to their combined Queensguards as Clarke follows her, and waves her hand to them. “We are perfectly safe here for the moment, you may all go.”

Octavia and Anya exchange a disgruntled glance, but when Clarke nods her agreement they move away reluctantly, peeling back into the trees until you could almost forget they were there. They are suddenly as alone as they ever are, but there are no nerves now and when Clarke looks up into Lexa’s face she feels contentment shine through her, like the sun into a darkened room.

“I can understand why you missed your home when you were with us in Winterfell.” Lexa tells her, once they have both settled back into the cushions, so close that they are almost touching. “Truly, this place is beautiful.”

“Oh, Kings Landing is not my home,” Clarke shakes her head, and curls fall over her shoulders. “Even now, it is nothing compared to Highgarden.”

“We’ve never really spoken about Highgarden,” Lexa gazes down upon her, “You have seen every inch of my home and yet I know almost nothing about yours.”

Something pinches in her heart at the mention of home and she has to avert her gaze, running a stray thread of embroidery from one of the cushions between her fingers. “Highgarden is like… a dream compared to Kings Landing. The sun always shines and the sky seems to go on forever and ever.”

“Tell me about your favourite places to go, when you were growing up there?” When Clarke looks at her, surprised by her words, Lexa explains, with the most earnest tenderness. “I want to know you Clarke, all of you.”

The smile that has been tugging at her lips appears, unbidden and difficult to shake away. “Once I learned to ride I used to love setting out into the rose fields alone. Our lands went on for leagues, I could ride for a whole day and never meet anyone who bore me ill will.” She glances at Lexa from beneath her lashes and watches the queen’s face begin to colour under her hooded gaze as she continues. “When I became older and young lords began calling I would ride with them out to the orange grove or the orchards of peach trees, and we would find some shadowy place to hide away.” She has the distinct pleasure of watching the blush settle and darken upon Lexa’s cheeks, and laughs quietly at the sight.

Lexa makes a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat, but leans in to accept the strawberry Clarke offers as a peace token. The juice spills over her fingers and across Lexa’s lips, and Clarke struggles to tear her gaze away as Lexa’s tongue darts out to catch the sweet droplets. Her breath comes out in a soft sigh, and Lexa’s eyes are dark, even as she draws herself reluctantly away. Clarke pours them both a goblet of wine, desperate to drown out the yearning hum that has settled in her breast, but when their fingers brush together, the touch of Lexa’s warm hands sends a shiver through her like she has never felt before and she feels like a young maid again.

Lexa’s eyes flicker to her, as green as the leaves that stretch for the sky around them, and Clarke feels almost breathless at the sight. Lexa finally tearing her eyes away only barely helps her claw back her sanity, and she takes a long draft of her wine to hide her flushed cheeks, though she is sure it barely works.

“I’m sure you charmed many young lordlings into giving away their heart to you.” Lexa finally jokes, her voice weak, but Clarke laughs obligingly anyway.

“There were several marriage proposals,” She admits, at last, sharing a teasing smile with Lexa. “But none who were remotely suitable.”

“It is a fair archer who could ever catch the heart of a Lady Clarke Tyrell,” Lexa’s voice is soft and her eyes glance away to the view, as if afraid of what she will see in Clarke’s expression.

Unable to help herself, and unsure why she should, Clarke reaches out and traces gentle fingers over the back of Lexa’s hand, easing it over until she can lace their fingers together and Lexa’s eyes are drawn back to hers again.

“It is a good thing that you shoot so well then,” She murmurs into the space between them. “I would not want to give my heart to any but you.”

Lexa’s breath escapes her in a stutter at her words and when her fingers tighten which affectionate tenderness, Clarke swears her heart stops in her chest.

“I once wondered what it would have been like if we had met before… everything.” Under Lexa’s curious gaze she is powerless but to continue, “If you had to come to Highgarden as a guest of my father and our eyes had met over feasts and dancing.”

“I know what would have happened,” Lexa remarks, her voice so low that Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise. “I would have been helpless before you, Clarke.” Lexa’s thumb tracks a warm stroke over her palm.

“And I you,” She admits, in a whisper. “Of all of the suitors, not one has ever compared to you, Lexa. Sometimes I-” She cuts herself off, suddenly shy and uncertain She has kept her heart so closely guarded for so long, the chains that protect it are stiff and old.

Familiar fingers, warm and rough from years of swinging swords and pulling back bowstrings, nudge at her chin and when she raises her gaze she finds Lexa looking back at her, eyes as soft as summer grass. “You can tell me anything, love.”

The name sounds so perfect falling from her lips and Clarke leans into her touch as Lexa cups her cheek.

“After all we have been through, all we have seen and survived, sometimes I still fear that my love for you will break my heart open.” The words leave her in a rush, and when she glances up at Lexa she worries what she will see in her eyes.

Despite her fears, there is nothing but love in Lexa’s gaze, and when she offers out her arms, Clarke falls into her embrace gratefully, allowing Lexa to wrap her arms around her and press them together so tightly that Clarke feels as if she is sinking into her. She is surrounded by Lexa’s warm scent, pinewood and something sweet and soft, a flora she cannot place, and when Clarke rubs her cheek against her shoulder, her lips skim the exposed skin above her shirt.

“My love,” She speaks with more tenderness and emotion than Clarke has ever heard in any two words. “Clarke, I promise to protect your heart, no matter what. I swear it, before the old gods and the new.”

Clarke’s breath hitches, and she blinks tears from her eyes as she places her hand very carefully over Lexa’s heart, spreading her fingers apart. Beneath her touch, she can feel the steady thrum of Lexa’s heartbeat, and it is like opium to her, spreading peace throughout her body so that her voice is calm and measured when she answers.

“And I promise to protect yours, always.”

Lexa’s hand still rests on her cheek, and when she guides Clarke’s face gently up to look at hers, it feels as natural as breathing to part her lips and breach the space between them, kissing her. Lexa’s lips are soft beneath hers, the fingers that thread into her hair and hold her close- as if she would ever wish to escape this blessed prison- are impossibly gentle. This must be the heaven her Septas told her about, Clarke thinks, absently, for how else could she explain the pure, unadulterated joy that spreads through her at Lexa’s touch. They break apart only when they have to gasp for breath, foreheads pressed together and lips still brushing. She feels as if she is addicted to Lexa and cannot bear to pull herself away, if even for a second. For her part, it seems that Lexa feels the same way, because she does not unwrap her embrace, keeping them so close together that they are sharing breath.

Still, Lexa’s eyes flicker open and find Clarke looking up at her, and her expression shifts with the slightest unease. “Is this alright?” She asks, in a whisper, and Clarke lets out a soft breath of laughter.

“Of course,” She answers, and cradles Lexa’s cheeks in her hands to bring their lips together again.

Lexa’s lips are like a tonic for an ailment she did not know she had. They taste like strawberries and wine, and her skin is soft as butter beneath Clarke’s touch. Their bodies seem to move as if they know exactly where they should be and when, like a dance that they never knew they had been learning, but in this moment Clarke cannot think of any reason she wouldn’t want to be as close to Lexa as possible. Her body shifts and she drops her hand to curl at Lexa’s waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of her linen shirt, until she is pressing Lexa back into the cushions, their kisses becoming hot and heavy and more desperate than Clarke knew love could be.

The brunette gasps for air again, and Clarke takes the momentary respite to continue pressing her lips to Lexa’s jaw bone, tracing its sharp ridge with her kisses, worshipping the valley of her neck until Lexa runs a tender thumb over her cheek and draws her up. She kisses her quickly, though there is nothing chaste about it, it is all fire and passion, as if she cannot help herself, and then says, her voice breaking over her ragged breaths.

“Clarke, I don’t- We have to stop now if-”

“I don’t want to stop.” Clarke insists, and presses back into her love like Lexa is air and she will suffocate without her. “Please, please Lexa.” When still the northerner hesitates, Clarke adds, a desperate yearning to her voice. “You are the only person I will ever love like this,” Her throat is tight and she brushes away the tears that slip down her cheeks impatiently. “Please, Lexa. Please let me love you and know what it is to be loved in return.”

Gentle fingers curl around hers, stilling her furious movements, and Lexa meets her eyes with green so deep Clarke thinks for a moment that she can smell clover fields and a fresh spring rain. Tenderly, she runs her thumbs over Clarke’s cheeks, catching her tears. “All I want is to love you,” She admits, in the quietest of whispers.

When their lips meet again, it is with the softest of whispers of a sigh, and it feels to Clarke more like a homecoming than any journey’s end she has experienced before. Lexa falls back against the cushions beneath her, hands around her hips urging her to follow, and when Clarke fumbles a little settling herself above her, they exchange a slight, nervous chuckle which brings them back together again.

The feeling of Lexa’s body beneath hers is like nothing she has ever known. She has ridden the finest stallions and sailed in the fastest ships, she has commanded her enemies to die and killed men with her bare hands, but that is nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline she feels with her legs on either side of Lexa’s body, her hands framing her face like some beautiful portrait.

For some time they are simply lost in one another, kissing and learning one another in a way they have never been afforded a moment to before. The lightest of touch appears at Clarke’s bare leg, where her skirt has ridden up, playing with the fine hairs there, and she reluctantly pulls her lips from Lexa’s to meet her questioning gaze. Lexa seems nervous beneath her, the touch of her fingers is so light that Clarke is sure she will pull them away in a moment if asked, so she reaches down and pulls Lexa’s hand further up her calf, hauling a strangled gasp from her lover.

As Lexa’s hand continues its steady, uncertain exploration of her body, Clarke fingers at the laces that pull the neck of Lexa’s shirt together, giving Lexa her own curious look. As if to answer her question, Lexa sits up a little, and with a moment of awkward struggling, pulls her shirt over her head. Clarke’s eyes widen at the sight of Lexa bared before her. Though she has seen the pale expanse of Lexa’s chest before, today her lover wears no bindings and her breasts stand tall in the center of her chest, nipples already pert and puckering.

The sight is enough to draw an audible gasp from Clarke, and Lexa laughs softly, even when Clarke tosses her a glare. With renewed vigour, Clarke falls upon her exposed skin like a woman possessed, kissing, sucking and nipping every inch, working her way steadily down towards Lexa’s breasts and beneath her the northern queen shivers and whimpers. When she reaches up to cup one, and runs her thumb over Lexa’s nipple, Lexa jolts beneath her, arching up into her touch and letting out a soft moan. It’s enough to heat the pool of desire between Clarke’s legs and she begins to feel herself become uncomfortably wet, shifting a little for fear that she will drip through her light chemise and onto Lexa.

She worships Lexa’s breasts as if they are the statues of the Seven themselves, and she a devoted Septa. Neither is left untended for long, and she delights in the strangled moans she tugs from Lexa’s body with every purposeful stroke of her tongue. Truly, she would have been content to spend the whole day learning how to make Lexa squirm and shiver beneath her, but soon her lover finds her strength again, and she finds herself gasping against Lexa’s skin as her hand travels up beneath her dress, circling the underside of her knee for a moment to give her the chance to stop if Clarke hesitated.

But Clarke is far from hesitating, in fact it feels as though every sensible thought from her mind has vanished other than wishing that Lexa would touch her harder and faster. Their eyes meet as Lexa’s hand continues its journey up her body, both shivering at the intensity of the feelings between them, until finally Lexa’s fingers brush against the hairs around her cunt, and they both still.

“I- I-” Lexa cannot seem to find her words, her eyes suddenly wide, and Clarke shakes her head, silencing her.

“I can show you.”

True to her word, she takes Lexa’s hand in hers and guides her to the touches that she has learnt make her quiver and scream into her bedclothes. Lexa’s fingers feel different to her own, and the touch makes her shiver like she has been trapped in the ice for years, but she encourages her concerned lover to continue. Where her fingers are soft and well practiced in this routine, Lexa’s fingers feel longer and warmer, and though she is still finding her footing she touches parts of Clarke that make her squirm and whimper. Lexa’s fingers run the line of her wet slit, eyes wide with amazement, and when they journey upwards to bump clumsily against her clit, Clarke spasms with desire, a high keening escaping between her lips. At that, Lexa’s eyes flash with hungry desire, and she nudges away Clarke’s guiding hand, her fingers running circles over the sensitive little bud.

She sits up, her free hand grasping at Clarke’s back to keep her steady and close against her. Her lips finding a path from Clarke’s earlobe down to her collarbones, cursing softly when she comes up against Clarke’s dress. For a moment her touches to her cunt hesitate, and Clarke whimpers, grinding her hips wantonly down onto her hand. She cannot bear to think that Lexa might pull away now, and instead she reaches up to pull at the laces and clasps of her own dress with frustration, until the flimsy sleeves fall down her arms and expose her heaving chest.

Lexa makes a delighted noise, falling upon her breasts like she has been fasting for days, and when her lips seal around Clarke’s nipple, she throws her head back and cries out, pressing only harder into Lexa’s touch. Her crest comes too quickly, she feels as if she is galloping towards it on a stallion that she cannot control, and when she falls over the edge it is with a high pitched cry, falling forwards into Lexa’s waiting body.

There are a few moments of uncertainty, as she reaches down to help Lexa work her through the aftershocks, but then Lexa’s arms are around her, easing her tired, sweaty body back into the cushions and holding her close. Lexa gazes down at her, awe shining in her eyes, even as she runs a hand through her hair, brushing the sticky tendrils away from her face.

“That was beautiful,” She breathes, and Clarke can’t help but laugh, even as Lexa continues earnestly. “Truly Clarke, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Thank you for letting me-”

“Thank you,” Clarke tells her, voice low and throaty, and the sound of it sends a shiver through Lexa. Just the sight reinvigorates her, and Clarke clambers back on top of her lover, her dress still tangled around her waist, to press her back into the cushions. Lexa’s widened eyes meet hers and she brushes the softest kiss to her lips, pouring every tender thought she has had into this touch.

“Can I return the favour?”

“I-” Lexa hesitates, staring at her, and her cheeks begin to pink as she says, quietly. “I do not know if I can… I have never…”

“Oh you can my love,” Clarke smiles, “I will show you that you can.”

With that, she begins to trail her way down Lexa’s body again, like an adventurer picking her way through unknown terrain, she takes her time to familiarise herself with every rise and fall of the body below her. Lexa is all muscle and sinew, her body built from years of training and leading an army. It is so different from Clarke’s own softness that she is fascinated by it, by the way Lexa’s breath shifts with she kisses the underside of her breast, by the way she keens and jerks when Clarke places a bite to her ribs. Lexa’s britches are little issue when she comes to them, she simply pulls at the laces and Lexa lifts her hips obligingly to tug them down and reveal dark, wiry, wet hair and the beautiful scent of her arousal.

Carefully, watching her lovers face, Clarke touches her gently, exploring her wetness and watching the way that Lexa’s eyes widen, her breath hitching at certain touches. When Clarke takes her finger, covered in the evidence of Lexa’s want, and sucks it clean, she fears the girl may pass out. Unable to help herself, she leans in and draws the flat of her tongue along Lexa’s slit. Beneath her, Lexa jolts at the touch, a strangled cry escaping her. Clarke looks up, concerned that she’s done something wrong, but then Lexa’s hand curls in her hair and tugs her unerringly back down again, and Clarke smiles into her wetness.

---

It is some time later when Lexa runs her hand through her lover’s golden locks, pushing them back to gaze upon her sleeping face. Clarke’s delicate braids have begun to unravel in their fervour, her hair sticky with sweat, and Lexa feels a twinge of satisfaction in knowing that her restless fingers contributed to such disorder. She knows that her own hair must be equally unkempt, but she cannot bring herself to care about that, or anything else, when Clarke’s sleeping body is resting upon hers.

With the sun dappling the ground through the leaves of the orange trees, everything feels calm and peaceful. This island is like a paradise that their real lives cannot touch, and in that moment she wishes so deeply that they could stay here forever and let the world find its own way. Perhaps Clarke feels her discontent through the beating of her heart, because in that moment she stirs, her eyelids flickering open to reveal blue like the summer sky looking up at her.

Lexa feels a tinge of regret to have disturbed her, but how can she truly be sad when greeted by the sight of Clarke’s beautiful eyes blinking up at her, clearing the sleep from her vision.

“I fell asleep?” The southern queen asks, her voice rough with fatigue. “I’m sorry, I-” She goes to move away, but Lexa tightens her arm around her just a little. Clarke relaxes back into her hold with a grateful sigh, and then offers a wicked smile that makes Lexa glad they had managed to redress after their ardour. “You exhausted me, my lady.”

Lexa flushes a little at her words, bashful despite their earlier intimacy. “You were tired,” She admits, and her expression softens with concern. “You said you slept poorly?”

A shadow passes across Clarke’s face at the reminder, and she half shrugs, as nonchalant as possible. “I had bad dreams, that’s all.”

“Bad dreams?” Lexa prompts, and runs a hand down her bare arm ever so gently.

Clarke hesitates, mulling over her words for a few quiet moments, before reluctantly admitting. “I dreamt about Pike, that he was in my rooms…”

The mention of the treacherous lord’s name makes Lexa bristle unhappily, her jaw clenching even at the thought of Pike so close to Clarke again. But the bags beneath Clarke’s eyes and the genuine exhaustion she sees in every inch of her body is enough to placate her, and she reassures her quietly.

“Pike is gone. We both watched as the executioner took his head.”

Beneath her, she feels Clarke shiver, and a bite of revulsion runs through her as well. As evil as Pike may have been, the sight of his head being cut from his body is not one she wants to see again.

“I know I just-“ She hesitates again, and when Clarke looks up to meet her gaze, there is something terribly sad in her eyes. “Sometimes it is as if… I have been so terrified for so long, my body has forgotten what it is to be safe.”

Lexa has to shut her eyes for a moment, to hide the pain she feels, and instead only tightens her arms around the girl in her embrace. She knows what it is to be scared, has faced down an army of thousands with the weight of a nation upon her shoulders, but always she has had a sword in her hand and her own army at her back. She can’t imagine how Clarke must have felt, alone and virtually defenceless in the capital.

Soft lips press against hers, drawing her from her thoughts and she opens her eyes to find Clarke looking back at her, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.

“Let’s not think of sad things,” She instructs, “Tell me something happy, please Lex.”

“Alright,” Lexa can’t help but steal another kiss, before allowing Clarke to settle back into her side easily.

“One of our horse boys disappeared while we were here,” She casts her companion an exasperated smile, “Surely seduced by the excitement of the capital. Anya managed to find a new boy within the day though- a lad called Peter who calmed her mount when he spooked in the street.”

“The boy just appeared from nowhere?” Clarke asks, ever so lightly, and Lexa hums her agreement, running an absent minded hand through her hair.

“As if he were sent by the Gods,” Lexa agrees, then smiles to herself. “Though I’m sure the gods have many more things to trouble themselves with.”

“Will you take him back to Winterfell with you?” The words are enough to give them both pause, and Lexa hesitates, contemplating the painful thump of her heart.

“Yes,” She murmurs, eventually, “He will work in the stables.”

“Aden will be glad to see you again,” The joviality in Clarke’s voice is as false as silk roses. “You must make him write to me and tell me how Rose is doing.”

“Stop, please,” She is surprised to find that her voice is breaking over her words. When Clarke meets her gaze, there are a sheen of tears to her eyes as Lexa begs, “I don’t want to think about leaving, or Winterfell, or any of it. I just want to think about you – and love you.”

“Lexa,” Clarke cradles her cheeks in her hands and leans forwards to capture her lips again. “I love you too.”

Their foreheads pressed together, their bones tired from making love, and the sweet smell of oranges in the air, Lexa could almost believe that this moment would never end.

Clarke is warm in her arms and when she twists to press a kiss to the side of her head, she hums happily. Lexa gives a soft sigh, following Clarke’s gaze out to the crystal waters and the bluest of skies. “Then that’s all we need.”

It’s a lie, but a beautiful one.

---

It is a warm, bright day, the first of many that the southern summer will bring, when a messenger girl, almost tripping over her own feet to give a deep bow of deference to her queen, tells her that a representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Clarke’s brows furrow, and she thanks the girl before asking her to have both the guest and Queen Lexa sent to her private audience chamber, with the utmost discretion.

Harper watches from where she is checking Clarke’s new bed linens for poison, and asks, quietly. “Is there anything I can do, your majesty?”

“Have refreshments sent to us Harper, if you would. And when you’re done go to Grand Measter Orrin and ask him for the leather satchel from across the sea, and bring that to me.”

Harper nods, and bobs a curtsey, before hurrying from her solar. Clarke runs a hand over the skirt of her dress; her eyes linger on her crown, but when she looks in the mirror she sees a woman who could easily be underestimated and that is exactly what she wants.

Lexa has already arrived by the time she gets to her private chamber, and is pacing back and forth before the window like a caged animal. Soon, Clarke knows, she will have to return to the north. The life of a courtier in Kings Landing does not suit her, and besides she has her own country to rule.

“Your majesty,” Lexa turns at the sound of the door, catching sight of her. There are still servers arranging sweet wine, cheese and fruits along the table, and so all they can do is look at one another, their hearts pounding.

“Our friends from across the sea?” Lexa asks, pointedly.

“They will be here soon,” She reassures her. Unable to help herself, she crosses the room, breaching the space between them so that they can speak more privately. “I believe it is truly them this time.”

“As do I.” Lexa nods seriously. “We must present a united force, they must understand that we are not pawns to be played in their games.”

“We will,” Clarke assures her, and steps away as a knock comes to the door. Often, she feels as though she is the tide and Lexa the shore, and though they are forced to retreat from one another somehow they always come back together.

“Enter,” She calls, as she settles herself into the high backed chair at the head of the table, carved with elaborate roses and stags. Lexa steps up behind her, her hand upon the back of her chair, and Clarke thinks they must make a rather striking tableau because their guest’s eyes widen as he is shown inside.

Dante Wallace looks much the same as he had all those months ago, though his hair is more silver now and there is gauntness to his expression that wasn’t there when last they met. He bows, low and elegant, to them both, and offers a charming smile when he straightens up again.

“Your majesties, well met.”

“Well met Master Wallace,” Clarke answers, with a nod of her head. “I hope your journey was not too strenuous.”

“The crossing of the Narrow Sea is never easy on old bones, your majesty.” Dante gives a small smile. “But I had to come to meet the new queen of the south.”

“Please, sit,” Clarke gestures to the chair before her. As Dante sits, she pours him a goblet of wine, “We have met before.”

“Indeed, but I have not met the new queen,” Dante takes the goblet she offers with a nod of his head. He offers her a smile which is almost paternal, “I thought you would go far when last we met.”

“It is terrible circumstances,” Clarke glances down at her own goblet, “But I intend to do whatever it takes to keep my country safe.”

“It seems that you are keen to maintain the good relationships King Thelonious left behind,” Dante observes, and his eyes linger on Lexa long enough to make it clear what he is referring to. “I hope that that courtesy extends to us.”

“I hope so too, Master Wallace.” Clarke glances back at Lexa, as if she had forgotten she was there. “Have you met Queen Lexa of the Northern Kingdom?”

Master Wallace doesn’t flinch away from her expectant expression, a cordial smile on his face. “I have not yet had the pleasure, your majesty.” He nods to the northern queen, “Your majesty, we at the Iron Bank have written to you since your reign began.”

“I am aware,” Lexa answers, steadily, and only the slightest shift in Dante’s expression gives away his annoyance.

“The queen and I are keen to ensure that relationships between our nations are close.” Clarke informs him, a steely edge entering her tone.

Almost as if she were listening at the door, a knock comes and Harper is shown inside. Clarke waves a hand at her, motioning her closer without drawing her eyes away from Dante Wallace.

The foreigner watches the handmaiden’s approach, a flicker of hesitation in his voice before he says. “That is excellent news. All any of us want is peace.”

Harper deposits the leather pouch into Clarke’s hands and retreats without a word, closing the door softly behind her.

“I’m glad to hear that,” At his words, Clarke dips her hand into the pouch in her dress and pulls out the iron coin that has been beneath her pillow for so many nights. With careful precision, she places it onto the table between them and watches as his face turns grey. Into the silence that hangs between them all, she says. “There are others in Braavos who feel similarly.” She reaches into the pouch, her fingers closing around the cold, withered skin of Cage Wallace, and places the face onto the table between them.

Dante Wallace stares down at his son’s face, and his expression draws as if he is going to vomit. He recoils away from the sight, his chair legs scraping against the stone flag floor with a terrible squeal, but he doesn’t get very far before Lexa’s strong hand clamps around his shoulder, keeping him down.

The silver blade she presses against his throat shines in the candlelight and Clarke sees the master’s eyes bulging with fear.

She offers her prettiest, rosebud smile. “It wouldn’t do for people to find out that you once sought to undermine our close relationship. It would be terrible for the Iron Bank’s reputation.” With a sigh, she puts the face back into the bag and pockets her coin again, as Lexa slides away from the Braavosi banker.

Clarke is slightly impressed that Dante doesn’t flee in an instant. Instead, he takes a moment to straighten out his robes, and stands with all the grace a man just held out knifepoint can possibly have.

He clears his throat and speaks weakly. “As you say, your majesty,” he gives a nod of his head to them both, and turns for the door, but Clarke’s words pull him up short.

“And I’m sure you will be happy to erase all of the crown’s debts to you, won’t you Master Dante.”

---

The sun draws in, painting the sky with long strokes of apricot and rosebud pink. This is quickly becoming one of her favourite parts of the day: her petitioners have all gone home, and from her place on the balcony with Wells she can hear the sounds of people in the city downing tools and streaming into the inns and alehouses of the city.

This balcony is hers now, just as the castle behind it is, and the city sprawling out below, and while that weight has not become any lighter, she has learnt to bear it better in the weeks that have passed. Beside her, Wells seems more relaxed than he has in years, and she glances over at him curiously, taking a sip from her goblet before asking.

“You seem to be in good spirits, my friend?”

Wells considers her words for a moment, and then nods. “I am.” He answers, and he offers a smile that warms her to the bones. “I feel more content than I have done in some time.”

She eyes him with interest, “May I ask why?”

“You are the queen, you may ask whatever you wish.” He teases her, and she scowls at him over the rim of her goblet. “Truly though,” he continues more seriously. “For some time I have been wondering what I will do next… there is no place for a disgraced prince in your court.”

She cuts through him, abruptly alarmed by this line of talk. “There will always be a place for you here, Wells, you know that. This is your home as much as it is mine.”

“I know, but as long as I am around there will always be a challenge to your reign, whether I want to be or not.” He sets hardened eyes upon her, “I am done being a pawn in their games. I will not be used against you.”

“But where will you go?” Her wide eyes are set to him, her heart thrumming in her chest.

He takes a deep breath, “I know this sounds strange, but I would like to return to the Maesters in Oldtown.”

Her brows crease and her mouth drops open to protest, but he speaks over her.

“I have always wanted to learn more, and now that I am no longer a prince I am free to do so. Who better to learn from than some of the wisest men in Westeros?”

“Maester Wells,” She rolls the words across her tongue like a sugar coated almond, considering them. After a moment she admits, reluctantly. “It would suit you.”

He smiles, and reaches over to place a hand upon hers, squeezing gently. In the glowing evening light, she sees the lines that have been carves around his eyes and the heaviness that rests there, and wonders if he sees these confessions of age and weariness in her too.

“I will not go without your blessing, but I truly think it would be the best for your reign if I were to leave.”

“Of course you should go,” She frowns at him, “If it is what you want I will not stop you- though I will miss you dearly.”

“Thank you, my friend,” He smiles, and she is reminded of the youth they shared, of chasing one another through the castle gardens and stealing away from their Septa. Part of her aches for those times, but she knows now that they will never be what they were before. That innocence was stripped from them long ago and the best they can hope is to find some happiness in the world they have now.

“What about your son?” Her voice is pitched so softly that Wells can pretend not to hear her if he wishes. When his expression shifts to sadness, she presses a little further. “I don’t think that they allow babes in Oldtown.”

“You’re right,” He sighs, shaking his head. “I love my son, but I could never care for him as his mother did. Whenever I look upon him-” His voice breaks and she turns away, giving him a moment to gather his emotions.

“I think you would be a wonderful father,” She murmurs, to the warm evening air, and Wells squeezes her fingers.

“Thank you Clarke but… it would not be fair to raise my son when everytime I look at him I am reminded of everyone I lost.”

“I won’t argue with you,” Clarke assures him, after a moment, “Though I think you’re wrong. I will make sure Benam is protected and well cared for.”

“I meant what I said,” Wells fixes her with a firm gaze, suddenly more sure of himself than she has seen him in years. “I want you to raise him, acknowledge him as my son and your heir.”

She presses her lips together, considering. There is a part of her, she is ashamed to say, which sees the advantages Wells is offering her and wants to take them without hesitation. But there is another part of her, a larger part, who cannot help but think of Aden’s words to her in the Winterfell crypt what feels like a lifetime ago. “Are you sure you won’t regret it? Every son wants to know his father, and every father wants to know his son.”

“I am sure,” Wells looks at her with grave eyes, and she senses that he has given this great thought. He stands and takes a few steps to the balcony, looking out over the patchwork of red tiled roofs and snaking streets. “My father wanted the Baratheons to rule this land for all of eternity. He thought that we would always do what was right for our people. While watching him wage the war against the north I saw for the first time how difficult it was to be a ruler,” He shakes his head and glances back at her, a pitiful smile upon his lips. “My father was a stronger man than I, and I saw him be pulled in every different direction by advisers who sought to influence him. For some time he lost sight of his wisdom and his faith and all he was fighting for, and in that time so many men died in an unnecessary war.”

Clarke stands, her skirts swaying soundlessly around her legs, and moves to join him at the balcony. “Your father was a good man,” She tells him, softly. “Please don’t doubt that.”

“I don’t,” Wells assures her, “He had merits that I do not. He was certainly braver and more shrewd than I will ever be, he had more wisdom and ruthlessness. That is how I know I cannot be king… but that doesn’t mean my son might not be better than I am.”

Clarke’s brows crease and she glances to him, “Benam?”

He meets her gaze and speaks earnestly. “Raise him Clarke, and teach him to be the sort of king this land deserves. At least then the Baratheon name will live on and my father’s legacy will be satisfied.”

“After all you’ve seen, you still want Benam to be king?” Clarke shakes her head, astounded.

“He will have the best teacher there is,” Wells smiles at her, touching her hand very gently. “And besides, from what I understand you are unlikely to be making any heirs yourself.”

Her eyes widen and her head snaps to stare at him so violently that she feels her neck twinge. “What?” She demands, and her fingers tighten instinctively about his. “What have you heard?”

“Not heard,” He promises her, “Only seen with my own two eyes. You seem to be very attached to Her Majesty Queen Lexa.”

“I-” Clarke scrambles for words, like a fish out of water, and Wells laughs very softly at her floundering. “Are people talking?” Clarke demands, at last, “Do people know?”

“No one knows but I, and perhaps your Queensguard if they were not dropped atop their heads as infants,” Wells laughs, and then continues at her stricken expression. “Peace, friend. I only know because I have watched you fall in and out of love since we were babes.”

“And you still want your child to be raised by me?” Clarke asks at last, with a watery, derisive laugh. “Who makes such unwise decisions?”

“Oh Clarke,” For a second she thinks she sees pity in his eyes. “We don’t choose who we love. I know that, above anyone else.”

“Soon it will not matter,” She shakes her head, and forces her eyes out to the slowly darkening horizon. “She will return to Winterfell any day now.”

“And she will take your heart with her,” Wells observes, quietly. When her gaze turns to him, he offers a sad smiles. “The common people may think that we are blessed with all manners of riches, but content is a crown seldom enjoyed.”

At that, she can only nod, and they stand there together for some time, watching as the sun eases further and further through the sky, leaving trails of indigo in its wake. A knock comes to the door, startling them from their reverie, and when Harper steps in and introduces Queen Lexa, Clarke’s heart throbs.

“Your majesty,” Lexa hesitates at the doorway to the balcony, her gaze flickering uncertainly to Wells, “I apologise, I thought you would be alone at this hour.”

“That’s alright, your majesty,” Wells bows his head to them both. “I will take my leave, I have suddenly got a hankering for roast lamb and new potatoes.”

“Prince Wells, you really don’t have to-” Lexa protests lamely as he places down his goblet and inclines his head to Clarke.

“Nonsense,” Wells shakes his head, a smile playing upon his lips. “Thank you for your counsel, your majesty, as always.”

“Thank you, Prince Wells,” Clarke smiles, watching him leave, and when Harper closes the door behind them both she crosses the space between Lexa and herself and takes her love’s hands within hers. “I am glad to see you.”

“And I you,” Lexa confesses, and the stars dance within her eyes when she leans forward to steal a kiss from Clarke’s lips. It leaves Clarke breathless and smiling, and she can’t help but pull Lexa back to her by her hand, pressing their lips together again until they have to break away, laughing very softly.

“Would you like to sit?” Clarke gestures to the two chairs left empty on the balcony, but Lexa takes her hand, smiling a little sadly.

“No, I couldn’t bear to be that far away from you tonight,” Their hands still clasped, she pulls Clarke towards the low stone wall, and they lean against it together, so close that their shoulders brush, and look out onto the stars just beginning to show themselves in the darkening sky. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your time with your friend.”

“Don’t be,” Clarke runs her thumb over the smooth skin of Lexa’s palm. “We have said all there is to say tonight,” At Lexa’s curious glance she explains. “He tells me he wants to become a Maester.” Lexa makes a soft, interested noise, and she continues, a little hesitantly. “And that Benam should be my heir.”

“His son?” Lexa’s eyes widen, focusing with an intensity that Clarke has not seen in her before. “That is an interesting proposition- he does not want to raise the child himself?”

“He says he reminds him too much of Ivy, the boy’s mother,” Clarke meets her gaze and squeezes her fingers. “Wells loved her very much and she was killed by Pike’s men.”

“That is terrible,” Lexa’s expression is soft with sympathy and understanding. “Wells must miss her immensely.”

Clarke nods, and then asks quietly into the silence that settles about them. “What do you think I should do?”

Lexa sighs ever so softly and turns to look at her properly, her expression intense upon Clarke’s features. When she speaks, she is incredibly serious. “I cannot tell you what to do Clarke, but if you would like my advice… you are young yet and could easily bear many heirs of your own.”

Clarke’s eyes meet hers and her voice breaks over her words. “And if I do not want to bear many heirs of my own?”

Lexa’s breath catches in her throat, and she swallows. “I would… ask you to be sure when you make that decision. Life is long Clarke, and your reign is yet beginning. You may find it helpful… perhaps even desirable… to have a king by your side some day.”

“I am sure.”Clarke takes their clasped hands and presses them against her breast, above her heart. Her voice wells with emotion when she says. “I know what I want, I know who I want. You will live in my heart always Lexa, and I could never bring myself to try to replace you.”

“Oh Clarke,” There are tears sparkling in Lexa’s eyes. “You know I would never ask you…”

“You don’t have to ask,” Clarke shakes her head, “And you could go away and marry hundreds of other queens and kings, but I would still love you just as much as I love you today.”

“My heart beats only for you.” Lexa answers, without faltering. “I will never love another, not until my dying breath.”

At those words, Clarke can’t help but lean forward to capture her lips, kissing away the tears that fall down her cheeks and wishing that she can soothe the anguish that rages through them both. Lexa’s arms wind around her waist, holding her close, and when they break apart their foreheads touch, so that they are looking deeply into one another’s eyes.

“You understand that we can never be wed while we are queens?” Lexa murmurs, their lips almost brushing. “My people have fought hard for their independence, and while it may have been for the wrong reasons it’s my responsibility to help them find their way now.”

“And I cannot abandon the south without a leader,” Clarke lets out a very soft sigh, resting her head against Lexa’s shoulder and enjoying the feeling of being held, of strong arms clutching her close. “And so we are like the sun and the moon,” She muses quietly, her eyes fixed to the sky darkening to twilight. “Destined never to be together.”

“But when they meet, even if ever so briefly,” Lexa murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead and pressing a soft kiss close to her ear. “The sky is filled with the most beautiful colours. We will be that way Clarke, I could not live without you for very long.”

Slowly, Clarke peels herself away from her lover’s arms as she thinks about what Lexa means. “So we shall meet in secret?”

“Until all is settled and we can be together as we should be,” When their eyes meet Lexa is soft, but determined. “As I say, I can no longer live without you.”

“Nor I you.” Clarke breathes, enraptured by the sight before her.

“And we cannot leave two great nations within sovereigns,” Lexa brushes softly along her cheek. “So we must meet, for the good of our people.”

Clarke’s lips quirk, and she echoes. “Our people.”

“And one day, when all is said and done,” Lexa cradles her very close, as if afraid she will vanish. “I should like to marry you, Clarke Tyrell, if you would be obliged.”

“I think I should like that more than anything else,” Clarke catches her lips again and when they kiss it tastes of roses and cold winters nights and promises to be kept.

#clexa #clexa gotau #clarke griffin #commander lexa #clexa fic #dreamsofray

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iamnotoriginalphil · 4 years

Text

Family Matters (Zelda Spellman x Reader) - Part 31

Synopsis: You finally get to talk to Bella.

Words: 1181

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of smut, mentions of bad things

AN: So I fell down a bit of a Tik Tok rabbit hole tonight so sorry for this being so late. We’re getting real close to the end now. Let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters.

You stood in front of the heavy metal door, your fingers tingling as you waited to be let in. Your breathing was too shallow, your vision beginning to tunnel. The woman behind that door had the answers to all the questions in your head. She was also able to kill you with a one bare hand.

Quiet voices echoed in the dark cavern behind you. You turned your head, not able to look at the door any longer without forcing your way inside, demanding answers. Zelda was standing with Ambrose and Hilda, a fierce discussion occurring. You didn’t care about the details, it was obvious they were arguing over your presence. Ambrose may have gotten you out of that house, but from the glances he kept shooting you it seemed as if he kept flashing back to the moment he found out of your betrayal.

“She’s coming in and that is final,” Zelda snapped.

“But Auntie Zee,” Ambrose said.

“I said, that is final,” Zelda said.

She turned towards you, her mouth turned down in a harsh line. You knew she wasn’t happy to have you join her for this little adventure but she wasn’t about to say that in front of her family. Not after promising you that you could join them. She was, if nothing else, a woman of her word.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, her voice low to keep the other two from hearing.

“Let’s do this.”

You turned back to the door, squaring your shoulders. Zelda pushed you behind her body, placing her hand on the metal door. She paused, taking a deep breath in. You laid your hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, offering your own strength to her. This wasn’t going to be easy for either of you. She pushed the door open.

Bella was sitting on the familiar dirt floor, her posture perfect, her chin raised in a defiant gesture. She was wrapped in heavy metal chains, a large binding circle keeping her in place. Her eyes were sunken, as were her cheeks, dark bruise like circles under her eyes. Her hair was lank, her skin looking fragile. Her eyes were dark but bloodshot, and there was a feral look to her, like an animal that had been denied food for too long. Your hand absentmindedly drifted to one of the still healing wounds on your neck.

“I see not even you were immune to the charms of Zelda Spellman,” she said, looking straight at you past Zelda’s shoulder.

Your heart missed a beat. Her tongue darted out, licking her lips. Her eyes strayed to your jugular, taking a deep breath in through her nose, her eyes closing. She smiled.

“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you smell, mi amour?” she asked, “drinking from you may have been the most pleasurable experience of my life.”

You shivered, shrinking back from her. You didn’t like the way her eyes were trailing over you, pausing at each one of the bite marks she’d left on your body. Her eyes rested over your heart, her tongue darting over her lips again. Zelda stepped in front of her wandering eyes.

“A pleasure you will never experience again,” Zelda said, her voice hard.

“Do not make promises you can’t keep, Zelda Spellman,” she said, “you’ve done that one too many times for my liking.”

“Has no one ever told you holding onto a broken heart for so long is unhealthy?”

Bella snorted. You bit down on your lip to stifle a giggle. The atmosphere was thick, almost unbearable. You could have choked on it.

“An overinflated ego is not an attractive look on you Zelda,” Bella said.

“What am I suppose to think when you’ve done nothing but work towards my destruction for the last 67 years?”she asked

“I am not someone that others break up with. I end things with my lovers,” she snarled.

“And yet you are now in the presence of two women who have ended their relationships with you,” she said.

“Maybe we shouldn’t antagonise the vampire,” you hissed to the witch in front of you.

“I have to agree with the mortal, Auntie,” Ambrose said from outside the room.

“We came here for answers,” you reminded her.

“I suppose you’re here looking for your family,” Bella drawled, “as if it were not obvious, mi amour.”

“Of course it’s not obvious,” you snapped.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have been so sentimental,” she mused, “perhaps that was my downfall.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked.

“I truly did believe you would be different, mi amour.” Her voice was like honey, “you still could be.”

“No chance,” you replied.

She dragged her eyes back to Zelda, her face hardening into a porcelain mask. She bared her teeth at the witch, her fangs on full display. You froze. Zelda murmured under breath, flames filling her hands. Bella squinted her eyes.

“If you want your family back, I’d suggest hurrying,” she said, “they won’t last very long where they are. In fact, I’d bet the little one might already be dead.”

“If you hurt Finn,” you hissed.

Zelda held out an arm, keeping you from approaching Bella. You snarled, ready to rip her limb from limb. Zelda pushed you back into Ambrose’s waiting arms. You struggled against his hold on you.

“If you can’t behave Luna, you will have to leave,” Zelda said.

“Like hell I will,” you said.

“Careful mi amour. I’m surprised you haven’t realised that Zelda enjoys authority but hates when others question it,” Bella said.

“Fuck you,” you shouted at her.

“Oh mi amour, you already have,” she replied, smirking at Zelda.

“Get her out of here,” Zelda said to Ambrose.

You were hauled away. You kicked out, trying to hit the man behind you. He kept dragging you backwards, out of the room and away from the door. You howled, demanding to be let go. The strength began to drain from your body, still weak from the ordeal it had been put through.

“Let Auntie Zee deal with Bella. She’s rather adept at interrogation,” Ambrose said.

“I’m going to kill her,” you snarled.

“After Auntie has got the answers we need,” he said, “give her time.”

“I don’t have time,” you replied.

He forced you down, taking a seat on the dirt encrusted stone step. He stood over you, arms folded across his chest. You buried your head in your hands, the waiting excruciating. You had no idea how long your family had left but you were sure it wasn’t long or Bella would have never taunted you with the information.

A deep metal clang rang through the tunnel, loud in the close quarters. You looked up, Ambrose looking over his shoulder. Zelda was striding towards you, Hilda hurrying behind her. Her face was grim, each step fast and purposeful. You stood, wanting to reach out towards her but scared of what she might say.

“Zelda?” you asked.

“I found out where your family is,” she said.

“And?”

“We’re going back to your old stomping ground.”

Tags: @theenglishwizard @eyesofanangeltongueofadevil @hallospaceboyy @alexusonfire @justkeepbreathingnow @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @r0sethehat @praisezeldaspellman @escapetodreamworld @panicnymph @anxiousgoldengirl @theprassebox @witchessticktogether @vintageolives @plooffairy @whostoknow @spicyrice20 @fallenangelmuse @step-intoyour-power @basicwitchtm @lovelyleafylesbian @saucy-sapphic @zeldasnackman

#Zelda Spellman #zelda spellman imagine #zelda spellman x reader #caos #caos imagine #family matters

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imagine-darksiders · 5 years

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 11 - What are friends for?

AAAAT LAAAAAASSTTT! I am so sorry it’s taken like, half a year but life has been getting in the way a bit. I’m really going to try and be a bigger presence on this site from now on. x

Shit’s been so freaking terrible and depressing lately but hopefully this will cheer at least some people up and it’s the longest chapter by FAR. So, distract yourself for a while <3

Words: 18,204

Tags: Panic attack, anxiety, bruises, hurt/comfort, found family, the power of friendship™, subtle flirting with a giant woman ;), fluff, hugs, angst. OMG the angst.

-----

There's an undeniable air of unease cloaking the village of Tri Stone as Eideard trundles up the steps to Muria's garden - one, wrinkled hand tugging mercilessly on a beard that has been subjected to the rough treatment since Death had returned several hours earlier.

Any elation at seeing the Tears flow through their home for the first time in years evaporated when the makers saw what state the old Horseman was in. Eyes wilder than a hurricane, the rippling muscles of his shoulders pulled taut enough to snap with just a little more pressure, he'd strode rigidly down into the village and the air behind him seemed to waver in the heat of his molten rage.

And then, hushed uncertainty shifted into horror upon seeing the tiny, limp figure he had cradled against his chest.

Eideard met him first at the centre of the bridge, a hundred questions ready to fall off his tongue, only to be abandonned as Death passed you wordlessly into the maker's hands, exerting a degree of care that took the Old one by surprise.

Then, quite abruptly, he turned on his heel and stalked back the way he'd come, leaving behind no further an explanation than a single word hissed like poison between gritted teeth.

'Karkinos.'

And just like that, he was gone, back up the stairs and out through Tri-Stone's boundary, doubtless aiming to work off some of the rage he'd carried in with him by massacring a dozen or so constructs unfortunate enough to cross his warpath.

Meanwhile, Eideard was left with an armful of unconscious human and a mob of his fellow makers converging on him and demanding to know what had happened, a question he only wished he knew the answer to himself.

A bloody nose and shallow breaths were hardly good news, but at least the Horseman hadn't handed him a corpse. After futiley trying to calm the others down and assure them that, yes, the human is still alive, Eideard's elbow was caught by Muria and together, they made off for her garden where they laid you down on a trim of soft leather and then, the shaman set to work.

Half a day later and you have yet to come around.

---------

“How is she?”

Muria glances up from crushing another herb into a glass vial, her lips stretching to send a humourless smile towards the sound of Eideard's voice as he steps inside her garden for the fourth time in as many hours.

“No broken bones,” she informs him, pinching the vial's neck and swirling it in delicate circles to mix the potion that sloshes within, “Which, in itself, is a miracle, I do not mind telling you.”

Eideard nods sagely. “Aye, that she survived an encounter with Karkinos at all is cause for wonder.”

“Oh, naturally.” Lowering her voice, Muria inclines her head to a part of the gazebo behind her. “But I was actually referring to the fact that she hasn't been broken by our youngling yet.”

At that, one of Eideard's feathery eyebrows slides up his forehead, perplexed by her statement for a moment, at least until she steps aside.

Had the last few hours not drained him of all good humour, the elder would have let out a soft laugh at the sight before him. “Ah,” is what he utters instead.

Karn, having snuck into the gazebo only minutes after you were brought there, has settled himself right on the garden's rear flowerbed and it seems that at some point during his fretful vigil, he's managed to doze off, hunched over with his chin tucked up against his chest, And there, nestled in the young maker's arms, almost lost behind the swell of his biceps, lays a very tiny, very fortunate human. Fortunate to be alive, that is.

Sparing a second to throw Muria a bemused glance, Eideard steps up to the youngling and places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

Despite a lifetime's worth of well accrued wisdom, the Old One still isn't prepared for the reaction he receives. His hand is knocked violently away as Karn's eyes snap open and his elbow flies up out of nowhere, lips peeled back into a snarl. Momentarily stunned, the old maker braces himself against his staff whilst the youngling curls an arm around your body, his fingers splayed out and hooked over to resemble thick-set, meaty claws.

Although aware that he's probably supposed to be intimidated by this display, Eideard's main concern is for the injured human who is now tucked securely beneath a heaving chest, Karn's grip on you tight enough that his knuckles begin turning white.

Eideard can't remember ever having seen him so defensive before.

“Steady Karn,” he says, an authoritative edge to his tone, “Jostle her too much, and you'll undo all of our hard work.”

At the sound of his Elder's voice, the fog lifts from Karn's mind and he blinks, eyes coming into focus on a familiar, white beard. In a flash, the youngling's fierce expression is wiped away and a dark flush blooms across his cheeks in its place. “E-Eideard!” he sputters, “Sorry! Didn't mean to nod off!”

“I imagine you didn't,” The Old one replies evenly, “Just as I'm sure you're not meaning to smother our young friend here.”

“Whu-” Karn's face scrunches up, baffled until he looks down and realises that one of his ungloved palms is cupped around your fragile, little back, crushing you securely against the coarse fabric of his tunic. All at once, the colour drains from him like water from a leaky barrel.

“Oh, Stone!” he curses and rips you away from his chest, wincing at the way your head flops around against his fingertips. After scrutinising your face for any inkling that you're in pain but finding no change, he lifts his head up to stare beseechingly at Eideard, his features contorted by anguish and desperation. “Did I...Did I hurt her?” he croaks.

Eideard's face softens and he lays a reassuring hand on the young maker's shoulder. “I'm sure she'll be alright,” he says lightly, “If she can survive a run in with Karkinos, she can survive being squashed by a heavy-handed pup.” His effort to cheer Karn up is met with a half-hearted smile that soon disappears as swiftly as it had come. Shifting his gaze back down to you, Karn sighs and raises a single digit to brush tenderly along your jawline, his brows gradually creeping closer and closer together. “Eideard?”

“Mm?”

There's a long pause. Then, “Why hasn't she woken up yet?”

Mulling over an answer that'll ease the youngling's nerve, the village elder opens his mouth to respond but finds himself beaten to the chase by Muria. “I imagine because she so desperately needs this long rest,” the shaman explains, sweeping around Eideard and coming to a stop once she senses Karn directly ahead of her. There, the maker sinks to her knees until she's level with his hands and offers him a patient smile. “Give her time, Karn. Her body is far more fragile than yours or mine. I've done all I can . Eideard's magic stitched the cracks in her bones and the poultices I've applied will keep the pain at bay. Speaking of which...” Trailing off, Muria produces a strip of cloth, suspiciously similar in colour and texture to the hem of her sleeve, and holds it over the opening of the potion she'd been mixing. Then, after tipping the contents upside down to soak the rag, she motions for Karn to lift your jumper.

They've been through this routine a lot over the last few hours, yet Karn's breath still hitches every time his thumb peels back your clothes and reveals the soft expanse of your midriff. Although the sight of your exposed skin admittedly sets his heart racing, it's the bruise staining your left side a livid purple from hip to sternum that causes it to stop beating in its tracks. Each time he sees the injury, he can't stop himself from imagining the pain you must have been in and he has to avert his gaze, ashamed that he could have been there to protect you, yet he wasn't. Because he was afraid. Afraid of messing up again as he had with Alya and Valus, almost costing them their lives.

Swallowing, Karn stares at a spot far off in the distance, his thumb still holding your jumper out of the way as Muria blots gently at your injured side.

After another minute of the quiet ministrations, she pulls away and rises to her feet. “There, that should suffice, I think. There's no way to tell for certain until she wakes up, but it might at least help.”

“Knowing you, I'm confident it will,” Eideard tells her.

The shaman smiles warmly but waves his compliment aside. “As I said, we shall simply have to wait and see. Now...” Pausing to fasten the vial back on her belt, she asks, “...Tell me, is Valus looking this way?”

“Is-?” Baffled, Eideard glances across the courtyard to Alya's forge and finds that – yes - the forge brother has indeed put his work on standby to stare towards the garden, though once he sees he's been spotted, he recoils, jerking his head away and lumbering as inconspicuously as possibly to a cooling barrel that stands in the corner of their forge.

The old maker chuckles at the display and returns his attention to Muria. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. How did you guess?”

“Valus - for all his stolidity - is a notorious worrier, try as he might to hide it.” A resigned sigh slips from her and she takes up her staff, turning to the steps with a flourish of blue robes. “Well, I suppose I'd better go and let them know there's been no change over here.” Waving a brief farewell, the shaman lifts the hem of her skirts and, swinging the staff out in front, makes her way down the stone staircase, leaving the eldest and youngest makers to occupy themselves in her garden.

Eideard watches her leave for a moment longer before he turns back to Karn, who's attention has once more been claimed wholly by the human in his arms.

Something in the Elder thrums at the sight, a stirring, a memory, pushing to the surface until it breaks through and spills over into his mind's eye. Slowly, one corner of his mouth stretches into a sad smile.

He remembers a time when he himself was young and earnest, so long ago now that the surrounding mountains were almost half their height and the stars he knew had come and gone. His eyes were once as full of devotion as Karn's are now, gazing into the face of a friend.

Traipsing up to the youngling's side, Eideard grunts and leans himself back against the low wall, throwing a sideways glance at his companion, who hasn't taken his eyes off you at all.

Seconds trickle by slowly and a gust of wind drifts through Tri Stone, rustling the plants and herbs that Muria had proudly raised from the dirt. Eideard's eyes slip closed and he languidly raises his head to meet the breeze, enjoying the feel of it carding through his heavy beard. For one who considers his words diplomatically before he voices them, he barely thinks too hard on the next ones that flow out of his mouth. “You're fond of her.” The Old one really did try to make it sound like a curious inquiry rather than a stated fact he already knows to be absolute. Still, it's too late now. The wind has already carried his words too far for him to retreive.

Oddly enough though, Karn remains uncharacteristically quiet for some time, so long, in fact, that Eideard is just about to open his mouth and repeat himself when the youngling at last murmurs something, softer than he's ever heard it. “She's nice to me.”

The old maker blinks.

Dragging his eyes off your face to peer up at his elder, Karn adds, “She laughs at my jokes. She called me amazing! No one's ever said that to me before. And....she never tells me to stop talkin'. I – I know she ain't been here long enough to be sick of me yet -” he blurts hastily, and before Eideard can reassure him that nobody is 'sick' of him, he presses on, “- but it means a lot.”

“I understand, lad,” the Old One reassures him, noting that the young maker's voice has shot up the same way it always does when he's getting defensive, “I'm not accusing you of fondness. In fact, I concur. There's a lot of value to be placed in creatures of a kind inclination. It's a shame more species don't see this worth.” He pauses to study your eyelids and frowns when he sees there's no movement behind them. You must be too exhausted to even dream. “A human among makers....It is astonishing, really. To think, in a mere matter of moments, she's managaed to endear herself to most, if not all of us here. I shall certainly miss her company when she leaves.”

At his side, Karn stiffens. “If she leaves.”

“Karn...” Eideard swivels himself around to properly face the youngling and stands there with his lips slightly parted, caught in the vestiges of a response. He thinks for a moment, sucks in a breath and releases it slowly, body sagging as his mighty lungs deflate. “...You know you can't-”

“There're so many things I can't wait to show her!” Karn suddenly exclaims as if he'd known the Old one was trying to tell him something he doesn't want to hear, “Soon as she's better, o' course.”

“Please, listen to-”

“I bet she'd like to see that old construct out in the fjord, now Death's cleared that area up.”

“Karn!-” Eideard tries again, only to be talked over once more.

“A-and she hasn't even seen my hut yet! You know, she really liked my journeyman dish. I've got to show her some of my newer-”

“KARN!”

Like a clap of thunder, the Old one's voice explodes across Tri Stone and sends several birds squawking into the air from a nearby tree. Karn flinches at the sound of it, jamming his mouth shut. Once the last echo fades on the wind, the village is plunged into a terse silence.

Eideard - patient and soft-spoken as a mountain brook - never raises his voice, hates doing so in fact, unless absolutely necessary.

Hearing such a loud noise emit from the Old one's mouth is enough of a sign to Karn that he'd pushed his luck just a stone too far. Slouching, he sinks in on himself and gazes down at your restful face, his jawline set stubbornly so it doesn't quiver when Eideard gently tells him, “You can't keep her, Lad.”

Crestfallen, the young maker continues to observe you, his pale eyes sweeping from the delicate hands resting on your stomach to the soft hair that caresses his fingertip. “But -” He swallows thickly and can't help but feel childish as he croaks out, “- but she's my friend!”

It's in that one, small comment that Eideard recalls just how much younger Karn is than all of the other makers.

Breathing out a sigh only the world-weariest can produce, the elder begins to reply but all of a sudden finds himself interrupted yet again. This time however, it isn't by Karn.

Both makers give a start when the human amongst them lets out a series of wheezing coughs, convulsing abruptly in Karn's hand before falling still. The young maker holds his breath, ears flicking up an inch or two and he waits, hoping, willing his friend to come around.

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

There's no doubt about it.

You're getting fairly sick of waking up with absolutely no idea where you are.

And that dull but irksome ache in your side is not instilling much confidence in your drowzy mind.

Something is nagging at you, something important and wrong, although you can't even summon the willpower to try and think what it might be. Whatever it is promptly fades into the background as you become aware of a noise buzzing from a spot above your head and echoing down through your whole body, pulling you further out of the realm of sleep.

God, your side really doesn't feel right.

Soon, the buzzing is joined by a low warble and as your brain kicks into gear, you finally recognise that what you're hearing are voices. Their presence helps to chase away the last vestiges of sleep and a strong scent of leather saturates the air in your nostrils, becoming stronger with every inhale until, with herculean effort, you finally pry your eyelids apart.

To begin with, you can't even make out what you're squinting up at. There's only a large, blurry mass of shapes that shift and bulge and block out the meagre light trying to shine out from behind them. It's only after you do a few more, droopy blinks that anything starts to make sense.

A flash of white teeth, the twitching muscles of a broad, blockish nose and eyes grey as a morning mist.... 'That's a face', your brain helpfully supplies.

An enormous face, looming over you and filling your whole field of vision. Not the most concerting thing to wake up to unprepared.

Jumping out of your skin, your eyes widen and you let out a gasp, arms raising instinctively to protect your head.

“Ey! Yer alright, s'just me, Karn!”

Your lips part and you attempt to speak but all that comes out is a wheeze and you have to swallow several times before you feel prepared to try again. “K...Karn?”

The face above you pulls away a little to nod and when you see the features brighten, you can immediately tell who it is. A gushing sigh flows out of you and you allow an arm to slap heavily across your eyes. “Hey, big fella.”

Relief strikes the maker like a tidal wave, sweeping away the previous hours of anxious trepidation. Shoulders slumping, he takes a second to thank the StoneFather before breathing a sigh that ruffles your hair. “Hey,” he returns, a soft grin quirking at his mouth.

Sagging even further in the warm skin at your back, you begin to scrub groggily at your face, a low groan bubbling to the surface. “Ugh, where am I?”

“You are safe, in Tri Stone,” a new voice thrums from your side and you manage to roll your head over to catch a glimpse of a familiar white beard and wize, ancient eyes.

“Eideard,” you breathe languidly, trying to return the smile he's giving you.

There's an aura the Old Maker exudes simply by existing in close proximity that lessens the uncomfortable squirm of fear in your gut. You're glad he's here.

All too soon though, the smile crawls off his face and a crevass appears between his eyebrows instead, so deep it makes his other bags and wrinkles seem shallow in comparison. “Does anything hurt?” he asks.

On a reflex learned through years of playing down the severity of a situation, you shake your head, avert your gaze and answer with a subdued, “I'm fine.”

Somehow, Eideard's face grows even more stern. “I would prefer,” he rumbles, disapproval dripping from his tongue, “that you don't lie just to spare me from concern. I need to know if you're in pain.”

Suddenly very sheepish, you turn your head to look at Karn and find him already staring down at you imploringly. So, still groggy and confused, you heave a sigh and come clean. “M'not hurting that much. It's more like, I'm really, really stiff? And um, my side -” Here, you waggle your hand vaguely up and down your ribs. “- feels weird.”

Weird is admittedly an understatement. It feels as though it should hurt, but your brain isn't registering the pain properly. Just as you open your mouth to ask what's going on, Karn cuts you off. “Weird's better than hurt,” he says and glances up at the older maker, “In't it?”

“Do you remember what happened?” Eideard urges, deaf to the youngling's question.

Bits and pieces of fragmented memories dance teasingly around in your head and it takes a surprising amount of strength to reach out and snatch them up, piecing them all together as you would a jigsaw puzzle. You recall the grey stone of an ancient, crumbling temple, plants growing in through cracks in the ceiling and water – lots of it. It made sense as to why there were so many bugs zipping about -

'Wait. Bugs...?'

All of a sudden, with that one thought, your eyes fling open wide, the fog lifts and the rest of the memory hits hard enough to leave you reeling. Everything comes flooding back. From losing your temper with Death to the fight with Karkinos and -

“Oh my god, Death!?” you blurt out, shooting up in Karn's hand and almost knocking yourself out again on his chin.

“Whey! Steady now!” he frets, “must'nt try movin' yet!”

Unfortunately, you figure out just why that is a second later when your left side abruptly seizes up and you cry out as if someone had just stuck an electric prod to your ribs. Throwing an arm out, you're forced to grab onto Karn's thumb just to remain upright. Quick as a flash, the young maker shoots out his free hand to steady you, barely hovering close enough for the pads of his fingers to brush your skin as if afraid that touching you will only cause more distress. The pain however, is already beginning to dissipate, and if you weren't so focused on reaching for your jumper's hem, you'd notice how Eideard's lips move swiftly but quietly, murmuring words too old for comprehension. To your relief, the agony fades to a mere twinge by the time you swat Karn's fingers away and peel your clothing back, eyes doubling in size once you register the impressive, purpling bruise that covers the entirety of your side.

“Oh...Oh, God,” you whimper, pressing a few fingers to the tender spot, “Karkinos.. I – I...How?”

You knew you'd be hurt after the colossal bug launched you into a solid, stone wall. Hell, laying there on the ground, you'd been convinced you were about to die.

“Where's Death?” you cough instead, aware that your throat has begun to close up, “Is he okay?”

“The Horseman is fine,” Eideard promises, impressed but perturbed by your concern for someone other than yourself when you've obviously suffered the worst. He shakes his head. 'Humans.'

“How am I still alive?”

“Perhaps you are more resilient than you thought.” Leaning heavily against his staff, he adds, “We do not know what happened to you beyond what Death told us when he brought you here – that this was Karkinos's doing.”

Around you, Karn's fingers start to curl inwards and his chest rumbles in the wake of a deep growl. Even you can't deny that the name itself sends a shiver down your spine. Swallowing, you plant a hand against your chest and rub absently at it, trying to soothe the heart that has suddenly begun to thunder beneath your fingertips. Eideard continues to speak, though his voice gradually diminishes until all you can hear is a pounding between your ears. Confused for a moment, you blearily peer up at the Old one, noting how far away he seems, though he's standing mere feet away, clasping his staff in a white-knuckle grip. He calls your name, that much you do hear, and you meet his eye, forcing yourself to concentrate on his words despite the growing tightness in your chest.

“Are you alright?” he seems to be asking, “You have a look as though you've seen a ghost.”

You open your mouth to reply, only to fall silent when you notice you've begun to tremble, barely noticeable from an outsiders standpoint, at least at first. A moment later however, and you suddenly buck in Karn's hand, the shivers spreading from your hands to your feet. But it isn't the shaking that disturbs you into silence, it's the resounding 'ba-dum,' 'ba-dum,' 'badum!,' in your chest that grows faster and faster, harder and then even harder still until you begin to wonder if your ribcage is strong enough to keep your heart in place.

“K-Karn,” you force out, sitting rigidly in his palm, “put me down.”

Instead, the young maker hesitates, a reluctance in his movements as he draws you a little closer to his chest and frowns, asking, “Why? What's wrong?”

His presence is suddenly all around you, encompassing you in his smell, a suffocating warmth pressing in from every angle and his voice rings deafeningly in your ear as he calls your name over and over again – it's too much. He's too much and far, far too close.

Inhaling a breath that doesn't quite feel deep enough, you squeeze your eyes closed and interrupt him snappishly, “Karn, just shut up and put me down!”

You barely notice his flinch while you're so preoccupied by your own, full-bodied shudders. It's as though you'd struck him with a fist rather than with your words.

'Shut up?' he mouths, his ears tilting dejectedly towards the ground. Still, obediently, he does fall silent, getting up and turning to place you on the wall he'd just left, allowing you to slide gently from his palm onto the cool rock before he withdraws his hands and kneels in front of you.

Oblivious to the maker, you continue to fight for a regular breath but the air you do manage to suck in barely feels like it'll suffice, so you take smaller, faster breaths and hope they'll compensate, disappointed yet unsuprised to find they don't. You've been through this before several years ago. It didn't work then and you're almost certain it won't work now.

“What's happenin' to her?!” Karn twists his head towards Eideard, his face white as a sheet. The older maker, who'd been about to call Muria back over, suddenly hesitates and takes a second to observe you a little more closely, his eyes sharp and keen in spite of their age. You're still shaking fit-to-bust, your little chest heaving in and out as though you've just run a mile and your eyes are blown open wide, fixated on hands that curl into fists only to spring open again spasmodically. 'Okay,' you tell yourself, 'okay, okay, it's okay,' and then, because you can't form any other coherent thought, 'okay.'

After another minute of watching, the Old one grunts conclusively. “I believe,” he begins, “that she's only just realised how close she came to death, and now that truth is catching up to her.” Then, noting Karn's slumped shoulders and sullen expression, he adds, “I doubt she's in her right mind at the moment. Fear can cloud our judgement in many ways, make us say things we perhaps don't mean.” Eideard knows better than most that while the youngling likes to pretend his skin is as thick as stone, he secretly takes a lot more to heart than he lets on. The old maker can only hope he understands, and judging by the weak smile that flashes across his lips, Karn does.

“I also believe,” Eideard raises his voice and interrupts the youngling, who'd since turned back to you and had been in the process of reaching out, doubtlessly seeking to comfort, “that giving her some space might be better than not.”

The young maker chews his lip, despising how helpless he feels that yours isn't a problem he can simply blast into smithereens with his hammer, and in spite of the Old One's warning, he brushes a finger against your arm. “But she's-” However, the moment he makes contact, he's cut off by a strangled shout that leaps out of you as you wrench yourself away from his hand, gasping wetly, “Stop it! Get off!”

In an instant, the maker recoils, hands curling up against his chest and he casts his eyes to the floor, thoroughly admonished.

“Stop,” you repeat and hook your arms tightly around yourself, eyes unfocused as they stare past Karn, past the stone walls around you and into the face of a horror apparently only you can see. “You're not gonna die, stop it.”

And Eideard, ever the voice of sense and clarity, clasps both hands around his staff and thunks it's pommel on the ground. “No, you are not,” he agrees, “Muria and I made certain of that. There is nothing in Tri Stone that can hurt you now, I give you my word.”

Unfortunately, for all his good intentions, the Old One's word isn't worth a lot whilst you feel as if the ground could open up and swallow you whole at any moment, just as the jaws of Karkinos had done hours earlier. Even thinking about her cragged jaws sends another pang of fear sweeping through you and, without warning, you propel yourself onto your feet, struck by the urge to run away but finding your legs too unsteady to attempt such a deed. So, trapped in the darkest hollows of your own mind, you can only stand there, trembling on the wall, sweaty fingers pulling at the sleeves of your jumper until they're stretched while at the same time alternating between wanting to sit down and discovering that moving an inch is the most terrifying prospect in the universe right now.

The two makers meanwhile, can do little else but wait - one drawing from his boundless well of patience to refrain from pacing back and forth, and the other a fidgeting, restless mess of nerves.

Seconds tick into minutes and those minutes trickle by until almost fifteen have passed and it's only when the sun has reached its peak in the midday sky that the world ceases to fall apart around you and the pit of dread that had opened up in your stomach shrinks until it disappears altogether and you're left wondering why on Earth it had ever appeared in the first place.

Gradually, the glaze in your eyes also diminishes enough for Eideard to pinpoint the moment you regain your usual cognizence. It isn't difficult, considering the grimace you adopt before collapsing onto your backside in the dirt, utterly spent.

“Y/n?” he calls, “How are you feeling?”

For a few moments, you don't respond save for drawing your knees up and burying your head behind them. Karn's mouth falls open and closed several times whilst he tries to think of something that can fill the silence, eventually clearing his throat and settling on reiterating the Old one's query. However, he's cut short when a muffled groan is pushed through the fabric of your skirt and catches their ears. “You weren't s'posed to see that.”

All around you, the world starts cutting through the exhausted haze clouding your brain and funnily enough, now you wish the ground really would open up to swallow you whole. It's a mortifying thing, to be caught in the throes of panic, worse still when there are witnesses present to see you at one of your lowest moments.

Eideard has too much self restraint to let out his pent up sigh of relief at hearing you speak, whereas Karn all but melts into an oversized puddle on the floor.

“I think, given the circumstances, a reaction like that is more than deserved,” Eideard tells you, perhaps recognising the shame that rolls off your body in palpable waves. The Old One's headpiece clanks softly as he shifts his weight, a frown hanging heavy above his eyes when the attempt at reassurance isn't enough to draw you out from behind your knees, much to his dismay. “Would you...prefer to be alone?” He's highly reluctant, of course, a primitive instinct telling him that he ought to stay, but if solitude is what you require, he would provide, and he even leans down to place a steady hand on Karn's shoulder, prepared to drag the youngling away by force if need be. So it comes as a relief that you hesitate briefly, then shake your head and mumble, “No,” into your skirt.

Eideard's face breaks out into a relaxed smile.

Letting go of Karn, he pulls away and nods, leaning back against the wall once more, content – for the time being - to watch the plants around him unfurl as their roots feel about for the first taste of water they've had in years.

In the meantime, Karn's attention is fixed on the flecks of dirt trapped beneath his fingernails and he busies himself with trying to get at it, every now and then stealing glances up at you. After another few minutes of peaceful quiet during which you get your breathing back under control, he looks up once again and promptly stiffens, his eyes locking with your own.

The maker stares, mesmerised by the way your irises stand out brightly against a red-tinged scelera. Then, realising he's staring openly, he drops his gaze down to his knees.

The sound of a raw throat being cleared twitches his ears. “Karn?”

Your voice is so gentle, evidently subdued by exhaustion. It's a stark contrast to the clipped staccato you'd hit him with earlier. Falteringly, the young maker lifts his head, bringing the two of you eye-level with each other.

Scratching sheepishly at the back of your neck, you wet your lips to speak, however, before you can utter a sound, he unexpectedly blurts, “M'really sorry! I didnae mean to be a nuisance! I-”

Eideard sighs without taking his eyes off an especially blue flower. “Let the girl speak, Lad,”

With a click, the youngling's jaw snaps shut and he ducks his head with a grimace, looking so put out that you somehow find the energy to offer a sympathetic smile, which remains for a moment before fatigue shoves it off your face and you exhale, feeling a hell of a lot older than you really are. “I told you to shut up,” you begin, biting a loose piece of skin on your lip.

Letting out a nervous huff of laughter, Karn twiddles his thumbs in his lap, deliberately avoiding your eye. “Heh, yeah....”

He's too proud. Too bolshie and self-conscious to ever admit how much it hurt to hear those words, and especially to hear them from you, although he knows he should be neither surprised nor upset. Silently cursing himself for becoming so attached that he could be affected like this, he almost misses your next words.

“I'm really sorry, Karn.”

At last, the maker's head lifts.

“I didn't mean that, I didn't mean it at all,” you continue, each word packed with conviction, “Listen, you didn't know what was going on, so it is not your fault. It's just ...Sometimes, humans do this thing where we, like...Well. We just panic – totally out of the blue – and when it happens, we stop thinking, uh-” You snap your fingers, “-rationally! That's the word. It's hard to describe, but, shit just gets so overwhelming and all I wanna do is be somewhere quiet and safe where nothing and no one can touch me. You know?”

Karn – who'd been listening with rapt attention lest he forget any detail you tell him – nods vigorously, his eyes busy mapping the lines and movements of your face. He doesn't want to forget that either.

“It isn't personal, I promise,” you say, oblivious to the scrutiny you're under, “I once told my best friend in the whole world to eff off. So, yeah.”

Despite the pang of jealousy that zooms through his chest at the mention of your 'best friend,' Karn allows his shoulders to slump, relief pouring over him like a soothing balm.

You don't hate him.

The maker's face brigthens around a toothy grin which you return, albeit with a less exuberance. There's still a hesitancy to him though, an angle to his ears that doesn't sit right with you in spite of his jovial smile.

After pondering this for a moment or two, you slowly push yourself onto your knees and shuffle forward, arms opening up invitingly.

Karn loses his smile almost immediately, his lips pulling together instead to form a small, 'o,' and he blinks, caught off guard as you twitch your hands to beckon him closer.

Gulping, the maker tentatively raises his palms and clasps them over the lip of the wall you're knelt on, bracing himself to lean towards you until his stubbled chin brushes against granite and he can feel your breath wash over his nose. The youngling doesn't quite know what to expect when you promptly reach out and place the very tips of your fingers on his flushed cheeks, both of which swiftly turn crimson at the contact. Terrified but filled with an exhilaration he's never known before, Karn remains utterly still, helpless and vulnerable under your touch despite his immensity.

There's a minute twinge in your side as you raise your arms that reminds you of your injuries, but it's easily brushed aside. Frankly, you've been in more pain than this before. Hell, a skimmed knee on the playground gave you more grief. Whatever Eideard and Muria had done is working wonders. Besides, the prospect of a comforting touch is too tempting to pass up. Suddenly, your eyes slide shut and you tip forwards, a groan catching in your throat as you realise how much you've missed basic, human contact. You've taken for granted how often you used to receive physical touches from your fellow humans. Even animals. When was the last time you stroked a dog? Or gave one of your friends a hug?

You're vaguely aware that Karn is worrying aloud, though his words fall on deaf ears.

You miss breathing in the smell of your mother's cardigan when you hugged her and the traces of perfume that lingered on her skin after she returned from a dinner party. Floral. You always hated that perfume. Now, you'd give anything to be able to smell it just one, more time.

“I'm sorry,” you croak whilst a teardrop slides down to the tip of your nose. 'What the hell am I doing? First a panic attack and now an emotional breakdown?'

'You almost died,' a softer voice whispers at the edge of your mind and for once, you try listening to the latter.

Something presses briefly to your spine before disappearing again a split second later. Then, you feel rather than hear Karn murmur, “Is it happenin' again?”

Laughing wetly, you shake your head. “No, no. This is just...another weird thing humans do.”

“I don't think it's weird.”

You don't respond.

“Y/n?”

“Mmm?”

Through heavy-lidded eyes, you watch him catch his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it for a little while before he asks, “Can I-...?” The pressure on your back returns, barely there. A question, a gentle request.

It's enough to break the spell of hesitancy that's been lingering in the air and before you can even think to be embarrassed, you've placed the flats of your palms upon the maker's cheeks and pulled yourself closer, severing any distance between you. Karn, for his part, actually shivers as you drape your entire weight against him, your head nestling comfortably into the side of his nose and setting his face ablaze at the sudden act of intimacy. However, he only allows a mere second of dithering to pass, and then he wastes no more time in sliding his fingers around your delicate torso, ever mindful of the enormous bruise tainting your side. A hefty thumb pushes into your stomach and at the same time, your back is gathered up by Karn's fingers, pinning you inside a loose and tentative grasp and drawing you as near as possible so that you're pressed flush to the youngling's skin.

It isn't the most conventional hug. In fact, it's one of the strangest embraces you've ever been a part of. But it is just that. An embrace: Something you've been unconsciously seeking after you left Earth. Karn's attempt doesn't fix the lonely hole inside your chest, not by a longshot. But by God, it helps just having a hand with the power to topple mountains at your back and the comforting warmth of a friend against your cheek. Right now, it's as close as you're going to come to having the arms of a fellow human wrapped around you whilst they in turn are nearly suffocated by your crushing grip.

For the first time in days, a very small shard of glass untwists itself from your heart and its absence prompts you to expel all the air from your lungs in a sigh as enduring and steady as the stone underfoot.

Karn in the meantime, can barely breathe for all the oxygen in the realm. He'd heard of humans' legendary capacity for expressing and receiving affection – so unusual that other species had marked it as one of their predominant traits, not far behind 'weak' and 'cunning.' The makers are a hardy race, and like many other species, solely express intimacy within their own, close-knit circles. So, in Karn's opinion, the fact that you're kneeling against him with your arms enveloping his face and your scent percolating through every receptive pore speaks volumes to the young maker. In his eyes, this is you trusting him entirely - the highest declaration of friendship you can give.

The youngling hums pleasantly and a dopey smile stretches from cheek to cheek, his eyes slipping shut in clear contentment.

Across the way, standing silent and still as a statue, Eideard's discreet gaze has turned to survey the exchange, melancholy haunting the lines between his eyebrows. The Universe rarely deals a fair hand to those who've already known struggle, and although you've faced more than your fair share of hardships and tragedies, the Old one is willing to bet with utmost certainty that there will be further grief in the coming days.

'But not now,' he reminds himself, appraising the scene before him, 'Not at this moment.'

At this moment, here in Tri-Stone, tucked against the mountainside beneath warm suns and a pale, blue sky, there exists a rare peace that emanates directly from the two beings knelt together in a Shaman's garden. In the distance, the clashing of steel can be heard as Thane lays his frustration out on some, unfortunate training dummy, the warrior's grunts and restrained battle-cries mingling with the soft, gurgled harmony of lava and water tumbling from their respective pipes in the mountain.

For the first time in a great many years, Eideard dares to permit a flicker of hope to ignite in his weary chest.

Things are finally, finally changing. And he dare say they're changing for the better.

Just then, a disappointed groan snags his attention and he swivels his head over to Karn, noting that the youngling's features have screwed up into a childish pout for the fact that you've pulled away at last, severing the connection between you and drawing your hands from his cheeks. Blowing out a whoosh of air, you let your arms drop into your lap before inhaling again, long and deep through your nose until your lungs are full to the brim. “Phew, thanks for that,” you say, tilting your head at the maker in front of you, “Are we good?”

Karn doesn't hesitate in nodding enthusiastically. “Aye! We're good.”

“Good, good.”

“Good, good, good.”

A grin quirks at the edge of your mouth and you snort softly, falling quiet soon after, the amusment fading from your eyes. There's a peculiar expression tugging at the space between your brows that deepens as you start glancing around, first over your own shoulder and then over Karn's. “So, where is Death?”

With a grunt, Eideard pushes his heavy bulk up and off the wall, hands wrapped around his staff and he tramps steadily into the centre of Muria's gazebo. “The horseman took off not long after he brought you here,” he explains, sweeping his gaze along the length of the village.

“Oh...” Pulling your legs from underneath you and swinging them out over the wall's edge - in turn forcing Karn to back up unless he wants his jaw kicked – you consider your hands for a while, thumbs twiddling over one another until, falteringly, you ask, “Did he, um...Did he seem....off, to you?”

Eideard blinks. “He was a little out of sorts,” he replies, “Said hardly a word bar the name of your assailant.”

Letting out a breath that must have somehow become lodged in your chest, you relax a fraction. If Death had turned up in Tri-Stone parading as that....that Reaper, then it'd be among the first things Eideard would mention, surely. If truth be told, deep down, you'd been as terrified of Death in that moment as you were of Karkinos. In your mind's eye, you can still clearly see the dark, empty hood, hear the rattling breaths that emanated from somewhere within that blackness, and the cold!...

Goosebumps prickle along your arms after you recall how that oppressive chill had sunk through you and clung to your bones. You'd heard of the icy embrace of death but you never thought for a second you'd actually experience it and live to tell the tale. Not many humans can claim that accomplishment.

Realising that you've unconsciously wrapped yourself up in your arms, you give a start and force them down to your sides, all the while watched by a pair of curious makers, Eideard in particular, who studies you carefully from the corner of his eye. He takes your lack of verbal response to mean – rightly so – that you're currently trapped in your own thoughts. So, hoping that a gentle nudge will prompt you into speaking your mind, he clears his throat, waiting for you to look up at him before he says, “You must have worried the Horseman greatly.”

You don't mean to let a snort slip out, but it does so anyway. “I don't know about worried,” you mutter, leaning forwards to measure the distance between your feet and the ground below, “he's more likely to be pissed off with me for not listening to him again, pardon my french.”

The old maker shoots you a pointed look and you assume it's because he doesn't approve of your vocabulary until he asks, “You don't think anger and worry can exist side by side?”

You'd been in the process of sliding yourself over the lip of the wall but his words suddenly give you pause.

He's not wrong.

As a child, if you were ever caught doing something your parents considered dangerous, your father would always sit you down and reprimand you with a stern lecture, a deep frown on his face yet concern interwoven into his voice. At the time, you assumed he was furious. Now that you're older and somewhat wiser, you know better.

But just the prospect of Death worrying, about you no less, conjures such a bizarre image, you struggle to visualise it properly.

“I guess they could,” you shrug noncommitally and push yourself off the wall, dropping a few feet to the ground justs seconds before Karn's hand whips out and he balks, a warning just shy of his tongue. It's too late for that anyway.

You hit the ground and immediately buckle, a sharp gasp ripped from your lungs as the impact sends a spasm harpooning straight up your side. “Mother f-!” Dropping to a knee, you bite down hard on your tongue and hold in the scream you'd almost let slip.

Large hands appear on either side of you, though they're swiftly waved away. “I'm alright, I'm fine,” you grimace and draw in a steadying breath, remaining on one knee until the pain dulls to something manageable. It only takes a moment, and when it's ignorable, you clumsily stagger back to your feet and glance over a shoulder at the wall. “Well, that was stupid, huh?”

“Pushing yourself may prove detrimental,” Eideard says, tactfully neglecting to agree or disagree.

“No need to be so polite, Old One,” a gruff and familiar voice calls out from the entrance of the gazebo, causing all three of you to swivel your heads around and stare at the figure emerging up the steps. “If she's being stupid, tell her so. Creator knows she'll never learn otherwise.”

For a sliver of a moment, every other thought flees your head, replaced entirely by mind-boggling relief.

“Death!” you shout and stumble around Karn towards the Horseman, any fear you might have harboured cast aside for the time being in the wake of suddenly seeing your friend again.

'Friend?'

The word trips you up and brings you screeching back into yourself and you shake your head, trailing to a halt just a few feet from the Horseman, your smile withering and dying with one glance at your 'friend's' face. From this angle, you can spot how the underside of Death's jaw quivers as its muscles work over one another, like he's grinding his teeth to Oblivion under there. Trailing your gaze tentatively upwards, you find he's fixing you with a hard glare, the fires of his irises burning hotter than Alya's forge. If anything, he looks as if he's as far from 'friendly' as it gets.

He gives you a slow once-over, his glare lingering on your bad side and the leg you're unconsciously favouring.

Behind you, Karn gets to his feet and his shadow falls across you.

“You're alive then,” the Horseman finally says, an edge to his voice suggestive of a simmering pot that's about to boil over.

The tightness in your chest returns but you swiftly gulp it down. You may be standing in front of Death made flesh, but you're ninety nine percent certain he won't hurt you.

Slowly, his hands curl into tight fists.

...Ninety seven percent.

“Yeah, I'm alive,” you smile weakly and throw a thumb over your shoulder, “Thanks to Eideard and Muria, and you, of course.”

“Of course.” He draws in a breath, like he wants to say something else but then peers up at the makers standing behind you and stops, jaw clicking shut audibly.

The village Elder must have sensed the growing tension, for the next thing you know, he's sweeping forwards and places his boot deliberately close to your side. “Horseman,” he greets, bowing his head, “You never gave me the chance to thank you, for restoring the Tears to our land.”

The only acknowledgement he receives comes in the form of a gruff, “Mmm,” and Death nods sharply, at last tearing his eyes off your jumper and fixing Eideard with a scrupulous stare. “Not to be abrupt, Old One, but I'd rather skip the pleasantries for today. Tell me I'm getting closer to the Tree of Life?”

In response, the maker lifts a hand and beckons for everyone to follow him as he trundles past Death and out of the gazebo.

Stepping aside, the Horseman roughly gestures for you to go ahead of him. There's something about having a grumpy Nephilim at your back that feels vaguely threatening, but you traipse by nonetheless, keeping your head down as his eyes follow you unblinkingly across the garden. Unbeknownst to you however, once he falls behind you, Death instantly switches his attention to your weaker leg and takes note of each faltering step you take, his teeth bared of their own accord.

Once the entirety of your little group emerges from the garden, Eideard inhales and releases a keen, melodious whistle that splits the air and rings out across the village, prompting Alya, Valus and Muria look up. Quick as a flash, the twins drop what they're doing and bid farewell to their fellow maker, who gracefully dips her head and ushers them out of their forge.

Eideard meets them in the centre, just in front of the great door that leads into their old makers' forge, already alive and roaring inside due to the fire and water now flowing through Tri-Stone, a welcome sound, like the voice of the Stonefather himself.

You fall into step beside the Old One with Death stalking around him to stand nearest the door while Karn brings up the rear.

“It is time,” Eideard says, sweeping an arm to the entrance and casting his eyes over Alya and Valus, “I trust the two of you know what must be done?”

The Forge brother merely grunts, whereas his sister bounces on her toes, grinning like a true youngling and apparently the most excited of the bunch. “I cannae believe we're about to use a proper forge again!” she beams. At her side, Valus rumbles in agreement, his helmet swivelling around idly between each person until he stops, does a double take and elbows his sister in her ribs.

“Oi! What?” she gripes, following his line of sight down to Eideard's boots. Suddenly, Alya lets out a delighted gasp. “Y/n!”

You'd been so preoccupied with scowling at the ground and analysing Death's behaviour that her exclaimation jerks you back to reality and you have all of a second to clumsily blurt, “Huh? Wha-” before you're swept up into the air, your stomach lurching as it's left behind.

Clutched between two rough and weathered hands, the excitible maker swings you in a circle and holds you out in front of her, eyes sparkling like the sun on water.

“You're okay!”

“I will be once my head stops spinning!” you quip, grinning through the dizzyiness and the uncomfortable twinge beneath her fingertips.

Just then, to the shock of all involved, Death's hand flies out towards you and he barks, “Be careful!”

Slowly, every head turns to regard him as if he's sprouted an extra head.

Realising what he'd let slip, the Horseman darts his gaze to the side and leans back onto one leg, arms folding curtly across his chest. “You keep spinning her around like that and she'll empty her stomach all over your apron.”

“I will not!” Your lower lip sticks out indignantly, though your ribs are quietly grateful when Alya smirks, flashes you a wink and plops you back onto the ground.

“Keep your hair on, Horseman, I weren't gonna drop her!”

From the corner of your eye, you watch Death bristle. “That is not what-”

“If I might interrupt?” Eideard thunks his staff on the ground assertively and even the pride-wounded Nephilim holds his tongue, instead settling to glare at Alya from afar.

The Elder shoots her a withering look that somehow lacks any kind of real bite before he turns and starts for the doorway, calling over his shoulder, “Perhaps it would be best not to waste any more time? I for one, am rather anxious – as I'm sure we all are – to see the Forge breathe life once more.”

“Hmph, about time.” Death's shoulders gradually fall to their usual height as his anger wanes.

The Old one shuffles up to the door with Valus striding ahead and holding it open for the rest of the group. However, as soon as Eideard has his back turned, Alya swivels her head down to Death again and, to your amusement, sticks her tongue out at him, then saunters into the forge, flicking her hair as she goes and earning herself an offended sputter from the wounded party.

You share a glance with Karn which proves to be fatal, for the next moment, you're both trying to muffle snickers behind your hands. At least until an extremely heated Horseman whips his head around to glare daggers at you, rendering the two of you silent with nothing more than a look that promises endless suffering if you don't zip your lips.

He holds the two of you captive under his stare for a moment longer and then with unnerving slowness, he spins about and heads after the others, and after tossing one more tight-lipped smirk at Karn, you follow suit and pass through the open door. You thank Valus for holding it and the burly maker tips his helm at you curiously before he releases the heavy stone, allowing it to swing back into place with a raucous creak.

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

There's no denying, the makers' forge is sweltering.

Lava bubbles and broils through a canal that spans the entire length of the chamber and basks everything in its warm, red glow. At the very centre, encirled by a smooth, stone wall and toiling away at their enormous anvil like a well-oiled machine, Alya and Valus have set to work forging...something. Despite their size, the siblings move around each other with a fluidity and practiced ease that's as mesmerising as it is impressive.

From your perch on the wall, you watch them forge, entranced, with your jaw hanging almost to the floor as if you were seeing the world's most heavy-footed ballet.

Valus tosses his sister a hunk of grey metal and she catches it gracefully, transferring it into the blazing fire. Faster than you anticipate, the metal burns red hot and when Alya leans close to retrieve it with a pair of tongs, her glistening face is cast in an ethereal, golden glow. Although seemingly transfixed on her task, she flicks her eyes over in your direction and catches you staring.

Smirking, the maker saunters back to the anvil and deposits the still shimmering slab down on top of it. Then, sparing another fleeting glance to ensure you're still watching, she grabs a hammer from her brother and raises it above her head. Immediately, your eyes wander to the quivering muscles on her arms that bunch and twitch under the strain as she slams the hammer down onto the piece of metal, filling the forge with a resonant clang that leaves your ears ringing. It isn't just your ears that suffer though. At the point of impact, you're abruptly forced to throw a hand over your eyes when a searing beam of blue light bursts from the metal and shoots straight up to the ceiling, fading just as rapidly as it had come. The next time she strikes, the light becomes a little more bearable until eventually, you can return your gaze to Alya's task. Over and over she shapes the slab while Valus drags a barrel over to the nearby trough of water and dips it inside, filling it almost to the brim.

“What's the matter?” The forge sister's question breaks your awestruck study of her impressive biceps, “Never seen a maker at work before?”

Wiping a bead of sweat from the tip of your nose, you return her sly grin and reply, “Oddly enough, I can't say I've ever had the pleasure. It's like watching a dance!”

A low chuckle rumbles out of Valus's helm and Alya huffs, inspecting the metal closely, then lifts the hammer once again. “A dance? Don't know if I should take that as a compliment or not. Makers do not dance.”

You wait until the following smash of steel on steel fades before elaborating. “Well, I meant it as a compliment. I just mean you two make it look so effortless, but beautiful too, if you get me.”

The young maker's eyelashes flutter, letting you know you've caught her off guard. “Beautiful?” she echoes softly, letting go of the hammer with one hand to tuck a thick plait of auburn hair over her shoulder. The sharp smirk has vanished too, and in its place, something warmer takes root. All too soon though, with a rapid shake of her head, that familiar cockiness returns. “Flatterer,” she accuses kindly.

Smiling at your crosstalk, she picks up the now moulded hunk of metal and hands it to her brother, the thick, leathery gloves helping to protect her palms from the heat. Obediently, Valus takes it, and even when you strain to get a better look, his meaty paw obscures the object from view.

You can't even begin to guess what they're making.

Unable to help yourself, you raise your voice to reach Eideard, who stands silently close by and observes the forging as a teacher would oversee his students. “So, what is it they're making?” Your question is almost drowned out as Valus chooses that particular moment to dunk the metal into a vat of water where it cools with a vehement hiss.

The Old One raises a finger at you, the universal command to 'wait,' whilst he steps up to Valus and reaches out a hand with the palm turned up, ready to receive the finished product.

“At last....at long last.”

Your ears twitch, picking up the wistful sigh that flows from his lips when he holds it and uses the fingertips of one hand to stroke reverently over the object from end to end before eventually swinging about and holding it up for you to see. “This, Little one” he begins, “is a Makers' key.”

Without noticing, you've somehow slipped off the low wall, treading cautiously across the forge towards Eideard, your eyes never once leaving his hands. It is indeed, upon closer inspection, a key. And an enormous one at that, about as long as you are tall. Staring up at it from the maker's feet, you give an appraising whistle. “I've got to see the door that unlocks!”

At your back, Karn snickers but he's quickly shushed by Alya.

“You will find no door to fit this particular key,” Eideard patiently explains in spite of the interruption, “Rather, it is used to unlock stone.”

“Stone?” you repeat, one side of your nose scrunching up.

An icy chill prickles at the skin of your arms when Death looms out from whatever shadow he'd been lurking in and moves to stand beside you. Drawing your brows together, you try to ignore the fact that his proximity raises the hairs on your skin and his long shadow eerily resembles the hooded figure you now know lurks beneath the surface of his skin.

“Aye,” the old maker replies, “Namely, the Guardian. Meant to be our greatest weapon, and capable of clearing the forest around the Tree.”

Using his staff, he gestures towards an enormous door on the far side of the forge, one you have yet to venture beyond and, admittedly, hadn't even realised exists until now. “Beyond those doors lays the Foundry,” he explains once he notices the newfound curiosity on your face, “It is where we began his construction, but alas, an earthquake drove us out and, now, I fear something else roams within.”

Eideard stills a moment and a darkness appears in the space under his eyebrows, his whole body seeming to sag, its bones simply too old and too weary to keep the maker standing up straight. “The Guardian,” he thrums, eyes lost in a memory, as though he's forgotten anyone else is in the room, “was never finished.”

Disarmed by his sudden look of fraility you'd never have expected from the Elder, you take a step towards him, caught under some, misguided impression that you would actually be able to hold him upright. Eideard spots the movement, regardless of how small it is, and some of the weight does lift from his shoulders as he endeavours to stand a little straighter, a tender expression softening his wizened features.

Raising his voice, Death chooses that moment to address one of his concerns. “If the Guardian is your masterwork, then how am I to complete him?”

Briefly, you wonder if he'd deliberately avoided using the term, 'we,' but soon enough, Eideard's reply is distracting you from the nagging thought.

“In the forest lies another construct,” he explains, “One of the few remaining who have not fallen to Corruption. He is not as vast as the Guardian, but his heart is strong. Seek him out, and he will guide you to the Foundry. There, you may activate the Guardian, using the Makers' Key.”

“So this key-” Death gestures loosely to it, still clutched in the maker's steady grasp. “- It... awakens the constructs?”

The Old One bows his head. “Yes. Constructs do not have a soul, like you or I... not until that soul is given. This key unlocks the stone, and prepares it for the ebb and flow of a maker's life force.”

At your side, the Horseman shifts, a scoff of laughter shaking his shoulders. “And what makes you think I have a soul, Old One.”

And without missing a beat, Eideard raises a brow and replies, “Isn't that what troubles you?”

The click of Death's jaw snapping shut is loud enough to be heard above the forge's ambiance and a pensive silence follows, just begging to be broken. You risk a glance at the Horseman, only to find he's turned his head away from you and the maker. Frowning, you contemplate how it hasn't ever occurred to you that Death doesn't have a soul. It simply isn't something you've called into question, easier to assume that – yes, he's alive, and therefore, he must have one. Now though, with the query lingering in the air like an unpleasant smell, you can't help but wonder as to the answer. After all, can Death technically be considered 'alive?' You only have to puzzle over it for a moment before swiftly deciding that you know too little of souls and the universe to try and philosophise it, so instead, you ask another question that's been burning at the back of your mind. “Wait, how exactly are we supposed to find this construct?”

You can't be sure, but you think you can hear the Horseman breathe a sigh of relief that the attention has been directed away from the matter of his 'soul.'

Eideard however, looks a little perturbed. Brows furrowing, he sucks in a breath and gives you a quick up and down glance. You don't miss the way his eyes briefly flash towards Death before coming back to land on you once more. “There is a temple,” he begins slowly, “out in Baneswood, to the east. If he is anywhere, that is where you will find him.”

“Then that's where I'm going,” Death suddenly pipes up and jerks his chin towards the maker key in Eideard's hand. After drumming his fingernails over its metal surface for several beats, the old maker finally relents. “Here, Horseman. Take it-” He holds his precious cargo out for Death, muttering as an afterthought, “-Before I come to my senses.”

Letting a rare and genuine chuckle grace the air, Death lifts the Maker Key out of Eideard's hand and slips it safely inside a trouser pocket. “You seem more likely to lose them, Old One.” With a good natured click of his tongue, the maker shooes him away and the Horseman turn and readies himself to leave, only to freeze in his tracks when he comes face to face with you.

For the better part of a minute, Death's focus stays on you and the rest of Tri Stone fades away as his eyes rove down to your side once more, lingering a fraction too long. There's a tightness in his chest that wasn't there before.

Then, just as easily as he'd become trapped by your trusting gaze, he feels his mind kick back into gear. Blinking, Death snatches his head to the side and forces his legs to carry him through the forge, past the central dais and on towards the main entrance, zipping by Alya, Valus and Karn without a word.

In his stead, you crane your neck back to send the oldest maker a reassuring grin. “Don't worry, we'll be back in no time.”

If the Old One had meant to object, he's too late in calling out, too late in stretching his withered hand after you, as if to hold you back. You've already spun away from him and hobbled after Death, sparing Alya and Valus a wave goodbye and missing the troubled fang she stuffs into her lip, the urgent huff her brother emits.

You can, however, feel their eyes on the back of your head as you leave.

Before too long - and completely as expected - another heavy set of footfalls begins to shake the ground under your boots.

You’re able to tell without even looking that Karn is following as well.

The doors ahead of you have already thudded shut by the time you reach them, so you habitually press a shoulder against one and try to shove it open. But all of a sudden, a white heat sears across the bruise on your ribs with such ferocity, it brings you to your knees, stealing a ragged gasp from you as well.

Another gasp, this time from a different source, alerts you to Karn's distress and seconds later, his hand is looming in front of your nose, palm tilted towards the ceiling. Lifting your head, you shoot the maker a grateful smile and rest your own hand over his proffered thumb.

“Maybe don't try openin' any maker-made doors while you've got that thumpin' great bruise on yer side, eh?” he teases, pulling you to your feet again, “Might be askin' a wee bit too much of yourself.”

“Duly noted.”

Smirking, the youngling stretches an arm over your head and places his palm flat on the door where, after giving it a single push, throws it open, letting a stray beam of sunlight warm your face.

Inhaling a breath of fresh, mountain air, you peer outside and immediately spot the elusive Horseman, sweeping up the steps onto Tri Stone's central courtyard with his indigo cowl pulled high around his neck, and – to your pleasant surprise – a familiar crow perched upon his shoulder. You'd been wondering where he'd gotten to.

“Hey,” you call out, “wait up!” A few tentative steps reassure you that the previous burst of pain had only been fleeting. So, emboldened, you break into a slow jog, eventually pulling up alongside Death and peering at him from the corner of your eye, though his own remain fixed ahead, to the gate leading out of Tri Stone.

Letting out a brazen caw, Dust hops around to face you and flaps down onto your shoulder, landing heavily enough to almost tip you off balance. “Dust!” you chirrup, reaching up and brushing the back of a finger down his chest, “Where've you been? I missed you!”

In response, the enormous crow flares the feathers around his neck and nips playfully at the tip of your ear, deep warbles emanating from his throat. “Aw, were you worried about me?”

In a fashion that reminds you entirely of the Horseman, Dust twists his beak away stubbornly and the claws on your shoulder give a cautioning squeeze, but his warbling doesn't cease as he settles himself down close to your neck.

You grin fondly at the bird for a moment before Death recaptures your attention, prompting you to lean forwards and peer at him around the crow. The air between you feels thicker somehow, the distance twice as long as it had been in the Drenchfort. Something has changed, and for once, you wish he would be a little more direct, rather than subject you to this ominous silent treatment.

'Silent...' You hum pensively, brow pinched. 'The creature Death turned into yesterday was eerily quiet too.' It suddenly strikes you that you know very little about the Horseman. As disturbing as that cloaked spectre was, you are still a human, and prone to the occasionaly bout of curiosity.

“That...monster, i-in the Drenchfort,” you ask carefully, ”that really was you, wasn't it?”

The only indication that he'd even heard you comes from the tightening of his jaw, one of the few features on his face that isn't concealed by a bone mask. Your gut twinges guiltily. Perhaps 'monster' was an insensitive term to use. Rushing to assure him that your comment had been nothing more than a Fruedian slip, you press on, “Well, I'm glad you had that nifty little trick up your sleeve. Scared the life out of me before I realised it was you though.”

Silence is all that follows, broken only by the steady clomping of the maker following behind you.

“In any case, I've been meaning to thank you, for saving me. Things were looking very dicey at the end there...” Once more, you trail off to chew at a loose bit of skin on your lip, though mainly, you're leaving time for Death to say something. Anything would be better than nothing at all. An acknowledging grunt, a scornful huff, it doesn't much matter, you only wish you didn't have to keep filling the uncomfortable quiet. Instead, disappointingly, Death pushes on ahead, outpacing you easily with his longer strides until he's several feet in front, leaving you to stare at the back of his head and wring your hands before trotting up behind him. “It wasn't all bad though, was it? I mean, before everything went totally 'A Bug's Life', it was actually kind of...fun-”

Without warning, the Horseman stops dead in his tracks. Thanks to the jarring change of pace, you collide with him painfully and Dust shoots from your shoulder into the air, away from potential danger. Once you've staggered backwards to right yourself, he rounds on you, fists clenched at his sides and a dangerous arch in his spine. “You have no idea what this is, do you!?”

Bowled over by the viciousness of his turn, you try to backpeddle, almost tripping on your own feet until Death snatches his hands out and grips the front of your jumper, hauling you off the ground and up to his mask. “This. Is not. A game!” he bellows so loudly, your eardrums rattle, “This is not some – some fun little adventure where you can get yourself beaten to a pulp, then fixed up by a maker, only to go out and do it all over again!”

Horrified, you try to stretch your toes to gather purchase on the ground, gasping out, “Why are you getting so worked up about it!? I knew the risks! So did you! You let me come with you!”

“That-!” For a fatal moment, he falters, shakes his head. “That is not the point!”

But you know you've been heard. His tone has already lost some of its bite and he lowers you back to the ground, fists gradually unfurling from the front of your jumper.

Stumbling several feet back once you're free, you stare up at him incredulously. “Then what is the point? Why are you being so prickly all of a sudden?”

“You,” he seethes, “are always doing stupid things that almost end up getting you killed!” Eyes flashing, the Horseman raises a rawboned hand in front of your face and begins counting off on his fingers. “You throw yourself at a corrupted construct outside the Cauldron, you try to take on a corrupted construct inside the Cauldron, you attacked Karkinos! Who – need I remind you – was hundreds of times your size!”

“She was hundreds of times bigger than you too,” you try arguing, only to find yourself rudely cut off when Death's hands fly out again, this time grasping your shoulders and digging sharp fingernails into the skin beneath your jumper.

“She almost killed you, you foolish human!” He punctuates his words by giving you a hard shake, his tone overwrought and strained....Just as your father's had once been....

It hits you like a sack of bricks that maybe Eideard had been right all along. Maybe the Horseman does care, at least a little more than he lets on.

The fingers still fastenened around your upper arms are beginning to hurt however, and it must show in your expression because after glaring into your face, Death blinks, his luminous eyes growing wide and he instantly jerks his hands back, staring down at you as though he'd only just remembered you're human.

Miserable shock still coursing through your veins, you eye the Horseman warily as he forces his hands down to his sides and wheels about, marching determinedly towards the staircase next to Thane's arena. After hesitating for a few seconds, you cautiously follow.

Upon your approach, the old warrior lowers his hammer - giving the training dummy he'd been whacking a well-deserved break – and lets out a booming laugh that almost seems powerful enough to rattle the pebbles at your feet. “HA! Bloo~dy Hell, yer a stout one, eh Lass? Didn't think I'd see you up and walkin' about again for a while!”

You take a moment to throw Thane a distracted wave. “Y-yeah! Muria and Eideard worked their magic! Um – Death!? Wait!”

Throwing his hammer over one, titanic shoulder, Thane watches bemusedly as you chase the Horseman right up to the bottom of the stairs where he abruptly draws to a halt, one foot on the first step and his head hung low.

You slow down behind him too, eventually stopping in his shadow and tipping your head at his back. Heavy footfalls to your rear signal the hesitant approach of Karn who at least has the sense to maintain some distance, just enough that you and Death aren't overwhelmed.

Unsure of yourself and of what the Nephilim before you is thinking, you press your lips together, hardly daring to say anything that might sour his mood even further. Somehow, you only imagine you'll make things worse.

Evidently, Death doesn't like the quiet any more than you do, for all of a sudden, his head snaps up. “Karn?”

The maker behind you straightens attentively and stammers, “Uh, aye?”

Without turning around, Death jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “She is not to follow me out of that gate, do you understand?”

“O-oh, er...” The youngling blanches, his gaze switching between you and the Horseman and feeling very much like he's caught between a rock and a hard place.

At his feet, your jaw hangs open, eyebrows gradually closing in on one another as incredulity replaces hesitancy. “Uh, excuse me?!” you sputter.

Death's neck stiffly pivots around until one, fierce eye lands on the youngling. “Karn? Am. I. Clear?”

Although his heart is nearly begging him to appease the little human he's grown so fond of, the maker's head takes a stand, and for the first time in his life, he decides to go with the safer option. Defeatedly, he lowers his eyes to the ground, conveniently failing to meet your gaze when you throw a pleading look up at him. “Aye,” he mumbles, “She'll not follow you...”

“Karn!” you exclaim, causing the maker to flinch, his ears drooping.

But the Horseman isn't satisfied and he calls out to the warrior standing nearby as well. “Thane, make sure he holds to that.”

With a roll of his eyes, Thane waves his concern aside. “Aye, I got it,” he replies, lowering his voice to add, “You bossy so-and-so.”

With a scoff, you spin around to Death again. “What's this about? Why can't I go with you?!”

“You're injured,” he states coldly, “You'll only slow me down.”

“But... but what if something bad happens to you again? Let me come so I can help you!”

“Let me make this perfectly clear.” With an invisible power rippling just below the surface of his skin, he twists himself around to face you properly and growls, “I neither need, nor want your help. Have you forgotten what I am? That I've been surviving just fine without your interference for my entire life?”

“I know that!” you press, frustrated, “Saying I want to help you is not the same as saying you're incapable!”

“Why would you want to help me though, when you know I don't even need it?”

“Wh-!” A disbelieving scoff blows past your lips. “Gosh, I don't know! Maybe because that's what friends do? They help each other!”

That word, that dreaded word is out and off your tongue before you even realise what you'd just admitted. Stillness settles over the three of you as the weight of your blunder sinks in and Death's eyes fling open, alarmed.

Throughout his life, he's convinced himself that the concept of a friend is to have a weakness that can be exploited, it's to paint a target over their heads that tells enemies who to go after if they ever wanted to get to Death. He had hoped – prayed to a Creator he no longer knows exists – that you were sensible enough not to see him as anything more than the grim and glowering Horseman. Because if you ever saw him as a friend, he'd be plagued by that persistent glow in his chest which insists that being called 'friend' doesn't sound completely terrible. He'd have to acknowledge the question he's so far managed to refrain from answering; What does he consider you? What does it mean if he'd rather have you hate him but remain safe, than put you in danger yet stay on good terms? Karkinos had almost killed you, and that had been what it took to bring his Reaper form out of hiding - something that only happens under the most climacteric of circumstances.

Something in Death's chest constricts, which is odd, he thinks, given that there shouldn't be anything in there at all.

With the eyes of both you and Karn still fixed on him, the Horseman backs away further up the steps, shaking his head and uttering in a solemnn breath, “I'm not your friend.”

Then, without waiting to see your face crumple, he whirls about and storms towards the gate.

You swallow thickly and nod, lips pursed, unable to pretend that didn't hurt. It chips away at the confidence you've meticulously been building up since you arrived, leaves you suddenly unsure of yourself and wondering what you'd done so wrong that Death would rather leave you behind than have you as company.

Still....

You watch the Horseman's swiftly diminishing form until he's halfway up the steps. Although surly, tactless and belligerent to boot, Death has also shown you that there is a more amiable side to him, albeit buried deep, deep below the surface. He's saved your life, a lot. He seemed relieved that you weren't corrupted by a rogue construct and annoyed that you chose to try and save him. There've been certain things, patterns of behaviour here and there that clue you in to his softer nature, even though he might have tried to remain hard and distant at the time. One could say, however infrequently, that he's even behaved as a friend would.

Perhaps then, the difference in species is at fault here. Your definition of what a friend ought to be could very well differ wildly from his. He always seems surprised that you can take a liking to those around you so quickly, whereas he strikes you as a Horseman that's glacially slow to trust others. Perhaps it makes sense that it would take far longer for him to make a friend. He has, after all, been alive for a very, very long time. Certainly far longer than you have.

'Maybe,' a tiny voice in your ear whispers, 'Maybe I just need to try harder.'

A renewed sense of determination rises in your gut and your nostrils flare around a deep inhale, but below that, below the sudden drive that lights a fire in your belly, something else begins its arduous crawl to the surface, though you don't notice it yet. Something you've been tragically devoid of ever since the world ended and you were thrust onto this journey you have no desire nor right to be privy to. Looking back, you'd probably wonder how you didn't instantly recognise that first glimmer of courage - a quiet sort of courage, the very beginnings of a roar, but yet so soft and mellow that it barely rings louder than a whisper.

Common sense – a far more insistent presence - screams for you to be reasonable, you've been injured and it's very likely that you will be again if you follow Death out of that gate. However, the image of him crushed against that wall by Karkinos' horn is burned into the forefront of your mind's eye and lurks there, an ugly reminder that even Death himself can be vulnerable, and with that vulnerability comes an aspect of humanity.

Without even meaning to, you've humanised Death.

You square your jaw and try to march up the steps, almost catching up to the Horseman when you're suddenly plucked off your feet and hoisted back, clutched in a familiar fist.

“What the – Karn!” you yelp, battering uselessly on your captor's knuckles, “What're you doing?!”

The maker falters for a fleeting moment, his fingers twitching open by an inch before he summons his resolve and lifts you higher off the ground. You can feel his reluctance though, his hand gripping you gingerly as if he's afraid you'll shatter at any moment. It encourages you to wriggle with more fervor than ever in the hopes that you might slip free and escape.

But it's no use.

You may as well be trying to break out of a concrete cell – though stone might be more easily moved than an overprotective maker.

There's nothing, nothing you can do except to go limp in Karn's hand and stare dejectedly after the Horseman, a strange concoction brewing in your chest that's two parts hurt and two parts furious at him for leaving you behind like your presence has so far meant nothing to him.

Once he reaches the top of the stairs, you blink back a gathered wetness on your lashes and crane your head around, hitting Karn with a look so drenched in betrayal, the maker's immense heart wails.

“Now, now dun' look at me like that!” he whines, turning away from the steps and blocking your view of Death with his bulk. Despite his plea, you subject him to a few more seconds of hard scowling before swivelling your head forwards once more and blowing out a huff.

Karn stops once he deems the distance between you and the village gates is large enough and places you delicately on the ground. The moment his fingers slide off your back, you march several yards away and glare fiercely at the Makers' Forge, willing the entire mountain to crumble if only to alleviate some of the frustration building in your gut.

Behind you, Karn lingers where he came to a stop, tapping the pads of his forefingers together whilst his brain tries to come up with something to say. “Y/n?” he settles for after some hesitation. Staring down at the back of your head, he watches you give it a few, deliberate shakes. Then, you're facing him, your brows tilted up in such a way that feels like a punch to his gut.

“I can't believe you just did that,” you snap.

The maker grimaces, but tries to argue, “Death told me to-”

“I don't care what Death said!” Cutting him off with an exasperated laugh, you throw your hands up and continue, anger blemishing your sentences, “It – it shouldn't be up to Death what I do! It shouldn't be up to you!” Your voice suddenly cracks, yet you press on. “I'm sick of feeling like everything is out of my control! The world ended and I thought I was gonna die! I couldn't – I...I couldn't get home! I couldn't go back for the people in the church and I didn't even get to say goodbye to mum and dad and...and I....” Whatever burst of indignation had suddenly overcome you dies away along with your words and you blink, caught off guard by your own epiphany.

Seconds later, you let out a strangled sound and scrub at your eyes. “Ugh. I hate feeling so useless.” You abruptly turn away from him and look wearily to the forge again. It doesn't take long before Karn's heavy presence sidles up next to you and he falters, eventually sucking in a lungful of air before lowering himself noisily onto the steps beside you. His rucksack clanks and rattles with all the treasures he's stuffed in there.

“I don't think you're useless,” he mumbles and swipes a brusque thumb underneath his nose.

“Well....That makes one of us.”

“....”

“Karn?”

“Mm?”

You shift your gaze sideways and up, your jaw set. “I'm still mad at you.”

He swallows so thickly, you can see his adams apple bob like a fisherman's float. “Aye,” he nods, “S'posin' that's fair.”

There you sit, the oddest pair in the universe – a young maker and the last human – both of your heads resting heavy in your hands as a sigh whispers past your lips in perfect unison. To the right, lava oozes a lazy path into the makers' forge whilst in contrast, the river of crystal-clear tears gurgles by on your left. Neither seem in any particular hurry. They simply plod along as nature decrees, unhindered by such concepts as fear or doubt. They know exactly where they're going, and how to get there. They simply march on. And on and on and on, and those who don't move are removed. And those who won't stand aside are cut through. It may take thousands upon thousands of years for one, or mere minutes for the other, but both the river of fire and the river of water are of the same power. They go where they are needed without fuss or fight. You can't help but to envy them their surety. Sometimes you wish someone would guide you so concisely.

A shift in the air tugs you from your thoughts when the giant sitting next to you finally drops his hands into his lap and eases out a warm chuckle.

Glancing up at him, a question puckering your forehead, you ask, “What's so funny?”

Karn's eyes are swimming with a complex amalgamation of expressions. Amusement, fondness...pride. “Ah, nothin' much,” he huffs through a smile, “S'just, nice seein' your spine, is all.”

“My spine?” More baffled than not, you try to look back over a shoulder before his meaning catches up to you. “Oh.”

“Couple days ago, you were flinchin' from your own shadow, if I remember. Now look at you! Gettin' manhandled by the Horseman and you still call him 'friend' and want to go off lookin' for the Guardian with him. Ye've changed. I-In a good way!” he adds hastily.

Shrugging, you wet your lips and stare at the door ahead of you, anything to avoid his appraising eyes. “I haven't really noticed a difference.”

“I have,” he answers simply and leans his elbows back on the stairs behind him, head tilting to watch the clouds roll by.

You ponder his observation for a moment, then follow his example and look to the sky alongside him. “I guess if there has been a change, I have Death to thank for it.” After a pause, you add softly, “I've got a lot to thank him for, now that I think about it.”

One of your canines digs mercilessly into your lip until it begins to hurt and you're forced to stop, heaving a loud sigh instead. “You know, just because I want to go with him doesn't meant I'm not scared. You roll your gaze away from the maker's face to stare idly at the shiny buckle of his rucksack strap. “To tell you the truth Karn, I'm terrified.”

Wearing a baffled frown, he asks, “Well, why'd you want to go so badly?”

Your mouth opens, shuts, and then your lips part with more care, only just opening wide enough for you to whisper reverently, “Because, he's my friend. I might not be his, but he is mine. Karn, I've lost everything. My home, my friends, my family...I really – like, really – don't want to lose anyone else.”

“You'll struggle to lose the Horseman,” he tries out a laugh, hoping to ease your fears, “He's small, aye, but tougher'n old boots!”

Eventually, you indulge him in a tiny smile. “Yeah, I know. But I still worry.”

Once again, your head finds itself resting on your knuckles as you lean forwards, elbows propped up on your knees. Next to you, the youngling tilts his own head and frowns at your sullen expression and pretends he doesn't envy the Horseman for consuming so much of your attention. But soon, he shakes the thought off and clambers to his feet, hands clapping together with enough force to jumpstart your heart. “Well!” he exclaims, “No point troublin' yerself. Tell you what, why don't we pack up those worries of yours and go do somethin' fun?” As you listen, he becomes more and more animated, his excitement evidenced by the hands that fly about to properly illustrate his ideas. “Maybe I can show you the rest of the village! You haven't even seen our-”

“Wait, what did you say?”

Karn pauses, his hands frozen in the air above his head. “Er....we could...do somethin' fun?”

“No, no. Before that!” Now it's your turn to jump up and stare at the maker, waving a pointed finger up and down at him. “Something about, 'packing up my worries...'”

An idea comes to you, a risky idea, but an idea nonetheless. The trickiest part of which will be convincing Karn to get on board, but you're hoping that without the literal threat of Death staring him down, he'll be more easily swayed.

Bouncing up onto your toes, you look the maker right in his eye and ask, “You and me, we're friends, right?”

The moment your question sinks in, his ears pin back. He appears nervous, tentative that you'll rescind his friendship status at any moment. “Course,” he nods a little too hard, a little too eagerly, “Yeah, o'course we are.”

“Are you sure?” Deep in your soul, you know it's awful and cheap to use manipulation tactics on the youngling, and it does leave a particularly sour taste in your mouth, but you simply don't know how else he'll agree. Folding your arms over one another, you cock a hip and drawl, “You sure weren't acting like it just then. On Earth, friends don't usually keep their other friends prisoner.”

The maker nearly crashes to his knees, pleading, “I-I'm not keepin' you prisoner! I'm keepin' you safe!”

“Same difference! I want to leave, but you're not letting me! How is that not imprisonment?”

“I-...Well, I....” His jaw snaps shut and you can practically see the resolve crumbling off him in chunks.

“Karn, please.”

An enormous fist is clenched at his side, hanging low enough for you to step right up to the maker and plant both of your hands on his knuckle, giving it an impoloring tug for added measure. “I need to get out of this village but I can't do that without your help.” The skin beneath your fingers grows warm and his hand twitches towards you, inadvertently pushing you back half a step. Karn draws his head up to stare at the mountain, at the working Forge who's voice is finally ringing out after so many years of silence. A silence ended, thanks to you and Death.

“Friends help each other,” the youngling breathes, echoing the words you'd spoken earlier before he drops his eyes to you once more, a grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth. A further several seconds drag by in which you remain under the intense scrutiny of that misty-grey gaze, and then, having apparently weighed the loss of a friend against the wrath of a Horseman, Karn makes his decision.

“What's your plan?” he grumbles, ears lain flat against his skull.

In return, you give him the broadest grin your can muster, which makes it very difficult for him to be too disgruntled.

“We-” you drawl suggestively, flicking a thumb between yourself and the increasingly apprehensive maker, “-are going to walk right out of that front gate.”

His sharp bark of surprise comes out as a comical squeak. “Eh!? You want to waltz right by Thane!?” he sputters for a moment before clearing his throat to add, “Trust me, there'll be no convincin' that old crosspatch, he'll never just let you walk! Not after Death told him to make sure you stay put!” He drives his point home by jabbing a meaty finger towards the ground.

In direct contrast to his fretting however, you don't even seem in the least bit concerned and an impish smirk sweeps across your features instead, to which the maker quirks a brow. “What? Whassat look for?”

“How much room have you got in that backpack of yours?” You raise your eyebrows at the object in question.

“Er...” Thrown off by the out-of-nowhere subject change, Karn glances over his shoulder and replies, “Bout enough space for a few more treasures.” He trails to a stop and eyes you suspiciously. “Why?”

“What if one of those treasures was, say...roughly the same size as a human?”

The maker's hand reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck and he blows out his cheeks. “Well, that depends on what it is. If I juggle some things around in the ol' bag, I could prolly squeeze in another trinket or two.”

“...Karn.”

“What?” he asks before finally catching the flat look you're giving him. “Oh.” A slow blink, and then, “Oooh!” Realisation lights up his eyes and they grow round as saucers, even as he takes the straps of his rucksack in hand and works the cumbrous load off his shoulders, plopping it down on the floor next to you and immediately seeing how easily you could slip inside. It towers above you, its shadow engulfing your every inch. The image only reaffirms to Karn just how tiny you really are.

Quick as a flash, you leap up to try and unfasten the top, only to come up about three feet short. Before you can try again, your jumper is pinched between two, thick fingers and you're pulled back, away from the bag to face Karn.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he frets, glancing over his shoulder to check that Muria and Thane are within neither eye, nor earshot. “Y'know Death won't be too happy when you show up at the temple.”

“He won't hurt me,” you reply with more conviction than you truthfully feel.

“Oh, aye! You'll be fine and dandy!” the maker scoffs, “S'actually me I'm worried about.”

Pausing to give his finger a consoling pat, you pull out of his grip and motion for him to open the lid of his rucksack. “Come on, Karn. What's an adventure without a little peril?”

The grumble that ensues pulls a laugh out of you, albeit a nervous one. You're well aware of the danger that lurks outside that enormous gate. The bruise on your side is testament to it. But whatever has swept in and washed away a part of your fear – however small that piece may be – is at least enough to keep you from changing your mind and staying in Tri Stone. So when Karn flips the lid and tips his bag down, you waste little time scrambling inside, squeezing yourself in amongst the bric-a-brac and trinkets he's stuffed down there. Once you've settled in between a familiar dish and some kind of gigantic, leather gauntlet, you look up through the opening to find Karn peering back at you, a hand scrubbing anxiously at the stubble on his chin. “This'll never work,” he warns in a sing-song voice, “Thane's got a nose for sniffin' out a lie.”

“It'll work. Trust me. Just show no fear, act like you know what you're doing and stroll right on through that door.”

The maker opens his mouth to argue, but soon shuts it again, gulping his words down and finally giving you a reluctant nod. Then, using a single finger, he closes his rucksack back up, plunging you into total darkness. There's a moment of stillness before you suddenly find yourself hoisted off the ground and swung through the air, coming to a jarring halt when your body collides with what you can only assume is a sturdy back, the trinkets around you rattling and clanking noisily as they too are subjected to the same treatment.

The solid surface your feet have been resting on abruptly shifts and you let out a squeal as you plummet a foot or so down further into the bag. Unfortunately, that squeal becomes a hiss after your side is bumped roughly against the rounded edge of Karn's journeyman dish.

“Y'alright?” a muffled whisper-shout reaches you from outside your temporary hiding place.

After taking a second to right yourself again, you reply in hushed tones, “Yeah, you?”

“Oh, sure,” comes his reply before you're promptly shifted again, this time into steady, swaying motions accompanied by the impact of mighty boots hitting stone and rumbling through your chest, letting you know he's on the move. Through the thick canvas of his bag, you hear the maker continue, “I'm right as rain, me. No worries here.” His sarcasm is palpable.

“You can do this, Karn. I believe in you.”

The youngling doesn't reply to your motivational yet concise words. However, you feel it clearly when he draws himself up high, each step he takes from then a little more sure and nimble. Following his example, you fall silent as well.

For several, long seconds, you hear nothing around you except the maker's heavy footfalls and the gentle clinking of metal all around you. But then, as you'd feared it would, Thane's distinctive voice booms out, low and commanding. “PUP!”

Karn freezes and turns slowly turns to face the old warrior, plastering on his most innocent grins. “Oi, Thane! Didn't see you there. How can I help?”

The older maker thumps to a stop before him and eyes the foot Karn has placed on the first step that leads to Tri Stone's gate. His bushy moustache twitches and, in an agonisingly slow fashion, he drags his eyes up to fix the youngling under his stern glare. “Where're you off to in such a hurry?”

“Er, just...goin' to check out the fjord!”

All of a sudden, Karn feels as though someone has painted the word 'liar' right across his forehead. “Now it's clear, I figure s'a good place for some explorin'.”

Thane's expression doesn't budge an inch, though he does glance and the ground near his feet, searching. “And, where's your little friend?”

“She's in the Forge.”

The warrior's eyebrow hikes up his forehead. “Oh? And you're not with her? Thought you said you weren't leavin' her side, 'no matter what?'”

If Karn doesn't end up giving himself away, the pink blush creeping into his cheeks soon will. He'd made the proclamation while you were in Muria's garden, still unconscious. “O-oh! Yeah, I did say that...”

Inside his rucksack, you have your fingers crossed so tightly, any more tension could well snap them off. But just as you're mentally willing him to be a better liar, Karn surprises you by releasing a sigh so soft and forlorn, he gives the impression of a maker far more advanced in years than he is.

“She... don't exactly want t'be round me at the moment.”

Taken aback, Thane blinks, shifting his weight and waiting for the youngling to elaborate. “Turns out she don't appreciate me keepin' her here. Said I was bein' a bad friend, so...So, yeah.” He trails off with a shrug and scratches at his nose, eyes trained on the ground.

Jesus. You're in on the lie and even you feel awful for what you'd supposedly said. Hell, now that you think about it, is that how Karn had interpreted the things you said to him earlier? Sure, you hadn't outright said he was a bad friend but you had insinuated he wasn't behaving as a friend should. 'Ah...Shit.' You wince and absently press a hand flat against the rucksack wall, feeling the solid muscles of Karn's back warm on your skin. They bunch at your touch, relaxing seconds later and you can only hope your apology is conveyed in the simple contact.

Suddenly, you're tugged from your thoughts by Thane, whose gruffness has been all but buried underneath a rare moment of sympathy. Exhaling a rough breath, he claps one, brawny hand on the younger maker's shoulder and gives him a well-intentioned jostle. “Ach, well, I'm...sure she'll come around soon, eh?”

“I hope so.”

Thane presses his lips into a tight grimace and nods awkwardly, patting Karn's back a few more times before he clears his throat and gives the other maker a shove towards the gate. “G'wan then, go take your mind of her for a bit.”

Trying not to let his mouth gape open in disbelief, the youngling tosses his thanks to Thane and makes his escape, feeling the warrior's eyes on him all the way into the tunnel.

It's only once he turns the first corner and breaks Thane's line of sight that Karn releases the lungful of air he's been holding onto and breaks into a lumbering trot, easily traversing his way through the tunnel until eventually, he steps out into the sunshine on the other side. Trembling with the adrenaline of disobeying his elders so brazenly, he has to take a minute to collect himself, breathing in the crisp air of the vale and feeling the wind on his face before he reaches back and carefully removes his rucksack.

Light floods your cramped hidey-hole and you briefly shy away from it, having to shield your eyes until a large shadow falls across the opening and you squint up into the face of a stupefied maker. His grin is slight and he emits a bewlidered laugh as he reaches inside the rucksack and scoops you out. “I can't believe that worked!”

Sliding comfortably into the centre of his palm with your legs dangling over the side, you return the laugh and reply, “What did I tell you? You're a natural!” You fall silent, losing your smile and looking down at your hands. “A little too natural if you ask me.”

“Karn...What I said back in Tri Stone, about you not acting like a friend-”

“Ach! Weren't nothin' by it!” he dismisses with a chuckle that doesn't quite sound genuine, “You were right, friends shouldn't be holdin' each other back like that! S'pose I'm just out of practice is all. S'been a while since I've had a real friend.”

“Surely the other makers....” you begin, but Karn is already shaking his head.

“Eh, they're more family than anythin' else,” he explains brightly, “But family don't always get along, you know?”

Guilt makes itself at home in your gut like a malevolent parasite. Your friendship obviously means more to him than you realised. Regarding the youngling with a newfound understanding, you nod slowly. “Yeah....Yeah, I get you.” Then, “Karn?”

“Yeah, what?” he replies, lifting you up and depositing you on his broad shoulder amidst the tangle of his warm, wooly scarf.

“You are a good friend.” It hardly feels like enough from where you're sitting, but judging by the toothy grin that breaks across his features and lifts his cheeks, it's at least enough for him. You allow a few more moments for him to sheepishly scratch at his neck with his unoccupied hand before you lean forwards and raise a brow at him.

“Um, I can walk you know.”

“Wha? Oh, I know!” he says a little too quickly, “Just thought it'd be faster this way.”

You give him a suspicious hum but ultimately drop the matter, unwilling to argue. After all, he does have a point. And it wouldn't exactly do to arrive at the temple already exhausted from jogging all the way there, trying to match the maker's enormous strides.

So, drawing in a breath too deep to allow room for trepidation in your lungs, you wrap a hand up in Karn's scarf and the two of you set off towards Baneswood, both safe in the knowledge that, no matter what happens next, neither of you will be facing it alone.

#Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Imagine Darksiders #chwh #cold hands warm heart #Karn #found family #friendship #hurt/comfort #whump #fluff #angst #panic attack #anxiety

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thecatprince · 4 years

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Luckier Than Most

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Summary: A death, a wish, a promise. When Virgil Sanders dies, everyone is distraught. It seems like all of the colour and joy has been stripped from the world. Roman will do anything to get his friend back and heal the pain inside him. When he makes a wish upon a star, he had no idea it would come true. Now, as everyone grieves, Virgil is there making faces at Roman at the most inappropriate times. They are luckier than most.

Warnings: This chapter goes into how Virgil died and the events surrounding it. It goes into detail about drowning and corpses. Read with caution.

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Chapter One - The Death of Virgil Sanders

It had happened so suddenly; one moment, Virgil was alive and smiling, his purple hair falling delicately in his face as he smiled at Roman, surrounded by their friends, just looking perfectly happy, the next moment he was lying on the grass, his body soaking, limp and lifeless as Roman and Logan started pumping his chest in a desperate attempt to bring him back to life, then a chorus of screams, yells and pleading as a small group of boys realised that it was too late, and Virgil was already dead.

Roman could remember every detail of that day, the way the sun shone down from the cloudless sky, the bright green of the grass, the lake so still it looked like glass. He could remember lying under the old sycamore tree, Virgil next to him, watching Remus chase Janus down the hill in a very Remus fashion, Patton sitting cross-legged on the grass making flower crowns out of the daisies and clovers that surrounded them and Logan sitting with his back against the tree, completely absorbed in his book. The birds were chirping cheerily, yellow butterflies flitted around them and a soft breeze gave small amount of relief from the gentle heat of the day. If Roman could pause this moment and experience it forever, he would do so in heartbeat, for he felt completely and perfectly happy. Looking back, Roman would do absolutely anything to stop the world from ever continuing to spin, as moments afterwards Roman’s whole life had shattered.

At the time, a swim seemed like an obvious thing to do. The lake was still and cool, a perfect solution to the heat of the day, and it looked so enticing. In that moment, Roman could’ve kissed Patton for suggesting it. Now, Roman could have killed Patton for doing it. It wasn’t that Virgil’s death was Patton’s fault, in fact, if Patton hadn’t suggested a swim, Roman probably would’ve. They had gone swimming in the lake countless times, and every time had been perfectly fine. If anything, Virgil’s death was Roman’s fault, for not being able to save him, for not realising that he was missing sooner, for not being able to bring him back to life, for being the one to encourage him to swim in the first place. But at the time, a swim seemed like heaven and all of them stripped down to their shorts, cheers and laughter as Remus cannonballed into the lake, breaking the serenity of the water, quickly followed by a giggling Patton. Roman, not to be outdone by his twin, did a flip off the wooden fishing platform. Janus quickly ran into the water, still with his shirt on to hide the psoriasis that covered the left side of his face and torso. Logan and Virgil were rather reluctant to go in, but after much yelling and persuading they took of their shirts (and in Virgil’s case his hoodie, though how he was still wearing it in this weather was beyond Roman), and went in. Logan squealed slightly at the waters temperature, which cause Roman and Virgil to go into a fit of laughter watching the stoic nerd have such a comical reaction to the coolness of the water.

The group all played around for a couple of hours, having races, being dunked and attacked by Remus and any piece of pond life he managed to find (generally gross wet plants, with occasional snail or bug, but he did manage to catch a fish, and was about to eat it live, but let it go after being reprimanded by Patton), and then floating in the water, talking and splashing each other. Roman couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment Virgil disappeared, but he could remember every detail of the moment they realised. Patton and Roman were splashing each other, Remus was on the hunt for another fish so he could put it down someone’s pants, and Janus and Logan were sitting in the shallows, discussing nerd stuff like politics and philosophy. It was Patton who noticed Virgil wasn’t there, and they all quickly flew into a bit of panic. Or at least, Patton did. Roman was panicking inwardly, but he was trying to stay strong, though Remus wasn’t helping in the slightest, as he kept mentioning all of the horrible things that could’ve happened to him. Logan stayed as stoic as ever, his face betraying none of the emotions he must’ve been feeling, and Janus was trying to calm Patton as best he could. Roman and Logan were actively searching, but it was Remus who found him. He had given a weird, choked-up, panicked sound, sort of like a scream, but not quite, and then went deathly quiet, and Roman immediately knew what had happened. He swam towards where Remus was, followed very closely by Logan, and was struck with a horrific sight that he could never forget. Virgil was floating near the bottom of the lake, only half visible in the relatively murky water, his eyes closed and his face pale. In any other circumstances, he could have looked like had was sleeping, he looked so peaceful and at rest. With no hesitation, Roman swam down, though the lake wasn’t too deep, and grabbed Virgil’s shoulders to pull him up. The body was heavy and limp in his hands, and it was incredibly difficult for Roman to pull him up, for his foot had gotten tangled in the weeds at the bottom. Logan swam down as well, and freed Virgil’s foot, and the two of them pulled Virgil’s limp body out of the water and onto the grass, followed by their frantic friends. Roman wanted to join the panic and just dissolve into the ground in a pile of emotions, but he had to stay strong. As soon as they put Virgil down, Logan started doing CPR, pressing up and down on Virgil’s chest. Roman leaned his ear over Virgil’s mouth and a wave of coolness washed over him.

“He’s not breathing,” he said, traces of panic in his voice. Logan stopped the compressions, and Roman took this as a sign to blow air into Virgil’s lifeless body. Once he had done that Logan continued with the compressions, and the two of them kept it up for about half an hour, but by then they realised it was too late. Virgil still lay there, lifeless, limp and damp, his eyes closed, looking as peaceful as if he was sleeping. Roman collapsed into sobs, leaning over Virgil’s neck as his body shook, Logan looked at stoic as ever, but by the way he was shaking it was obvious it was taking all he had to remain that way and he was still doing chest compressions, Patton had started crying ages ago, and he wasn’t stopping, Remus was laughing hysterically, but Roman knew that was his way of dealing with things he couldn’t comprehend, and Janus had just sat there, his eyes glassy, but no tears falling. There were sirens wailing in the distance, slowly getting closer. An ambulance pulled up in the car park nearby, and three paramedics ran out. One of them gently pulled Logan and Roman away from the body, and the other two assessed the body and then looked at each other. One of them brought a defibrillator out of the van, but after about 20 minutes of no response from the body, they stopped.

“How long has he been like this?” one of them asked the boys.

“We don’t know. We noticed he was missing about 40 minutes ago and we found him half an hour ago. We couldn’t save him.” Logan responded in a cold tone of voice, not looking at the paramedic.

“Well, you did the right thing doing CPR and calling us. We will get him to hospital, but I don’t think we can save him. I am sorry boys.”

Logan just nodded dully, Roman broke down with renewed sobs, Patton had tears streaming down his face, Janus looked away from everyone and Remus’ shrieks and cackles were filling the silence. The paramedics got a stretcher from the ambulance and lifted Virgil in, and told the boys that they couldn’t bring all of them to the hospital, even though they knew it was a horrible situation. Logan and Janus nodded resignedly, Roman, Patton and Remus didn’t even respond.

The ambulance drove away, and all of the boys just sat down. Logan went over to where their stuff was, pulled out his phone and called his mother, who came and picked everyone up. Logan’s mother was like her son, scholarly and studious. She loved her son, even if she had trouble showing it, but Logan knew that she did anyway. She was now as stoic as her son, her face betraying no emotion as she drove the three sobbing boys and two emotionless boys to the hospital. Once they arrived, she helped them find where they had taken Virgil. They all knew he was dead, they all knew it was too late, they all knew logically, in their minds, that he was gone, but still, in their hearts, through the pain and hurt, there was a small nugget of hope, so delicate and fragile that they barely dared to touch it for fear it would dissolve into nothing. When they reached Virgil’s room, they were met with a lifeless, pale, damp body. Virgil’s exposed torso was a very pale grey, and when Roman touched his hand it was as cold as ice. Even his hair, which he had dyed a brilliant purple a couple of weeks prior, seemed faded and dull, as though all of the life had been sucked out of it, which indeed it had. That small nugget of hope had been crushed into dust, and Roman bent over his friend’s body as sobs started to wrack his body. Remus was uncharacteristically silent, and he clung to Janus’ side. Janus had tears slowly trickling down his cheek. Logan was hugging Patton as though his life depended on it and Patton was sobbing loudly into Logan’s chest.

Logan’s mother had gone out of the room to call the other parents, who arrived shortly afterwards. Virgil’s parents were the first, having been called by the hospital. Virgil’s mother dissolved into shrieks and tears, and his father gave a choked sob before hugging his wife closely. Roman and Remus’ mums came shortly afterwards, their mom gently coaxing Roman off of Virgil’s body and their mama grabbing Remus’ hand in comfort. Remus slowly let go of Janus as his father arrived and enveloped his son in a hug. Patton’s dads came last, but neither of them could get Patton to let go of Logan, so they just put their arms around the two boys, with Logan holding his mother’s hand. The room was filled with the sounds of grief, the wails and screams punctuating the quiet sobbing as all of them suffered through the intense pain of death.

---

Thanks for reading and I hope that it didn’t hurt too much! I promise it gets a lot better after this!!

#cat writes #luckier than most au #tw death #sanders sides fanfic #ts roman #ts virgil #ts logan #ts remus #ts janus #it will get heaps better after this #i promise

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rosaline-kei · 4 years

Text

Bare; AruMika Fanfic (One-Shot)

Disclaimer:I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin / Attack on Titan nor its characters.

Synopsis: It was the first time Armin ever saw a woman’s bare back, bare chest. Exposed.And he had not expected to see it in this sort of situation.It was the first time Mikasa found herself this much exposed in front of him.And the last thing she felt was any form of uncomfortableness, but still, she wished that he didn’t have to witness something so unsightly.

Rated: T

Pairings: Mikasa Ackerman / Armin Arlert

Read it also on / Please Leave a Review at my Ao3 / FF net (as stated in bio)

Author’s Note : A drabble that i decided to (semi)complete. I don’t think it’s that good but meh. You can interpret it as platonic or romantic but frankly, i think its leaning more towards (unresolved) tomantic tension lol.

He watches her fall.

Again. For the second time. For the second time, Armin hears her air-tank choke, and watches it come to an abrupt halt a second after. The next thing he sees is how she almost crashes to what could’ve been a close death if he hadn’t swoop in, scoop her in his arms before landing on the ground.

Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t been in time to save her from the spiky branches that tore through her blouse, staining them crimson red all over, bestowing her yet another series of scars on her back and chest that would take a while to recover, heal from. And if she was lucky, they’d disappear for good.

But he had been in time to catch her before her head could’ve knocked onto something rock-hard, which could’ve led to a concussion. A coma. He is momentarily relieved when he sees that she is still conscious. He lays her down gently against a tree, with such caution as if he was handling a watchmaker’s intricate task, as if she is the most fragile thing he has seen or touched. He doesn’t want her anymore hurt than she already is.

But that relief soon washes itself away when he sees her wince in pain, and he can tell that its taking every ounce of her remaining strength to not let out a loud yelp that could possibly scare the creatures resting in the forest at this time of the day, or more specifically night.

After developing and improving on the 3-D manoeuvre gear, Commander Hanji had given an Okay for Levi and his squad to test it out while she busies herself with another pile of paperwork, with her responsibilities as Commander. They had split themselves up, in the forest at night, continuing their training as per normal while familiarising with the new gear that they’d possibly be wearing when they’d confront the man who had abandoned them.

He isn’t sure how far they are now, and figures that screaming for help would be pointless because he knows he needs to take action now as opposed to waiting for his calls to be answered.

Because Armin had been in front of the raven, he is unable to tell if it was her momentary carelessness and loss of her cool that had led her to her downfall or if it was due to a fault in the gear that had caused the gas to halt so abruptly. It doesn’t matter either way, for now. He has other things to worry about, like how her blouse was soaking up more and more blood.

“Mikasa.” He calls her name as calmly as he could, but he is sure the woman in front of him can see through this false front he puts for her, and that he is worried to death even though he is aware that this isn’t the sort of tragic moment where this would be the last breath she takes. He knows she is stronger than that and that it’d take more than a fall to kill her. But he still worries. He can’t help but worry for her, for the future, her future. And he hopes when the time comes when they meet him—their ex-comrade who abandoned them—she won’t be so careless, reckless.

Before he knows it, he finds his hands gripping both of hers tightly, reassuringly. “Is your breathing fine? Is—”

He hates how she forces herself to sit up a little straighter, swallowing every painful shriek that she doesn’t want to let out because she knows it’ll do no good, and would only worry her blonde friend even more. What she doesn’t know is that Armin doesn’t care. He wants her to scream and let out all of her pain, because he knows it’s better than bottling everything up.

However, he doesn’t bring it up. Because arguing now would be a foolish thing to do.

“The wounds are not that deep.” Armin can’t tell if she’s lying to reassure him. He knows that the woman in front of him, who was worth a hundred soldiers, would not die so easily from a few scratches from the branches. But he also knows that this woman was still human. And humans are fragile beings, the surface of their skin is thin, easy to tear from something as trivial as a paper cut. And while he was sure Mikasa is aware of this, she doesn’t seem to apply that knowledge to herself. “Just… There was just a lot of branches.” She pauses briefly. “And it just happened to open up old wounds… but I’m fine. Give me a while.”

Armin is instantly reminded of the recent wounds that she received not too long ago from both a spar and from work; labour that she had been assigned to do (and from what he had heard, pushed herself a little too far. Something that he has already nagged and chided her for.).

His eyes narrow, and he doesn’t trust her ‘I’m fine’ completely. But there is still colour in her face, her breathing isn’t concerningly shallow and it doesn’t look like she is forcing her eyes to stay wide open to avoid the pitch black a person would see when they faint. And he reminds himself that she isn’t dying.

He hopes that something like this won’t happen again, on the battlefield, where her life would truly be more at risk. He doesn’t want to lose her.

He glances around the forest. Albeit dark, he recognises it. They have been training in these parts for quite some time now after all. “There’s a river nearby.” He quickly says, suddenly in a rush. “We’ll wash your wounds there.” He doesn’t give her a choice. He isn’t asking.

“I’m fine.” Yet she insists on the fact that she doesn’t need help. “On the battlefield, I don’t get the luxury of washing my wounds at a lake.” She is stubborn. “I have to put up with it.”

“But we aren’t at war now.” He sounds sterner now, fiercer. He isn’t usually like this; he is admittedly more of a passive person who probably had given into her more often than he should recently. However, he doesn’t know how else to respond to her stubbornness.

He slowly carries her up, and it seems like Mikasa’s body is a little too worn out to fight back.

Again, it is foolish to argue now. That’s the last thing Armin wants with her. He tries to reason. “And by the time you’re on the battlefield, all your wounds would already be healed. You’ll be stronger. At your fullest. But right now, you’ve been overworking yourself, getting new bruises. You aren’t at full capacity.”

Mikasa doesn’t argue back, because he is right. And she knows he wouldn’t yield to her stubbornness because he cares for her too deeply.

…

When they reached the river, Armin once again gently sets her down and removes both their gears, setting them aside. He notices that her wounds are no longer oozing out as much blood as before, and it soothes him… just slightly. It confirms the fact that they aren’t that deep, but it doesn’t mean Armin would care any less about it. About her.

His hands scramble about in his pockets, and finds a clean handkerchief that he isn’t sure how it ended up there, but regardless is thankful for its presence. He approaches the lake, soaks it with water before squeezing some of it out and turns back to Mikasa.

It was only then did he realise what he has to do and what he has just gotten himself into.

Mikasa already knows, has her back already turned and facing him as her hands move to unbutton her blouse.

It is probably an extremely inappropriate moment to flush, but Armin can’t help it. Instinctively, he turns away, sparing her some privacy even though that isn’t exactly a choice later on. “I- uh… ah…” There is no longer a sternness in his tone. It is lost, and nervousness overwhelms him. Mikasa notices it in the instant she unbuttons the last button, letting the blouse fall down her shoulders, down to the ground.

Armin is unable to believe how she removes the clothes from her body without that much hesitance. Does she not realise what she is doing? Or does she trust him that much? Or is it because she doesn’t see him as man?

The last thought irks him somehow, but that is far from the truth behind Mikasa’s lowered guard around him.

Mikasa knows the back of her sports bra is partially torn, too. And she knows it’ll get in the way. So, her hands move towards it, unhesitatingly, to take it off.

“W-Wait!” Despite his well-known intellect, clearly Armin didn’t think ahead for this scenario. He is red all over. “I- ah… y-you can keep that on. I don’t want to...—”

“I trust you, Armin.” She says this so confidently, even though admittedly, she’s a little embarrassed too. Because she is still a woman who has undeniably grown in certain areas, and this is the first time she exposes herself this much to a man. But there weren’t nurses around to tend to her, so she isn’t in a position to complain. And she knows that if she puts back on her blouse and tells Armin to forget it, he’ll go on a lecture and the cycle repeats.

And above all, she trusts Armin. He is her childhood friend, too. He would never harm her. He could never harm her. She knows this, and she never takes advantage of it, of his kindness because she cares for him deeply too. She cares for him, in her own unspoken way. “It’s okay.” She doesn’t look back to him to give a reassuring look that provides as much assurance as her tone, mostly because her cheeks are tinged slightly pink, and she doesn’t want that to distract him or make him any more uneasy.

I trust him. She thinks. But even so…this situation is…

Her cheeks, tinged with pink, says enough.

Armin gulps and nods and walks towards her silently before kneeling down behind her after she has removed her bra. Perhaps if Mikasa could’ve reached all the wounded areas on her back easily, the two childhood friends probably wouldn’t have found themselves in this sort of… predicament.

“I’ll… be fast.” He says, but it doesn’t mean he won’t be gentle. He dabs the cloth on her wounds lightly, wiping away the blood.

She winces, making Armin even softer in his movements. “It’s okay.” She says again, her arms crossed and covering the front of her chest. “We’re alone…anyway. We aren’t supposed to meet the others yet… they probably wouldn’t have noticed our absence.”

“Yeah…” Armin murmurs, “Does it hurt?” He checks on her, as he approaches the slightly deeper cuts that appears to be her re-opened wounds. He makes a mental note to inform Commander Hanji that they should have a wardrobe upgrade, have better material for their uniforms. A blouse and a jacket over it weren’t going to do it for them at this point in time.

“No.” Mikasa responds. “Sorry.” She responds, and Armin raises a brow, before he finds them furrowing in slight frustration.

“Does that mean… your fall was due to carelessness?” He asks, and he tries his best to ensure that his question doesn’t sound something close like a reprimand.

“I don’t think so.” What an uncertain answer, Armin cannot help but think. Neither a lie nor the truth. “I’m just… tired.”

He decides not to pry any further, and lets it go for now because pushing, and maybe even arguing won’t do either of them any good. And perhaps, its because he can empathise with her too. Deep down, he knows it isn’t just the training and labour that is wearing her down. There was him, too. In that way, they are alike. However, their connection extends further than that.

They aren’t just connected because of him.

Either way, He doesn’t want to think of his name, much less say it out loud now. So, he changes the topic.

Somewhat.

“Please…be more careful next time.” He finds himself saying this before he could rethink his words. In Mikasa’s eyes, Armin never had his guard up so high around her. Because just as she trusts him, he trusts her. However, hearing him so vulnerable now seemed to have surprised her a little, and it softens her heart. It makes her feel a little more vulnerable than she already is, too. “I can’t lose you.” It sounds like a plea, and he is referring to the next time they are out on the actual battlefield; a place where lives are truly at risk, at stake. More prone to death. “That is… all I ask from you, Mikasa.” He whispers that last part in a hushed tone, and she could only wonder why.

“…I don’t have any bandages now.” Armin continues before Mikasa could reply. “Otherwise… your wounds are a little cleaner now. Ah… we better get you back to headquarters quick…” He grumbles the last part, and walks over to the river once more, rinsing the blood absorbed from the handkerchief before walking back.

When he returns back, his anxiousness does too. “Uh… your front.” He is vague. “I’ll… clean it now… so… uh… I… d-do you—”

His words are cut halfway, and his cheeks become redder when the woman in front of him unexpectedly turns towards him, facing straight at him. And even if her arms are still covering her breasts, there is still the sight of her cleavage that he tries to avoid looking at but it is difficult not to when he’d start cleaning the wound in front because...

Either way, he is astounded once again that the raven doesn’t mind being so exposed in front of him.

“M-Mikasa! W-What are you—”

He looks away so fast when she turns anyway, so he doesn’t notice the light, faint pinkness on the raven’s cheeks. “I trust you.” She says again, “There aren’t that many scars as compared to my back… the blood is still oozing out a little, but nothing serious…” She remarks as calmly as she could, forcing every stutter to die and her words to be more articulate. It is hard to maintain her usual levelled tone in her voice, but she tries to because she doesn’t want Armin to think she is uncomfortable or hates it.

Armin gulps again, and with his eyes still fixated on a random leaf on the ground, he marches to her in an awfully stiff way, kneels down, and Mikasa swears it took him more than a minute to finally be able to face her.

Despite their shyness and silence, there seems to be an unspoken understanding between them that prompts Mikasa to slowly loosen her arms, exposing her chest completely but Armin’s eyes aren’t focused—he makes sure they aren’t focus on her… womanly parts. He doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, and he isn’t sure if he can contain his blush if he even dares peek at them.

Besides, the long scar that stretched from the top of her chest, down to her upper stomach catches his attention the most. And his worry sinks back in, numbing his flustered self temporarily. Even if the wound isn’t that deep, he worries. His eyes soften as he cleans the blood dripping. For the first time, he never knew he could hate the colour red so much. And he can only hope that she wouldn’t drenched in it the next time he encounters her on the battlefield.

He doesn’t say anything for now, in fear of making her uncomfortable. He doesn’t even know what sort of conversation to even make, in this sort of situation. And as he is finishing cleaning up, Mikasa speaks.

“Sorry…” Mikasa suddenly apologises again, although she sounds sullener. “For you to see something so unsightly.” She is referring to her scars. And although she knows she—that both of them had seen worse, more gory things in their life, she can’t help but feel bad. It’s not like anyone wants to see a friend’s bleeding wounds. “And I’m sorry for troubling you.” He wonders if she is referring to her earlier obstinance.

“…Gee… what are you saying? You’d have done the same thing for me right?” Armin murmurs, and when he finishes cleaning the last bit of leaking blood, he garners some courage as his ocean hues meet her greyish ones that seemed a little brighter, perhaps due to the moonlight. Unsightly? He scoffs to himself. What is she talking about?

She is beautiful. He thinks immediately, and blushes at the sudden thought. And then finds himself mesmerised by her, by the trusting, loving look in her eyes that she doesn’t bother to hide, that she lets him see. Because Mikasa Ackerman cares for Armin Arlert deeply and what is there in that fact to hide? He shifts closer to her sub-consciously, as if his eyes want a closer peak of the ‘colourfulness’ hidden behind her orbs. Unknown to him, he is hypnotized. “You aren’t unsightly…” Words like that spill from the tip of his tongue, “Your eyes… they sparkle in the moonlight. Like last time.”

Last time…?

Mikasa finally sees his face, a little clearer now, and unknown to Armin, he is moving closer to her, and she is unsure why he suddenly complimented her eyes. Or why her heart begins to palpitate, or why there is warmth accumulating at her cheeks.

“Armin…?”

“Mika—”

But alas, the moment is ruined. Armin’s arm grazes her breasts lightly and most definitely accidentally, when he moves closer—but the fact that it was an accident doesn’t make the situation any better as Mikasa’s cheeks officially burnt red while Armin, upon realising what he had just done, instantly turns around and becomes a stuttering mess.

“I-I-I d-didn’t m—”

Mikasa finds herself covering her chest again. And even though she knows it’s an accident, it is still flustering.

Then suddenly, she recalls something, a moment back before their lives had taken a terrible direction. A moment before they realised and saw what life outside the walls was truly like. A moment, which had revealed to Mikasa back then that Armin wasn’t as innocent as she thought he was.

“…Armin, weren’t you the one who… had those indecent books that you later circulated around the boys for a while… before they got confiscated?”

Her statement doesn’t make this… his predicament any better, nor does it cure his stutters. If anything, it worsens them, and to make things worse, he feels his heart beating rapidly as he struggles to find words to explain.

“I-I…! I-It isn’t w-what you t-think! I—”

“…Perv.” She says it flatly, in such a cold way that almost drives Armin into tears of embarrassment. That was, until he heard a chuckle that followed after a minute of him internally suffering from being labelled as a perv by her.

A beautiful, angelic sort of sound he hadn’t heard from her for a while.

“W-Why—”

“You can turn around now.” She says, and he does so, hesitantly. She already has her bra back on, and her smile still stays plastered on her face after her chuckle.

What a sweet smile, he thinks.

“I still trust you.” She says softly, and that relieves him a little. But he is concerned that she didn’t withdraw her remark about him being a perv. Then again, to be fair… that indecent book incident…

He cut his thoughts off halfway when he sees her about to wear back that bloodied blouse. He immediately stops her, and Mikasa frowns, confused.

“Arm—”

Before she knows it, Armin is the one unbuttoning his blouse and before she is the one who turns to a stuttering, confused mess the blonde speaks, “It’s dirty… don’t wear it back”

He goes behind her, removes the dirtied blouse after handing her his own.

“Ah…” was all Mikasa could say, and she feels embarrassed at the fact that she thought he was undressing for… other reasons. And she is too stubborn to admit it, or say it out loud.

“Thank you.” She ends up saying, and she is genuinely grateful. Slowly, she puts on his blouse as Armin takes a seat behind her, his eyes looking over at her wounds. He notices some of them bleeding a little again, and it aches his heart but there is nothing much he can do with just a handkerchief.

“Sorry… for you to see something so unsightly.” Her remarks echo in his head, and he doesn’t like it.

Granted, Armin agrees that scars are anything but pretty. Because behind each scar, is pain. You can rarely find any beauty in them.

But when Armin sees Mikasa, he still finds her beautiful. Not just the outer appearance, but her heart. She may be regarded as cold by strangers, cruel by enemies… but he cannot help but find her heart beautiful, because he is one of the very few people she has ever made room for in there.

He leans in closer to her back, and before the blouse covers all her back as she buttons them, he presses his lips against the area near the nape of her neck. It all happened too fast, too instinctive; at least on his part. Armin was barely aware of the affection he just gave her.

Mikasa is caught off guard, and she flushes at his sudden ‘attack’. But she doesn’t hate it. She is just confused why he did it and… is puzzled about the sudden fluttering in her heart.

“A-Armin…?” She stutters out.

When his lips finally depart from her back, it seems like he hasn’t snapped out of the trance he is in, and isn’t completely aware of what he just did. And all he manages to say is, “You aren’t unsightly.”

Mikasa goes silent, and for some reason, she feels her entire body and nerves relax, as if such simple words provided her some sort of solace.

“…You really are a Perv.” She cannot help but reply, because she finds it unfair how he could do something like that… how he can surprise her just like that.

It is only when she calls him a Perv again, does he become fully aware of what his instincts drove him to do. He is now panicking and blushing madly. And then, he is struggling again, to find words to explain, to justify.

“…I could’ve cleaned my chest myself you know.” Mikasa says these words as if she had been aware of this fact all along. But really, that thought has only now occurred to her; and it probably flusters her more than the blonde whose cheeks grew redder (if it can already be redder than it already was) as the word Perv automatically and continuously reverberates in his head. He hopes Mikasa doesn’t really think of him as Perv.

It seems both of them had been too caught up in the moment.

Well, what’s done is done and Mikasa doesn’t seem to be bothered about Armin’s actions as much as he thinks she does. Not even the kiss on her back, which is something she chooses not to question now. Because she is sure they are both tired and given the current predicament—the one where they are in the middle of the forest, unable to head back using their gear since hers is faulty— and that it isn’t the best time to bring it up.

For now, the raven merely watches the blonde’s shyness grow increasingly as he mumbles out inarticulate words that she assumes are meant to explain and justify himself, and prove himself unguilty of his Perv nickname.

This is the same man who is able to use words as weapons against enemies, to push forward his beliefs. That same man was stammering, unable to find the right words and a part of Mikasa finds this side of his amusing. And maybe cute.

She doesn’t say anything after, as her heart chooses to treasure this little moment they have.

#AruMika #AruMika Fanfic #arumika fanfiction #attack on titan #snk #Mikasa Ackerman #aot #Armin Arlert #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan fanfic #shingeki no kyojin #shingeki no kyojin fanfic #my fanfic

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secret-engima · 5 years

Note

(nOISES) I JUST REALISED I WENT TO SEND AN ASK TO YOU AND I ACCIDENTLY FORGOT ABOUT IT AND CLICKED OFF TUMBLR N IT DISCARDED ITSELF :(( HOW DID I DO THAT? Anyway—Wait are Clarus/Cid/Cors thoughts on Regis-Nox's first meeting in the Nox verse. Like when they ACTUALLY meet and Regs/Nox starts crying or when Nox refuses to look up at first n stuff. Is this fluff?? I THINK this might count as fluff/angst??? But more fluff?? I have no idea. Here is That One Ask I Somehow Didnt Send.

IT’S OKAY I’VE DONE DUMB THINGS LIKE THAT TOO. Lemme see how short I can make this-

-Clarus is- Clarus is secretly as big a mess as Regis. He knows how much family means to Regis. He was THERE when the Doctors told Regis about Nox’s condition (and they’ve already seen Ardyn’s condition). When Regis had to sit and listen to the reports of scars upon scars, of traces of internal damage healed by too-small potions and weight that was well below where it should be.

-Now he stands beside his king and watches as the teenager huddles against Ardyn Izunia’s side like he wants to disappear, won’t even LOOK at them, as if he’s afraid of what monsters he will see.

-And Clarus is afraid. Afraid that this boy will run and leave (because Regis would let him, Regis would never bear to imprison his own son). Afraid that this boy will run and Regis will BREAK and Clarus won’t be able to pick up the pieces this time.

-Then- then he looks up, into Regis’s face and whatever he sees takes the wind right out of him. Clarus can almost see the “oh. Oh he doesn’t hate me. Why doesn’t he hate me??” in Nox’s eyes and it feels like being stabbed. He wonders if Ardyn, unknowingly or not, poisoned Nox’s opinion of Regis all these years, but it is Ardyn who is helping to make this meeting work so he puts that thought aside for another time.

-He puts it aside and watches as his best friend and his best friend’s two sons slowly come together, a fragile bridge stretching between them because of the earnest innocence of little Noctis. He can dimly feel magic tangling together, but he cannot read it from the outside. But Regis is suddenly crying, and Nox is crying and Clarus is alarmed until he sees the RELIEF on Regis’s face. The AWE. It’s like when Regis held Noctis for the first time.

-And something in Clarus unwinds, because he knows it’s going to be okay.

...

-Cor wants to hit something. He never did do well with emotional tension. Never knew how to handle it outside hitting something or ignoring it or walking away.

-But he can’t walk away and he can’t hit and pushing through will just make this worse.

-Cor has lived most of his life in service to the king. Protecting the king who was also his best friend.

-How do you protect your king from the realization that his son is AFRAID OF HIM?

-Because he is. Cor can tell. Can almost taste it. Can see it in the hunch of the boy’s bony shoulders, the way he tucks himself against his uncle for protection (backup, if this turns into a fight, an ally, if it becomes a trap), the way he won’t. look. at. them. until his uncle makes him.

-Don’t make eye contact with the bigger predators, Nox’s shallow breathing says, eye contact is a challenge, Cor can see in the set of Nox’s jaw, don’t challenge them, submit and live and remain unnoticed, shriek Nox’s shaking hands and it HURTS. It HURTS to be seen as deadly by a member of the family he has sworn to protect.

-It reminds him, painfully and angrily, or being fifteen years old and angry at the world, angry at himself, angry at the immortal swordsman who tore him apart without even trying and then sent him away with his tail between his legs to face the king he had abandoned out of pride. It reminds him of standing before those who were his only family and thinking “this is it, this is where I will be abandoned, and I will deserve it”.

-But now, just like back then, when the teenager finally looks up, Regis’s face is nothing but love and worry.

-And Cor can see how that BREAKS Nox. How the realization that his father, a stranger who is so much MORE than Nox probably ever dreamed of being, already loves him and cherishes him for no reason than Nox is his son reaches in and guts Nox. Leaves him wounded and vulnerable. How Nox is left flat-footed because he expected and had prepared for every reaction but the one where his own father LOVED him.

-And that makes Cor angry too.

-But he says nothing. He watches with dread as Nox begins to pull away, an animal too abused to trust caring hands, only for little Noctis to blow past all his elder brother’s shields with wide eyes and innocent acceptance and a tight hug.

-He watches as his king kneels, and tangles magic with his eldest, his lost, his prodigal son.

-He watches as Regis cries.

-More ... he watches Nox. He watches as Nox cries, as Nox looks at Regis like Regis is the strangest, most wonderful thing in the world and Cor knows in that heartbeat that he will fight to keep Nox here. He will fight to make this relationship work.

-He doesn’t think either father or son will survive the alternative.

...

-Cid can’t see the boy’s face. But he can see his shoulders. And he can see Reggie. He can see Reggie hiding the tremble of longing and hope in his hands and the faint despair lining his eyes when Nox won’t look at him.

-Cid wonders what the boy expects to see if he looks up.

-Nothing good.

-Cid never did figure out why Nox was so terrified of even the thought of meeting Regis. But here they are, meeting, and he can sense Nox’s desire to bolt out the nearest window and never look back.

-Despite everything, Cid can’t help but feel a glow of pride that Nox is NOT running. He is scared, and he is shaking, and he’s probably a step away from a panic attack, but he’s not running.

-Then Nox looks up, and whatever Regis sees in Nox’s reaction to his father’s expression is enough to break the man.

-Cid holds his breath and prays Nox will be brave just a little while longer. Because if he runs now...

-Cid isn’t sure either of his idiots will survive the fallout of that.

-Astrals BLESS little Noctis. Who runs in and has no preconceived notions of illegitimate sons or too-powerful fathers. Bless the little boy who runs in and clings to Nox, because Cid knows Nox, the boy has never been able to resist the puppy eyes of a child in his life and that isn’t going to change now.

-Noctis asks him to stay, and Nox agrees even though Cid can see terror in the quiver of his shoulders.

-Cid is alarmed but not really surprised when they start crying.

-But Regis is smiling, and Nox is still here, so Cid will assume its a good kind of crying.

-Cid nods to himself as he rests a hand on Ardyn’s shoulder in silent support. And Cid knows that he will see this family stitched back together. All FOUR of them.

-He swears it.

#SE asks #oliverslewty asks #Nox verse #Secret Engima Rambles

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kaepop-trash · 5 years

Text

AS: Pilgrimage

Rated: M for Smut, Angst.

Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader xYuta

Summary: The story of secrets, deceit and greed. Three characters with unlikely alliances and one common goal; power. Jaehyun is stuck between his own thirst for power and his need for the one thing that could take away everything. Yuta has ambition growing from an unlikely alliance and convinces himself to do anything to protect it. Between both of them is her, ambitious but with one weakness, she does all it takes for Jaehyun, even if it’s putting herself aside. But how long can she hold up her own fragile games?

(A/N): This is a long overdue chapter. I hope it can make up for the time.

January, 2021

She sat in the airport on an unlikely second day of January, looking around at the mostly empty place. Everyone was home, and she was on her way to the capital to see a dirty fight play out. The few people she saw around inside the airport she was in, were obvious employees of the government and staffers; all getting back from the holidays at the eve of a new session. Her thoughts were stuck on two things that were yet to happen: the inauguration of the new session and her own testimony in front of an oversight committee.

She took in a nervous and shaky breath, it was an unnerving thought to her— the interrogation, the cameras, the very spectacle of it. She couldn’t quite put a finger on what was causing her nerves, but she was aware that this ordeal was much more than a routine investigation on behalf of the Senate. She knew that her intention was to rattle a few lawmakers when she filed a writ last fall, but she didn’t expect the jolt she provided to result in an invitation to testify for senate, (Y/N) frowned at the thought. She would have lived her entire life just fine without being on C-span. It didn’t help that she was admittedly more on the non-confrontational end of the spectrum, a hearing was about as confrontational one could get and she was displeased at the idea of being publicly humiliated one way or another by at least one Republican Senator, especially because the invitation came from the Republican Senators of a Senate that was majority wise tilted to their cause.

She rummaged through her bag, picking out a bottle of water to ease her abruptly constricting throat. The very idea of the Senate suddenly jumping on this didn’t seem right to her. For the last cycle, the Republicans were mostly restrictive forces, they were not one for action; slowly recuperating from the loss of faith in their party. But this was swift and aggressive action and her instincts told her to treat it like an attack. She felt like a small, venomous animal in the wild— a creature running only on intuition and reserving its strength.

Abortion was steadily growing as an irrational debate that snatched away an individuals rights and she felt responsible enough to see the voice against it through. She sat back in the creaky pine chair of the airport lounge, drinking her cup of tepid coffee— a shallow attempt to rid herself of dread. Through the long sip she took, she decided to put off thinking about anything other than winning this. What was right, what was moral or the contrary, was irrelevant to Congress. The government functioned on checks and balances, and while it was beyond her to balance power, she was on a mission to ensure she could orchestrate public awareness that would keep them in check. The house could provide the balance, and it was her only option. But the house cared about votes and she knew she needed enough to start a conversation. She just didn't have any control over the floor. That was him.

Him who she refused to give more than a bitter momentary thought. Jaehyun was a means at the moment, and she swallowed the bitter pill of that reminder and finished her acrid coffee and checked her watch. She left for the gate earlier— just in case; picking out her phone from her bag to make a call.

The last ten minutes since the Representative of North Carolina entered the restaurant Jaehyun had invited her to, were spent in silence and as far as Jaehyun was concerned, those were ten minutes wasted. He had spent the last three months advocating for an abortion bill and it had ended up coming to the point where he wondered why he had to fight so hard and convince so desperately for something that should be fundamental. When Jaehyun was elected as a public servant, he wasn’t unaware of the uphill battle that he faced: these days it was a challenge to get congress to do something. He wasn’t unprepared or unmotivated, this was the reality of his job. He was, at the moment though, irritated by how adverse his colleagues were to change. Change that was by all accounts inevitable as far as he was concerned, after all he had a promise to keep.

When Jaehyun first turned his attention away from the Representative of North Carolina, it was because he noticed the Representative of Utah and a handbag he found familiar. He turned back to the person in front of him and sat up in renewed attention when he realised that a number of his colleagues could be here, a number of whose handbags he has encountered on a daily basis. The place was a common brunch spot, especially for backhand agreements like the one he was trying to execute.

He shook off his distractions and spoke up, “Carol its to our mutual benefit if you support this bill. You're a woman, you'll be seen as sympathetic, the political climate is shifting now: bipartisanship doesn’t have the same nobility anymore, the people see it for what it is, after what happened the last cycle, leaning across the aisle is what we need now.” He looked at her eyes, squinting at her avoidant gaze. Something was wrong, “North Carolina already allows abortion till 20 weeks, we're simply bringing up to 23 for special cases and mandatory planned parenthoods in every state. Special cases is defined clearly in my bill as rape, physical captivity or external entities misleading the conceiver in some kind.” He stopped at the words when she looked up at him with sudden unwelcoming eyes; he mentally sighed at what was to come.

“That last bit could be misleading. What if some knocked up drop out decides they want an abortion last minute because the father packed up?” She spoke with uncaring eyes and Jaehyun tightened his jaw. He wanted to speak, but thought against it, he allowed himself a moment to look past her prejudice, looking away from her. He tried to gauge her, understand where she was coming from in an attempt to turn this around.

The second time he had to turn his attention away from Carol was when he saw her.

(Y/N), sitting at a restaurant table with the Representative of a state as irrelevant as Utah in this debate.

“I rather plan on pushing for stricter abortion laws. It's what my party wants, you know? I hope you understand.” Carol sounded polite in a way that was demanding.

“I hope you'll give me a moment. I just noticed a friend across the room.” Jaehyun stood up as he watched his perplexed lunch companion sit up, eyes impatient.

“I should be on my way–” She wiped her lip. Jaehyun smiled at her gently.

“It’s an old friend,” His voice held an edge. “Just a minute and I'll be back.” He smiled wider and she nodded unwillingly, sitting back as he walked towards a table.

“(Y/N) how lovely to see you here.” He gave her a tight glance that made her noticeably stiffen and Jaehyun turned towards her lunch companion with his greeting smile, “With Bill as well, how have you been?” The balding Representative rose from his chair eagerly and shook his hand.

“I was just inquiring about you from Miss—” He turned to her with an apologetic glance, admitting in the moment to forgetting her name. She scoffed from disbelief.

“I'm just going to steal your lunch date for a moment, if you don't mind.” He asked with a gentle coax.

“Mr McGail was just leaving.” She said pointedly and the man turned once before nodding. Jaehyun gladly took the newly vacant seat.

“Did any part of your unscheduled trip include informing me of your liaisons with my colleagues?” He asked pointedly. She turned to him for a response, with contempt in her eyes— contempt that didn't flow into her words.

“I'm here for a hearing. I don’t see why I’d have to inform you of my schedule Mr. Jung. I’m here to aid the government in public service in my limited capacity.” She spoke with no sense of agitation and he sat back.

“You can't do anything in this city without influence. You don't have any. Go back to your hotel and let me handle this without interfering.” He ordered and her nostrils flared— it was the most visible her anger could be in public and she was outraged.

“I didn't realise I was interfering. I imagined we're on the same side on this matter at the very least if not on the opposite. Or are you maybe switching sides with the conservative Catholic over there?” Her voice was all accusation. He was enraged by the sheer audacity of it, he bit down and decided he didn't want to be hurt by her anymore.

“Go home. You're a child screaming at the capitol for change. Politics isn't about belief, it's about action. All someone like you can do is decide what you want to fight for. It's harder to make someone else believe the same thing. Because everyone wants to decide, otherwise coercion makes one of us the enemy.” He turned away, his eyes not wavering the entire time and he got out of the seat.

“Till the end. I never understood you.” She sighed. He swallowed the sting of the finality and pushed his chair in.

“Utah already has laws more lenient than even Pennsylvania. He just thought he could find a way to get a favour from me if he met you for lunch. You can't act like a child like this because people here know you as a means to me.” His voice was cold, factual. She got up, unable to bear the insult, leaving without another word.

Jaehyun returned to his table with a more resolute mind. When the Representative of North Carolina noticed him she began shuffling to get up.

“I really do have to go.” She said with rushed words.

“Sit Carol. I'll make it short.” His voice was curt, no longer polite. He slid into his seat and she looked up at him unsure of his intentions.

“I have always believed that we as lawmakers should do what we believe in. And that means we pick the side we believe.” He said, smiling at the relief that seemed to spark at the seam of her delipidating eyes.

“Yes that's exactly what I mean—” She began, exasperated.

“But you see Carol. When we take less honourable means, like take money from a large corporation to fund local riots on election day? I imagine even the monsters in your party will find this a tough skeleton to handle.” He stared through her as she sat up, more and more agitated.

“Your grandfather never told me he funded those rallies. You can't just extort me!” She whispered desperately. This time Jaehyun allowed his smile to spread wide.

“The money came from your campaign if the paper trail is correct, you were also in full knowledge of the nature of the riots and you even suggested the polling stations that would vote against you. My grandfather has no say in the money he donates. This isn't extortion Carol, it's an opportunity. I'm giving you the opportunity to do the right thing.” He pointed a finger at her as she huffed in indignation, making him smile wider, “Or go to jail for election fraud. It's quite simple. I don't care how you were elected as long as you make good use of the seat. Lawmakers who play dirty have to pick the side the one who caught them believes in—that's our 9-5. Have a good session.” He greeted before making his way, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth.

After an entire day going through her written testimony for senate staffers, (Y/N) felt more exhausted than she ever had in her career. She understood now why the best lawyers never went to court, maybe she was a terrible one herself.

She crawled her way to a nearby bar, deciding the noise of living beings was better than the silence of her hotel room. The bar that was empty when she arrived slowly filled in with Capitol Hill employees as the day drew to an end. (Y/N) had to move to the bar at a server’s request— the unfortunate consequence of being alone. Slowly the murmurs turned to a chaotic amalgamation of voices: so loud that one didn’t even hear it— like incessant rain. She sighed and sank into the bar stool, regretting not picking the solitude of her hotel room over this. A drink slid across the marble bar counter gently and stopped when it touched her arm. She looked up at the disruption of her thoughts, vaguely familiar eyes were looking at her.

“I told you, you would be back.” He gave her the smallest smile. Her eyes lit up with recognition and he smiled wider, turning to face her this time, “I was afraid you wouldn’t recognise me. I’m Kim Doyoung, I didn’t have the opportunity to introduce myself last time.” He extended his arm to her.

When (Y/N) sat for a meeting with one of the representatives of Utah, she did so knowing his party allegiances. It was a hunch she had, the Conservative party was reeling from an embarrassment that was almost impossible to recover from. Yet, recovery was what they had to pursue. The future of democracy and the taste it left in people's mouth rested on the ability of the party to reform and show that the myth of government was stronger than a mistake president. It was obvious that more than anything, they needed a change of opinion. There was the re-emerge of bipartisanism in matters of the economy— truly, that was where the difference originally lay. The area of human interest though, was at the moment a grey area and her sitting down with a Republican representative was an attempt at gauging their willingness; the man himself was spinal fluid encased in skin— not an ounce of intelligence to his name and all the baseless ambition of an idiot, but the hive mentality of the party was more than skin-deep. She was waiting for the word to spread and had no doubt that her current audience was on a mission to gauge things himself, her only question was: why Kim Doyoung?

“We’ve met here before.” She said thoughtfully. Kim Doyoung, she knew that name, at this point who didn’t. Kim Doyoung, the infamous Republican Senator of New Hampshire. She realised now why this man looked vaguely familiar last time, given his relevance had risen since then. Kim Doyoung’s elder brother served as one of the most potent influences in government one hardly met— a lobbyist for the Episcopal church, the highest church in the country. It was no secret that the Republican party was reeling from a loss of faith and it was people like Kim Doyoung who were putting all their muscles into mechanising a comeback for the history books: the presidency was a natural assumption to make— at this point she could see it in their eyes.

Why would the irreproachable boy of unwavering faith even be risking this exchange?

She could tell that he was waiting for her to introduce herself, she also knew she wouldn’t need to. Instead, she waited for him to continue. He seemed to catch on after a moment and smiled to himself, his expression more clipped after the passing realisation. She smiled herself, now the playing field was level.

“It’s an admirable effort you are making.” His voice was less friendly this time.

“Excuse me?” She asked. Even for a politician, this man was condescending.

“All causes have a shelf life, more so now than ever before. It’s easy to grab people’s attention these days, not as easy to hold it. There are two things this country cares about right now, and you are on a mission for one of them.” She heard the soft clink of a heavy glass settling on the marble top and the agitation of the ice inside it, whiskey she noted. She thought over what to say, she could see the familiar glint in his eyes: when men in this city wanted something they always tried to make it seem like a favour.

“I don’t see why everyone I meet in this city thinks I’m here to start a revolution. I am a lawyer, I’m here to fight my client’s case, that’s my job.” She stared at the glass in front of her; as the condensation went from being a few beads on the transparent surface of the tumbler to a growing pool on the inky stone below it. A low chuckle radiating from Kim Doyoung’s throat.

“You are here to testify in the Senate, are you not?” He questioned dimly, she nodded at him with affirmation. He smiled to himself and nodded, “After Jung Jaehyun speaks, your testimony will have a significant raise in weight.” His voice sounded impressed, but his eyes held a subversive bitterness she couldn’t place.

“I fail to understand your implications.” She responded curtly, earning a chuckle.

“Forgive me, but we have all heard the same rumour. A bill is going to be introduced on the House floor tomorrow.” He kept his same relaxed smile, “First day, first bill.” He shrugged.

“Forgive me, but I think you are in a position to know better than me that I am no Representative. What is being introduced in the House is beyond my level of clearance.” She scoffed, sitting back on her chair. He smiled again, nodding like he pretended to understand before he picked up his own drink. He took a few sips, stretching the moment taut till it was a contention to see who let’s go first.

“Do you know why I know you would come back?” He asked. She bit her lip, he let go of the tension only slightly, urging her to the edge of caution. Then he spoke again, “You have that idealism in your eyes we all come here with." He gave her a smile like he was in on a secret before relaxing a little more into his seat and turning his amiable smile into a more premeditated wrinkle of his forehead, "A bill needs to pass in both the House and Senate, you’re already on an uphill battle with the House, you won’t make Senate.” His face relaxed but this time she could hear the edge in his voice.

“What do you want? Your threat isn’t going to do much with me. You can't scare me with the wrath of God either, so I suggest you get to the point.” She turned to gesture for the bartender, asking for a glass of water.

“We can sit with this bill, introduce it after some mediation. It will be passed without agitation and you will have your victory. Tell Jung Jaehyun to not force this bill onto the house, we will fight it with all we have if he does.” He finished his drink at that, pushing the glass away as her water arrived. She smiled to herself, now that he had voiced his intention she could finally relax— the next part was easy. She slid back the drink he had passed her way earlier, untouched. She realised distantly that the smirk on her face right now would be much like the one she'd seen on Jaehyun a few times, she wondered if this was in fact the rush he felt every time he had someone trapped between a wall of his words and it's intended meaning, like she was doing right now.

“I have no say over what happens in the house Mr. Kim, as you are making me reiterate. But as a spectator of your parties recent history, I can tell why you would want to pass a bill that can at least be pumped by biased media outlets as a bill in support of a new America. I can also make the assumption that once this cools down, you will be able to tailor the bill to your convenience and no one will care— who reads an entire bill anyway. You also will have the advantage of the issue becoming irrelevant, all issues have a shelf life right?” She paused, like she expected an answer to her hypothetical, “I am not a politician but I would assume that in that situation you would have my cake and eat it too and that is just impolite. Maybe you should negotiate the bill when it’s in the Senate and public outrage is still alive, then you will have a fight to give your all to.” She got up from her seat, picking up her purse, "*God as your witness." She mocked with a small scoff. He followed her movements with his eyes, getting up with her.

“When I entered the bar I didn’t expect a run-through of hypotheticals.” He straightened up, towering over her as he straightened his jacket and looked down at her, the ghost of a smile on his lips that flared annoyance in her for the first time since the exchange began. Something about politicians, with their need to clutch onto their arrogance like it was an extension of their dignity, never sat right with her.

“And when I entered this bar I didn’t expect to be insulted and underestimated. Nor did I expect to be threatened by filibuster tactics. Especially when I've never served a day in public office. I was expecting something more exciting. Is this how you Washington people approach everyone you recognise at a bar?” She all but rolled her eyes at him.

“Only the pretty ones with potential to make my job harder.” There was a sudden playfulness in his voice. Her day had been too long and she wasn’t attuned to flattery from any man anytime soon, nonetheless a politician. Yet her stomach dropped at the words, mostly at the lack of context it had to the conversation thus far. Her calculations so far put his intentions in one box, now she felt the onset of a headache. She gave him a blank, amused look and he let out a small laugh, still unfazed by her lack of enthusiasm for the conversation he so indelicately derailed.

“ Have a good day Mr. Kim, I hope we don’t cross paths again in the future, but I guess that is seemingly unlikely.” She asked for the cheque with a gesture, the way his lips lifted to a pleased smile made her roll her eyes.

“It’s a small town.” He chuckled and she didn’t turned away from him, facing the bartender to give him her credit card.

“We’re on opposite turfs Mr. Kim, and I don’t parley with Conservatives.” She tapped on the counter as she waited for the bartender to return, the Senator seemed to be in no rush to leave himself.

“I thought you weren’t a politician.” To this reply, she turned to him, assessing the glint in his eyes. She gave him one last radiant smile as the bartender approached, a smile she knew he’d remember.

“It’s the 21st Century Senator, everybody has a strong political identity. What a time to change the world is it not? Maybe I'll actually win. But you already know that right? Why else would you be here. Good bye.” She spoke as she cleared her tab and walked away without a glance. When she made her way out and finally looked back, he was seated again, watching her with thin feline eyes. When he noticed her gaze, he gave her one last smile before she walked away, her returned drink in his hand.

She stood at the corner of the street for a while now. The cold was slowly seeping into her bones and her teeth clattered against each other rampantly. She stood and thought carefully, letting the cold clear her head. His threat could be idle but she also didn’t know if it was her call to take that risk. She chewed on her bottom lip till it felt sore and then continued to chew on it anyway as she started pacing under the streetlamp, partially to assuage the cold and partially to aid her thinking. The Senate did have a smaller margin, but it was still very much a Republican majority. He had religion on his side, she realised with a surge of annoyance. Party loyalty would get the bill introduced, but once the church called, she smiled humorlessly at the prospect, she wondered how many would uphold political promises over loss of finances and the right to evoke the name of God in the next campaign cycle..

He also had the fillibuster. Just because he avoided the word so tactfully, didn’t mean that the intended presence of it was not noticed by her. She chewed on her bottom lip till the frozen blue skin broke and her mouth tasted of copper. He licked the inside of her lip to soothe the bleeding while she thought harder. The cold made it impossible to focus but her mind was rushing. Rushing with a mix of anger, frustration, exhaustion and above all indignation.

It shouldn’t have to be this hard. The government was supposed to protect people like Lily, but instead it sat on the threat of the seats of power, extorting and threatening in the name of not getting things done. It was something to brag when the other side curbed whatever the opposition sought to act on. One thing Kim Doyoung struck on was right, everybody in this city had idealism in their eyes— they wanted to change the world, with their names on a big banner: family name, party, beliefs— a labour of labels with which to fill a history book one day in a chapter high school kids skip.

There was a sick need for immortality in humanity that seemed to trickle down into this town, with people falling over each other, and more often than not their constituents, in search for their own glory, and taking away from others as if it added to theirs. She despised the genre that made up career politicians and she hated this town. Deep down she knew how she was acquainted with the type enough to abhor them so.

She hated this town.

“I hate this country.” She murmured to herself as she pulled out her phone. Her fingers were numb as she stared at the blank screen of her phone, there were two possible names to call on in this situation. She bit her lip again, wincing as the cold made the wound worse. Deciding on leaving it up to faith, she messaged both before stepping on the curb to hail a taxi. A reply from either would be surprising, yet the more unexpected one came through. She sighed, waving a cab to stop and gave the driver the address he sent.

She entered the lobby of the Watergate hotel, making her way to her second bar of the night— she noted. She walked over and sat down opposite a familiar face, deciding to ignore the triumph in his eyes.

“(Y/N).” The word felt wrong coming from him, like a foreign word he couldn’t pronounce and had no humility to learn how. “I would say you were the last person I’d expect to meet in the new year, but then that would mean I considered it at all.” He raised his glass to his lips leisurely— whiskey, she realised. He relished his sip before placing the glass down, “How uncourteous of me.” The cerner of her lips lifted dryly at those words, “Would you like a drink?” He asked and she shook her head.

“A glass of water would be nice.” Her voice held not an inkling of emotion, she made sure of it.

“(Y/N).” He said her name the same way again, instead of frowning she sat up.

“Jungkook?” She tilted her head and he smiled a little wider, sitting back. His flushed cheeks gave him away the moment she entered, but his laboured movements confirmed his intoxication. She wondered what she’d have to give to be respected in this town.

“If this is what I think its about, and it is, you’re asking for a lot.” The smile dropped from his lips as he gave her a pointed look, he really never had the ability to masquerade a poker face.

“I haven’t asked for anything yet.” She said simply, Jungkook smiled into his glass.

“Of course, that would be inappropriate.” He paused, when he looked up there was a trace of wistfulness, she pitied him at that moment. “But you are here. And you have an agenda.” He scoffed into his glass. She bit down her indignation in the face of his dismissal and took a long breath.

“The Senate.” To the uninitiated, that would sound odd. Jungkook raised his brow at her, giving her a laugh. “They need to vote for the abortion bill, I don’t need them all, just enough to avoid the three-fifth black hole of the Senate. Too many of them could be on the fence, they need a nudge.” She offered to him what she thought was a reasonable method of execution.

“And that’s where I come in? With my family's money?” He asked sourly.

“With your family’s influence.” She corrected him, “The conservatives will evoke their god, so it’s only fair that you evoke yours. You know you just need to ask, the fundraisers come later. Don’t make it sound like a bigger favour than it is.” To this Jungkook laughed, it was loud and laced with bitterness.

“And what do you expect me to do? Call more than half of the senate and ask them to vote against a bill that is clearly against party policy? For what? The promise of a large donation if any of them runs for president?” His brows furrowed more intensely as he was met with silence on her end, on her part she was taken aback by his stupidity, “What?” He snapped at her incredulous expression.

“Why would you even think I’d ask you to do something crass like that?” She asked with vocal confusion, Jungkook sat back with an uncomfortable readjustment of his posture, “There is one person you can call, who will do the work, and who would realistically have a shot at the presidency.” She explained to him slowly.

“Who?” She sighed at his lack of basic context.

“The Senate Whip,” you moron, she stopped short of adding, “The majority Whip, in case you’re confused.” She chimed in instead, giving him the time as his mind worked in front of her, soon enough he sat back with a grave face.

“How did I not realise how intelligent you are before? You were always so affable.” It didn’t sound like a compliment, as much it did an accusation.

“You were busy sleeping with my best friend,” She ignored the way he clutched his glass, hard enough to almost break it. “Now, will you do it or not?” She knew what the answer was, she just had learned from experience that it was better to let a man believe he had a choice in the matter.

This was her move, one she was saving all this time. Years ago, (Y/N) gave Jungkook’s grandfather some important guidance. One that saved his company from ruin. The company had just started talks to take over a steel company, that was when Jaehyun came to her— with a simple offer to get her a meeting with his grandfather. She offered to do it without the credit, in fact she would have done it just to ruin Sungjae, but in those days she still let her emotions override her decisions. She listened to Jaehyun though, and met with his grandfather. She told him that she’d been in Europe long enough to know names that mattered, Sungjae’s family had sold a part of their steel fortune to a Eastern European oligarch and the other they were planning on endowing onto him. The political climate of the time was enough for the deal to break, and some further investigation led Sungjae’s uncle to serve some time. She knew she would have gained gratitude otherwise, but meeting their grandfather earned her his respect.

“You don’t even pretend with the niceties, where did your infamous manners go?” He sat up, stalling the moment: he also knew she would leave the moment she got what she came for.

“You mistake my decorum for manners. We are not friends. I consider my decorum appropriate for our interaction. You just need to maintain yours and give me a straight answer.” She spoke plainly.

“This hotel has quite a rich history you know?” He spoke, consequently ignoring her.

“I was assuming you’d called me here for some underlying purpose, I didn’t think it was to make petty small talk.” She scoffed gently.

“She still won’t leave New Zealand, you know?” He sighed with a little emotion. She raised her brow, confused at his uncalled for confession, “We’ve been married for four years and between work, I only see her in summer when I visit her and Christmas when we go to our lodge in Aspen.” He looked up at her, a whisper of an urge in his eyes.

“I’m sure the distance at least keeps your heart fond. Or maybe you have the freedom to enjoy your free time indulging in infidelity— it is your favourite hobby.” She looked down her nose at his hunched form. He looked up at her with a frown, offended.

“You told everyone. What you did to her was vile.” His voice sounded tired.

“So was sleeping with your best friend’s boyfriend.” Her own face scrunched up, hating him in the moment to bring up such hateful memories, “And one’s own father.” She held back her grimace, Jungkook didn’t look up.

“It was my fault. You could have punished me. You ruined her life because you were hurt.” He seemed to be letting out a grudge long held. Since he kept his volume, she didn’t interrupt, smiling only after it.

“You were always so foolish. I always attributed it to that silly habit of yours, of seeing the best in things, or maybe it was a habit to underestimate. Hurting you would gain me nothing. You insulted me Jeon Jungkook. When you so tactlessly exposed your affair, people had more to say about me than they would have to say about you. They expect it from you, me they judged for staying with you, while others judged for not being enough for you, why would I not serve justice the way I deem fit? I’m not a despot, but you reap what you sow.” She paused and ironed out her frowned face, tapping her nails on the arm of her chair, “The way I see it her life is fine, she got away from that repulsive father of hers and married into one of the richest families in the western hemisphere. Her father will die soon, and that leaves his only daughter his entire gold fortune, that means you. If you want me to apologise for your rushed marriage without emotional connection, save it. I’m not your therapist. You humiliated me in front of my peers and in turn I gave you your Wedding of the Century magazine cover. If you still want to continue inquiring about who was wronged here we can have a line by line retelling of the past. Or would you rather just give me your answer so I can finally be exempt from this day?” She didn’t know she still held a bit of bitterness on her part, but she felt to have won this round of accusations.

“You made sure to have an audience to display my shame, yet nobody was around when you ended up at Jaehyun’s room that night. Do you really think I’m that foolish? He walks into my room with my peers and ends up with you grieving at his door. What a truly Jaehyun thing to do that was: burn down everything in his path because he wants something he can’t have.” Jungkook looked at her with a glare of accusation. Her throat was dry and she couldn’t risk swallowing in the fear he sensed her bewilderment. The fact that Jaehyun exposed the affair was news, but she wasn’t going to express that to JeonJungkook, “One glance constantly over his shoulder like he needed to keep an eye on you, when you were with me. What a patronising bastard, acting like it was his place.” He fumed visibly this time. She was still a little shaken, a lot of new information sprinkled haphazardly in front of her like a puzzle she needed to piece together. She decided to speak on one part.

“You flatter yourself, I was never yours. Don’t misunderstand my vengeance; I never loved you, nor was I hurt and grieving for you. I exacted justice so you’d finally understand just how you underestimated me. You thought I was some polished trophy you could beat your meat into because the victory of winning over your golden cousin got you off. I gave you the leverage to use me like a shag doll because you were meant to worship me for it. I was the best thing that ever happened to you, even when I left you I gave you a gift of a bigger name.You’re so inadequate, you blame him. Jaehyun never crossed a line, not then and definitely not now. You’re the one who wants to shift your blame, you’ve always been a little boy. You have no place talking about where I went after I found you in bed with my friend because somebody sent me a message to come see what my boyfriend was upto. You are, still after all these years, wasting my time.” She watched as he leaned closer on his seat, thinking.

“You already know you’ll get what you want. You let my grandfather know before me, I’ve been compelled to say yes to anything within our means, quite the impact you seem to leave. So stop insulting me (Y/N), it’s been many years and I don’t underestimate anyone anymore. I made a mistake but you are as deliberate as a sword with your justice. Get out, I don’t want to have to think about you before I go home.” She laughed out loudly at his admission.

When her taxi finally pulled up to the driveway of her hotel, she was so exhausted that she thought that the walk to her room would knock her out cold. It had started snowing and she watched the doorman open an umbrella as her taxi drove in.

“You should go inside.” She spoke up to the man as he rushed up to the open taxi door with the umbrella in his hand. The man gave her a small smile and stood in his place, “Right, it’s your job.” She gave him a smile as she remembered what the doorman had told her previously and got out of the car. She stopped at the reception desk to pick up her key from the man at the desk.

“There’s someone waiting for you at the bar Ma’am.” He informed her as he handed her the key.

“Who is it?” She asked, jarred. She lifted her wrist and checked her watch, it was midnight. When she looked back at the man she seemed reluctant to answer.

“He didn’t give his name Ma’am. But,” His voice trailed off before he looked away, “It’s congressman Jung.” His voice lowered a little.

She stared at the man for a small moment, like the words he said hadn’t translated into information yet. Truly, she was so tired it wouldn’t be uncharacteristic. She blinked twice a little heavily— she had sent him a text, she didn’t have the authority to be displeased.

“Thank you.” She mumbled to the receptionist before turning to the bar, the embrace of a warm bed becoming a distant possibility.

The bar was scarcely full, soft jazz playing with repetitive insistence, when she walked in— eyes wandering around before landing on the figure they seeked.

Jung Jaehyun was the kind of beautiful that was hardly unassuming. Infact, ever since puberty had made its place, it was obvious that Jung Jaehyun was a very attractive person, the kind that made people turn and look: it was something to be appreciated.

She knew for a long time though, that he wasn't meant to be touched. He was always dipped in infamy that way— not a tangible entity but a name bred through word of mouth: a creature of reputation. Men like Jaehyun didn’t really exist because their reputations preceded them so greatly, he was to everyone what they needed him to be and he hid his feet in shoes bigger than his size. It was easy to admire an enigma, but she had also learned how hard it was to love the man under it. It was because she admired the enigma so greatly, with the strength of a small star in her own right. Maybe it was her fault for not accepting his fate while being acquainted to it— you couldn’t separate the man Jaehyun was from the reputation he breeds of himself; and he could never really fully transform into the creature while also being a man she could love— sometime in the last few years, she became acquainted with that tragedy.

She approached where Jaehyun sat, head buried in his phone, his lower lip protruding like it always did at that angle. The enamel of his flag pin shining under the ceiling lights and casting a blinding reflection in her eye.

"Why are you here?" She spoke up when her toes landed on his heel. He looked up, confused at the interrogation.

"You texted me." He said evidently. She clenched her jaw; it shouldn't be so obvious, that he should show up and wait— she didn’t even want to ask how long he was waiting. She watched him a little dumbly, she had sent him a message, yes. But she did not expect him to show up at her lobby, she frowned over how he acted like her expectation of that very thing, was somehow warranted.

"I had then, but you didn't respond, so." She took a step back and sat at the seat opposite his.

"So you met my cousin? I heard. It's positively touching how concerned you are that I keep my job. If only the House cared about American employment as much as you, (Y/N)." His words were harsh, sour and bitter with an entitled betrayal he did not conceal.

"If you drove all the way here to tell me about that, I'll save you time. This isn't about you, not everything is. The bill isn't about you. Even if you convince the House, what happens after that is not in your control. You should have saved yourself the trouble, and used the energy you were going to waste on preaching to me, for the floor tomorrow." She vexed. Instead of replying to her snide remarks, he noted her unease.

“What is it? Why are you agitated?” He asked with concern, she wanted to groan. The real downfall of someone knowing you well was when they thought they knew you too much.

“I’ve been here a day and every person I meet has either patronised me or threatened me. I’m not agitated, I’m angry. Nothing happening is about you, any one of you.” He wanted to ask who she meant, but she continued “It isn’t about me either. This isn't about glory, it's about security. Everyone here treats this like a game. Your job is not a game Jung Jaehyun, why don't you take this seriously? Why don't you understand why I'm taking this so desperately seriously?" She sat back, looking away and taking a large inhale to control herself.

A waiter walked by a moment later, asking for an order. Jaehyun turned to his glass, gesturing for a repeat; after which he turned to her. She considered it for a moment, before she gave in. They both ordered a whiskey each.

"Why did you meet him?" He asked about Jungkook without indulging her other words.

"Do you know who Kim Doyoung is?" She asked him, something in his expression shifted and she realised that he had to have known him well.

"What did he want from you?" He asked, sitting up and pushing to the edge of the chair, till his knee touched hers.

"Time." She looked at him, up close Jaehyun's beauty burned in the same way it enamoured— she had to look away, "And the bill. Before you introduce it, I assume." Jaehyun looked at her, there was a state of confusion which wanted to feel betrayed in his eyes, she sighed at his lack of faith, "I didn't give him either. The bill isn't mine to give." She sat back, her knee pushing away from grazing his. Jaehyun's eyes fluttered down at the movement, a second's distraction from the world, starting to shift around him with slow laboured turns.

"And what was his leverage?" He asked like he already knew but was hoping for a different answer. If Kim Doyoung had dirt or bribe, Jaehyun would handle it with finesse, like he handles his other cut throat colleagues on a daily basis. But Kim Doyoung did not play outside court. He was a dirty fighter and one of the more efficient of the Conservative pool, but he never resorted to extortion.

"He's a Senator, Jaehyun." She looked at him knowingly and he sighed, rubbing the palm of his hand on his face vigorously, till it was red and he was more agitated. He hated the ‘F’ word of the Senate with passion.

"Fuck." He snapped into his hand.

"He won't kill the bill." She said with dead certainty. He pushed his hand into his hair, pushing the mop back and around till he let go and his hair fell on his forehead with a soft drop, free from the confines of its previous pushed back style. Like that he looked younger, but it just made him look his real age, she realised. He suddenly didn't seem like a congressman anymore, no more an enigma. At the moment, he was just her Jaehyun.

"That's why you went to him?" Jaehyun asked after a moment, not looking at her.

"Yes." She didn't hesitate.

"Kim Doyoung doesn't work like that. You can't bribe him, he believes in himself." Jaehyun explained to her.

"He doesn't need to. He can be the most honourable man in the Capitol. He still needs fifty nine other people for his threat to have any basis. The faith I have in this city guarantees at least a handful of those will cave into higher authorities." She seethed with an unseen fire under her exterior.

"No." Jaehyun spoke through gritted teeth, she turned to him a little surprised, he looked at her with a lost sense of frustration and continued, "He can have his beliefs, he still works clean. Why should I be any different? This bill isn't about me, I never said otherwise. But where it goes is a matter that I will be associated with and I will not be associated with bribery. I told you to stay out of this." He didn't look at her, like an adult disappointed in a child, his gaze avoided hers. “When Republicans shy away from the abortion debate, anyone would guess some form of suppression is involved. Do you think this is a movie? Where means justify the ends?” He questioned her, clearly too angry for his voice to dare with volume, “Means are what are used to discredit rivals in this city.”

"He came to me!" She countered, the table closest to them turned to her and she sat back, sinking into the cushion of her chair. When she looked at him, he was thinking hard and she somehow felt inclined to regret telling him.

"Your hearing." He looked into his glass, "From the rumours I hear, there will be only two Democrats in the entire panel. They're going to attack you.” His eyes wandered across the room as a realisation seemed to interrupt his thoughts, he then groaned into his hands before pushing it into his hair— it made him look exhausted, “That’s why you were speaking to McGail, he’s a weak link.” He avoided her gaze and she stared at his embarrassment with an apathy she found pleasantly surprising.

"Don't be apologetic, it's not a good look on you." She remarked and the right corner of his lips twitched up.

"I'm not. You still interfered with my ability to do my job." She turned to him, but he continued, "But I understand why you did it." He sat back sighing softly.

"Okay." Was all she could say, sitting up with a deep breath.

"You know they'll ask you about me right? How the timing of the whole thing looks like. The implications of the access." He warned after a moment’s silence, “It’s also an election year.” He groaned into his palm for what felt like the hundredth time in the span of the conversation. She didn’t want to admit that it was unsettling to see Jaehyun that helpless in the face of what was his strength.

“If they ask me I’ll turn it around.” She said earning a confused look from Jaehyun. He looked up and stopped before speaking, sitting back as the waiter arrived with a tray; he placed their ordered drinks and walked away, she continued, "I'll say that when you heard about the case, you asked me to pursue it. You were so moved by the story that you had to do something." She threw down the pine stirrer she was fiddling it like it was a gesture of finality.

"You would lie under oath to the Senate?" He questioned unalarmed, carefully waiting for her answer.

"It's not a lie. You care about this, and it is you I'm fighting for." She sat up, he bit the inside of his cheek visibly.

"How is this for me?" If he was perplexed or indicated, his voice didn't express it, only his eyes.

"I don't join fights I'll lose, Jaehyun." She pushed up on her seat, the distance reducing and her voice dropping with every word, "I'm fighting this one because you're at the other end, and I know you'll meet me halfway." She paused, a stutter in her breath, "Legislative and Judiciary. It's as solid as it can be." He watched her eyes, the familiar glint of an ideal in them. "Without one, the other is nothing." She finished. He waited for a moment as he decided his next words, she waited for him to speak.

"Work for me." He spoke as he looked at her eyes, there was a pause where her breath went in sharply. He had never asked her to work for him before this, it was never a question because they were dating; and when they weren’t anymore they didn’t speak. She knew that working for him would be the final nail in the coffin in their relationship. She knew she would have to keep getting him elected while he went on to Marry his all-American trophy wife.

"This could all be easier, you want to fight? We'll win them together, I'll give you fights worth losing too." He paused, looking at her for signs of relinquishment. "Just come work for the government of the greatest democracy in the world." He spoke with his politician voice.

She sat back with a soft groan, finally picking up her drink to moisten her throat. "That's up for debate in the twenty-first century." She scoffed, shaking her head like she was shaking off the idea.

"It still is. We still are. It's what we fight for in public service, we protect the idea of this nation." He reprimanded.

"And what about the nation meanwhile?" She raised a brow.

"That's what staffers do. Whether you like it or not. Politicians care about the numbers because we work for the people, that means we can only do two things. We either do what the people want," he paused and she tapped her nail on her chair impatiently at his dramatics, rolling her eyes and emptying her drink. "Or we get them to care about what we want enough." He sighed like the thought was exhausting, she had to agree.

"And Staffers?" She filled the silence out of impulse, her voice hoarse from the whiskey slipping down so urgently.

"But staffers work for us. Their job is to find how to make people care, government staff are the most important people in this country." He almost flattered.

"Yet nobody is electing them in the world’s greatest democracy?" Her voice was a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

"They elect us to do that part." He smiled, a short laugh escaping from his chest.

"Remind me next time to file a writ to change the name to the United Republic of America. Has the right ring to it." She chuckled humorlessly. (Y/N) got out of her chair a moment later, her drink weighing her movements down and making her regret her decision to order it, "I have to go now. I'll have to meet someone from the Senate staff tomorrow.

"You didn't answer me." He questioned and she sighed a little louder, "Listen to me. You could have a future here." He proposed

"No." She halted him, "I don't. The people here are condescending and suspicious by nature. They're bad and shrewd and just plain mean. I don't like it." As she walked away from him in an attempt to end the conversation, he followed.

His voice, laced with vivid confusion, followed as he matched her fast strides, "It's not about whether you like it or not." He stepped back with a halt, realising she came to a stop by the elevator. "I'm telling you that you have a talent. Now that talent could either give you a nice comfortable job getting rich off the worst people." He sighed, looking at her a little earnestly when she turned to him, like he hoped. "Or you could use it to do something about the world we live in, to have it mean something. Come on, I know you see it, what I see." He touched her cheek so tenderly, she froze. "Living could mean something if we leave a mark. We can." He urged.

"I can't work for you Jaehyun." Her voice came out a small whisper as she stepped back, "it's not about any of this. I just can't work for you."

"I won't cross a line if you decide to. We'll keep a professional distance." He surrendered. She turned to him with confusion and contempt.

"I'm not you. I can't just turn it off, I love you too much." She paused as the words slipped out of her mouth, closing her eyes as she accepted the moment, coming to terms with her uncalled for confession, her eyes remained closed, "I love you too much and I can't just come work for you like that doesn't exist." She stepped back from him.

"Don't say that like it would be easy for me. I'm just trying to get what I can (Y/N) god damn it." He stepped back himself, groaning with frustration as he angrily ran his fingers through his hair, "Why do you make it so hard? You say it like I have to pick between loving you and giving you the job you deserve to have.” He groaned harder, pacing around a little like he was trying to walk off his emotions.

“Because that’s the reality Jaehyun. You’re in a relationship with a girl, now you want me to work as Capitol staff. I’ll be paid by taxpayers if I do, do you really think it would sit well if they found out about us? All of sudden people are going to wonder if you hired me for my talents in politics or in bed and whatever credibility I build by desperately working on this writ and talking to stubborn politicians, will disappear faster than you can say ‘conflict of interest’. This country has a vile history with political scandals Jaehyun, I do not want my head on a spike to set an example. It’s not like you’ll be able to do anything then, if even you wanted.” She stopped, letting go a deep breath like it was symbolic of the burden on her chest.

“You still don’t trust me.” Jaehyun shook his head, smiling sadly to himself.

“The last time I trusted you, you left me for your Father’s approval.” She stopped speaking, running her own hands through her hair. She regretted speaking immediately, it was unnecessary to bring up the past and she knew it— especially standing next to a Hotel elevator. But it were moments of outbursts like this that seemed to bring out the depth of affection from both sides, the polarity was currently giving her a headache.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.” (Y/N) spoke after a silence, “I’m tired, I have had a dissapointing day, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have said that, it doesn’t matter.” She sighed again; her voice was small now, and it kept sinking in on itself. She finally turned to call the elevator.

“You didn’t answer me.” His voice reflected hers, she only stared at the elevator door in reply.

When the elevator opened he felt a sense of urgency that increased only when she got on. He ignored it and turned away. But as he walked away and heard the elevator door start to whir to close behind him, he found himself turning around and placing his hand on the door. She looked at his hand, then his face— shocked by the sudden outburst.

"For what it's worth." He paused, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment's hesitation before speaking on, "I have never given you a reason not to trust me." He stepped inside, letting the elevator door close behind him. They stood at a distance, watching each other. She waited for him to continue. He exhaled sharply, "You know that. Of course you do." He exasperated, "We don’t have the smoothest path or the sweetest story, but our problems are always situations, it was never each other." He took a step closer, she took a step back. But his resolute eyes had her attention, "You can say that you hate me, that my actions caused all if this and I’ll agree. But how can you think that?" He asked her.

"Think what?" Her voice came out recoiled and sharp, he let it graze past.

"That I would not do everything in my power to fix it." He demanded. “I need to know that you knew that all this time, all these years."

"You couldn't even admit that to the next person we encounter." She scoffed, looking up and blinking her blurred sight away as she kept her forgiving eyes in check. "So please don't do all this again. I have things to do that are more important.” She turned away from him, the sound of the elevator proceeding to be the only noise between them.

When her floor arrived she stepped out silently, turning back only at the sound of his footsteps.

"Don't get off. I mean it." Her voice was without edge but solid in its conviction. Jaehyun's steps faltered as he looked up confused, "Just go home. I have a meeting at 8 am." She sighed as he took a step on the elevator, halting it.

"The Senate," Jaehyun began like he was trying to explain.

"I don't have any political points to lose Jaehyun. All they can do is shake me up." She looked down at her shoes and smiled to herself, looking up at him, "I'm not scared; I believe in what I'm fighting for, they can't hurt me." She tried to hide a laugh, Jaehyun just watched in silent splendor. "They have politics points to lose, and I'll hit them like the cold January air." She let herself laugh. There was a pause where he just watched her a little.

"After the hearing every person, down to the interns, will know who you are. That is the day you start counting your political points. I want you to remember, when people at the hill start offering you things, remember everything you said just now." His face was numb the way it was when he was talking about politics. Her reply was confusion. "Choose the fight you believe in. Good night (Y/N)." He turned around and went into the beeping elevator. She watched as the door closed on her face. She walked away, towards her room, feeling heavy under the weight of the Capital.

#jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun smut #nct scenarios #nct imagines #yuta #doyoung #political!au #ambition series

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