WIP Whenever~
Hello my friends <3 Been tagged by @thequeenofthewinter to participate in WIP Wednesday Wife Worship Wednesday! I never get to play this because Nyenna and Athis have... so, so many problems. But today we do, because Nyenna is dreaming. Having brain nonsense, really. But first, tags.
Let's go! Tagging the most esteemed @paraparadigm, @changelingsandothernonsense, @thana-topsy, @rhiannon1199, @snippetsrus, @orfeoarte, @inquisition-dragonborn, @the-storytellers-seer, @archangelsunited and @polypolymorph!
Below the cut, part of Chapter 28 from The World on Our Shoulders.
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She heard the wind before she felt the morning mist on her skin. Things were slowly greying, like a light after she’d hidden under her covers. The sun, maybe, though she couldn’t recall when last she’d seen it. It hid behind clouds, mimicking her own hesitation. She opened her eyes, not having realized they’d been closed before. Whatever this was, with how quickly the image changed, she was thrown off balance at best.
But the mist — yes. This felt familiar. Something like Whiterun, out by the river. Yes. The tundra cotton. She could see it now. She could feel her hands and feet where they’d only been vague concepts before, and liminal ones at that. She sighed and flexed her fingers. She’d never seen Skyrim in the height of summer, but she’d always imagined it like this — warm, plenty of flowers. Even bees buzzing, working as if all was exactly as it had always been and not this odd dream-version of things.
Nyenna turned her face to the sun, let herself bask in its warmth as if she was one of the scraggly trees which dotted the landscape. She reached her arms toward it, and a dusty blanket fell from her shoulders with a strange, muffled, heavy sound.
“What are you doing?” came a voice.
Familiar, but distant. Something ached in her chest at the sound.
Athis.
Gods, she missed him. Her heart hurt trying to decide if he was really here or if this was some cruel madness. Likely the latter. She turned anyway, her grey mage robes billowing in a warm breeze that cut across the plains.
He was as beautiful as she remembered — all the stress gone from his eyes, none of the weariness held in his shoulders or jaw. The weariness she’d caused.
“Waiting for you,” she felt herself saying, though this seemed like a lie. He accepted it easily. He ran a hand through his ginger hair, ebony mail gleaming in the summer sunlight. She closed the distance between them and crushed into his embrace, heedless of heavy layers of metal between them.
He didn’t say anything, only shifted to hold her against his chest. He smelled of mead and snowberries, like he always did. The memory struck her like steel against steel. Like she’d only dreamt of leaving, and she would wake up any moment now, wrapped in his arms, skin against skin.
“I waited so long,” Athis said, voice quiet and somber, incongruous with the life that thrummed through this place, like the cry of Nirnroot at the river’s edge.
“I’m sorry. I was on my way back to you,” Nyenna said, and somehow, that too was a lie. She tried again, forcing the words from her throat, which still hurt. “I miss you.”
“Do you?” Athis asked. Not sarcastic, nor accusatory. A question, which needed an answer. A real one.
“Of course.”
He accepted that, too, and kneaded the muscle of her shoulder blade as he held her. He’d looked off into the distance, eyes focused on the mountains or the clouds. Mist gathered on his beard, his armor; he seemed like a permanent fixture here, rooted deep into the soil, never to be cut down.
And she loved him. The ache of it was tearing her apart. She’d do anything at all — anything — for this to be real. For this image to love her back.
She looked at him and felt rootless. Unmoored. A scrap of parchment fluttering in an ethereal breeze, belonging nowhere and to no one.
He took her face in his hands, expression still oddly distant, eyebrows knit in confusion. He kissed her and her eyes fluttered closed. This was was right. If she had to be lost in a dream, then she was glad it was one of Athis.
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Did Bruce abandon Joker believing he would die at the end of Joker’s War, or did he know Joker would escape somehow? I find the ending kinda vague and it upsets me greatly that Bruce would walk out like that. What is your take on this? I need to be believe their dance is not over!!
Hey! Short answer is no, Bruce explicitly makes sure Joker can escape:
-- Batman (2016) #100
Bruce knew Joker had the tools to disarm the bomb. Him walking away was not leaving Joker to die, but rather something else. It's Bruce asserting a change in their dynamic, a refusal to play by Joker's rules. To put it bluntly... Batman and Joker are currently going through a bit of a divorce arc in the comics. I've talked about it in another meta, linked here. That answer goes into more detail, hope it helps with clearing it up!
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