#he sought companionship from a mannequin | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

artificidel · 10 months

Text

good night, sleep well

As the spell rips from Colla's palm and implodes on Farina, something new roils within Ephidel. It grows within them, moving their digits to press the saw just a hair's breadth closer to his throat-

Before it all flickers out to the scene now before them. The darkness, the town, the allies they sought. The emptiness inside Ephidel feels deeper now somehow. That they were once again a doll left behind. Their gaze comes to each of their captured companions, before drifting to the Xs drawn upon the ground.

'Where do you belong?' echoes in their hollow.

Ephidel wandered the streets of this doll house, alone. Always alone, because solitude was his only companion anymore. Even here, even now, reunited with the rest of those from Fodlan, the morph stands not with them, but at their periphery. The illusion shattered and his damage repaired, he now remembers that he was on the boat bound for Elibe. It matters little though, he thinks. He is no more a stranger to them than his once-enemies returning home.

So he paces the streets, finding this place where he 'belongs.'

Down a darker side street, Ephidel finds a mannequin with a coin purse tied loosely at their hip, and a splattered X behind them. It is not hard to guess this is his place. People in this illusion easily called him thief, and he can not help but think back to another one.

'You took something from me.'

Matthew had said with an unreadable expression.

'I have taken much from many.'

He had countered, and the words echo loudly in his chest now.

So this was the role his new puppet master had for the morph? It seemed as though he was already well fit for it. Ephidel steps upon the X behind an unsuspecting mannequin holding a purse of gold and hopes at least, that he may be useful to this puppeteer.

***

Ephidel's gaze is skyward as he stews in his isolation, until finally the unexpected happens. Farina joins him, in this spot, in this role. It only makes sense--she gained the same dark robes as him, the same deft fingers--and is not out of any sense of companionship. But all the same, Ephidel can not help but think something of it.

Words catch in his throat as he tries to form them, but any are quickly stolen away by the eruption of screams and violence. All throughout the tiny town, members of their group are attacked; having apparently chosen the wrong answer. There is little time to ponder this before the voice echoes again, bringing with it visions of props.

'Your hand must fit its mold.'

They were still this voice's playthings, fulfilling the role given to them. In that case, Ephidel envisions the ring of keys and other useful tools but he can not help but think again that it is all too fitting.

Ephidel had always viewed everything--people, most of all--as tools, and he in turn, was but a tool for his master's hand.

***

A ring of keys materializes, and drifts down into Ephidel's palm, before all goes dark again. High above a spotlight illuminates them in red, and before them is a mannequin bathed in green. It cowards and hides, flinches away from their gaze; and Ephidel can not help but be sickened.

They see Ninian. They see Marquess Santaruz. Marquess Lauz. Every one who was a stepping stone or road block to Lord Nergal's plans. The voice wants Ephidel to pick their pocket and scurry away like the petty thief they had been told they were. But they are more than that. The voice was right about one thing however, the world would only ever see them as a villain. Everyone (nearly everyone. But the morph dismisses their kindness in this moment) on the boat to Elibe made that clear that this is how they saw them. This is what they were. This is what they would always be.

Ephidel looks down to the keys in their hand, catching sight of a small blade on the ring, and clutches it tight. With confident and measured ease, Ephidel takes two slow strides towards the mannequin, before plunging the blade through its middle, and pushing up, up, deep into the thoracic cavity. Twisting the blade in just the way Lord Nergal had once guided their hands. This was how to ensure a pawn was dead, with the least effort, the least mess, but far from quick or painless. When their hand could reach no further, Ephidel dropped the blade and it clattered to the floor.

This is what they were. This is what the world saw them as. Fodlan had merely tainted the purity of their purpose.

***

The lights rise, and the familiar tug of puppet strings guides Ephidel's limbs. They don't fight it. This is what they were meant for. Through the streets they come upon the young dragon; her quintessence is marvelous, it would make for a wonderful gift for Lord Nergal. They close their eyes for what they know is to come.

The blade twists, and the blood crawls up their limb, racking shocks through their frame. Ephidel does not flinch before it, it is a fitting penance.

When the damage stops and their eyes flit open again, the three mannequins are presented. Ephidel takes in the garments of each.

The people of Nahan tossed Colla at their enemies feet to beg for mercy. He was not welcome in their homes. The gilded gaze drifts to the black armor. The enemies of just before. Perhaps prior to this moment, Ephidel might have considered him among their ranks. But his hesitation... his inaction... the morph is not utterly convinced.

Then the final mannequin. It is of a banner Ephidel does not recognize, but it is unmistakable as a soldier uniform. Colla had said as much to them... and Ephidel thinks they are perhaps alike in that way. A tool that is one day discarded when it has exhausted its use.

Still, Colla had stood in opposition to Ephidel. The ways they were alike mattered little against the allegiances they stood for, and it was enough to want to see the young man cut down.

Ephidel clasps their hand to the livery of the last empire and shoves the mannequin roughly to the ground, signifying their choice.

***

All the spotlights but the one illuminating the livery cut out, and Colla's story plays in the wake before all goes dark again. A hazy silhouette appears in the distance and the voice comes not from above but the shadow.

'Do you know who I am?'

The voice is familiar. From memories and dreams of Rusalka. Ephidel and the others who had witnessed it turned to each other. Confiding what they already knew. She was the one from the dreams. The one who wrote the letters. The one who sought revenge, and this was it.

'My family was fated to die either way. You will die because you are sheltered by the foul beast that condemned us for who we are[...]Pasithee is my name, child of Celephais and Keranes. Do you know where you are?'

Darkness closed in around them, but it was Maria with her quiet voice who stood to answer Pasithee's final question.

'Is this... ...your second 'eternal punishment?''

The voice does not answer. Instead the darkness grows closer to all of you until it’s all you can sense. Endless nothingness. Then you are nothingness.

#svverdane2023 #i know we were told we don't have to just copy chat plays verbatim #but i actually like most of the writing i did in mine #and it actually tells a cohesive enough story that i think it works on its own #tw for graphic description of violence at one point though #also a lot of text from my copy/pastes #writing that is not my own in block quotes

7 notes · View notes

purplewitch156 · 2 years

Note

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💖

Thanks for sending this my way!

1. Of Your Making

It's the first fic I ever wrote and it's still my favorite.

If he could bottle Harry’s kisses, he would. They’d be more sought after than Liquid Luck, more potent than Amortentia.

2. Sand in My Shoes

Have you ever had an idea that just writes itself? Yeah, that was this one. I came up with the idea ages ago but only recently decided to give it my undivided attention and it turned out so gosh darn delightful.

“Two weeks of sex. That’s what you’re after?”

“Nagini would say two weeks of companionship, but … yes.”

3. Entwined

Writing a story where Harry is trapped in a tower was bound to happen. It really was.

The pool sloshed as his head broke the surface. He shook his head, sending water spraying. He hoisted himself out. Steam swirled, but Voldemort could see him easily. Water ran dripping down his legs. A blush from the hot water colored his pale skin a light pink. It struck Voldemort suddenly how fragile Potter appeared — one sharp twist of his far too thin neck and he would crash to the floor, a mannequin cut from his strings — and yet there was strength in his legs. The sinewy muscles of his back were visible enough to map. He was small, he was delicate, and yet Voldemort felt that he stood witness to the strongest will he’d ever encountered.

4. Memento Mori

I just love how mature Harry is in this and how patient and caring he is with Tom. It's a comfort.

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your friends? I imagine you’d prefer their company over mine.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’re as much fun as they are.”

As he was inspecting the fire escape for bird droppings and cigarette butts, Harry missed Tom’s horrified expression.

“And they aren’t really my friends,” Harry added. “I mean, they’re great, I love them,” he clarified, picking a spot to sit, “but the people here, the people who keep filling in these Lives, they aren’t our people. Have you noticed that? They’re more like reflections of the people we knew. The only real people in these Lives are you and me.”

“So you’re spending time with me because you want … real interaction?”

“I’m spending time with you because I want to,” said Harry, exasperated. “Christ, you can be oblivious. I like spending time with you.”

Tom was speechless. He felt suddenly, intensely wrong-footed. Hoping to cover up the moment, he brushed the ground clear with his foot and joined Harry. For a moment they sat, not speaking, staring up at the starless sky. Between his knees, Tom’s clasped hands were gripped in a stranglehold, fingertips and nails digging into each other, his only release, the only outward sign that inside he quaked.

5. When the Phoenix Cries

Might be the most intense story I've written yet and the most complicated with multiple Harrys and Toms. I'm really proud of this puppy, most specifically Au Harry and Au Tom.

“I think, one day, we’re going to kill each other.”

“You can’t,” Tom corrected. “Not without the locket and Harry” — his bloody lips smirked — “you’re never going to find it this time.”

Harry’s heart clenched, his fears confirmed. “You moved it?”

“The Dark Lord and I will always choose self-preservation over every” — his hips pushed down against Harry’s pelvis — “thing” — he rocked, hard and slow, making Harry’s breath stutter — “else.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry gasped.

“Who said anything about being fair?”

You've probably already been tagged but in case you haven't: @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger, @being-luminous, @duplicitywrites

#fic recs #my writing #my fanfiction #harry potter #tom riddle #lord voldemort #tomarry #harrymort

91 notes · View notes

dogbearinggifts · 4 years

Note

I saw you mention in an ask that Diego spotted the abuse they underwent first. In what order and how do you think each of the kids came to the realization of what their dad put them through? They all obviously are still reeling from everything years later and it was EXTRA apparent during the light supper.

The light supper did many things, but the one thing it did most of all was show just how deeply he damaged these kids. Here they are in their thirties, meeting with a man who doesn’t know them yet—and even though they’re all completely on edge, guards up, expecting the worst, they’re still blindsided by how low he stoops just to gain a slight edge.

But I digress. Here’s how I think each one of them came to realize Reginald was abusive, and the order in which I think they realized it. This is mostly just speculation on my part, so I could be wrong, but I like to think it’s an educated guess.

Diego: Watching his dad give Luther nothing but praise while he received nothing but criticism fostered a good deal of resentment in him, but I think it also led him to see that something was very wrong much sooner than some of his other siblings. See, the torture they endured seems to have happened behind closed doors—Vanya losing her powers, Klaus being locked in the mausoleum, whatever awful things he did to Allison, Ben and Five in the guise of making them stronger—but the verbal abuse Diego went through happened out in the open. It had to. Reginald wanted to goad Diego into pushing his own limits to beat Luther at a game neither of them could win. To do that, he needed make them both aware that there was a competition, that Luther was winning and Diego was losing, and that all of the other siblings knew the score. Being locked in that dynamic meant Diego was constantly, painfully aware that no one else had to deal with Reginald’s constant nitpicking—but also that no one else was lavished with praise the way Luther was. Even to a sheltered kid who’s allowed few friends outside the family and limited freedom to leave the grounds, that treatment is visibly wrong. Diego might not have been able to call it abuse as a teen, but I think seeing the blatant discrepancies between how he and his siblings were treated—plus his legendary stubbornness—kept him from internalizing it for too long. When Reginald used Ben’s funeral to shame them all, that was probably the moment Diego began seeing him not as a bad parent, but as a monster he needed to escape.

Vanya: Like Diego, she was treated differently from her siblings. Unlike Diego, I do think she internalized it to a degree. We see her taking up the violin in an attempt to impress her dad (“I’m going to be extraordinary”) and her visible dismay when Reginald says “I’m afraid there’s nothing special about you.” Even as an adult, after years on her own, she sends Reginald a copy of her autobiography. It’s possible this was an attempt to get him to see things from her perspective, but it’s equally possible she sent it to him as a means of saying “Look, Dad, I wrote a book. I got it published. It’s on the bestseller list. Be impressed, you asshole.” Part of her wanted to impress him, and part of her believed that if she just tried a little harder, she could do it. Although she recognized that her treatment was unfair sometime in or prior to her teen years (we see her protesting Reginald’s refusal to let her be in the family photo) the part of her that wanted to earn his favor probably kept her from fully embracing the idea that she was not responsible for how she was treated. That said, I do think she’d realized Reginald was the problem by the time she moved out, and she probably began calling him abusive once she either read up on abusive relationships or learned about them from her therapist. Learning that there was a word for what she endured, and that no decent person considers it okay, was probably strangely comforting and empowering all at once.

Klaus and Ben: After Ben’s death, they almost certainly began talking more. Ben would’ve had to witness Klaus’ burgeoning addiction spiral out of control, and he wouldn’t have let it happen in silence. Maybe his resentment festered shortly after his death; maybe it came years later. Whatever the case, I think that when Ben began arguing with Klaus over his drug habit, Klaus pushed back—and eventually, this pushback led to him spilling details of what led him down that road. “He locked me in a fucking mausoleum when I was just a kid” probably stunned Ben into silence for a few hours at least—and also reminded him of the things Reginald forced him to do while he was alive. Maybe they started trading stories to empathize with each other; maybe they traded them to one-up each other. Whatever the case, I think that as they learned they’d both been effectively tortured by their own father, they both began to realize how twisted their childhoods had been—and that they were not to blame for it.

Allison: While her reactions during the light supper prove Reginald terrorized her as much as he did the others, we also know she used her power to get whatever she wanted. Parental abuse is damaging to everyone, no matter who you are; but abuse from a parent you can manipulate is a little easier to endure, and it’s much harder to recognize that something is wrong when you can buy yourself a respite—or at least a few material things to ease the pain. She had an advantage the others didn’t, and I think this advantage kept her in denial, believing Reginald might not be so bad after all, if he gave her all those nice things and didn’t complain, until Ben’s funeral. Watching Reginald use her brother’s death as an opportunity to berate and shame them for something she knows wasn’t their fault makes her angry and hurt enough to stand up to him, despite the derision this earns her. I think that day affected her pretty deeply—maybe even more deeply than her siblings. Ben’s funeral was probably the day she realized there was nothing redeemable in her dad after all and that she had to get away for her own safety. Once she was out on her own, I think she sought out books on bad parents—starting with survivor memoirs, empathizing with the narrators more strongly than she expected, then branching out into self-help. She probably read the signs and checklists over and over, just to make absolutely certain her experiences counted as abuse and she wasn’t just being dramatic and ungrateful.

Five: If he hadn’t gotten stuck in the apocalypse, I think he might have been one of the first to realize Reginald was abusive. But because he spent the majority of his life in a world much harsher than the Academy (which isn't to say the Academy wasn’t harsh, but no one had to eat cockroaches to survive it) his memories probably took on a rosier hue. A place with a solid roof over his head, where he was guaranteed clean clothes, companionship, and never had to wonder where his next meal was coming from—after starving out in the open and talking to a mannequin, Five probably thought more than once that he’d never argue with Reginald again if it only meant a return to those comforts he once took for granted. This longing, mixed with self-loathing over his stupidity at getting stuck, probably led to some self-blame over how Reginald treated him, if his “I was too hard on you” to Reginald during the light supper is any indication. He realized Reginald was abusive at some point (probably after some heated arguments with Dolores) but I think he’s also gotten it into his head that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed at the time—not as bad as growing up in the apocalypse, at any rate.

Luther: Not only did he stay in the Academy well into his twenties, but he put his own safety on the line, nearly died in service to Reginald’s goal—a goal he’d fooled himself into thinking was his own—and when the man who endangered him, mutilated him, and shunned him exiled him to a hunk of rock floating in space, he still blamed himself. While he took a major step forward in the latter half of S1, placing the blame for his pointless Moon mission on Reginald (where it belongs), I think his jump into the sixties caused him to regress a bit. I don’t think he forgot what Reginald did to him, but I do think he assumed that Reginald might be kinder in his younger years. Maybe he thought parenthood made him less patient or—more tragically—that something he and his siblings did turned him into the kind of man who would shame his surviving children at their brother’s funeral. I think he believed that if he could just talk to his dad before all of that happened, he’d be welcomed with surprise and joy, pulled into a hug and asked about all he’d accomplished. While Reginald’s rejection shattered him, I think it also, in a sad and twisted way, freed him. Luther learned, once and for all, that Reginald simply hated children. Reginald’s callousness and outright cruelty wasn’t due to anything he did—it was the result of taking on parenthood out of a sense of obligation, resenting it every step of the way, and lacking the emotional maturity to avoid taking it out on kids whose only crime was dependency on him. The fact Luther didn’t believe it until he heard it from the man himself speaks volumes about the control Reginald still had over him, even after his lies were laid bare.

220 notes · View notes

bitchwhoreofastorm · 5 years

Text

dumb thing abt almalexias childhood. dont rebl0g

It never snowed in Mournhold, but winter had come just the same; the sun grew pale and the air was chill and crisp. Such it was that Almalexia dressed in Nordic wool that day, and attended sword practice wearing scratchy trousers and a long wool tunic, both borrowed from her mother. The clothes would be warm enough for any Nord– indeed, the Nords mulled about shirtless and complained about the heat even in the coldest months– but for an elf of thirteen it was hardly adequate to keep out the chill, and she arrived at the barracks shivering. The Shouts needed only take one look at her before they pounced on her, and within ten minutes she’d been outfitted with a musty fur half-cloak and ugly steel boots that reached up to her knees.

Even the hardest Nord hearts found it difficult to be cruel to Almalexia. Chimer didn’t readily reproduce, and the occupation had done little to inspire hope in their kind, so elfish children were rare; in Mournhold Palace Almalexia was without peers her age, Nord or Chimer, so she sought companionship in the barracks, and played among her guards. Many of them fancied themselves mentors or elder siblings to the wayward girl, and took it upon themselves to teach her swordplay and the arts of war. Such was their routine: in between patrols, training, and quashing would-be rebellions and civil disobediences, the Nords would use their breaks to teach their adopted student how to wield a sword or play cards. Almalexia herself was a quick learner (if not annoyingly proud and sensitive, at times, but so were all royal children), and liable to spill the most interesting high-court gossip between sessions, so few were able to complain about the burden of her presence. The impromptu arrangement was largely considered a good one.

The Shout who volunteered to play teacher that day was Heigl, Almalexia’s favorite guard, a woman about seven years her senior, who’d joined the force at sixteen and thus known Almalexia since the princess was eight. Another Shout, an older lad named Hjaland whose affinity for magic made him more comfortable among the denizens of Morrowind than his own Skyrimisk kin, tagged along in their training, no doubt drawn by the prospect of seeing whatever elven magic Almalexia had returned from Ald Sotha with. The three of them set up in the training yard behind the barracks, sheltered from the wind by the high purple walls of Mournhold, and with Almalexia standing firm before a mannequin with her legs spread and an ebony sword in both hands, the lesson began.

For the first while they reviewed different techniques, with Heigl correcting and praising Almalexia in turn, each criticism gentle and sandwiched between compliments: “Your stance is just perfect, but let’s be mindful of your arms, eh?” Hjaland was less familiar to the girl and lacked tact, and his criticism (“An elf like you is a bit slight for a move like that, try holding the sword lower”) was met with irritation and defensiveness. Almalexia, to her credit, did a great job of reigning back her sharp temper, and attempted to take each correction in stride– within half an hour she’d indeed learned to hold her arms lower and her sword closer, even when idle, something she was usually slack on.

But nothing good lasts, and eventually Almalexia seemed to stop listening to any guidance at all, and her arms, normally too far away from her body, slumped and drew instead too close, causing her stance to go amiss.

“No!” scolded Hjaland, tapping her elbow with the tip of his own wooden training-sword. “Now your arms are too far down. Lift ‘em up, little elf!”

But Heigl, ever-observant, stopped and lowered her sword. “Hey, Lexie,” she said softly, “Is something the matter?”

“I’m just–” Almalexia had raised her arms when Hjaland tapped them, but now her elbows fell back to her side, “I’m just cold. It’s cold out here.” And the Nords saw that the girl was indeed shivering.

The Nords exchanged a glance; Heigl walked over to Almalexia, and stroked back her long hair, which the girl wore loose and falling about her shoulders. “Well, let’s go inside, then, little one. It’ll be much warmer in the hall, where the hearth is burning.”

So the three returned to the barracks; what it had been before the Nords came Almalexia didn’t know, for it was an unusual long rectangular building, with several long low benches and tables lined up around the western side, while the eastern side (the side that opened up onto the training-yard) remained bare, leaving adequate space for a muster. There was no real hearth, as Chimeri buildings rarely had them, but a fire-pit stood at each end, and beds of smouldering coals kept the interior pleasant and toasty. Though it was noon, the feeble winter sun had been hardly able to puncture a haze of ash drifting in from the North. The trio breathed sighs of relief as they crossed the threshold into the warm hall.

Just as they were setting up in the middle area, the western door swung open, and in marched a large and formidable figure. Almalexia, who’d been struggling to help move a dummy larger than she, failed to notice the intrusion, until her companions fell to their knees with a chorus: “Thuri!”

“Stand, men, stand!” boomed a familiar voice, preternaturally loud, causing the stones to quiver. “I’m looking for little Almalexia. Hath you seen her?”

Almalexia fumbled with the dummy, then dropped it entirely. Then, leaving the dummy, she stepped to the side, unthinkingly holding her sword in battle-stance before her. “I’m here, Jarl!”

The Jarl of Mournhold was a giant of a man– the son of one of Ysgramor’s companions, it was said, with Atmoran blood coursing strong in his veins. If he weren’t so intimidating one might consider him jolly. When he beheld Almalexia he burst into laughter, booming laughter that caused the support pillars to wriggle in their places.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “It’s you, little elf! But look at you, all dressed up like a Nord, and a Nord lad at that! Why, for a moment I mistook you for my boy, just as he was when he were getting ready to leave. Look at you! We’ll make a Nord of you yet, I say.”

Almalexia, embarrassed, lowered her sword and bowed deeply.

“Not quite a Nord yet, my Jarl” said Hjaland, standing from his own bow. “The weather outside was too cool for her, even with Balring’s old cloak, we had to come in to finish our training.”

“But she’s doing wonderfully,” interjected Heigl, “And she’s only a girl, even a Nord her age would be chilled, yet she didn’t complain once.”

“Is this true?” asked the Jarl, turning to Almalexia– when she peeked up she saw that he bore a grin.

“Yes,” Almalexia said, straightening up to her full height, “I don’t mind the cold so much, it just made it difficult to hold my sword out.”

“But she held it out!” said Heigl.

“So I see!” said the Jarl, his voice full and warm, like he was about to laugh again. “And have my Shouts been teaching you well?”

“Yes, thuri!” Almalexia said. “I’ve learned lots about swords, and swordcraft, and fighting. Everyone says I’m good,” she added, standing a little taller, “When I was at Ald Sotha, none my age could best me, magic used or no.”

The Jarl nodded, considering this. “Well,” he said, “In this case, I believe we have a score to settle, you and I.”

“My Jarl?”

“When you were a wee girl, you challenged me for my throne, and I said, aye, you may.” A few other Shouts had gathered around, watching the scene curiously– the Jarl’s voice was loud and it was difficult not to pay attention to him. The Jarl continued his story, beaming, “Yet before I so much as drew my sword you, relentless, used your Voice! Aye, you shrieked at me, little devil, and I was so surprised that I fell backwards! As if that were a real thu’um! And so it was that little Almalexia won the Throne of Mournhold, and became the Demon of the East.”

The surrounding Shouts laughed– most had heard this anecdote before.

Almalexia blushed deeply. “My Jarl, I–”

“Nay! I am not the Jarl, for you stole my Throne, little one. But now,” and the Jarl drew his sword from the hilt at his side, “I would like to challenge you back. Jarl Almalexia, I challenge you for the Throne of Mournhold!”

Now the Shouts were laughing, for the Jarl had fallen to one knee, and his expression was gravely serious. Almalexia, her face as red as her hair, turned to look at Heigl for guidance; Heigl, biting back a grin, nodded enthusiastically.

“I…” Almalexia, flustered, turned back to the Jarl. “I agree?”

“Excellent!” The Jarl, like a giant erupting from the earth, sprung back to his feet and raised his sword to battle-stance. “Let us begin!”

By now they’d earned the attention of most of the barracks, and poor Almalexia was so embarrassed she barely remembered how to hold her weapon. Deep down a part of her knew the Jarl would never harm her, and indeed, the Jarl began the 'duel’ with a slow and gentle sweep towards her side, which long training allowed her to parry by instinct. This was followed by a few equally gentle swipes, each of which Almalexia knocked aside without effort, and with each block the Shouts cheered, and the girl regained her confidence. Encouraged, she lashed out with a few strikes of her own, and the Jarl easily blocked each one, but let them come close to landing, to raise her spirits.

The sparring continued, and Almalexia’s confidence grew, and she forgot her embarrassment at being watched, and set about trying to hit the Jarl in earnest. He managed to block every blow she struck, of course, and threw a few at her to keep her on her toes, but the challenge seemed to inspire her, and she set into him with growing enthusiasm. Her assault was inspired enough that he was forced to take a few steps back, and this only encouraged her. When he knocked her sword to the right, shoving aside her thrust, she darted to the side and turned, moving for the opening he’d left--

“ZAN HAAL VIIK.”

And Almalexia stood, dumb, as her sword flew from her hand of its own accord and clattered across the floor.

“I see they haven’t covered that yet.” the Jarl was saying, amused. “A good fight, little elf–”

“That’s not fair!” Almalexia blurted out. She rushed over, diving at the ground to reclaim her sword, but once she’d picked it up Heigl grabbed her tightly by the arm. “That’s not fair,” she repeated, “You used your thu'um!”

“Eh, don’t be mad, little Lex!” The Jarl raised his hands apologetically. “Aye, I should’ve guessed you never encountered that trick.”

“It’s not fair!”

“Nay, but the gods en’t fair to your kind, are they?”

Almalexia’s face was burning again, and she wrenched her arm away from Heigl. But the Jarl stepped forwards then, and gently took her by the shoulder, and he was so large and so frightening that she felt the indignant fury drain out of her at once.

“Look,” said the Jarl gently, and he clasped his hands around her wrists, and brought them forwards. “Which is your dominant hand? The right?”

“Y– yes, Jarl.”

“Well. You’ll want to hold your right hand near the base, where this flair on the hilt is, and hold tightly with your thumb and finger in a circle.” He positioned her fingers such. “Can you hold that?”

“Hjaland said I should–”

“Hjaland hasn’t fought a Tongue, I’d wager. Hold it like that.”

The Jarl released her, and Almalexia stepped back, raising her sword into fighting-stance, but keeping the grip he’d shown her. “Now,” said the Jarl, “The very moment you see my mouth move, I want you to jerk back on the sword. Now, it’s going to feel strange, and you’ll feel like you’re jerking too hard, but I want you to ignore that, and just jerk. Can you do that?”

“I think so-- I mean, yes, Jarl.”

“Good, clever girl!” The Jarl rose to his full height, and placed both hands on his hips, the sword hanging loosely from his off-hand. “Now, ready?”

He inhaled, but Almalexia reacted too soon, pulling her sword all the way back past her hips. When she realized her mistake she exhaled through her teeth.

“Aye, it’s alright,” said the Jarl reassuringly, “Try again. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Good. Now…”

A long moment’s silence, as the Jarl took a deep breath, and Almalexia stood still, sword raised–

“ZAN HAAL VIIK!”

The shout shook her, but Almalexia jerked back her sword, and the weapon removed rooted in her hand.

Immediately Heigl let out a resounding 'WHOOP’ of delight, clapping her hands, and the rest of the Shouts– who had been watching the lesson with curiosity– followed her lead and cheered. Even the Jarl clapped, and shook Almalexia by the shoulder. “Excellent! See? You resisted my thu'um, easy as a Tongue!”

Almalexia, embarrassed anew by the celebration, raised her off-hand to her face. “I’m not– I only did what you said!”

“Well, you did it well, mal fahliil! I tell you, we’ll make a Nord of you yet!” The Jarl leaned forwards and kissed her forehead, causing her to recoil, thoroughly flustered. Then he rose to his full height and planted his hands on his hips, turning to the Shouts.

“And you lot! Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol? Can’t you see you’re embarrassing the little lass? Be off with ye!”

At the Lord’s chastising, the Shouts turned and hastily returned to their business. A stern glance from the Jarl informed even Heigl and Hjaland that they weren’t exempt from this command– Hjaland withdrew immediately, but Heigl took the time to hug Almalexia, whispering a praise in her ear before following her comrade off the scene.

Almalexia still held her sword, her face burning, and when her Shout protectors had gone she pressed her palm over her eyes. “Oh, Gods, that was–”

“Glorious!” the Jarl interrupted her. “I thought– ah, but you’re shy!”

Almalexia mutely shook her head, but when the Jarl touched her shoulder, she fell forwards and buried her face in his arm.

“I’m not being kind,” said the Jarl, patting her on the back with his free arm. “There, there. But don’t think I’m humouring you. I’ve been naught but earnest! You’re turning into a good little warrior, Almalexia. How old are you now, girl?”

“Thirteen, or near it.”

“Thirteen! Well, you ought to be going off to Throat-Of-The-World soon, if you were born right. It’s a shame,” he squeezed her shoulder, “Your appearance is the only thing elf about you. I never heard of an elf taking so well to sword-craft, dragon-tongue, or the thu'um, not like you have. We would make a Tongue of you. Alas!”

“Ah. Thank you, Jarl.”

“Aye. But if the wolf sat about saying 'If only!’, he’d starve to death for lack of time to hunt. Come,” and he released her, pushing her away, so that she stood blushing and dazed, clutching her sword by her side, “Your mother’s looking for you, something about your Uncle.”

“Indoril Nam? Is that why you came down?”

“Aye, that one. Well? Do you want to go to your Uncle? If you don’t want to, I’ll simply tell him you’re busy. I’d like to show you more, we don’t spend half the time together we ought to.”

Almalexia froze for a long moment, and chewed on her lip, and looked away from the Jarl.

“… Could you?” she began, timidly, “Tell him I’m busy? If you wouldn’t mind showing me more dragon-shouts? Just so I know how to counter them, see–”

The Jarl’s smile was so radiant that one wouldn’t need to look to see it. “Very well, little one! I’ll let Amun-Shae know that Jarl Almalexia is busy with her poor servant Chimarvir. You wait here, mal fahliil, daar pruzah?”

“Geh, thuri. I’ll wait.”

And such it was that the Jarl, formidable and strong, ensured that Almalexia could spend the day learning from a Tongue how best to counter the thu'um; something that would prove more useful than her irate relatives could dream at the time.

#yes i did post this yesterday yes i did delete this while having a tantrum yes i am reposting it now #almalexia #fic

19 notes · View notes

siorca · 7 years

Text

hey i wrote a taz fic. has absolutely nothing to do with the finale and has everything to do with the fact that im in love with the au where magnus and taako were boyfriends during the ipre days. featuring butchered canon dialogue in place of something original.

There's something familiar about the elf in front of him. Something intangible that Magnus can't find a word for. Like from a dream that he knows he's never had.

When they first meet, he is wrapped in a ratty cloak, clutching at it like it held the last shreds of his dignity. He doesn't meet Magnus’ eye when he introduces himself, but Magnus is still caught up in his beauty - all dark red hair and equally dark brown skin. It's just a passing, cosmetic thought, however, because his cold, unfriendly demeanor does nothing to enchant Magnus.

“I'm Taako,” he says coolly, not bothering to look Magnus in the eye.

The first time they're in the Bureau of Balance together, Magnus feels a definite shift in their relationship. The type that comes with surviving, and most importantly, the kind that comes with uniting under a single banner. Magnus is the type to easily find companionship with other people, so perhaps it was just him. He feels a unique kinship with Taako and Merle, one that triggers his protective instincts and tempts him to consider them friends.

He learns a lot about both Taako and Merle during their first adventure. He finds that he likes Taako. Surprising, considering their first meeting. He likes Merle, too, but it's different. Maybe it's because Merle is older, or prone to weird diatribes, or a myriad of other reasons, but he finds that he enjoys Taako’s personality a bit more. He's still cold and aloof, traits that normally turn Magnus off, but there's just something about him that draws him in. It's like trying to figure out the most difficult puzzle ever. Magnus isn't fond of puzzles, but he is nothing if not determined.

In Lucas’ labs, Magnus thinks about Julia. It's the first time he feels truly afraid while on a mission, when the grip of death feels like it's nipping at his heels. He wonders if she's doing okay in the afterlife, if she's lonely or if loneliness was even something you could feel when you're dead. Mostly, he thinks about what she would be doing if she was alive, what they would be doing together. He wonders if she was with him when he met Merle and Taako, if she would have joined him on his adventures or if he would even have any desire to go in the first place.

Magnus isn't afraid of death. Death is a warm embrace, death is where he can see Julia again, the only thing that matters to him anymore. In another life, he might have actively sought it out. But this life is the one he's leading now and he knows that not only would Julia be disappointed with him, but that he would be leaving his friends behind. His friends need him, his friends need his protection.

Taako needs his protection. Taako who is all at once powerful and fragile. Taako, who is slowly warming up to him, a great treasure that Magnus takes as the greatest gift ever. He desperately wants to protect that, to protect him. He can't really describe his feelings toward Taako, but he knows that it's unlike anything since Julia died. He wants to preserve it.

In the days before Refuge, Magnus cannot sleep. He's found himself in this predicament before, nightmares about burning villages and Julia’s screaming face haunting his subconscious. It's different this time, though, because it doesn’t come from being stressed. It comes from his complicated thoughts about Taako, how they teeter on the edge of being just friendly to something more.

He's had these feelings before, but seeing death and, actual Death, in person in Lucas’ lab has him stuck on Julia more than he normally is. Julia is dead, he knows that. But now he also knows what death is like and he wonders if Julia is still watching him, if he was betraying her by loving another.

He walks around the perimeter of the courtyard of the Bureau and loses himself in thought. He thinks about Julia, about death, and about Taako. He does this for several nights in a row, organizing his jumbled thoughts into something cohesive. The more he thinks about Taako, the less he feels like a traitor toward Julia. There's something that feels inherently right about what he feels, something that's unique between the two of them that he can't deny.

Somehow, he knows that Julia wouldn't mind.

After Refuge, Magnus finds sleep almost impossible. It's hard to enjoy the feeling when your mind is slowing digesting such a new revelation. Him, a Red Robe? A possible enemy? It is hard to fathom, and on top of the ripping of old wounds, courtesy of June, he finds himself in an existential crisis like no other.

He knows that he isn't the only one. On nights when he wanders the courtyard, Taako is always there. Elves have no need for sleep, but Taako also values his downtime and loves to meditate whenever he can. Magnus knows that that is very rare. On nights where Magnus was restless while on the road, Taako was usually also up, close to the fire and wide-eyed, but carefully dodging any questions that Magnus asked about his mental state.

On the first night, Magnus finds him standing in the center of the square, staring off into nothing. Magnus doesn't ask him any questions, simply coaxes him into walking with him through the grass. On the second, Taako is already walking and gives Magnus a small smile when he falls into step beside him. On the third, Taako turns to him and says, “thanks, Mango,” just before they decide to turn in.

Magnus knows that he doesn't feel the same way about Taako as he did for Julia. But he knows that he loves him just as fiercely. It helps ground him on the days when the world feels too much.

No amount of training could prepare him for the feeling of dying. It's uncomfortable and at the same time, it lacks any sort of sensation at all. He finds himself floating toward the Astral tear with peace on his mind, even as the black tar-like substance that has invaded the plane would normally fill him with dread. He thinks about Julia as he dies, about seeing her again. And he also thinks about Taako, about how he wouldn't see him for a very long time and he nearly chokes.

Then, Taako is there. Taako is there with him. Magnus feels guilty at first, thinking that he is dying too - he wasn't there to protect him like he quietly promised to. But there is something different about Taako, something more fierce and determined and he clutches his ankle like a lifeline.

Taako is very much alive, and the portal in front of Magnus doesn't seem to care as it begins to now suck both of them in. Magnus feels a spark of life in him now, striving to fight the portal. Taako claws at him desperately, his eyes wild while he fruitlessly tries to tether Magnus to his body.

It's all over quickly, Merle coming along just in time to stop the struggle.

In an instant, Magnus wishes that Taako and Merle would have let him die. When he sees his body being occupied by Edward, the man who tried to kill him, the man who now welds his body like clothing, he is insulted. When he finds himself occupying the remains of a mannequin, he nearly loses it. He feels useless in the final battle, no longer the protector, but someone who was only so far away from being kindle.

He's not used to feeling this vulnerable. He hates it. His job is to be on the front lines, he is meant to be the heavy hitter, the one who absorbs the blows so the people he loves could be safe. He is nervous and scared and for the first time in his life, he feels very, very small. All he wishes for is for this battle to be over with so they could figure out a way for him to get him back into his true form.

He nearly screams when he watches his body - his beautiful, big, useful body - vanish.

On the trip to Barry’s base camp, Magnus feels depressed. He starts unconsciously picking at the loose wooden shavings littered on his new body. A twisted part of himself believes that he could whittle himself human again. At the very least, he prays that the motions will cause some sort of feeling in his otherwise unfeeling form.

He's never felt this hopeless in his entire life. The thought of being stuck in a such an ungainly frame for the rest of his life repulses him. It goes against everything he was born to do, went against his very humanity. He feels truly alien, like he doesn't deserve to exist.

The thing that grounds him is Taako, who sticks close to him and calmly clutches at his hand when his hands get particularly violent.

He's elated when he finds his body. It fills him with such a sense of excitement that he doesn't bother to think about the implications. About why this body was here, about what will happen when he activates it. All he cares about is fighting - fighting against the growing evil that threatens everything he cares about.

“If you do this, you'll forget everything.” Taako looks at him with a special sort of guarded sadness. He doesn't do soft emotions. His tone is pragmatic, but Magnus knows what he's really saying. You'll forget all about me.

Magnus likes to believe that Taako feels the same way about him as he does about him, but it's nearly impossible. In that moment, looking into Taako’s sad eyes, he absolutely thinks he does. Instead of commenting on that, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Those are the arms that held my wife!”

Taako stares at him, unflinching, yet not judging. He understands, but Magnus feels a deep uncomfortable awkwardness. He loves Julia, he always will, but prioritizing her now feels wrong. “I can't do anything, I can't protect, I can't fight, I'm useless.”

Taako’s eyes take on a sort of fire that he rarely sees. He grips the map in his hands tightly. Then he sighs, defeated, letting the tension bleed from his body. He looks like the relaxed Taako that Magnus is used to and it almost scares him. “I understand. I can't stop you. But, please think this through.”

Magnus does. He thinks about his priorities, how even in his wooden form, his body still aches to fulfill its duties. He thinks about forgetting about Taako, how wrong that seems. He thinks about his body in the tank and he makes a decision.

“Leave me a note and the map.”

In the midst of the final battle, Magnus is thrown into memory. Not just one memory, hundreds of them, thousands, even. He's hit with them with such a force that he retches, but when his mind can finally catch up to the present, he's filled with a mixture of relief, joy, and anger.

He knows now, why loving Taako felt so natural, that befriending him and Merle came so easy to him. Why he felt so instantly attracted to him. At first, he blamed loneliness, now he knows better. The heart remembers what the mind forgets. He remembers a time of softness between bouts of running away from darkness; stolen moments that would have remained locked away. He's hurt and confused, but when he looks at Taako, he sees the same sort of emotions in his eyes and more.

He sees a deep set of wonder, astonishment, and, most importantly, unbridled affection. The thought of ever forgetting about that look nearly brings Magnus to tears. He wants to apologize, apologize for forgetting about such an amazing creature, but before he can, Taako’s eyes harden to steel and he lifts his umbra staff toward Lucretia.

“You fucking took everything from me!”

#taz #taagnus #taako taaco #magnus burnsides #cass fic

83 notes · View notes