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sugarrfrog · 1 year

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THE RED STRING | CHAPTER 1: A DEAL IN DEATH | AO3 Link

Ch.2 Ch.3 Pairing: Hyuuga Neji x OC Wordcount: 4.76k CW: Non-graphic death mention Story Synopsis: Making a bargain with Death wasn't exactly the first item on her list of to-dos today. Then again, neither was dying.

When a young girl finds herself desperate to argue her fate with the King of the Underworld himself, he offers her a deal: She will be reborn in a different world, but she must prove her convictions to alter destiny by saving the life of the one called Hyuuga Neji, whose premature death is set in stone. If she succeeds, she'll be allowed to live her second life to its fullest. But if she fails, she'll die along with him and suffer eternal punishment in the courts of Hell.

I’d been tumbling down the cliffside just moments ago.

My hands were grasping at the raindrops pelting the air in a desperate attempt to stop or slow my descent. The trees below had rushed up to meet me, their branches clawing at the air like desperate fingers. I couldn’t see my friends’ faces anymore; just the edges of the sky blurring together like faded watercolor.

We were just stupid kids. It was supposed to be a silly 10-minute escapade before we hopped back on our bikes and hurried back home. Christa, who I’d been friends with since we were in diapers, said this trail was supposed to have the best view of the whole valley. So here we were, tip-toeing past the “No Trespassing” signs in the woods behind our neighborhood. What a horrific nightmare this had become.

But I didn’t scream. I’m not sure why.

I’d squeezed my eyes shut so hard my vision turned white, the wind whipping at my face and throat and the storm roaring in my ears. Would I die right away? How much would I feel? What would it feel like… to not be able to say goodbye?

But then, just as suddenly as the fall had begun, it ended. The second I open my eyes, my heart thunders in my chest and I gasp for air, my lungs burning with the effort. I find myself in a dimly lit cave, my body aching but somehow still intact. Confusion and fear gnaw at my insides as I struggle to sit up and take in my surroundings.

No torrential downpour of rain, no howling wind, no gray clouds overhead or tree branches swaying in the storm. Instead, the cave is quiet and still, with the only sound being the steady drip of water echoing off the walls. Fiery torches in rusted metal brackets are scattered about the area, the flickering flames carving shadows into the rocks and illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air.

I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. Am I … hallucinating? But the thought doesn’t bring much more comfort as I slowly pull myself to my feet. My hand instinctively reaches for my pocket, where I keep my phone, but my fingers close around nothing. Big surprise when I’ve just fallen off a cliff, I suppose.

I start to walk forward, my steps cautious as I take in my surroundings. The cave seems to go on endlessly, the torches spaced just far enough apart to illuminate my path but leaving the rest of the space shrouded in darkness. Strange markings are etched into the walls, and they seem to multiply the further into the cave I walk. They’re symbols that I don't recognize. The air feels thick and heavy, as though something otherworldly is at play here. Goosebumps begin to prick my skin, and I rub at my arms as I try to shake the feeling away.

In fact… The further I go, the more the cave seems to shift and change around me, like it's alive and adapting to my movements. It's as if the cave itself is leading me somewhere.

How long has it been? Ten minutes? An hour? Soreness begins to creep into the balls of my feet, my breathing turning more labored. I have to get out of here soon, or I’ll…

The thought trails off as a giant, looming shape seems to spring up out of the darkness. My body tenses. A gnarled wooden gate, at least 10 feet tall, emerges from the shadows as I walk closer. It looks like it used to be painted blue, but the paint has been chipped away over time and revealed the contorted wood underneath.

I pause, my heart pounding in my chest. Something tells me that if I walk through that gate… I won’t be coming back.

"Hello there, dearie,” a voice calls out. My body jerks upright with a gasp. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve been expecting you.”

The voice has the lilt of an elderly woman, and it echoes through the cavern, bouncing off the walls and filling the space. I frown, taking a tentative step backward.

The voice is coming from behind the gate.

“Come now, my child,” the voice says again. “You’re lost and tired, aren’t you? I have something here that will do just the trick.”

I swallow hard, my legs wobbling slightly as I carefully step forward. I lean forward and peer through the gaps in the wood. I can just make out the silhouette of a figure, hunched over in the dim light. The figure looks up and smiles at me, expression warm and inviting.

"Don't be shy," she says, motioning for me to come closer. "I won't bite."

Taking a deep breath I push the gate open, and the wood groans loudly under my weight. Despite its massive size, it moves easily, brushing up a layer of dust as the woman on the other side of the door is revealed.

A simple, thick robe seems to swallow her small figure, with white hair tied neatly into a bun atop her head. Every curve of her face is etched with wrinkles. But despite her age, there's a sense of strength emanating from her.

For a moment, we stand there in silence. I can feel her eyes on me, taking in my every move. The air is tense, but I can't help but feel a sense of awe at her presence. She's not just a woman - she's a force to be reckoned with.

“There now,” she says, the folds in her face gathering as she offers up a knowing smile. “That’s better. You must be hungry after walking all this way.” She beckons me closer, motioning me to a small clearing of rock. “ Come. I have something that will help you.”

A heavy brass cauldron stands rooted in the middle of the ground, filled nearly to the brim with golden broth that spreads a thick aroma of herbs and spices through the space. But strangely enough, that’s not the oddest sight here.

Just beyond where we stand, a gaping chasm yawns open in the ground, as if the earth had been ripped apart by some colossal force. A massive stone bridge stretches across the expanse, leading to the other side of the cavernous abyss. The walls of the cave tower above, their jagged edges disappearing into darkness. And instead of the cave ceiling… there are stars. But as I look up, something seems off. The stars are too vivid, too colorful. It's not the regular night sky, and the unsettling feeling it brings makes me uneasy.

The woman doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest, as if it's just another part of the scenery.

"Sit, sit," she says, gesturing towards a small wooden stool beside the cauldron. "Don't be afraid. I've given this to many travelers before you."

I hesitate for a moment, eyeing the chasm warily, but the aroma of the brew is too enticing to resist. Gingerly, I make my way over to the stool and settle down, my hands shaking slightly as I reach out for the bowl she hands me. The rim and body of the cauldron are caked with brown spots of dried liquid, but the bowl seems clean, painted with delicate flower designs that swim as she fills it with golden liquid.

I can't bring myself to drink it, though- not while the woman is watching me so intently.

"Who are you?" I manage to ask instead. "And where am I?"

"Ah, those are the questions, aren't they?" she says. "You, my child, are in the realm of the Underworld. Your soul is being brought here to rest.”

My heart thumps in my ears as her words register. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

The woman leans in closer, her eyes softening. “You have passed on, my dear. You are no longer in the world of the living.”

I feel my breath catch in my throat, my mind reeling with disbelief. This can't be real. It has to be some kind of hallucination, a nightmare I'll wake up from any moment now.

But the woman's gaze is unwavering, and I can feel the weight of her words settling in my chest.

The woman points a knobbed finger to the bridge. "Once you cross," she continues, "Our Good Lord Yama will judge your soul. He will determine whether you are reincarnated, or whether you will stay here in the Underworld to rest." She places a hand on my shoulder, but I barely register it. "Don’t worry, dearie. Once you drink that soup in your hands, you'll begin feeling a lot better."

Her words bring me no comfort. I feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, my heart racing faster with every passing second.

"How do I get out of here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

The woman's expression turns solemn as she replies, "That is up to Lord Yama to decide. For now, please drink. Once you've tasted the broth, the memories of your past life will disappear. You will feel no pain, no fear, and no regret. Only peace."

I stare down at the steaming cauldron, the pungent scent of the herbs and spices almost overwhelming. I can feel the warmth emanating from the soup, but something about it makes my stomach twist itself in knots.

"I...I don't know if I can," I murmur, my voice shaking. "I don't want to forget."

The woman's gaze softens once more. "I understand, my child," she says. "But the soul cannot rest until it has forgotten."

I take a deep breath in, and out. No , I think. This can't be it. This… this can't be all there is!

The woman’s smile darkens slightly, and she gives me a sharper look. “Drink. I cannot allow you to move forward until you do so.”

My hands tighten around the edge of the bowl, my jaw clenching. “No.”

The woman's expression turns stern as she looks at me. "I understand your reluctance, but this is the way it must be. You cannot move forward until you have drunk the soup."

I shake my head. "I don't believe you," I say. "I don't believe any of this."

The woman's eyes narrow, and her grip on my shoulder tightens. "You cannot understand until you have let go," she says. "Until you have surrendered to the process. You must trust that this is the way it must be."

"I don't trust you," I say, my voice growing stronger. "I don't even know who you are!"

"I am a guide," the woman says. "I am here to help you move on."

"I don't want your help!" I say, pulling away from her.

“Drink!”

“I said, no !” I lift the bowl over my head, swinging it down to the rocky cave floor below. The porcelain bowl shatters into a million shards as golden broth seeps into the cracks of the rock.

The woman shrieks, her hands reaching down to the broken pieces as if willing them to magically fit back together. “You insolent child!" she hisses. "You will regret this!"

But I don't stay to find out what she means. I stand quickly, the stool beneath me clattering to its side.

Then I run. * * *

I turn and sprint towards the bridge, my heart pounding in my chest. I can hear the woman's enraged screams echoing behind me, but I push on, my legs carrying me forward. The cave’s uneven ground turns to smooth stone under my feet as the solid bridge carries me to somewhere I can’t see. “This is stupid, this is stupid…” I mutter to myself my limbs thrumming with adrenaline as my sneakers smack against the ground. “This is literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever done!”

And then I remember I’ve done things that have actually killed me today, so, maybe not.

The sounds of the old woman’s shrieking are disappearing into nothing, giving me hope that I’ve seen the last of her. But even if that’s true, I don’t feel any better about my situation.

How exactly does one escape the realm of the dead?

I continue running, pumping my legs as hard as I can, fists so tight my nails dig into my palms. My hair flies out behind me as the other end of the chasm comes into view. It’s another dark, ominous cave entrance.

I stumble to a halt at the opening, catching my breath as I peer inside. It takes me a moment to register what I'm looking at.

A long line of people stretches further than I can see, filled with every sort of creature imaginable. There are humans and animals, angels and demons, and everything in between. Some are dressed in fine clothes, while others wear tattered rags. They all stand, waiting for something, Some are talking to each other, while others are content to keep to their own thoughts.

“Hey you, girl. You okay?”

I blink, turning to face a man and woman standing in line who are looking at me with pity in their eyes. They look… tired, yet strangely peaceful, giving me warm smiles that clash against all the cold darkness I’ve faced so far.

“I-I, uh..” I stutter, looking around and scratching my head. “I… think so? What’s going on here?”

The woman smiles wider, tilting her head. “We’re waiting to meet with His Majesty Lord Yama,” she says. “Are you alone? Why don’t you hop in line with us?”

I crane my neck, trying to get a better look at the line. I squint hard, but I still can’t see the end of this long ribbon of bodies no matter how hard I try. “How long is this thing? How long would that even take?”

The man shrugs, looking around at the waiting masses like he hadn’t considered it. “Probably a few years, if I had to guess.”

I feel my stomach drop as the color drains from my face. “A few years ?” I repeat dumbly, gaping. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Why,” an old, potbellied man behind them snickers, “you got somewhere else to be, kid?”

A few of the line occupants within earshot laugh loudly, making me bristle. My cheeks flush with embarrassment and frustration, and I shake my head to clear it away.

Wherever this place is, whatever system they’re running here… I don’t want it. I’m not going to let them take my life from me and herd me into some weird corner of the Underworld like a lost lamb. Maybe that works for others, but not for me.

I clench and unclench my hands, looking out over the endless string of figures. “Well,” I mutter to myself, “I’ve already made several bad decisions today, may as well keep the streak going.”

The potbellied guy scowls. “What’s that s’pposed to mean?”

Instead of answering, I dig the heels of my sneakers into the ground. And once again, I’m barreling through the unknown terrain. Except this time, thousands of people’s faces whisk by as I run, their expressions ranging from bored to surprised to outright angry. I hear some of them yell at me, but I ignore them.

But now I have another problem. I’m not in nearly good enough shape for this. My lungs burn and my breathing turns ragged in my throat, but I try to push myself forward. I stumble to leap over the lap of someone who has decided to sit on the ground to wait instead of stand.

“You there! HALT!”

I whip my head around to catch a glimpse of what is behind me, but instantly wish I hadn’t. Giving chase are towering, sinewy, hellish beings with their skin stretched tight over their bones, glaring at me with anger in their eyes. Their elongated spears, thick and sturdy, are poised and ready to impale whatever they hit first. They’re much faster than I am, and their weighty footsteps echo like ominous drumbeats as they pursue me. A surge of terror floods my veins, but I compel myself to continue running.

My heart pounds in my chest as I quickly sidestep and weave through the throngs of waiting people, bobbing and weaving to avoid colliding with them. The demonic creatures behind me are quickly gaining on me, their guttural growls intensifying with each passing second. “You've been commanded to halt!” One of them says again, his voice gravelly and almost painful to listen to.

I freeze as a small child wanders out of line and into my path, causing me to lose my balance and fall to the ground. Immediately the demons’ claws dig into my shoulders, and I let out a yelp. I struggle to regain my footing as they haul me up, their grip tight and unyielding. "Finally," one of them mutters, "Crazy brat."

“Let me go,” I mumble weakly, hanging my head. I know just asking them to drop me is pointless, but desperation forces me to give it a shot. The demonic creatures snort at my pitiful attempt, their grip on me unrelenting as they continue to drag me away. The tips of my shoes bounce against the uneven rock floor. * * *

Despite the terrifying looks of his minions, the imposing Lord Yama appears rather... bland. Glossy, intricate bloodwood arches encircle a raised platform, upon which is perched a smooth ivory desk and chair. Lord Yama, a rotund little man in a black robe with ruddy skin and bulging eyes, shifts his attention back and forth between two advisors standing nearby as they present him with notes.

The advisors... I shudder, making every effort to avert my gaze from the two men flanking him. Don't stare, I chant to myself, pretending to be fascinated by the floor. Don't stare!

The two men are perfectly normal, tall and fit, wearing simple red tunics and trousers. That would all be fine, except for their freaking animal heads - one with the head of an ox, and the other of a horse. The man with the horse head seems engrossed in scribbling something into a thick, well-worn book like this is an ordinary Tuesday.

“My Lord!” One of the demons calls out, shoving me down to my knees. My shins sting with fresh cuts as I turn back in an attempt to glare at him. “I’ve brought her. The little brat who’s been causing a ruckus.”

“ You’ve brought her?” the other scoffs.

“Shut up.”

“Thank you, men.” The air seems to buzz with tension as Lord Yama’s voice booms out, halting the argument as soon as it starts. I watch in trepidation as he stands from his desk, his long beard swaying as he makes his way toward us. Something about his expression sends chills down my spine. “You’ve done well at finding her, however…” he raises an eyebrow inquisitively. “Remind me, what exactly has she done?”

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach as the demons pause, seemingly at a loss for words. “She.. well... She destroyed Meng Po’s vessel for the Soul Beguiling Soup, and crossed the Bridge of Forgetfulness without drinking it.”

Lord Yama folds his hands over his belly, raising an eyebrow. “Yes. And then?”

The two lackeys behind me stutter, unsure where he’s going with this. “Th-Then.. and then she tried to s-skip the line, my Lord. She’s been wreaking chaos since the first moment she came here.”

Lord Yama strokes his beard thoughtfully, the sound of his hums echoing in the quiet room. The tension seems to grow thicker as we wait for his response. “That’s right,” he says finally, his gaze fixed on me. “She attempted to avoid waiting in line. How kind of you to aid her in her objective by escorting her here yourselves. Fools.”

Both monsters behind me are silent. I have to bite my lip hard to keep myself from laughing. Nyeh-nyeh, losers.

But the giggles die in my throat as Lord Yama's beady eyes flicker over to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I feel like a mouse under a hawk's gaze.

"So," he says slowly, "you are the troublemaker who has been disrupting the order of things in my realm. Tell me, child, what do you have to say for yourself?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My throat feels dry, and I can feel the lump in my stomach growing bigger by the second. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

"U-um, sir," I manage to say, my voice trembling. "I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble. I was just trying to find my way back home." I pause. “Sir,” I add again, just for good measure.

Lord Yama seems to read my thoughts, and he nods knowingly. "And how do you plan on doing that now that you are here, in the afterlife?"

I wince as one of the demons digs his claws into my shoulder deeper. “I… didn’t exactly think that far ahead.”

Lord Yama chuckles, a deep and menacing sound that makes my skin crawl. “You’re entertaining, young one. I haven’t been so delighted by someone in thousands of years.” He leans over, bending to meet my eye level from where I kneel on the floor. “However, I understand. You’re young, and your death was sudden. It must be challenging facing all this alone.”

I suck in a deep breath, my heart thumping erratically in my chest. “Let me go, please. I don’t want to die yet.”

Lord Yama straightens up, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Oh, my dear. You've already died. There's no going back from that." His words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I feel the weight of the situation crashing down on me. The reality of my death sinks in, and I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

My tears drip onto the floor as my vision begins to blur. “I can't just let it end like this.”

Lord Yama smiles haughtily. “Fate is a terrible, cruel thing, child. Even the world’s strongest warriors cannot fight the crushing blow of their own destiny.”

“I don’t believe that!” I kneel upright, and the demons wrestle me back down to a hunch.

Lord Yama's smile fades, replaced with a glint of annoyance in his eyes. "Believe what you will, but it does not change the truth. Death comes for all, and there is nothing you can do to escape it."

The demons behind me tighten their grip on my arms, making me wince in pain. I can feel my anger bubbling up inside me, mixing with my fear and despair. "You're wrong!" I shout, my voice echoing off the walls and columns. "There has to be a way out of here. There has to be a way to go back."

Lord Yama shakes his head, his eyes hardening. "I'm afraid not, child. Your fate is sealed."

I struggle against the demons, desperation coursing through my veins. "Please," I plead, "there has to be something I can do. Anything."

Lord Yama regards me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “For your level of insolence, I should have you banished to the courts of Hell for eternity.”

My jaw tightens, the tension in the air growing thicker as we wait for him to continue.

“But the more I talk to you, the more amusing you become.” I swallow hard, unsure of what to make of his sudden change in demeanor. "What do you mean?" I ask cautiously.

A faint smile plays at the corners of Lord Yama’s mouth. "You have spirit, child. I can see it in your eyes.” He walks back towards the platform, nodding to himself. With a flick of his wrist, he signals to Mr. Ox-Head, who scurries off to some unknown destination. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal. An experiment of sorts.”

I shift uneasily, not quite sure how to respond. "Sir?"

He chuckles darkly, his eyes alight with amusement. "Your thoughts on destiny and fate are quite rigid, are they not? Why don’t we put it to the test?”

Before I can respond, the guards suddenly release me, and I tumble to the ground in a heap. I scramble to my feet, my body sore and bruised from the demons' assault. I rub my shoulders slowly where their claws have ripped holes in my clothing as they slink off to do other things.

As I stagger towards the platform, Mr. Ox-Head returns, carrying an ornate urn that gleams in the dim torch light. He places it on the edge of Lord Yama's desk with a soft thud, and sets a small scroll beside it.

My wide eyes follow him for a moment- a freaking ox head, how on earth is that even anatomically possible ?!- but I shake my head and force myself to re-focus. “What do you want me to do?”

Lord Yama beckons me closer, his fingers closing around the scroll. "It is quite simple in concept," he murmurs, his voice sickeningly sweet with a patronizing edge. "You must change the fate of one who has been condemned to an unalterable destiny."

I stare at Lord Yama, my mind struggling to process his words. "Change someone's fate?" I echo slowly, unconvinced. "How am I supposed to do that?"

He raises the scroll in the air, the pattern outside it a rich green etched with blocky golden designs. “In my hand, I hold the image of a young man slated to die a tragically premature death in the autumn of his eighteenth year."

Lord Yama hands the scroll out to me, the smooth texture of the paper sliding into my hand. “He lives in a very different world from your own,” he continues. “But you crave life. Very well- I’ll have you reborn there yourself. Shall he live past his eighteenth year, I’ll let you live the rest of your second life there in peace.” His look darkens. “Fail, and you’ll be brought back to me at the time his fate is sealed. You’ll suffer eternal torture in the courts of Hell, and justice will finally be satisfied.”

I frown and hesitate for a moment as I break the seal of the scroll, the weight of his words washing over me. The thought of being sent to another world is daunting enough, but to be tasked with changing the whole life’s course of someone I don’t know? It seems impossible. With as much mental strength as I can muster, I unfurl the scroll to get a look at whoever this mysterious stranger is.

My breath catches in my throat as the image of this person meets my eyes. He’s more beautiful than I expected, nearly ethereal, with pale, porcelain skin and thin but soft, rounded features. Over his forehead is some sort of metal-plated headpiece I don’t recognize. Long, dark hair drapes over his shoulders and down his back, not a strand out of place.

However, his eyes are his most striking feature by far. They’re an otherworldly, glassy white, tinged with a hint of shimmering lavender that seems to pierce through the page. They bring an air of regality and mystery to his whole expression, seeming to look right into the very soul.

“Is he blind?” I ask in a hushed tone, tearing my eyes away from the image.

Lord Yama lets out a vicious cackle. “Quite the opposite,” he replies, but doesn’t elaborate on that any further. “This is the one called Hyuuga Neji, a prodigious member of a powerful clan whose story yields an unfortunate ending. He is the one you must save.”

My heart races in my chest, a tremor of fear coursing through my veins. What could I possibly do to change the course of fate for someone like this?

As if sensing my apprehension, Lord Yama stands up and reaches for the heavy-looking urn sitting on his desk.

"What's in there?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

I watch as he approaches me, stopping uncomfortably close with a smile. “His soul.”

I try to pull away as Lord Yama leans forward, his hot breath on my face as he presses a finger into my forehead. A tingling sensation erupts through my body, light and prickly, like a million little bubbles dancing on my skin.

“Happy birthday to you both.”

The world around me fades away, and I fall backward into blackness.

#The Red String #Neji Hyuga #Neji x OC #oc x canon #naruto fanfiction #fanfiction #Kanna Fukui #Neji #This fic is very self indulgent don't come for me lol #hyuuga neji

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capsensislagamoprh · 1 month

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Victor Nikiforov takes the ice. His music is named, something classical and full of power. His theme: searching.

The music swells as the flute makes a melancholy sound. An oboe adds undertones of distance, whispering against the shrill cry of the high notes. Invocation of a tree-less landscape, open to the biting winds. His hands twist in elegant motions, arms rising as his back arches. With out seeming to move his feet he begins to slide back, ice a silken mirror beneath his blades.

A low drum picks up a hollow beat, pounding its rhythm into the chest, a second heart beat trying to over take the listener's own. His side arch, his back rolls, his blades speeding along the ice as he keeps a slow look of constant agony in his eyes, his limbs seeming to call out for any answer they can get. His feet flip one over the other as he twizzles himself into a camel spin, the music picking up like a blowing tumble weed. Chimes and xylophone add a drip-drip-drip of cold ice as it hits the winter sun. A listener could almost feel the bitter winter playing make believe with the brilliant sun.

Foot change into a sit spin that lifts him into rapid step, his stretch calling out for desperate spaces to give up secrets, to cry there hiding places, to help him find. The music responds with anger, the drums backed by a responsive violin. Go! We Tell You Nothing! it seems to say, as he turns himself into a double, a triple, a double, trying to jump the obstacles the music puts in his way. These are hills, holes, mythical things, and he is the Ice King. He will over come them all.

The music thinks, how to defeat him. There is a mystical sound, perhaps the swell of winds playing secrets with the strings. A chime seems to count the hours as he steps his way thrugh the rink, turning in brackets and counters, rocketing as he uses one foot or the other, his leg high and straight, his arms longing to reach further than his form allows. His face is forlorn, his eyes full of hope. A loop, a twist, and then he jumps. Quad Sal, a slide spin, a triple toe, a leap that defies the length of his legs, and then a double to give him the lift into a flying spin as he keeps his body moving with that desperation, love, promise of hearth and home as he searches for what he's lost, what the ice cannot find.

The music refuses to give. It calls upon something sinister, the oboe dropping register, the violin wobbling vibrato. A cello adds shadows to the darkness, warning him to keep away. There is a threat there. It evokes retribution. His hands are thrown back, his arms bending behind his head as if struck a dangerous blow. He steps his twizzles into a sit, drives it up into a Biellmann, and drops into a scratch. The music stops just as suddenly, echoing a lone flute note, crying like a distant bird trying to summon spring in a barren land.

The audience is shook, their surprise clear. A junior competitor worthy of there attention. They cheer. It is evoking. It is powerful. He takes his bows, skates to the kiss and cry, then sits, waiting for his score. When he sees it, his eye grow large. His smile beams. He is the Ice King. They are pleased. For a moment he can see the beginnings of that rainbow glow as glamour collects. They keep throwing flowers and other things. Somehow he knows, tonight he will stop starving.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25

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retroateez · 3 years

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Prophecy - Chapter Fifteen

remember when i said chapter 14 would be the last of the year? i lied ;) think of this as an end of year gift from me to you, as a thank you for all the support and love you’ve all been giving my silly little story. - hades x

words; 3827

prophecy masterlist

tag list; @hewwo-from-the-other-side

"You want me to teach you magic?" Yunho splutters over the counter, his jaw dropped as he stares at you in disbelief.

You nod.

"Well, little lady, I'm afraid I cannot help you."

Your confident demeanor falls, your posture slouching and curved mouth pointing into a frown.

"What?" you demand. "Why not?"

Yunho sighs and after a moment of hesitation, leaves the counter and steps through a doorway that leads to the back of the shop, motioning you with a scar-littered hand to follow him.

You heave up the wooden slab that allows you access behind the counter and follow Yunho's quick pace. The blonde apothecary leads you down a set of worn, stone stairs, and you find yourself in a dingy, cold basement.

The basement is scarcely lit, with a couple of iron brackets mounted on the wall, each baring a lit torch that radiates a flickering, orange light throughout the room. Yunho's giant shadow dances on the wall, and suddenly he becomes the opposite of the bubbly apothecary you knew before.

A workbench is pressed up against the left wall, bundles of chamomile flowers and small piles of marshmallow root thrown chaotically across the surface. The wooden chair is shoved carelessly to the side, and you can see on the chair legs how worn and damaged they are from scraping across the cobblestone floor. On the opposite wall, are tall, oak shelves similar to the ones upstairs in the shop. Packages of twine and string and burlap sacks and rolls of parchments are scattered messily upon each shelf, almost as if Yunho had unpacked his things in a rush.

You stop walking abruptly, as Yunho bends down and fumbles underneath the workbench. You watch as he slides his slender fingers on the underside of the wooden table, squinting his eyes and poking his tongue out as he searches what he's looking for.

"There we go." He mumbles lowly, just as you hear a click and he stands up straight.

You almost jump out of your skin, at the sound of loud rattling, clanking, and finally the ear-splitting screech of wood raking against stone. It's only when the cacophany of noises stop that you realise that the shelf, is not a shelf at all.

The entire back panel of the shelf is gone, as are the contents that lay upon it.

Instead, there are more steps, which lead down into an impossibly darker room.

"Go on." Yunho points to the new entrance, indicating for you to go down the steps.

"Are you perhaps short of a marble?" You scoff. "Go down there and let you kill me? I don't think so."

"If I wanted to kill you, I would've done it a long time ago." A darkness clouds over his eyes and you swallow thickly. "Now go."

This time you decide to listen to him, and you take a hesitant step downwards.

The walls are damp, with trails of moss coating the steps and buried inside the cracks of the stone. You take it slow, not wanting to slip and let your guard down in case Yunho changes his mind and does decide to kill you.

"What are you waiting for?" His impatient voice comes from behind you. "Do you really think I would hurt you?" There's a twinge of pain as he speaks, and you feel slightly guilty for even thinking sweet, innocent, doctor Yunho would be capable of something like that.

Once you're down the stairs, you squint to try and make out the shapes in the unlit room. You spot something circular on the floor, but you can't make out what it is. It's too dark to see, but the smell of dust and ancient damp invades your nostrils. Yunho hasn't been down here in a very long time.

There's a snapping sound from behind you, and the torches in the room suddenly light themselves.

Despite the light, the room is still eerily dark. You can barely make out the furniture in the room. There's what appears to be a desk, covered in cobwebs but still much tidier and more organised than the one in the basement. There's a (real) shelf too, full to the brim with thick, leather-bound books which, if you squint hard enough, you notice have holes chewed out of the spine. Lastly, upon the ground and painted sloppily in white, is a five pointed star within a circle.

"Yunho?" You whisper. "What is all this?"

He ignores you and paces over to the table. With his sleeve, he sweeps away the dust, and picks up a worn, tattered notebook. Yunho hands you the book, and you read the cover, confused.

"Laredia Academy of Magic?" you read. "You're a mage?"

"I was a mage." he corrects you.

"How do you just stop being a mage? Just unlearn all the magic?" you joke.

"No." Yunho's face is deadly serious, and your smile falters and your blood runs cold. "I was cast out, and my mage rites were revoked."

You stand awkwardly in silence, biting your lip and finding sudden interest at the dirt scuffs on the tips of Yunho's black boots.

"Yeosang and I went to the same magic academy," He explains. "In Laredia, just north of the Seventeen kingdom. He was in the class above me, because he's older, but every single student knew about Yeosang."

Yunho grabs a chair from the darkest corner of the room and sits down on it, pointing behind you at another chair you hadn't noticed. Once you sit down, he continues.

"I always wanted to be a mage. It was my absolute dream, and I knew that basically anybody can do the most basic spell, so I trained hard every single day before I was even old enough to apply to an academy. Hundreds upon thousands of wishful mages and sorceresses are turned away from academies because they lack true magical talent. Luckily, I passed the entrance exam and the initiation tests, and I got in.

"The professors said I was a natural, that I had magical skills they hadn't witnessed in centuries. I was only four months into my first year at Laredia before they moved me up a class. And that was where I met Yeosang.

"We butted heads at first," Yunho chuckles fondly, remembering all the fights he and his elder got into all those years ago. Reminising the scars and spell marks scattered across his body. "We were both exceptionally good at magic, I would argue Yeosang was better than I. I would never have admitted that in my youth, but he was much more controlled, sensible with his talent than I was.

"Everything was a competition between 'Sang and I. Theory exams, practical classes, potions and herbology. Anything you could study there, we always strived to be the best. Eventually we became both good friends and rivals... It was fun and games for a few years, you know? I think at one point we were almost as close as brothers..."

Yunho begins to trail off, a sad look filling his walnut eyes as they glitter in the flickering light.

"Did something happen?" you whisper softly. He nods slowly.

"I...I pushed it too far in our last year. That was the year the academy would prepare you for mage work, I was to be sent out to the kingdom of Streyden in the east, and become King Chan's magical advisor. Yeosang was on track to be a professor at Laredia himself, and he was, for quite a while.

"Yeosang possessed so much more than I did when it was time to graduate. He was better at spell-casting, he was absolutely phenomenal at herb identifying - ironic now given I run an apothecary actually- but there was nothing Yeosang could be bested at, and it drove me utterly insane. It evolved into more than a friendly rivalry, more than just healthy competition. It became an obsession, nd so I went out searching for what my heart yearned for the most; more power.

"I found it quickly, too. I was directed to an elven clan that resided deep in the southern forest, under the impression they were gifted in regular magic, and they could teach me any spell I desired. So of course, I went. I was young, stupid and incredibly naive to believe it would've worked. And foolish to think that I could've gotten away with it."

Yunho sighs deeply, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between his legs. He rubs his hands over his face roughly, and your gut tells you Yunho's story isn't about to get any better. You watch him, and you try to take in everything he just told you. You knew that Yeosang and Yunho had been friends for a long time, but you had no idea they went back this far.

"The elves were agents of the arcane arts alright," Yunho spits bitterly out of the blue, causing you to jump in your seat a little. "Their dark magic consumed me entirely, contaminated my soul and tainted every fibre of my being. I knew I was ruined the moment I agreed to train under them. I was... so aware that everything they were teaching me was so wrong. Yet it was everything I had dreamed of, and more than anything I knew it would allow me to beat Yeosang.

"This elf clan had roots in the fire elementals, so they all were wickedly powerful pyromancers. They taught me almost everything they knew, and I couldn't believe how tame the magic at the academy was. I trained in dark magic with the elves for months, until our final practical exam came around.

"We had to duel with another member of our class, I can't remember the name of the boy who had the misfortune of being paired with me, seung- or seong- or something like that. I was absolutely positive I would win, but he was fast. Too fast. I wouldn't be surprised if the idiot had sought out the same thing I had."

Yunho pauses somberly, his broad, built shoulders drooping where he sat, and his face moulding into a sad, distant frown.

"Everytime I close my eyes, all I see are flashes of fire." Yunho whispers, staring at the floor. "I remember the feeling, but not much else. I- I can recall quite literally exploding into flames... It's like a bubbling cauldron, and it just keeps boiling and boiling until it gets so hot it bursts. And It felt like burning lava was pouring out of every single pore and hair follicle in my body."

The apothecary nibbles his bottom lip, shaking his head bitterly at the ground beneath his feet.

"It was so painful. I've broken countless bones, been on the recieving end of spells cast by the most powerful of mages, and yet I have never experienced pain like it.

"I can't believe I even have the gall to say it hurt." Yunho scoffs. "I can't even begin to imagine how much pain my duel partner was in.

"The academy realised straight away that it was dark magic. I hadn't fooled anyone in the slightest. The explosion had set the entire courtyard alight, all the trees, the furniture outside, even a couple of the students themselves, everything within a short radius of me. It was a tornado of flames, swirling round and round and I could easily have killed everybody that was there. The professors were on high alert though, they had to be during student duels. They rounded up the other students, and teleported themselves to safety in seconds.

"Everyone except for me, of course. They must have decided that my punishment for dabbling in the dark arts was death, and so they left me there to burn alive. Students weren't taught how to teleport at that point either, so I could do nothing except sit and watch the flames eating away at my skin."

"You're still alive... obviously." You chime in. "How'd you get out?"

"Yeosang." He replies simply.

He tells you how Yeosang fought and argued with the professors of the academy to forgive Yunho and let him live, almost getting himself expelled and his teaching job revoked. He explains how the professors refused to help Yunho, and how Yeosang risked his own life to save him.

"He spent weeks healing my burns, keeping me hidden away in his dorm room." Yunho breathes. "He nearly got kicked out too, but the academy knew he was too good of an asset to let go. I told him he was a fool to help me while risking so much in the process, but he's a good man. Despite all the competitions and tension between us, he's always been a good friend."

You nod solemnly in agreement. Even from the first moment you had met the platinum haired mage, you knew he possessed a generous soul. From saving you after the storm, housing, clothing and feeding you, teaching you to help heal people and allowing you to earn real, official qualifications, getting caught up in the prophecy mess you had caused and not complaining about it once. Yeosang had done so much for you, and yet here you are, repaying him by sneaking around and doing the one thing he refused to help you with.

Guilt squirms around in your stomach and latches on to your flesh with it's poisonous claws, puncturing your organs and pumping your insides full of toxins. It meanders its way through your body until it infects your bloodstream, flowing through every limb and vein until it hits your brain and starts to fog your senses and stain your conscience.

You have to keep telling yourself it's for a good reason; learning magic will help you in the long run, you just know it. It's just a shame that Yeosang doesn't understand that.

"You said Yeosang was a teacher at the academy, right?" You blurt.

Yunho nods. "Yes, for a few years."

"Then why does he refuse to teach me if he's literally qualified to do so?"

"He hasn't told you about what happened while he was a teacher, has he?"

You shake your head.

"It's not my place to tell you, Iris. Yeosang would kill me if I did." Yunho stands up with a grunt, brushing his knees off with the palms of his hands. "He'd also kill me if I taught you any magic behind his back, and I owe my life to him. So, I will not be teaching you any magic either."

"What?! Hold on!" You jump up in protest, glaring angrily at the giant man before you. "That's not fair! What was all that about then? If you were just going to say no?!"

Yunho grabs you by the shoulders, abruptly stopping your rage fueled ranting.

"Because I wanted you to know how thirst for power, particularly magic, can be incredibly dangerous."

"Well, I'm not as foolish as you." You snap aggressively, not noticing the twinge of hurt written on Yunho's face.

"You may well be right. But I still won't be helping you."

"Fine." You shrug, giving up. "Fine. Thanks for your time anyway, Yunho."

He bows politely to you, lifting up an arm and motioning to the steps for you to leave. Wrapping your arms tightly around you, you hurry up the stairs of both the secret room and the basement, until you're at the front door of the shop.

Yunho resumes his signature position of elbows on the counter, leaning forward, cheeky grin and puppy dog eyes shining brightly.

"Just... be wary, Iris. You can't trust everyone in this world."

You smile shortly, offering only a curt nod before you grab the handle of the door.

"Thanks, Yunho. See you around."

"Farewell, little lady."

The bell tinkles above you when you gently pull the door open, and chimes again as it closes after you slip your way out. You walk back to the castle at a brisk pace, keeping to yourself and keeping your gaze fixed on the ground.

Only when you feel safe enough, do you untangle your arms from around your torso, glancing down at the thick, leather-bound book you smuggled underneath your sleeves. Wiping the remaining dust off the cover, you read the bold, imprinted words;

LAREDIA ACADEMY OF MAGIC.

"Once a thief, always a thief" You grin proudly.

-----

You figured the best place to hide your stolen goods was in plain sight, which is why you are skimming the library shelves for the smartest hiding spot. You find a pile of books hidden away in the corner which didn't look too dusty, thinking that if there were to be completely dust-free books in the neglected library, it would look too suspicious. You slide Yunho's book at the bottom of the pile, making a mental note to come back later and properly skim through it.

"Where have you been?" Yeosang demands when you casually stroll into his workspace.

Hongjoong had given Yeosang and Wooyoung a study to work in, after his own had become a mess and entirely overwhelmed with parchments and hand-drawn diagrams. You throw yourself comfortably onto the bench opposite his desk.

"Just in the gardens," you reply coolly. "Hanging out."

"Is that so? How come I couldn't find you there then?" Wooyoung's voice comes sharply from the doorway, where he stands with his arms folded, leaning against the door frame as he looks at you with a deep frown.

"Maybe you just didn't look hard enough." You shrug.

The elf says nothing, but you can feel his gaze burning into the back of your head.

Yeosang ignores you both, too absorbed in studying the papers before him to listen to you and Wooyoung squabble.

"Still no monster?" you ask.

Yeosang shakes his head. "I was certain we would find one," he sighs. "But there's been no sighting of any sea monsters or creatures in decades."

"The ball is in two days," Yeosang continues. "Hongjoong expects something significant from us before then but we have nothing to offer him. He had patrols out investigating anybody remotely suspicious, I heard the guards interrupted a group of drunk dwarves playing cards... they were not impressed. But there hasn't been anyone new in the city or any of the villages in the kingdom. Nothing."

"If it's destiny, then maybe us looking for them is the problem. What if we just wait for them to come to us?" You suggest.

"Then what if destiny says we have to chase them down?" Yeosang counters with a stressed hand through his hair. "Either way, we're stuck."

Wooyoung crosses the room to peer over the diagrams for what must be the thousandth time in the last two weeks. He and Yeosang mutter lowly to each other as they read, pointing and drawings and shuffling through papers. You can only sit with your head hung low, staring miserably at the floor as the feeling of uselessness settles in your bones.

You're so tired of offering nothing. Of being no help to anyone. All people do is look after you while you wander around getting in people's way.

Suddenly, you're on your feet, and you're striding through the hallways to the library you've become so familiar with. You heave the doors open and hurry over to Yunho's book that you hid only mere hours ago, stuffing it under your shirt and creeping out of the library, and down the steps.

You refuse to rely on others. You refuse to have other people look after you. You refuse to be a liability. It's time to start fending for yourself, starting from now.

You locate the somewhat hidden door you took out of the castle earlier, and instead of turning out the door, you carry on down the hallway.

Eventually, the hallway leads to a large, empty room made entirely of cobblestone. Perfect for practicing magic. You found the torch you had used before, and lit it with a match you had forgotten about in your pocket. Once lit, you set the torch in a wall bracket and kneel down on the floor underneath it.

Rustling underneath your shirt, Yunho's book falls onto the ground with a dull thump, which bounces loudly off the walls. You hold your breath, panicked, but luckily nobody comes. Opening the first few pages, you read over Yunho's messy scrawl, taking in the drawings of hand positions and words in a language you don't understand.

You flick through more and more faded pages until you come across one that catches your eye. You look at Yunho's drawing, trying to match your own hand to the one on the page. You stick your right hand out flat, fingers together, and palm facing upwards. Then, you pull your four fingers back so the fingertips are pressed against your palm. Keeping your fingers in place, you rotate your hand so the back of your hand is now facing upwards, and rapidly flick your fingers out in front of you, presumably where the receiving end of the spell would be.

You repeat the motion over and over again, gradually building speed so after a while, your actions are fluid and less clunky. Next, is the hard part; learning the spell.

"Feainn ichaer?" You whisper, reading from the page. "What on earth does that mean? What language is that?"

Maybe exploring the library for some language books would be a good idea, you think.

But for now, you say the phrase aloud over and over again, not even knowing if you're doing it right but acting as if you're fluent in whichever language this is.

Once you feel like you've got it more or less right, you decide it's time to pair the speech and hand movements together.

Nervousness takes you by surprise then, and you have to readjust your kneeling position on the ground three times before you're ready. Taking a deep breath, you stretch your hand out like before, and you can feel the words on your tongue.

You feel it then; a rushing sensation in your stomach, burrowing past your organs and hurling itself up towards your lungs. It burns slightly as it travels, almost in the same way that hot milk burns as you swallow it, except instead of going down, this is coming up, flying past your lungs and sliding up your throat and crawling through the gaps between your teeth.

"Feainn," you pull your fingers back, and turn your hand over, the burning feeling spreading down to the tips of your toes and the tips of your ears, and you're convinced you can smell smoke. You close your eyes to focus on the spell, ignoring the sting of the fire licking at your veins and the boiling of your blood inside your veins, ignoring the loud thumping ricocheting around your eardrums, and ignoring the way your entire body begins to vibrate and ignoring the way it feels like you're about to explode at any moment. "Icha-"

"What are you doing?"

Your eyes snap open.

i just wanted to note that the language used here is elder speech from the witcher 3: wild hunt. i did not make it up myself, and it does not belong to me! just a note to cover my own back lmao.. thanks for reading!

#hongjoong #ateez #medieval!ateez #seonghwa #yeosang #san #mingi #jongho #wooyoung #yunho #yunho im so sorry #i got carried away #kpop #ateez x reader

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xxlittle0birdxx · 4 years

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WIP: Jaime/Brienne at Riverrun

Part of a series I wrote that imagined Jaime and Brienne behind the scenes from the day they left Harrenhal to the day she left King’s Landing. I had thought it would end there, but Riverrun, the Dragonpit, and Jaime’s trial at Winterfell are quite rich with subtext. You can read what’s up here.

‘M’lord.’ Jaime glanced up the the intrusion. ‘There’s a woman out there that wants to see you. Says she’s got your sword.’ The soldier gave him a puzzled frown. ‘Travelling with a lad that says he’s her squire.’

Jaime’s heart skipped a beat, but he schooled his features into something more neutral. ‘A woman, you say? Tall, blonde hair, of a similar disposition to a particularly recalcitrant mule?’

The solder’s face lightened with amazement. ‘That’s exactly right, m’lord.’

‘Bring her here,’ Jaime ordered. ‘Immediately.’ Had it truly been two years since he’d seen her, riding away with Oathkeeper shining on her hip? He reached for the jug of wine, but recalled Brienne’s preference for a clear head and picked up the jug of water instead. He felt inexplicably nervous at the prospect of seeing her again, and yet annoyed at how much his hand shook as he poured water into a cup for each of them. The opening of the tent rustled and he had to prevent himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited squire. She stood just inside the entrance, one hand resting on the hilt of Oathkeeper. Her armor bore signs of combat, but she seemed whole, her stride confident. Gods. It hurt to breathe, but Jaime cleared his throat. ‘Lady Brienne.’ He inclined his head.

‘Ser Jaime.’ The voice hadn’t changed. She took no further steps into the tent.

‘Are you hungry? I can have food brought for you and Podrick…’ Jaime hurried to the tent entrance, prepared to call for a squire.

‘Thank you, but it’s not necessary.’

‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ Jaime turned to the table and picked up one of the cups and held it out to her. ‘It’s only water.’ Brienne shook her head, and Jaime set it down. ‘Would you care to sit?’

‘I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.’

They stood staring at one another, each taking in changes two years had wrought upon their faces. The North winds had roughened her cheeks, Jaime noted, and left her somewhat thinner than when she’d ridden out of King’s Landing. A deeper hue of cynicism darkened her eyes. Brienne studied Jaime openly, heart thudding in her chest. Her eyes traced the lines that bracketed his mouth. They were a little deeper, his mouth less willing to smile than it had before. More grey in his hair and the stubble sprouting over his jaw. Melancholy shadowed his eyes, lurking where the mischievous twinkle had once glimmered.

Brienne opened her mouth, then closed it and swallowed hard. They used to be able to speak freely with one another. Especially when they were far from King’s Landing and they could pretend he wasn’t the Kingslayer and she wasn’t Brienne the Beauty. They were just Jaime and Brienne. So much time had passed, so many changes had been wrought, that perhaps they’d lost the thread of their friendship.

Brienne looked down at her hands. ‘We heard about your --’ She clamped her lips shut, cheeks flaming. ‘Princess Myrcella.’ She looked up and into his eyes. The darkness threatened to overtake him. She couldn’t imagine how it must feel to lose a child. Even one from which he had to keep his distance. Her hand moved forward slightly of its own accord. Brienne badly wanted to grasp his in her own, but settled for ducking her head a little. ‘I can only offer my sincere condolences.’ Jaime blinked rapidly, and gulped the water in his cup. He managed to collect himself while Brienne tactfully found something of great importance on the toes of her boots. She laced her fingers together behind her back. ‘Have you added to your entry in the White Book?’ she blurted, desperate for something to break the palpable tension between them.

Jaime grabbed the wine, then. He sloshed a little into his empty cup and belted it down. ‘Tommen -- pardon me -- His Grace -- relieved me of my position in the Kingsguard.’

‘And now you’re here to lead the siege against Riverrun.’ Her lips curled with distaste. ‘With the Freys.’

‘Not my choice of ally,’ Jaime remarked, with a hint of his old brashness. ‘But I’d rather be here than in King’s Landing.’ He let his hand rest on the back of a chair. ‘So you found the Stark girls.’

#jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #braime #jaime x brienne #riverrun #podrick payne #bronn #siege at riverrun #s06e08 #no one #game of thrones (tv)#game of thrones fanfiction #work in progress

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aboldclaim · 4 years

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i am tired, i am yours. (chapter 3/6) (2002 words) (mature) (soft prompt from @lilbitalexis: sleeping in)

new year's eve.

When David stifles a yawn against his hipbone, Patrick decides to call it a year.

It’s some time before midnight, somewhere in Elmdale, and conversation has run away with the champagne. He’s trying his best to focus, wants to gather every sentence in his head and knot it around their night, neatly packaged New Year’s sentimentality that David would tease him mercilessly about if he wasn’t in it with him - happy and half-awake and talking nonsense, his body bracketed by Patrick’s legs, his chin propped on Patrick’s stomach.

There’s no thread to the loose, warm chatter that comes after coming, that David muffles against his skin, substituting punctuation with a lazy ellipses of kisses. Sex and alcohol and their thirties have made them tired, and every now and then he’ll feel delirium crawl up his throat, or bubble on David’s lips. Every now and then the bright colours of the muted television bounce across David’s hair, play with the dark strands, which still sit high and a little curly and perfect atop his head. Patrick wants to reach forward, be the gravitational chaos to his almighty fringe, wants to smooth him over, wants to mess him up. He wants to tell him he looks beautiful, see his mouth twist to catch the compliment. He wants to go to sleep.

The hotel bed is a sort of thousand thread count chrysalis, foreign sheets tangling around his limbs and sticking to the sweat on his back, his thighs, his neck. It feels odd to watch snow beat against the window, the air inside still and thick, blanketed in the smell of pizza. They’d sprung for room service, dipped into espresso machine savings for top shelf champagne and a mid-level suite. They’d piled the king size bed high with the entire contents of the mini bar, watched half a made-for-television movie before their hands found each other’s bodies under blankets and sweaters and chocolate bar wrappers.

They’ve done this before in hotel suites, and motel rooms, in David’s bed, in his. They’ve snatched minutes in the car, behind the curtain at the store, in the back of a movie theatre, the bathroom of a restaurant, against the front door of Ray’s house. He’s gone to bed with David, and woken up with him too, held his hand, made him come; but it’s never felt like this. It’s never felt like champagne and pizza and David’s hands at his belt, and the headboard, and the sheets, and scrambling for purchase at his shoulder blades as he arched against him. It’s nothing like just before midnight, just before the end of the year, in a bed that isn’t his, David between his thighs. The moment pins him to the bed, white knuckled grip on the sheets, winding his way through sentences he won’t remember in the morning.

But he’ll remember watching David’s hair startle out of place as he bends his head to smother a yawn in the hollow of Patrick’s hip. He’ll remember how it felt, messy and surprising and sweet, his hands tightening at Patrick’s waist, cool rings against warm skin, intimacy piled on top of intimacy.

“Oh,” David says, peers around the room, then up at Patrick, like somehow the noise had escaped from somewhere else, like it hadn’t been stuttered against Patrick’s skin, like maybe Patrick won’t tease him about it.

He looks ten years younger, dark curls absconding from his fringe to bounce against his forehead, and Patrick feels a flash of envy towards a version of them that never existed, a younger version - stumbling through their early twenties and blistering through midnights with energy and invincibility and unfounded confidence, together. He wishes he knew him, then, and he’s glad they know each other now, settled by a decade and barely able to stay awake.

Patrick manages to keep it together until David’s eyes are welling with the effort to suppress another yawn, and he bends his head to muffle it against Patrick’s stomach, shaking with laughter.

"Am I boring you down there?"

“Deeply,” he feels David say, mouth stretched wide with tiredness now scooping low in a grin, mischievous and fond. He nips at the incline of Patrick’s hip before peppering it with kisses, sparking witticisms against his skin like flint against steel. “Remind me to date someone more interesting in the new year.”

“But will they have my good looks?”

“Oh, without a doubt.”

“Well, we had a good run.”

“No arguments here?”

“I’m quite tired,” he shrugs, reaching for nonchalance and wobbling around euphoria. The free fall is inevitable when happiness is piled this high, when he tries to balance atop a precarious tetris of the last few weeks - mistletoe at the store and carols at the motel and champagne before midnight, and feeling glad he didn’t go home for the holidays, and feeling guilty for being glad. It’s painful, a painful, unstoppable sort of joy, and not for the first time he feels himself crash into the immovable weight of three decades without it. It’s the paradox that causes him to fumble, too happy to feel sad; too sad about not being happy before, and he doesn’t know how to steady himself, doesn’t know how to explain.

“We can sleep in tomorrow,” he says instead, foregoing teasing for tenderness, reaching forward to tidy David’s hair back so it doesn’t tickle at his stomach. “I got us late check out.”

“Oh,” he halts his progress when David peers up at him through his eyelashes, above a smile that has grown shy, a familiar imitation of a deer caught in the headlights of Patrick’s sincerity.

“What?”

“No, nothing,” David pillows his head against Patrick’s stomach for a moment before he rethinks, lifts himself up, starts to shuffle off the edge of the bed. Patrick feels weight lift from the mattress, feels a weight settle on his chest, and it’s a struggle to sit up and watch him move across the room, it’s a struggle to speak.

“You okay?”

“Of course,” David says, a little strangled, a little awkward, gesturing wildly across the suite. “Bathroom.”

His shoulders stay pulled towards his ears, like someone has knotted strings to him and is yanking them tight. Patrick wants to cut him loose and ask him back to bed, ask him what he said wrong, what happened between sentences that spooked him halfway across the room.

He’s paused in front of the television, is briefly sillouhetted by foreign cities ready to light themselves up for the new year, and it throws shadows across his frame, knocks the remaining breath from Patrick’s lungs. David is usually a collection of sweaters and snark, a carefully constructed barrier of couture designed to soften the blows life seems to have dealt him. But he’s here now, over there now, all broad shoulders and wild hair and naked skin. He can make out the taut muscles of his thigh, and the folds in his stomach as he bends to switch off the screen. If he squinted he could see the scar he knows is at the twist of David’s torso, from an as yet unexplained trip over the side of a yacht, or the lines at the corners of his eyes that laughter and anxiety have carved, that will crawl towards his hairline with age.

Patrick feels like he’s being let in on some great secret, feels the weight of effort it must take for David to lay himself bare when he’s only ever been told he shouldn’t. If half the stories are true, he thinks every time he’s been lulled into cracking his armour open for someone, they’ve not hesitated to plunge the knife in. But he lets Patrick see. He lets Patrick see and see and see him, even now, even after intimacy piled on top of intimacy and knocked him from the bed, and Patrick wants to tell him how lucky he feels, wants to tell him he feels lucky right down to his toes.

new year's day

He can’t feel his arm.

He didn’t make it to midnight, didn’t hear David come back to bed, but he’s asleep around him now. He can’t feel his arm, trapped underneath David’s sleep heavy head, but he can feel everything else - bare skin, fine stubble, David’s slow breath on his shoulder, David’s hand tangled in the sheets at his hip. His legs are tangled in the sheets, too, and he wants to unknot himself from them so he can knot himself around David. He wants to go back to sleep. He wants to get out of this bed.

He makes a vain attempt to wrestle free, but stills as David starts, grumbles, untangles himself and lifts his head from Patrick’s shoulder to scratch at his chin. Sweat has made mischief with his hair and sleep has carved creases in his cheek and he looks like he looks every morning - unravelled, hazy around all of edges.

Like every morning, Patrick tries to inventory the endless catalogue of expressions he can manage all at once and barely conscious, head bouncing against the pillow as Patrick rescues his arm. The clock on his bedside table lights David up with the harsh, red, digital glare of four-fifteen in the morning and he's blinking himself awake, watching Patrick shake life back into his hand through bleary eyes, nose wrinkling and mouth working towards a grimace, like he can’t quite bring himself to be annoyed.

“My arm was asleep,” Patrick offers.

“Could the rest of you follow suit?”

There’s a long silence, and he thinks David must have drifted off. Patrick’s trying to do the same, trying to match David’s low, soft breathing, when he feels him grip his bicep. The nerves still sting, pricked with pins and needles, but David holds him tight, pulls himself closer, so he’s flush against Patrick’s side, so he can muffle sleep-slurred words at the curve of Patrick’s shoulder.

“Huh?”

“I didn’t leave,” he repeats, craning his neck when Patrick turns towards him, voice pitched low like he’s teasing, but fried with exhaustion, shot through with sincerity.

“You didn’t leave.”

Patrick knows where this is going. They’re well practiced in the tightrope lines of their back-and-forth, but he tries to balance with him for a moment, wobble around seriousness for as long as they can. He thinks David feels it too, humming as Patrick leans down to kiss him, sleep heavy eyes and an earnest brow when he pulls away. He wants to tell him he loves him for the first time again, here, now, start over and say it again, new in his mouth and big in his chest every time. He wants to kiss him. He wants to marry him. He wants to tease him, so he does.

“No better offers?”

“I’m quite tired.”

“I’ll do, then?”

David’s mouth twists to one side, like he’s trying to screw a lid over a smile that’s fit to burst, but he just grows brighter when Patrick rolls his eyes, tugs him closer. By the time their bedwarm bodies are against each other a grin has blossomed so steadfastly across David’s face that kissing is all tongues and teeth and tiredness, a ridiculous attempt at making out. He feels a little light-headed when David pulls away to catch his breath, steadying himself with a hand on Patrick’s chest, huffing out the remnants of laughter. His fingers map through the light patch of hair below his collarbone, and his gaze follows the blush that has bloomed upwards and across Patrick’s face, from ear to ear, until their eyes catch.

He looks tired. David looks tired, and bright, certain and terrified, a mess of contradictions that Patrick has no time to unravel before he can feel them pressed against his skin. David’s hiding himself in the crook of Patrick’s neck, muffling words there, loosening his lips into a smile there, and Patrick doesn’t mind when he doesn’t move. It’s a safe place for secrets.

"You’ll do.”

#david x patrick #schitt's creek #schitts creek #my fic #soft fic prompt meme #lilbitalexis #i can't believe how many months it took me to write again holy hell #i am truly stuck with patrick brewer introspection for the rest of my life and i DON'T MIND

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kashimos-hajime · 5 years

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in my veins | 1996

summary: “i keep thinkin’ there should be a noise. robin’s up because she can’t sleep, and you’re watching lion king with her, or something. i don’t know.” after two years, you're going home.

WARNINGS: angst, swearing pairing: detective loki x reader word count: 2.6k

a/n: written as a pre-post 1996 one-shot. for those who don’t know, 1996 is my detective loki x reader mini-series and i recommend you read it before you read this for full context. vibes are in my veins by andrew belle. gif not mine

2005

You’re fucking exhausted.

There’s nothing more to it. It’s an endless cycle of coffee and restless sleep and a mattress that’s too hard, and you’re exhausted.

Maybe it’s ‘cause sleeping on a bed that still needs to be broken in is the one thing robbing you of your sleep, or maybe it’s the way you wear the the mattress uneven.

Maybe it’s the permanent ache in your heart.

It still feels raw, an open wound soaked in salt and citric acid every single day, and you wonder if moving out has helped it close or ripped it even wider. You’ve been wondering for two years now, among other things. Among your feelings that you still can’t sort out regarding the man who has shared more than he has taken.

The last of your coffee was drained hours ago, and now here you are, slumping in your seat as you read through your emails. Time is an unknown entity to you and your stomach growls as the last of your dinner no longer fills you up. It’s like you’re handcuffed to your desk, and your eyes drift to the time glaring back at you, barely fighting to stay open.

1:42 AM.

You need to be at work in seven hours to continue solving the Parker case, and yet here you are. Tilting back in your chair, you pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale, eyebrows furrowing as you try to grab what’s left of your motivation to get up and drive back to your lumpy ass mattress back at some small apartment you’ve been renting with the broken electrical socket and unexpected pet rat.

It’d be better than sleeping in this place, you tell yourself, and your hands run along the arm rests, pushing yourself up into a stand as you turn off your computer. Stretching your arms high above your head, you hear your shoulders pop and you arch your back, feeling the delicious sensation of waking up flooding your body. Blood runs warmly through you as you twist to grab your jacket, folding it over your arm.

Your eyes, still a bit squinty from staring at a bright screen in a dark room for so long, blink away the light as you shoulder your bag and reach to turn off the lamp.

On its own accord, your gaze drifts over the cubicle wall to the empty one beside you. You don’t mean to look, but it’s a habit, and your heart swells in your throat when you see it empty, a jacket still thrown messily over the back of the chair. The pale light from the computer screen casts sharp shadows over the empty seat, and you let out a sigh.

He’s still here.

Well, so are you.

Dropping your bag into your chair and letting your jacket fall atop of it, you rake hair out of your face and hold back a yawn, legs finding their own way to the room you last saw him in. A feeling wells up inside your stomach, and you try not to think of the two words you’ve said to him in the past 24 hours, and how once, the word count would’ve been close to twenty thousand. But you think of it anyway, because you’re exhausted, and your heart has been squeezed until not an ounce of blood is left to pump, and when you’re tired…

You have no fucks left to give when you’re tired and your mind can wander all you want.

“Loke,” you call softly, fingers curling around the doorframe as you peer into the dark room. An interrogation tape is playing back, and a figure is slumped over the desk, shoulders hunched over as blue light sieves through his hair, illuminates the apple of his cheek. His eyes are black in the shadow cast by his brow bone, and your lips press together in an almost-smile as you walk in as quietly as you can.

Your fingers outstretched, your quirk of your lip tugs deep into your cheek at the curl of hair that falls over his face, at the tiny twitches in his face as he dreams, and you run a hand down his shoulder. His nuclear heat burns into your palm, and you inhale sharply, eyes flickering from him to the interrogation tape he’d been watching.

Your own voice streams out of the speakers in the lowest volume setting, and your eyebrows sink, coming together as you try to decipher what he’s doing, watching this tape. He’s not even on the Parker case. His notepad is just clipped beneath his cheek and you snort at the way his lips seem to move along with the lines of the tape as you turn to look at his hand. Yep, pen trapped beneath his fingers.

Fingers trembling, you gently tug the notepad into your grasp and you pick it up, eyes narrowing in the dark as you make out what looks like… notes. On your case.

You look at the man slumped over the desk, and you let out a soft sigh, pressing your knuckles against his cheek. He’s burning, as usual, and you find the tingling heat that wraps around your bones much more comfortable than the rattling radiator back at your place. Dragging your hand to the remote, you pause the tape, the sound of your own voice making a shiver crawl down your spine and instead gently sit up the detective. No doubt his back will be aching, and if you’re right by the coffee cup by the remote, he’s been here much longer than you’ve been slouched over your own desk.

Crouching down until you’re eye level, you gently cup his face despite your heart hammering between your ears and your smile fades away when his jaw muscles twitch against your palm. He nestles against your palm, the lines in his face easing and you shuffle closer, reaching out with your other hand.

“Wake up,” you whisper, the words coming out breathy as your lungs constrict. Inhaling shakily, your thumb strokes at his cheek and you try not to think about how you haven’t been so close to him in so long and just being in his proximity is nearly addicting… and… “Wake up, Loki.” Your hand travels down to his shoulder, and you feel the curve of his muscle underneath your palm. “It’s like 2 AM, you needa go home.” You don’t shake him, because you know how to wake up a David who can barely sleep as it is, and instead settle on drawing him out of his sleep slowly. “Come on.”

Your whispered nothings slowly coax his eyes to flutter open, and you smile at the glaze in his porcelain blue eyes. He raises his head blearily, and you run your thumb over his cheeks. The chair twists beneath him, scoots forward, and suddenly, his legs bracket your body and you swallow, staring up at this man who only stares as if he’s shocked you’re this close to him. Your lips parted, you scramble for something to say as your hand on his shoulder curls into a fist, twisting his black pullover in your grip.

A gust of fruity gum pushes into your mouth as you try to pull yourself away. It’s too much, the smell, the heat, the feel of his breath against your cheek and the way he soaks you in. The way he looks at you now, with dark hooded eyes and lips just barely parted as his tongue darts out to wet them, it sends live sparks down into your stomach as your heart jolts. Blood roars in your ears as a shaky hand reaches to your cheek, thumb just tugging on the corner of your mouth.

Like you’re ethereal, not quite real, a ghost that’s come back to haunt him.

Yeah, you get the feeling.

The air smells like cold electricity and Bearglove deodorant, and you inhale sharply as his head dips, or is it you that reaches for him? The argument is chased from your mind at any rate by soft, searing lips pressing against yours, and the way the other hand cusps your jaw, a blast of heat against your frigid skin. Swallowing the taste of him, your eyes slip shut as his hand loses itself in your hair and you lose yourself in him. You want to drown in the second kiss he presses against your lips, and the third, and you just barely pull away because you cannot breathe and you don’t know if it’s because of how he still has the ability to take your breath away, or because your heart is racing too fast for you to keep up.

“Loki,” you whisper against his mouth, pleadingly soft and your breath shatters in your throat when he jerks back, chair rolling over the floor until it collides with the desk behind him. Standing, you blink at the cold numbness that spreads from your face to your throat and you back into the wall, the back of your hand wiping at your mouth.

“Shit.” His voice cracks, hoarse and you manage to look at him, an oily feeling coating your skin. Your fingers rest on your lips as you try to catch the breath he’d stolen, and you press yourself into the wall. What you wouldn’t give to melt into the plaster right now, away from his heavy gaze and how it seems to penetrate through your clothes, strip you bare. God.

Your eyes close and you tilt your head back.

You’re just so fucking exhausted.

“David.” His name terrible and needy and wanting, sounds young in your head and you beg through it, although you don’t know for what. You don’t know. But your body does.

The mere kiss has ignited the dying fire inside you, and although you don’t want to feed the flames, you know burning alive might be sweeter than freezing to death at this point. You’re hollow, a carcass carrying someone just barely breathing, and when the chair squeaks, you want to ask him something you don’t know how to put into words.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, saving you from the trouble, and you open your eyes, leaning against the wall. Angling yourself, you cross your arms over your chest and send him a bitter half-smile.

“What are you?” You nod to the interrogation tapes and in the dim light, you can see him swallow, the cord of his throat pulsing. “Taking notes on my interrogation?” Another time, maybe you’d have tacked on something with a coy smile, a “Seeing how a real cop gets the job done?” or a “Miss me?”

Another time that’s long gone.

“Helping with a breakthrough,” he shoots back, and you push off the wall with a nudge of your shoulder as he stands up. “You should be sleeping.”

“And you should be…” At home lingers on your lips, but that’s not what you should say. “... too.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t sleep much.” He turns off the tape, running a hand over his hair and you walk towards him as the simmering in your stomach grows to singe your lungs. “Why’re you here?” He braces himself against the desk and your fingers float above his shoulder.

“Why are you?” you ask, voice so very soft, and he turns his head wretchedly towards you. His hair has lost its crisp, slickback appearance, and you wonder if he’ll even bother to wash out the gel or if he’ll simply run it back again. You wonder if he’s eating enough and sleeping enough, and if he’s paid his electricity bill on time. You wonder even though it’s not your place and you wonder out of habit, because it’s better than knowing the startling truth engraved in the hollows of his cheeks and the darkness swallowing out his eyes.

“Empty flat. Too quiet,” he mutters, eyes drifting back to the black screens and you swallow. “Keep thinkin’ there should be a noise. Robin’s up because she can’t sleep, and you’re watching Lion King with her, or something. I don’t know.” His voice cracks and he hangs his head, a hard sigh escaping his lips.

Your hand lands on his shoulder, and he stiffens beneath your touch as you swallow down the knot in your throat. Your eyes sting but you ignore the feeling of being split open as you run your hand through his hair, fingers stroking the dried clumps back.

“How’s your flat?” he asks, and you sigh, dropping your hand. “Since you’re here, I’m assuming your rat is keeping you up.”

“He’s a great roommate. I feed him sometimes because he likes Chinese takeout,” you retort and he almost chuckles. He straightens up and you see the shadow of a smile on his face against the golden light from the hall. “But it’s… it’s the mattress. Feels lumpy.” You tilt your head up to stare at him, at his washed-up appearance, and you smile, just barely. “And it’s hard sleeping alone. You’d think we’d both be better at sleeping alone.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and you look down, stepping away. When had you gotten so close? “Yeah, but we should both head home. Separately.” On opposite sides of town where there are two phone bills and electricity bills and gas bills and bills we used to share, and you have the coffee maker but I have the toaster—

“Yeah, of course.” Yet still, neither of you dare to move. Your lips still burn from the strength of his kiss, and you want to kiss him again. Your body wants to feel him again. Your eyes drift up to where he stares at you with those empty blues. They stare through you, and you press your palms against his cheeks, the corner of your lips digging into your cheeks in a sad, sorrowful smile. The man you loved — love, maybe — is hollow. You wonder if you look just as broken. “David.”

“I fucking hate this,” he whispers hoarsely and you try to repress how bitter your smile grows. “I fucking hate sleeping there. I can’t, I can’t fucking sleep.” He crumbles within your hands and his long fingers wrap around your wrists as he leans forward for your touch. Forehead pressing against his, you want to melt into his body. His hands trail down your arms, feeling you through your clothes and you slide your arms around his neck as fingers dig into your hips. An unpleasant ache balls up in your chest and your eyes flutter shut as he sucks in a breath. It’s as if he steals from your lungs, takes what’s his and you want to tell him that you’re more than open to try, if only to stitch up the wound splitting you open.

You still bleed.

“I couldn’t get a break on the Parker case,” you whisper against his cheek and you hold him against you, just to feel the heat of his body, unwilling to let him go. “I’m open to going over some things back at your place… if you want?” His eyes open, just a sliver of cold blue and your own eyes flutter shut as he squeezes your hips, then pulls away.

“Fine.” He clears his throat and you wipe at your face, trying to chase off the heat that kisses your skin. He grabs his notepad and you stand there, unsure of what to do now that you’re going home for the first time in two years.

Home.

“I’ll go wait in the lot,” you say for lack of nothing else and he shoots you one quick look before he gives a jerking nod. You excuse yourself, and gather your belongings, saying your farewells to the night shift before you walk out into the bracing air and suck in a huge breath as if you haven’t breathed in ages.

Your lips burn as wind sweeps against your face and you let your eyes close again.

You’re just so fucking exhausted.

tags: @space-helen @dulharpa @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki @bohemianrhapsody86 @bubblemyg @sataninsatin @detectivelokiisabae @deviantly-gayy @if-i-were-your-raven

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aerodaltonimperial · 5 years

Text

20 First Lines

Rules: List the first line(s) of your last twenty stories. See if you find any patterns. Tag ten authors to pass it along.

(I wasn’t tagged but I wanted to do this anyway, lol)

ZERO is the type of hell that slinks through the shadows of the mind, dredging up all the darkest memories until the victim is choking on guilt and regret, unable to focus on anything but the nostalgic ghosts intertwining with reality. (unfinished, GWing)

Hell, even for an angel, is a jarring experience. (SPN)

When Alec is fifteen, they sneak out of the Institute to visit a fortune teller's shop just south of Greenwich Village. (Shadowhunters)

The tether of the parabatai rune was cool—a surprise given how much the sigil had burned when it had been seared into his flesh. (Shadowhunters)

He was sneaking through bushes when they found him, dragged him out, and forced him into uncomfortable handcuffs. (FFX-2)

For a long time, time means nothing. (FFX)

The fate of the world was pointed towards doom. (CT)

She is the only daughter of a king, born to the crown. (CT)

There are no stars within the museum. (unfinished, NATM)

His skin – now slimy, stretched taut and clammy – can also blister. (CT)

Sometimes, at night, they scream. (FF8)

He found Troy sitting back behind the curtains on one of the overturned speakers. (HSM)

It isn't until Trowa stumbles out of the cockpit, head in his hands and a falter to his step, that Quatre remembers to breathe again. (GWing)

"Mom, seriously," Jin said, as he was balanced precariously on the roof with one foot in the gutter and a handful of tangled icicle lights dragging along behind him, "this is why you have a husband. To do shit like putting lights up on your roof." (JPOP)

It's nearly 3 pm when Kame's phone rings, and he's halfway out the door to make it to a coffee meeting with the new Assistant Manager for the West Michigan Whitecaps. (JPOP)

Enlisting for the Crimson Squad came with a stipulation: participation in a one-on-one tournament of physical combat through a series of brackets before one's name was even signed onto the paper. (unfinished, FFX-2)

She probably should have known, given her track record (dragons and blood magic and losing Carver to the Dark Roads), that things were not going to go as planned; that something was going to throw a proverbial wrench into even her best laid plans, no matter the quips she tried to throw up to block its path. (DA2)

After she stopped hugging him, which took about ten minutes and Jin was sort of afraid that she was going to cry all over his new shirt, his mom led him upstairs to his old bedroom at the top of the landing. (JPOP)

She doesn’t knock on her way in the clinic - if he’s as good as he pretends to be, he should have known she was coming several blocks down the street. (TWolf)

The first thing he recognizes is the blinding pain. (GWing)

Well, I noticed that I like short bullet sentences to start - OR, long meandering ones (usually for the funnier, light-hearted fics). Anyone else want to do this? (Wow, I have a lot of fandoms here...)

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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BOOK OF JOB - From The Douay-Rheims Bible - Latin Vulgate

Chapter 3

The Book of Job shows how human affairs are ruled by Divine Providence using probable arguments.

"Although you hide these things in your heart, I know that you still remember everything." - (Job speaking to God)

***

INTRODUCTION.

This Book takes its name from the holy man, of whom it treats; who, according to the more probable opinion, was of the race of Esau, and the same as Jobab, king of Edom, mentioned Gen. xxxvi. 33. It is uncertain who was the writer of it. Some attribute it to Job himself; others to Moses, or some one of the prophets. In the Hebrew it is written in verse, from the beginning of the third chapter to the forty-second chapter. Ch. --- The beginning and conclusion are historical, and in prose. Some have divided this work into a kind of tragedy, the first act extending to C. xv., the second to C. xxii., the third to C. xxxviii., where God appears, and the plot is unfolded. They suppose that the sentiments of the speakers are expressed, though not their own words. This may be very probable: but the opinion of those who look upon the work as a mere allegory, must be rejected with horror. The sacred writers speak of Job as of a personage who had really existed, (C.) and set the most noble pattern of virtue, and particularly of patience. Tob. ii. 12. Ezec. xiv. 14. Jam. v. 11. Philo and Josephus pass over this history, as they do those of Tobias, Judith, &c. H. --- The time when Job lived is not clearly ascertained. Some have supposed (C.) that he was a contemporary with Esther; (D. Thalmud) on which supposition, the work is here placed in its chronological order. But Job more probably live during the period when the Hebrews groaned under the Egyptian bondage, (H.) or sojourned in the wilderness. Num. xiv. 9. The Syrians place the book at the head of the Scriptures. C. --- Its situation has often varied, and is of no great importance. The subject which is here treated, is of far more; as it is intended to shew that the wicked sometimes prosper, while the good are afflicted. H. --- This had seldom been witnessed before the days of Abraham: but as God had now selected his family to be witnesses and guardians of religion, a new order of things was beginning to appear. This greatly perplexed Job himself; who, therefore, confesses that he had not sufficiently understood the ways of God, till he had deigned to explain them in the parable of the two great beasts. C. xlii. 3. We cannot condemn the sentiments expressed by Job, since God has declared that they were right, (ib. v. 8) and reprimands Elihu, (C. xxxviii. 2.) and the other three friends of Job, for maintaining a false opinion, though, from the history of past times, they had judge it to be true. This remark may excupate them from the stain of wilful lying, and vain declamation. Houbigant. --- However, as they assert what was false, their words of themselves are of no authority; and they are even considered as the forerunners of heretics. S. Greg. S. Aug. &c. T. --- Job refutes them by sound logic. S. Jerom. --- We may discover in this book the sum of Christian morality, (W.) for which purpose it has been chiefly explained by S. Gregory. The style is very poetical, (H.) though at the same time simple, like that of Moses. D. --- It is interspersed with many Arabic and Chaldaic idioms; (S. Jer.) whence some have concluded, that it was written originally by Job and his friends (H.) in Arabic, and translated into Heb. by Moses, for the consolation of his brethren. W. --- The Heb. text is in many places incorrect; (Houbig.) and the Sept. seem to have omitted several verses. Orig. --- S. Jerom says almost eight hundred, (C.) each consisting of about six words. H. --- Shultens, in 1747, expressed his dissatisfaction with the labours of all preceding commentators. To explain this book may not therefore be an easy task: but we must be as short as possible. H. --- Those who desire farther information, may consult Pineda, (W.) whose voluminous work, in two folios, will nearly (H.) give all necessary information. C.

The additional Notes in this Edition of the New Testament will be marked with the letter A. Such as are taken from various Interpreters and Commentators, will be marked as in the Old Testament. B. Bristow, C. Calmet, Ch. Challoner, D. Du Hamel, E. Estius, J. Jansenius, M. Menochius, Po. Polus, P. Pastorini, T. Tirinus, V. Bible de Vence, W. Worthington, Wi. Witham. — The names of other authors, who may be occasionally consulted, will be given at full length.

Verses are in English and Latin.

HAYDOCK CATHOLIC BIBLE COMMENTARY

This Catholic commentary on the Old Testament, following the Douay-Rheims Bible text, was originally compiled by Catholic priest and biblical scholar Rev. George Leo Haydock (1774-1849). This transcription is based on Haydock's notes as they appear in the 1859 edition of Haydock's Catholic Family Bible and Commentary printed by Edward Dunigan and Brother, New York, New York.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Changes made to the original text for this transcription include the following:

Greek letters. The original text sometimes includes Greek expressions spelled out in Greek letters. In this transcription, those expressions have been transliterated from Greek letters to English letters, put in italics, and underlined. The following substitution scheme has been used: A for Alpha; B for Beta; G for Gamma; D for Delta; E for Epsilon; Z for Zeta; E for Eta; Th for Theta; I for Iota; K for Kappa; L for Lamda; M for Mu; N for Nu; X for Xi; O for Omicron; P for Pi; R for Rho; S for Sigma; T for Tau; U for Upsilon; Ph for Phi; Ch for Chi; Ps for Psi; O for Omega. For example, where the name, Jesus, is spelled out in the original text in Greek letters, Iota-eta-sigma-omicron-upsilon-sigma, it is transliterated in this transcription as, Iesous. Greek diacritical marks have not been represented in this transcription.

Footnotes. The original text indicates footnotes with special characters, including the astrisk (*) and printers' marks, such as the dagger mark, the double dagger mark, the section mark, the parallels mark, and the paragraph mark. In this transcription all these special characters have been replaced by numbers in square brackets, such as [1], [2], [3], etc.

Accent marks. The original text contains some English letters represented with accent marks. In this transcription, those letters have been rendered in this transcription without their accent marks.

Other special characters.

Solid horizontal lines of various lengths that appear in the original text have been represented as a series of consecutive hyphens of approximately the same length, such as ---.

Ligatures, single characters containing two letters united, in the original text in some Latin expressions have been represented in this transcription as separate letters. The ligature formed by uniting A and E is represented as Ae, that of a and e as ae, that of O and E as Oe, and that of o and e as oe.

Monetary sums in the original text represented with a preceding British pound sterling symbol (a stylized L, transected by a short horizontal line) are represented in this transcription with a following pound symbol, l.

The half symbol (1/2) and three-quarters symbol (3/4) in the original text have been represented in this transcription with their decimal equivalent, (.5) and (.75) respectively.

Unreadable text. Places where the transcriber's copy of the original text is unreadable have been indicated in this transcription by an empty set of square brackets, [].

Chapter 3

Job expresses his sense of the miseries of man's life, by cursing the day of his birth.

[1] After this Job opened his mouth, and cursed his day,

Post haec aperuit Job os suum, et maledixit diei suo,

[2] And he said:

et locutus est :

[3] Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said: A man child is conceived.

Pereat dies in qua natus sum, et nox in qua dictum est : Conceptus est homo!

[4] Let that day be turned into darkness, let not God regard it from above, and let not the light shine upon it.

Dies ille vertatur in tenebras; non requirat eum Deus desuper, et non illustretur lumine.

[5] Let darkness, and the shadow of death cover it, let a mist overspread it, and let it be wrapped up in bitterness.

Obscurent eum tenebrae et umbra mortis; occupet eum caligo, et involvatur amaritudine.

[6] Let a darksome whirlwind seize upon that night, let it not be counted in the days of the year, nor numbered in the months.

Noctem illam tenebrosus turbo possideat; non computetur in diebus anni, nec numeretur in mensibus.

[7] Let that night be solitary, and not worthy of praise.

Sit nox illa solitaria, nec laude digna.

[8] Let them curse it who curse the day. who are ready to raise up a leviathan:

Maledicant ei qui maledicunt diei, qui parati sunt suscitare Leviathan.

[9] Let the stars be darkened with the mist thereof: let it expect light and not see it, nor the rising of the dawning of the day:

Obtenebrentur stellae caligine ejus; expectet lucem, et non videat, nec ortum surgentis aurorae.

[10] Because it shut not up the doors of the womb that bore me, nor took away evils from my eyes.

Quia non conclusit ostia ventris qui portavit me, nec abstulit mala ab oculis meis.

[11] Why did I not die in the womb, why did I not perish when I came out of the belly?

Quare non in vulva mortuus sum? egressus ex utero non statim perii?

[12] Why received upon the knees? why suckled at the breasts?

Quare exceptus genibus? cur lactatus uberibus?

[13] For now I should have been asleep and still, and should have rest in my sleep.

Nunc enim dormiens silerem, et somno meo requiescerem

[14] With kings and consuls of the earth, who build themselves solitudes:

cum regibus et consulibus terrae, qui aedificant sibi solitudines;

[15] Or with princes, that possess gold, and All their houses with silver:

aut cum principibus qui possident aurum, et replent domos suas argento;

[16] Or as a hidden untimely birth I should not be, or as they that being conceived have not seen the light.

aut sicut abortivum absconditum non subsisterem, vel qui concepti non viderunt lucem.

[17] There the wicked cease from tumult, and there the wearied in strength are at rest.

Ibi impii cessaverunt a tumultu, et ibi requieverunt fessi robore.

[18] And they sometime bound together without disquiet, have not heard the voice of the oppressor.

Et quondam vincti pariter sine molestia, non audierunt vocem exactoris.

[19] The small and great are there, and the servant is free from his master.

Parvus et magnus ibi sunt, et servus liber a domino suo.

[20] Why is light given to him that is in misery, and life to them that are in bitterness of soul?

Quare misero data est lux, et vita his qui in amaritudine animae sunt?

[21] That look for death, and it cometh not, as they that dig for a treasure:

Qui expectant mortem, et non venit, quasi effodientes thesaurum;

[22] And they rejoice exceedingly when they have found the grave.

gaudentque vehementer cum invenerint sepulchrum?

[23] To a man whose way is hidden, and God hath surrounded him with darkness?

Viro cujus abscondita est via et circumdedit eum Deus tenebris?

[24] Before I eat I sigh: and as overflowing waters, so is my roaring:

Antequam comedam, suspiro; et tamquam inundantes aquae, sic rugitus meus;

[25] For the fear which I feared hath come upon me: and that which I was afraid of, hath befallen me.

quia timor quem timebam evenit mihi, et quod verebar accidit.

[26] Have I not dissembled? have I not kept silence? have I not been quiet? and indignation is come upon me.

Nonne dissimulavi? nonne silui? nonne quievi? Et venit super me indignatio.

Commentary:

Ver. 1. Cursed his day. Job cursed the day of his birth, not by way of wishing evil to any thing of God's creation; but only to express in a stronger manner his sense of human miseries in general, and of his own calamities in particular. Ch. --- He has these only in view: though, in another light, it is better for a man to be born, and to undergo any misery, that he may obtain eternal rewards. H. --- Some allowances must be made for extreme pain, and for the style of the Eastern (C.) poetry. H. --- Jeremias, (xx. 14.) Habacuc, (i. 2.) the psalmist, and even our Saviour in his agony, made use of such strong expressions. Mat. xxvi. 39. and xxvii. 46. Some heretics accuse Job of impatience and blasphemy. The devil, therefore came off with victory; and the praises given to Job's patience are false. He might offend by some degree of exaggeration. C. --- But even that is by no means clear. Time past could not be recalled, nor receive any injury by the maledictions. H.

Ver. 7. Praise, by the appearance of the stars. C. xxxviii. 7. C.

Ver. 8. Day. The nations of Ethiopia, under the line, curse the sun as their greatest enemy. Strabo xvii. Pliny v. 8. --- They also brave the fury of the leviathan or crocodile. C. xl. 27. and xli. 1. Ps. lxxiii. 14. The natives of Tentyra, upon the Nile, were supposed to be a terror to that monster, or they were very courageous in entangling and pursuing it. Seneca q. 4. 2. Pliny viii. 25. --- Leviathan. Prot. "their mourning." De Dieu rejects this interpretation, substituting "and thou, leviathan, rouse up," &c. The fathers generally understand the devil to be thus designated. Sept. "he who is about to seize the great whale," (H.) or fish, which they also explain of the conflict of Satan with Jesus Christ." Origen, &c.

Ver. 10. Nor took. Sept. "for it would then have freed my eyes from labour."

Ver. 11. In the. Heb. "from the womb," (H.) or as soon as I was born. C. --- He seems to have lost sight of original sin, (v. 1.) or there might be some method of having it remitted to children unborn, which we do not know. H.

Ver. 12. Knees, by my father or grandfather. Gen. xxx 3. Iliad ix. C.

Ver. 13. Sleep. So death is often styled.

Olli dura quies oculos et ferreus urget

Somnus: in æternam clauduntur lumina noctem. Æneid x.

Ver. 14. Consuls. Heb. "counsellors," or any in great authority. Sept. "kings, the counsellors of the land, who rejoiced, boasting of their swords." The same word, choraboth, (H.) means both swords and solitudes. D. --- Those great ones had prepared their own tombs, which were usually in solitary places; (C.) or they had filled all with their extensive palaces; and removed the people to a distance. H.

Ver. 15. Houses, while alive; (C.) or their tombs were thus enriched with silver, (M.) as this practice was not uncommon, v. 22. Joseph. xiii. 15. --- Marcian forbade it. S. Chrys. complains it subsisted in his time. Orat. Annæ. C.

Ver. 16. Light; dying in the womb. He expresses a desire that he had been thus prevented from feeling his present miseries and danger of sin. H.

Ver. 17. Tumult. In the grave they can no longer disturb the world. M. --- In strength. Sept. "in body." Both heroes and labourers then find rest, (C.) if they have lived virtuously. H.

Ver. 18. Bound in chains, like incorrigible slaves, (C.) or debtors. Cocceius. --- These were formerly treated with great severity. Luke xii. 59. C.

Ver. 21. Not. The feel the same eagerness for death as those who seek for a treasure; (C.) and when death is at hand, they rejoice no less than those who discover a grave, in which they hope to find some riches, v. 15. 22.

Ver. 22. Grave, full of stores, or the place where they may repose. H.

Ver. 23. To. Why is life given to? &c. The uncertainty whether a man be worthy of love or hatred, (EcclI. ix. 1.) and whether he will persevere to the end, is what fills Job with distress; though we must trust that God will suffer none to be tempted above their strength. 1 Cor. x. 13. --- He finds himself surrounded with precipices, and in the dark. C. --- So God often tries this faithful servants. D.

Ver. 24. Sigh, through difficulty of swallowing, (Pineda) or sense of misery. H.

Ver. 25. Fear. In prosperity he feared the assaults of pride. Now he is in danger of yielding to impatience and despair. C.

Ver. 26. Dissembled my sufferings, making no complaint, not only during the seven days that his friends had been with him, but long before. Heb. and Sept. "I was not in safety, nor at rest; neither was I indolent: (H. in the administration of affairs. C.) yet trouble came." H. --- I have enjoyed no peace, since the wrath of the Lord has found me. C. --- In such a situation, Job might well beg to be delivered, (H.) and to pray that those things which obstructed his repose in God might be removed; considering them not so much as the works of God, as the effects of sin. Pineda. W. - In this light he cursed his birth-day, and will no longer look upon it as a joyful and happy day. D.

#book of job

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vntonin · 7 years

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🍹 just fuck me up

“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.” ― Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Book abandoned at his side, cast to sit half-open upon the bench on which he sat, Antonin watched the black wolf as he stalked along the length of his temporary kingdom; were he not so soon to be dethroned, he might have been magnificent. But kings slipping silently from their thrones were not magnificent - they were tragic. Pathetic, embarrassments - the ghost of what might have been pity tap-tapped upon his ribs as he watched, its snide cousin turning up the corners of his lips. The rest of the room seemed to find no absentminded pleasure in the display; perhaps the lackadaisical squabble Hogwarts called Dueling Club was a commonplace sight, not something worth watching with hawk’s eyes and predatory teeth raring to tear the flesh of pretender-kings. Such a display at home would have been regarded with intense fervor - but perhaps this was what put him here in the first place, sitting in the wings, watching the great king stalk his skittish prey.

“A fifth year, Black?” the words escaped him against his own volition; the bastard child of vitriol and cynicism turned his tongue acidic, mocking, “Is this what passes as a challenge?” Steel voice carried, though the air was still; wandering eyes, which once had little direction amidst the rabble that filled the hall, locked upon the two wolves, the two kings with gilded crowns who sat atop opposite thrones. Antonin remained reclined as his opponent’s eyes turned sideways, locked upon his virulent visage; though most would wither like dried petals beneath such a gaze, he felt his thorns grow sharper, his claws dig deeper. He feared very little - the pretender-king would find an impassible challenge in him.

But how he desired the challenge, how it boiled the blood at the base of his spine; though his time spent within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts had been brief, he’d found plenty reason to sink hungry teeth into the obvious dislike that bloomed from Cygnus Black’s every breath. He exuded challenge, breathed conflict - and Antonin was nothing if not a blade to be clashed. And did he not deserve to oust the pretender, the weaker wolf, from his parapet? Did he not deserve to indulge the need for worship, which could be so acutely satisfied by the great nothings who populated Cygnus Black’s kingdom?

Did they not see, as he lounged here, fingers drumming atop concealed wand, languid beneath the gaze of his challenger, that their true heir had arrived? Did they not see his teeth?

How big your teeth are, Russian wolf.

“Hardly,” Cygnus called, “Though I’ve no doubt you would not know the difference.”

All the better to eat you with, king of dogs.

The crowd, in biblical fashion, parted - the path between the rival wolves was unobstructed now, save a stray scrap of paper on which a series of bets had been scrawled. Even from afar, Antonin could see that dear Cygnus had resided at the top of every bracket - though the competition was underwhelming at best. It was something akin to pitting a lion against a lamb; the real test of true prowess would come should Cygnus find himself brave enough to match a true opponent.

“Would I not?” he stood, pressed and crisp, all hard lines and radiating heat, with a click of held breath from the crowd about; oh, how he desired to spill his secrets, to pull the scales from Cygnus’s eyes so he could see - but perhaps he already knew. A moment such as this, mere months before, had earned him the reputation that sat gilded upon his shoulders today; did Cygnus see the label beneath the jewels? Murderer - proud murderer. Skilled killer. They’d all thought it had been an accident; his mother had seen to the legitimacy of the ruse at the onset. But Cygnus was made of the same mettle as he - as much as he was loath to admit it - and surely would see the truth behind the mask.

An opponent worthy of Antonin’s mettle, of his reputation for swift and unadulterated horror, Cygnus looked upon him as he stood, descending the stands and leaving his book (The Art of War - appropriate enough) unattended; contact between equally sharp gazes remained unbroken as Antonin shrugged his jacket from over broad shoulders, letting it drape unaffectedly in the lap of a blonde Ravenclaw who watched with rapt attention. He was a horror show - the sort of thing one simply could not look away from. Did she know the terror for which he was known? Did she know that this was his arena to command?

Antonin spoke again as polished shoes found stone; slipped into his pocket with absent swiftness, he pulled his wand from his pocket, and stood stock still. “A convincing display, this schooling of a child,” he glanced to the fifth year, who’d gone lily-white and now stood half hidden behind Cygnus, as if he’d find protection there, “Though my skepticism remains. Why not match with an opponent your own size? Are there none available to spar with?” The condescension in Antonin’s every breath dripped venom; even the dimmest of them all could hear it, even in his simplest words. This was the sound of a glorious challenge - one that any of his comrades at Durmstrang would have taken in stride. Surely the lily-pale sensibilities of the Brits would pale in comparison.

Cygnus was at his wand again, gripping with thick fingers and knuckles that seemed to have never known a bruise. Antonin could not imagine him lifting a finger. His shoulders seemed to straighten, broaden, an animal threatened by an outlander at the mouth of its den. At the door to the hall, a small gaggle of students slipped between the doors, just ajar and letting in the obtrusive light of the corridor outside; it was dangerous to be here, to take arms in light of the ‘tragedy’ that befell Durmstrang just months before - anyone could see him here, anyone could behold him here.

But the only audience which warranted captivating was the one standing before him, with ready eyes and wand angled upward. The audience who, with harsh voice entirely befitting of the tension that hung between them, spoke with a pointed step forward. “You try my patience,” no matter the brimstone upon the tip of his tongue, Cygnus remained stoic - as if speaking as master to student; it prodded at the dark companion which always sat perched atop Antonin’s shoulder, whispering bloody nothings into his ear. It screamed to pounce, to tear at his black-collared throat, to spill his heart upon the stone as he’d done to the boy at Durmstrang.

A boy whose name he could not remember - Cygnus Black would be forgotten just as easily.

“Do I?” a snarl loosed from his tongue - the great Russian wolf’s stoicism was beginning to reach the end of its life. A great, bounding step forward, and he was within reaching distance of his opponent, who bristled at the close proximity. At his side, his knuckles were white; he could smell violence upon Cygnus’s breath, dark and permeating as a bleeding pomegranate - and so he took another step. He was not the sort to posture, not like to wave his skill in the face of every opponent, but there were few to deserved it. And though he’d known dear Cygnus Black for mere months, there were few more deserving than he. “Shall we test your patience further?” he muttered, for he was now close enough to feel almost intimate in his hate, “Shall I show you how it is meant to be done?”

A scoff, “Shall I make you my whipping boy?”

“Shall I make you my dog?”

Wands flew upward in tandem, Antonin’s arm extended, prepared to strike as a coiled viper. Cygnus seemed to stretch upward in size, a shadow through which only horrors passed - it was doubtless that they were matched, and perhaps this was what made him such a delicious conquer. He could see it now - conquered Black slinking home to lament the prowess of the Russian king; his rightful place after swift coup d’etat was upon the golden throne on which Cygnus sat, unworthy and undeserving. (But they were the same - they were matched - they were cruel kings carved from the same block of gleaming marble. It was no mistake, however, that one of the two was simply better.) Teeth bared, eyes aflame with the utmost vitriol, Antonin drew in a breath of brimstone and venom - but the slamming of heavy, and suddenly open, doors upon the stone walls stopped the both of them at the throat. Into the hall poured a small gaggle of professors, eyes upon Antonin as if he might burst to flame at any moment. Away, away! They called, shooing them apart as one shoos embers from a hearth. Back, back! The horror on their faces was evident - they knew of Antonin’s capabilities; it made him unquestionably smug to see that they’d all foreseen Cygnus demolished.

This knowledge made him smile - as his arm fell to his side, he cast Cygnus a pitying glance, a snide smirk entailing all he so wished the other boy knew. A sturdy hand gripped his arm, as another took Cygnus, pulling them apart - he could hardly hear the scolding tone of the professors, for his knowing visage burned with far too much satisfaction to care.

And so he blew dear Cygnus Black a kiss. A promise - a guarantee of business unfinished.

#[ cygnus. ]#[ ask meme: drink asks ]#[ headcanon. ]#[ drabble. ]#INHALES #F RICKNG ALIVE RIGHT NOW #cygnusblck

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