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hoe-imaginess · 3 years

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red | shigaraki tomura

Shigaraki x hero!soulmate!Reader

Based on two soulmate prompts:

You can only see color when you and your soulmate are touching.

You can’t use your quirk to harm your soulmate.

word count: 2.4k

a/n: is two soulmate prompts cheating? idk. anyways, this is just some random angst I thought of a while ago, and just recently found in my drafts. probably some typos. pretend not to see it (:

⤰⤰⤰

If there was one thing worse than recruiting weaklings, it was recruiting slackers.

Active enlistment in the criminal world had the unfortunate ramification of attracting the lowest of the lows. The last two miscreants Giran drafted for the League had used the weaponry rationed to them for petty crimes. This included the robbing of a video store. Not just any video store, but one directly down the street from the League’s hideout.

Of course, that was unacceptable.

Shigaraki had little patience for the new recruits to begin with, but it was rapidly extinguished with their hazardous act, along with any leniency he might have had for their punishment. These men had exploited the power Shigaraki gave to them, and worst of all, undermined the League’s legitimacy. The solution to this problem was clear.

Kurogiri offered to dispose of the traitors swiftly and soundlessly, but Shigaraki’s hunger for retribution against these trespassers required a personal effect. And so, Kurogiri transferred Shigaraki to the location. The men were hobbling around in the same alley they’d been found in when Shigaraki emerged from the black vapor’s of Kurogiri’s quirk.

Upon seeing him, the duo went into an indignant frenzy. They knew who he was, and without even needing to ask, without even needing to hear the promises of violence that Shigaraki muttered under his breath, they knew what he was here to do.

The confrontation lasted mere seconds. They were as meek as they were stupid, and neither men were fast enough to counter when Shigaraki grabbed for them. He dispatched the first man with voracious haste, but took his grueling time with the second.

As the man’s sleeve cracked like dried mud, pieces falling to give way to vulnerable flesh underneath, Shigaraki reveled the sight with a sickening smile.

The deteriorating man’s cries of anguish were dreadful: the cries of a man forced to confront his imminent death.

It was a sweet tune of victory to Shigaraki’s ears.

Then, something ruined it.

“Stop!”

At the sound of your voice, Shigaraki glanced over his shoulder, his feverish, red eyes glaring at you from behind Father’s mask.

A hero. A hero on patrol, Shigaraki guessed, seeing that you were fitted in your uniform.

“Put the man down,” you demanded of him, with that confident, entitled authority that heroes enjoyed, and Shigaraki detested.

But Shigaraki granted you the request, not much concerned with revenge, or the man, now that he was soon to be a pile of dirt. Indeed, the minute Shigaraki loosed his grip on the man’s arm, Decay took its freedom in stride and consumed him within seconds. The screams abruptly stopped.

Now it was just you and Shigaraki in the empty alleyway. What had remained of the forgotten men floated away in the light breeze.

Your throat was tight, acid edging its way up the back of your mouth. The scene before you was horrific. Where the distressed man had just been, now remained only dust. And the villain standing over the formless corpses was looking right at you.

Shigaraki didn’t recognize you, didn’t know what your quirk was. But it didn’t matter. He would have killed you anyways, but the fact that you’d just disrupted the recreation of his revenge was all the more reason to do so.

He took a step forward. Not to be daunted, you did the same.

“Stop right there,” you demanded again.

Just another disillusioned display of hero supremacy. Shigaraki had no patience for it.

“Stop,” you commanded, firmer now as his approach went undeterred.

The eery slowness in his gait betrayed the bloodlust he radiated; his fingers twitched with their vitalized hunger for violence, and after you’d seen the carnage those fingers extracted on human flesh, you weren’t about to let your guard down.

In an instant, he was lunging for you. His speed shocked you, and the second you spent activating your quirk for a counter-move was enough time for him to invade your space. Adrenalized fear shot through your limbs, and briefly, you wondered how your quirk might defend against his. But it didn’t matter. You were about to find out.

With surprising agility, he ducked out of the way of your defensive attack, then took hold of your forearm. His quirk descended upon your flesh. The pain registered, and your throat tightened around a cry of alarm—

But then, something in the air between you burst.

Like ripples fanning across a puddle, euphoria extended from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, filling every space inside of you as it invaded your senses.

Shigaraki suffered a similair disturbance. The explosion was almost nauseating. But even more shell-shocking was the world which greeted him once his eyes adjusted.

It first registered in his peripheral: something glaringly present, something striking against his vision—

Was that his hair?

No, it couldn’t be.

It didn’t look like his hair. Not the hair he normally saw shrouding his face.

But then he realized it was in fact his hair. His hair, but colored.

It stood out unimaginably stark against the drab schemes of the alley. But then, the alley too found life. Its color came to fruition: a wash of brown along the brick wall, dirtied, beige cement holding the structure together.

Then, from the periphery, the infectious color worked its way to the center of his retina. The kaleidoscope of color that was you hit him in full force. Your outfit, your hair, your face and eyes—your eyes which flicked desperately between his own, and the place where his hand made contact with your skin.

Reminded of his assault, Shigaraki looked to where his digits curled around your forearm, and took in the color of your skin. The color was intervened by another now, deeper and angrier, as fissures broke along your flesh under his Decay. Lines of destruction that had always looked grey in his monochromatic world, like topography on a map, were now imbued with life—with the real, true physical destruction.

But the new life in his vision was momentarily overshadowed by another discovery: you were still alive. Alive, and whole.

He looked again, closer, at the place where his lethal hands gripped your arm. The spread of his Decay was compromised by some unknown force, the destructive lines breaking your skin denied in their desire to consume you completely.

His quirk had been stopped. He couldn’t hurt you.

All of these discoveries happened within seconds, and for a moment, his mind lost its war with rationale. He came as near to speechless as he ever got. While his sense of the world, of its truths and realities, tried to reassert itself, he became ignorant to the dilemma before him, and lost himself in the pleasure of color.

Something suddenly caught his eye, and he glanced downward.

Were those his shoes beneath him?

Their vibrant color was the very same as that of the raw sinew that showed itself beneath your flesh, as it cracked away under his quirk—

Red.

That was the name of the color.

He’d heard it before: a way to describe spilt blood. It was blood he was seeing. Your blood.

And the reason he was seeing it, the reason he was granted the gift of this true sight, the reason this contact hadn’t yet ended in your demise—was because you were his soulmate.

Shigaraki pulled away, eyes wide. The color left the world, replaced with the grays he’d endured for a lifetime.

He wondered if breaking contact would elicit Decay to recover its power. His mind raced as he prepared to watch you crumble, to watch you scatter into flakes and blood and organ—

But no. Decay was still obstructed by something unseen. It had damaged you, but refused to do any more than that.

“That’s impossible,” he muttered, almost uncertain if he’d spoken it out loud or not; the fretful shock on your face, and your lack of response, giving no indication.

Apparently, you didn’t even notice the catastrophe his quirk had left on your skin. You merely stared at him, stunned into silence, consuming the same realizations he was.

Then, stirred into an involuntary need to confirm the revelations, to make certain it wasn’t some trick of the mind, you started to move toward him.

It couldn’t be, you told yourself. It couldn’t be him: this villain. It couldn’t be…

Shigaraki knew that you intended to reach out and touch him, your hand shaking as it angled upwards. But before you could make contact, he stepped back, extending his own hand not in an invitation of contact, but as a threat, his palm out and fingers ready to deliver Decay. Useless as it had proven itself to be against you, it was the only sense of control he had in the situation.

“Don’t,” he warned you, his voice weaker than he’d thought it to be.

There was a lump in his throat, centering his confusion and panic, both which spread over him in quick fashion. Mania returned to him like clockwork, a mania he often endured when facing accursed heroes. But he’d never felt it like this. Now there was anger, bewilderment, curiosity, and adrenaline all in one.

Unlike him, you worked through your confusion vocally, sputtering strings of rampant logic.

“But you’re—We—” You shook your head, and your arm moved again, inching up to him, seeking a touch that would give you answers. “We can’t be.”

Distress rushed through Shigaraki and he growled. “I said don’t.”

“It can’t be,” you kept on sputtering. “You’re a —It can’t be.”

A what? A villain? A monster? He dared you to go on.

But even as his frustrations rose at the implications, Shigaraki concurred. You were a hero. A plague on society. But wasn’t the truth inescapable? Hadn’t that flash of colorful vibrance that nearly stopped his heart been evidence enough? Evidence that you two were fated to each other?

“It can’t be.” You said your mantra again, so close to touching him now. Kill, a voice in his head urged. Kill, kill, kill—

The pad of your finger made feather-light contact with his wrist, and the iridescence reinvented itself without delay.

All the colors that had teased him made themselves known again, bringing with them some disgusting bliss that made his insides curl with warmth. It was a delectable temptation, so overwhelming it made him nauseous.

Your eyes searched him, scrutinizing his colors and imbedding them into memory. An inkling of degradation tugged your brain as you realized the life of color you so desperately reaped was from a villain, one of the worst you’d ever encountered. Only from him would your sole, real taste of reality come.

You both pulled away this time, and the dull world of gray welcomed you like an old friend.

You shuffled back defensively, no colorful heaven able to erase the precarity of the situation. The throbbing, searing pain in your forearm returned, reminding you of the death he’d aspired to bring you.

Shigaraki stared behind Father’s fingers, eyes red and wide.

Kill, the urge came to him again. Kill you. Kill the colors, kill it all.

But he wasn’t sure if he could.

“Get me out of here,” he muttered.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Get me out,” he demanded again, infuriated. “Now.”

And after brief static, Kurogiri’s dutiful voice answered from the other end of the hidden communicator. Shortly after, the promised warp gate opened against the alley wall.

Shigaraki stepped back into its gloomy arch quickly. Realizing that he made to escape, you stepped forward, eager to prevent it.

“Stop,” you pleaded, but not with the antagonistic authority you’d shown before. It was a simple, desperate plea. Shigaraki knew he was leaving you with no less confusion than he felt in his departure, but his mind was scattered, and unable to rationalize this so long as he was in your presence.

Your mouth opened around another fruitless protest, but Shigaraki was already backing into the safety of the hideout, its colorless interior granting him security.

With one last valiant effort, you shot forward to reach for him. Shigaraki stumbled back and hit the floor when you lunged for the portal, but it was too late. The warp gate conjoining you both disappeared, separating you from him for good.

With Kurogiri’s gate officially closed, and you officially out of reach, Shigaraki simply stared at the spot where you’d been eager to touch him just moments before.

He was reminded of his station on the ground when he felt the hard wood on his backside. But he didn’t bother getting up; his muscles refused him.

“Shigaraki Tomura.”

He ignored Kurogiri. He ignored it all, let it fade into the gray banality of the colorless, lifeless world around him. How else could he describe it except lifeless, now that he’d had a taste of the true world?—The colors and their vibrancy?

And what was the price of attaining this world of bliss? Knowing that his fate was tied to you. A hero. The very thing he’d dedicated himself to hate, to kill. You, a hero, his soulmate.

It was disgusting. It was cruel. It was unfathomable.

Kurogiri was saying his name again, but Shigaraki didn’t care. He instead looked down at his body, down his stiff legs to his feet. His gaze remained fixated.

His shoes. What fucking color were his shoes? Red, he knew. But what did red look like? Why couldn’t he fucking remember what it looked like?

Kurogiri’s voice was harsher now, spurred by dutiful compulsion. “If you’re injured you must let me know,” he pleaded.

“What?” Shigaraki answered, voice thin, and lost. “What happened? Are you injured?”

“No.” “Then... why did you retreat?”

Now Shigaraki looked at his hands, the hands that had tried, and failed to kill.

His quirk. His Decay. For once, his touch had bore something other than destruction; it had shown him life.

Years before, when he’d still doubted his purpose in the world, and had yet to fully commit to any ambition besides to survive, learning about the histories of soulmates had been a gratifying discovery. Learning that there might be someone out there that would see him as more than just a destroyer, more than just a wielder of such a deadly power, had inspired hope.

But now, now that he’d all but given up on the idea of a soulmate—ridiculed it, in fact, having seen the optimistic idiocy it swelled through the populace—he wanted no part in it.

He’d always known the idea of a soulmate was baseless; that two people were to be decided for each other by fate.

Fate? What did fate matter?

Only cruel fate, the very same which had left him to suffer under the mantle of false heroes in his youth, would presume to make his soulmate one of those very heroes. Only cruel fate would show him a world of colorful life, but put its key in the hands of the enemy.

And what—he was expected to willingly accept it?

No. That wasn’t his fate. It wouldn’t be. This was no blessing. Tasting the promised world of color wasn’t worth the fretful irony. It was filthy. It was greedy. It was wrong. And he didn’t want it.

However alluring the true world was, however satisfying its colors and exquisite its details, Shigaraki fought the compulsion of its visual pleasure. He wouldn’t be a slave to destiny.

“Send me back,” he suddenly commanded. Kurogiri lingered over him, nervous in his confusion. “Are you sure? But, you asked me—”

“Send me back.”

There was only one way Shigaraki would find resolution. He would have to destroy the unattainable world of color, so he would never be weak to its promise.

And to do that, he would have to destroy you.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #shimura tenko x reader

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fallout-drabbles-n-stuff · 4 years

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Romanced Companions react to dreaming sole’s death

(Got a little carried away with my sexy synth men also..slight tw for gore/death)

Cait:

Dreams always sucked for Cait. Wether they were products of her hazed psycho-jet fueled delusions or just merely her sober mind, they never were good. Instead of dreaming of flying or stuff like that..she dreamed fucked up stuff.

For instance, without so much as an explanation she saw you..you who loved so much, lifeless.

Though she was subjected to such a disturbing dream, she woke peacefully from it. Well..peacefully meaning she didn't scream as the dream faded away. She wanted to. Oh god she wanted to scream, but she was still consciously aware of your sleeping body. So, relying on her faithful cure- she'd reach over to the night stand and take a swing of whatever drink she had before promptly grasping you in her muscular arms for the rest of the night.

Curie:

She tried so hard. She tried so very, damn hard. You had stumbled into your shared home, beaten to a pulp and unable to breath without gasping and wheezing. Instantly she'd jump to her feet, taking you to her makeshift clinic room, feverishly quick to inject you with as many chems she could to stop your pain...all for naught.

With a pained smile on your face, you left her. Your eyes sliding closed just as she screamed.

Suddenly she was ripped from what she thought was reality, being met with you, but instead of being broken and dead..you were just asleep.

She whimpered softly, nuzzling into your arms as she tried to forget all about the horror she just endured. Damn, she didn’t like this whole dreaming thing very much.

Danse:

Night terrors were a usual for Danse. It was just an unfortunate side effect of his ptsd, one he learned to cope with over time. His waking life wasn't much different after all, it was normal for him to watch people he was close to fall at his feet, usually because of a command he ordered. However things seemed to change when he grew close to you. Terrible nightmares seemed to slowly transform into sweet dreams of the life you and him created together, even once dreaming of a little child in his arms with you by his side.

Unfortunately tonight was very much so different.

It was a great fire fight, similar to the one he met you in. However instead of you crusading in guns blazing, the tables turned rapidly, effectively giving him some sort of whiplash. The next thing he knew, he had black robes on, similar to that of the courser you had slain months ago.

Pure terror arose when realization hit.

There you were, on your knees in front of him. Those loving eyes filled with fear and your nose obviously broken, blood streaming down your lips and dripping off your chin.

"M7-97, your orders stand." An unfamiliar voice spoke to him seemingly from nowhere.

Without any hesitation, he lifted the strange white gun in his hands, aiming right at your chest. Only stopping long enough to hear your breathless plea, before pulling the trigger.

With a sharp gasp he woke up, uncontrollably being thrust into a pathetic fit of sobs. Without meaning to, he actually woke you up, still unable to contain himself even as you brought him into your embrace. He'd only muster the strength to grab onto your arms, holding onto you for dear life as he cried out, blubbering out an explanation.

It was unlike him and a piece of him felt so very ashamed.

Deacon:

He was motionless. Just as he had seen your hazy, bleeding body in the confines of the hellish nightmare that woke him from an other wise restful sleep. Your presence, living that is, beside him had never felt so wonderful- and that truly was something considering how much he enjoyed your embrace. Being able to watch your chest rise and fall with each sleepy deep breath brought him down from the high of his fear, allowing him to focus on the rhythm- which slowly but surely brought him back the ability to rest.

Gage:

He’s a raider. He’s been one since a young age. Death, macabre visions and gore in general never bothered him the slightest, hell, he even started to enjoy it. At least he thought he did...that is until the lingering sight of your own demise came to him in a far too vivid dream.

Snapping his eye open, he’d instantly check the side of the bed next to him where he knew your motionless form still lain. It wasn’t like him to feel such dread. Seeing as you were still asleep, he felt no shame in acting upon his sudden instinct to squeeze you in a desperate embrace- burying his face into your chest and holding on until finally a much better, dreamless sleep took ahold of him.

Hancock:

Now was a good of a time as any to take a nice relaxing puff of jet.

His mind never really was restful, even without the influence of chems it always seemed to go places he despised. This couldn’t have been anymore true as it for some reason conjured the sickening picture of you in his dreams- holding your bloody midsection with a wiry grin before collapsing.

Sighing, he’d try to get rid of the image, huffing quick and continuous puffs so the chem would do its “magic”. At least you were still right there next to him. That much was all he wanted.

Macready:

He already had the trauma of seeing his ex wife die once before, hearing her screams as she was torn apart by ghouls...to be met with the same scene again, only you in her place- it was good enough to wake him up with a furious yell coming out of his lungs. Effectively waking you as well....

When asked what the hell happened, he’d blink away his newly formed tears and explain what had happened. It was one of the few times he allowed himself to cry like that, so unbridled.

Maxson:

He was a frequent sufferer of night terrors, always has been since a young age. However, very few compared to the pure horror he endured as he dreamt of your demise- the dream disturbing him the most because it was him who did it. Without his own control and screaming as his hands clasped around on your throat...

It was his silent tears that saved him from enduring the sight any longer, rousing him to awareness just to where he could blearily look at your peaceful slumbering form. Some more tears would slip past his sorrowful eyes as he immediately engulfed you, pulling you close to his chest so he could savor the feeling.

If you were to wake up during this, he'd just mutter some bullshit about being cold, sniffling as he did.

Nick:

It was horrific.

Every now and again when he'd allow himself sleep, he'd be haunted with the reoccurring vision of his pre-war conscious seeing the dead body of Jennifer Lands, his fiancée. The dream used to disturb him, a strange clenching in his chest but never had it truly made him feel horror.

That is until one night, you in his arms, he had the same dream. Only this time instead of Jennifer's bloodied face laying on the asphalt, it was you. His present love, the one he felt true love for. Everything was the same, the same clothes, same thugs standing above your lifeless form- only it was your beautiful face.

When he woke, he awakened with a hallow like sensation in his mechanical chest. Why would he ever dream something like that? How did he dream that?

Regardless of whatever conclusion he'd come to, he'd sigh and stroke your hair with a shaky hand- vowing to you in silence that he'd never allow such a gruesome fate befall you. He just wouldn't.

Old Longfellow:

Damn he hated dreams. His ex-wife never seemed to leave him in peace, haunting him in some new disturbing way every other night or so. However not even her ghostly sick smile could compare to the visage of your demise.

When had he been so disturbed he didn't quite know.

Regardless he'd wake silently, his ocean colored eyes scanning the room and only softening when he deemed it safe from troubles. With a shake of his head he'd lay back down onto the pillows, looking over to your peaceful expression and then deciding it was okay...you were still here...everything was going to be okay.

Piper:

She'd wake both you and herself as she shrieked in her sleep, effectively scaring the crap out of you as you clambered to a sitting position. Still rattled from her vision..she, she saw you..she saw you get shot..fuck. She'd breath heavy, her chest heaving with each sharp inhale.

After a while she'd calm, hugging you oh so close. It would be a while before she could go back to sleep, but so long as you were in her arms she'd feel a little better.

Preston:

He'd actually end up waking you up before himself, thrashing around and grunting as his face scrunched into a pained expression. He regularly had nightmares, usually based upon the massacre of Quincy. This one was different.

Shaking him awake you'd be met with tear filled chocolate eyes, his lip quivering the moment he processed who he was looking at. Within seconds he took you down into his chest, squeezing you tight and silently crying.

You would just have to do your best to comfort him.

Sturges:

It wasn't very common he'd even remember his dreams, and even when he did they were hardly ever coherent thoughts. Normally they'd just be random "blips" of color or scenes that made little to no sense. How he wished that his normal dreams would've been the case tonight.

Still, staying true to himself, he only had a few flashes of scenes- but what he could piece together was awful. One moment you stood with that kind smile of your's, two glasses of mutfuit juice in your hands- one already extended out to him. The next thing he knew, deafening whizzes of bullets rang through and you no longer where standing...instead you were face down....and...oh god.

His eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his ears as tried to come down from the sick rush the nightmare gave him. He wasn't one to lose his lunch, but now he really felt like puking. As he came to and began to calm, he willed himself to look over at you, rolling onto his side so he could properly see you.

"Oh..sweetheart..." he whispered, not loud enough to wake you up. Sighing he'd lay down again, resting his head on your chest as he stroked your hair- that might've woke you up but..eh, oh well.

X6-88:

Death was quite literally in his job description. He'd seen copious amounts of people die. Be it explosions, torture, or even his own bullet shot between their eyes. It never bothered him a bit, at least not enough to make him care much less feel sorrow for the poor sons of bitches.

That is..until he dreamed of your death.

It was so painfully vivid. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline coursing through his synthetic veins as he ran. His target right in front of him, ready for his execution. With a systematic like approach, he raised his laser pistol, aiming right at the back of the head before pulling the trigger.

But...when the "target" fell, bile quickly rushed up from his stomach. There you were, those eyes he loved so much lacking any light and gazing emptily up at the sky, a burned hole through your forehead.

Just like that he was released, shooting up with enough force to send the ragged blankets down his body. Wide silver eyes darting around the room as he processed the unfamiliar sensation of pure terror racking his body. Whenever he looked at you..your sweet face so calm and...thankfully..unharmed, he could relax. Steadying himself he'd sigh, laying back down restlessly, staying up the rest of the night so he could just take you in. If that dream ever became a reality......

Well, he prayed it didn't.

#fallout 4 #paladin danse #fallout #brotherhood of steel #danse #bos #maccready #nick valentine #fo4 companions #fallout companions #elder maxson #porter gage #curie #arthur maxson #cait #deacon #hancock #x6 88 #sturges

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cant-blink · 3 years

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Broken Mirror...

Summary: Counterpart of the previous “Mirror!” short, found here. Gigan sees himself for the first time since becoming Final Wars.

The sound of rubble shifting from under his feet was the only thing disturbing the otherwise silent ruins around him. His senses were sharp, and his visor scanned along the flames and smoke. His vision shifted through the various settings of his cybernetic eye to pick out any possible survivor.

He wanted there to be none.

Not for what they did to him.

Every inch of his body hurts, something he continued to ignore even when his rampage has drawn to an end. He still had yet to get used to the changes made to his body, against his will, and it only served to agitate him further.

It’s not often he felt such immeasurable rage. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he felt so... livid. A boiling fury grew in his chest, begging for an even greater outlet. But extinction was the best he could do.

There were no survivors here and he moves on. His legs were longer now, making him much taller than he was before. It took some time for him to figure out his balance, his center of gravity, and he still had moments where movement felt foreign to him. Everything felt foreign.

Even his basic laser has changed, now firing from his visor rather than the jewel-like aperture in his forehead. His aim was off as a result the first few times he used it, although he adapted quickly. His internal system felt off, his hooks were now blades, his tail stinger now larger and more wicked. The latter was something he should probably be grateful for, but...

He catches movement from the edge of his visor and he turned to look. What he saw was a tall blue hideous-looking creature staring back at him. It was enough to startle him into raising his hooks, -no, blades-, crossed in front of him in a defensive stance. The creature did the same.

Oh...

He was looking at his reflection on the remains of a building. The very first time seeing himself properly since the Change.

His green hide and beloved golden feathers... gone. Replaced by an armor plated chest and leathery blue skin. That skin looked organic, but he knew... He knew deep down that very little of his own flesh remained. His gold sails, something he took great pride in, now tainted a disgusting red. Everything that made him what he was... Gone.

The cyborg stood for what must’ve been hours, just staring at himself. He could find resemblances to his old form, in his face, his chest-saw... But really, all it did was create a kind of uncanny valley effect. He hated seeing himself like this. He hated that he can never return to his former glory. He hated that everything was taken away from him, even his identity!

Was he even alive anymore?

His visor narrowed before he raised a claw and smashed it into the building. The razor edge sliced through it like butter, sparks erupting from the strike. He does it again with his other claw, and again. And again. Letting out all that boiling hatred in this one concentrated assault against his own reflection.

Even when the glass laid shattered at his feet, the fact he can still see himself in the fragments did nothing to ease his fury and his visor glowed before unleashing everything he had into one blast.

The very earth beneath him trembled, the dust whipping around him and the explosion knocking him back. He managed to stay on his feet, for only a moment before dropping down to his knees as the rubble settled. Growling breaths heavy, he glanced at the remains to find nothing left.

No more reflection.

He was still Gigan, he would tell himself. No matter what they did to taint him, no matter what kind of horrific monstrosity he's become, he was still Gigan.

Even he wasn’t sure if he believed that.

#gigan #final wars #godzilla

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virtuosin · 3 years

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{{ Under the cut cuz of length but have a lil Ruination sketch comic/drabble/thing ft. Sona and Swain ( @vixtionary ) because I couldn’t get out of my head how ANXIOUS Sona would be with the Immortal Bastion just...y’know...blowing up with that sickly green aura outta nowhere :^) }}

It was a dreary day doomed with overcast, the sun unable to pierce the thick veil of gray which covered Prime. Jericho had seemed rather lively about it, daring to call it a blessing in front of Sona’s face, as if punctuating the fact she had removed the drapes for cleaning recently. Such a cheeky boy he could be over a bit of sunshine. As it was, Sona found herself exasperated and amused, watching as her lover departs for the Immortal Bastion as he would any morning--only to await his arrival home later into the evening. Strangely, his dry wit left the maven in a wonderful mood, more than their daily banter would. Not everything was settled in their private world, but days such as these were uplifting for Sona Buvelle; the daily routine was never monotonous with Jericho, and she thanked her lucky stars for his companionship every day.

With the incoming rain to accompany her sound, she thought of creating a new orchestration for her beloved, perhaps something to welcome him home with after an uneventful day-

-or what should have been an uneventful day.

“Jericho!!” Sona calls out as soon as her head snaps to the windows and drinks in the horizon. There, in the distance was the magnificent view of the Immortal Bastion, the hard edges tainted by a plume of corruption raining down from the sky. Mists of black with a wild, sickly green inferno crashing down upon Prime. It was horrific to witness from this perfect vista at the Swain estate, though it only added to the despair in her heart that Jericho was in the center of this--what was this? An assault? Was it from within or without? The Black Rose? Raum? There was no time for speculation. Efficiently, Sona storms over to her closet and immediately begins to change. Discarding her beloved white lace for varying shades of black leather, Sona would be tying off the waist lacing of her trousers while projecting her voice loudly.

“Bali! Have Erza prepared for riding--I am leaving for the Bastion, now!” She does not await his reply, only prays he will follow through with her command. Rarely would she sound so stern, rarer still that she would expect an order to be complied. But Bali was nothing if not loyal. By the time she would descend the stairs with rapid footfalls announcing her arrival to the first floor, the Shuriman would be at the bottom awaiting her arrival. The jovial man seemed hardened in a way Sona has never seen before. It betrays the history of this man--for he has seen war, has seen men and women die in such wars, and the look he gives her now is one not of disappointment, but of warning. Perhaps he knew better than to stop her, given how determined her words were moments ago, but the concern remained in those firm, sun-kissed creases along his features.

“Miss, Erza is ready, but-” Bali gestures widely, his confliction made apparent with the low set of those thick brows, and his expression holding far less mirth than it had any reason to. Bali was a bright, exuberant man, at least that’s all Sona knew him for. She nearly feels guilty for leaving, but she has seen the man in action before--through the visions. He would not be helpless if the worst comes to pass, though with any luck Sona would be returning home with Jericho soon.

“Thank you, Bali...you are the only one who is trusted to keep watch over this House. I can’t be complacent here, you know this. My place is out there...I must find Jericho and get answers. Please, defend the estate and ensure it remains secure. Do not let any inside who are not Jericho or myself.” Sona replies, her voice wary for what’s to come. She’s never seen anything like this before, though her time in Noxus hasn’t been that long yet. However, even Bali seemed disturbed by the sights and sounds which were impossible to miss, even for a man who was mostly deaf from a missing ear. A hand is raised, beckoning the etwahl to float not far behind her. With a final look to Bali, Sona would offer the man a firm squeeze to his forearm before she’d finally slip past and exit through the side door to reach the demesne, to where the stable was. There, her giant steed awaited her, already dressed and prepared for the ride. Erza was a skittish horse by nature, that much was true, but with Sona slipping into the saddle, he seemed a bit more at ease--perhaps due to her innate ability to soothe the worries of those around her, animals included.

“Come, Erza!” Sona calls out, pulling back on the reins to lead the bulky steed towards the streets, the winding roads which all inevitably circle the proverbial drain--toward the Immortal Bastion. It doesn’t take long for Erza to break out into a brisk gallop, the paths devoid of life due to the unsettling invasion going on. It incentivized Sona to urge the horse onward, picking up speed to reach her destination faster, fear and hope warring against each other within Sona’s heart. “Hold on, Jericho,” Sona whispers into the wind, praying her words would somehow reach him. “You will not face this threat alone.”

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truisticrhino28 · 3 years

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Insanity, by TruisitcRhino28

Prologue:

It is the year 3642 BBY. Revan has been freed by the Jedi Order, and the Sith Emperor lies dormant on Yavin 4. This information is a well-kept secret, though not well-kept enough, because a brash young Jedi Padawan finds out about the Emperor’s awakening…

Chapter 1: Brashness and Secrecy:

Padawan Vold Sagar was very strong in the Force; however, he was also very, very brash and reckless. He often let his emotions get the better of him and never really liked to come up with a plan, often preferring to rush into things head-on and improvise as he went along. This made him frowned upon by many of the Masters in the Order, particularly on the Council. Naturally, this meant that they did not consider Vold a good example of what a Jedi Knight, and thus, refused to elevate his status from Padawan to Knight. Upon hearing this news from his Master, Claudios Brenthen, he felt mocked, insulted, and most of all, furious.

“How dare the Council deny me the rank of Knight?! How dare they, those conservative old fools! I worked my butt off to become a Jedi! I did everything the Council requested of me, everything! And now those staid archaic bastards refuse to promote me!”, Vold was yelling in a fit of rage.

“It is not a matter of personal grudges with the Council. The sole reason you were not promoted is because you are brash. You never think twice, never form a plan. You are impulsive, and impulsiveness can be a very dangerous thing.” “I do not mean these remarks as insults, for few things can be insults if they are true”, replied Claudios in a calm but serious tone.

“I know, Master, and you are not the one I am mad at. Everything is making me so mad, the Council, this war, the Empire, everything!!”

“Remember, there is no emotion there is peace”, Claudios reminded calmly.

“Yes, Master”, Vold said in resignation, knowing that trying to continue the argument was pointless. With that, Claudios left meditate on the Jedi Temple grounds. Vold however, was still very mad at the Council and was desperate to prove himself. As such, he naturally thought that the only way to prove himself worthy was to gain power, of a darker kind.

Chapter 2: Hidden Power and Hidden Love:

Vold carefully made his way to his Master’s quarters and once he had entered unseen and knew he was secure, he began searching through the Force for his Master’s locked away Sith scroll. After a few minutes, he found it and retrieved it from its hiding place. As he carefully opened it and read the first words, he saw the name “the Sith Emperor”. Vold was fascinated by this, and began pouring through the text on the scroll, until he happened upon a location: Yavin 4. He was familiar with the location of Yavin 4; it had been the primary base of operations of the famous Sith Lords Exar Kun and Naga Sadow. What does the Sith Emperor want with Yavin 4? Vold then remembered that the Sith Emperor had previously been defeated at the hands of the Hero of Tython. Perhaps he is waiting until he regains his strength. That means he is weak, and ripe for the killing. Defeating the Sith Emperor once and for all will surely give the Council cause to promote me to a Jedi Knight. With this in mind, Vold realized he had taken up a large amount of time looking at the scroll and swiftly exited his Master’s quarters unseen, leaving everything in the condition it was in before he entered. He then headed to visit his lover, fellow Padawan Nehani Forrez. The two of them had trained together as younglings, and had begun to deeply care for each other, feelings that eventually blossomed into love. As he entered her quarters, they embraced and began making out, as they usually did when they saw each other. When they had finished, they stood holding hands and Vold began saying, “Nehani, I’ve finally figured it out.”

“Figured out what, Vold?”, Nehani asked in curiosity.

“I’ve finally figured out how I can become a Jedi Knight!”, exclaimed Vold excitedly. “I will go to Yavin 4 and once and for all defeat the Sith Emperor!”.

Nehani had many questions about this. “How did you acquire this information? Why are you doing this? Does your master know of this? How do you know this is even possible?”.

“I must become a Jedi Knight. I must prove myself to those staid old fools on the Council that I am truly strong enough. The only way to do that is to kill the Sith Emperor.”

“But you’ll die!”, Nehani objected in concern. “To try and do that is utter insanity! Have you never heard the stories? The tales of absolute cruelty the Emperor committed on its victims? If you failed, then you would go insane, and constantly wish for and be denied the glorious privilege of death.”

“No matter what happens to me, as long as the Sith Emperor lies dead, I will have proved myself at last.” Nehani had no further words. Vold gave her one last kiss on the cheeks before leaving, satisfied he had explained his point. “Do not come for me, nor mourn my death. Your future as a Jedi is too important”, he finished. He then left Nehani and headed in secret for his ship, the Passionate Champion.

Chapter 3: The Hunt for The Emperor:

As the Passionate Champion exited hyperspace, Vold was overtaken momentarily by dark imagery. Mental images of agony, screaming, and death flooded his mind. And at the source of all of it was the Sith Emperor. For most, this would have immediately deterred even the most mentally strong-willed being. But for Vold, this was only further motivation and reason that the Sith Emperor was a soulless monster that must be destroyed. He landed and exited his ship and began meditating in search of the Emperor. Once he’d found the Emperor’s location, he headed there at speeds unheard of to the human mind simply by using Force Speed. Once he’d happened upon the temple, he stopped, and cautiously sensed for any possible threats in the surrounding area. Once he felt it was safe, he ignited his lightsaber and entered the temple. Not soon after he had entered, he began to feel weakened and groggy, and eventually collapsed unconscious on the floor. When he woke up, he didn’t know where he was in the temple. Seeing his lightsaber, Vold tried to get up and use the Force to retrieve it, but he was snapped down to the ground, like an invisible presence had pushed him back. Next, he was bombarded with an assault of terrible images, similar to the ones he’d been bombarded with as he’d entered the atmosphere. Except this time, Vold was seeing a blurred vision of his future. He saw a person killing and murdering all life on Yavin 4. A person with dark eyes. A person that looked very similar to himself. A person he realized… was himself! No! It... can’t be! How is this possible? How? Vold then went unconscious again, and when he woke up, he found himself outside the Temple and empowered with a new strength, something far, far stronger. A power, he felt, one that would bring him victory. Then, as he looked at a tree, he saw not a tree, but the image of the Emperor. Driven by nothing but mad rage, he brutally slaughtered the tree. Vold then thought that he had defeated the Emperor, but then saw his image on another tree, so he cut down that tree, and another, and another, and more and more trees until he had cut a sixth of the forest, he was standing in. Losing sanity more by the second, he screamed a yell of dark rage that could be heard across the galaxy.

Chapter 4: The Call Heard Across the Galaxy:

Claudios was meditating in his quarters when he sensed a grave disturbance in the Force: his apprentice was in trouble. He was going to exit his quarters when he noticed something off, something he hadn’t noticed before. It appeared as if something had been left open. He opened his library cabinet, and nothing had been stolen, but one thing had been opened. As he opened the scroll about the Emperor, he read the entire scroll, and came upon a clause of the scroll regarding the Emperor’s horrific abilities to take control of people. It mentioned Revan, along with some other examples, but one part of this read of how the Emperor could drive people insane by making them see infinite projections of himself. He then thought back to his conversations with Vold. Realizing the terrible danger Vold was in, he rushed to his starship, and headed to Yavin 4, completely unaware that Nehani had boarded the ship in secret.

Chapter 5: Unheard Pleas and Failed Persuasions:

Claudios’s ship exited hyperspace and immediately he was hit with disturbing Force visions, but he ignored them by projecting a field of light side energy around his ship. As he landed on the planet and exited his ship, he was in shock of the pure dark energy on the world. He realized however that this would do nothing but stall for time, so he quickly went in search of Vold. After a decent bit of traveling, he eventually ran into Vold brutally slashing trees and wildlife all around him. He realized this would be much more difficult than he had originally anticipated.

Vold was on a killing streak murdering everything within his path of sight that he thought resembled the Emperor. By this point, the dark side was so strong in him it was like a hypotonic blood cell about to explode. Suddenly, all of his focus was concentrated on one singular being standing a good 200 meters away from Vold, in the midst of the forest fires and destruction Vold had caused. He recognized this being as his Master, however, all he could see was the image of the Emperor in his mind.

“You, whatever you are, you are not my Master! This is a trick! A deceit shaped by the Emperor to make me think you are not him! But I see the truth! His deceits may have gotten me before, but not anymore! I see you are him! And now, you will die.”

“Vold, listen to me! You are not yourself. The Emperor is driving you mad. Come with me and we can free you of his influence and the corruption of the dark side.”

“Lies! All lies! I know this is another deceit to throw me off track, but it will not work! I have become too powerful to be deceived by such trickery again.”

“Vold! This is not you! Please, I implore you, do not do this. If you continue on your current path, I will be forced to end your life, which is a deed I very much do not wish to commit.”

“These lies will not work! The opaqueness of you is nonexistent, for I am transparent to your true self! Now, you must die!”

With deep regrets, Claudios concluded, “It is with the deepest of rue that I am forced to fight you. I am sorry for not protecting you from the corruption of the dark side better. Such flaws are the signs of a bad teacher, and a withered old fool. With that, Vold launched toward Claudios in fury, and he was barely able to defend the pure hatred of the first strike. Defend it he did though, and he proceeded to use a Force push to lift Vold off of his feet, in hopes of possibly knocking him unconscious. This only momentarily disrupted Vold however, and once he’d gotten back up on his feet, he used the Force to send waves of fire toward Claudios. Claudios responded to this attack by raising water from a nearby marsh to counter this. However, this gave Vold the opportunity to strike. Catching Claudios off guard, he threw his lightsaber at Claudios, forcing him to redirect his focus for a mere millisecond, causing fire to seep through his defenses and cause him critical burns. Wincing from pain, Claudios tried to use a Force Wave to push Vold away and give himself time to recover. However, Vold merely brushed past this, and instead threw his full strength into a single Force Wave, forcing Claudios to counter the interaction, an interaction which he lost. The sheer power of the Force Wave shattered many bones in Claudios’s body, leaving what was left of him barely alive and scrunched up, like a crumbled piece of paper. Vold then made the finishing move and killed him without a second thought. Then, at this very moment, Vold was released from the control of the Emperor, and everything was replayed in his head, the incineration of trees, the mindless slaughter of the life, and the murdering of his Master. Completely overcome with emotions and with no time to process them, he entered a state of insane grief and thrashed at everything around him, at which point he was again put under control of the Emperor, and even madder now he began brutally annihilating the flora and fauna at an alarmingly more intense level than before.

Nehani had been overtaken by the dark imagery, and had struggled to recover, but once she had, she’d carefully followed Claudios out of sight and had cried when she had seen Claudios die. That said, she knew she probably had one last chance to plea for Vold before he destroyed the entire planet.

Chapter 6: Insanity:

Nehani made her way toward Vold in nervous strides. Vold, sensing her through the Force, stopped and dashed to confront her.

Nehani began by yelling, “Vold! This isn’t you! I know you! The real Vold would have never killed his Master like that.”

Vold would hear none of it, and countered by yelling back, “You, you evil, cursed wretched being!! You made me kill my Master!! I will decapitate you; I will choke you but make sure you still hold breath, I will make sure you bleed, but still do not bleed dry. I will make you suffer like no being has ever suffered before!!” And with that, Vold began to choke Nehani all the while slowly cutting open parts of her skin. She tried to resist, but to no avail. She couldn’t scream at the pain, for she was too busy merely struggling for air. This continued for another 3 hours, at which point Nehani finally crumbled and died. It was at this point that the Emperor lost interest in Vold, and released control of him so he could go back to lying dormant. This shattered Vold’s mind utterly and completely, and this compounded with him mentally replaying the recent events caused him to collapse in remorse, and as he ignited his lightsaber for a final time and stuck it through his chest, he let out a final cry that released the last morsel of sane present within him, leaving him a corpse of his own insanity.

#starwars fanfic fanfiction starwarsfanfic swfanfic sw swfanfiction shortstory starwarsshortstory starwars short story tragedy

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xbellaxcarolinax · 4 years

Text

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 19- Ragnarok

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 9090

Warnings: Violence in this one. Bad description of battle.

AN: This is a super long chapter. I’m so sorry. If you guys prefer shorter ones then I have no problem splitting them, just let me know. I also think this chapter is both boring and intense at the same time. You guys can judge. Hope you enjoy!

18- Protection

...

Ivar had always been a light sleeper, so it was no surprise to him that the smallest of noises made his eyes crack open in the dimly lit chambers. Recently, sleep came to him easily, despite the aches. After a long day of constant strategizing and training for the battle to come, slipping underneath the furs on a cool night was just enough to lull him into a dreamless slumber.

He never had a problem sleeping alone. It had allowed him to be alert if need be, but now, laying next to a much welcomed heat, Ivar had no problems drifting away, so long as Artemis was beside him.

Ivar made no movements, but his eyes scanned the perimeter of the chamber out of habit. There was a table with parchments littering its surface, a large changing screen, a fireplace not in use, and some candles scattered about to illuminate the area. Nothing seemed out of place, and nothing seemed to hide in the shadows. He looked over at Artemis who had her back towards him, and he decided nothing was out of the ordinary.

He shifted under the sheets, drawing closer to the woman beside him, his eyes slowly drooping until he heard it again. It was more distinguishable as a whimper, so low, yet loud enough for his trained ears to detect.

Ah. He should've known.

Artemis was having another nightmare.

He'd seen first hand how often they came to her at night. While his sleep had always been limited due to the constant pain in his legs, her sleep was always interrupted by terrors of some kind.

He runs a finger down the center of her back before gently placing his hand on her hip. He didn’t consider himself to be the first choice of comfort, but it was a start.

It seemed to soothe her for a moment as she stopped her whimpers. Satisfied, Ivar curves around her, careful with shifting his legs. He then moves his hand into the mass of her dark hair, fingers gently caressing her scalp in gentle motions.

This was oddly domestic.

But it was nice. He finds himself devoted to her, like a husband would to a wife.

Ivar bites his lips, suddenly aware of his heightened sensitivity. He felt he was a bigger mess of emotions when it came to Artemis, more so after their first night together. He knew who he was, embittered and rage filled. Such angry feelings within and yet, he melted at the sight of her.

No matter, there needn't be justification for things such as love or feelings or anything that relates to matters of the heart. Only the gods knew, and Ivar was fine with that.

He continues to gaze at her, his lazy eyes mapping out her small form.

Suddenly she turns over in her fitful sleep, facing him now with arched brows and eyes screwed shut. Her lips were tightly sealed, set in a frown.

Ivar sighs, carefully sitting up against the soft pillows. He places the back of his hand against her cheek, gently rubbing a knuckle across her smooth skin soothingly. Then he runs a finger over her brow in an attempt to smooth them down and ease her tension.

He frowns.

He had caused her such strife. He didn't need to be told what plagued her mind. Behind her lids he knew she replayed the images of blood, death and destruction. Subjects that he couldn't be bothered with ate away at her soul. Artemis was no fighter. She was a Christian, what he saw as an everyday occurrence was utterly disturbing for her.

Artemis exhales roughly through her nose before her eyes flutter open, blinking to clear her vision.

"Another nightmare?" He asks softly, smiling when she nuzzles her face against his hand almost instantly.

"They're like a plague," She groans, "I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's fine." Ivar tugs her towards him, having her cupped under his arm, her head laying on his chest. He could feel her lashes skimming over his skin when she blinked.

Oh yes, this was incredibly domestic, and extremely different then what he was used to, but he wouldn't change it for the world, not now, not ever.

"We've done this to you, all of us," Ivar mutters quietly, absentmindedly playing with her hair that draped over the two of them. She was silent, so silent in fact, that Ivar thought she might have dozed off again, as her breathing was steady.

"Some nights are better than others." She says, lazily dragging her finger across his bare chest, following the thick lines of his most recent tattoo. The swirls formed an image she was only just beginning to understand. She takes a breath as if she wanted to say more, but decides to settle into the calm silence instead. Ivar squeezes her closer, enjoying her warmth. She would talk to him when she was ready.

His eyes scan the light that filtered through the cracks between the fur drapes. It was daybreak, and in about an hour, preparations would begin for training.

"We have to leave soon." She mutters, looking up at him with a pout.

They were both still getting used to this, such intimacy and closeness. Her heart sang for Ivar, no matter how much her mind had been against it, but she willingly ignored it.

Ivar was shy at times, a side that was nothing compared to his war like demeanor. He skimmed his rough fingers over the soft skin of her exposed arm, humming in agreement.

"We don't have to leave just yet." He proposes, turning his body to fully face her, eyes glimmering with silent requests. His timidness certainly had its limits.

Artemis smiles up at him as he wraps strong arms around her. He captures her lips in a kiss that erases all rational thoughts and bad dreams.

Perhaps they could stay in bed a little while longer.

...

Vestfold was unpleasant.

King Harald's kingdom specialized in fishing, mostly whaling. In fact, upon setting eyes on its docks, one could not miss the skeletal form of a giant whale that was made to loom above them menacingly. The smells that lingered about were horrific, and the blood of the massive sea creatures dampened the soil in large puddles.

Harald was a contradiction of what Vestfold was like. He was a delight, throwing feasts without reason and talking of his brother often. He was the brightness that illuminated his kingdom, and if they were to be stationed there for some time, then it was only fair to make the best of it.

It was the forests where Artemis loved to reside as it was lush and green, so much green that it had her drifting off into other magical worlds. It was a place of shade in the summer heat, a tranquil, peaceful area with nothing but the birds singing and the cicadas chirping in the treetops.

Archery was practiced everyday for a couple of hours in the early morning before the sun was at its highest point in the sky. The skill came easily to her, and she learned a fair amount, but she was nowhere near as skilled as Hvitserk, and not even close to Ivar, but it became a routine for her to take her lessons with either one of the brothers, and both were merciless in their training.

There would be no private lesson that morning. Ivar decided to train with their most skilled archer's as they would have the duty to protect both himself and Harald on the battlefield. Artemis personally knew some of the warriors in Ivar's company, large and fierce with even larger bows in their hands. Those from Vestfold were equally as fearsome, their women tall with kohl streaked eyes. They emulated their beautiful queen who stood with them, though she lacked a bow in her hands or any form of weapon. She had sad eyes ever since the announcement of her pregnancy.

Harald and Hvitserk were out training with the other men and women in physical combat, along with Bishop Heahmund. Although Ivar is skilled with his axe, his specialty was as a bowman.

Ivar slowly walks in front of the crowd of archers, his slight limp and his crutch in perfect view for all to see. His eyes held the haughtiness of being in command, of having total control over the warriors.

"Archers!" He yells, and all the men and women of the first row immediately raised their bows, strings pulled back tightly and hands grazing their chests in practiced movements. Artemis obediently follows suit, raising her arms with the heavy bow in her hands, her muscles protesting the movement.

"Hold your positions!" Ivar booms, eyes already meeting with his lover. He smirked as he always did when she was particularly annoyed with him, and he knew she was.

In their lessons, when they weren't off giving each other gentle kisses under the shade of the trees, Ivar would always repeatedly say that warriors are made to hold their positions for longer periods of time during times of war.

She absolutely hated it.

"Straighten your posture, it'll send the arrow flying faster at a farther distance." Astrid suddenly appears at her side. The queen places her hands on Artemis's tense shoulders, forcibly smoothing them down. Artemis knew that Harald's queen had recognized her. Lagertha had always made Astrid keep an eye on her.

Artemis takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders off and pulling the bow string as far back as she could, despite the ache in her shoulders and the tightness in her chest.

"Hold your position." Astrid urges, sensing the discomfort she felt being surrounded by capable beings. Artemis's arm trembled from the pressure of the string as it did these past weeks of training. She turned her eyes to Ivar, who flashed her a grin as he walked off to the side of their flanks.

"Loose!" Ivar yells, and immediately arrows whizzed in the air, straight to their destinations. Artemis didn’t hesitate. She took a deep breath, letting her fingertips release the string, watching her arrow fly. It hits its mark and she beamed, a grin growing large on her face.

"Seems like the blacksmith will make for a shieldmaiden. Will you be fighting?" Astrid smiles at her, but before she could answer, Ivar grunts over to them with every step, brows arched in displeasure. His hawk ears didn’t miss a thing and he didn't trust the new queen.

"Absolutely not," He interjects, placing an arm about her shoulders, bringing her closer before instructing the next row of archers to shoot at the distant targets. Astrid crosses her arms, unamused.

"I've seen her with a hammer Ivar."

"And?"

"Would she not make a good warrior? I think she would." Ivar sucks his teeth, dismissing the comment.

"Perhaps in the future," He says, looking down at his new love from his great height, "But not in this battle."

"Have I no say?" Artemis feigns annoyance, crossing her arms as he quickly bends to plant a kiss to her brow.

Astrid was taken back. She'd been around Ivar long enough to know his dark nature, but next to the foreign girl he was a stranger.

"You think I would dare lose you when I just got a hold of you?" Ivar answers with a scoff, nodding at Astrid before turning them away from her. He orders the large crowd of archers to depart. They were ready, but Artemis was not.

"I will not lose you." He tells her, letting her go in order to summon his chariot, but she grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Am I to lose you?" She questions.

"No," He replies with a grin, "The gods would not allow it."

...

The blacksmith's forge in Vestfold was nothing compared to York's. It was quaint, and ran by a family that reminded her too much of her own. A father, his wife, and their little boy and girl.

It made a knot form in her throat that made it difficult to swallow. The nostalgia ate away at her very core and she constantly had to blink back the tears of fond memories that she kept nestled in the back of her mind. Perhaps all the gods of the world did not intend for her to have a family.

She was set on the task of making arrowheads, and her nimble fingers were immediately at work, forcibly shaping the iron into deadly pointed edges. Working in silence beside her was the little boy of the family, making the shafts of wood to attach the arrowheads to.

His father and the other men worked to keep the fire going as they repaired whatever weapons needed attention.

The little boy hums to himself, not paying her any mind as his small hands attempt to shave down thin branches with his tiny blade. He struggled, his hand unable to pass it over the jagged surface of the branch. He grunts in frustration, tossing the branch and blade aside before crossing his arms stubbornly.

Artemis stops her sharpening, turning to look at the little boy with a smile.

"Here," She places down her own tools in favor of picking up his, "Like this." She flicks her wrist at an angle, showing him how to carve down the branch in a steadier motion, "It's like peeling a carrot." She tells him.

"I don't peel carrots," He pouts, "My mother and sister do when they cook."

"Well, if they can manage, so can you," She jokes, handing him back the small blade and branch, "Go on, try again." The boy hesitates before grasping the items, and after a few minutes of him trying and her watching, he gets the hang of it.

"See? You got it."

"Mhm!" The boy hums in glee with a tiny smile, turning his large eyes to hers, "Thank you." Artemis smiles, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Are you from England?" He then asks her, his tongue poking out as he worked, "You don't sound like us."

"No," She tells him, "I come from an island in the south." He turns to her again, his eyes twinkling in curiosity.

"Really?" That peaked his interest, "Farther than England?"

"Much farther," She voices with exaggeration in her tone, "Much hotter, and full of life." The little boy blinks up at her in awe.

"And how did you come to Vestfold?"

"Him." Artemis points out towards the bustling activity of the village, her finger following Ivar's hobbling form as he practiced swinging Heahmund's large sword.

"Ivar the Boneless!" The boy exclaims.

"Mhm."

They both watch on as Ivar approaches a whale suspended in the air by its tail, ready to be used for its supply of oil. In one swift movement he swings the sword, slicing the whale cleanly in half with a maddening grin on his face. He was obsessed with the blade, turning it round in his calloused grip. Artemis watches the blood and entrails spill out from the whale in disgust before looking down at the nameless boy.

He didn't shy away from the sight, though his little brows curved slightly at the scene.

"Caldur!" A woman's voice calls out, "Caldur, let the men finish the work, come help with the animals." The little boy groans, releasing his tools with a small grunt. Hopping off the chair he quickly turns to wave at her before running off.

Heahmund passes the boy, watching him run towards his mother before taking the seat beside Artemis. She doesn't say anything, not noticing him much as she was lost in thought, her eyes still watching Ivar handle the sword as he began a conversation with King Harald.

"Have you figured it out yet?" The sudden sounds of her native tongue startled her, and she pricked her finger with one of her arrowheads. She hisses in pain. She knew she should have worn gloves.

"Figured what out?"

"My sword. The steel." The bishop chuckles. They both glance at Ivar before turning to look at each other. Heahmund did not brood quite as much as he used to, but he was still just as irritating now that Ivar gave him leeway.

"No." She says irritably.

"It is Damascus steel."

"Damascus steel is a myth."

"So you've heard of it?"

"Yes," She drawls out, "And it is a myth." She repeats with finality. Damascus steel was said to be a strange metal that was resistant to rusting and shattering. No one knew how it was produced, and the secret was so well guarded in the east that it became legend.

"Then how would you explain the superiority of my blade?"

"Dwarfs." Was all she says, as if she believed it herself.

The older man sucks his teeth, clearly unamused. He grabs at an arrowhead for closer inspection. They were well made, even by his standards, and he knew they would be deadly once attached to wood.

"I've gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land," He says after a moment, "The Arabs forge the steel. They say it comes from a land called India."

"India," She repeats the name, blinking in surprise, "I've never heard of such a place. If it is true, I shall like to go there one day."

"Perhaps you will."

"Do you wish to have your sword returned to you?" She asks, her eyes now focusing back on Ivar. He noticed them and immediately made his way over to them.

"He will tire of it soon enough. He prefers his bow."

"And will you truly fight for him?"

"It is our Lord's will that I do," Heahmund says, placing the arrowhead back upon the table Artemis worked over, his rough tone oddly drowning out her worries, "What is it you fear?"

Artemis shrugs before bringing her eyes to his. He held such unrelenting faith, such will and courage, strengths she did not possess. She didn't know who she was anymore.

"I am afraid of losing myself."

"We all have destinies. It just so happens that yours lies beside the crippled heathen."

She's never really believed in destiny.

"So you're friends with the bishop now?" Ivar barges in with a grunt, his eyes falling over the pair. He goes to stand by the work table, eyeing the tools and arrows with keen interest. He only knew how to sharpen his weapons but he couldn't actually make anything, really. It was impressive work, as always.

"We're civil," She answers with a smile, tilting her head towards the older man, "Isn't that right, bishop?" Heahmund grunts in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ivar lowers himself closer to Artemis, quickly bringing a hand to shove at Heahmund's head so that his prying eyes would not see him kiss her plush lips. It was not the bishop's business.

"It's time for training." He then announces, turning to the bishop, shoving his head playfully one more time, "I thought you might want this back," He removes the sword from his belt, tossing it to him. Heahmund easily caught it very easily in his grip.

"I will see you tonight." Ivar mutters to her, placing another quick kiss to her brow before following Heahmund out.

They leave Artemis alone with her thoughts, and she almost wished the little boy didn't have to leave, so that she may have some form of company.

...

It was a beautiful day when their army departed.

The sun was blinding and the heat blistering. Back on their boats they went and into the sea, the calming waves carrying them to their destination.

Both armies were hundreds of feet away, biding their time for their leaders to ready themselves to declare war.

Ivar against Lagertha.

Brother against brother.

The intensity and ferocity could be felt in the air, from the birds soaring in the skies, to the creatures dwelling in the seas, it could be felt by everyone. Opposing camps were set before the battle and a last negotiation attempt was discussed before blood would be spilt.

Ivar's anger got the best of him when seeing Ubbe on Lagertha's side, as well as her son Bjorn, who had come from the Mediterranean just in time to defend his mother.

King Harald faces his own complications, extremely displeased with his brother. He tried to convince him to switch sides, but it seemed Halfdan's loyalty to Bjorn was stronger than his loyalty to his own brother. It was sad to see such battles within their own families. They would soon kill each other no doubt.

The camp was set up similarly to the one upon arriving in England, tents peppering all the way towards the horizon. The forging tent was miniscule, as there wouldn't be much need for it. The expectation was that the battle would end very quickly, and Artemis hoped that it did, with positive results.

Ivar had made arrangements for her to remain out of sight until he could come back for her, assuming he would come back. 2 guards were set to remain behind and watch over the camp, and in some ways, to look after her.

She sits on the ground at the far end of her tent to shield herself from the sun, fiddling with the loose threads that held her leather vest together, an anxious antic of the circumstances. To pass the time, she watches the warriors gather in preparation for the inevitable. Ivar was busy meeting with Harald, most likely more talk of strategy and such. She couldn't be bothered with the details, but it ultimately left her lonelier than she cared to admit.

The day continues, as well as the heat. Hvitserk appears suddenly in the campsite with Bjorn following behind, and the warriors instantly begin to murmur of his sudden return from the Mediterranean. They stopped in front of the tent, bickering quietly between themselves.

Her eyes catch a glimpse of Bjorns form, immediately noting his change in appearance. His skin was tanned, kissed by the sun, and his face glowed like she's never seen it before. His hair was paler, extremely flaxen and bright. He seemed to be a completely different person somehow; a changed person.

"Ivar will not back down," Hvitserk tells him with a sigh, crossing his arms and standing firm. They took shade in her tent, and she suddenly felt awkward as they began to bicker again.

"And neither will my mother," Bjorn answers back, "We are brothers, all sons of Ragnar. I do not wish to fight my blood." Hvitserk runs a hand down his face in frustration.

"And you think that I do? Lagertha killed my mother!"

"And your mother ripped apart my family!" They bickered so quickly that they were almost incomprehensible, tongues lashing at one another. They were in such a heated debate that they had both failed to notice her.

"All Ivar has done was separate us," Bjorn mutters, "You and Ubbe cannot even look at each other. Do not think I haven't noticed." Hvitserk proceeds to frown, knowing his relationship with Ubbe had deteriorated. It made him feel terrible.

Hvitserk remains quiet and Bjorn scoffs in response, blonde hair whipping about as he turns to show his younger brother his back. Bjorn's blue eyes landed on Artemis's small form, crouched in the corner, her head turned away from them as she worked to rip apart blades of grass between her fingers.

"Artemis?" He calls out to her, shifting his head to get a closer look at her from behind the small table. She says nothing, but offers him a nod of acknowledgement.

"I thought the tent was empty," Hvitserk says, "We sound like a couple of old fools, hm?"

"Hvitserk tells me you are now a free woman." Bjorn's curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Yes." She nods again.

"Ivar is full of surprises, isn't he?" Bjorn chuckles darkly, crossing his arms in amusement.

"Without a doubt."

"I want you to know that I've seen the rest of your island," He continues, the small hints of a sad smile on his burned lips. Her heart suddenly drops, "And I must admit I've met the strangest people."

"I'm sure they thought the same of you." Was her snarky response, watching his shoulders shake in genuine amusement. "Was it to your liking?"

"The Mediterranean is a beauty. I've seen things I could have never dreamed of. I will remember it fondly."

"Yet you hide something." She tells him, rubbing her hands down the sides of her trousers, reaching out to rip more grass from the dirt. Bjorn sighs, turning to glance at a frowning Hvitserk before replying.

"Crete has been invaded. Andalusian's conquer the island. I left just as war had broken out." She could feel her heart pulsing in her ears as soon as he uttered those words. An uncomfortable heat rushed through her, as if her body were trying to fight off something within her.

"Andalusian's?" She finds herself asking in the softest tone, suddenly feeling faint. She blinks rapidly to gain her senses back, watching Bjorn tilt his head at her before nodding.

"They are Muslim's from Spain." Finally, she releases a breath, her hands gripping at the roots of her hair to make sense of the words.

"They say that the Arabs attempted to conquer Crete well over a hundred years ago," She speaks so low that both Hvitserk and Bjorn had to step a bit closer to hear her, "Everyone knows the story."

"And what happened then?" Hvitserk asks her, crouching down to sit beside her.

"The Emperor had prevailed in its defense," She continues, bringing her glossy eyes to Bjorn, "Why...?" She couldn't even formulate the words to ask him, but he understood.

"They were exiled from Spain. The island was an easy target for them to control."

"Artemis, you're crying." Hvitserk states dumbly, watching little tears roll down the apples of her cheeks. Somehow Hvitserk was always there to see her cry.

"If what Bjorn says is true, and war has broken out," She struggles to say, fighting the feeling of her throat constricting, "Then people were killed. My father could have been killed."

"You don't know that," Bjorn interjected, "You cannot say for sure."

"How can you say that?" She challenges, "You are a warrior. You should know well the fickle outcomes of war." Bjorn remains silent, releasing a large sigh at her comment.

"War spares no one, not even the innocent." She sniffles.

They all knew it to be true.

...

Negotiations failed miserably, and war was officially declared.

Horns blasted and the warriors assembled into their places in an orderly fashion on both sides. Chanting echoed across the green pastures and weapons were held high in the air.

Harald cheered alongside his men, giving them some kind of speech to arouse them with the need to slaughter. It wasn't very hard to get them to react in the way he wanted.

Ivar smiles, his feet hanging off the edge of the small cliff. His eyes scanned the field eagerly, gaze trained on Hvitserk and Heahmund as they took their positions. He'd need to join them soon.

"Men will speak of this day." He says quietly to himself, but Artemis hears him well enough, slowly approaching to kneel beside him. Just below were his archers waiting to defend him, his chariot prepared to ride off.

He turns to her, offering a grin despite the frown tugging at her lips.

"Are you worried?" He asks, reaching out a hand to smooth the lines on her brow. It was wrinkled in concern.

"A bit." She quietly admits, wringing her hands as proof that she was much more worried than she let on.

He notices the quiver strapped to her back, the unstrung bow nestled neatly within the arrows.

"What do you think you're doing with that?" Ivar jerks his chin towards her weapon with brows raised, "Do you intend to fight? I cannot allow you to be here. You are to go back to camp."

He watches her scan the battlefield just as he had. The men roared at each other as they pounded their fists against their chest. They were desperate to fight, and the energy that once made her uneasy seemed to fill her with something she couldn't really identify, but it made her want to run into danger.

"And what if I do not wish to go to camp?" She finally retorts, shifting her gaze to his.

"Do not be foolish," He grunts, playfully tugging at the ends of her braided hair, "It is not a matter of debate. The battlefield is too dangerous for a baby bird such as yourself." Somehow, he still had a sense of humor, even at the very brink of a war.

"I do not care," Her tone was stubborn like a child, "I do not care for my fate." Not anymore, anyway.

A noise resembling a growl brewed in Ivar's throat as a sign of his displeasure. He grips her chin tightly with his fingers, turning her face up to look at him. His eyes were hard and calculating, but impossibly blue, and filled with so much more emotion than he could ever express.

"Do not say such words so carelessly," He grits his teeth, the pressure of his fingers enough to make her wince, "What is the matter with you, hm? Do you not think when all this is over that I wouldn't want to rejoice with you in my arms?" Artemis shakes off his grip, bringing her eyes down towards the open plains at the very bottom of the cliff, worrying her lip between her teeth.

He sighs, throwing his arm around her shoulders to bring her close to him again.

"It is dangerous," He repeats, "And I do not wish to see you hurt." She listens intently as he murmurs the words into her hair, struggling to make his affections clear.

"You are not afraid?" Her voice sounded so small, drowning in the sea of war cries.

"No," He answers without hesitation, "I've waited for this long enough." Artemis shifts under his arm to get a good look at him. She searches his eyes again as if it were the last time she would see them, reaching up to place her hand over his prickly sideburns. Ivar sensed a farewell in her actions.

"Do not look at me like that," He demands, his lips curving into a gentle smile, "Your eyes say too much. You wound me before I can even go into battle."

She begins to feel the familiar pricking sensation in her eyes again, and they quickly gloss over, fixing her a blurry image of Ivar. Overwhelmed with emotion, she suddenly moves forward to smash her lips against his, the force causing Ivar to lean back unsteadily before pushing forward with the same fervent intensity that she had. After a few urgent kisses she pulls away, throwing her arms around him as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

"Ivar?" She sniffles.

"Yes, baby bird?" He holds her tight, knowing in just a few moments a battle would be separating them. He runs a hand down her braided hair, feeling her tears against his skin, her voice wavering as she speaks.

"Pray that your gods protect you." ...

She was forced to stay back at the camp, utterly alone, save for those two guards, but she noticed they had silently disappeared a while ago. Probably bored of playing caretaker. She had robbed them of the excitement.

She could hear the battle, the warriors crying out in the distance. It drifted over the camp like a wave crashing against a shoreline. It was unlike anything she's ever heard before, and just the sound alone made the battle of York seem trivial.

It was enough to peak her curiosity, wondering what it must feel like to stab and kill another living being. The thought never crossed her mind before, and as a Christian, why would it?

If Heahmund, a bishop, could fight so vigorously, then why couldn't she...right?

She had a strong desire to just walk off into the middle of their war, to witness death first hand, perhaps even walk into a blade.

Who did she think she was? A fighter? No. A coward? Maybe. Yes.

She sighs, feeling the need to escape the tent after a few minutes of playing the scenarios over and over in her mind. The outcome of such a battle was uncertain. Ivar was undoubtedly a master strategist, he'd been planning the attack for 2 months, and although she knew he'd been trained in the skills of a warrior, she still wondered...would he escape out of this alive?

She could already imagine his rage if she voiced such a thought to him.

What, you think me weak like you, baby bird?

She allows herself a small smile, releasing a little puff of laughter. Her fondness for him had grown exponentially, which made all of this much harder.

She roams about the empty campsite until she finally decides to plop down on the grass, continuing to listen to the faint yells in the distance. A few minutes passed and she was growing weary.

Pulling an arrow from her quiver, she brings it down with a force, stabbing the sharp point deep into the dry earth to distract her mind.

Stab, stab, stab. Sigh.

As she littered the ground in slashes, old scuffed shoes appeared in front of her, and she quickly jerked away to get a good look at the intruder.

"What are you doing?" Freydis looms over her with a quizzical look upon her pretty little face. Artemis watches the blonde sit in front of her, the old dress she wore pooling around her.

"You have been traveling with the army?" Artemis questions her, hand tightly gripping the arrow as if ready to stab her. She was already in a foul mood.

"Of course I have. Wherever Ivar goes, I go." Artemis doesn't bother gracing her with an answer, only looks on at her with a curious expression. They've never had a formal conversation before, and the last time she'd seen the blonde was that day in York.

"I was so sure I had him. I thought perhaps I could please him," Freydis continues, smiling bitterly as she leans back on her hands, comfortably stretching out her legs, "But I see you have caught his eye instead."

"What a pity," Artemis feigns sympathy, twirling the arrow in her fingers, "You sound bothered."

"I had a plan," Freydis hisses, suddenly lurching forward on her knees to point an accusing finger at her, "I had a plan and you stole him away from me." Artemis jerks away from her, using the wood of the arrow to push Freydis's finger away from her.

"You had a plan." She repeats Freydis's words flatly, unamused.

"Of course I did! I convinced Ivar to free me. He takes kindly to words of praise, loves to be told of what a great king he would be." Freydis releases a hysterical giggle, and something about that makes Artemis uneasy. The blonde seemed to be at wit's end.

"And so you offered your body to him, in return for what? Power?" Artemis concludes.

"It is what all men want," Freydis says, the little angry arch in her brow becoming more apparent, her voice rising a few octaves as her frustration bubbled to the surface, "I was supposed to be taken care of, he was supposed to take care of me. I do not have the means to survive as a freewoman." She brings her blue eyes to glare at Artemis. "And I do not like competition." She finishes her rant.

"There is no competition," Artemis sucks her teeth, shifting to stand before returning the glare.

"I do not understand why he chose a foreigner," Freydis shouts in frustration, "You are nothing compared to a true northern woman." Artemis bites her lip, her eyes racking over the blondes features. Freydis was quite beautiful, even in hysterics, and she felt the tugs of jealousy on her heartstrings at the memory of her looming over Ivar.

She huffs, heat rising to her cheeks in anger, but she refused to feel the hands of envy. There were other things to worry about, and a conniving woman should be the least of them.

"Perhaps he realized how much of a poison you are," Artemis sneers, "Trying to latch on to him like a leech to blood. If all you have to offer is your body, then I'm sure you will have no trouble finding work." Freydis glares, her pretty face scrunched up in displeasure at the insult.

"You're ambitious." Artemis continues to say.

"And you lack it!" Freydis throws her hands up, "Ivar could make you his queen if he wished it so!"

"I've no interest. I am a foreigner as you say." The thought had never crossed her mind before. She saw herself as nothing more than, what, a companion? She shakes her head, focusing her attention towards the edge of the camp to avoid punching the blonde.

"Then step aside," Was the last thing she heard Freydis say, but she ignored it, her eyes catching bright colors lapping at the tents at the edge of the campsite. She blinks, squinting her eyes until the smoke begins to reach high as if to touch the heavens.

Fire.

It was spreading rapidly.

Artemis felt she couldn't move, her body rigid as all she could do was stare stupidly at the scene.

"What is wrong with you?" Freydis snarls, "Have you suddenly gone stupid?"

Artemis ignores the blonde's babbling again, her eyes making out silhouettes that now turned into the shape of men, warriors, all carrying torches, and all charging towards them with immense speed.

"Freydis, get up."

"What?"

"Get up and run!" Artemis lurches forward, grabbing the blonde by the arm and using all her strength to pull her to her feet. Freydis stands and looks over her shoulder, immediately letting out a terrible shriek. They grew closer, setting fire to all the tents and to whatever else they could burn. They were about five, all Lagertha's men by the blue colors they wore on their arms.

"Run!" Artemis pushes Freydis forward and they both take off in a sprint.

"Who are they?!" Freydis heaves, turning back again to glance at the men, easily setting the entire encampment aflame. The summer heat increased the fires tenfold.

"Lagertha's men, they're destroying the campsite!" Artemis coughs, the fumes of the fire already reaching her throat as they ran past the many tents that began to burn. Rations, supplies, everything was burning to cinders.

Her boots stomped over the dry grass, crushing twigs and everything else in her hurried pace, yet she felt they'd never reach the forests quick enough.

Freydis screams as an arrow whizzes by her, grazing her blonde tresses. She lets out a wail of fear, tears pouring down her pale face that blurred her vision. She stumbles, skirt tangling in her legs enough to cause her to fall, grabbing onto Artemis's quiver on the way.

Artemis let out a yelp on impact, her face colliding into the hot dirt. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, and she hisses as the pouch of arrows and her bow dig painfully into her side.

The flames grew taller, brighter than the sun. It was as if they had descended into hell itself.

Still, the men grew closer, smiles on their faces as one readied his bow again, pulling the string back.

"Freydis, get up! Get up!" Artemis cried hysterically, stumbling to her feet and pulling her up, but the blonde refused, becoming a sobbing mess as she choked on poisoned air. "If you don't get up, we will die!"

"It is fated! The gods, they-" Freydis stops, her eyes bulging out and blood immediately dripping from her mouth. An arrow pierced her throat completely, lodged all the way through. The tip of the arrow was visible through the skin, blood pouring out the deadly wound. A shriek lodged itself in Artemis's throat at the sight of a choking Freydis.

There was so much blood spilling out, and finally she did scream, sweat mixing in with her tears as she fought to rise to her feet. She glanced down at Freydis, watching her choke to death, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her voice weak gurgles against her blood.

That was not a fate she wanted for herself.

She couldn't spare Freydis a second glance, turning on stumbling legs and pushing forward.

"She's the one! Shoot her down already!" She barely heard one shout, and immediately another arrow soars, the tip tearing at the flesh of her left ear. She ignores the blooming pain as she runs, already feeling the blood leaking down her jaw and onto her neck.

She wanted so much to collapse, the bad air and her tired legs slowing her down.

Another arrow whizzed by, barely missing her cheek as it fell flat to the ground.

Run run run run!

She repeated the mantra, frantically searching for those guards that Ivar had assigned, until coming to the realization that they were most likely dead at the hands of those men. This was obviously planned.

The bow and quiver felt heavy on her back, completely useless as she was not yet skilled to render a man dead, and she was much too fearful to do so. But she needed something, anything.

The forging tent comes into view, and she thinks she had surely left something lying about, anything that would help her if she came face to face with one of the warriors. She could nearly see it, the tarp slowly catching onto the flames that spread.

More arrows were shot, along with more shouts of frustration, enough to make her wonder how they haven't pierced her already in the way they so easily did to Freydis.

She turns round quickly to see the men at her heels before finally entering the tent. Her large hammer sat untouched on the wooden table top, seemingly ready to be used. She grabbed it tightly in her hand and sprinted out the tent just as it began to collapse in fire.

She runs into the surrounding trees, hoping that they'd lose her, but they probably knew the forests far better than she.

One of them was successful in reaching her, his long legs stomping behind her. He was big in stature and a nasty smile played on his lips. Large dirty hands reached for her, grabbing onto the front of her vest and jerking her forward. She screams, knowing his intentions were beyond just killing once he rips her vest open.

The hammer hanging lifeless in her grip suddenly felt hot in her hand, enough for her to muster all her strength to swing the it against him as if beating a mighty sword. Though uncoordinated, she struck him well enough across the head with all her might, a cry passing through her dried lips. Blood splattered over her face but she barely noticed, blinking the red from her burning eyes as he released her with a shove.

He stumbled back from the impact; stunned, eyes rolling to the back of his skull before falling onto his back. His blood spilled onto the grass, pieces of skin and grime hanging from the deep gash. Her hands trembled, but again, she raised her arms high above her head, bringing it down with a sickening crack, smashing his face into mush until he was completely unrecognizable.

She sways, falling hard on her knees, vomiting the contents of her stomach right beside her first kill.

She just killed a man.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, her ears perking up at the sound of heavy feet crushing leaves and fallen branches. The others were close, and she had to escape, but the farther into the forest she ventured, the closer she was to the clearing where the battlefield was. She was running away from an opponent, only to fall into another trap.

Her breathing was erratic and her muscles tensed, but she pushed on, bloody hammer in hand. The faster she went the farther away she was from the attackers, slithering her way behind ancient trees and large shrubs, but it was as if they had just vanished. She could not hear them tracking her down anymore, but it wasn't enough to stop her from pushing further.

Move. Keep going. Faster.

Turning to look over her shoulder she trips over a large jagged stone, her legs finally giving out. With a yelp her body slams to the ground, twisting and rolling down the harsh forest floor. Twigs and leaves stuck into her hair as her world spun.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally comes to a stop with a pained grunt. She lands on her face, grass and dirt entering her mouth. She spat, turning her head to the side, groaning at the feel of her aching body. So much noise surrounded her, the clash of metal and the war cries of men. She closes her eyes, wheezing as she fights to breathe. Her throat burned still from breathing in the toxic fumes.

She was tired.

If the attackers wouldn't reach her, then something else would finish her off.

She began to drift off, eyes fluttering when an annoying pain bloomed on her cheek over and over. It was a pecking, like a needle trying to pierce through her skin. She cracked her eyes open, blinking to clear her vision.

It was a raven.

It's beady eyes were as dark as its feathers, cocking its head as if questioning her. It pecked her again, this time on her hand before flapping its wings erratically as if to take flight, but it never did. It just looked at her.

Artemis squints against the glare of the weak sun, now hiding behind the darkest of clouds. A storm was approaching. She glances back at the bird that remained very still by her side before rolling her tired body over at the scene before her.

She had landed on the small hill where she bid Ivar goodbye, and she was surrounded by some of the dead bodies of Ivar's archers.

With a startled kick to the body beside her, she shifts, moving to crawl away to be at a distance from the bodies. All were littered with arrows.

The bile rose again as her eyes scanned the field. It was nothing she could have imagined. Hundreds of bloody bodies strewn across the clearing, and hundreds more fighting with all their might in the name of their leader.

Her eyes memorized the images of the deformed bodies, some disemboweled, others dismembered. Limbs were hanging off the bodies of the wounded who screamed from the shocking pain.

The bile came out, and she gags, sweat clinging her hair to her brow like a second skin. She spat, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, feeling the sting of cuts littering her cheeks from the sharp branches. The pain of her torn ear finally hit her full force, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the unusual pain. She brings her fingers to touch the wound, and what should have been the shell of her ear was gone. Horrified, she looks at the fresh blood coating her fingertips, swallowing thickly.

With a shuddering breath she struggles to ignore the pain, scanning her eyes once more over the field, searching for his chariot.

Could he be...dead?

Before she could fall back into the dirt against the prospect, she spots him, riding across the field like the king he knew he would be.

He was yelling orders at his men, stopping occasionally to lodge his axe into someone’s skull. Even from a distance she could see the blood that coated his face and the look of determination he had.

He wasn't afraid.

She was in absolute awe. Ivar looked incredible.

She would smile if she could, but all chances were taken away when Queen Lagertha, clear as day, makes her way towards Ivar's chariot, sword held high in hand.

The wheel of his chariot was stuck, and he couldn't get the mare to pull him out.

That was just enough time to make her kill.

"No, no, no," Artemis begins to cry, gripping her loose hair as she watches the scene unfold.

The raven, already forgotten, begins to flap its wings rapidly, cawing quite loudly. As soon as she stood on her shaky legs, the raven flew, perching itself on her shoulder. Its claws sunk into her flesh, though she hardly noticed. What she did notice was the raven was still cawing, like it was urging her to do something.

But what? All she had was her bow.

Oh.

She reaches for the bow strapped to her back, taking the splintered wood in her bloody hand. It should have snapped from the impact of her fall, but it strangely remained in one piece, along with some of her arrows. Quickly, she digs in the pocket of her trousers for the bowstring, her shaking hands attaching the stretchy fibers to the bow as she was taught.

Taking a deep breath, she removed an arrow from her quiver, locking into place. The raven pecked at her cheek gently and she knew what she had to do.

But could she do it?

Ivar ceased his desperation to move his chariot. For a moment he was smiling, realizing he had the upper hand in the battle anyway, but all would be for nothing if Lagertha got to him first.

The queen stabbed at the warriors in her way, going straight towards him ever so slowly, and it was like everything around them had disappeared. All Artemis could see was Ivar and Lagertha, nothing else.

And she only had one shot.

She raises the bow, pulling the string as far back as she could.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Steady your stance. Pull the string. Release the arrow.

She recites the lesson in her head.

Lagertha raises her sword above her head, ready to bring it down in one swift movement. She yells as she builds up momentum, and Ivar quickly turns in surprise, his instinct quick to react, raising his axe to clash against her sword. She falls back, and again, raises her sword, so close to penetrating his armor.

Shoot!

A voice boomed, whether it was around her or in her head, Artemis didn't know, but there was no hesitation. Her fingertips released the sting and the arrow went flying at a fierce velocity to its target, impaling itself all the way through the flesh of the queen's wrist.

She cries out both in anger and pain, staggering back again as she gritted her teeth harshly against the excruciating pain. Her fingers spread open to drop her sword, falling onto her knees as she weakly cradled her wrist.

Ivar wasted no time. He grabbed a hold of his axe, slithering down to the ground and pushing Lagertha on her back, twisting the arrow lodge in her flesh to keep her from attacking. She screams and flails, Ivar's weight taking a toll on her already weak body.

He places his large hand over her eyes tightly, using the force to smash her head onto the ground. He lowers himself closer before bringing down his axe against her throat, slicing her head cleanly off.

That was it. The war was his. Kattegat was his.

He collapses onto his back beside the dead woman, he chest heaving as warriors continue to fight around him.

Slowly he sits up, the head of Lagertha in a death grip as he dragged his tired body over to his chariot, mounting the seat. He raised her head in the air by the hair, the blood leaking over his arm and onto his armored chest.

"Surrender!" He booms, "Lagertha is dead! All hail your new king!"

The opposing warriors began to retreat, fleeing back into their camps. Ivar's warriors cheered, yelling their praises to the gods, until some noticed the smoke filling the atmosphere from the tree tops.

The camp! The camp! Yelled the warriors.

Ivar's smile fades. He drops his arm, turning to look over his shoulder at what the other men gazed at.

The trees on the hill top were indeed surrounded by smoke, but that was not what held his attention.

Artemis stood there, blood, dirt and soot covering her face, chest heaving and bow held in a death grip in her trembling hand. A raven sat comfortably on her shoulder, flapping its wings wildly.

She was a sight to behold. Ivar couldn't tear his eyes from her. She looked every bit a warrior, even now as she fell to her knees, staring at him just as intently.

And then he realizes.

She was the one. She shot the arrow.

Ivar had so many questions, his mouth opening like a fish out of water as if to shout them to her from where he was.

He barks at a passing warrior to move his chariot, and once it was loosened, he turns it to bring it closer to the cliff. They stare at each other for a while until Ivar slowly raises Lagertha's head in the air towards her, as if offering it to her as a prize.

She stares at the decapitated head before dragging her eyes over Ivar's armoured body, covered in the sticky blood of his enemies. She would have been fearful of such a sight once, but now, all she wanted to do was fall into his arms.

The raven cawed loudly, flapping its wings again to gain her attention, but when she turned her head to look at the creature, it flew off, disappearing into the smokey sky.

Suddenly in the midst of the smoke stood a figure, an old man in all black. He held a long wooden staff in his spindly fingers. His beard was gray, long and matted, and when Artemis finally settled her eyes to look into his, she was startled. One eye was beautiful, different shades of blue in its depths, but the other a gaping black hole with dried blood around the edges.

He smiles at her.

"Well done." His voice seemed to vibrate through her before disappearing into a cluster of cawing ravens that colored the skies black.

...

@heavenly1927 @didiintheblog @rastakami23 @inforapound @a-mess-of-fandoms @leilabeaux @ostra814 @zumzum96

#ivar #ivar imagine #ivarfanfiction #ivarxofc #ivar the boneless #vikings #vikings ivar #vikings fanfiction #alex hogh andersen

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lesbatiddy · 4 years

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The Boys: Frenchie, Terror the dog, M.M., Kimiko, Wee Hughie and Butcher

Wondering whether you should watch The Boys?

Here’s a list of reasons for and against to help you decide if you’re on the fence or have been hearing about it from friends or coworkers.

You may know it as the origin of the Invisible Cunt meme or from this scene.

Overall I feel the lazy problematic aspects are outweighed by how good the show is - this is mostly just to warn people about potential content that’s connected to past traumas, phobias, etc. that they’d want to avoid.

Potential mild spoilers and graphic content warning below

Why you might want to avoid it:

- VERY, VERY graphic. If you’re even a little squeamish, this show might not be you. I’m usually fine with gore, but even I felt it was excessive at times. There’s enough blood to make Carrie look like a fucking teletubbies episode. Heads explode and neck bits flop about. You will see internal organs exposed and people cut in half, piles of bodies and laser vision burns. A man’s face is torn off his skull. A bomb explodes in a man’s ass. Family friendly shit.

- Racially motivated violence against POC and racial slurs

- There’s a literal Nazi superhero who commits said violence and goes on a White Supremacist rant. If you join the fandom you may have to deal with fringe individuals simping for said Nazi superhero

- Rape/sexual assault, both onscreen and mentioned, in addition to workplace sexual harassment and a victim of rape having to deal with abuse and harassment from their rapist

- The woman in a relationship with the main character is Fridged (killed off immediately and used as motivation for revenge). Dead women are motivations for more than one character.

- Drug use, on-screen overdoses, violence against animals, child abuse, kidnapping, and endangerment, discussion and mention of suicide

- Depictions of homophobia; a bisexual women is outed against her will on live television (though this is rightfully portrayed as a bad thing)

- the most HORRIFICALLY DISTURBING FUCKING SEX SCENES

- The show may be setting up for a redemption arc for a rapist dipshit and a man who murders his girlfriend and remains unrepentant for manslaughter he committed. They’re also both being lured into a cult.

- You will feel physical, violent hatred for some of these characters

- You may end up watching the entire show just to watch said characters be graphically murdered to gain closure

- You have to deal with the anxiety of said reviled, hate-inducing characters being extremely dangerous and interact with characters you love and do not want to see die

- Holy FUCK they BETTER KILL THESE MOTHERFUCKERS

- Fucking Nazi shitbag

- /+ You may develop paranoia towards Fresca?

-/+ You may get Billy Joel’s Pressure stuck in your head for a week like I did

- It’s on Amazon Prime so you have to support Jeff Bezos and his shitfuck company, though the show is simultaneously a critic of people like him and corporations? How the fuck does he get away with this shit

Why you should watch it:

+ The premise is people with zero superpowers go around murdering terrible, horrible people with god-complexes in extremely violent ways like a group of homeless insane Batmen and it is very, very satisfying

+ Critiques and parodies how celebrity status and money make people immune to consequences and legal punishment, showcases systemic racism, systemic sexism, offers a not-unsubtle critic of capitalism, biphobia, general homophobia in society and the media, Scientology, corporations, the government’s inability and unwillingness to protect its people, the War on Terror, and politician’s greed and ineptitude - overall very, very relevant today

+ Not unsubtle depictions of how capitalism and nationalism go hand in hand with white supremacy

+ Fantastic writing, other than the flaws mentioned above, phenomenal acting, well-rounded characters you’ll love, the horribleness is broken up by wholesome moments and one-liners top notch soundtrack

+ People of colour in badass roles, disabled character representation, two whole bisexuals the bar is so low but

+ Antony Starr deserves an Oscar for playing the best fucked-up character I’ve ever had homicidal fantasies towards

+ Overall great take on the superhero genre as a whole

+ Karen Fukuhara is extremely attractive (and violent)

+ Karl Urban is extremely attractive (and violent)

+ Better than the comic its based on, don’t @ me

+ They gave “The Female” (Karen Fukuhara’s character), an actual name unlike in the fuckin’ comic

+ Makes fun of Joss Whedon’s bitch ass

+ You DEFINITELY, TOTALLY SHOULD NOT pirate it even if it’s probably easy to do, if you don’t support Am*zon

+ Black Noir

+ The Spice Girls

+ Family-sized lube

+ Billy Joel

+/- Love Sausage

#The Boys #VCU #the boys tv #the boys amazon #tv series #tw #cw #spoilers #tw racial violence #tw sex assault #tw r #tw r*pe #tw violence #tw graphic #tw gore #the spice girls

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ihearthorror · 3 years

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My Top 10 Favourite Horror Films of 2020

Every January, most people who review or talk about movies on YouTube tend to piece together a Top 10 list of their favourite movies from the year prior. In order to stand out from the crowd (and also because I was too lazy to do this sooner), I decided to wait until March, by which time most YouTubers aren’t really talking about movies from 2020 anymore.

I know what you’re thinking: sounds kinda stupid – why would anybody care about a Top 10 list of the best movies of 2020…THREE months into the new year!? Well, as you’ve likely heard, 2020 was a year like no other, and as result of the ongoing global pandemic, movie release dates from 2020 were pushed back months, sometimes multiple times. Some films that were supposed to be released last year didn’t arrive until 2021, even though they’re officially considered “2020 films,” according to their profiles on websites like IMBD and Letterboxd.

And so, some of these so-called “2020 films” were not available (at least to me) until only recently, such as Saint Maud or The Dark and the Wicked. I feel like I’ve now had a chance to see almost all of the horror films I’ve wanted to see from last year. In this video, if you care to stick around, I will share with you my Top 10 favourite horror films of 2020. So, here we go…

#10/ The Dark and the Wicked:

A sister and brother return to the family homestead where their father is slowly dying and their mother is understandably distraught but also disturbed and distant. The siblings soon realize that something evil has invaded their family home as they are terrorized by whatever is slowly killing their father. Directed by the same guy behind 2008’s The Strangers, The Dark and the Wicked is at times bleak and unsettling, and it does a good job at keeping you intrigued in this family’s unnerving conflict. However, it felt a bit rushed and undeveloped at other times, and its ending left me somewhat unsatisfied.

#9/ Relic:

Soon after Kay and her daughter Sam return to their remote family home following the disappearance of the family matriarch, the widowed Edna, they discover that something sinister has taken hold of both Edna and the house itself. Although Relic – which was co-produced by Jake Gyllenhaal and marked the feature directorial debut for Natalie Erika James – isn’t exactly offering up any enticing twists or salacious gore, or even a original concept for that matter, it relies on evoking dread and building tension to compel its audience to stay invested until the bitter end.

#8/ Amulet:

Taking its sweet time to unravel, Amulet is centered around Tomaz, an ex-soldier who is now homeless but is offered a place to stay at a decaying house in London, which is inhabited by a beautiful young woman named Magda and her dying mother. As the story moves along, we see that Tomaz is starting to develop feelings for Magda, who seems a bit…off. His feelings for her don’t wane even after Tomaz discovers that there’s something insidious going on in the attic of the house, where Magda’s mother is seemingly imprisoned. Toss in a suspicious nun and you’ve got yourself a creepy little film that seems to have fallen between the cracks.

#7/ The Beach House:

One might argue that not a lot actually happens in The Beach House and that the payoff isn’t worth the investment, but if you go into this film with an open mind and zero expectations, you should at least be satisfied. Two troubled college students head to a deserted beach getaway to spend some time together, but end up struggling to survive alongside some unexpected guests as a mysterious infection disrupts their holiday. Although it is a slow build up to the film’s climax, it is a tense and intriguing ride along the way, as a series of unsettling events give way to an apocalyptic episode that feels almost like a throwback to the sci-fi films of the 1950s. Making his feature film directorial debut, Jeffrey A. Brown elicits with The Beach House those brooding existential thoughts that lay dormant in the deep boroughs of our minds.

#6/ The Invisible Man:

There’s always an elevated risk when making a modern film based on an old story that has already been told through cinema numerous times before. The last time H.G. Wells’ 1897 novel The Invisible Man had been adapted by Hollywood was in 2000’s Hollow Man, which was panned by critics despite making a sizeable profit. The 2020 adaptation is far superior and is perhaps the best adaptation of Wells’ classic in any medium. Elizabeth Moss gives a stellar performance that draws real emotion, so that we agonize alongside her as she is essentially haunted by a relentless ghost hellbent on controlling every aspect of her life. We live in an era when technology has advanced enough to bring this 124-year-old story to life like never before, while a polished script and an exceptional lead performance gives The Invisible Man a deeper level of emotion and terror.

#5/ Saint Maud:

For most of Saint Maud it is unclear whether certain experiences are actually happening in reality for the main character or if it’s all simply in her head, as some sort of mental breakdown caused by a work-related tragedy. Maud is a young hospice nurse and a newly-converted Roman Catholic who suddenly becomes obsessed with “saving the soul” of the woman she is currently taking care of, Amanda, a hedonistic dancer with a chronic illness. Maud’s behaviour worsens, as does her mental state, as horrific scenes and visions make us question if she’s actually losing her mind or experiencing something beyond this world. Saint Maud is an A24 feature by the way, so that should be enough to know what you’re getting here in terms of quality.

#4/ The Lodge:

Isolation is often embraced as a way to pad a horror film’s fear factor, and it works especially here in The Lodge, as a soon-to-be stepmom becomes stranded at a remote holiday home in the middle of winter with her fiance’s two children. The kids begin to untangle the dark past of their stepmom-to-be and a series of disturbing events transpire as their hope for survival fades. The Lodge is a dreary, atmospheric slow burn that leaves you somewhat unsettled. With its wintry backdrop, stylish sequences, and almost claustrophobic dread, the film doesn’t ever allow its audience to feel at ease for long, insisting that an underlying foreboding remain intact throughout. Although I found the ending somewhat disappointing, I immediately began to concoct a possible prequel that would delve into the backstory of the film’s lead character. One can hope.

#3/ Host:

It’s increasingly difficult to be innovative and original when it comes to horror films these days, especially in the particular genre of so-called “found footage.” Rob Savage’s Host, however, comes off as something different, setting itself apart from most films in this realm in various ways. It centers around six friends who hold a séance via Zoom during a COVID lockdown, guided (at first) by a medium they hired. The séance then takes a dark turn and things soon escalate into madness. Sure, there are elements in Host that are prevalent in numerous horror films, but it uses a modern and topical way to implement them, while also refusing to overstay its welcome by cueing the credits less than an hour in. Overall, this film’s popcorn-and-Saturday-night-movie fun factor is why it ranks so high on this list.

#2/ Possessor:

It’s always a treat to come across an original idea, especially when it’s within the horror realm, and Possessor is certainly unlike anything else I’ve seen in awhile. Andrea Riseborough plays an elite corporate assassin who uses brain-implant technology to take control over other people’s bodies in order to kill high profile targets, though with every mission she gets further and further away from her true self. With her latest possession, she becomes trapped in the mind of a man who threatens to obliterate her for good. It is a provocative vision by director-writer Brandon Cronenberg, who just so happens to be the son of legendary Canadian filmmaker David Cronenberg, and it serves as a disturbing piece of dystopian fiction that is even more frightening because it isn’t too far beyond belief.

And because everyone else is doing it, here are five honorable mentions that narrowly missed the list:

- The Call

- Color Out of Space

- Don’t Listen

- The Mortuary Collection

- Porno

#1/ His House:

In addition to its emotional storytelling and genuine moments of terror, His House – from first-time director Remi Weekes – sheds a light on the plight of refugees in a way that feels both respectful and empathetic. After a Sudanese couple make a harrowing escape from their war-torn homeland, they are granted asylum in England, where they struggle to adjust and fit in. They are assigned a shabby house on the outskirts of London, where the couple begin to experience terrifying and unexplainable events. His House is built around a fresh concept, two fantastic leads, and some truly haunting imagery, and I wish that more horror directors would put as much effort into quality filmmaking as Weekes did here. If this is his first venture into feature filmmaking, I am excited to see what his future has in store.

There you have it, my Top 10 favourite horror films of 2020. What did you think and were any of these titles on your own Top 10 list? Please tell me your thoughts and recommendations in the comments below.

youtube

#ihearthorror moviereviews horrormovies Top10horror bestof2020 horrormovies2020 bestofhorror2020

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notyetneedcoffee · 5 years

Text

Soul Seer

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: None this Chapter, but later

Author’s Note: Takes place right after Avengers 1, with time travel elements and hints of Infinity Wars. Does NOT follow cannon after Avengers.

* * *

You stared at the locked door. The deep sinking feeling that you somehow royally screwed up made your stomach flop over. Sure, it was a nice conference room with interesting prints, comfortable leather chairs and carafes of coffee and water sitting full. You turned back to the tall dark wood door, a nice room with a nice locked door.

Staring at the lock, wondering why you’d been brought here only felt mildly less disturbing than taking in the view. From this high in Stark Tower, you could see the massive devastation from the attack. Debris from buildings and alien ships created a horrific landscape. No one knew how many bodies there were under all that concrete. No one knew how many were human and how many weren’t.

It all seemed too much. Aliens. The sky opened up and aliens poured through a portal earlier in the day. The sun’s rays were just beginning to wane, but the day already lasted a lifetime. You’d been working, thankfully, in a laboratory in the middle of the 23rd floor. Apparently, your office was completely open to sky now. One of the techs said the Hulk smashed straight through and squashed a contingent of alien intruders with your desk.

You glanced at the coffee, desperately wishing it was something stronger. You may not be much of a drinker, but a stiff whiskey would be good about now.

Instead, you stood and stretched to let go of some of the tension.

The lock clicked and you spun to the door. Tony Stark walked in. Only he didn’t look the same. It wasn’t the tiredness around his eyes or the difference in his hair. It was his aura. The normal brilliant sapphire and energetic shots of indigo looked fractured by spidery veins of painful crimson and foggy white.

He calls it your gift, you think it’s a curse sometimes. You could see auras, emotions, truth. You just saw more.

“Y/N, if I need you to do something,” Tony spoke with his jaw so tight, you barely saw it move. “something difficult, something terrible, but something that may prevent events even worse than today from happening in the future, will you do it? I can’t explain anything more, and you can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

You’d never seen such resolve from him. The weight of his request sat on your chest. It tasted like bitter coffee and tears. But underneath, buried deep, a flicker of hope pushed forth like winter crocus battling the snow to feast upon the sun. The generally driven, intelligent, yet jovial man you knew who craved instant gratification was gone. This was a different version, but Tony nonetheless, and he was asking for help.

“You know I would. I don’t know what’s happened, but ...” You stopped, not know the words to convey the depth of the sorrow you perceived. Hot tears spilled from your eyes. Tony stepped forward, wrapping his arms around you. He held on tight for a moment. You clung to him, whispering “I’m sorry.”

He jumped back, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Come on, Miss Y/LN, time for you to get to work.”

Stark led you to a section of the tower you’d never seen. You didn’t have clearance. Although Stark, and even S.H.I.E.L.D., put your talents to good use, your exposure remained limited. This was Tony’s R&D floor. Glancing sideways at him, he made an over exaggerated shushing motion and you nearly giggled.

At the end of the hall a wall of heavily armed men watched a door that looked more like the entrance to a high-tech bank vault. Likely it wasn’t too far from the truth. The men in uniform radiated aggression and fear, beating against you worse than heavy bass booming from broken speakers. Your steps moved a little closer to Stark.

“Hey there, Red Dawn, I’m taking my specialist in to see the out of town guest. Make sure room service doesn’t bust in, won’t you?” Tony wrapped the armed man nearest the door with the back of his knuckles.

“He’s in lock down.” The soldier shook his head.

“Listen,” Stark’s voice went hard. “I’ve had a really shitty day, so I don’t want to argue with you. This is my tower, you’re still on my payroll, and until Fury decides to roll up and butt his nose in, it’s still my show.” He activated the biometric lock and motioned for you to enter.

Inside a small observation room looked into another, empty except for a tall black-haired figure in green and black leather. He turned, staring at you with flaming green eyes. Your feet froze to the spot and your mouth went dry. In your sight, he shone like the terrifying fire of the sun.

“Do not worry.” A deep voice rumbled from the corner. “His shackles bind his magic.”

“I saw him on the news. He’s the one.” Your eyes still did not leave the captivating gaze of the prisoner.

“Loki.” Stark sighed.

Your head snapped around. You expected rage, fear, wrath. Instead a mournful, tired resolve poured off of him. “I don’t understand. He just attacked us.”

“My brother is not himself.” An enormous man stepped out from the corner. You’d only seen pictures, but recognized him as Thor. However, he too looked different than the news clips from earlier today. You had to avert your eyes. He radiated a crackling white light. It was like an arch welder. He must have misunderstood. “Please, I do not mean to offend. Do not doubt. He will answer for his crimes.”

“It’s not that.” You got a better hold on yourself and turned back to him. Thor’s presences reminded you of high mountain running water. Fresh and vital. “I wasn’t expecting you and it was a little blinding.”

“The mystical vision thing.” Tony waggled his fingers in the air.

“You can really see the true nature of someone? See the truth behind the lies?” Thor asked, leaning forward and taking your forearm in his giant hand. His touch felt hot.

“Yes.”

“What do you see when you look at me?”

“We don’t have time for this.” Tony growled.

“You shine brighter than anyone I’ve ever met except for him,” You jerked your head towards the cell. “And the Ancient One who taught me to live with my sight.”

“Wait.” Tony cut in. “Ancient One?”

“When my brain tumor became terminal, I found her. She taught me to open up my sight, and by opening my sight somehow the tumor began to recede. It’s like I have to use that part of me, or it turns caustic.” You sighed, and gave Tony a small smile. “It sounds insane, but I always thought she was immortal or something. At least something more than human.”

“What of my brother?”

You looked, really looked, at Loki for the first time. Bright bluish silver bled to emerald in sharp spiky energy. It was not like Thor’s energy at all. It prickled like frozen fingers. Something else writhed around him, pulling at the more beautiful greens. It flowed from his head, deep violet and nearly opaque. Still, he stared at you with an unwavering glare.

“What more is he?” You asked, not looking away.

“Loki is a Prince of Asgard.” Thor began but you cut him off.

“Not that. I don’t know enough about Asgard to say for sure, but all people – all humans – have a similarity to them. He’s very different from you.” It just presented as a feeling. “He’s hiding his true face.”

“Uh, ‘cause he’s a liar.” Tony rolled his eyes.

“You can see that?” Thor breathed. “Can you see through his glamour?”

“Huh?” Tony spun to look at Loki.

“I’m not sure.” Allowing yourself to open up a little further and trying to ignore the sensations assaulting your perception from the men beside you, the sight of Loki began to shift. A bit like a double exposed photograph, there were two in the same space. The handsome, dark and dangerous man with pale skin and radiant green eyes hovered just above the exotic being with patterned blue skin and red eyes. On his angular features, it was the most alluring thing you’d seen.

“Blue.” You breathed. “Gorgeous.”

“By the Norns.” Thor smiled. “This might work.”

“Speaking of which,” Tony took your hand. “You’ve got to get busy. I’m gonna let you in on the secret.”

You listened, having trouble believing even though you knew he was telling the truth. Today marked a crossroads. One direction led to half of everyone, everywhere, disappearing into nothingness. The other was unknown, but was the one path that may avoid that fate. Tony didn’t tell you details, but long ago you learned to suppress the curiosity when answers would likely gain you nothing and cause other people pain.

“You’re not the same Tony who brought me coffee yesterday, are you?”

“That was a long time ago, kid.”

“Okay.” You took a deep breath. Tried to sort it all out in your head. The last twenty-four hours changed everything. Nothing would ever be the same again. “What do you need me to do?”

“Something is influencing my brother’s mind. We need him to see clear enough to tell the Avengers what is really happening so that we may have hope to battle the true enemy.”

“Avengers?”

Tony rolled his eyes, “Us. You know, the mighty heros.”

“Alright.” You moved towards the door, but stopped when Tony grabbed your arm. “I have to go in there.”

“Then we will stay, as long as we can.” Thor nodded.

Your hands felt numb as you reached for the door. The ridiculous thought that you were thankful you’d worn jeans instead of a summer dress skipped across your mind. You felt stronger in jeans and boots. You entered the room, immediately noticing the window was one way. Loki had been staring directly at you through a mirror.

His chin rose, but his eyes trailed down your body and back up again. The corner of his mouth curved up. “Nice of them to send me such a lovely mortal to entertain me while I wait.”

“My name is Y/N.”

“I don’t care.”

Moving closer to him, cautiously, “I shouldn’t be here.” You felt his interest pique. “But I wasn’t going to let them stop me.”

He lowered himself onto the bench with slow control.

You took a step closer. “I am fascinated by what I see when I look at you.”

“What would that be, little mortal? An opportunity? Do you wish to serve your King?” He purred, deep and seductive.

“I see your brilliance, a life force like I’ve never witnessed.” A wicked grin spread across his face at your words. You now stood just of reach of his bound hands. “But there’s something unnatural clinging to you mind, dimming the shining aura you project. What can I do to rid you of this darkness?”

“Darkness!” Loki hissed viciously, leaning forward. “You know not of darkness, foolish girl.”

“It clings to your mind, flaring like an angry beast as we’ve spoken. While you stared at me through the mirror it was calmer.” You told him. “I can see it. It not you, not from you.”

“You know nothing!” He spat.

“Am I lying?” You made a calculated guess. “You’re the God of Lies. Am I?”

He stood with blinding speed. You couldn’t help the flinch, but didn’t back away. Loki leaned close, tilting his head, examining. The movements were feral, predatory. He smelled of something like cedar and leather. Up close you realized he looked equally beautiful and deadly.

“How?” Loki hissed, and you felt his breath on you cheek.

“I see energies, auras.” You whispered. “I’m an empath, and somehow at times I understand even more.”

Suddenly Loki’s mind smashed into yours. Like rough fingers digging into nerve sensitive flesh, it flashed with pain and you instinctively retreated. You heard his mental laugh. The severity of the situation wouldn’t allow you to back down, though. Knowing you could not fight, you surrendered. Breathing in the pain, you relaxed and opened up on the exhale.

He paused, thrown off guard.

Your eyes locked for a moment, before you closed your eyes and tipped your face closer to his. Again you whispered. “Am I lying?”

Loki’s intrusion felt less brutal, more cautious. He dug through your triumphs, your pain, your loves and your shame. The world as you knew it ended today. There was no point hiding. Your life was small, insignificant, in comparison to everything that happened. Everything that could happen. If Loki needed to see your mind to be convinced, then you would lay yourself bare.

You were lightheaded when he withdrew. Feeling cool fingers on yours, you opened your eyes. Loki’s face no longer held the fury from a moment ago. It’s been replaced with curiosity. “You are a very rare Midgardian. I thought all of your kind died out a thousand years ago.”

“Will you let me help you?” You clasped his fingers. His nostrils flared, the darkness failed around his aura, rabid and angry. “The fury you feel right now, that just happened, it’s not yours. Something happened to you. I just want to help.”

“I am here to subjugate your people.” A tendril of something close to shame broke the fierceness of his voice. “How many died by my hand today?”

“Don’t know. At this moment, I don’t care.” You gave him a sideways grin. “Come on, I’ve shown you mine. Show me yours.”

Loki tried to scowl, but a small genuine grin split his visage. “You’ve seen pain, Y/N. However, such agonies exist in my mind that your mortal body would never survive.”

“Please, Loki.”

“I don’t know what you think you will be able to do.” He trailed off.

“If we fight it together, I can help you identify what action it – whatever it is – takes. Let me help.”

“There are things I know.” He worked his jaw. “Secrets I have.”

“I’m not here to take your secrets. Any that come to me I will keep.” You knew Stark was probably loosing his mind over that statement, but you meant it.

“I do not have the control for what you suggest while these things are on.” Loki turned and looked at the mirror for the first time. “I could tear her mind apart without proper control. My mind is full of very strong defenses.”

The door behind you opened and Loki scowled hard. Thor walked in.

“New look.” Loki scoffed. “Doesn’t suit you.”

“If I remove your bindings, what assurance do I have that you won’t kill her and escape?” Thor frowned.

“Your army of toy soldiers in the hall are not enough?” Loki baited Stark.

“Loki.” You placed a restraining hand upon his arm.

He turned back to his brother. Many unsaid words stretched between them. Somehow, though, you knew they communicated their intentions nonetheless. Eventually, Loki’s eyes softened. “I swear on Mother’s life that I will do everything in my power not to hurt her.”

“And?” Tony rolled his eyes.

“I will not try to escape during this exercise.” Loki smiled devilishly.

“Yeah, well-“ Stark began, but stopped when Thor reached for Loki’s wrists. “Whoa, wait.”

“Loki would never swear against our mother. Never.”

As the bindings came off, Loki rubbed his wrists. “Now get out.”

“Listen, Reindeer Games…”

“Out!”

Thor pulled an anxious Stark from the room. Loki extended his hand in invitation. You accepted and allowed him to lead you back to the bench. Straddling the seat, facing one another, he pulled you close so your knees touched.

“You’re sure about this, little one?”

Every logical thought in your brain knew this was a bad idea, but your instincts knew it was imperative. “Yes.”

Loki’s long elegant fingers cupped your face, intimately as if he were about to kiss you. His skin felt cool against your flushed flesh. His eyes, now relaxed, danced with swinging emotions. You could almost see the battle raging within him.

“You may encounter a mental barrier before I consciously lower it. We may have to start again if that happens. I will do everything I can to resist the urge to lash out. Do not push if I’m fighting.” Loki instructed.

“Go slow. Stay low. Don’t be a threat. Got it.” Your lip twitched.

“Alright.” Loki sighed. “I’ll show you.”

Time lost all meaning as images, emotions, memories and primal urges blew about your mind like debris in a maelstrom. You quickly recognized that your mind saw the true Loki with sharp edges, while the other manifested in your minds-eye like dark gooey slime. The slime tried to latch onto you as you tore it free, but it was slippery and you flung it away. It vanished.

With determination, you mentally tore at the slime, wrenching it free of the pieces of Loki you contacted. Each touch making you feel fearful, disgusted, as it preyed on your own darkest instincts. Loki’s emotions and memories grew stronger as you pushed deeper into the storm. Images of worlds you’d never imagined, languages you didn’t recognize, people you’d never seen, you somehow knew through the connection.

Exhilaration and mischievous glee melded with acute curiosity and joy.

You pluck at one cluster of memory and Loki’s entire being roared. It vibrated painfully through you. The slime pulled, but you did not move, did not let go. The pain and anguish slashed out. You took it. You cried. The pain remained, but the screaming stopped. You mentally pulled the piece to your chest, wiping away the dark gunk bit by tiny bit. Each clean patch shown fresh and raw.

Loki’s voice howled through your mind. You wept and offered what soothing you could.

Horrid images flashed. Torturous burnings, painful cutting spikes, an alien purple face.

Piece by piece you continued. The agony retreated. Other memories came into focus, not all of them bad. Eventually, you could only pluck at the smallest remnants of the darkness that once covered everything. You felt Loki pull back, gently.

As you came back to yourself, you realized you felt Loki’s cool breath upon your neck. You held each other tight, your hands in his hair and his clutching at your back. Your legs wrapped around his waist. Tears, still flowing, poured from your eyes. Loki sighed almost imperceptibly.

You opened your eyes.

Standing there, staring dumbly, were most of the Avengers...including the Tony you knew from your time. The others were gone.

Moments later you were marched into a large, locked down interview room with a proper table and more chairs than it could accommodate.

“These really aren’t necessary, brother.” Loki held his hands out as Thor connected the bindings. “I promise I will sit through your interview as long as (Y/N) remains here.”

You sat in the chair beside him and fought the urge to put your head on his shoulder and nap. Bone deep exhaustion overtook you as soon as you’d pulled free of the connection. “Can we please get on with it?”

“Sure. Fine. I’ll start with the questions.” Tony threw his hands in the air. “What. The. Fuck.”

“I was sitting, seething away in my little cell, when your Soul Seer here wondered in. She said she sensed a malicious presence.” Loki grinned wickedly. “It wasn’t even me.”

“Huh?”

“What?”

“Explain.” Thor leaned closer.

“Hold on.” Natasha put a hand up. “Soul Seer?”

“I see auras, emotions, and other. . . things.” You sighed.

“Her mystical vision that Fury wants his grubby hands on.” Stark muttered.

“There was something tainting him.” You looked at Loki. “It was malignant, feeding off of every negative emotion, every bit of pain. Even when I touched it, I felt the urge to lash out. I’m not certain what it was, but it was strong and self-contained. It reminded me of a parasite.”

“Loki?” Thor dared to have the smallest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“She’s right. I knew it was there, but - because of it - I didn’t care.” He paused for a long moment. “Thinking clearly now, I know the difference. There’s much we need to discuss.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you set loose an alien army on the city.” Steve Rogers frowned heavily.

“If Loki was under the control of an unknown entity, then-” Thor began.

“That’s according to just her.” Natasha cut in.

At the same time Tony cut off Thor, “We don’t even know what it is.”

The door opened and another man walked in. You gaped and pointed. “It was like that, just a hundred times worse.”

They all turned to Clint Barton, then slowly turned back to you.

“He has the same ‘stuff’ clinging to him. Only it’s more of a light gray not black, and there’s only traces. On Loki, it was black and invasive. It was-”

“The mind stone.”

“Very good, Banner.” Loki drawled. “I’m amazed you put it together.”

“You were the one turning everyone into meat puppets, Reindeer Games. Let’s not forget that.” Tony growled.

“Who turned the stone on you first?” Thor grabbed his brother’s arm.

Loki’s jaw clenched. He stared hard at the table, silent.

“Loki!” Thor growled.

You placed your hand on his clenched fingers. Slowly they released, instead taking your small hand in both of his. “Thanos.”

#loki x reader #loki fiction #loki fanfic

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mythologyfolklore · 4 years

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Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 12

Chapter Twelve: The last days of the Trojan War

(A/N: Tw: Graphic depiction of violence, infanticide, horrific rape, sacrilege and basically war and pillaging in all its terror.)

Soon after Hektor's funeral, the Amazons came from Thrace to the aid of the Trojans, led by their queen Penthesileia.

Penthesileia was a daughter of Ares and the Amazon queen Otrera and had accidentally killed her beloved sister Hippolyta. And she craved only one thing: a glorious death in battle.

The Amazons were feared for their battle prowess and the Achaeans soon found out the hard way, that it hadn't been empty tales they had heard. They were small in numbers, but quickly overran the Achaean forces, until Akhilleus turned the tables.

The two demigods fought viciously, showing no mercy. The warrior queen was such a dangerous opponent, that the goddess Athena had to magically paralyse her limbs, before Akhilleus could fatally wound her with his spear.

He triumphed, but only for a few seconds; until he removed her helmet and beheld the splendour and beauty of a goddess, the charisma and strength of a daughter of Ares, that not even death could take away from her.

She was so beautiful that even his comrades and the Trojans around them stopped fighting and just marvelled at the fairness of the defeated warrior queen.

Akhilleus could practically feel, how the golden arrow of Eros pierced his heart.

Struck him with remorse and repentant love.

Made him mourn, that such perfection had to die.

It was the same intense grief he had felt, when Patroklos had died, which was strange, considering he had only known this woman for a few minutes and was currently staring at a corpse.

Still, he wondered if maybe he could have made her his queen and take her back to Phthia, where he came from.

All this happened before her father's eyes.

Ares saw his beloved daughter fall and felt like the ground was breaking away below him.

He saw Akhilleus standing over her, frozen and – Ares could tell – entranced by her unearthly beauty. Reaching out hesitantly to touch this impossibly fair face.

In a moment's notice, Ares was behind the demigod, invisible, but not inaudible, letting him feel his presence – and his anger.

“Do not touch my daughter, Peleídes”, the god of terrible war snarled into his ear.

Akhilleus pulled his hand back instantly. But he stayed where he was, staring down at Penthesileia's body.

Suddenly another Achaean opened his mouth, a really ugly fuck (Thersites, if Ares wasn't mistaken): “So the great Akhilleus is defeated by the beauty of a woman, like some ordinary skirt-chaser? Made weak by a woman, who wrought nothing but death and destruction on the Achaean army? I bet you want to strip her naked right on the battlefield and-”

He didn't get any further, because Akhilleus whirled around and sucker-punched the disgusting blusterer, killing him instantly.

“Anyone else?”, the son of Thetis asked the audience nonchalantly.

They collectively shook their heads in response, although there were a few agitated murmurs at the murder of one of their own.

But then Diomedes lifted his hand to silence them.

His bright blue eyes (so similar to those of Athena) stared right into the blood-red ones of Ares in sombre recognition. And in no way haughty or even disrespectful, just because he had been able to wound the war god once.

The Argive spoke: “Thersites had it coming and no one is going to miss him. Still, Akhilleus, you must be purified for the murder, even though you did a favour to everyone, including her divine father. Now choose wisely what to do with the Amazon queen, for I see murderous Ares and he is enraged over his daughter's demise.”¹

Uncomfortable silence.

Then Menélaos and Agamemnon exchanged a glance and a nod of agreement.

It was red-haired Menélaos, who spoke, to one of the surviving Amazons: “Penthesileia was a great warrior and truly the child of Ares Miaiphonos². Even though she was our enemy, she should not be done the outrage of being denied a proper funeral. Take her body back to Troy and bury her like the queen she was.”

“Take your fallen comrades with you. And keep her armour”, Agamemnon added, “We don't wish to incur the wrath of the fearsome Teikhesiplêtês³ by plundering his daughter.”

This gesture of respect was odd coming from the Achaeans, especially from the Atreides.

The god of war wasn't sure, if it could be attributed to his daughter's beauty or if his own adversary Athena had finally shown an glimpse of pity towards him and filled those simple mortal minds with respect and reverence.

It was a minuscule comfort to Ares, that his daughter's body would be treated with due respect.

But a comfort nonetheless.

Penthesileia was buried with the honours of a queen.

Priamos had her and her fallen companions laid to rest beside the tombs of his proud father, king Laomedon and his glorious son Hektor.

It was the least he could do for the radiant daughter of Ares and her companions, who had fallen in their effort to protect the Trojans, whom they had hardly known.

As Ares lingered by the side of his daughter's shroud, he met an interesting person.

He knew who she was, Apollon had often spoken of her.

“Lord Ares”, she whispered and fell onto her knees, shaking. “Teikhesiplêtês, Andreiphontês, Khrysopêlêx, Theos Miaiphonos, Deinos, Sunarogos Themistos-”⁴

“Enough”, he said calmly. “I'm not here as a god, but as a father.”

“Yes, Ánax⁵”, she answered.

“And you're Kassandra, daughter of Priamos”, he returned. “I have heard of you – the seeress, whom no one believes. Did you know, that you would meet me here?”

“Yes”, she whispered and added: “Though in my vision, you looked different. More terrifying than I can say.”

Ares smiled dryly. “So your vision showed you my true form, then. But gazing upon a god in reality would kill a mortal. When I walk the earth, I must use less frightening disguises.”

He had made himself look like an ordinary Trojan civilian, black-eyed and -haired, with dark skin. An innocuous-looking shape. One that no normal mortal would have pinned to be the war god in disguise.

“Now tell me, princess, what are you doing here?”

He hadn't meant to sound frightening, but still she trembled.

“I just came to pay my respects to your daughter Penthesileia. And to bring offerings. I didn't mean to disturb, I-”

“Sshhh. Easy, girl. I don't want to harm you.”

“The last god I encountered cursed me”, she whispered.

“I know”, Ares nodded, “But don't blame yourself. None of this shit is your fault. You didn't deserve to be cursed, just because you said no. He's a pretentious arsehole, most gods are. And on top of that, he can't get over his self-esteem issues.”

She snorted.

“Besides”, he continued, “It's not certain, if you could have saved yourself and others, if they listened to you. My father wanted this entire war to happen, then your jackass half-brother Paris was dumb enough to piss off my mother and half-sister and the entirety of Hellas and then he was too egotistical to put the well-being of an entire people over his own.”

Kassandra bit her lip and he saw a few stray tears run down her cheeks.

He sighed and crouched down in front of her. “Don't blame Helene, okay? She never asked for any of this shit either. She despises Paris more than anyone.”

“I know”, she choked. “Still it's not fair! What did we do to deserve this?!”

“You didn't do anything. Your ancestors screwed up and the Moirai and great Ananke are fucking bitches. I have never met either of them, but I would love to punch them in the face. Gods can't avoid their fates any more than humans can. Only the Primordials have the power to redirect the course of fate, but not even they can do it without consequence”, the war god explained.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand, that we Deathless Ones are no happier than you mortals are. We bargain, suffer and mourn. We just have all eternity to learn live with the pain. That doesn't make us happier.”

Ares sighed sadly and turned back to his daughter's shroud.

“It's a small comfort to me, that my dear daughter got the glorious battle death she wanted and the respect she deserved. Very few of my children get that luxury, ya know. They're like me, volatile and following their own laws.”

For a few moments neither of them spoke.

Then Kassandra finally approached the shroud to place down her offerings.

“She was a great woman”, she told the war god. “A true queen and warrior. You must be very proud of her.”

“I am. I really am.”

It was nothing more than a whisper.

He was Ares, god of the horrors of war, of the bloodshed, violence, murder, rage, the sacking of towns, rebellion, courage and fear.

He would not fall apart and cry in front of a mortal.

Soon he had composed himself and remarked: “You're a really unfortunate creature, even for a mortal. Ya know, Kassandra, with the shit you've gone through and that's still ahead of you, I'm surprised that you haven't killed yourself.”

“That would be the easy way out.”

“But still better than what you'll get put through once Troy is conquered”, Ares pointed out.

“I know, Lord Ares”, Kassandra replied, “But I will not run away. I'm not a coward.”

“Very brave. I'm impressed. And that's rare, believe me.”

“Thank you.”

“I can't save you from your doom – fate forbids me to.”

“I know.”

“But I pity you nonetheless and because I admire your courage, I want to give you something. Don't worry, I want nothing in return.”

“I …”

“Shhh. Open your mouth and hold still.”

He cupped her face and came as close as a few centimetres.

Then he breathed into her mouth, transferred some of his essence onto her and let go.

Kassandra blinked in confusion, but also seemed relieved, that he hadn't actually kissed her.

“How are you feeling?”, Ares asked.

“Better”, she marvelled, “Refreshed … stronger. What … what did you do to me?”

The war god smiled. “I've given you a better gift than your cursed precognition: the inner strength and courage to bear all the hardships ahead of you. I can't take your pain away, but I can take your weariness. Compassion isn't my strong suit, but you and your family have treated the remains of my beloved child and her companions with highest respect. Therefore, you're worthy of mine.”

“Thank you …”, the princess choked.

He didn't hug her, when she started to sob.

But he did hold her hand as comfort.

“I can't believe you got to kiss her!”, Apollon whined later, “When I asked her for a kiss, she outright told me to get lost!”

“I didn't kiss her, dumbass!”, Ares fumed, “I breathed courage and inner strength into her, so that she can bear her suffering and her terrible fate easier! I gave her a gift that is actually good for her, without asking for love or sex in return! Excuse me for not being a jerk for once in my life and pitying her more than you did! Get off my dick, Sunny Boy!”

“Why, you-!”

“He's right, you know”, Artemis threw in, “Sorry, brother, but I'm taking his side. He isn't into her and still was kinder to her than you. So leave him and her alone.”

Apollon huffed, but fell silent.

Shortly after, another deity wept for her son.

Êôs, Titanis of the dawn, was the mother of Memnon, an Ethiopian leader, who had been sent to help the Trojans. A wise and modest young man, yet a brave warrior; Êôs and Tithonos had raised him well.

He too fell against Akhilleus after a fierce duel, just like Hektor and Penthesileia before him.

The divine allies of the Achaeans cheered, especially Akhilleus' mother Thetis.

But Apollon, Artemis and Aphrodite mourned silently.

Êôs didn't care about silent.

She screamed, howled with rage, showered Thetis, Athena, Poseidon and even Zeus and Hera with profanities and curses.

She threatened to descend to the hidden depths of the netherworld and dwell with the dark Protogenoi, with holy Khaos and dark Nyx, Erebos and Tartaros and to never ascend to the skies to bring the light of day.

Zeus rose from his throne and it began to thunder outside, but Ares stepped in.

He placed his hand on her head and – Athena could see it – took away her rage, leaving only her motherly grief. Then he took everyone by surprise by embracing the dawn goddess and holding her tightly. He whispered something into her ear, she wailed loudly and cried into his shoulder.

Aphrodite looked really jealous at this display, but Apollon put a hand onto her shoulder and shook his head sombrely.

For a moment Athena was confused as to why Ares was being so tender. It was almost like he was showing sympathy …

Oh.

Stupid her.

It was sympathy.

He had lost two children and knew how she was feeling. And he sympathised particularly with Êôs' sadness, because she had once been his mistress. Because he knew that even with all her mortal affairs, she was still in love with him, albeit it was unrequited.

Athena had never felt compassion with the allies of Troy, but this got to her, almost like an epiphany.

She didn't show it, but she said nothing either.

There was nothing a virgin goddess could say to two heartbroken parents.

Apollon was the one to put Akhilleus down.

The demigod had caught a bad case of hubris and tried to break down the gates of Troy and take the city all by himself. And when Apollon had told him to cut it out, Akhilleus had given him the middle finger and told him to get out of his way.

For a god, who was lethal even from afar, this was one offence too many.

The Bringer of Plagues stepped behind Paris, who was standing on the city wall.

Whispered in his ear and guided his hand.

The arrow, dipped in the venomous wrath of the divine archer, flew and hit its mark: the only part of Akhilleus, that wasn't invulnerable.

Most people wouldn't think a shot to the heel as being really bad, but as mentioned before, the arrow had been poisoned. And it pierced a vital vein.

Akhilleus killed a few more Trojans, but he was dead in a matter of minutes.

Ajax Telamonides and Odysseus rescued the demigod's corpse from being plundered by the Trojans, but the Achaeans mourned his death for three weeks.

Apollon on the other hand was triumphant, as were the others, who shared his side. Especially Ares seemed to practically ooze with grim satisfaction at his half-brother's retribution. The war god didn't gloat or triumph aloud and in front of the other gods. He didn't have to; the twisted, grim smile on his face said it all.

Hera on the other hand was furious and showered Apollon with reproaches and insults.

The son of Leto bore it silently for a while and stubbornly stared at the floor.

But when she accused him of ingratitude, reminded him, that he had been at Thetis' wedding and claimed, that he had murdered Akhilleus out of envy, Apollon snapped.

“SHUT THE TARTAROS UP!!!”, he roared, “HE HAS OFFENDED ME MULTIPLE TIMES, MURDERED TWO OF MY SONS – ONE OF THEM IN FRONT OF MY ALTAR NO LESS, AND HE WAS STILL A CHILD! – KILLED A DAUGHTER OF YOUR SON ARES AND A SON OF ÊÔS AND TRIED TO TEAR DOWN TROY BY HIMSELF, SO THE ACHAEANS CAN COMMIT THE WORST WAR CRIMES!!! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EXPECT??? THAT I WOULD GIVE A FUCK, JUST BECAUSE I WAS AT HIS MOTHER'S WEDDING?! IT WAS AN HONOUR WE DID TO HER, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND! WE OWE HER NOTHING! AND WE CERTAINLY DON'T OWE RESPECT TO THAT SHITFACE OF A HERO, WHO DOESN'T DESERVE ANY OF IT! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW IT FEELS TO LOSE A CHILD!!! GET OFF MY FUCKING BACK, YOU – YOU …!!!”

“Shhh! Easy!”, Aphrodite hushed him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don't stoop so low as to throw petty insults. Your father's anger isn't worth it. And neither is she.”

She threw a hateful glare at Hera.

Ares placed a hand on his other shoulder and turned to Zeus: “Father, with your permission we'll see ourselves out.”

His father consented: “That would be wise. And Apollon, even though you're right with what you say, you must show respect to my wife. Remember that for the future.”

Apollon bit his lip, but nodded.

Artemis took her brother's hand and together with Ares and Aphrodite they left the assembly.

“I'm sorry for lashing out at your mother like that”, Apollon apologised as soon as the four were alone in the garden.

“Don't mind that”, the war god muttered, “Normally I'd be pissed, but you were right with everything you said. She's been nothin' but a bitch in the last decades. I'm mad at her anyway, for all the times she sicced Daddy's Owl on me. My mother is faithful to my father, but the price for that is, that she doesn't know parental grief. You know her. One day she's the perfect mother and the next day she's the worst. An' yeah, sure, Thetis suffers, but we all suffer more and it's partly the fault of her son – the rest is the fault of the other Achaeans.”

“Can I ask you something?”, Artemis inquired.

Ares nodded. “Sure.”

“How much do you really know?”

He gawked at her in amazement.

Then he laughed, for the first time since Penthesileia's death. “Ya know, you're the first person ever to ask me that! Ever! And I'm, like, 38 000 years old!”

“… That's depressing.”

“Yeah, but I'm used to it.”

“That's even more depressing!”

Ares grinned. “An' that's why we're friends! Hey, guys, wanna get plastered?”

Artemis shrugged: “Sure, I'm game.”

Apollon smiled weakly: “Me too. I really need a drink.”

Aphrodite chuckled: “Absolutely! Let's get roaring drunk at Dionysos' bar and talk about the future and the good ol' days!”

They spent the rest of the day and night doing exactly that.

Meanwhile in the assembly hall, the other Olympians sat in silence at the scene that just had occurred.

Until Zeus turned to his wife and rebuked her: “Not Apollon's wrath brought Akhilleus low, but his own hubris. He brought this upon himself. As the god of law I can't and won't make exceptions, not even for Thetis. I value her more than anyone, but that doesn't change the fact, that her son was ill-bred. After all the offences he committed towards gods and mortals alike, it would have been extremely unjust to grant him a longer life span. Why would I spare him, when I couldn't spare the children of mine and of Poseidon, Ares, Apollon, or Êôs? There is nothing more to say, Hera. He was fated to die and that's that. Be quiet.”

Hera fumed and was about to make a retort, but Athena put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let's not fight pointlessly”, the goddess of wisdom said. “Instead, let us attend Akhilleus' funeral, for the sake of Thetis.”

“And that of your friends Odysseus and Diomedes?”, Poseidon teased.

Athena glared at him. “Shut up.”

Thetis was relentless in her grief for her fallen son.

Her sisters came to her son's funeral to wail with her.

Even the Mousai came to attend and sing for the Nereid's sake.

“Damn Zeus”, the sea goddess wailed, “Damn him, damn him, damn him! He forced me to marry a mortal man against my will and gave my son – the only comfort of my unwanted fate – a short life span, while at the same time promising me, that he would gain everlasting fame! What do I care about glory, now that I had to bury my son, while he was still young! To Tartaros with all of them! When the other gods bound him, it was me who saved him and in return I had to endure all of this?! What did I do to deserve this! I will go up to Olympos and remind him of all the things I have done for him and all the things I had to go through, because of his ingratitude, so that he might be ashamed-”

“Shut up.”

Everyone whirled around and in amazement stared at Kalliope, the Mousa of epic poetry.

She was frowning, but as she continued, her voice was gentle: “Don't be so foolish as to invoke the wrath of both gods and men. You're not the only one suffering. Kronion too had to see his dear sons suffer and die, without being able to save them. Herakles became a god, but only after endless torment. I had to endure many pains for the sake of my son Orpheus, only to see him die in a most cruel manner, torn apart by the Bakkhai. Several of the Dodekatheoi are mourning for their children, who fell in this cruel and pointless war – some of them were felled by your son. Be as tactful to them as you expect them to be with you. Troy will soon fall, just like your son, that is the decree of the incorruptible and unyielding Moirai. As for Akhilleus: as long as civilization exists, he will be remembered in song, poetry and stories – he will not be forgot by mankind. So great is his glory. That shall be your comfort.”

Then Helios descended from the sky and primordial Nyx brought darkness and the relief of her gentle son Hypnos.

During the funeral games for Akhilleus, Athena had interfered several times, to the favour of her dear favourite Odysseus.

In the end, he had even won the armour of the great hero, that Hephaistos had made for Akhilleus, before he had gone to slay Hektor.

The other contender had been Ajax the Greater, who had been so furious at his loss, that he had plotted Odysseus' demise.

Athena admitted, that he'd had a right to the armour just as much as Odysseus, but still she couldn't let him slay one of her favourite heroes, so she had struck him with madness.

When Ajax came to his senses and realised, that he had killed a whole flock of sheep in his attempt to kill those who had wronged him, he was filled with deep despair.

After a tearful goodbye to his concubine and son, he threw himself into his own sword.

Agamemnon and Menélaos had wanted to deny the almost-murderer a proper burial.

But Odysseus, ridden by conscience and fear of the gods, had reminded them, that Ajax had been a great hero and a great support to the Achaeans against the Trojans. And besides, disrespecting the dead meant disrespecting the gods.

The Atreides were surprised at Odysseus generosity, but wouldn't object to his reasoning.

“I hated him as long as it was appropriate”, the wily king of Ithaka explained, “But now that he's dead, I have no reason to hold grudges. Besides, it is my fault that he lost it.”

He turned towards Ajax' family: “I promise, that you will not be scorned or mistreated, because of his mistake. If you want, I can help you bury him too-”

“No thank you”, Teukros declined flatly, “My brother's spirit is likely still angry at you, so he wouldn't want it. I will do it alone – it's all I can do, because I can't return home without him. But we appreciate the support.”

Athena had revealed to Odysseus and the seer Kalkhas how they would gain the final victory over the Trojans.

So they had enlisted the help of Akhilleus' teenage son Pyrrhos (or Neoptolemos, as he was also called) and of Philoktetes, an archer, whom they had abandoned of an island before the war, because he had been incapacitated by a snake bite, which had given off an unbearable stench, as well as mortal agony. But he wasn't just any archer; he owned a very special bow – the very weapon that once had belonged to the great Herakles. The then mortal hero had gifted it to him, along with the poisoned arrows, as reward for lighting his funeral pyre to relieve his suffering.

Neoptolemos had been easy to persuade, but Philoktetes had only buried his righteous grudge after the now deified Herakles had appeared before his old friend to reveal his destiny and his role in the end of the war. Now he had calmed down and agreed to help, much to the delight of the Achaeans.

The unerring arrows of Herakles, dipped in the Hydra's venom, felled many Trojans, but they weren't too important.

The only one whose death mattered was Paris, who had caused this entire war and brought unending suffering over both sides.

He was wounded by two of the poisoned arrows and in desperation dragged himself to his ex-wife Oinone, an Oreade and great healer, to save him. But Oinone, still hurt that he had dumped her for Helene, told him to go and fuck himself.

And so Paris died a long, agonising but well-deserved death.

Overcome with remorse, Oinone built him a funeral pyre and jumped into the flames to die with him. She had been the only one to whole-heartedly mourn this ominous man.

The Trojans mourned him as a formality, but in truth no one was really sad as he had been hated by all.

Helene of Sparta wept, but not for him; she cried for things that had been out of her power and because she was now forced to marry Paris' brother Deiphobos, who was just as unpleasant.

She refused to share his bed; that man was no match for a daughter of Zeus.

Instead she sneaked out and wandered the streets, homesick and wishing she was dead or better yet, could turn back time and stop all this from happening.

She was wandering through a dark alley, when she came across two beggars.

“Mild alms, kind lady”, the shorter one rasped.

Pitying him, she took off the golden armlet she was wearing and gave it to him.

But then their eyes met and she recognised him, of course she did; she would have recognised those sly, knowing mossy green eyes anywhere.

“Odysseus!!!”

“Shhhh!”, he hissed. “Be quiet, Helene! Do you want to get us killed?!”

“Sorry”, she whispered. “Wait, Diomedes? You're here too?! How did you two get in? What are you doing here?”

“How we got in here doesn't matter”, Diomedes grumbled, “As for why we're here, how can we trust you not to rat us out? You abandoned your husband and daughter twenty years ago, not to mention-”

“I didn't abandon them!”, she lamented, “I was abducted by Aphrodite and Paris! And here in Troy I have been met with scorn and animosity from everyone except Priamos and Hektor, but he's dead! I hate being responsible for all of this! You have no idea how often I have wished, I … I … I just want to go home! I miss Sparta, I miss Menélaos and I miss Hermione! I … I never got to see her grow up!”

“Don't cry”, Odysseus told her in a gentler tone, “I miss my wife and son too. I too want to go home to Ithaka, spend the rest of my days at Penelope's side and see my son grow into a fine man. I know how you feel, trust me. And if you help me, we can finally end this damn war and get out of here.”

“How is Menélaos?”, Helene inquired.

“He's fine”, Diomedes said, “As brash and volatile as ever. I'll be honest with you, he's furious at you. But I'm sure he'll change his mind as soon as he sees you again.”

Helene smiled drily: “Then my cursed beauty would be useful for once in my life. But still, why are you here?”

In the end she assisted them in stealing the Palladion by showing them the way and helping them get out unseen.

As they said their goodbyes, Helene took off the locket she was wearing.

“Menélaos gave it to me”, she said gently. “Tell him, that I have kept it for all these years. It was the only thing I had left of him and my home.”

The giant wooden horse had been Odysseus' idea.

In retrospect, he couldn't believe it hadn't come to him sooner.

But that didn't matter now. They had a city to conquer.

It took several weeks to build the horse and a few days to select the warriors that were to hide inside the hollow structure.

But someone had to trick the Trojans into taking the horse into their city.

The man chosen for this task was Sinon, a cousin of Odysseus and equally sly dog. He had them whip him and then they dragged the horse in front of the city gate. There the poser claimed, that the horse was dedicated to Athena as penance for the theft of the Palladion and that they had tried to sacrifice him, but he had got away.

It worked.

The Trojans tore off a part of their impenetrable city wall, because the wooden horse was too big for the gates. After that they pulled it into their city, not suspecting that it was hiding a bunch of Achaean warriors.

Princess Kassandra and the priest Laokoon warned, that it was a ruse, but no one believed Kassandra and Laokoon was quickly silenced by Athena, who sent a pair of serpents to kill him and his sons.

Kassandra grabbed a torch and was about to set the horse on fire and kill the Achaeans inside, but was held back by the Trojans – much to the relief of the hidden warriors.

They waited until nightfall, until most Trojans were asleep.

Then Sinon gave the signal to the troops waiting outside, the contingent hidden inside the horse crept outside and the massacre began.

“Regretting your support yet?”, Apollon asked frostily. “Or are you actually proud of the Achaeans' poor conduct?”

“What do you mean?”, Hera frowned.

Now Ares stepped forward. He was holding a huge scroll, probably metres long.

“Glad you ask!”, he sneered. “Do ya know what I have here?”

Everyone but Zeus, Apollon and Thémis (she was here too) shook their heads.

The war god smiled coldly: “As Zeus' heir, one of the duties I have is looking through my father's mail. It's a real nightmare, but sometimes it does come in handy. This is a list of complaints and revenge prayers, mostly about certain members of the Achaeans. If I read ya the entire list, we'd be here all night. So I'll give you a summary. Starting with Agamemnon: blasphemy against several gods, sacrileges, attempted murder of his own daughter and human sacrifice towards Artemis, offence of a priest of Apollon, offence of a demigod, violation of the laws of hospitality, murder. Akhilleus: rape, violation of the laws of hospitality, blasphemy against several gods, murder of several other demigods, attacking of a god. Diomedes: physical harm of several gods, attacking of a god, attempted murder of a demigod. Odysseus: attempted perjury, judicial murder …”

How dare he talk shit about Diomedes and Odysseus!

Ares probably guessed what she was thinking, but didn't show it.

With a scoff he looked over his fellow gods. “You didn't expect that, did ya? That I keep track of everyone's bullshit? Y'all keep forgetting, that aside from terrible war, I'm also a god of civil disturbance, crime and order. But ya know what? Why waste the night by rattlin' down this huge ass scroll? Why don't we just look at what's goin' on right now and let that speak for itself? Father, may I?”

“You may”, Zeus consented.

Ares threw a red ball of light at the ceiling, opening a screen of what was happening in Troy.

Several of the gods gasped.

The war god had finally stopped smirking and was arching an eyebrow at the scene.

“They're really goin' at it, aren't they? Pretty poor sportsmanship, eh?”

“Silence!”, Zeus ordered.

His eyes were wide with appal, as he stared at one particular scene:

Hektor's widow Andromákhe was fleeing from Neoptolemos, son of Akhilleus, with her infant son Astyanax in her arms, but he quickly caught up to them. What the young man did then was terrible: he brutally ripped the child out of his mother's arms and pierced him with his sword. Andromákhe's anguished screams were so heart-wrenching, that even Poseidon averted his eyes.

Apollon furiously pointed at that scene: “Look at this! Aren't you so proud?! Some fine grandson Thetis got there! He's even worse than his father! He just brutally murdered an infant! A defenceless little child and tore him out of his mother's arms!”

“Shut y-”, Hera started, but then Zeus cried out: “Oh my me!”

Neoptolemos had entered one of Zeus' temples and found king Priamos, seeking shelter at the altar together with a few others. Priamos stepped in front of his wife and the others to at least try to protect them and scolded the young man for his impiety. But Neoptolemos, still holding the corpse of Astyanax, clubbed the old man to death with it in front of the horrified onlookers.⁶

Zeus looked like he wanted to puke.

Athena felt like puking too. This was just …

But before she could end that thought, Ares sneered: “Pretty inhuman, that boy. How old is he, fifteen? Most boys at that age go to school or learn a craft, play silly games and dream of silly things. And he's beating an old man to death with a child's corpse at father's altar! Good thing his grandmother isn't here – oh great, it gets worse!”

“Worse???”, Poseidon responded incredulously, “What could be a worse crime than-?”

A piercing scream cut him off.

The focus had shifted to a different scene.

They saw Ajax the Lesser enter a temple of Athena, where he found princess Kassandra clinging to a statue of the goddess.

Athena blanched and burst into tears at what happened next.

Even Ares squeezed his eyes shut, as the Lokrian committed the one crime he considered unforgivable (and it wasn't sacrilege).

“Abominable”, he snarled. “Some hero, that. Of all the war crimes he could have committed, it had to be the worst one, the one even I can't stand … and you call me barbaric.”

He turned to Athena and she loathed his pitying expression.

“Tell me, Daddy's Owl, is that how you define 'war for a just cause' or 'justice in war'? Where is the heroism, the virtue and sense of honour you always talk about? Does this correspond with your idealism, if the side you support rears its ugly head like that? Is this what you're willing to tolerate, as long as your side wins? I'll repeat Apollon's question from earlier: are you proud, Daddy's Owl? Are you?”

“Shut up!”, she howled and cried into her hands.

Poseidon gently touched her arm and tried to give his niece at least a modicum of comfort, but there was nothing that could console Athena now.

And to her distress Ares went on, this time addressing Hera: “And you, mother? Do you feel proud and triumphant? Do you condone all of this, just because that moron Paris didn't pick you to be the fairest? The extent of your pettiness and spite are truly pathetic. Rejoice all you want, but your victory is hollow.”

“That's enough”, Zeus finally told him. “No more of your taunting, Ares. No one is the victor in this war, just like you wanted. The Achaeans have won, but their divine allies haven't. As for you, this is your war now and the mortals are under your cruel sway, but you had to bear too great losses for this to be worth it, for this to satisfy you.”

“No”, Ares agreed. “We both have always known, that it wasn't worth it. Then again, father, this was your will, wasn't it? You pulled the strings through all of this, like the manipulator you are. And yet, even you lose, even you suffer. Not even you saw this coming, even you can't bear this and that is the price you pay for allowing this to happen. This is my definition of justice. Because I'm right and you all know it, that's one of the reasons why you hate me. How does it feel to finally have to face the fact, that you're all terrible people, just like me?”

Now he finally ended his sardonic speech and turned to leave. “Either way, I have no more business here. I'll pack my things and leave Olympos. My work won't be needed anytime soon, so I'll go back to Thrake and then maybe see the world. Enjoy the next centuries of relative peace and recovery for mankind.”

No one stopped him, as he grabbed his cloak and strode out of the hall with his head held high.

It seemed like an eternity, until the ensuing silence was broken.

Poseidon was the one who did: “Zeus, I don't think they deserve a full victory. Only those who are granted a triumphant return are truly victorious. And I don't think they have earned the right to come home in triumph or even at all.”⁷

Zeus agreed: “No, they really haven't. I hereby decree, that only those who have acted honourably and with piety will be granted a safe and triumphant homecoming and a good life for the rest of their days.”

“… Revenge.”

The King of the Skies blinked. “What was that, my daughter?”

Athena lowered her hands.

Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, her cheeks flushed with shame and fury and her face was a hideous grimace of unbridled hatred.

“Revenge”, she snarled, “I want revenge!”

She stared at the scene on the screen, which was still on the ceiling.

The Achaeans were currently failing to punish Ajax for his sacrilege, despite Odysseus' fierce demand to have him stoned to death to appease the wrathful goddess.

“LET ME DESTROY THEM!”, Athena roared all of the sudden, terrifying everyone, “LET ME DESTROY AJAX, HIS BAND AND ALL THOSE WHO DIDN'T PUNISH HIM!!! I WON'T HAVE A MOMENT'S REST, BEFORE I HAVE SEEN THIS DISGUSTING BASTARD SUFFER AND PERISH AT MY OWN HANDS!!! LET ME HAVE RETRIBUTION, FATHER! GIVE ME JUSTICE!!!”

“You shall have it”, Zeus pacified her, “Take my lightning bolts, my armour and my sceptre. This once, the sky, the winds and storms shall obey your command. Unleash your wrath and avenge all offences to your heart's content.”

Poseidon stepped forward. “The sea shall assist you as well”, he spoke grimly, “For I too am angered and only seeing them drown after a helpless struggle can appease me now.”

He chuckled coldly: “Ares was right; we really are terrible people. But so were they and I don't see why we should let them get away with it.”

“We won't”, Zeus assured him. “I won't.”

It's said, that the sea is a cruel mistress.

And that she never releases, what she claims.

That was certainly true for the Lord of the Sea.

Even the greatest fleet of ships was nothing more than a bunch of tiny papyrus boats on Thalassa's⁸ seemingly endless surface, small and breakable.

The Lord of the Deep and the Bright-eyed Goddess easily tore them to shreds in their relentless wrath.

Many of their crew drowned, but most importantly the one who had desecrated the sacred ground of Athena with the vilest of crimes.

Some were favoured for good conduct and reached their homes quickly and safely.

Some came home only to find nasty surprises waiting there.

Then there were those, who only came home after years of troublesome journey, because one or the other god was wroth, but not enough to outright kill them.

One of the last ones was favoured by Athena and his name would be known by his insanely long journey home:

Odysseus.

---

1) According to one source, Diomedes throws a hissy fit, disrespects Penthesileia's corpse and is ready to throw hands with Akhilleus, because Thersites is a cousin of his. But this makes no sense for a lot of reasons (like Thersites being a common soldier, while Diomedes is one of the Argive leaders), so I ignored that version and decided to make him more sensible than that. I went with the version, which is most detailed, but doesn't mention anything of this. I also decided to let him keep the magical sight Athena gave him, so he always recognises a god, when he sees one. 2) Miaiphonos: "Blood-Stained One / Defiled with gore or murder" 3) Teikhesiplêtês: "Stormer of Cities / Stormer of Walls" 4) "Stormer of Cities, Destroyer of Men, Of The Golden Helmet, Blood-Stained God, Terrible One, Ally of Thémis" (Yes, this was my excuse to list as many epithets as decently possible.) 5) Ánax: "Lord, King" 6) I'm not making this up! There are a lot of depictions on ancient Greek pottery, showing Priamos' death like that, or as similarly brutal. 7) This is an actual concept: One important part of a war is the return home afterwards (Nostos). Only a triumphant return would make the victory truly complete. 8) Thalassa: The primordial personification of the sea's surface. A daughter of Aither (the bright, upper air) and Hemera (the day) and the spouse of Pontos, the primordial deep sea.

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