#I might draw blades next or just more boulder

[urdadsceilingfan]

Your honor he didn’t know you couldn’t adopt a lion from the zoo

Whoever doesn’t like boulder, I don’t trust you

#rescue bots #tfrb #transformers rescue bots #tfrb boulder #he’s so sweet #I might draw blades next or just more boulder #you will never know

[philliamwrites]

SWYAATL 16: ətˈæk 0N tάɪtn

Pairings: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, angst, anxiety, flashbacks to loss childhood trauma

Summary: “Our story has just begun, right? It’s time we teach them a lesson, okay?” “Okay.” In that moment that changes the trajectory of your life, you realise three fundamental truths at the exact same time. Number one: For the first time in all your life you know you are more than what you fear. Number two: There is a truth to remember about Emil, and because you remember you are given a second chance to be with him. Number three: When you trace Eren’s name, it spells home.

Notes: [01] || [15] | [17]

Words: 4.8k

A/N: eren isn't the only one who's back. since there was SO MUCH AMAZING feedback this past week on tumblr & ao3, i decided to treat you all and upload today instead of sunday.

chapters might be shorter from now on and therefore hopefully more frequent. chpt.17 is already done, so hopefully that little headstart might help. if i manage to keep up writing despite the ridiculosu stressful time ahead at work, the next update is next sunday. if it's not, it'll DEFINITELY be in 2 weeks, promise.

16: ətˈæk 0N tάɪtn

When the break of a second passes and the gears of the world turn back into motion with a jerk, there is barely any time to draw your blades before a hot blast of steam hurls you off the Wall. Distantly, you hear screams as the world swirls by, the sky becomes the ground becomes the sky becomes the ground, until auto-pilot hijacks your muscles and you rip out your grip handles. The anchors wedge into the stone wall and you slam the handles to let the wires reel you in. The impact against the hard stone rattles from your feet all the way through your bones, snapping your jaw shut hard enough with a loud click that your teeth hurt. Shadows whirl past you—your friends. Only then do you notice the screams belong to you, tearing through your throat as you try to tell them to move move move!

Everyone’s instinct kicks in right on time and they quickly follow using their ODM gear. But one body keeps falling, falling, tumbling like a lifeless bag. In a flash, Sasha shoots past you, and saves who you recognise is an unconscious Samuel plummeting to his death. Her anchor ripping through his leg is no pretty sight, but she manages to break his fall.

“It’s the Colossal Titan!” Eren shouts a few feet above you. His blazing green eyes stand in stark contrast to his pale skin. “This is finally our chance to make him pay and end this!”

A messy, full-throated roar of memories rise. You quickly push them aside. There’s no time to break down, not here, not now, not when it could arrive at any moment—

A crack, loud like thunder. Like the earth is splitting in two, dying. Your head jerks down to the main gate of the Outer Wall and for a moment, all your horrors claw at your throat like wild animals as you wait for the Armoured Titan to march through the destroyed gate. But only boulders and debris hurl by like cannonballs and you’re weirdly amazed by how small it looks from up here.

“He’s kicked in the Gate,” you hear Connie mumble quietly. He’s manoeuvred closer; everyone has come closer to brief what to do next. Except Eren. He’s gone. An awful suspicion haunts you when you guess where to. “If we don’t stop them now, we’ll have Shiganshina all over again.”

“We have to report back to HQ!” Mina screams, her face locked in fear. “We have to find Garrison—” She falls dead silent when the watchtower’s bells go off in the distance. You’ve been drilled so often for moments like this, you know what is next: the evacuation of the citizens begins. Titans have breached the Wall.

Your gaze slides past Mina’s pinched face. The first Titan, a five-metre monster of flesh and teeth stumbles into the District, its mouth hanging open like a door hanging on broken hinges. And then another. And then another. You stare at them, throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of dread spreading slowly through your limbs. The taste of blood slowly fills your mouth, zapping your brain awake when you notice the pain in your bottom lip from how hard you are biting it. It clears the fog for a moment; it allows you to jam the emotions behind a basement door. You claw your hands into this sudden composure and drag it over your skin even though it feels all wrong and too tight.

“Get Eren back down here,” you tell Connie and Thomas. “We’ll retreat to HQ first and wait for orders.”

“B-but the Titans.” Mina points down where the first wave begins to spread out in search of people.

“Nobody should be at home at this time anyway, they’ve announced drills this morning, remember?” It’s a sobering thought, provided at the right time—you’ve always worked well under pressure. You hope your brain doesn’t stop now.

“We have to get Samuel to safety, too,” Sasha adds, casting a worried glance down to where he’s hanging upside down, passed out.

“More reason to retreat,” you insist, glad that Connie and Thomas zipped up to the top of the Wall. Right then, a group of Garrison soldiers swarms out from behind the buildings, engaging the Titans. Two aimed for you, another two continue further up, and you feel immediate relief at the sight of senior soldiers taking control of the situation.

Transporting Samuel to Headquarters at the centre of Trost is no easy task, but when you hand him to the paramedics, it’s one thing less to worry about. Good timing as well, because that is when your forced composure decides to crack like the brittle thing it is. The emotions you trapped before are clawing at the basement door, all the pictures swarming before your eyes—the Colossal Titan, the smaller Titans marching into your city, Eren vanishing into the white steam—you cackle with a shrill pitch that borders on hysteria and bend over, your hands braced on your knees, as though you can barely hold yourself upright. Your breaths come in tight, short bursts. The air won’t fit down your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut as though that stops you from engaging with reality, mumbling to yourself, “He said he’d come back. He’ll come back. He’s gotta come back. Emil—No, Eren. He said he’d come back. He’s gotta—”

The angry voice cutting across the yard is like a sunburst after a stormy cloud. The encroaching darkness dissipates with Jean’s voice, and suddenly you have no problem clawing your way out of this darkness and fear. Jean’s insistent voice is like an anchor; from childhood on you have grown to respond to it. To rise from bed when he called, to run to help him when he brawled with the other neighbourhood children.

Your body stumbles over to where he is holding someone—not just someone, Eren—by his shirt collar. You don’t even know what he’s screaming about, only that he is there; they are both there.

Jean speaks with such anger, such a tangled mixture of dread and fear and hostility that you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him. But there is no time. Whatever he sees on your face when he notices you approaching, it immediately silences his onslaught of words—and gives Eren a chance to retaliate.

He shoves Jean against a pillar and holds him there until his struggling ceases just enough for Eren to talk. “Never forget the three years we poured our blood, sweat and tears into,” Eren hisses. “We’ve nearly died so many times over the past three years. Some people actually died … or gave up halfway. But we survived. We survived. And we’ll get through this, again. You’ll survive today, and tomorrow, you’ll head off to the Interior, right?” He shakes Jean, hard, as if to rattle all the cobbles loose that might bar the path to realising the obvious.

Jean jerks free. A muscle in his jaw clenches, as though he is chewing on his words before he speaks. Finally, he breathes, “If you kick the bucket, I will fucking kill you, Jaeger.” He shoves Eren off him, rounds the pillar catches your eye. Jean juts his chin forward—telling you to follow him. But for now, your whole attention is anchored in Eren. He answers with one of his own forceful stares that always leave your skin on fire as if he put a red-hot poker against it. As if pulled by an invisible hook, you two close the space between you.

“What he said,” you say quietly. “Try not to get yourself killed, okay?” You wonder if he notices how desperate you sound. “Or I will come after you and kick your ass.”

Eren leans over and puts his hand on your shoulder. Even through the fabric of your jacket, you feel every one of his fingers pressing into your flesh. He speaks in a low voice. “I finally get the chance to slaughter those pigs. Do you really think I’d do something stupid and just die here?”

“This isn’t dummy practice.” Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry. “This is real.”

“It is. And that’s exactly why we can’t lose heart. We’ll show them. We’ll show them we can fight back.” He holds his head slightly lowered and looks at you with his green eyes from under thick, dark lashes. “We’ll get through this. Our story has just begun, right? It’s time we teach them a lesson, okay?”

You swallow hard as your senses return. Drop by drop, like water filling a cup, your thoughts fall back into order. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Eren releases your shoulder and raises his hand to brush his knuckles against your cheek—so lightly you think you might have imagined it. Too startled to say anything, you stand in silence as he turns and leaves, marching with straight, rigid shoulders towards Mikasa.

When you meet her eyes, you don’t know how to read her expression. Is it concern? Does she have a problem that Eren shows you this platonic affection in public when she doesn’t even get a pat on her shoulder; not even a promise that he’ll be careful and come back.

You walk backwards, barely understanding why you have to look at them for such a long time. To memorise their faces. But Mikasa is strong, and if Eren stays by her side, nothing will hurt him.

Jean is waiting at the other side of the courtyard with Connie. Some people get the shakes after an adrenaline surge. Jean gets pissed. When he helps make sure Connie’s gear and gas cylinders are in order, Jean pulls at Connie’s harness so hard as if he’s trying to mug him.

Standing right next to Jean, you want to close your eyes and lean against him, even for just a moment; you want to pretend it’s just another practice drill, that by the end of the day you will meet with everyone for dinner, and you’ll laugh because like always, Sasha and Connie stole Jean’s kills and then the boys will try and predict the next day’s weather depending on Bertholdt’s sleeping position.

Rough hands yank you back from this pipe dream, tugging at your ODM gear. Jean is checking on your equipment next, and you’re kicked back to when you two were thirteen years old and he had tugged on your clothes just like that, checking for injuries after you had given the butcher’s son a bloody nose for dunking Jean’s head into the river.

“Who’s in your squad?” he asks, his voice quiet and rough.

“Karl, Daz, and Franz.”

Jean pulls a face. His hands are restless as he double-checks your equipment. “Listen, if you see a Titan, you move your ass in the opposite direction, okay?”

“You heard Captain Weilman.” Like a well-oiled machine, you turn around, allowing Jean access to check your back. “Desertion is punished by death.”

“So you’d rather a Titan eats you?”

“I—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “I know what happens when you’re scared,” Jean says, and stops. He grabs your shoulders and spins you around, jerking his head down to glare at you. “I’ve known you all my life. If you don’t run, you freeze, and we both know what that means here. Today.”

“I can’t run from it forever,” you reply, quietly.

The breath he exhales is a quiet huff, fanning over your cheeks. His eyes are raking over your face anxiously. You can sense the tension in him, a thrum just under the skin, like the fast-beating heart of a bird. “Running means you’ll stay alive. I need you—” Jean swallows. “—alive.” He almost stumbles over the last word.

“You won’t get rid of me, don’t worry.” If you press into his side and he presses back, it’s only your business. Jean takes a reluctant step back. He catches your fingers with his and gives them a quick, hard squeeze before letting go. When he is already halfway to his squad; he turns and looks back at you. You meet his eyes for a split second. Then he is gone.

You find Karl, a guy you’ve rarely interacted with during the last three years apart from quick nods and polite smiles, and give Daz a wide berth. He’s still sickly pale and you turn away when he starts to dry-heave as though he’ll be sick all over again. Franz is fidgeting with his spare blades, but he looks up when you approach and manages a wobbly smile.

As you check that your gear is working and everything is in place for yourself, your mind is on Jean and the look you’ve shared when he left. It was the first time you’ve watched him leave, knowing you might never see him again. It is something that is hard to accept, and you aren’t sure you want it to become part of your life. To live with death as a constant companion, a cold breath down the back of your neck. But such is the life of a soldier; such will be the life of those who join the Survey Corps.

As though you have the luxury to think about it. You have a mission now: join the support squad and take the middle guard to defend Wall Rose until every citizen is behind the Wall. Stop Titans advancing further no matter the cost. Once the evacuation is done, soldiers from the rear-guard will meet you on the roofs and hand out new gas cylinders so you can all retreat on top of the Inner Wall for safety. That’s the plan.

When you head out, you try not to think about it. Just follow orders, move with your squad. All those years you’ve been talking about protecting the people, saving them so no one ever has to lose someone they love like you did. Finally, you can walk your talk, but every reasonable thought gets pushed back by sheer suffocating, overbearing emotion: you’re scared. You’re scared shitless to face the monsters of your childhood. All these years you thought you had banished them, that come time you could face them—older, different, stronger. But all this time you have deluded yourself. Still a little child, still unable to do anything. Maybe nothing ever changes.

You follow Karl towards Main Street. Captain Weilman tasked your squad to take position in the tailor’s borough, which gives you an excellent opportunity to check on the Kirschstein’s residency. Your home. You don’t allow your thoughts to spiral into what happens if you would find Ida and Felix in any status other than safe and alive. They depend on you; so many people depend on you. You force yourself to steel your fear into rage, into desperation, into resolve.

Karl lands on the roof of a copper-stone house, surveying the area through squinted eyes. “We’re taking position here,” he says. “Doesn’t look like they managed to head this far into the District yet.”

Daz stumbles a little, his foot stuck on a roof shingle. “We shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t fucking be here, what are they thinking?” he mumbles to himself, shuddering terribly as though plagued by a done-deep cold. “We’re just canon fodder. We’re just here so they can snack on us while everybody else books it behind the Walls.”

“Daz,” Franz says. He has his blades out, and even though he’s gripping them hard enough his knuckles are white, you can see them shaking. “Shut up.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to shut up, it’s the truth!” he snaps, whirling around and whipping his blades out. Franz takes a startled step back. Too close to the roof’s edge, he barks Daz to watch out where he swings them around.

“Won’t have to worry about Titans if that maniac kills us first,” Karl mumbles, scanning the streets. He gives you a quick once-over, judges you either sane or capable enough compared to the other two, and draws closer, pointing to one end of the street.

You follow his outstretched arm. Your heart stops for a second.

Two or three bodies lie in the street already—a man, half his lower abdomen is buried under the ruins of a collapsed house. You know that corner; you’d recognise it anywhere: the seamstress’ shop behind the Kirschstein’s residency where you had worked before enlisting into the military.

“We’re too late,” you breathe. “They’ve reached the middle guard.”

“Some survivors might still be down there,” Karl offers. He does another 360, spots no Titans, and nods. “We should go and check.”

That’s all you need to hear. Using the house rows facing each other as anchor points, you zip down to the ground, hearing Karl bark to Daz and Franz to warn you two in time if they see Titans approaching.

Down on the ground, you feel like a little doll in a huge play world. Only someone has thrown a temper tantrum and kicked in houses, punched a colossal fist into stores. Broke the people as though there are nothing more than little toys.

Tentatively, you walk closer to the destroyed building, too scared to take a closer look at the man in fear it might be Felix. Something else catches your eye—red like so many things beautiful and disastrous. Who told you that red was the Gods’ favourite colour?

Her lower abdomen torn in half and lying on the other side of the road, you recognise the young woman by the colour of her blue tunic. She’d always worn it because it had made her big, round eyes stand out even more. The only moments you remember of Mirabelle, your former co-worker of the shop, are despicable and full of loathing for a person who had bullied you without any reason—and yet … seeing her like this, like a doll that’s been ripped apart, half of her intestines hanging out of her body, her vacant blue eyes staring off into the sky unblinkingly… this is a death you don’t wish on anyone. Not even someone you disliked.

“Know any of these people?” Karl asks beside you. You gather your courage. Look at the man, who is not Felix, thankfully. Look at the woman hanging out of a window, the rest of her stuck inside the collapsed building—her hair a vibrant red. Not Ida.

You exhale slowly and force the tension from your muscles. “No.”

“Then we shouldn’t hang around here too long—”

A scream echoes from the roofs—Daz’s voice. Karl and you share a short, panicked look before launching off into the sky and towards your squad members. You can hear Karl mumbling something like “He’s gonna get us killed, I swear.”

You can hardly disagree.

When you ascend over the rooftops, you see the source of Daz’s distress.

Even though it has been seven years, you recognise the Titan immediately. Black hair to its chin, big, coal-black pinpricks for eyes—nothing about it has changed. Like seven years ago when it picked up that woman and devoured her, the Titan has returned today to finish its feast. The way it stares you down, you almost get the feeling it might remember you as well. But that’s impossible. It must smell the fear radiating off you, and like a hound scenting prey, it zeroes in on you. You can taste the terror you’ve felt when you first saw a Titan. The taste is sharp and coppery on your tongue like old pennies.

Move, your mind screams, but you can’t. Your muscles have locked up; a high whine of terror fills your head. You’re trembling with the wait, the helplessness, the stillness, your thumbs pressing so hard to the buttons on your handles they go numb. Faintly, you’re aware of voices. Out of the corner of your eyes you catch movement, and then Franz moves towards the Titan.

A hand leaps at him. Franz whips his blades up and outward with an almost frightening speed; both sink into the fleshiest part of the Titan’s hand, between its fingers. The Titan hisses and strikes at him, knocking him aside the way a cat might bat aside a kitten. Franz lands on another roof, rolls and gets to his feet, but you can see from the way he’s holding his arm that he’s hurt.

That is enough for Karl. Darting forward, he lashes out at the Titan with his blades. He cuts into the Titan’s peach white skin, blood welling from two thick open folds of skin. The Titan ignores him, keeps moving towards Franz.

With his uninjured hand, Franz changes his blade. His mouth quivers as he mumbles to himself, a prayer maybe. From this distance, it looks like he’s mumbling someone’s name. A familiar name.

He raises his blade as the Titan looms up before him; he looks impossibly small in front of it, a child dwarfed by a monster. Franz starts crying as the Titan reaches for him. Karl, screaming, targets his grappling hooks at the Titan’s neck, sailing towards it but missing. Instead, his blades cut into its shoulder, sending blood in a thick spray across the air.

The Titan strikes, its trunk-thick fingers reaching down for Franz. He staggers back, but he is unharmed. Something has thrown itself between him and the Titan, a slim shadow with a gleaming blade in his hand. Karl.

The Titan whines—Karl’s blade has pierced its skin. With a snarl, it strikes again, fingers striking a vicious blow that lifts him off his feet and hurls him against the far wall of a house. He strikes it with a sickening crunch and falls to the ground—four stores down where his head hits the hard pavement, cracking open like a ripe fruit.

Franz screams Karl’s name. He doesn’t move. Lowering his blade, he starts to run along the edge of the roof towards him. The Titan, turning, catches him in a hard grip that makes Franz cough blood until its knuckles turn white and with a squeeze, his bones breaking, Franz lies limb within its grasp as the Titan closes his mouth around him, ignoring his brutal, blood-churning screams. The sound of a dying animal.

It all happens within a few minutes. Two of your teammates—one friend—dead. Just like that.

It felt like hours.

Hours where you don’t move, you don’t think, you don’t feel. You just watch the Titan bite Franz clean in half and swallow the lower part of his body. Either unsatisfied with the taste or bored with the easy game, the Titan drops the rest of Franz and turns, fixing its coal-black eyes on you. The distance between you is barely a stretch of its long arm.

Emil had been wrong, you realise. Freedom is not the ability to do as you please.

Freedom is nothing but the distance between the hunter and its prey.

The Titan closes a fist around your body, tenderly almost. As though it knows how scared you are, and that the last grace it can give you is to grant you a swift, painless death. That can’t be real. You remember how the woman seven years ago had screamed her lungs out. How Franz screamed before those razor-sharp teeth cut him in two.

The Titan cradles you in his hand, bends over your tiny doll-like body in his giant fingers. Its smile is vacant, its eyes dull like a dead fish’s. No compassion lies in those soulless orbs. No begging or praying would save you; monsters know of no mercy. They don’t know of conscience and love.

How could Emil have ever felt compassion for those beasts?

Emil. When had he shown compassion to Titans? When had he ever seen a Titan?

An image flickers before your eyes—A line of trees with thickly leaved branches breathing out cool green-scented air. There are bushes hung with glossy berries, red and purple and black, and small trees hung with oddly-shaped fruits you’ve never seen before. You exhale. “It smells like …” Springtime, you think, before the heat comes and crushes the leaves into pulp and withers the petals off the flowers. “Home,” says Emil wistfully, “to me.”—no, not this moment. After. Something happened after. Something that uprooted everything you thought you had known about Emil.

Something hot splatters onto you, the searing pain clearing the fog of memory that dulls your mind. The liquid immediately begins to evaporate. Steam rises off from the side of your face, and you realise it is the Titan’s blood from an early wound Franz or Karl had inflicted.

Blood.

A Titan’s blood.

Titans bleed.

They bleed just like you.

Men bleed and die. Therefore, it must be logical that when Titans bleed … they die.

It means you can kill them.

They are not invincible.

Only that thought matters—a truth you’ve always known, and yet it has never struck you as important as right now. They bleed, they bleed, they bleed. They hurt, they hurt, they hurt. The monsters from your childhood bleed and hurt, and therefore, you can kill them.

Through the fog of your helplessness, you can still see those cold, lifeless eyes and yellow, rotting teeth waiting for you, and all you can think is, This can’t be how it ends.

It is not what you have expected to think as you stare death in its hungry eyes. It’s not hopelessness, it’s just pure stubbornness. Not even so much a will to live as a refusal to die. Not yet, not now, not here, not when you have so much left to do. Thank Ida for the gloves she’s knitted you last Wîhe Naht. Thank Felix for the birch box he’s built for your trinkets as a graduation present. Spend a last day with Jean and Marco and the rest of your Corps before you go separate ways. Figure out the jumble of memories where Emil hides. Find Eren. Tell Eren that you can kind of, sort of, maybe imagine spending the rest of your life with him—and oh, what a thought that is. What a thought holding so much gravitas, so much everything that it is a miracle the Titan doesn’t drop you right then and there from the weight of that revelation.

“Our story has just begun, right? It’s time we teach them a lesson, okay?”

“Okay.”

In that moment that changes the trajectory of your life, you realise three fundamental truths at the exact same time.

Number one: For the first time in all your life you know you are more than what you fear.

Number two: There is a truth to remember about Emil, and because you remember you are given a second chance to be with him.

Number three: When you trace Eren’s name, it spells home.

You stop thinking.

Wedging your blades between your body and the fingers curled around you, you pull with all your strength, feeling the blades slice through flesh, cut into bone, break in the process. One edge grazes your leg, but you don’t feel anything—adrenaline pumps hot through your body, drowning fear and pain.

With its hold around you loosened, you wiggle out of the Titan’s grasp, quickly twisting your body to find a stable anchor point on another roof. You launch into the air—high, higher, so high that the world spins around you, leaving you dazed, but when your eyes land on the Titan, so much smaller from up high, your body knows what needs to be done.

As though it can’t follow what just happened, the Titan is still staring at his now empty hand. Steam rises from the clean cuts where his severed fingers remain unmoving.

As you change your blades, your hooks wedge into the soft spots in its neck. Slice through the nape, 1 meter and 10 centimetres. You’ve done it often enough during practice, you know exactly where to cut.

Soaring through the sky towards your target, you know it is finally time to rip up the flesh of your fears.

For your parents. For Karl and Franz. For Emil. For yourself.

The flesh yields to your sharp blades like butter to a warm knife. More blood spurts from the wound, running down the Titan’s back like a waterfall as a huge chunk of flesh falls and lands with a loud splat on the ground. You quickly manoeuvre up to a roof. The moment your foot lands on stable ground, your right leg buckles under the weight of your body—the gash in your skin from where your blade cut into your leg burns as though liquid fire spill from the wound.

Pushing aside the throbbing pain, you quickly turn and see the Titan fall face first onto the street, steam evaporating from his neck. It lies there, unmoving.

Dead. Just like that.

A shudder rips through you.

Ah. So that’s what it feels like.

Finally, you have become the hunter.

taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade, @berriesandcrem, @im-just-star-dust, @rui-0836, @thefangirlhasarrive

#eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #phill.swyaatl #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x you #eren jaeger x y/n #eren yeager #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x you #aot reader insert

[heyiwrotesomethings]

Feeding the Weary Traveler

Mitsuri Kanroji x She/Her Reader

A/N: Warnings for this one are homophobia and a mention of physical assault. Let me know if you think I should mention anything else. It’s a relatively light story considering. I usually like to keep the sexuality of the reader undiscussed so it could be anything, but this time around reader doesn’t seem to be interested in men in the slightest. It’s only a couple of lines but just a heads up. Hope you like it! Sorry if there are more errors than usual. My internet is painfully slow and it makes uploading a chore and a half. Word Count: 6,388

Mitsuri hummed happily to herself as she surveyed the various food stalls lighting up the night around her. She wasn’t sure where she should begin, it all looked so good! She was so lucky to have stumbled upon this bustling little village, and during a festival no less! This dinner was going to be legendary! Hopefully there would be an inn nearby where she could rest between missions and take some time to enjoy it all.

Mitsuri decided that the sweet dango stall was calling her name so she made her way over there first and purchased four skewers. She chewed happily as she walked around and tried to decide what to try next. The dango tasted so good she had half a mind to go back and get a couple more.

The Hashira was about to approach a yakitori stall as she finished her last dango when her crow landed none too gracefully in the dirt beside her. She flapped her wings frantically, her little clover shaped crown slightly askew.

Mitsuri whined as she chewed the last bit of dango before swallowing it down. It looked like dinner was over before it really even started. Well, when duty calls...

She cast one last longing glance at the sizzling meats and followed after her crow out of the village’s well lit valley and into the dark mountains above. Lives could be on the line, dinner could wait.

Mitsuri scaled the rugged terrain, hopping from tree to tree. Her crow flapped erratically just ahead, guiding her to whatever demon was wreaking havoc tonight. Her fingers wrapped tightly over the hilt of her blade as the air became heavy with an overwhelming dense dread that could only be brought on by the demon’s bloodlust.

Mitsuri unfurled her blade and kicked off of the next tree branch particularly hard as a scream ripped through the craggy boulders. A few more leaps and bounds.., she did not slow, a scream could mean many things, it wasn’t over yet. They could still be alive!

Her crow cawed in alarm just as Mitsuri’s eyes locked onto a struggle in the brambles below. Almost on instinct, she cracked her whip-like blade over the demon’s grotesque form, causing it to shriek. The Hashira twirled in the air to land in front of the beast and the young woman trapped and writhing  beneath it.

“Get off of her, you miserable fiend!” Mitsuri commanded, readying her blade to lash at the demon again.

The demon wailed again in anger, crushing the dirt beside its hostage’s head before tearing off into the forest in an attempt to get away from the powerful newcomer.

“Oh no you don’t!” Mitsuri called after it, cracking her nichirin blade over its retreating form. The blade sliced into the tendons in the back of one of its legs, causing it to tumble to the ground. Before it could skitter off to heal, Mitsuri swung her blade around again. The specially forged metal curled around the demon’s neck and with one clean yank, it’s head came clean off.

The slayer stayed alert, scanning the area for any other nearby threats. An exhausted caw from her crow alerted her that it was safe to let her guard down. She quickly turned on her heel to asses the young woman’s condition, observing her as she shakily got to her knees.

Her kimono was ripped and dirtied. Blood seemed to be seeping through her cloth of her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and frightened while her breath came shallow and quick.

“Are you alright?” Mitsuri spoke gently, slowly moving into the girl’s line of vision. She didn’t want to scare her anymore than she already had been tonight.

“I don’t know,” she said between gasping breaths, “I, I’m alive. That’s something.” She tried to get to her feet, but something twinged in her ankle and she fell back to her knees.

Mitsuri knelt at her side in concern.

The girl would need some medical attention. “My name is Kanroji Mitsuri. What’s your name?”

“(L/n) (Y/n).” She shakily replied.

“Let me help you home, (L/n)-san. Do you live in the village down below?” Mitsuri asked, helping (Y/n) to her feet, carrying most of her weight for her.

“No,” (Y/n) answered quickly, almost as if the insinuation pained her, “no, I don’t. I live here, in the mountains. My cottage isn’t too far from here.”

“I’ll help you get home, (Y/n)-san. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.” Mitsuri assured.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

Mitsuri eyed the young woman sympathetically. The poor dear was still shaken, but managed to direct Mitsuri in the direction of her home while the Hashira carefully held her up, guiding her through the tough terrain.

Mitsuri frowned at the sight of the worn down shack as it came into view, this couldn’t be it, could it?

“There, I live there.” (Y/n) proclaimed, her voice laced with exhaustion. She must have been able to feel the shift in Mitsuri’s mood at the declaration because she then added, “It’s not much, but it’s home. I built it myself even.”

“Do you live here alone?” Mitsuri couldn’t help but ask, slightly horrified.

“I do.” (Y/n) affirmed, missing Mitsuri’s open-mouthed, wide-eyed shock when she stumbled towards the weathered door. “Thank you again, for saving me and bringing me back home.”

“You’re welcome but...” Mitsuri tried to find words but none would come finally she just shook her head and followed (Y/n)’s stumbling form to the door. “Do you have any medical supplies? Let me help patch you up.”

“I have some things. I’m not sure how helpful they’ll be. You needn’t concern yourself. You’ve done so much for me already, Kanroji-san.”

“Your shoulder could get infected without proper care and your ankle looks sprained or even broken. Let me see what I can do. We might need to take you to the village, there’s got to be a doctor down there.”

(Y/n) shook her head furiously, wincing a bit and grasping her head soon after, “I’m not going into town for anything. I’ll invite you to do what you can here, but that’s where I draw the line.”

Mitsuri was concerned by the girl’s reluctance to go to the village, but she took (Y/n)’s offer and entered the small shack. She was surprised by how homey the inside looked once (Y/n) lit a few lanterns. Not only that, but it smelt heavenly inside.

(Y/n) cursed under her breath as she hobbled over to some kind of makeshift oven and carefully peaked inside before sighing in relief and opened it fully. “It didn’t burn! Thank the gods for small favors I guess.”

“What have you got there, (L/n)-san? It smells very good in here.” Mitsuri said, holding a hand over her stomach in an attempt to quiet its rumbling.

“Bread. Please, help yourself. It’s the least I can offer for all of your help tonight.”

“Really? Thank you!” Mitsuri was practically glowing at the invitation before she remembered why she was here in the first place. “Later! First, let’s check you over.”

(Y/n) gestured to another corner of the space to a wobbly, rustic shelf next to a futon so flat it couldn’t possibly be comfortable to sleep on.  Mitsuri’s heart went out to this girl. She couldn’t be too far off from her in age, this was no way to live, and alone no less.

Mitsuri recovered the tin sitting atop the bottom shelf and motioned the girl to sit on the ground as she noted there were no chairs. She kneeled beside (Y/n)’s injured shoulder. A pained grunt rumbled at the back of the hermit’s throat as she painstakingly loosened and lowered the fabric around her shoulders, baring the bloody claw marks to the Hashira.

“Oh you poor dear...” Mitsuri cooed as she gently probed the torn flesh. At least it wasn’t too deep.

“It’s fine,” (Y/n) shivered and looked away, “could you wrap me up now please. Try to be sparing with the bandages if possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Mitsuri frowned. She disinfected and wrapped the wound as Shinobu had shown her during her first aid training and managed to only use about a third of the already meager roll. “There,” she gently patted (Y/n)’s shoulder, “that’s all set. Now I just need a look at that ankle. Oh my, it’s swollen pretty bad. We’ll need to elevate it and you should really lay down.”

“I am pretty tired,” (Y/n) sighed wearily, pulling her kimono back up over her shoulders. “Could you help me up?”

“Of course!” Mitsuri eagerly replied, easily scooping (Y/n) up in her arms and standing to her full height.

(Y/n)’s hands scrambled for purchase on Mitsuri’s uniform from the sudden movement. Once she realized Mitsuri’s hold on her was solid and unwavering she relaxed a bit before pulling her hands back to her own chest and jerking her head outwards away from the pale expanse of the demon slayer’s chest. If at all possible, she was sure steam would roll out of her ears like active geysers.

Mitsuri didn’t notice anything amiss and took the few steps needed to lay (Y/n) down in the sad little bed. Then she paid careful attention to (Y/n)’s leg, tilting and rotating it while getting feedback from the girl.

“Well, I don’t think it’s broken, but you should definitely stay off of it for awhile.” Mitsuri informed, feeling anxious. “So you know anyone nearby? Someone that can assist you with your recovery?”

“I’ll be just fine, trust me.” (Y/n) had said.

“That um, didn’t really answer my question.” Mitsuri smiled a bit tightly as more worry settled in her heart. “Do you have family nearby, friends, close acquaintances?”

“If you must know,” (Y/n) weakly spat, “there isn’t anyone. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for nearly two years now.” She finished bitterly.

Mitsuri flinched back at (Y/n)’s tone and the bedridden girl immediately felt bad. She was only trying to help after all. (Y/n) would have been dead without her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”

“It’s alright. You’ve had a hard night,” Mitsuri patted (Y/n)’s hand reassuringly. “I’ll just have to watch over you then.”

“Cawww!”

Mitsuri looked over her shoulder at her crow, flapping and comically sweating buckets from her uneasy perch on the windowsill.

“I can take care of myself,” (Y/n) voiced her stance once more, “besides, it looks like your work isn’t over yet. Take a couple loafs for the road as thanks. You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

“I couldn’t.” Mitsuri shook her head. The girl already had so little, it would be a crime to take advantage. She was already paid plenty as a Hashira, she could hold out for a few more hours.

“I insist. I make more than I know what to do with. Quite a bit gets thrown to the wildlife.”

“Well, if you’re sure...” Mitsuri’s resolve crumbled like loose gravel. She was hungry, and the bread smelled really, really good. If (Y/n) was going to insist, how could she say no? Then Mitsuri straightened as an idea formed in her mind. (Y/n) startled as Mitsuri loudly smacked her hands together.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, tomorrow before the sun sets!” Mitsuri said with conviction.

“What?” (Y/n) blinked, watching Mitsuri pack three loafs of bread into a rucksack before giving it back to her crow to fly off with.

“I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.” Mitsuri said before taking a bite out of a fourth loaf of bread. “Mmm, this is so good!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I have to get going now, but I’ll be back! Keep your weight off that ankle and don’t strain yourself!” Mitsuri called as she opened the front door.

“No, wait, Kanroji-san!”

But she was already gone, the door closed tightly behind her before she ran off headlong into the dangerous night.

“And she’s gone,” (Y/n) sighed, “just who is she anyway? She’s practically superhuman,” she covered her face in the crook of her good arm, “and she’s really pretty.”

***

By morning Mitsuri was halfway through her last loaf of bread and standing before the familiar sight of the Butterfly Estate. After seeing the state of (Y/n)’s medical supplies, Mitsuri thought it prudent to visit Shinobu and procure a kit for the girl.

“Mitsuri, hello.” Shinobu greeted upon looking up from her microscope. “What brings you here today?”

“Shinobu, you have to help me,” Mitsuri immediately started in, “I saved a girl last night and she got a roughed up a bit before I got to her. Can you help me make a medical kit for her?”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Shinobu smiled, “but I must ask, why not just take her to a civilian doctor? Surely they would be able to provide the help she may need.”

“She lives alone in the mountains. She seems to have a bad relationship with the village in the valley below, but I don’t know why.”

“Just be careful then,” Shinobu warned, “who knows, you might be dealing with a criminal.”

“No way!” Mitsuri gasped, waving the last couple bites of bread in front of Shinobu’s face, “Could a criminal make bread this good? I think not!”

“Please stay vigilant regardless,” Shinobu giggled before switching gears, “now, tell me what happened last night.”

Mitsuri explained the situation the best she could, detailing (Y/n)’s injuries and what supplies she had left. Shinobu helped her pack up a new med kit that would not only replenish (Y/n)’s supplies, but give her some other helpful medicines that she didn’t have initially. Mitsuri thanked Shinobu with a tight hug that forced her fellow Pillar to dangle in the air for a few moments before being lowered to the ground once more. Then she made her way off the property, running off into the woods. She had a lot of ground to cover before sunset.

After a few hours of travel Mitsuri was feeling peckish. She had unfortunately finished the last loaf of bread before leaving Shinobu’s estate and didn’t have time to replenish her snack sack that her crow carried for her. If she was lucky, maybe the festival she had stumbled upon last night was a multiple night event and she could stalk up once she checked on (Y/n).

With an excited hum, she practically flew up the mountain, making her way in the general direction she knew (Y/n)’s shack to be.

“Oh dear, was it a left at this boulder or a right?” Mitsuri mumbled to herself. The forest was more inviting in the evening light but it looked so different. Cautiously, she tried the left path and scoured her surroundings for anything that looked familiar.

Mitsuri had begun to grow a bit anxious, worried that she had taken a wrong turn. She took a deep breath through her nose to calm herself which was quickly followed by a few more testing scentings of the air. Something smelled delicious. She couldn’t be sure, but it was the best lead she had so far. She followed the hearty aroma and cheered to herself as the rundown, misshapen hut came into view.

The Hashira wasted no time hopping up to the door. She gave a courtesy knock and announced herself before letting herself inside. She smiled to herself as she imagined how happy (Y/n) would be to have such an arsenal of medicinal goods. That smile quickly became a shocked, open mouth of light horror upon seeing (Y/n) up and moving about her small home.

“Ah! I thought I told you not to put any weight on that ankle, you’ll hurt yourself!” Mitsuri worried. She quickly went up to (Y/n) with her arms out in front of her like (Y/n) would collapse at any moment.

“I couldn’t just lay in bed all day.” (Y/n) tried to reason. “You said you were coming back so I felt the need to make dinner for you. You know, to repay you for all you’re doing for me. A little ankle pain can hardly keep me down.”

Mitsuri was touched by the gesture, it made her heart flutter with appreciation, but (Y/n) needed to follow her instructions or who knows what long term damage she would cause herself.

“It smells wonderful, (L/n)-san and I thank you endlessly, but please, lay down right now!”

“I’ve been taking breaks. I’m fine—ah!“

Ah, swept off her feet by the strong and beautiful demon slayer once again. As embarrassing as being doted on in this manner was, (Y/n) was definitely going to revisit this tender care in her dreams. Gods, she was touch starved.

“Really (L/n)-san, don’t be difficult. Let me check on your shoulder, okay?” Mitsuri didn’t even sound strained as she slowly placed (Y/n) down on the futon.

“Oh, okay.” (Y/n) fought through the fuzzy tingles, shaking them from her body as she slid her sleeve off her shoulder.

“Aw, it looks a little infected,” Mitsuri whined as she softly prodded the tender flesh, “but don’t worry! I paid a visit to a dear friend today and I’ve got everything you’ll need!”

“Kanroji-san, this is too much.” (Y/n) gaped in awe at the tightly packed tin Mitsuri presented to her.

“Not at all! Now, hold still while I apply some of this cream.” Mitsuri beamed before swirling the cool salve over the cuts. (Y/n) flinched a bit but the numbing chill soon soothed the pain.

“Wow, that feels really nice.”

“Right? I can always trust Shinobu for the best!” Mitsuri proudly proclaimed as she finished re-wrapping (Y/n)’s shoulder. She then took care of (Y/n)’s ankle the way Shinobu had suggested and looked at her handiwork with pride. “There all done! Shinobu said you’ll want to keep it elevated and free of strain for at least two weeks.”

“Okay, I’ll rest where I can. Thank you.”

“No no,” Mitsuri made an ‘x’ with her arms and pouted, “none of that, you have to rest!”

“I can’t afford to rest. It’s not easy living in the mountains alone.” (Y/n) informed, her eyes shifted over Mitsuri’s shoulder at the burning embers in her ‘kitchen’, “Could you take that off the heat please?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Mitsuri shot up and stole to the dingy pot, her eyes shined upon witnessing the rich, golden broth up close. “Wow, this looks amazing!”

“I’m glad you think so, the mountains are harsh but there are plenty of resources if you know where to look. Please, help yourself.”

“Thank you so much! Here, let me get you a bowl as well. Food always tastes better with company after all.”

Mitsuri tried to prepare another bowl for (Y/n) but quickly discovered she only had one. It seemed like the more she looked at the place, the sadder it made her. (Y/n) seemed to notice the sudden downtick in the slayer’s mood and spoke up.

“Hey, I’ve got a tea mug I’ll happily drink from if you don’t mind my bad manners.” She laughed, provoking a smile from Mitsuri.

“Of course I don’t mind.”

They ate the broth and fresh bread together as they made small talk and Mitsuri was having a great time. It was rare to get to know someone she rescued like this and being able to see (Y/n) while the sun had not yet fully disappeared she got an opportunity to have a really good look at her.

Mitsuri’s face heated as (Y/n) laughed at something she said and she silently praised the forces at hand that allowed her to make it to her in time. It felt good, so very rewarding, to know such a beautiful soul’s time was not cut short by a cruel end. She wanted to keep it that way.

“Something on your mind, Kanroji-san?” (Y/n) asked, breaking Mitsuri from her thoughts with a start.

“Oh! I, um, I was just thinking about how good your food is! You know, the village down below was having a festival yesterday. I bet you could sell a lot of what you make really quickly if you set up a stall there.” Mitsuri exclaimed before diving back in.

(Y/n)’s face soured a bit at the thought, though she sighed wistfully and a sad smile crossed her lips.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She said before taking another sip from her chipped cup.

“Why don’t you go down to the village, (L/n)-san?” Mitsuri asked, her pastel-green eyes gazed at (Y/n)’s downcast face.

(Y/n) stayed silent for a few moments, debating with herself if it was worth delving into her strife with a girl she had only just met the night before and probably wouldn’t see again. At least, she definitely wouldn’t see her again if she were to explain her situation.

“It’s not something I’d really care to discuss. Sorry.” (Y/n) curtly replied.

“No, I’m sorry,” Mitsuri frowned, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine. It was an innocent question.” (Y/n) assured, giving Mitsuri’s knee a friendly pat before withdrawing once more.

They continued to talk about anything until the sun disappeared and the stars lit up the night sky and the lanterns were lit to illuminate the hut.

Mitsuri needed to go. The Hashira was reluctant but she wasn’t going to leave (Y/n) completely on her own just yet. She told the mountain dweller she’d come back to check on her in three days time, giggling at the girl’s surprise at the declaration. Mitsuri reasoned that (Y/n) would still need help while she recovered and although she was busy with her duties, she couldn’t in good conscious leave (Y/n) completely on her own. Especially when the girl had a tendency to skip out of much needed rest.

Mitsuri filled her rucksack to her heart’s with (Y/n)’s blessing and set off into the night. She hoped to see improvements in (Y/n)’s health when she returned in a few days.

***

The next visit went well. Mitsuri still had to scold (Y/n) for moving about, but she still, albeit a bit guiltily, heartily ate the meals (Y/n) would prepare for her upon her arrival.

Even after (Y/n) had completely healed, Mitsuri didn’t stop visiting. (Y/n) would always laugh when Mitsuri would show up unannounced, joking that feeding Mitsuri was like feeding a stray cat, she’d always come back for more. (Y/n) was happy for the company though. Very happy.

Mitsuri would also bring little things to make (Y/n)’s shack more bearable, starting with an extra set of dishes so they could properly enjoy a meal together. Before long, they considered themselves close enough to be real friends.

One night Mitsuri came by so late, she had awoken (Y/n) when she knocked on the door. (Y/n) let her in and Mitsuri nearly toppled them both over in her exhaustion.

“Hi,” Mitsuri whispered both shyly and with great exhaustion, “sorry for coming by so late. It’s just been a really long night and I think I’m about to crash any minute now. You were the closest to where I was so...”

“You know better than to think you ever need have an excuse to stop by.” (Y/n) lightly scolded. “Come lay down, are you hungry?” She asked, laying the Hashira down on the new futon that Mitsuri had brought for (Y/n) a couple visits prior.

“I could never say no to anything you make.” Mitsuri smiled, causing a prickly heat to swirl over (Y/n)’s cheeks.

(Y/n) heated up her leftovers and presented them to Mitsuri who ate them with the same vigor she would have if it was fresh.

“So good,” she sighed happily, “really, if this is what you can make in this little hut, I would die of happiness to see what you could do in a proper kitchen.”

“You flatter me, Mitsuri.” (Y/n) smiled shyly. It still gave her butterflies to speak to the demon slayer so familiarly, but it was a good feeling.

“I’m serious, (Y/n)!” Mitsuri swore, “I still maintain that I think you would do very well in the village.”

(Y/n) pursed her lips, which Mitsuri noticed straight away and mirrored before fidgeting with the now empty bowl in her hands.

“Are you ready to talk about that yet? It’s alright if you aren’t.” She hesitantly asked.

(Y/n) would be lying to herself if she thought she wasn’t nervous at the prospect of telling Mitsuri her history with the village, but she found herself wanting to share that part of her story with the sweet woman. Mitsuri had never done anything to hurt her, but that’s what made the aspect of sharing so much more frightening. What if Mitsuri became disgusted with her? Accused her of befriending her with alternative motives? But when (Y/n) met her eyes those doubts quieted and she took a deep shutters breath before blowing it all back out in one harsh breath.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to listen? It might be better if you sleep for the night first.”

Mitsuri seemed more alert already, sitting up fully in the bed and giving (Y/n) her full, undivided attention. “No, I can listen! I want to be able to understand you better and support you in anyway I can! Tell me whatever you are comfortable sharing.”

“Okay,” (Y/n) took another breath, taking a moment to decide how to proceed.

“I was born and raised in that valley, actually. My family owns an inn that doubles as a restaurant to boot.”

“That explains a lot.” Mitsuri commented with a small smile, patting at her full stomach. That earned a chuckle and a nod from (Y/n) before she continued.

“Yeah, my mom started teaching me almost as soon as I could stand on my own. She was strict, but with food that good, she was entitled to that attitude. My father took care of the inn side of things and when he wasn’t doing that, he was drinking his weight in saké.” (Y/n) took note of Mitsuri’s concern and patted her hand while flashing her a reassuring half smile.

“It wasn’t ideal, but that was just life. Incredibly, the business didn’t suffer and he never treated us badly so we saw no need to address it. I didn’t know of any other way of life so I was content where I was. Until...”

“Until what, (Y/n)?” Mitsuri cocked her head to the side.

“Until my parents arranged a marriage for me to be wed to the blacksmith’s son. The union would have brought a large sum of money to my family. The whole village seemed to know about it before I did.” (Y/n) chuckled humorlessly and shook her head while Mitsuri listened, holding herself back from jumping in to ask questions.

“They would talk over me about what I’d wear, who would be invited, even as far as when I should bare a child. I felt like everything I thought I knew was crumbling around me. I hadn’t even talked to the blacksmith’s son before. Even now I don’t recall his name. All I knew was that the idea of marrying him terrified me.”

“Did you tell your parents this?” Mitsuri couldn’t help but blurt, her eyebrows had upturned and creased her forehead.

“Yes,” (Y/n)’s eyes shadowed over as she peered down at her lap, “I admit, the middle of town wasn’t the best place to air my reservations, but they wouldn’t listen to me. They would tell me it was just cold feet or that I was overreacting. Then I had finally had it, and two days before the wedding, I screamed at my mother that I didn’t want to be married to some boy I had never talked to and made a big scene.

She had said then, since I was making such a fuss, that I must have been handing myself out to some other boy while her back was turned and it just made me so mad. I told her there was no other boy, that I didn’t want one.” (Y/n) sighed and pressed her head back against the wall.

“I told her that the only people that I had ever thought of marrying were either the grocer’s eldest daughter or the seamstress’ apprentice who had helped me at my fitting the day prior and then my mother slapped me in front of the whole village.”

Mitsuri gasped, covering her mouth. She was no stranger to the disappointment of a parent, but her parents had never laid a hand on her for any of her failed engagements.

“She was disgusted with me and word traveled fast. The blacksmith called off the arrangement, not wanting his son to have anything to do with my... perversions I think he called them. The grocer refused to sell his produce to my family and kept his daughters inside.

My father, once greatly respected, was humiliated by me and shunned by the whole village. He was furious and drunk which made for a very bad combination as you may imagine. I was severely... disciplined and locked away.

Later that night, I could hear him and my mother discussing selling me to a brothel to be trained as a courtesan. Needless to say, once I believed they were asleep I tore through the paper wall of the room I was trapped in and packed up what I could carry before I escaped into the mountains. I’ve been surviving here ever since.”

As (Y/n) finished her story, Mitsuri sniffed loudly and hiccuped, startling (Y/n) from her memories to try to comfort the demon slayer as she cried for her. Mitsuri pulled (Y/n) into her chest with such ferocity that it cracked the poor girl’s spine.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve such treatment!” The Hashira blubbered. “It was awful of me to ever suggest you go back to that terrible place devoid of love and compassion.”

(Y/n) struggled to breath and patted Mitsuri’s back. “Don’t be hard on yourself, you didn’t know. It’s okay.”

Getting all of that out there, having someone to listen and not judge her for her tale, it made (Y/n) feel so much lighter. Mitsuri kept her close and rocked their bodies side to side and how was (Y/n) not going to cry when she hadn’t been treated so tenderly since she was little. Before long, they were both sobbing messes in the corner of a dingy shack in the middle of the mountains.

By the time their bout had subsided into the occasional sniffle or the loud, gross honk of mucus being sucked back up someone’s nose, the girls had migrated to spooning on the futon with one of Mitsuri’s arms wrapped securely over (Y/n)’s side while the the other alternated between lightly scratching at the nape of (Y/n)’s neck and between her shoulder blades. The fit on the futon was tight, but neither seemed to mind.

“You know,” (Y/n) sighed, “the night you saved me I was out because there is a cliff that you can see the whole village from. I knew the festival lights would be up and I really wanted to feel the warmth I used to feel at festival season. Figures I’d be attacked by a demon before I even got there.”

“You’re going to make me cry again.” Mitsuri said, her voice coming out a tad nasally because of her stuffy nose.

“I didn’t mean for that to make you sad. I was just going to say I was glad for that night for nothing else other than I got to meet you. Thank you for sticking around, Mitsuri.”

“Now you’re being so sweet I’m gonna cry again!” Mitsuri sniffled, weakly batting at (Y/n) and making her laugh as she apologized.

“I’m glad I met you too,” Mitsuri whispered softly once they calmed down again. Then they finally went to sleep as the sun was rising.

***

“I just— mm! I don’t want her living in that rundown shack anymore. I never did! But now, I think about it all the time and I just can't stand it!” Mitsuri complained to Shinobu as the Insect Pillar tried to concentrate on the medicines she was measuring out.

“I see.” Shinobu answered simply, making a note before giving Mitsuri her full attention, “Well, if she’s as good of a cook as you keep telling me, I’m sure Aoi would be happy for another pair of hands in the kitchens.”

“What?” Mitsuri blinked.

“You know me, Mitsuri. I have a history of taking in young girls who have nowhere to go. I assume that’s why you have been telling me all of this.” Shinobu smiled mischievously, “besides, you make her sound so cute, how could I say no?”

That got a rise out of the Love Hashira.

“You—! You already have a girlfriend!” Mitsuri sputtered her face as pink as her hair at the possibility of Shinobu trying to woo (Y/n). Worse yet, the very real possibility that it would work! Mitsuri knew just how charming Shinobu could be! But thankfully, Shinobu laughed and diffused the state Mitsuri had worked herself into.

“I was only teasing, but she really can live here. I have plenty of room. I just figured you would want to keep her closer. I didn’t realize your estate was operating at full capacity.”

“Wait, say that again.” Mitsuri said, the wheels in her head turning as she tried to work backwards herself.

“(L/n)-san can live here?” Shinobu tried.

“No, after that.”

“I didn’t realize your own estate was running at full capacity. I thought you would want (L/n)-san to live with you.” Shinobu reiterated.

“Ah!” Mitsuri shrieked, making Shinobu wince ever so slightly. Then Mitsuri roughly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her around a little bit, “You, Kochou Shinobu, are a genius! I can’t believe I hadn’t realized sooner! Thanks for the talk, bye!”

“Take care!” Shinobu saw Mitsuri off, fixing her tousled fringe as she watched the blur of pink, green and white run out of sight around the corner. Deciding she was due for a break, she wandered down the opposite end of the hall to find out what her girlfriend was up to at the moment.

***

By now, Mitsuri knew the mountain like she knew the back for her hand. The delicious scent of sizzling vegetables and meats never hurt either of course. She didn’t even bother to knock before letting herself in.

“I had a feeling you’d come by today.” (Y/n) smiled as she checked over her shoulder, “I’m not sure what it was, but I’m glad it proved true because I definitely made too much food.”

“(Y/n), live with me.” Mitsuri blurted before shyly hiding her face in her hands. How could she ask that so suddenly? Never mind ask, she definitely didn’t even phrase it as a question!

“Huh?” Was all (Y/n) could get out before she forgot how her voice worked.

“Would, would you maybe, possibly consider maybe living with me?” Mitsuri tried again, her voice raised almost to the point of cracking with every word.

“...I wouldn’t want to impose.” (Y/n) nervously replied after a few moments, busying herself by stirring a pot that was in no need of attention.

“You wouldn’t be!” Mitsuri said with more conviction. “I really want you to come with me. I know you are proud of what you have managed to do for yourself, it’s better than anything I could ever make, but the more time passes, I can’t help but hate how you still live in this rundown, rickety, shack that I can clear in four strides!” Mitsuri demonstrated her point by walking from one wall to the other before turning back to (Y/n) with pleading eyes.

“Please, come live with me. I love you and you deserve more than this.”

“La, la, lalala, lov, love... love me?” (Y/n) quickly turned back to her cooking as the fire cracked so loud it made her jump. Why was she acting like this? Mitsuri loved a lot of people, she obviously meant a friendly, platonic kind of love and now she had just made it even more awkward!

But then (Y/n) jolted again when Mitsuri’s strong arms wrapped around her middle and her chin rested against her shoulder. The Hashira hummed an affirmative as she slowly began to rock them side to side. Between the heat of the low fire and the heat of Mitsuri’s front pressed against her back, (Y/n) was sure she was going to pass out.

“Please (Y/n), live with me?” Mitsuri asked softly. She kissed (Y/n)’s jaw as she moved.

“?!??!!” (Y/n) short circuited, lost in Mitsuri’s softness. Mitsuri merely giggled and rested another to (Y/n)’s cheek, then her ear, her temple, until—

“Oh dear!” Mitsuri gasped as (Y/n) fell limp in her arms. “(Y/n), are you alright? Are you sick? Why didn’t you say something? You shouldn’t be up!”

“I, I’m not sick,” (Y/n) mumbled, smoke rolling off of her like a steam boat, “It’s just a lot of touching that I’m not really used to yet.”

“Oh! Should I stop?”

“Gods no.” (Y/n) sighed and gripped onto Mitsuri’s haori so she couldn’t back away.

Mitsuri beamed brightly before resting a kiss over (Y/n)’s forehead and rubbed her back. “Come with me?” She asked again.

“I’d follow you to the bottom of the ocean if you asked.” (Y/n)’s eyes slipped shut as she enjoyed Mitsuri’s scattered kisses.

“Great! I can’t wait for you to meet all my friends! Iguro-san and Kabumaru will love you, Kyoujirou-san too! He’ll love your cooking. Just watch out for Shinobu though, she’s flirty.”

“Okay, I’ll stay vigilant.” (Y/n) laughed.

“Good girl,” Mitsuri nodded, “now let’s pack up all that you hold dear. We should be able to make it to my estate by dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” (Y/n) nodded excitedly in return. She took the little pail of water from the floor and doused the low flame, “maybe you’d like lunch first though? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

“Yes! Lunch first and then the beginning of the rest of our lives!” Mitsuri amended, skipping over to the meal (Y/n) had prepared.

As they are together (Y/n) couldn’t help but grin. Mitsuri was right, food really did taste better when sharing it with people you love. The kisses and nuzzles throughout the meal didn’t hurt either.

#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer oneshots #kny oneshots #kny x reader #mitsuri kanroji #mitsuri kanroji x reader #mitsuri x reader

[wing-ed-thing]

Retail Therapy (Kakuzu x Reader)

Synopsis: Deidara has a new partner for a combined effort with the Zombie Combo. However, something about you has Kakuzu heated.

Word Count: 2,123

Tags/Warnings: Violence, Threat of Violence, Probably Language, Gender Neutral Reader

Notes: Kakuzu content is probably some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. Right now I’m watching a video on fried milk. Ever hear of such a thing? Fascinating.

Kakuzu didn’t like being paired up with Hidan, let alone joint missions where he’d have to deal with even more people. Not to say that Kakuzu hated people, because he did, but he never thought that he’d hate anyone more than he absolutely hated you. He hadn’t even met you yet, but he knew at his very core that you would quickly become the bane of his entire existence.

“Shopping?” Kakuzu asked slowly, the word forming on his lips as if he had an aversion to even speaking it. Deidara leaned back on the large bounder that he settled on and stretched his arms up above his head. The blond nodded with a short groan before his hands came to rest behind his head.

“Yep,” he answered, “And for hours too, so I’d get comfortable.” Hidan plopped down on a patch of dirt below, his back and scythe against the side of the rock. Kakuzu glared down at his partner causing Hidan to shrug. To Hidan, if Deidara thought that the three of them would be waiting a while, he would take his word and make himself comfortable. Kakuzu’s attention turned back to Deidara.

“Hours? What possibly could someone be purchasing that takes them hours?” Hidan gazed up from his spot, head tilted back against the surface behind him.

“And we only came like five minutes late too. Who takes off like that?” Kakuzu almost nodded in agreement, but knowing his partner, Hidan would take any excuse to complain. Deidara shrugged, basking in the warmth of the sun and stayed lounging even as a rustling came from the woods. Hidan’s hand immediately reached up to grip the handle of his weapon and Kakuzu took a defensive stance. Deidara’s eyes remained closed.

“Oh hello, boys! I didn’t know you were here!” You sauntered out of the trees, bags hanging from both arms. They were pushed tightly in a line, every other patch of your skin strained by the handles of a different shopping bag. Even in your altered Akatsuki cloak, Kakuzu took a look at you and immediately decided that you were decorated far too ornately and that he’d like to kill you when he had the chance. You were objectively beautiful, but if Kakuzu had his way, Deidara would have to be assigned another partner soon. “You haven’t been waiting for too long, have you?”

“You shouldn’t have left us waiting at all,” Kakuzu glowered, although not any more than usual. Either you didn’t hear him or you ignored him as you walked up to your partner. You plucked a package from one of your more reachable bags.

“I got you something, Dei-dei!” You threw it up to Deidara weakly but he managed to catch it. He opened the small, folded, paper bag. Deidara glanced down at you with a nod of his head and a fold of his lips. He took the neat band in his hand while you looked at him expectantly. “Aren’t they nice? Hair ties. Silk from a small village in the Land of Water.” Deidara held them up to the sun.

“That’s some great quality you found. Thanks.” Your partner glanced down at you again. “Must’ve been one hell of a fight assuming that you got a good price for it.” Kakuzu looked on at your exchange, increasingly beginning to lose his temper.

“Believe me, I did. And I found a ton of other great finds too. I gotta show you—”

“Enough,” Kakuzu growled and you finally turned your attention his way. Hidan had since passed out against the boulder that Deidara sat on. “You’re wasting all our time. The sooner we start, the sooner we can part ways.” You gave Kakuzu a once over with your nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Well someone’s grumpy,” you mused. You rolled your eyes and pointed your nose upward. Huffing, you threw your shopping bags into the air and as they fell, you swiftly unfurled a scroll. Your new items disappeared one by one. You rolled the paper back up, scowling as you slipped the scroll into one of many slots that you wore strapped to your clothing. The pockets ran down the small of you back and you latched the bundle of paper in place with a flip of your nimble fingers. Kakuzu frowned back, tentatively wondering if all the scrolls you carried contained the same amount of shopping bags. You approached him with crossed arms. “Okay then, tough guy. Let’s get started.”

You sat down and summoned a map of the next village. It laid out in front of you and placed your hands on your knees in challenge. Kakuzu sat down on the other side of the map, eyes boring into you. You didn’t budge. And as you began to speak, it was hard to focus, at least for Deidara. Though he supposed he’s seen you this fired up before.

“It would be easier if we lure the jinchūriki outside of the village,” you said, gesturing to the small, unnamed village on the map. It wasn’t large, but just big enough to serve as a maze for your prize. At least you knew the woods better and a jinchūriki was bound to stand out among the trees.

“I can get up some traps,” Deidara added and you nodded.

“Back them into a corner and cage them into a small space—” You nodded again— “We can use some explosives around the area… maybe here?” You pointed to a section of the map outside of the village. You looked up at Deidara. “You’d be our last line of defense when the jinchūriki tries to run.” Deidara smirked and puffed out his chest.

“Leave it to me!”

“We’ll need someone to drive the jinchūriki out of the village,” Kakuzu cut in, not particularly liking how you dominated the strategizing. “I’ll go with Hidan.” While Kakuzu thought that he would stop at nothing to get away from the Jashinist, this had to be a regrettable first. Hidan napped a few feet away.

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed, “You and Hidan? Psh… might as well have Deidara set off fireworks in the sky that spell out ‘single, hot jinchūriki in your a—”

“I can do that!” Deidara cut in before immediately backing down at Kakuzu’s pointed glare, not that he’d show it. You locked eyes with Kakuzu, taking his fiery stare off of your partner.

“I’ll go. You’re too conspicuous and, really, have you seen Hidan? You two would be spotted a mile away.” Kakuzu almost snarled.

“And you wouldn’t?” You let out a short, bitter laugh. Your left arm supported your weight as your knees touched together on the right side of your body. Kakuzu scowled at your blatant lounging. Everything about you challenged him and he hated you for it. Your lids narrowed in a smug smile.

“I’m not the one—” who’s fuckin’ jacked — “ with big-ass black stitches across my whole body.”

“And four faces on his back…” Hidan called out, still half asleep. You turned back to Kakuzu.

“And four faces on his back,” you repeated, much to Kakuzu’s vexation. The sass in your blinks was lost on the older shinobi. He stood, causing you to stand too. Deidara took a hint and retreated. Kakuzu crossed his arms over his chest and he planted his feet on the ground about the same width apart as his broad shoulders. He pointed two fingers at you harshly.

“And you’re—” Gorgeous. — “a brat. I should just kill you right here.” You stood your ground, daring to slap Kakuzu’s hand out of your face.

“As much as I’d like to see you try, tough guy, I’d actually like to do some quality work and get the hell away from you as quickly as I can.” Kakuzu huffed, gritting his teeth underneath his mask.

“Nice to hear that we’re on the same page.”

And with neither of your partners wanting to deal with either of you pissed off, you and Kakuzu were paired together.

***

Deciding that your cloaks were too noticeable, you sealed yours away. Kakuzu kept his draped across his arm, distrust of you evident. You walked down the road together under the late afternoon, waiting for nightfall. You hoped that striking at night would give you not only the surprise advantage, but also minimize the number of clueless civilians that would no doubt wander in your way. But as soon as your eyes fell onto the market, Kakuzu quickly began to wonder if his stubbornness landed him with an even larger headache. But his usual, standoffish demeanor remained the same. Kakuzu’s eyes drifted to their corners as he scowled down at you.

“No.” That was all he said, as if you would actually listen to him and not immediately march in the direction of the market. He reluctantly followed, every reach to hold you back by your robes falling just a bit short each time. By the time you were stopped, too many people surrounded the two of you for him to pull you away without drawing attention. Normally, attention from others wasn’t anything that Kakuzu would be concerned with, but your two teams had their orders and Kakuzu would be damned if he had to spend anymore time with you.

You stood in front of a booth with your hand on your chin. Kakuzu stood next to you, following your gaze to a simple, but sturdy-looking sword. You gingerly picked it up, carefully studying it’s craftsmanship. The man behind the booth leaned over his table, motioning to the piece of merchandise in your hands.

“Ah, you have a good eye, mercenary.” You glanced up at him.

“Land of Earth? Lots of excellent craftsmanship comes from there, I’m not surprised.” You ran your thumb across the dull of the blade. “Antique too, but still hardy.” The merchant nodded pointing to a few spots across the weapon.

“Could get you out of a bind too. Reliable smithing comes from Tsuchi no Kuni.” Kakuzu looked on at the show in front of him. In stark contrast to earlier, you seemed poised and he found you knowledgeable. You appeared calm and competent enough to handle yourself and for a second, Kakuzu became lost in your analysis.

You stepped back, turning the sword around in your hand to feel out the balance. The blade whipped around your body with ease. The seller softly applauded your embellished practice. Kakuzu almost rolled his eyes, but took some comfort in the fact that you were looking to purchase something of quality and not just anything at the very least. You looked down at the weapon with a nod or two before asking the dreaded question.

“So what’s your price?” The merchant didn’t hesitate.

“A hundred thousand ryō.” Kakuzu almost left right there, but a dominant part of him wanted to know what you were going to do. His hands grasped his biceps, his cloak still hanging from his forearm. Kakuzu watched you closely. You shook your head.

“You’re going to give it to me for twenty-five thousand.” The merchant gaped at the outrageous price you named. He sputtered a few times.

“That price is far too low for this quality. You must be joking if you think I’d sell this fine piece of equipment for practically nothing.”

You did name a ridiculous price. Not even Kakuzu could see getting what you wanted for that price without a fair bit of violence and intimidation. But you ripped into that merchant. You ripped into this poor seller like nothing Kakuzu had ever seen before. He didn’t even know if he could call it bartering, but whatever it was, it was likely one of the most skillful things that Kakuzu had ever seen.

He folded his lips under his mask. You didn’t yell. Kakuzu didn’t even find your appearance intimidating in the slightest, yet every point and number the merchant brought up, you countered. And by the end of the intense conversation, if Kakuzu didn’t know any better and had less of a spine, he’d likely be handing the sword over too. The man had long since started sweating, tugging at his collar. If Kakuzu didn’t see it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it as you handed over exactly twenty-five thousand ryō. He almost overlooked the complete waste of money as he still stood stunned, though not outwardly showing any such emotion.

You nestled the sword by your hip and the seller let out a breath of relief by the time you walked away. Kakuzu followed wordlessly next to you as you strutted off in triumph.

Perhaps he misjudged you. He stared, not noticing as he did so.

Yes, you were going to save the organization a fortune.

Notes: “oH mY gOd KaKuzU sAiD hE wAs GoNna KiLl rEader! wHy wOuLd yOu wRiTe sOmEtHiNg sO tOxIc???”... They’re criminal terrorists, Susan.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

#kakuzu x reader #kakuzu #Akatsuki x reader #Akatsuki!reader #deidara #hidan #naruto x reader #naruto x y/n #naruto x you #x you #x reader #reader insert #naruto headcanon #naruto headcanons #naruto imagines #naruto imagine

[coping-via-clint-eastwood]

CSI Characters as Ancient/Medieval Fantasy Warriors (title is tentative)

I WROTE THIS ALL IN ONE SITTING!!!!!  CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???????

*ahem* This is speculation about what powers and skills the CSI characters would have if they were warriors in an ancient/medieval fantasy setting, amongst other things. This was probably inspired by my recent wallowing in medieval fantasy (specifically Songs of War {if you don't know what that is, it's okay}), and I thought, why not entertain the idea? And after writing it out, I can say that it was fun toying around with it. If this inspires anybody to add on anything, or write fanfiction, or whatever, by all means go ahead.

@addictedtostorytelling @bartramcat @buildinggsr @davesdude80 @dobbyofearth @fandomismymiddlename @originalpinkranger @panchostokes @space-helen @stokes-theorem

All the people written about here are humans with powers.

Gil:  He has enhanced eyesight, and is a sniper archer. If I may draw your attention to the ending scene of season 4 episode 2, All for Our Country:

Bonus shot because it reminds me of his Will Graham days:

He is canonically a deadeye. So, I am extending that to be a superhuman power. I'll put it this way: he can aim and shoot at the same target a contemporary sniper with a scope could; he does not require (or have, for that matter) a scope. Because he is not so able as his younger teammates, so he cannot be in the direct area of battle and fend off opponents. But he has excellent eyesight, so he hides up in a tree or on the edge of a cliff that overlooks the area or wherever is applicable, and shoots any targets he can.  He uses a crossbow, since not as much strength is needed to pull back the cord as compared to a bow.  He also has a light wooden staff which he uses to help him walk up inclinations. It's also his defensive staff; if an enemy manages to sneak up on him, he can point the staff at them and shoot a forcefield that will blast them back. But this is only effective at close range, hence why he has to use the crossbow for opponents further away. He wears a hooded cloak which is green on one side and a dusty brown on the other, so that he can camouflage himself, turning the cloak to whichever side he needs to match his surroundings.  He is not the only one to wear a cloak however; Catherine, Ecklie, Jim, DB and Finn wear cloaks (more details when I get to each) as well to show they are of higher ranking, but only Gil's is hooded for practical purposes.

Warrick: His power is that he can jump really high. He can jump over a small hill and land on the ground on the other side. He's the one who helps get Gil to his perches if needed; he puts him over his shoulder and jumps, holding him with one arm and his war hammer in his other hand. He is strong enough to carry Gil. And Gil trusts him and is comfortable enough to let himself be borne in such a way, never struggling or crying out in fear when he is suddenly brought off the ground at such a high rate. In tandem with being able to jump high, he can strike his hammer on the ground when he lands and cause a quake. His hammer's enchantment depends on how high he jumped. On the ground, he swings his hammer at an opponent and sends them flying back (at a much greater distance than Gil's forcefield).

Bobby Dawson: He's the archer who is in the direct area of battle. He uses a small hunting bow, and also has a gladius in case any opponents manage to get close to him. He has enhanced reflexes, so he is able to turn around, draw weapons, and load and shoot his bow faster than normal.

Catherine:  She is telekinetic.  She does not use weapons because she prefers to have her hands free to gesticulate and help her focus on moving the objects she is controlling.  Her cloak is a beautiful royal blue.

Heather:  Mind control + reading minds + telepathy.    And invisibility.  Aside from turning the team's opponents against each other, mind control is useful for helping friends escape from dangerous situations; sometimes, it's easier than telling them what to do.  She needs very strong concentration for her mind control, which is the ability she uses the most, so she makes herself invisible and keeps out of the way, but stays where she can see the person she is manipulating.  Like Gil, she has the defensive staff in case anyone finds her.

Nick and Sara: They are what I like to call the speedster twins. It is very satisfying to wash them nyoom about and quickly kill any opponent in the path of their run. Typically, they start out standing next to each other at the same point, and then run on one side of the battlefield each. So they take out the opponents on the skirting of the battlefield. Sara has a cutlass while Nick has twin daggers.

Greg: He can talk to nearby spirits and ask them to help his team in the fight. With the power of this necklace that he has, he can conjure a protective invisible dome-shaped barrier around himself, which is invulnerable to any and every form of attack. Except if somebody were to dig their way up from below him of course. However, he has to stay in the same spot when he is inside this barrier, and has to deactivate it if he wants to walk (or run or whatever) somewhere else. The spirit of the person who gave him the necklace follows him everywhere, and stays by his side on the battlefield to protect him from any opponents who manage to get close.  Greg has a curved cleaver in case he needs to fight.

Al:  Aside from being a healer, he can freeze time.  Sort of. He can freeze the movement of anybody who is coming at him, no matter how many there are. He does not wield weapons. He has wooden legs (which are enchanted to be completely painless for him) and a staff, but without the power that Gil's and Heather's have. To heal someone, he just has to touch them, for as long as it takes for the wounds to completely heal. **I was thinking about making him have something to do with necromancy, but I thought that that's too much like Greg's power.

David:  He is the other healer, and is the one who kills the people that Al freezes. He just makes them fade out of existence. It is completely painless, and that way they don't have any bodies lying around the healers' area. Also, while Al heals physical injuries, David actually cures illnesses. So he has to touch his patient for as long as it takes to eradicate the infection.

The two healers typically stay in one spot, ready to head out into the battlefield if any of their teammates are injured.

Archie: He is the cryokinetic guardian of Henry, Wendy, Mandy, and Hodges, who are not combatants. He does not use weapons.

Henry:  He is a blacksmith, in charge of repairing the people's weapons, and making new ones if necessary. He also makes the arrows for Gil and Bobby.

Wendy: She is an enchanter who imbues weapons with offensive powers, such as the quake and blast effect on Warrick's hammer, or the enhanced sharpness of the speedster twins' blades.

Mandy: She enchants weapons with defensive powers, such as Greg's necklace, or Gil's and Heather's staves. She is also the one who made Al's wooden legs painless.

Hodges: While Al and David are physical healers, and while Wendy enchants weapons, Hodges is the one who restores the powers of other people. He is not really drained when he does it, but it is better for him to stay still and rest while other people fight. It works exactly how Al's and David's healing does.

These five people typically stay near the healers.

Jim:  He can control the weather.  That also means he can summon lightning.  And hailstones.  And rain (creatures that are made of fire or lava are susceptible to rain).  Like Catherine, he has his hands free to focus whatever he's bringing down from the sky onto wherever his target is.  His cloak is pitch black in colour.

Conrad: He can clone himself; up to five clones of himself can exist at a time.  It's alright if they are hurt or killed; so long as he is still alive.  He wields a scythe.  His cloak is a really dark grey, almost black, but not really.

Morgan:  She can fly. This is not a power which requires restoration. Since she does not use wings, she can fly in rain. She uses twin swords.

Sofia:  She is a shapeshifter.  But she can not only turn into other creatures; she can turn into objects like a boulder or something. In such forms, she is invulnerable to like, say, a fist striking her, but if someone were to try and blow her up, she would have to turn into something else and run away. You know those fire creatures I mentioned? If she turns into one of them, she can harness their powers. Basically, she takes on the abilities of anything she turns into.

Riley: She can turn into any of her opponents, whether she has killed them herself of if they are standing right in front of her. Heather would be aware that this in fact Riley (telepathy yo), and Riley will work together with the person Heather is controlling. Unlike Sofia, while she becomes the mirror image of someone, she cannot have the skill level of the person she turns into. She herself is proficient with a club; if she turns into someone who was a swordsman, she would be wield a blade as well as them, and will continue to use her own weapon. If she turns into one of those fire creatures, she might be able to use their fire, but she doesn't have as fluent control over it as the original person. In fact, it is much safer for her to not turn into such creatures.

Ray:  He has enhanced strength, which enables him to rotate his huge double-headed battle axe about his wrist above his head.  And by "huge", I mean that the stick is almost as long as him, and the blades are bigger than his head. The stick is also quite thick; it has to withstand the weight of the blades, and the impact with which it is struck. By "rotate", I mean Ray is able to hold the handle at the very base, and pivot it perfectly around.

DB:  Teleportation.  This son of a bitch randomly popping up out of nowhere?  Yeah.  His weapon is a really small but especially sharp dagger, easy to conceal, and a quick and effective killer.  He appears, quickly pokes his opponent, and then teleports to the next one.  He can teleport anywhere within his viewing distance; he has to be able to see where he is teleporting to to go there. His cloak is silver in colour.

Finn:  She is pyrokinetic.  Her cloak is typically orange, yellow or red, but it can change colours to whatever fire she is wielding, which includes green, blue, purple, white, and even black fire.  She does not use weapons.

Additional idea: Gil and Sara are soulmates. But they were not fated from birth; rather, their soulmate bond formed when their connection deepened. Before they met, their soulmates could have been anyone else, or they could have gone without a soulmate for the rest of their lives. Even when they met and fell in love at first sight (I'm one of those who hc that they did; ymmv), they were not yet soulmates. It was when they really got to know and understand each other implicitly and became unbreakably steadfast in their connection, of their own accord, that their soulmate bond formed. The physical manifestation of it was when their soul marks appeared; Gil has a butterfly on the right side of his neck, close to the back of his neck, and Sara has a rhinoceros beetle on the underside of her left wrist. Being soulmates, they can heal each other and restore each other's powers. The most soothing times for them to do it is when they can lie down somewhere private and hold each other close.

When their marks first appeared, everyone kept congratulating them; there was a lot of friendly teasing from Warrick, Nick, Greg and Hodges. As for themselves, they remained passive until they were in the privacy of their bedroom.  They sat down on the edge of the bed, embracing and leaning their foreheads on each other's, uncontainable smiles on their faces as they had a little heart-to-heart.  They did not really have to vocalise much; they had always been able to understand each other with just a few words.  Then, they leant back from each other, but remained close.  Sara lowered her head and slowly, reverently kissed all over Gil's mark; he closed his eyes and let her do it, enjoying how it felt, moving his head to one side so that his skin on the right of his neck was stretched flat and easier to kiss.  When Sara was done, they leant back again.  Gil lifted Sara's wrist to his mouth and kissed all over her mark, with as much care and adoration as she had done his.

#c-v-c-e fic #csi #gil grissom #warrick brown #bobby dawson #catherine willows #heather kessler #nick stokes #sara sidle #greg sanders #al robbins #david philips #archie johnson #henry andrews #wendy simms #mandy webster #david hodges #jim brass #conrad ecklie #morgan brody #sofia curtis #riley adams #ray langston #db russell #julie finlay #gsr

[sabraeal]

We Seek That Which We Shall Not Find, Ch 8

[Read on AO3]

Written for @eveluboi​ for winning the Obiyuki Trope Madness 2021 betting kitty! I meant for this to be out way back in June, but it quickly slipped from a 4-5K projected fic to 7K 😂

Cold porcelain presses up against her palms, slick from where her fingers wrap around the sink’s edge. Shirayuki bows her head down, watching the water spiral down the drain, and breathes. In and out; in and out. If she hadn’t left her phone out on the table, she could look at one of those gifs she bookmarked; the one where the triangle becomes a decagon maybe, or where the star burst becomes a mandala. But she did, so instead she has to visualize it, counting out the shapes behind her eyelids.

It doesn’t work, but at least it’s something.

There’s something distinctly high school dance about hiding the the bathroom-- though in here, it’s impossible to just sit on the toilet and brace her legs against the door. Not that she needs to; unlike a bathroom stall, this door actually locks. A feature she’s sure has nothing to do with whatever the Wisterias plan to get up to in that Jacuzzi tub.

Shirayuki frankly refuses to speculate on what that might be. She still has to look Izana in the eye tonight, and the last thing she needs is to be thinking about him doing-- things in here, with people. Maybe he just has a compressed spine at the ripe old age of twenty-five, the kind that can’t be alleviated by anything less than eight massage jets.

In any case, this whole strategy of retreat isn’t really her style. Or at least, it hadn’t been, until...before. Which was a blip on an otherwise spotless record of confronting her problems head-on, with the sort of determined attitude Jaja fondly refers to as foolhardy, and Busha calls bull-headedness.

Her fingers grip the bowl firmly, levering herself up to stare into the mirror. She can do this. She can go right out there, sit down, and have Lynet reject this proposal. Because a normal person wouldn’t hide in the bathroom to avoid a fictional conflict.

Right. Shiaryuki drops her hands, giving her reflection a steely nod. It’s not like this is her first time turning down a boy; even if Shuuka throws her in a dungeon, he’ll still have taken her rejection better than the last one did, and that was a real live person. Not that Raj is much of a measuring stick for any kind of model behavior, but-- still. The point stands.

The door gives beneath the pressure of her hand, opening with a silence that’s confusing rather than comforting. Zen’s house might not be as old as hers, but it’s still not new; the apartment went up in the last five years, and its doors still hang crooked, screaming every time they move more than an inch. She can’t imagine Izana going around oiling hinges.

“Hey.” A hand catches her, strong fingers banding around her wrist. Pale ones, slender and well-trimmed; she traces them right up a crisp flannel to find Kiki frowning down at her. “I would give it a minute.”

Shirayuki blinks, and suddenly the world refocuses. It’s oddly silent in the basement, only the thin tumble of dice from the floor above. Obi’s either up to something or Beaumains is in trouble; she can’t even beging to guess which one would be worse.

And Kiki’s leaning here, right against the neutral paint, waiting for her. She shifts, casting a worried look toward the game room. “Is something--?”

Mitsuhide clears his throat; it echoes down the empty hall, a sound that fills the space like thunder overhead. Shirayuki bites back the impulse to count until next lightning strike; even though she knows it should be the other way around, that light travels faster than sound, but this--

“Is something wrong?” Zen drawls, sounding nothing like the boy who sits next to her in homeroom. No, sounding like this, he’s every inch Izana’s brother.

-- this is different. Bedwyr uses his words before he dares draw his blade, and it comes too naturally to be anything besides pure Mitsuhide, just like Beaumains’ quick tongue is the same one that wags in Obi’s mouth. He rumbles before the strike, and this one is destined to hit too close to home.

“Zen.” There’s something about how Mitsuhide wields a name; Shirayuki hardly knows him-- not as much as Zen and Kiki, anyway-- but when he says hers, it’s like having those giant arms cradling her tight against his chest, in a way that is less romantic and more like a tiny kitten living in a jacket pocket. When he says Obi’s, it’s a buzz, a burr, the sound before a siren wails, a warning that will never become a threat.

And when he says Zen’s right now, it’s a weight, a boulder to bear like Atlas shoulders the earth. It’s the moment before the punishment comes in the last act; the last temptation to turn the antagonist back onto the path of the righteous. “You should rethink your behavior tonight.”

“My behavior?” Zen squawks, chair clattering beneath him. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Mitsuhide’s silence speaks volumes.

“I haven’t,” Zen insists, though it’s weaker this time. “You’re the ones who are just letting Obi act like the rules don’t apply to him.”

“We are?”

“Well...” The pout sits sullenly on this tongue. “Izana is. And you guys aren’t doing anything about it either!”

Mitsuhide heaves a sigh that would make trees sway. Kiki’s fingers flex in sympathy against her shoulder. “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

“Unfair?” The word squeaks at the end of Zen’s range. “What’s unfair is that Izana invited that guy for the specific purpose of scaring Shirayuki off, and no one seems to care.”

Shirayuki only realizes she’s moved when Kiki’s grip holds her back, one foot still hovering over the floor, poised to make a very determined stomp. Words are welling up in her like ground water during a storm; a whole monologue that threatens to flood the basement of her common sense. The whole night comes back to her in inches; every slight, every complaint is magnified tenfold now that she knows it comes to this, and she--

“Give them a minute,” Kiki murmurs. “Sometimes Zen just needs a swift application of a boot to his ass.”

She blinks up at her, body vibrating with a need to do something. “And Mitsuhide will do that?”

A picture might be a thousand words, but somehow Kiki’s eyebrows could compose a novel. She lifts them a bare, dubious inch, and Shirayuki knows that chapter one starts with, and you think you’d do any better? “You’ll see. He’ll come around. Have a little faith.”

Bitter words lick up her throat, a carefully composed diatribe furiously scribed by her irritation. A list of all Zen’s petty squabbles, of all the times he’d tried to sideline her or sequester Obi ready to spill out, but--

But she swallows it down. Tonight’s tried her patience for sure, but it’d been Zen who leaned across the aisle in homeroom her first day. The one who’d stuck out a hand and said, you must be new. The one who had made sure she’d had somewhere to sit at lunch-- sure, Kihal had found her by then, adopting her like a baby bird fallen from a nest, but he’d swung by even though his wasn’t until next period.

That’s what’s so frustrating, to be honest-- she knows how good he can be. So the fact he’s choosing to act this way instead...

Her shoulders sag under the weight of Kiki’s hand. “I’m trying to.”

When Mitsuhide speaks again, it’s even, patient; she’d be tempted to say it was like a parent to a child, but there’s no condescension, no sense of speaking down but rather across. “That’s possible. But you’re still the only one acting hostile at this table.”

Zen’s huffs, indignant. “So you want me to just sit here and let them ruin Shirayuki’s experience?”

Kiki pushes past her with a parting pat, sauntering into the room. “How could they when you’re doing such a good job of it yourself?”

Shirayuki can’t see either of the boys, but she can see Kiki when she spins a chair around, dropping down to straddle it. “You may not have noticed, but it doesn’t look like Shirayuki minds Obi being here. At least, not as much as you do.”

“Kiki,” Mitsuhide sighs, a warning. “That’s enough.”

Kiki must not agree, since she leans in, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Maybe you need to lighten up, brother dearest.”

Zen sucks in a hard breath, like he’s been hit. “Don’t--”

The door rattles at the top of the stairs, a muffled voice turning to a dry laugh as it opens. Her stomach lurches like that moment at the top of a coaster, looking down at the track below. It’s Obi.

Kiki is a flurry of motion; her chair flips beneath her, and she sits back down hard, feet kicking up onto the table. When Izana and Obi emerge from the stairway, it looks like she‘s been idling at a casual tilt for hours, not seconds, but still, still--

Izana lifts one elegantly arched eyebrow. No matter how cleverly they all compose themselves, he almost certainly knows every word that’s been said.

“You’re back?” Zen coughs, his words hobbling awkwardly, dragged down by guilt. Izana’s other eyebrow joins the first. “What happened?”

Obi drops into his seat, cradling chin in hand. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” Zen snaps, irritation already rising. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh, don’t worry--” Obi tosses him a wink designed to send him through the roof-- “you’ll find out.”

“I--”

“If there’s any other business, tell me now,” Izana says, taking his place at the head of the table. “Otherwise, you’ve slept through the night.”

Obi flutters his eyes, grin taking on a feral edge. “Well, you know I’m all taken care of, Majesty.”

“Anyone else?” Izana sighs, long suffering. His eyes flick out over the table, settling into a frown. “Does anyone know where Shirayuki is?”

“Bathroom,” Kiki offers too quick, gaze cutting over to where she hides in the hall, before darting back. The corner of Izana’s mouth pulls deeper, and his eyes lift--

“Ah, I’m here!” Shirayuki hurries out, slipping into her seat. When she looks up Zen’s watching her with wide eyes, gears clunking along behind them as he looks from her to the hall and back, doing the exact equations she was hoping he couldn’t. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem,” Izana assures her, keeping his eyes fixed to the screen in front of him. “Did you have anything you needed to do before the night is over?”

“Ah, um.” Her fingers stretch wide over Lynet’s sheet, tips gripping at the table. “Yes. One last thing.”

The stars are bright tonight, shining in the firmament like jewels in velvet. Ancient poets would invoke Diana at the sight, at the thousand heroes and maidens consigned to shine above for defying their fates. Older ones still would call upon Arianrhod, the silver wheel, mother of wind and skies alone, praising the complexity of her beauty.

But when you raise your eyes to heaven’s glorious vault, you see only kingly gift laid at your feet, unasked. And when you lower them, another waits for you in Shuuka’s smile, devastating and earnest.

“A fine night, is it not?” His breath mists in the air between you; a lucky thing, since it obscures your grimace. “In all Our Lord’s creation, a man could not find one finer than this.”

“It is a wonder,” you murmur, stirring the fur at your cloak’s collar. “But I have seen so little of this world that I hesitate to say that in a thousands nights there would not be one that could surpass it.”

His mouth spreads wider still, the pearl of his teeth glimmering in the moon’s light. You’ve pleased him, somehow. “You can only say that, my lady, since you are graced with your own presence every moment, and I have only these. For now.”

Your feet stutter beneath you; the leaves crunching makes him turn, brow raised in concern. “Shuuka...”

“Ah, yes. You wished to speak with me, did you not?” His boot heels clack against the cobbles, coming to perch on the raised bed beside you. He is not close, even still, but having his eyes level with yours makes this moment too intimate for you to keep him fixed in your vision. Instead you turn, leaving him looming at the corner of your eye. “I am your servant in all things, my lady. Speak.”

“My lord,” you begin, for politeness seems the only kindness you can extend to him, “I believe there has been some misunderstanding.”

His head tilts. “A misunderstanding?”

His voice is lower, a manly rumble instead of its usual reedy melody; a child playing at a man. A man he only wishes to become because it might make you happy.

You sigh, your gut tangling as easy as your fingers do above it. Were you any other woman but yourself, you would be pleased to have made a match as fine as this. Perhaps even mere months ago, you would have been comforted by the thought of marrying a man you had met before, even if he had been a silly, sobbing boy at the time. But now, as you are, you cannot care for this-- this life your father wished for you, with no thought to your own.

“About the state of the agreement between our fathers.” Your breath catches in your chest before you manage, “They are both gone.”

Shuuka peers at you with shining eyes, and oh, if only you could choose your words as gently as he deserved. But you know better; a man who wears a hard helm often keeps a harder head beneath it, and women’s words only penetrate such a barrier if they are drawn to a point.

“That I know,” he says, so soft. “And I am sorry for it. But we may yet do what they willed for our future.”

“That is not all,” you continue, each word stinging with guilt. “This understanding was dissolved long before either of them was brought back into the great shepherd’s fold. When my family fell upon misfortune...”

You had hoped it would be easier to speak of it, but the words stick to your teeth, refusing to leave the safety of your mouth. Shuuka reaches out, clasping his hand in yours with far too much understanding for what you wish to say.

“I am not proud of what my father did,” he tells you, sincerity ringing from his words, clear as a church bell. “Though I am certain he thought it would be for the best, at the time. He never pledged my troth to any other, and above any other woman he had entertained to be the Lady of Laxdo, it was of you he spoke most highly.”

“That is--” hard to believe. Not when you spent most of your betrothal dance trodding on his son’s toes-- “Kind of you to say. I know that you value the words of your father above all others--”

“My father’s esteem is exceeded only by that of the Lord in Heaven, may he ever sit at his right hand.” Pain hollows his eyes, so raw that even in health he gleams gaunt beneath the moon’s light. You have both lost your fathers, but this wound is fresh, bleeding still, and yours--

Well, yours sewed up just fine with a little needle and thread. How quickly a wound heals when you must see to it yourself.

“Would that I could talk to him,” Shuuka rasps, fingers clenching around stone. “But I trust that if he could see you now, he would see a daughter still.”

His grief burns brightly, a halo that surrounds him-- no, a shroud, the sort that might bury him beside his fathers bones if he did not take care. It is that which makes all this worse, which turns what you must do from a discomfort to a cruelty. But it is better yet than what it could be if you indulged him, if you let pity and kindness stand where only love should.

“Yes, I understand,” you murmur, gathering every last draught of courage. “But I must admit, my lord, that I do not hold my own father in such esteem. You are a kind man, Lord Shuuka, the sort any woman would count her blessings should she find you as her husband, but I...”

You flounder, the night pressing in thickly around you. What you wouldn’t give for crickets, if only to break the silence.

“Ah.” There is a wealth of hurt hidden in that breath. “But you mean to say that it shall not be you, Lady Lynet.”

“What?” Zen’s eyes blink wide, so bright, so blue across from her. “You’re turning him down?”

Shirayuki stares. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a lord, isn’t he?” It’s a strange thing to ask, especially when they just spent the last week and change-- well, four hours really-- at his castle, but here was Zen, looking toward Izana like he needed clarification. “Wouldn’t Lynet, you know...?”

“Um.” Even with a sweep of Zen’s wrist and the emphatic lift of his eyebrows, Shirayuki still can’t see how that sentence might finish itself. “No, I don’t.”

It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, so when Obi lets out a hiccup, isn’t not exactly inconspicuous. She glances over at him, and from the way his mouth twitches at the corners, she’s hardly the first. “Is something...?”

Wrong, she means to say, but Obi gives a single solid shiver and collapses onto the table, head buried in his arms.

There’s a breath where her fingers go numb on the table, where her heart beat practically deafens her as it pound in her ears. She’s not here in the room, she’s out in the yard, a wrinkled arm reaching out to her, and all she can think about is where her phone is, whether she can reach it from here--

“My, my.” Izana’s drawl rattles her back to the table, gaze skittering over Zen’s forbidding glare, the clasped hand over Kiki’s mouth, Mitsuhide’s wide-eyes-- “Isn’t that an interesting question. Now just what does make Lord Shuuka such an attractive partner?”

Obi lifts his head, still trembling, but it’s not some medical event. Oh no, he’s just-- just laughing. Shirayuki catches her breath, holds it, and thinks of a triangle becoming a decagon.

Nothing is wrong. Everyone is safe. Healthy.

“W-well.” Zen’s voice creaks from the reach she suspects he’s about to make. “He has ah, hmm...”

“Large tracts of land?” Obi offers, so helpful.

Zen hands stiffen where he holds them out in front of him. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

His brows give a wiggle. “Looks like it.”

“I--”

“Castle Perilous already has land,” Shirayuki interjects, hoping the tremble hasn’t reached her voice. “Plenty of it.”

Obi leans back in his chair with a grin. “Castle Perilous has everything! Large tracts of lands, at least two level or dungeons, an ominous name...”

She flicks him a flat look. “My point is, Lynet doesn’t need a manor to maintain-- she already left that to save her sister. She has a quest, she doesn’t need--” she waves her hands, steady now-- “romance.”

Obi’s brow ticks up, just the tiniest bit.

“I mean, not with a man she’s only known a week,” she blurts out, feeling heat simmering beneath her collar, licking at her ears. “Why would I be playing D&D if I just wanted to-- to marry Lynet off to the first guy she saw?”

Zen’s mouth fall slack, eyes glued to his character sheet. “Huh.”

“Gee,” Kiki drawls, “all that production for nothing.”

“Shut--”

“If we’re all quite done?” Izana suggests pointedly. “I believe Lady Lynet is not quite done breaking her beau’s heart. Also--” those pale eyes cut toward her, eyebrow quirked pedantically-- “it’s Pathfinder, by the way.”

Kiki lets out a huff. “It’s the same thing.”

With exaggerated care, Izana nudges her character on the map. “It’s really not.”

You take Shuuka’s hands in your own; they’re soft, callused on the mounts like Arturius’. A swordsman’s hands, though not a warrior’s. He flushes beneath your touch, and you wonder if he is bothered by the rough touch of your own, marred by scrapes and scars, so unlike a lady’s that you might as well be a different country. That is what your father had called you once: a different country, the fondness thick in his voice.

That had been before. He had been a different man. You had been a different Lynet. A time you would long for, if you thought it might make any difference at all.

“I have my own path I must tread, my lord,” you murmur, “one that cannot be turned aside for my own comfort.”

He nods, head heavy. “I see. You too have your own quest of honor, like His Grace. A glory that only you can seek.”

“If only it were for glory--” your fingers stiffen in his hold, teeth gritting down on the troubles that long to pass through them-- “instead of to right the wrongs that have been done.”

His brows lift, and you do not imagine the offer in his eyes, the one that says you would only need to breathe the word, and he would raise his own blade in your honor. “To you?”

Your tongue would tie itself in knots if it could. “Among many.”

“I understand.” His hand squeezes yours so gently, as if you were a thing that could break, a glass woman cradled in his palms. That is a thing these lords do not understand; glass may be delicate once blown thread-thin, but it is first forged in fire, born at a temperature that would char flesh. “Perhaps, though, when you are done...”

It feels cruel to reject him, a man that loves the lady you could have been, but it is crueler still to give him hope where there is little to spare.

“Perhaps,” you say, stilted. It is too mild an answer for the passion in his eyes, but you learned long ago that fate’s whims could not be foreseen by any mortal heart. “But please, my lord. Do not wait for me.”

“It will be hard not to, my lady, for a woman like you is not easily found. However--” he lets out a raw chuckle-- “I do know what love sounds like when I hear it, and it...does not warm your voice when we speak.”

“I...”

Shuuka holds up one hand, chagrined, the other still wrapped in yours. “You owe me no explanation. I only mean to wish you well.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, laying a soft kiss to its back. “May God go with you, my lady. I pray you will not forget your loyal servant in your trials.”

“I...will not,” you breathe, wishing you might be the girl that could love this man. You cannot, you cannot, but oh, how much easier your road would be if you did. “Thank you.”

“Well,” Mitsuhide hums, smile hung awkwardly. “He seems nice!”

Zen nods, pink looming just under the apples of his cheeks. “A good, ah, potential ally.”

Shirayuki stares.

“You two,” Kiki starts, every syllable so overflowing with derision they practically leak, “are ridiculous.”

Obi looks fit to bursting as well-- at least, if the state of his twitching mouth is anything to go by-- but before he can get one word in edgewise, Izana clears his throat.

“Now that this little interlude is complete,” he drawls, casting a wary glance over the table. “I expect that we can move on?”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” Shirayuki bursts out breathlessly. “Just--” she glances at Obi, squirming under the question in his eyes-- “just one more thing. I promise.”

Izana settles back in his chair, brows raised. “Oh no, by all means. Color me...” His mouth curves into a smirk that would cause a cleverer woman to reconsider. “...Intrigued.”

Your neck aches; beneath your veil, your hair lies heavy on your scalp, pinned and tied to within an inch of its life. There is no more of it than usual, you are sure, but it weighs on you now, a fetter meant to hobble your steps. A shackle meant to drag you down, to halt your progress forward. Perhaps that is always what it was meant to be.

A proper lady would not remove her covering until she was safely ensconced in her chambers; such manners had been pressed upon you since your first courses, first by your nurse and then again by your father. Modesty was a woman’s shield, and you clung to it then as if it could protect you, afraid of what might happen to you without it. No, afraid of who you might be.

But you are no fine lady, not by anything but birth. Such trappings were ripped from your hands, and now--

Now you are Lynet, alchemist and arcanist, and you keep nothing that will not serve you. Your fingers wedge beneath the fine linen, pins falling to your feet as you work them free. Everything about Laxdo may squeeze you, trying to fit you back in the mold your father made, but you will not, not ever again.

It may have been years since you last stepped in Laxdo’s halls, but this past week has made it something like a home, your feet carrying you with ease through the twisting corridors. A different answer but a moment ago and these would have been yours, your home in truth, but to stay here, to forget the power that you tamed with your own two hands and become nothing more than Shuuka’s wife--

It’s unthinkable. A life not meant for you. Though your sister would like it fine enough.

Your feet stutter beneath you, breath caught tight in your chest. Who are you to say what she would want, when you--

You shake yourself. This guilt won’t serve either, not if you let it hold you in place. Your gaze lifts, and finally you see where your industrious feet have brought you: Beaumains’ door.

It was inevitable that they would; your own chamber is on the same hall, mere steps away. But you had not meant to come here, to linger, save that-- that you had, for he has been on your mind since he delivered you to the dais, since Arturius had him sent from it to the revelry below. His voice has thrummed beneath your veins since you looked across the hall and saw him missing from the tables below, your mind turning over every word he spoke this night to see if his disappearance is merely a missing piece to a puzzle you have already solved. But no solutions have appeared before you, and now--

Now you stand here, head bare at his threshold, wondering whether you will be welcome.

You hand raises, hesitating above the grain. You could leave now, and no one would ever know. But if you did, if you simply left with no word, and found him gone on the morrow...

You knock twice. Then thrice. There is not a whisper from the other side of the door. You know better than to assume that means there is no man, not such a one as Beaumains.

“Beaumains,” you murmur, palm pressed flat against the wood. “Beaumains, if you are there...”

Your lips press to a thin line. You had not planned this, planned any of it, and your words will not come. You do not even know which ones you speak if they would.

Your forehead rests against the door, the ridges of its grain digging into your skin. “If you are there, I am here.”

There is no answer but silence.

“Goodnight,” you say finally. “I will...” You hesitate, breath catching in your chest. “I will see you on the morrow.”

Izana, at least, is happy to move on.

“If you have spells to prepare,” he offers graciously, “you may do so now, before we start the morning.”

Kiki raises an imperious brow. “I take it we’ll be doing combat, then?”

With a beatific smile, Izana informs her, “You may prepare for any eventuality you see fit.”

“Yeah.” Zen sighs, flipping to his spell list. “Combat.”

Shirayuki shuffles through her index cards, chewing on her cheek. Next to her Obi has affected a casual slouch, arm thrown haphazardly over his chair back and legs stretching well onto Zen’s side of the table. He doesn’t seem stressed, not like how she feels sitting in the splash zone of of their high stakes game of I’m Not Touching You during this fantasy field trip.

Her phone slides into her hand easier than it ever has, thumb sliding surreptitiously across the keyboard. Are you okay?

Her teeth grit down as soon as it’s sent, regret bitter on her tongue. It’s a stupid thing to ask; a feeling that grows when she watches him work his phone out of his pocket, eyebrows lifting as he reads.

His mouth curls into a satisfied smirk. peachy keen

Are you sure? Shirayuki peeks up from her cards, casting a subtle glance toward the end of the table. Izana’s bowed behind the screen, pen gracefully curving over page-- notes. He’s taking notes. I wanted to make sure Zen isn’t scaring you off.

lol impossible

A breath hisses out her nose, fingers tightening around the case. Leave it to Obi to make this into a joke. He’s really not a bad guy, I promise. I don’t know why he’s choosing to act like one.

A smothered noise hiccups out beside her, too loud in the room’s silence. Four heads bob up, three blond and one brown, and Obi smooths the noise out into a cough, a gentle clearing of his throat.

“Dorito,” he says with a tight wheeze, mouth twitching. “Musta gone down the wrong pipe.”

“Ah,” Izana hums, his eyes narrowing. “Of course.”

Zen, however, frowns. “We have Doritos?”

Obi’s mouth stretches into a smile. “You did.”

“How--?”

“Are we done with preparations, then?” Izana asks smoothly, settling back in his chair. “Should we continue...?”

“Ah, no!” Zen grimaces, ducking his head. “Just-- another minute.”

i got a good idea, Obi texts once. heads are down. but don worry im not going newere His teeth flash as he sends, jus had 2 take care f s/t

She glances up, and his grin is there to greet her, only growing wider when he reads the question in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he murmurs, shifting close enough for the words to ghost over her cheek. “Trust me.”

You wake to hue and cry, to chaos in the halls. A lord’s daughter might lay abed still, waiting for her maids to fetch her, but you were the Lady of Castle Perilous; when Morgaine comes to fetch you, you are already dressed, tucking the last tresses of red beneath your coif. She blinks, those midnight-dark eyes going wide before her expression settles into something far more grim, something more resigned than surprise.

“Beaumains isn’t in his chamber,” she tells you, no cushion in her words, only the bruising impact of the truth. “We suspect he never made it back to it.”

Your breath catches in your chest, struggling against its cage. “That can’t be true. Last night I...”

Spoke to his door, with not a single sign of him within.

“When the maid came to tend his hearth this morning, his cot was undisturbed and the fire burnt down to embers.” Morgaine fixes you with a steady gaze, braced as a man about to take a blow. “We mean to look for him.”

You snatch your cloak from where it hangs, winding it about your shoulders. “Then let us go. If he has been taken, then--”

“I suspect he has been taken by naught by stupidity, the same as any man,” the princess grouses, falling into step beside you as you hurry down the steps to the yard. “My brother wounded his pride, and he sought to restore it. Or at least commit some feat to let it scab cleanly.”

It rankles how much each word rings true. You had no brothers at Castle Perilous, but men you had in spades, and every one fool enough to put himself in mortal peril to salve his pride. “Let us hope you are wrong?”

Morgaine lets out a rasping laugh. “You prefer him to be in the hands of the enemy, then?”

“Rather than his own stupidity?” you ask, breathless, waiting for the yard’s door to open. “Always.”

When they do, your heart stops, stuttering right up into your throat.

“Alas.” The word hisses through Morgaine’s smile. “You are destined to be disappointed.”

Beaumains sits in the yard, perched merrily atop a cart drawn into the middle of it. You cannot, from this angle, divine what it is filled with, only that it is solid enough to hold him and his ego. Temper climbs up your neck, as choking as any ivy; to think, you worried about his heart enough to trouble your own, and now he sits here as if naught but a moment has passed from the night into the evening, as if this were but yet another day he spent in your company.

Oh, how you could climb that cart yourself to give him a piece of your mind. You do not-- would not, before all these men of Laxdo-- but the temptation lashes yours soles as thoroughly as any devil.

“Beaumains.” Arturius marches forth from the crowd, wrath crackling in the air as he walks. “What is the meaning of this? We awake to you missing, and now--?”

“So I heard.” His smile shines in the morning sun, just as brightly as his horns. “I was here, of course. Waiting.”

The Prince of the Angles flushes crimson, the whole of his frame shaking. “Then why would you not--?”

“For a lark.” His teeth flash; fitting since he wields his words like a blade. “Though I did leave last night. You see, something bothered me, and not just your manners.”

“Demon--”

“Devil,” Beaumains corrects, as fastidious as any tutor. “And you see, all this celebrating, it didn’t make sense. Not when we hadn’t solved who cursed our friend here.”

He holds one dark, clawed hand out to where Shuuka stands, gaping. “Me? But I thought--?”

“You know as well as any that we have been searching tirelessly,” Arturius snaps, temper well and truly frayed. “And now you come to mock us for it? Is it a fight you ask for? Is that what you desire? For I am happy to give it to you, if you do not--”

“I want no fight,” Beaumains scoffs. “I want results. And so...”

With a desultory kick, the back of the cart falls open, and out of it--

Ah, and out of it pours forth a mound of bodies.

“And so,” he continues with relish, “I got some.”

“You can’t do that,” Zen murmurs, but it’s not in anger. No, that’s shock that slackens his jaw, and with the number of tokens Obi just dropped on the map, it’s working on Shirayuki too. “That’s not-- he can’t do that, can he?”

“He just did,” Izana replies, somehow both weary and amused at the same time.

“But...” Zen stares at them, more than a dozen tokens sprawled over the grid. “How.”

Obi grins. “Skill.”

Izana casts him a dark, yet exhausted, glance. “He rolled very, very well.”

Shuuka skirts nearer, his face pale with shock. “Those are the men who sold us firewood. The very same you pulled from our hearths.”

“That they are.” Beaumains sits back on the cart; now that you can see inside it you see his seat is not a crate, as you had assumed, but two bodies stacked atop each other, the blood drying around their mouths and necks. “Or at least that’s what I was hoping, Master, since otherwise I’d have made a mortifying mistake indeed.”

Arturius has not moved, instead staring down at the hand that laid at his feet, at the twisted grimace the deceased’s face has twisted into. “You did this alone? With no other man to help you?”

“I surely did,” the devil sing-songs, his grin honing to a point. “Could you find me such a one, daring enough to help on a night so dark as the last?”

The prince’s jaw sets hard as granite, but his eyes belie his sternness, shining with heady mix of admiration and something that savors strongly of jealousy. “Well,” he grits out, shoulders jerking towards his ears. “I cannot fault you your skill, devil, but now there is no chance of us learning how or why this deed came to be done.”

Beaumains scoffs, enjoying every moment he sits above the Prince of all the Angles. “Have a little faith, O Master Mine. Before they met the fates they bought with their cursed coin, I asked them what man or beast compelled them to act. And they told me--” his eyes flash with triumph-- “a man in red.”

There is no chance for you to stifle your gasp, not when you see that armor shining before you, crimson in candlelight. Not when even now, that spiked gauntlet reaches toward you--

“Lynet?” Morgaine’s grasp brings you back to yourself, to the moment you inhabit. “Are you well?”

“Fine, fine,” you assure her. “It is only--”

That you may know who this enemy of Laxdo is. That you yourself have come to see him vanquished, but yet--

You cannot speak of it. Not even if you wished.

“You may thank me at your leisure, sirrah,” Beaumain crows, getting to his feet. Even now your stomach roils as you look, the blood nothing more than a black sheen on his boots. “I am ever at your--” he leaps, landing on the ground before Arturius’s gaze. “At your service.”

And with a singular, extravagant bow, Beaumains tips face first into the cobbles.

“Wait.” Shirayuki blinks down at the toppled figure, resting on a spray of tokens, right next to a white-painted 1. “What just happened?”

“Beaumains--” Izana’s mouth twitches at a corner-- “had but a single hit point left.”

Long fingers pluck the die from its resting place among the bodies, as if quick reflexes could keep them all from seeing the rock Obi just dropped. He glowers down at it-- all black and golden and glimmering, just like him-- and shoves it back into his bag. “And glass ankles, apparently.”

A low, heady laugh rolls across the table, Kiki kicking up her feet with a smirk. “This is why we invest in CON.”

Obi scoffs. “Please, I made it out with HP to spare.”

“Yeah,” she says, “one.”

“Well,” he grumbles, “it was enough, wasn’t it?”

You stoop to where Beaumains sits, propped up by the stable’s post and Bedwyr’s shoulder, hand raised to heal--

“Please.” Bedwyr’s impressive hand gently guides yours away, his smile tight and concerned. “You must save your strength, my lady.”

“I just awoke, sir,” you remind him, mouth pulled into an irritated line. “I am as fresh as I shall ever be.”

The knight cants his head, though you know him too well to believe he might fully acquiesce to you. “I know that well enough. But it is your talent we will need, should any challenges arise before day’s end. And this is entirely within my--”

“No, no.” Beaumains stirs at his side, eyes sliding open to relieve the unrelenting shadow of his face. “Let the pretty lady lay her hands on me, paladin. Her touch is far softer than yours.”

Ah, it would have been best for him not to say such things before the whole of Castle Laxdo. Or at least, not in front of its lord. The weight of his gaze already presses heavy on your back, growing only more weighty as Beaumains sears a bleary line up you with his gaze.

He’s far to gone to keep it steady; already it wanders, tracing Bedwyr’s lines as well, and--

“Wait, no, never mind,” he slurs, squinting up at that giant of a man. “You’ll do too, sir, if you’re so eager to put your hand--”

Bedwyr presses a palm to the center of Beaumain’s forehead, and with an authority you know can only come from the Lord in Heaven, he intones, “SLEEP.”

“You know, big guy,” Obi drawls, grin already stretching from ear to ear. “I’m pretty sure paladins don’t get those spells. And fighters definitely don’t.”

Mitsuhide glances up from his sheet, straight at Izana.

He smirks. “I’ll allow it.”

Beaumains sleeps the slumber of the ensorcelled. That is, complete and utterly quiet.

Bedwyr peered down, and with a nod of his head, declares, “That’s much better.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #dungeons & dragons au #my fic #ans #listen i know i said ONE chapter until the end of this arc #but like #TECHNCIALLY next chapter is gonna be the OOC wrap up for this arc #the session is complete though! #fans of this fic may REJOICE #you have two updated planned over the next two months too #Ch 9 is already in progress #and provided it does not grow out of proportion...should be complete by mid-september #and there's another update planned for late october that should hopefully kick off next arc #and perhaps...a POV CHANGE >:3c

[poptod]

The Breeding Kings, pt. 14, (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: And the blame.

Notes: WC: 5.6k

+

Crimson painted his clothes as Batnoam fell to his knees, rushing to support his uncle's limp neck. Abdhamon's mouth gaped open as his head lolled to the side, the whites of his eyes rolling back to expose red veins, crawling up to his cloudy iris. A sharp gasp tore through you as you saw this. Batnoam cradled the corpse in his arms, calling his name again and again but never crying. No, he shook the weak shoulders, as though he were trying to wake the man up, not hug him.

Ahkmen grabbed you by the waist, pulling you close with the sudden realization that someone here killed Abdhamon. Someone stabbed him, someone was capable of murder, and he only knew five out of twenty-plus people, and even those relationships were no more than a scant introduction.

Others around him had the same idea––people grouped into each other, drawing closer to those they trusted and staring wide-eyed at anyone they distrusted. Murmurs ran through the crowd as Batnoam finally raised himself to his feet.

"How did this happen," he said, his voice trembling and low.

The mumbles disappeared into silence.

"Who did this?!" He barked louder, causing you to flinch back into Ahk's hold.

"Calm down, Batnoam," Ahk said softly.

"Don't tell me what to do!" He seethed, his hands curling into fists. "Someone here did this. We're four days' travel from any city."

Ahk's grip on your shoulders grew tighter.

"None of you are leaving till the murderer steps forward," said Batnoam as he met the eye of every listener.

"We don't have enough food to just stay here," Khawa said, stepping forward. "We need to keep moving."

"I'll starve all of you out," Batnoam growled. "I don't care how long it takes."

Frightened words poured from the mouths of onlookers, panicked by the sudden proclamation.

"My people need to be in Babylon within the week, we can't afford this kind of break," interrupted one of the women standing beside the Egyptian soldier Makko had warned Ahk about.

"You think I can afford the death of my uncle?" Batnoam responded bitterly.

"I don't –"

"No one is leaving. I want all of you inside this tent, now," Batnoam said as he drew out his sword, pointing everyone towards the white tent that the corpse of Abdhamon bled out under.

Awkward looks were followed by shuffling as Batnoam barked the order again, thrusting the curved blade towards the group. Ahk backed both of you away, rushing you into the tent and pulling you to the furthest corner, and sitting down quietly in hopes of avoiding suspicion.

Over time with you, Ahk slowly realized you only rarely initiated touch with him or anyone, but now you were pressing yourself against him, nearly sitting in his lap. You were wrapped around his arm, your legs half propped up on his own crossed legs.

"We'll do this organized," Batnoam said, watching carefully and counting those seated. "Clean. Fair. Unlike the coward who took Abdhamon in the night instead of facing his opponent like a man."

Ahk grimaced.

"I want you all to pick a representative," he said. "Someone you believe will protect your innocence, should you have it."

You and Ahk looked to each other.

"Do we.. both go up?" He asked softly.

"Do not ask me," you said, raising your hands defensively.

"Hey," someone whispered, tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned and Ahk followed as they tapped his shoulder, as well.

"You can go with us," Makko suggested, gesturing to his group.

"Who's speaking for you?" Ahk asked.

"Khawa."

"Absolutely," Ahk agreed without hesitation. He then turned to you and said in a much softer voice, "right? Is that alright?"

"Yes, that is good," you said quietly, your gaze darting between him, Makko, and Batnoam.

"Okay. Are you feeling alright?"

"Well..." you sucked in a breath as you looked up at him, "no. I do not see... the dead very much."

"Ah," he mumbled.

It was understandable––he was, in a way, desensitized to violence, and found himself more comfortable around it than many others were, but still less comfortable than people such as. He had never been sure whether or not you'd seen the actual death of your family members, and going by your current reaction he'd venture to guess you hadn't. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure what was worse; seeing your parents killed, or having them go missing without a single trace, like they'd never existed in the first place.

He began to wonder about Batnoam, about his parents, if he'd lost them and that was why he was with his uncle now. Batnoam was old enough to be on his own––a little over 20 years old––but that didn't mean he was self-sufficient.

Those thoughts, those questions, left his mind as you curled further into him, feeling your rapidly beating heart through his arm clutched to your chest. He shuffled to try and hold you.

"Don't worry," he murmured, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "I'll keep us safe."

How he would do that he had no idea, but he was assured he would sooner walk into the ocean than leave you defenseless.

Both of you fell asleep, leant against each other until someone knocked Ahk's supporting hand with their foot, collapsing your fragile tower. Ahk looked up in a blunder, recognizing Khawa above him holding a torch.

"What is –" you mumbled as you sat up, before being interrupted.

"I am to question all of you," she said, looking to each of her counterparts, and then to you.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Ahk sighed. "This is going to take forever. The desert isn't exactly a safe place to hold a murder investigation."

"I am fully aware of that, Aganu," she said sternly. "What would you do?"

He had no reply, which was in itself its' own answer. He shrunk into himself and crossed his arms, relenting to Khawa, who nodded her head curtly before beginning with Eshai.

Each interview took hours, leaving the whole of the caravan cooped up, cramped, and irritable. Rumors spread easily beneath the white tent, even into the next morning. Khawa only managed to get through three people by sunrise, leaving you and Ahk to scuff the dirt floor, Ahk braiding short, curled strands of your hair, and you petting your cat curled up after a long night of wandering. Almost all the mud from the dead sea was gone by now, but it still left traces of red in the locks.

Shirat had been plucking her lute for the past couple hours, though there was no melody or rhythm to the notes, and she played very quietly so as to not draw attention. Eshai didn't have that same aptitude, and paced for the hours following his interrogation. Similarly, Makko couldn't stop talking, spouting theories and worries without thought.

"Vhat do you think he will do to whoever did zis?" He asked in a quiet voice, broken by his relentlessly bouncing leg.

"I don't know, Makko," Ahk said, the same thing he said for the last six questions.

"Maybe.. he vill cast zem into the desert?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe he vill just kill zem," he shrugged.

"Well... where does he come from?" Ahk asked, his hands falling from your hair as he focused onto Makko.

"I don't think he ever said," Makko said, pulling at his lip with tense fingers. "He might have said zat he was on the Euphrates, but I do not know for surely."

"That's mostly Babylonian, isn't it?"

Makko shrugged, his eyes falling to the ground.

"They're eye for an eye types," Ahk said quietly.

"... I hope so," Makko mumbled, earning a surprised look from Ahk. He quickly explained himself with, "I do not trust those who can take a life."

"I don't blame you," he said as he returned to your hair, continuing with the small, half-done braid hanging near your ear.

Once his arms tired of holding up his hands, he dropped them into your lap, shifting to wrap himself around your torso from the back. He rested his chin on your shoulder, taking in your scent deeply till he leant on your cheek.

"Be needing something?" You asked with a halfhearted chuckle.

"No," he sighed, enjoying how wholly he could wrap around you, hiding you from sight. "Just a little tired."

"You did sleep," you said.

"A little," he said with a small nod. "Not going to sleep for a while after this."

"Oh. You will still help me to get sleep, yes?" You asked, twisting to try and face him, only to bump your nose with his and turn rapidly away in embarrassment.

"Yeah," he mumbled, slowly resting his chin back on your shoulder as you tried to breathe. "Of course."

Khawa returned with the last of her own people, her attention then turning to Ahk, who was still wrapped around you and dozing uneasily. You nudged him after noticing her look.

"Your turn, Egyptian," she said, turning to leave, leading him to a corner of the abandoned edges of camp, where no one could hear them speak.

He gulped through a tight throat as he sat down on a boulder, his knees pressed tight together and his hands intertwined neatly in his lap. Khawa spared him little mercy, sitting down across from him with a seething look, her glare burning through his consciousness. He hadn't done anything––at least not to his knowledge––but she already had him sweating bullets.

"How had you met this group?" She began with, never blinking even once while Ahk tried to stutter out an answer.

"Batnoam, um.. he and Yogi were talking in one of the shops at Jericho, and, uh... they found out we were going the same direction, so Batnoam introduced us to his uncle," he said, fidgeting with the growing tail end of his hair.

"And how did you meet Yogi?"

"In Egypt," he said with a nod. "My friend introduced us, they worked at the school I attended."

"Why are you travelling through the desert?"

"We're trying to find Yogi's home. They weren't... they aren't safe in Egypt. Yogi thinks Harappa will be better for them," he answered quietly.

"Why is it not safe in Egypt for them?"

"I'm... honestly.." he trailed off as he tried to recall what exactly had spurred the escape on, as there were several occurrences leading up to the decision. "Yogi kept trying to learn what the priests were teaching me and some of the other noble's children, and the soldiers didn't like that, so... I, um, I found them locked beneath the palace."

"Because they were trying to... learn?" She asked with an odd look.

"I know," he said, sighing. "I never claimed Egypt had great ideas when it comes to immigrants and the poor."

"No one really does," she said quietly.

A moment of silence passed before the questions resumed, continuing into the late morning when Khawa finally returned Ahk to the tent. The walk back was equally as silent, Ahk's hands curled into anxious fists even as he sat back down next to you, calming only with your touch on his thigh.

"Are you good?" You asked, your eyes flickering all over his body as though you were searching him for wounds.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, looking away.

"Yogi," a quiet voice said from above, nudging you on the leg. You neck craned up to Khawa. "I need to ask you questions, too."

"Oh," you said, glancing around before picking Sephys carefully off of your lap, and placing her in Ahk's.

Khawa offered you her hand, pulling you up when you took it. You cleared your breath, brushed your clothes of dust and hair, and followed Khawa out of the tent, glancing back to Ahk with a tented brow tight with anxiousness. He had to bite his cheek to avoid following after that look.

She asked you the same questions––why you were there, how you'd come across the troupe, and how you met your companion. You answered to the fullest extent till Khawa leaned in, her tone sobering further as distant conversation muttered in the wind.

"Have you met Aganu's family?" She asked.

"No," you said. "He has not seen my family, too."

She stared at you, seemingly gauging your expression.

"Is he... violent?"

"Not as I have seen," you said, shaking your head.

"And his friends? Have you met them?"

"Yes, they are... full of money, but good people," you said.

Another moment of silence passed before she relented with, "alright. We can go now."

When you returned, you sat back down next to Ahk, earning his attentive worry.

"Did she rattle you?" He asked, scanning you much like you'd scanned him when he came back.

"No, I am good," you chuckled, gently pushing away his tight-gripped hands.

"What did she ask you?"

"Please do not talk about your interviews with each other," Khawa said in a stern but low voice, looking up from the wooden pipe in her hands.

"Sorry," you said instinctively.

"What've you got there?" Ahk asked, squinting as he tried to make out the pipe's intricate details marking up and down the pipe.

"Azullu," she said, pinching more of an herb from an antelope-skin bag, and stuffing it into the bowl end of the pipe, where a crescent moon was carved.

"What is it?" You asked as Ahk shuffled forward on his knees.

He peeked into the small, drawstring bag, to where ground leaves had been dried and turned into a green herb. With a whiff, he easily recalled the scent.

"Hey, we've had this before," he said, nudging you without looking away from the bag.

"We have?"

"It does have many names," Khawa said, shrugging.

"Shemshemet, the, uh..."

"Ohh, the shemet!" You said with the biggest grin he'd seen all night and day.

"They say it is bhang, in Harappa," Makko informed you, glancing briefly away from his embroidery; a long, white sheet half in his lap and half in Eshai's, the both of them sewing tiny beads of faience to the silk fabric.

"You know about my home?" You asked, your excitement giving way for shock (albeit still excited shock). You were practically beaming, leaning closer to Makko who sat across from you in the small circle.

"A little," he said with a nod. "I learned about it while.. working in a library."

"You worked in a library?" Ahk asked.

"Well –"

"You can read, then?" You asked, your eyes growing wider as you expectantly awaited his answer.

"A little," he said again, this time more subdued.

"Alright, I would like some help starting a fire," Khawa stated suddenly as she stood, her pipe in hand.

"Why?" Caifas asked in almost a whine.

"It's already so hot," Eshai added quietly in the Akkadian language.

"Fine. You want to wait to have this?" She gestured to the pipe. "Then you can wait until the night."

She sat back down, her words bringing a dead stop to the conversation held in the circle of seven. In the middle of the silence Ahk's heart began to pound, overflowing with a sudden worry considering the sanity of Batnoam's methods. Food had been his main concern, but now that he thought of it, no one there had any access to water. At all. He dug his uncut nails into his palm, digging in deeper than he'd ever been able to with polished and clean nails.

"How long do you think Batnoam will keep us here?" He asked softly, staring at the ground and addressing no one in particular.

"I do not know," Khawa said in a strained voice.

"We are in a drought, aren't we? We probably aren't going to get more water until we reach Terqa," Ahk said with strained hands.

"I do not think Batnoam cares," you murmured, looking behind you.

Ahk followed your gaze to the distant form of Batnoam, towering over the tiny bushes growing in the somewhat moist area of the desert. He was searching through the tents and tarps, tearing apart beds and campfires in search of something, something which he could apparently not find.

"You are right," you said to him quietly. "We do need to travel alone."

"No, we just need to travel in smaller groups," he said, hoping his words would be of some comfort to you.

You didn't verbally respond, but you leant your head on his shoulder and sighed deeply. He revelled in that touch.

The morning passed into noon and into night, at which time Ahk realized he'd only taken two swallows of water throughout the whole day. His tongue could barely move from the roof of his mouth and he was rubbing his eyes incessantly, partially from the wind that blew burning sand into them, and partially because they were already dry to begin with. Batnoam made no progress, but the people who sat beneath his sword were growing antsy.

Perhaps the only good part of the day finally progressing into the evening was that the seven of them now had a good excuse to light a fire. One could not see the stars sitting beneath a tent, so with Batnoam's permission you went to gather bits of brush and sticks, bringing them back to Khawa's seat.

Once she was satisfied she began to light the fire, muttering incantations to herself in languages neither of you could understand. Instead of asking, you pulled Ahk back down to his own seat, and enjoyed the slow process of creating and taming fire. He moved to find Batnoam, but you pulled him down before he could stand and intertwined your hand with his. That kept him unbreakably near to you.

The fire easily burnt through bits of leaves and soft fibers, glowing just long enough to light the larger parts of wood on fire, as well. Soon the campfire was crackling away, lighting up the darkened tent and allowing Khawa to finally pull the packed pipe out from underneath her robes.

She stuck a thin stick in the fire, lighting the tip of it and bringing it into the bowl. By breathing in from the mouthpiece she inhaled the smoke, allowing it to pour out from her nose and mouth before she drew in again, assuring it would stay alight. Khawa then passed it to Eshai, who was sitting beside her.

Smoke from both the pipe and the campfire began to drift to the ceiling of the tent, pooling in the highest spot till a grey haze blurred out the more distant parties. The smell reached each corner, causing more than a few people to look their way, but none dared to say anything.

Shemshemet––or azullu, as Khawa called it––did wonders for relaxing the body in both physical and mental aspects. His grandfather had used it for the poisoning of the limbs, when his joints began to ache and creak with weary use. Now he called upon its' psychic properties, breathing in deep in hopes of an even deeper cleansing, ridding him of the less useful anxiety. You did the same, inhaling a massive cloud of smoke that billowed out from between your darkened lips.

"Wow," he said involuntarily after the last puffs of smoke left you. You giggled, your hand coming up to cover your mouth that remnants of the herb still left.

"Thank you," you said with a bow of your head in his direction that also left him laughing despite himself.

While desert days could roast an egg on a rock, the evenings were almost pleasant, chilled only by winds that called for yet more campfires to be started. Carpets, bags, and blankets were stuffed away in the corners of the open, white tent, making room for warmth that soon filled up the camp. Batnoam was still nowhere to be seen and had left Bahiti, a woman from Egypt, to survey the people.

No meat was cooked. No searing, no scents, only the burning bowl of shemshemet still drifting skyward. Everyone had unanimously, as well as silently, agreed that tonight would be a night of very little in hopes of preserving their food for the prolonged stay in the Shamiyah desert.

If Ahk stood, which apparently counted as 'suspicious' to Bahiti, he could find the edge of the land beyond the shallow dip in the dunes, towards distant mountains, still short but ragged with red rock. In the night it was little less than a silhouette, a darkened outline beneath the glowing horizon leading up into ink-black night. He had never been further from the Nile, and despite the less-than-suitable circumstances, he still enjoyed the mystery of a land he'd only ever heard about in his caretaker's stories as a child.

Since the bowl, and thus the herb, was shared, passed around by seven people, Ahkmen felt less of the effects than usual. No mind-blowing high or giddy behavior, but instead a vague calmness that helped compress the occurences of the last day and a half.

Abdhamon was dead. His nephew, Batnoam, had learned a fair amount from him, but Ahk correctly surmised he didn't know the desert quite as well as the elder did. That meant many of the stops along the way, many of the oasises, would be lost to the caravan, and water would be more scarce.

"Where do you zink he is?" Makko asked in a whisper, subtly looking out past Ahk's head.

"Batnoam?"

Makko nodded.

"I think he's searching our belongings," Ahk said, turning 180 to look as well before Makko reached panicked hands forward and pulled him back into place.

"Do not let him see you," he said with wide eyes.

"Calm down," Ahk chuckled. "He won't hurt us for no reason."

"He did threaten us with a sword," Khawa added quietly, a pointed argument that left both Ahkmen and Makko silent.

Ahk, who didn't have many hobbies outside studying astronomy and reading, managed to fit seventeen braids into your hair without you noticing. Tiny, woven strands now littered your head, a mark of someone who cares about you, though you wouldn't see them, at least not for a long while now.

You kept yourself busy for a while––helping Makko, Eshai, and Khawa embroider the silk cloth, or working on mending your own tattered clothes, but you soon tired of sewing. For the last hour you'd been doing nothing but playing with Sephys, and even she was growing sick of you.

"Yogasundari," he murmured, tapping your arm. You immediately turned to him. "Come lie down with me."

"You are going to sleep?" You asked, but still followed him as he lay on his back, trailing as though you were tied to him.

"No, I want to show you something."

As promised, Ahk couldn't quite get tired what with all the ruckus, and since the fires were going on their last embers, the sky would be clearer now than any other time.

Waiting.

A day and a half of waiting, and at last you were on your backs next to each other, staring up at the same stars. His shoulder brushed yours, but your hands remained folded neatly on your chest.

"Did you know the pyramids are the stars?" He asked, tilting his head to you.

".. how?" You asked in a soft, mystified voice.

"The entrance to Osiris' palace lies in the brightest star," he said as he raised his arm, pointing to Sirius. "Sirius, and then Orion."

"They are.. together?"

"Well the pyramids, the three large ones that I took you by, they are matching to the belt of Orion, and the great Sphynx of the city matches the great Lion of the sky," he said, shifting to point to the lion's constellation. "That is where the sun rises in the aftermath of creation."

"In the death?"

He nodded.

"And the belt of stars," he gestured to the ring of white stardust painting the middle of the sky, "is the Nile, on earth. With the living."

"So in death... the river is the stars," you said, turning from the stars to him.

"A little, yes," he chuckled, adoring the humored gleam in your eye.

"And the Pharaoh is the stars," you said.

"Yes, when Pharaohs die, they become the stars. Particularly over..." he scanned the sky for a moment, "there."

A cluster of bright stars remained hidden near the horizon.

"Ah," you whispered, nodding. "I am happy to see you are doing good with your... your promise."

"Which one?" He asked, recalling what you were talking about only after he'd asked.

"You will tell me what you know, remember?" You said as you met his eye expectantly. "I will give you all the beer you want."

"Don't worry about that," he said, sitting up with a tone of seriousness in his movements. "You don't need to make me anything or give me anything. I came with you willingly and I will share with you willingly."

You giggled, closing your eyes and turning away with reddened cheeks. Your knees propped up, hands coming to fall beside your head, even as you shook your head to yourself.

"What?" He asked with a grin.

"You will share with me?" You asked through your giggles.

"Everything," he answered.

"Everything?" You repeated, your brows quirking up.

You shot up, reaching a lightning-fast hand forward and snatching the scarf off his head. He let out a small, subdued shout from the suddenness of it.

"I do look good?" You asked, situating the scarf over your already existing hat, as well as over all the braids Ahk had managed to fit into your hair.

"Wonderful, as always," he chuckled.

"Then I will have your shirt too," you said, and before he could process what you said you were tugging at his shirt, undoing the tassels and buttons and practically ripping it off his body.

"Hey!" He said indignantly, his mouth falling open as he stared at you confused.

Somehow, you managed to fit his shirt over your clothes as well, now wearing double-hats and double-shirts while Ahk only had his pants and sandals left.

"Meanie," he said, plucking the scarf off your head and wrapping it around his bare waist.

"Here, you need this, for your head," you said, unable to stop giggles from pouring out of you as you set his shirt over his head. He laughed, his vision mostly blocked by the large piece of fabric.

"Mother Goddess," Makko interrupted, turning to both of you with a very strange look on his face. "How long have you two been married?"

"Honeymoon time," Caifas said quietly.

"Honey-what?" You asked, at the same time Ahk said –

"We're not married," said Ahkmen far too quickly. His eyes darted to you and back to the group at large.

Everyone fell silent as they gave him odd stares.

"What??" He asked again, and they dropped it.

"What is honeymoon?" You whispered, tugging at his arm.

"Nothing. Phase of moon," he mumbled.

Footsteps grinding against rock and brush interrupted the murmurs of conversation passing around the tent. Ahk turned to see Batnoam, black crescents beneath his eyes and a dagger in his hand as he approached the caravan. He pulled you into him, shielding you away as Batnoam passed by, headed towards the center to address those who stared at him.

"Nassor?" He called; the name of the Egyptian soldier.

Ahk could physically feel his will shrinking as Nassor stood, his tall, dark form sticking out amongst the light colored robes of his group. He stepped forward without flinching.

"You tossed this away," Batnoam said, practically growling the words as he pointed the bloodstained dagger directly at Nassor's neck. The man still didn't flinch. "I know you were carrying it while we were travelling. The hilt is quite recognizable."

"You have no proof," Nassor stated flatly, crossing his arms.

"We're a thousand spans from any government, Nassor," he spat. "I don't need evidence to do in with you."

"You w-"

Nassor's word stopped with the gushing of blood, his own dagger thrust into his throat. You gasped sharply, backing up into Ahk as you once more covered your mouth, wide eyes burning with fear.

With a harsh pull, Batnoam leased the blade from Nassor's neck, allowing the soon-to-be corpse to fall to his knees. Shouts and claims of insanity began to come from the crowd, something Ahk should've expected sooner than he did.

"Quiet! All of you," he barked above the noise, pointing the dagger covered in two men's blood to the crowd, causing drops of it to fall upon them. "Bahiti says there's another. Someone who told Nassor what to do."

Ahk glanced to those surrounding him both near and far, a sudden agitation building in his veins.

He's going insane, he thought, his eyes darkening.

"That person, or persons, is going to step forward," he met each listener's eye, "or I'm going to start killing till I find the right one."

You gave Ahk a look that screamed, 'what the fuck'.

"You can't do that!" Someone cried, but was quickly hushed by a hand over their mouth. Others voiced such things in wavering tones.

Batnoam reached into the crowd, dragging out one of the men from Cyprus by his hair. Ahkmen hadn't met the man before, but he had a short stature, long hair, and was clawing at Batnoam's hands in an attempt to release them. His woman companion leased a cry of his name; Aegeus. At the sight of this you dug into your bag, searching frantically for some sort of potion that would be of use in such a situation.

Before you could find anything befitting, Makko suddenly shot up from his spot beside Ahk, yelling something he couldn't process till the whole of the tent turned dead silent.

"It's me," he'd said, a proclamation both you and Ahk had a visceral reaction to.

"What?" Ahk said astounded.

"I'm –" his voice cracked, "I did not kill anyone, but I'm probably ze reason your uncle is dead."

Batnoam, who was still holding the man by his hair with a knife to his throat, paused to listen with dead eyes. Attention fell to Makko, who began to shake with the many eyes pointed towards him.

"My father's wife hired men to do away vith me. I had to leave my home, but I am sure those hunters would chase me even here," he said, growing quieter as he finished.

"Why has she done that?" You asked.

"Mostly to legitimize her son's claim to the throne," he mumbled.

"The throne?" Batnoam repeated, seemingly in the same state of disbelief and shock as everyone else. He released the man, who scrambled back to his wife.

Ahkmen, sensing an opportunity, decided to look out across the faces. Most had open mouths, others wide eyes, but all paying ardent attention, except two men sitting close to each other, who only looked up sparingly to glare at Makko.

"It's them," he said suddenly, interrupting Makko's next sentence as he pointed a finger to the two men. He stood and continued with, "they're the only ones not surprised by what you're saying."

All eyes turned to the two men, one of which began to look rather frightened, while the other turned to anger.

"Just because we're not paying attention doesn't mean we know what you're talking about," one of them said with a glare.

"It's hardly evidence," the other said.

"Haven't we been over this?" Ahk asked, empowered for the first time in days to tease. He tapped his chin as though he was thinking it over. "Oh, right. We're weeks away from civilization. No law requires proper evidence... it's only what we know."

One of the stranger's faces paled, while the other hardened, glaring at Ahkmen.

Batnoam motioned to Aegeus––the short, stocky man with the terrified wife––who steeled his expression, grabbed the two men, and threw them forward to land in front of Batnoam, their faces scratched and scuffed with dust. Stress still remained knotted into his features, shifty eyes switching between the members of his own group and Batnoam.

"How did you say you were from? How you got here?" Batnoam demanded, now pointing the blade to the men knelt before him.

"Theodore said he was from mainland Greece," Aegeus answered for him, his voice broken and cracking. "But Mopsus travelled recently from the Persian Gulf. Elam, I believe."

"Elam, they have made much grief with Assyrians," Batnoam said, eyes flickering between the two men. "Someone must've payed you off, and you killed my uncle to cover your tracks, just in case anyone knew who Makko is."

He leaned in, pressing the dagger up against Mopsus' neck, drawing a thin sliver of crimson blood.

"I live for killing filth like you," he spat.

With that, he shot the blade in a straight line, slicing open his throat. Mopsus let out garbled sounds as bubbling blood poured from him, filled his mouth so as to make him choke on his own lifeline. Ahk curled you into his chest, hiding your face from view as he fell from his knees, thumping onto the carpet floor. He could feel you flinch at each sound, and the panicked breathing that followed.

Another body thumped to the ground before Batnoam stood, straightening his back as he gazed down upon the mangled bodies still bleeding out onto the carpets.

"Alright," he breathed out, tossing the dagger to the side. "Let's get the hell out of this desert."

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 3: Oath-Breaker

Sorry for taking so much longer than I thought I would! But I hope it was worth the wait! Please let me know what you think- your comments are seriously what keeps me going. love you all sm ❤︎

word count: 4108

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It was fresh, and completely unmistakable. Within the past few hours, Lorcan Salvaterre had passed by Mistward, heading for the sea.

Rowan immediately swooped low, following the scent to where it meandered over the forest floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The trail skirted around the edge of Mistward’s perimeter, following a path that was just out of their sightline, but close enough that in the morning, the scouts would find it immediately.

It almost felt like a message.

Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow –

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?

···

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. Huge. Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward specifically, so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, “Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?” and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

“Who?” Fenrys asked. “Who, Con? What happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had wanted him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, Lorcan, his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, Lorcan, as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even more uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he had to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for weeks, was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

That scoundrel.

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he had abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

···

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···

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#warrior and the wildfire #rowaelin #rowan pov #rpov #queen of shadows

[splat-dragon]

Dutch had had it all planned out. A long speech to distract the lawmen as they edged towards the edge of the cliff. He’d gesture and nudge Arthur, and together they’d jump, land safely in the water, and be gone by the time the lawmen processed what happened.

But he hadn’t taken into account the waterfall.

Dutch had had it all planned out. A long speech to distract the lawmen as they edged towards the edge of the cliff. He’d gesture and nudge Arthur, and together they’d jump, land safely in the water, and be gone by the time the lawmen processed what happened.

  But he hadn’t taken into account the waterfall.

“You can’t fight…” he nudged Arthur back, his own heels dangling over the ledge, “Gravity.” and with that Arthur, quick on the draw as ever, twisted and jumped.

  They hit the water so hard it knocked the breath from their lungs. Dutch only just managed to keep from inhaling water, and he was just close enough to clap his hand over Arthur’s mouth to keep him from doing so.

  They broke the surface with twin coughs, Arthur spluttering while Dutch coughed.”See son?” he laughed, flailing more than swimming as he dodged one of Arthur’s kicking feet, “I told you to trust me.”

  “Sure Dutch,” his boy choked as a wave caught him in the face, “Real pretty.”

  He laughed as Arthur was thrown ass over head, righting himself with a splutter, near-hysteric with the rush of survival.

  “Dutch?” the man struggled to reorient himself, “Dutch!” Arthur’s eyes went wide, and Dutch’s bulged to match when he saw the source of the noise.

  Rapids. Jagged rocks erupting from the river. Frothing white waves crashed across them, dashing the unlucky fish that were caught in the tide.

  “Shit!”

  Shit indeed.

  “Swim son, swim!”

  If Arthur weren’t too busy struggling to fight the tide, he’d have said ‘no shit, Dutch!’ but the river was pulling them closer and closer, exhausting them as they fought.

  As foam filled his mouth, Arthur had just enough time to think ‘this is going to suck’ before he was slammed into the rocks.

  He choked, cried out - and got a mouthful of water. 

Arthur was there one moment, and gone the next. Dutch shouted his name, surging through the water but regretting it when he barely dodged a protruding stone, the thrown up water burning his eyes. “Arthur!” he squinted against the pain, kicking off an oncoming rock, barely managing to keep his own head above water.

  But he couldn’t see him - not even a flash of his shirt, or his blond hair, and his head never broke water. He tried to call his name again, though what that would do he wasn’t sure, but he felt he needed to do something and he couldn’t dive under to save him, he’d never come up again and maybe, just maybe, if he called for him he’d hear him?

  Arthur never disobeyed him.

  Well, not until recently. But that was neither here nor there, because when it came down to the line, when it truly mattered, Arthur always obeyed him, always came when called. But Arthur was disobeying and just for a moment there was a flash of anger - that unsettling anger that had become to common to him as of late - and then it was drowned out by the chill of horror, because Arthur had been under too long and if he wasn’t responding… no, surely he’d been washed further downstream, surely he just couldn’t hear him over the crashing of the waves and the roaring of the rapids.

  Because the alternative… well, Dutch didn’t want to think about it. And then he couldn’t think about it, because he was slammed into a sharp boulder and agony lit along his ribs and he cried out, swallowing water and spinning through the water like a piece of cloth in a modern day washing machine, barely managing to thrust his head above water long enough to catch a breath before he was being tumbled again. And he understood John’s deep rooted fear of the water, and his refusal to learn to swim, and his ‘hidden’ panic when he saw Jack on the shore back at Clemens’ Point and Shady Belle. Granted, the second had been warranted on account of the gators but - well, that didn’t matter at the moment, considering he couldn’t breathe.

  He tumbled and spun, clawed frantically as he abandoned all the lessons Hosea had given him in swimming (and would he be seeing Hosea soon? he couldn’t help but to wonder as his chest squeezed and his lungs burned) to instead flail desperately, the energy draining from his body, beginning to slow and weaken as he grew painfully heavy—

  —and then his head broke water and half his breath was water but, though it burned and he choked and coughed, he couldn’t have cared less because it was blessed air, air that loosened the iron grip on his chest and returned life to his limbs, and he twisted and had enough breath to scream as he tumbled over the edge of the waterfall, seeing his death before him because he’d seen men hit water and break every bone in their body, had personally put down a young boy who’d leaped to avoid a train and shattered everything, something had gone wrong inside him and he hadn’t been able to breathe and it had been kinder to shoot him.

  He still hurt for it, Jasper had been a good young man, but he’d been dying anyway and a death of choking on your own blood was a long, painful death and so he couldn’t regret it.

  But somehow, impossibly, he hit the water and sunk, only the briefest of pain from the impact and a shooting pain in his side where he’d struck it, and then his head was breaking water again and he could breathe, could get the breath that gave him the strength to strike out for the shore that was so, so close, and when he struck it it hurt, pebbles and sticks digging into his skin but it might as well have been a caress for how relieved he was, clawing up the bank and there was some pain there, yes, as his palms tore open and his nails were pried off by the stones but when he collapsed on the shore, even his feet free of the water, it was a welcome pain because he’d made it. He’d escaped the water, managed to survive—

  where was Arthur?

  —he jackknifed up, scrabbling at the stones and having to take a moment to bend trouble, coughing and choking as he cleared his lungs of the water, burning eyes snapping this way and that, darting first to the water which grew shallow not long after the water pooled beneath the waterfall, and he feared seeing Arthur splayed across those rocks, feared he’d not had Dutch’s luck and had hit the sharp stones, feared seeing his blood darkening the water and his limbs at horrible angles.

  But he didn’t - pink water was trickling, a ribbon that spread slowly across the pool, but there was no body broken on the rocks and his eyes followed the ribbon to a blue lump that bobbed in the water, something he couldn’t make out with his blurry eyes but he knew, Arthur had landed in the pool too but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t trying to get to the shore, was floating motionless in the water and he didn’t even remember getting to his feet, lurching through the water to paw at the lump until he managed to find an arm and flip him over, his head finally breaking the water and thank god Arthur could breathe as he slung the arm over his shoulder, grabbing the other and awkwardly swimming back for shore.

  He laughed a hysterical thing, breaking into coughs as he managed “I told you — I told you son — we made it!”

  But Arthur didn’t laugh, or respond in any way, and Dutch didn’t want to look but he had to.

  A pale face, blue lips and far-away eyes looked back at him and his heart skipped one-two-three-four beats, because Arthur was never still, even in sleep he moved, twitched and shifted and curled in on himself, but Arthur wasn’t moving — his chest wasn’t moving — he wasn’t coughing or clearing his throat and vomiting up water, he was laying there like… like a corpse and Dutch refused that, he’d already lost Jenny, Mac and Davey, Sean and the O’Driscoll boy (Kieran, his name was Kieran, he deserved as much as to be called by his name), Lenny and poor Hosea and he couldn’t lose Arthur too.

  He drew Arthur up, fumbling him when he was far lighter than he expected because Arthur had always been a big man, not since he’d been young and terrified of them had he been this light, even when he and Hosea had half-carried him across camp when he’d returned after the parley they’d struggled under his weight.

  But picking up Arthur was easier than lifting his saddle and his heart jumped into his throat, he’d have worried more but Arthur’s head lolled in a way that could only be accidental, water trickling from his mouth but he didn’t cough or so much as clear his throat and Dutch hurried to prop him up, leaning him over his knee and beginning to thump him between the shoulder blades as hard as he could. His ribs screamed as he struck Arthur harder and harder, the man’s body jolting but only producing small bits of water from his mouth and he began to count in his head because how long had it been since Arthur had breathed?

  Too long, even Arthur who seemed superhuman couldn’t hold his breath so long.

  He set Arthur down more heavily than he’d meant to, cringing at the clattering of his body against the rocks. He threw his coat down, taking just a moment to tug Arthur onto it, before shifting to kneel awkwardly over his prone son, lacing his fingers together and beginning to push on his stomach in rhythm, trying to work the water out of his lungs. With each push water trickled from the corner of his mouth and he leaned forward, tilting his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke.

  “C’mon son, come on!”

  (“Do you trust me son?”

  “...Always, Dutch.”

  “Then just follow my lead.”)

  Something cracked beneath his hands and he groaned, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Arthur’s, blowing a breath into his mouth and pulling away with the taste of brackish water and metal on his lips, pinching his nose and trying again when his chest didn’t rise and this time it did with a horrible gurgling and he pulled back, beginning to push down on his chest over and over and over, bones crackling with the force of it, counting off fifteen (or was it supposed to be twenty? thirty?) compressions before leaning forward, alarmed at the taste of blood as he gave him two breaths, praying to a god he didn’t believe in as he returned to his compressions.

  He’d lost so many people, he couldn’t lose Arthur too.

  Annabelle... Hosea… so many he’d considered family.

  He’d raised Arthur up from a boy, just a young thing, scared and cowering as Dutch helped him off the ground. From a kid that cowered when they raised their voices and flinched when they moved their hands, to a father, to a man who stood tall and proud, the backbone of his family, always at his side—

  “With you watching over us, I’d walk into Hell itself.”

  —always there, no matter what. No matter how angry he’d gotten, how frustrated he was—

  “We each got... fifteen dollars. Oh, and a quarter. Don't forget the quarter.”

  “Shut up, Arthur.”

  —he’d always been there. Even when Hosea had left them for a time, wanting to start a proper family with Bessie, he’d cried, and hidden, but never left him behind. And he’d paid for it, hadn’t he?— 

  “So, I met up with Leon. That situation with the workers is dealt with. Captured, tied-up, beaten…”

  “Poor bastards.”

  “No, that was me.”

“I told you it was a set-up Dutch…”

  “My boy… my dear boy, what?”

  “They got me… but I got away.”

  “Yeah… that you did.”

  —more, probably, than he’d been rewarded. Always crawling home to lick his wounds, digging out bullets and stitching wounds, having to be wrestled into bed to keep him from going right back out and doing it all over again. How many times had one of the girls come to him because they found blood on his clothes and they’d found Arthur hiding a wound so he could ride out again or join them on a job?

  But he wouldn’t let Arthur suffer this time, he’d make sure he was rewarded. But to do that, he’d have to breathe breath back into his lungs, uncaring of the blood he tasted on every rescue breath, of the crunching of broken bones shattering beneath his hands. He could fix broken bones, could let Arthur rest for as long as he needed to recuperate, if only he would breathe.

His arms buckled, each breath shooting pain through his ribs, his hands sinking into Arthur’s chest so much had he broken his bones, his muscles burning from the force of the compressions and his chest tight with how hard he blew breath into his boy’s lungs. Each time the man’s chest rose hope soared in his own, but he crashed back to earth as he never did continue breathing.

  Dutch crumpled atop of Arthur, arms giving way and gasping for breath, shaking his head even as he did so. “No, Arthur, please…” but Arthur, of course, couldn’t respond.

A month later, Dutch developed a cough.

#whumptober #whumptober2021 #whumptober 2021 #dutch #dutch van der linde #arthur #arthur morgan #drowning tw #death tw #Do you trust me? #Drowning #This is gonna suck #CPR #Waterfall #Favored Sons mission #Favored Sons #no.4 #no.11 #no.12 #no.13 #no.18 #no.26 #fic #fanfic #fanfiction

[strangerays]

Nothing in Particular Update #2

It’s the Nothing and Particular and Everything update part two: the electric booglaloo. This one is long, so strap in.

It’s been a while since I wrote an update for this story. To be honest, this one gave me a lot of stress, but here I am! Writing this story feels like it is going very slow. I keep telling myself I’ve made a lot of progress (which is true, I have) but for some reason it doesn’t feel like I have? This is likely just my own insecurity. To be frank, I can’t believe I’m still writing this story. If you had told me in February that I’d still be writing this when the weather got warm, I would have laughed.

I am SO excited that I will finally be able to focus on writing now that I’m out of school. I’m afraid to speak the rough deadline that I’ve given myself for this story (the end of August-early September) but now that I’ve spoken it into existence, I hope I can finish! (I hope I can stop watching dumb videogame playthroughs and listening to The Magnus Archives and get something done)

Here is a link to the story introduction and previous update!

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-); @wannabeauthorzofija @a-completely-normal-writer @baguettethebooklover​ @corkytheguar @writeherewaiting

STORY CHANGES/THOUGHTS/IDEAS: 

Here is a big one: I’ve been trying to write this story for myself. I started writing Ray’s story from a place that was personal to me, but I feel like, as that part of myself has begun to heal, I’ve started to think about what a reader would want out of the story. I’m realizing that this is my story so it has to be what I want. Drafts are drafts for a reason, so I’m going to try to get better at letting myself explore what is fun to me.

I always thought I was a discovery writer (I still sort of think I am) but as I’ve finished small sections of the story, I am finding that it’s very helpful to do a rough outline of scenes in upcoming chapters. (I also recommend turning to this if something doesn’t work and you need to retrace your steps!) Just helps me feel more organized!

Jude’s character has got to be one of the most difficult personalities I’ve ever written. Putting her beside Ray just makes it harder. Where Ray is secretive and keeps to herself, Jude is ready to unpack her entire life’s story to anyone. I find that I really have to slow down when writing their interactions. I know this is going to be nowhere near perfect in the first draft, but I think it is a main contributor to my slow writing.

I really like this little narrative I’ve created in the background of the main plot with Ray and Lonan. I love writing these scenes because it’s a way for me to use Lonan when he’s not actively with Ray and to show why Ray is predetermined about things at certain points. Also I love their friendship so much <3

CONGRATULATIONS TO ME on starting to read again because I forgot how much of a help reading other people’s stories can be when you’re struggling with your own oml

I now have a set timeline for the story! Takes place ~4-5 months.

I did that thing where you write a letter from the characters’ perspectives and that was kind of fun

Also just for fun I thought I’d add in that I spent an hour and a half last week filling up a page in my sketchbook with diagrams of the plot. It feels good to be a mad scientist

EXCERPTS UNDER THE CUT!

*At this point, I’m only sharing writing that I am really proud of in order not to spoil the story! This is because I am unsure whether I want to publish this story someday. With that said, that does NOT give you permission to steal my ideas!

CHAPTER: NIGHT CRIES

#1

In the last week of summer, I did everything I could to avoid post-vacation blues. I rode my bike along the gravel roads with no destination, wore my dark sunglasses to people-watch, and fed salami to the minnows that floated on the cusps of boulders. Usually, I sat still for so long that my elbows turned a deep shade of red and the blood in my toes buzzed.

New pockets seemed to open up in Point Blink every day. And with them, came new people. Most of them were older – a middle aged woman who caked her lipstick on, an uncle estranged from his brother, a couple who had miscarried. I hadn’t forgotten about the kids at Mothouse. It was impossible not to think about them. It wasn’t just that I’d never seen them before.

#2

The girl’s limp cigarette bled a trail of smoke that seeped into my Vans. My shirt folded like skin over my bed post. Haunted the room – foiled my mauve sheets and teased my locks. Swept the curtains apart and heated the oak floor. Beams of moonlight leapt to my bookcases; highlighted the posters from various podcasts and bands that I listened to. Wind whistled when I was too still. She forced me to look outside, onto the dark cul-de-sac lit by the reflections of forming rain puddles. No matter whether I sat at my desk or burrowed under my sheets, I felt out of place. She made my bedroom louder. She made my bedroom quieter.

I decided it would probably be best if I never saw her again.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about writing this chapter because it was over a month ago (sorry) but I’m still quite happy with the prose! This comes in after Ray sees Jude for the first time at Mothouse. Based on a first impression, decides that she might want be friends with Jude.

CHAPTER: SORRY

#1 

If you spend any long amount of time with someone, you’ll become a thief to their behaviors. If I stared long enough, trees began to replace all of the people we’d ever seen. Oaks had roots that serpentined the ground like children splashing in the bay, pines with needles like spindly old hands, maples with hollows like watchful eyes – all things Lonan had taught me to observe.

CHAPTER: GHOSTS

Then there was the sea – violent and knowing as it romped within bays and alcoves. She had eaten me many times before, both my father and Lonan too. Gulped them as if they were shining plastic wrappings left behind after a meal. I spited her for inviting me once again. I reached up again to grapple with the next rung. It twisted and offered a low whistle.

In these two chapters, Ray is on a photography trip with her class. This is the first time she’s been on this annual trip without Lonan. She left that morning with a goal of being independent and learning to get on with one of the only people she has felt close to. I realize now that the Ghost excerpt sort of sounds like her dad and Lonan have drowned?? Which was not my intention??

CHAPTER: A DIVINE INTERVENTION

#1

“Do you believe in ghosts?” A raspy voice teased from behind me. Cigarette smoke tickled the words, like they were stuck together with jelly inside of her. The question wasn’t particularly calming, but it strengthened my grip on reality. As if the foiled leaves, bark, and dandelions had sprung from the ground and begun to float, they came crashing back down.

I was made of stone.

“I’m not a ghost,” Jude said. “If I was, a ladder would be a pretty counteractive way to outrun me. I could just float up there and haunt you.”

“Maybe you’re a ghost,” she asked, her voice distant.

I shifted my grasp up and down the sides of the ladder. “What?”

“Don’t you believe in ghosts?”

I was reading back some of Ray and Jude’s conversation and there are so many snippets of dialogue that make me laugh because I totally forgot I wrote them... but UGhhH I don’t know if I want to share them because I don’t know whether or not I want to try and publish the story someday. Speaking of that, it’s sort of because it’s so personal to me? I don’t know (this is for future me to pursue) Honestly though, reading these back has made me really happy :)

#2

I wanted to shake her by the shoulders. She acted as though Point Blink could breathe – as though corpses in the cemetery might pull the grass away like dead skin, neighbors would draw blades, and blood-salt would stain her clothes rather than that from the sea. “Trust me, they’ll forgive you. But, I’m just saying, most people around here don’t care nearly as much as you think so. Most of them are way older anyways, so they’re tired of us.”

“Is that you complimenting yourself?” Jude asked.

“Not intentionally,” I said, “but I will take it.”

She laughed. “You shouldn’t be so nice to strangers.”

I wasn’t trying to be. I just didn’t think I wanted her to dislike me.

#3

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing or a good thing,” Jude said. “Being good gets you tucked into a thousand different memories. Being good makes you live a lifetime.”

I almost laughed, but then I wondered what I was to her now. “I don’t talk to lots of people.”

“Sometimes there aren’t many people to talk to. But I thought you would have loads of friends.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I thought you would too.”

Alarm like grief lit her eyes, but she laughed. I did too.

“You hardly know me,” she said quietly.

Then the girls explore some old newspapers and letters in a fire tower! Spooky fun!

CHAPTER: YOU LET THIS HAPPEN

This isn’t a major spoiler as it’s literally in the blurb I wrote, but Ray and Jude are caught (targeted..??)  in a fire. Ray is brought back to a field where she is questioned.

CHAPTER: NOTHING HAPPENS

He was quiet for several moments while he painted a picture with what little details I had given him, then said, “It’s unfair. I think that’s why it hurts.”

“Because we almost got hurt?”

“No. Because it came true.”

His gentle, ragged voice made me think I could tell him anything. Sometimes, I think that, even then, he knew I left something out.

Ray talks to Lonan after the fire... She’s being a bit dishonest about what actually happened.

CHAPTER: WHY NOT

I remember how the barest amount of red light glared across Lonan’s entire scalp and washed his boyish curls magenta from the roots out. When Jude leaned back on the counter, she melded into the darkness.

This chapter is just part of the narrative that I created with Ray and Lonan’s friendship. There isn’t much I want to spoil from it, but I liked this paragraph!

CHAPTER: INEVITABLE

“We didn’t do anything,” I said.        

“Someone did. Why won’t you believe me?”

 “I think I would remember whether or not someone was there with us,” I said, “even if we didn’t have the picture.”

This was untrue. I hung lots of photos in my room. A long time would pass before I went to a restaurant again, or a specific coven on one of the beaches, or an outfit that I wore, and I would look into one of my pictures and remember it, and then I would be quite angry with myself that I had almost forgotten that thing forever.

“I don’t think you understand what I mean,” Jude said. I didn’t like the way she’d lowered her voice. She sounded different every time I saw her. She reached out her arm so our photos were side by side and our fingers were almost touching. “I don’t think you want to.”

Ray finds herself alone in the school’s dark room with Jude. Based on the contents of one of her photos, she tries to convince Ray that there is more to the fire than what meets the eye.

CHAPTER: (this one is untitled)

I didn’t mind that he followed me everywhere. Even when he was quiet, I didn’t find it strange to be around him. We sat silently through films and went on walks. Once, he had fallen asleep while watching The Iron Giant in my bed. I didn’t know if I should wake him up once it ended. I tried not to stare at him. He’d rolled onto his side and bundled himself in one of my blankets covered in stars up to his shoulders so only his small face poked out like a baby owl’s. His soft breath messed his dirty gold coils. They were at their longest. Except for the ebbing light from a candle on my desk, my house was asleep – Lonan needed to go home.

For the first time, I wondered if anyone cared where he was.

Another small part of the little friendship narrative! (This really is the part of the story where I get nostalgic for my childhood, isn’t it) Ray starts to discover more about Lonan’s home life in this part of the story, but there’s not much that I think I want to reveal about that for now.

CHAPTER: THE CRUX OF IT

Why did I feel so paranoid? I found myself staring out the window, into the film of blue that the late sun shown onto the grass and trying to remember what summer felt like.

My main problem was that I didn’t know how to talk to Jude unless it was about Sugarfell. I ran from the hush of cigarette smoke behind closing doors and heard her loud voice in conversations. Even though there might have still been a part of me that wanted to be friends with her, I didn’t have much to base that feeling off of. I could have spent hours clicking the little pieces of her that I had together, but the crux of it was that I would never know Jude unless I forced myself to.

For some reason, that really scared me.

I spent all week trying to think of what to say to her. By Friday afternoon, I still had nothing.

I left off writing with Ray actively avoiding Jude’s little investigation into the arsonist. Ray doesn’t want to be involved in this because she feels that it will throw her sense of normalcy off course. She really just wants to learn how to adapt to a life without her best friend. (It doesn’t help that she’s got fresh trauma)

What will Ray decide? I don’t know. We shall see. (just kidding I know)

Sorry this update was longer! I think I would like to start updating more often than once a month just because they would be shorter and those of you reading this won’t forget what happened in the last update. There are thousands and thousands of words that didn’t show up in this update because - like I said - I don’t know whether I want to publish this story ever?? I’ll probably talk more about this in a separate update.

Thank you so much to those of you who read about my story! I hope you enjoy it!

:)

p.s. btw I now have a myWriteClub account! You can check it out here and stalk me as I tragically fail my writing goals!

#ffs writing this update was like throwing a boulder into a lake #there was so much I wanted to share #it's really difficult to decide what to share as sometimes a paragraph that I'm really proud of will be really spoilery #I can only imagine this will be more and more difficult as I get further into the story #ANYWAYS #I feel like I'm really beginning to see who my characters are <3 #I feel like a proud mother #To be honest #I kind of hated Jude in the beginning #but now I feel like Ray hates her too so that makes me like her #haha im so mean #tune in next time for a Sapphic spy date

[ffangirlingsince2001]

The Witcher and the Princess: Magma

*not my gif*

Geralt x Reader

Geralt of Rivia is not a babysitter, he is not a bodyguard, and he has no interest in transporting princesses across the continent. Until gold is offered and for the next 90 days he’s saddled with a chirpy, bubbly, princess, who is betrothed to the prince of Narok and has a desire to see everything before she’s trapped behind another set of walls.

Warnings: violence, language, angst, fluff, smutish (not quite there yet ;) )

Over the next couple of days, it seemed that nothing had changed. She still smiled at him. Which was more than he deserved after what had happened in the darkness of their room. He still dreamt about it, and now that he knew what she felt like it made it even more difficult to keep his distance. In an effort to protect them both he had allowed Adam to take her away, to show her the world in which he lived. The nights were still a struggle but when both pretended to be asleep there was no risk.

The morning of their departure was a tearful one for the princess. She wrapped her arms around her silversmith as tightly as she could manage, but to Geralt’s surprise, ducked beneath Adam’s lips before quickly joining Geralt atop Roach. The silence in which they rode was full of tension. Geralt was more focused on ignoring the feeling of her legs wrapped around him than where they were going and so it was no surprise they eventually ended up lost in a thicket of woods.

“Where are we?” she whispered from behind him, sliding off the horse as she spoke. Around them trees rustled while no wind blew. She was inching away from the horse and closer to the underbrush. “Can you hear that?”

“Get back on the horse,” he growled but she paid him no mind.

“It’s coming through here.”

“Y/N, get back on the horse.”

“It sounds like a child.”

“Please, come back,” he begged.

“What if they’re hurt? What if we can help them?”

“Y/N,” he persisted but she continued. From that moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. With a shaking hand she reached through the brush and a long claw wrapped around her waist, yanking her forward. Geralt leapt from his horse, drawing the silver blade and plunging after her. Thorns tried to pull him back, warning him of the danger that awaited him, but the sounds of her screams made everything else painless.

She was crying out for him, and though it was agony listening to her fear, anything was better than silence.

Silence met she was dead.

Ahead of him the brushes still rustled from the monster he was trailing. The trail of trampled underbrush led him to a clearing where his princess had torn herself away and was brandishing a stray stick she had found. As she fended off the head, the tail was creeping around, reading to pierce its prey. He charged forward, sword raised high and the monster roared with indignation. She slammed the branch against its skull with minimum damage, only managing to annoy the beast. It swiped her to the side with a snarl and turned its attention the silver that was glinting in the evening light. It screeched, brandishing its tail. He charged it, slicing every inch of flesh he could reach. The tail caught him in the side and he let out a grunt, his sword flying from his hand.

“No!” he yelled as Y/N darted for it, she froze and the monster caught sight of her. The moment her hand closed around the handle it darted forward and she screamed, swinging wildly. It hissed and screeched, swiping at her with uninjured maw. It was backing her into a corner, preparing to feast on the foolish girl that had dared to challenge it. Geralt pulled himself from the ground and leapt onto the monsters back. It screamed, twisting as it tried to remove the Witcher from its back. Its tail struck the princess, throwing her against a boulder and she slumped to the ground. The talon on its tail pulled him off and tossed him towards the princess. The world spun around him and he was vaguely aware of Y/N struggling to stand. Using the sword as a cane she pulled herself up to her full height and stepped between him and the snarling beast. It roared and she screamed drawing up the sword, swinging it just as the teeth were sure to close around her. Blood spattered across the both of him and the monster collapsed to the ground, only a weak breath remaining. She stepped forward and plunged the hilt into its eye before dropping to the ground.

“Geralt,” she gasped, pulling herself to his side, soft hands resting against him. He tried to rise but fiery agony swept through him. There was no poison in this particular monster, but that didn’t make its claws any less sharp. “You’re injured.” She was panicking now, hands shaking, tears streaming down her face, her breaths short and sharp. She scrambled against his clothes, aiming to free the wound but only managing to make him wince.

“Y/N,” he growled, grabbing her hands if only to still them. She met his eyes and he offered a weak smile. “I need you to stitch the gash. Go find Roach and lead him back here.” She nodded and limped away, stumbling over the thicket. He could hear her screaming for his horse, the shake in her voice evident. He cursed himself, for allowing her to get hurt. She should never have to see something so terrible, and now she had killed something. And it was his fault. He was supposed to protect her, and now she was protecting him, placing herself between things that wished to devour her in effort to protect the man who was supposed to be keeping her safe.

She returned to his side, his pack in her hands, fishing for the needle and string he told her were inside. She helped him pull his shirt from his body and she gasped when the injury came into a view. Blood seeped from the long gash in his torso and he thanked the gods that it wasn’t any deeper. She stared at it, dread washing over her. She glanced over her shoulder at the dead monster and back to him, growing paler with each moment.

“I can’t,” she finally managed to say, and as the words left her shaking lips, a waterfall of tears and denial left her. “I can’t do, I can’t,” she cried, pushing herself away but he caught her by the wrists and pulled her close.

“Y/N, look at me,” he demanded, and she obeyed, “I’ll walk you through it, but I need you to stay calm, okay?” She nodded and he released her. “There’s a skin of ale tied to Roach; you’ll need to clean the wound before you close it up.” Catatonically, she followed his instructions, choking out sobs as he grunted in pain. When the wound was cleaned, she threaded the needle, slick fingers almost losing it amongst the underbrush. She tied a knot and hovered over his skin with timid hands. She straddled his waist, but there was no lust between them as she shook in fear, unable to draw any closer. “Hey, its okay, I’ve handled worse.” She nodded, more to herself than to him, and plunged the tiny needle into his skin. He growled, grabbing her abruptly. She froze, his fingers pressing bruises into her shoulders. “Keep going,” he encouraged her through gritted teeth and she proceeded, clumsy hands pulling flesh back together with flimsy string.

It took longer than it should have. She wouldn’t push it in right and the skin would tear, leaving her with corrections and more pain. When she pulled the last stitch tight, she released a the breath she had been holding throughout and allowed her tears to flow more freely. He sat up against the boulder he had been thrown against and pulled her close, cupping her face in his hands.

“Hey, you did so good,” he whispered, and she shook her head, pushing him away.

“It’s all my fault,” she screamed, pacing around the clearing, running fingers through her hair. He pulled himself up and reached out to take her hand again, but she pulled away. “I had to kill it. I fucking killed it,” she wailed and this time as she passed, he successfully caught her, pulling her close.

“Y/N, it was a monster, it had to be killed. It would have killed us the moment you gave it a chance.”

“It didn’t choose to be a monster.”

“It doesn’t matter, they have to be killed.” She broke into tears once more and he pulled her close.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she muttered into his chest and he brushed his fingers through her hair.

“It’s okay, we got through it, I won’t let anything hurt you. And, hey, if this princess thing doesn’t work out you might make a damn good hunter, that beast had nothing on you.” She snorted and pulled away, wiping her tears.

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe not, but if it calls for it you can definitely take one out,” he said ushering to the corpse that lay beside them. She stared at it, fists clenching as she did so. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m going to go get some food and then we’ll camp out here for the night, get rested and then we can get back on the road tomorrow.” She nodded, still not looking away from the monster. He released her slowly and she crept towards it.

When he returned, a couple rabbits in his hands he found her kneeling beside the creature, whispering prayers over its lifeless body. Leaves circled the head like a funeral crown and it was tucked into itself as if it was only sleeping.

“Some would consider that blasphemous, princess.”

“And some are ignorant,” she retorted without turning from the body. Leaving her to her prayers he built a fire and began to cook the rabbit, his stomach rumbling at even the mere thought of being filled. Eventually she sat across from him, arms wrapped around herself.

“You think I’m being silly.”

“It certainly is uncommon to care about the very thing trying to kill you, but not silly. Refreshing if anything.” She seemed surprised as it his response, and offered him a small smile over the fire. “However, I would like to know where you developed such compassion.”

“One day you will, but not now,” she replied sadly, dropping her gaze. Silence encircled their camp as they ate. He couldn’t figure out why the secrecy, and she had made it very clear she would not tell him, so he could find nothing to talk about. The body of the monster still seemed to catch her eye, a glint of something he could not understand twinkling in her eye.

When the sun had finally set, and only the fire light surrounded them he began to unfold their makeshift beds. He laid down on stiff matt and waited for her to do the same. When he glanced to her hunched figure he found her staring at him deep in thought.

“Y/N,” he whispered and she glided towards him, floating over the uneven ground before throwing a leg over his lap and straddling him. He shot up, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through him, but before he could protest she pressed her lips to his.

There was no ferocity in this kiss, only tenderness. A hand rested on his shoulder and the other against his cheek He wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her closer. She moaned softly against his lips and he was sure he could have melted in that very instant.

Her hands crept into his hair, wrapping themselves in the white tendrils. He pulled away and instantly attached his lips to her neck, moaning against the soft skin when lightly tugged at his roots. She pulled herself closer and he could feel the slopes of her breasts pressing against him. Her thighs tightened against his waist and she moaned into the moonlight. Her hands wandered to her corset and she began to untie it but he withdrew.

“We cannot,” he grunted, his whole self cursing the reminder that she was not his, “You have a husband.”

“And I can assure you he will not mind.”

“It’s not right.”

“This is not about right or wrong, this is about wanting. Do not tell me that you are not filled with wanting because I will know you are lying. I have seen the way you stare, and the way you tense whenever I am seated near you. And let us not forget the way you so lustfully held me beneath my skirt, or the way you did not hesitate to wrap my legs around you as the jealousy began to eat you alive.”

“You are not mine.”

“And yet you wish I was.” He was caught, he had believed it was so well hidden, and yet she had known for as long as he had felt it. It wasn’t solely lust either, she had become more important than just gold, and now as she engulfed him it was taking every bit of strength not to place her beneath him and thrust until she was a mewling mess.

But not here.

Not where death had almost grasped her.

Not where the monster she had unwillingly killed lay beside them.

Not when he had an overwhelming sense that she was trying to heal something deep within her.

And so he pulled her tight against him and laid against the ground. “Just lay with me,” he whispered and she stiffened, almost shocked. “Y/N, I want nothing more than to fuck you, but we’re both covered in blood and exhausted, so just lay with me.” As he spoke, she melted against him and sighed, resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes, resting in his victory.

@mallorydoesstuff​ @facelessfiction​ @aphadriel-fanfic​ @raspberrydreamclouds​ @thegreattodd​ @saint-hardy​ @ravenclawsstolemybunies​ @queenofmankind​ @britty443​ @lonewolf471​ @utterlyhopeful​ @persephonehemingway​

#the witcher #the witcher smut #the witcher angst #the witcher fluff #the witcher fanfic #the witcher x reader #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia fluff #geralt of rivia angst #geralt of rivia smut

[sagasofazeria]

Broken Chains

Song of the Seven Suns, Part 6

Summary: Dawn arrives, and the companions head to battle against remnants of the group called the Mortal Chains, led by a woman named Dymea. A reckoning is had.

Taglist (just ask to be added/removed!): @hellishhin @talesfromaurea @thelaughingstag

content warnings: heavy discussion of slavery, violence and murder, injury, blood and minor gore, death, discussion of death, discussion of trauma/childhood trauma, swearing and strong language

word count: ~3900

Awake before even the sun, the five companions had already set out to confront their enemy, eyes and blades sharp as they crept through the inky night.

The shadows were long and grasping, even as the storm flashed on above. The group moved swiftly and silently through the darkness, all holding their breath for fear it would be their last.

Fuego hated it. He despised the dark, the unseen. He’d never liked the shadows and fog of his home, and he didn’t like this either. He only kept his flames snuffed because the others had insisted it’d give them away. Even though he hated the dark, he knew how to use it to his advantage, and he didn’t want to sabotage his first quest with his new friends.

So, onward they went, pushing forward through the creeping brush and craggy hills, as the slick rocks and leaves flashed with the reflections of lightning above.

Hours passed as they continued forward. Faulkron was leading the group, his faintly glowing elven eyes piercing through the dark.

As the morning wore on, the sun’s light began to begin its crawl across the sky behind the blanket of clouds that still bore down on them. The black of night became the faint notion of blue that lie beyond the curtain, gray clouds filtering what light shone behind them into a dim gloom, rain still falling through the leaves of the trees as the sky shifted.

It was in the faint illumination of the first steps of morning that the five adventurers saw the first signs of their quarry.

Faulkron noticed them first, the ever-so-slight disturbances in the silent stillness of the woods. Moments later, Shakari’s keen senses picked up a faint stench hidden beneath the clean smell of rain. They shared a quick glance, and the group quickly altered course, following the well-hidden trail.

Fuego couldn’t help but smile to hiself. He could tell he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t be any more ready for the coming fight. He saw Shakari’s eyes glinting in same way his mother’s would. Though, Shakari’s eyes were admittedly far larger, and probably scarier. Well, scarier to people who didn’t know his mother.

Shakari looked like a hunter, a proud and vicious one, and Fuego couldn’t be happier to be hunting alongside them.

•••

As Shakari pushed through the brush, clambering over the rocks and small borders that blocked their path, she never lost the scent. They hadn’t told the rest of the group what scent they’d picked up, only that they had one.

On the surface, it was the smell of blood.

Dirt.

Steel.

But beneath that, beneath the layers of rain and storm that hid the scent, beyond even the limits of her smell, something else lurked. Something Shakari could see only by extending their mind to the flows of energy around them, the movement of spirits and magic that pervaded everything, if you looked close enough.

It was there that they could smell pain.

Fear.

Despair.

Cruelty.

A poison sat on the air, one not even the rain could wash away.

And that was what Shakari was hunting. She knew the source of that poison, and on her ancestors she knew she would cure it. Today she was certain the sun would rise on one more step toward redemption.

Tail lashing with purpose, Shakari led the group forward alongside Faulkron, and in time the stench grew and grew. Before long, they found themelves in a small valley thick with trees, a grove of trees hiding them from any nearby eyes. She could smell the poison now, stronger than ever.

“We are getting close,” she whispered, holding up a claw to halt the group.

Fuego’s face pushed out of the leaves above, mouth cocked in an almost sinister grin. “Good.”

“How close, exactly?” asked Faulkron, turning to Shakari and reaching back for his sword.

“Close enough that you might need that, if that’s what you’re asking,” Shakari said, peeking through the still-wet leaves and brush for signs of a camp.

Faulkron gave a nod, pulling the sword from its sheath and steadying his grip, eyes focusing as he began to search as well.

“I don’t see anything, too many trees,” he whispered. “Fuego, can you get up any higher?”

“Naturally.”

With that, Fuego ran off into the trees, light halfling feet carrying him into the foliage without a trace.

The four of them waited for a while, and Shakari could see Alejandro and Jetra beginning to get nervous. Jetra was tapping a haphazard rhythm on a nearby stone, and Alejandro was twisting his hand around the hilt of one of his blades, palms sweaty as he went.

“What is taking him so long?” Alejandro finally snapped, voice at a tense whisper. “He should be here by now. What if he’s been injured, or taken, or—“

“Aww! Alejandro, you were worried about me?” Fuego’s voice suddenly called from the shadows as he walked out of the bushes, knocking a bit of ash off of his hands and beaming.

In a second, Alejandro had his blade halfway drawn. When he saw Fuego, he let it go with a sigh. “Fuego, you need to stop startling me.”

“You’re ignoring the question.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

Alejandro sighed. “Yes, I was worried for you. Now tell us what you saw.”

Fuego nodded and shrugged. “I’ll accept it for now. Anyway, I saw the camp. Pretty well defended, actually. I had to take out one scout on the way, but they never saw it coming, so we’re all clear. I can get us there.”

Alejandro held up a hand as they all began to move. “Wait, wait. What even is our plan here? We’ve got a location, what do we do from there?”

“Don’t worry, I think I’ve got something,” Fuego said, looking around for a second before snapping a branch off of a nearby tree with a mumbled apology.

He gestured for them all to kneel around him, and began to draw in the mud. “All right, here’s the plan...”

•••

It was working so far. Jetra hadn’t expected this from Fuego, but a fortress made of wood was kind of a pyro’s playground.

Not to mention, she wasn’t sure she could have come up with a decent plan at the moment. As much as she tried to look like she was sensible and collected, she had to admit she was completely making stuff up in the moment half the time. And that wasn’t when she was crouching behind a rock, staring at the place where her father’s killer was actively kidnapping people and selling them into slavery.

She tightened her grip on her sword, and clutched the amulet around her neck. The symbol of the blue moon was cold in her hand, but it held a comfort she appreciated well. Just a symbol, she knew, but it gave her hope, and gods knew she needed a bit of hope right now.

I can’t fuck this up, she thought to herself, visions of her father’s body being lowered into the ground filling her mind. I can’t.

She looked into the camp again, peeking around the boulder. Even through the soft rain and dim light he could see the faint silhouettes of cages, and she was filled with rage.

Then I won’t.

And that’s when the smell of smoke filled the air.

Jetra watched the pile of brush, scouts’ corpses, and wet leaves they’d carefully gathered against the camp’s edge outer wall go up in bright amber flame, black smoke curling upwards to mingle with the clouds despite the rain. Jetra muttered a brief thanks to the gods that magical fire burned far better than the average flame before leaping over the boulder and charging forward, sword held aloft. Across from her Faulkron and Alejandro did the same.

The smoke and the pile of tinder behind her blew forward into the camp with a sudden gust as the Shakari’s roar sounded through the camp, the groggy slavers caught off guard by the sudden onslaught and confusion in the smoke and flame, the buildings beginning to glow with fire in seconds. Jetra tightened the scarf around her nose and mouth, gritting her teeth as the sudden gust blew her hair forward.

The first group of bandits never even saw them coming. Through the smoke and haze, Faulkron moved like a shade, hacking one of them down with ease.

The next slaver barely had time to draw a weapon before taking Alejandro’s blades through his throat and chest.

Jetra charged forward still, kicking the embers of their campfire forward and setting another slaver alight. She cursed in alarm, throwing off her burning cloak and drawing a sword.

Shouts and cries went up around the camp, as more slavers were woken from their sleep to try fight off the attackers and the fire.

Smoke still covered the camp, and there was coughing among the unprepared bandits as they began to draw their weapons.

The badnit Jetra had tried to burn lunged forward with her sword, slicing across her right arm.

Jetra hissed, feeling warmth trickling down her arm and beginning to soak her clothes.

“You’re not who I’m here for, asshole,” she growled, swinging her own sword forward into the slaver’s side, cutting through the leather and sinking the blade into flesh.

The woman only grunted and raised her sword in response, but was cut off by a hissing as a familiar red-hot scimitar pushed out through her chest and she collapsed into the mud with a gurgle.

Jetra nodded to Fuego in thanks, and kept running further forward, trudging uphill as fast as she could. Chaos surrounded her, and she could see the wooden fortifications and buildings catching fire rapidly. There were shouts all around as the slavers began to rally.

As she ran, she saw Alejandro facing a group of slavers with a snarl on his face, all of them standing in front of cages of terrified people. His rain-soaked blades flashed in the firelight, and he charged them, Faulkron right beside him.

Fuego was dancing through the smoke, laughing as he went, burning blade held aloft and cutting through yet another confused enemy.

Shakari’s mouth was glowing with power, and a whole group of slavers and buildings was blasted apart as she roared again.

And Jetra ran forward, her mind was on one thing, and one thing only.

Just before she crested the hill, where the center of the fortress was, a group of slavers leaped from the haze, blades slashing.

Jetra cried out as her leg was slashed open and a dagger was sunk into her shoulder before she brought her sword up to block the remaining swings.

Pain pulsing through her, and she screamed, her voice booming outward as the vibrations shook the ground, sending the slavers in front of her careening backwards, most of them unmoving.

She kept running.

•••

Faulkron’s blade clanged against the slaver’s, but he pushed forward with all his might, sending them stumbling back. As they stumbled, he swung in an arc and separating their helmed head from their shoulders.

He saw Jetra run forward and disappear into the smoke, but had no time to react before he felt a knife across his back, turning to the next bandit.

He swung once, but the rain was still coming down, and even his eyes found it hard to see. His blade crashed off of theirs, and he felt another slash across his side.

Most of the camp was on fire, and it seemed every slaver had rushed out of their tents to fight them.

That much more of a challenge, he thought, and grinned.

The bandit in front of him faltered a moment, coughing in the smoke, and Faulkron took the chance to thrust his sword forward into their gut, throwing them to the side with a heave.

That was when he heard Alejandro scream. Faulkron whipped his head around, and as the smoke briefly parted he saw him.

Torso shiny with crimson blood from numerous slashes and cuts, at least 4 slavers lay dead around him, but a larger warrior had shoved their spear through his shoulder, and he’d dropped one of his blades into the mud.

Faulkron didn’t know what overtook him, but he charged across the burning battlefield, rain pelting his armor, shoulder lowered. He rammed his shoulder square into the slaver’s chest, sending them both tumbling to the ground. He quickly got to his feet in the mud, but was cracked across the face by the spiked butt of the spear, and he felt hot blood dripping down his cheek and chin.

He quickly wiped it away, swinging heavily with his blade, trying to protect Alejandro. The blow glanced off of the slaver’s armor, and they stabbed the spear towards Faulkron.

He managed to block the blow with his blade, and cut once across the slaver’s gut, tearing through the leather armor. Just as the bandit could attack again, however, Alejandro quickly came up from behind, one arm bloody as he sank his blades between the slaver’s ribs, and the large man gurgled in pain, blood trickling down his chin.

Faulkron took his chance, shoving his own blade through the man’s chest as Alejandro stepped away.

As the man fell over, so did Alejandro, collapsing to one knee. Faulkron kneeled next to him, clasping his good arm in hand.

“Come on Alejandro, get back up, fight’s not done yet.”

Alejandro grimaced and took a deep breath, and clasped his arm as well.

“Of course. Somebody needs to protect you,” he grunted, a grim smile on his face.

Faulkron stood again, lifting Alejandro up.

The fires were dying down as the rain kept falling, but the haze was still heavy in the air, although most of the bandits had been slain.

Fuego ran up to them, sporting a large slash of his own across his chest and breathing heavy.

“Hurry, we have to find Dymea, she can’t be let escape,” Alejandro said with a cough.

“This way!” Shakari called from father up the hill, through the smoldering buildings.

As they ran uphill, they heard another scream, Jetra this time.

But it wasn’t one of pain.

•••

“DYMEA! Where are you, you cowardly piece of shit? Come fucking fight me!” Jetra screamed, channeling all her rage and pain into her words, cursing the name she spoke, hoping Dymea was near enough that the magic would take hold.

The smoke was billowing all around, and her knuckles were white as she gripped her sword, waiting for the knife from the shadows.

All she heard in response was a sick laugh, a laugh full of poison and malice.

“And who are you supposed to be, exactly?”

She turned to see an armored and hooded figure emerge from the clearing smoke, grinning with a cold and calculated hate, the dim firelight and predawn sky leaving most of her face shrouded in shadow.

“I’m the daughter of Marakos, and you fucking killed him. Stabbed him in the back. He never had a chance... I’ve come to return the favor, or die trying,” Jetra growled, turning to face her.

Dymea laughed again. “Of course you are. I see you’ve also decided to burn down my slave operation, which will be a problem for me after I defeat you. It’s very annoying, but makes you that much more interesting. I wonder, did the vengeful daughter also join father’s secret society for the idiotically righteous?” Dymea said, looking over Jetra with a smirk. “Oh, but of course she did...” she trailed off, smiling and casually twirling a dagger as she slowly stalked around her.

Jetra furrowed her brow. She hadn’t expected a conversation, and her mind was already clouded with anger. She felt herself faltering, mind paralyzed as she found herself off guard. She shook her head and took in a breath, clearing her head. “Enough! What are you even getting at? Fight me already!”

“Oh, I would, but it’s much more gratifying to do this first. So I can tap into your fears, know what goes on in your mind. After all, I’m going to need to know how to control you. What’s more... you don’t want to tell a boring story, do you, bard?”

Jetra froze mid-retort. How did she know? Had she overestimated herself? I won’t, I won’t, I won’t fail, I won’t fail, her own words echoed through her mind, but now they sounded more like doubts than promises. “What are you talking about? How do you know-”

“Please, I already knew you, long before you showed up here. I remember killing your father. It was a big achievement for me, really. Another reckless idiot with a sword and a bunch of lies to fuel his morals dies by my hand. You’re just the same, clear as day. But you? I’m not going to give you ‘die trying’. No... you’ll be my final trophy from killing your father.”

Jetra’s eye’s widened and she growled. “That’s not gonna happen. No game you try to play will save you. You will die today,” she snarled, weaving years of hatred into her words as she spit magic at the woman before her.

She watched as Dymea hissed and grabbed her head, a slight trickle of blood coming from her ears. 

Jetra grinned. “Don’t like that?”

“Oh, so she’s tricky,” Dymea muttered, wiping blood from her face. “Don’t worry, I have some tricks of my own.”

She flicked her wrist forward, and a long dagger sailed toward Jetra with almost inhuman speed. She raised her blade on instinct, knocking it away, only to have a second dagger sink into her thigh. She cried out in pain, and when she looked back up, Dymea was gone.

She called out to the shadows and smoke through gritted teeth. “Fucking cowardly—”

She was cut off when another dagger flew from the smoke, sprouting from her gut with a sickening thud as she cursed.

She tried to set her feet again, looking for any sign of the woman, but she couldn’t see her. Her wounds were burning with pain, and she stumbled again, grimacing.

She took a shaky breath and grabbed her necklace, closing her eyes and looking up to the rainy sky, tears and rain mingling on her face.

“I... I refuse to fail,” she whispered, letting the hope she found in the symbol grow and blossom in her chest.

As her magic faded, she felt her confidence and strength returned.

She opened her eyes saw her companions sprinting up the hill toward her just as Dymea lunged again from the smoke, knives extended towards her.

Before she reached her, however, there was a flash of blue, and Shakari leaped in front of Jetra, one extended hand sending lightning coursing forward into Dymea.

Dymea stumbled to a stop, gritting her teeth as the electricity coursed across her body from Shakari’s outstretched claws before drawing back to them, jumping across their scales as they bared their teeth.

Then, stepping out of a door of embers and smoke, Fuego appeared behind her in a blast of magic. He leaped onto her back, sword piercing her shoulder as she growled and stumbled forward.

“Funny how the tables turn, huh?” Jetra laughed, standing upright again.

Dymea snarled, grabbing Fuego by the neck and throwing him forward into the mud with a wet thud, his sword flinging off into the smoke.

Fuego coughed and tried to roll away, wind knocked from his lungs, but Dymea grabbed his hair and yanked him upward. She smiled at Jetra, dagger flashing in the fading firelight before she stabbed him in the back with a growl, and he coughed blood.

“You’re right. It is funny,” Dymea snarled, before kicking the dagger, sending Fuego sprawling into the mud as he screamed.

Jetra felt her heart sink, and her breath caught. She gripped the sword tighter as they converged on Dymea. Jetra was not going to let her kill Fuego, or any of the others, not when they were so close.

Dymea drew a shortsword and started to step back, but she was quickly interrupted by Faulkron, who knocked the blade aside before bringing the end of his sword across her face with a yell, drawing a line of blood across her cheek even as she leaped away.

Alejandro, adrenaline fueling him through the pain in his arm, pushed forward and stabbed her once through the shoulder as she tried to dodge away, then slammed his knee into her back as she stumbled forward, cursing. She tried to recover, only to be slammed backwards by a boom of thunder, as Shakari split the air with a bolt of lightning.

“And you call me a coward. How many people did you con into helping you kill me, exactly?” Dymea chuckled, spitting out blood.

She stood again, brandishing her last two knives. She looked around at them all, but they had her surrounded. She looked at them all in the eyes, then laughed. “Don’t you know? I don’t fear death. None of us do. Our chains—“

She was interrupted again as Faulkron lunged forward in a sudden explosion of movement. She lashed out, sinking one blade into his arm before Faulkron stabbed his own blade into the earth in front of her, one hand holding it steady.

She looked at him in confusion for a moment, and he only stared back. Then, he grabbed her by the back of the head with one hand and slammed her face into the metal hilt of his blade. Faulkron grabbed Dymea around the throat while she was stunned, crushing inward as she struggled to breathe, unable to escape his grip no matter how much she struggled and tried to move away. Alejandro ran up next to him, grabbing her arms to further restrain her, even as he growled in pain from his wound.

Fuego was still lying in the mud, struggling to push himself up and coughing blood.

“Keep her there!” Jetra yelled, before running over to him, hefting him up from the ground and placing one hand on his chest.

“Get up, damn it. Your story isn’t over yet,” she grunted, letting the healing magic flow into him and close his wounds. She watched as the dagger was forcibly pushed out of his back in a flash of light.

“Thanks... let’s kill this lady?” he panted as he stood and steadied himself on her hip.

Jetra turned back to Dymea with a glare. “With pleasure.”

Jetra strode up to the still-struggling slaver, grip tight on her sword.

“You wanna know why they’re here? They’re all here because you’re a sick fuck who sells people into slavery, and you’ve got a trip to the Nine Hells we don’t want you to miss,” Jetra growled, filling her words with malice again and grinning as Dymea hissed and struggled, more blood leaking from her ears.

She tried to respond, but Shakari clenched her fist, and the lightning coursing around her flashed, spearing into Dymea and causing her to convulse again and fall to her knees, still held by Alejandro and Faulkron.

Fuego held up a roiling flame in one hand, but Jetra put out her arm.

“Don’t. I want to do this.”

She stepped forward and put her sword beneath Dymea’s chin, staring her dead in the eyes. “This is for my father, and all of the people you’ve made suffer.”

Dymea’s final act was to choke out a smile.

“Good. It means I won.”

At that, Jetra shoved the blade upward.

Part 5 | Part 7

#Song of the Seven Suns #post 6 #cw slavery mention #cw trauma mention #cw death mention #cw death #cw murder #cw violence #cw injury #cw blood #cw gore #cw swearing #my wip #wip update #D&D story #villain #battle #revenge #Faulkron Rhodes #Fuego Tamir #Jetra Avaki #Alejandro de la Espada #Shakari #Dymea of Ilkata #had to split this chapter into two because it was getting long #so that’s why it ends here! good news is that means part 7 will be here even faster ;)

[writeyouin]

How will the rescue bots react when they find out their s/o has a symbiote? (And maybe the rescue bots academy too? Please if not it’s ok)

Rescue Bots / Academy X Reader Drabbles - Symbiote

A/N – This isn’t in my usual format, but there are so many rescue bots that it felt easier to write it this way, so if you would like full stories anon, then please just tell me and I’ll fix this.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

Heatwave

Heatwave was speechless. He always thought you were keeping something from him, but he never imagined it would be anything as insane as this. How could you keep a Symbiote from him? More importantly, if he hadn’t walked in on you and that THING talking to one another, how long would you have kept it from him? Forever?

For the past three weeks, he has avoided seeing you, yelling at you the few times you’ve tried to call. He pretends to be mad at you, but mostly he is furious at himself. How hadn’t he noticed something as big as this? There were days when you were the sweetest person in the world, and there were days that you were completely distant from him; now he knows the distant part of you was actually the Symbiote, telling you Heatwave wasn’t worth your time.

One day, amidst a fire which is too much for the bots to handle alone, Heatwave sees you running inside the burning building, the Symbiote providing an organic armour so the smoke inhalation doesn’t affect you. You stay well away from the flames, instead using your Symbiote strength to lift debris off the victims, carrying them out two at a time.

After a week of thinking about the applications of the Symbiote in rescue work, Heatwave visits you and sheepishly apologises for his behaviour. If you have a Symbiote, then he will respect that; he still doesn’t love the idea, but he doesn’t say that.

At his admission of respect, the Symbiote no longer tries to turn you against Heatwave; in fact, the Symbiote even admits that it respects Heatwave’s strength and bravery in the field.

Chase

From the second you tell him about it, Chase does not like the Symbiote one bit. He has tried to argue his point logically to you in a sophisticated five-hour power point presentation and is willing to go as far as structured debate when you still disagree with him.

All you keep telling him is that the Symbiote is a part of you, but Chase is adamant that it doesn’t have to be; if only you could see that you could have a different, safer life wherein a parasite isn’t feeding off you.

It’s only when you argue that all sentient life has value and therefore must be protected that Chase starts to listen. He could never deny the statement, so it only perplexes him further when you point out that without you, the Symbiote will die. Chase loves you, and so he will make peace with the creature inside you, if it makes you happy. However, just because he maintains a peaceful relationship with the creature doesn’t mean he won’t watch your every move to make sure it isn’t going to hurt you. Chase is a protector; it will take a long time for him to trust the Symbiote fully.

Blades

Blades saw something like this once in one of those Earth movies, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He makes a big deal of telling you this, and constantly asking if the Symbiote is going to rip through your chest and kill everybody on Griffin Rock, just like that other movie.

“(Y/N), you’ve gotta make it leave,” He tries to warn you. “First, it makes you think it’s your friend then it eats your brain or turns you into a zombie.”

The Symbiote hears this and covers the entirety of your body, making you bigger, faster and stronger. “Say that to my face!” The Symbiote hisses at Blades.

Blades throws up his arms and runs away screaming, afraid the Symbiote is going to kill him.

Once you are in charge again and the Symbiote is only a tiny blob on your shoulder, you sigh. “Why did you have to do that? Now I have to spend the afternoon calming him down. He was already spooked enough about you.”

Your Symbiote simply laughs darkly, “Ah, but who could resist? He is so adorable when he is running away. I see the appeal in a relationship with this one.”

Boulder

When you sit Boulder down and tell him of your Symbiote, you expect him to be upset that you kept the secret from him, or perhaps to be angry, or even a little concerned. Instead, he immediately asks to meet the Symbiote, if that’s okay with the two of you.

Silently, the Symbiote appears on your shoulder, staring at Boulder with a curious gaze and only transmitting its thoughts to you. It becomes clear that Boulder’s curiosity has got the better of him when he asks if the two of you will undergo some voluntary tests in the name of science.

Your Symbiote discusses the idea privately with you, agreeing to do so, but only if you set some ground-rules about what is and isn’t allowed. You begin mediating between the two, until they are finally on talking terms to discuss the matter themselves.

Honestly, Boulder isn’t sure what to think of your Symbiote, but he will decide based on the conclusion of the upcoming tests.

Hoist

When Hoist finds out about the Symbiote, he pretends to accept it to hide his anxiety. He is too scared to ask you if this is normal for humans, so instead he goes to the one person who might know about these things; Professor Boulder.

Boulder tells him what little he knows about Symbiotes, and after that he suggests that Hoist should be open with you and the Symbiote about his feelings. After hearing the good advice, Hoist takes you to the Engineering room for a little privacy and he asks if you and the Symbiote would be okay answering a few of his questions. By the end, he feels like this experience has made your relationship stronger and he is thankful for that and eager to welcome the Symbiote with open arms.

Medix

Medix found out about the Symbiote when he was giving you a health check and the results were unusual. After confronting you about it, your Symbiote revealed itself, explaining to the young doctor what was going on.

Immediately, Medix is fascinated, and he is asking you every question he can think of. When it’s revealed that the Symbiote can regenerate your cellular structure, he is absolutely ecstatic.

Immediately, he starts running tests, not even waiting for permission before he’s taken a scan of the two of you. He cannot wait to see if this can advance organic medical procedures.

He’s so occupied, you sarcastically comment that you should leave the Symbiote with him.

You roll your eyes when he replies, “That would be great, thank you.”

Your Symbiote rests on your shoulder, whispering, “Should we tell him I can’t leave you.”

You whisper back, “Hang on, see how long it takes him to notice that I’m still here.”

The two of you will be waiting a long time while Medix draws up some charts.

Wedge

Wedge finds out about your Symbiote when you get trapped in a collapsed building. He thought you’d died, but as he started digging you out, he hears somebody calling his name. It’s a creature like nothing he’s ever seen. Once the Symbiote returns to the inside of your body and it’s just you Wedge can see, he starts to calm down, putting the pieces of the puzzle together that the Symbiote had protected you.

As someone who wants to be leader of a future team, Wedge is trying to be logical about this, but he can’t help being a little insecure about it.

What if you think you can handle a situation when you can’t? Just because you’re stronger and more resilient than the average organic doesn’t mean he wants you putting yourself in danger. He makes you and the Symbiote promise you won’t do anything dangerous, just because you can, and it’s only when the two of you agree that he calms down about the entire thing.

Hotshot

Hotshot came to check on you one night after a horror film. He is prepared to tell you that he’s coming to check on you but really, he just wants to cuddle because he’s terrified. His fears are only increased when he finds you talking to a slimy thing coming from your neck.

Before you know what’s going on, he’s ran in screaming and is hosing you down. It’s only when Heatwave comes in and holds him back that you get your chance to explain what a Symbiote is and how you came to have one.

After that, Hotshot makes you show him everything the Symbiote can do in the simulator room. Instantly, he becomes indignant about that- that THING.

How are you going to pay attention to all the cool things he can do, when you can do things just as cool with the help of your Symbiote? It’s not fair. He wanted to be the hero of the relationship, not you. How can there possibly be enough attention for both him and your Symbiote?

You finally reassure him when you say there’ll be twice as much love for him, but he’s still not sure he likes it.

Whirl

Whirl was practicing her stealth skills and followed you all the way from the training grounds to your room in the Academy. There, she saw you talking to your Symbiote. After watching for a few minutes to establish that the creature was non-hostile, Whirl ran in excitedly.

She loves you already and since you’re so great then you’re Symbiote will be JUST AS GREAT. There will be so much more to talk about. How long did it take the Symbiote to learn about Earth? IT LEARNT FROM YOUR MEMORIES? NO KIDDING, THAT’S GREAT. The three of you have to go on a triple date RIGHT NOW.

Whirl cannot wait to take a trip down memory lane and hear all about how the two of you met.

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#heatwave #transformers #rescue bots #rescue bots academy #transformers rb #maccadam #heatwave x reader #boulder x reader #chase x reader #blades x reader #boulder #chase #blades #Anonymous #whirl #whirl x reader #hotshot #hotshot x reader #medix #medix x reader #wedge #wedge x reader #hoist #hoist x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #reader #reader insert #symbiote

[queen-scribbles]

The Thing About Darktown

Just gonna post my Secret Santa fic for @jarinodragonage over here, too, now that she’s seen it. ;D

 ---

“Stop rubbing, you’ll make it worse!”

“It itches!”

“Better that than festering and falling off- Hawke!” Aveline growled in exasperation as the younger woman flinched away, half-done bandages fluttering. “You know, this wouldn’t even be an issue if you’d brought Anders.”

Leigh snorted wryly, rubbing the injury in question with a fervor that hastened the unraveling of the bandages. “There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear you say.”

“Why not?” Aveline narrowed her eyes and moved after her, cornering Leigh against a boulder and getting a better grip on her arm to redo the patching up that was all but undone now. “Most people would consider it wise to bring a healer if you have one at your disposal. Especially given you usually include him on your... adventures.”

Leigh grinned, hearing the ‘mis’ Aveline clearly wanted to slap in front of the last word. “You’re not enjoying girls’ night out?” she said drolly, waving to where Isabela and Merrill were examining what remained of their foes. “I’m just happy the bad guys are dead and we aren’t.” She grimaced as Aveline pulled the bandages just a little tighter. “Aveline! Are you trying to fix my arm or amputate it?!”

“The former,” Aveline said sternly. “But if the bandages slide, you may wind up needing the latter. There.” She tied off the bandages, tucked the trailing ends under so it wouldn’t snag, and let go of Leigh’s arm. “That should hold you until you can get it seen to, at least.”

“My hero,” Leigh said with a cheeky wink and darted over to help Isabela rifle the corpses for anything good.

“Not leaking any more?” Isabela asked playfully, shifting so Leigh could crouch next to her.

Leigh snorted. “Not for now, at least.” She tested her range of motion and wiggled her fingers. “Kinda stiff, throbs a little, but I can make it back to Kirkwall without drawing down wolves on us in addition to... whatever these gentlemen were supposed to be.” She rolled the body at her feet on its stomach with her good hand and started checking the pouches around the back of the belt. Nothing more valuable than a small collection of pretty pebbles.

“Good to hear,” Isabela laughed. “I’d rather not have anything to do with wolves if we can help it.”

“Oh, but they’re so pretty t’ watch when they hunt,” Merrill piped up, then wrinkled her nose as she processed the context of the remark. “Though they’d be huntin’ us, I suppose, wouldn’t they? Best to avoid that.”

“My thoughts exactly, kitten,” Isabela said with a wink. It only took a few more minutes of searching for her and Leigh to be satisfied they’d found everything of any value. There wasn’t much; this lot were clearly poor and desperate. (Of course, they’d have to be, to attack such a clearly dangerous group as the four of them.) Pretty baubles, a few coppers, and some rusty weapons were the extent of “treasure” they carried. If the poor bastards hadn’t attacked them first, Leigh would have felt bad about killing them. Under the circumstances, however, sympathy was a little hard to come by. She rubbed at the bandages again and pretended she didn’t hear Aveline sigh.

---

To Leigh’s vast relief, they were not hassled by wolves or anything else on their way back to Kirkwall, despite the setting sun and lengthening shadows. Her arm was starting to really ache, and she wasn’t sure how much help she’d be in a fight. Still, she waved off the others’ concern when they reached the city, insisted they go their own ways. “I think I can make it to Anders’ clinic by myself,” she said glibly when Aveline offered to come with her. She turned a grin toward Isabela and Merrill. “Save me a seat when you get to the Hanged Man? I’ll be over when I’m done.”

“You got it, sweet thing,” Isabela laughed, then looped her arm through Merrill’s as they headed for the tavern.

Aveline hesitated a moment longer; until Leigh made a shooing motion toward the Viscount’s Keep. “Go on, Avs, I know walking Darktown is more exciting than all the paperwork sitting on your desk, but I’ll be okay. Promise.”

Aveline shook her head and huffed (yet) another sigh. “Just... be careful, Hawke.”

“The very model of,” Leigh promised with a glib wave. “See you around, guard captain.”

Sh waited until she was well out of sight from all of them before rubbing hard at the bandages again, directly over the stinging gash across her bicep. It itched, worse than well, pretty much anything she could remember.

“Good thing it’s not too far to the clinic,” she muttered, balling her hand into a fist as the wound started to throb more pointedly, keeping time with her heartbeat.  “Sooner I take care of this, the better.”

Leigh knew the safest route through Darktown to Anders’ clinic. She also knew the fastest route through Darktown to Anders’ clinic. This injury was enough of an annoyance that today she went for speed over safety. She could handle herself, after all, and was very clearly armed. She doubted anyone would fuck with her in the first place, and she’d deal with them if they did.

Still, she kept her eyes open and on her surroundings as she walked, tried not to let her thoughts wander.

It’s a good thing those were just common bandits, still wormed its way through her brain. Skilled as they all were, she was less accustomed to fighting alongside Aveline, Isabela, and Merrill. They’d lacked the synergy she had gotten used to. There were times it was as if she and Fenris read each others’ minds in a fight, they knew Varric’s rhythm and could avoid being skewered by the bolts meant for their enemies, and Aveline had been correct--it was very useful having a healer along.

She missed a step and almost tumbled. Right. No wandering thoughts, Leigh reprimanded herself as she caught her balance. She’d drawn some attention from a knot of hard-faced individuals with her near-fall, but fortunately her cloak hung over the evidence she was wounded. Still, no reason to linger.

Leigh curled her hand around the hilt of a dagger when one of the loungers kept staring her direction a little too long, but the sense of eyes on her faded when she rounded the next corner, so she relaxed her grip. She kept her pace brisk, and the wariness had faded somewhat by the time she passed the [waste] chute that marked halfway. While she didn’t rub the still-itching wound again, she did press her hand over it and bite her lip. The pressure felt good. She’d have to mention that to Anders, see if it meant anything bad he should know about before healing her up.

It was after the next corner everything went to shit. She rounded it too tightly, and her injured arm rammed against the edge precisely where the two walls met. Leigh let out an instinctual yelp at the burst of pain that flared through her arm and set stars dancing behind her eyes. She gritted her teeth to clamp down on it, but the damage was done.

“Need a hand, lovely?” The speaker, a rangy elf with a shaved head and facial tattoos, leaned against the wall and flashed an indolent grin.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Leigh shot back with a decent tinge of snark. “Just tad clumsy.”

“Sure? Darktown’s no place to be wanderin’ alone.” The contrast of the deep red tattoos curving up his cheekbones made the glint in his eyes seem all the more dangerous. And as he spoke, two other figures--another elven man and a human woman--sidled up with a faux-casual air that had goosebumps prickling Leigh’s arms.

“That’s why I’m trying to get it over with, Red-- Can I call you Red?” she said with a cheeriness she didn’t really feel, sizing them up as she spoke. Red had picked his spot well; even leaning against the wall he was close enough to grab her unless she was very fast. The other elf would be in the way if she went for her original path, and the woman now stood just enough to the side she could back up either of her friends handily.

“Oh, a funny one,” Red chuckled, not deigning to comment on her assigning him a nickname. “Y’know, it might go faster--definitely safer--if you hand Cob there” --a nod toward his fellow elf--”all your coin.”

“It might, huh?” Her arm twinged, and Leigh shifted the odds a few points in their favor. Good thing I tend to beat the odds... “If I had any on me, I’d be sure to share it with such a beleaguered innocent as... Cob.” She arched her brows toward the elf. His scraggly blond hair and jaundiced complexion actually did bear passing resemblance to a corncob. “Sadly, I think I left my coinpurse in my other cloak.”

“Bullshit,” the woman snarled, hand drifting to the short-bladed sword. “Who the fuck travels without any money?”

“Me, the fuck,” Leigh returned brightly, shifting just a little. If she got very lucky and timed it just right, she could probably slip away. “But if you don’t believe me, you can look for yourself.”

Her good hand yanked the clasp of her cloak and pulled it free to toss toward Red and the woman as Leigh lunged low and outside past Cob.

He snagged her elbow and tried to hold her back, but she tore free, stumbled a few steps before catching her balance.

Just in time to trip over the booted foot that appeared in front of her ankles. Leigh cursed under her breath and lurched semi-sideways as she was forced to balance again. Her instincts proved good; a pitted blade swung uncomfortably close to her shoulder. She freed one of her daggers with her good hand and spun to parry the next blow. She was just barely fast enough to redirect it into the moldering wall. Her other fist was already swinging after it, and she connected with the female thug’s cheekbone and sent her reeling into Cob. Pain flared in Leigh’s knuckles and up her arm, but at least she’d gained some breathing room--

The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled. She jerked sideways and there was a frustrated growl as Red’s swing went wide.

“Amber, Cob, get it together and help me gut this bitch!” he barked as he lunged forward in another swipe at Leigh’s midriff. Apparently he’d meant it literally.

The two of them grumbled as they recovered, glaring at her and circling to pen her in.

Leigh fought back a grimace and ran through her options. What few she had.

She feinted left, then went straight, ramming a shoulder into Cob’s chest and her dagger cutting a shallow scarlet line across Amber’s arm. They pivoted after her quickly, but at least she wasn’t pinned against a wall any more.

Red lunged forward, and even as she parried his dagger, he punched the bandaged portion of her arm. Hard.

Leigh spat a curse and slammed her elbow into his jaw. Her dagger slashed across his cheek as she followed through, and she kicked the inside of his knee for good measure.

Three on one meant no respite, however, and even as she spun away from Red, Amber closed in. Leigh ducked under the blow aimed at her head, but wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid the other woman’s buckler. The edge of the small shield caught her in the jaw with a crack.

Leigh ran her tongue over the new cut, tasted copper, and lunged. For Red, not Amber.

None of them were expecting that, and Red’s reflexes were just a little too slow as a result. He didn’t get his blades up in time to parry and Leigh’s dagger sank in the hollow of his collarbone. 

He gave an airless gasp, then a wet cough, and dropped.

Crimson flew in an arc from Leigh’s dagger as it came free and she spun to face the other two. Amber and Cob charged her from opposite directions and she backpedaled, angling to the right and pivoting she she could gouge the back of Cob’s thigh as he passed her.

She didn’t cut deep enough to hit anything vital, but he still toppled with a curse. He lashed out and the pommel of his dagger slammed into the side of her knee.

Combined with Leigh’s momentum, it took her down and sent her rolling into the wall. She banged her head hard enough to see stars, and when they cleared, Amber was standing over her, grip tight on her sword and a sneer curling her lips

She raised the blade even as Leigh scrambled mentally for an out. “You could’ve avoided this if you’d just done as you were tol-”

The gloating words cut off, her shoulders jerking forward as the front six inches of a greatsword emerged from her chest.

“She’s never been good at that,” Fenris said dryly as he pulled his sword free, gaze shifting from the slain thug to Leigh, concern and amusement mingled in his eyes. “despite ample evidence it is not always a bad thing.”

“What can I say, I’m a rebel,” Leigh returned glibly, pushing herself up to a sitting position and leaning her head back against the wall. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, Fenris, but where the fuck did you come from?”

He chuckled and let his sword hang loosely in one hand as he offered her the other. “The Hanged Man. I was meeting Donnic for drinks, but Isabela mentioned you’d been injured-”

“And you wanted to check on me?” Leigh teased, grinning playfully as she took his hand. “I’m touched.”

Fenris snorted and hauled her up, so fast it almost felt like flying. “I figured you would head for the clinic,” he corrected. He maintained a steadying grip on her forearm when she wobbled. “I wanted to ensure your safe arrival, knowing what Darktown is like.” He punctuated the words with a glare at Cob. 

“My hero,” Leigh said, with a little more sincerity than when she’d tossed the same words at Aveline. “Normally I’d protest I’m a big girl and can handle myself, but today I think I’ll go with ‘thanks for the rescue’.”

Fenris nodded, then tipped his head toward Cob, who now sat glaring up at them with a hand pressed to the back of his thigh. “And what of him?”

Leigh shrugged, not liking the soreness already settling in her muscles. I really need to see Anders. “Eh, just leave him be.”

“What?!” Cob barked. “You kill my friends, cripple me, and you’re just going to leave?!”

“Hey, you lot attacked me, asshole,” Leigh fired back, grasping Fenris’ arm to hold him back when his markings flickered and he tensed. “After I tried to avoid a fight. You’re lucky I’m not askin’ him to finish you off. My cloak’s somewhere around here; you can have that to patch yourself up. But I need to be on my way. After all, it’s not safe to linger in Darktown.”

She went to make a dramatic exit, and her knee almost gave out. Fenris caught her, pulled her back upright, and only paused to sheath his sword before draping her arm around his shoulders for support.

“Thanks,” Leigh whispered, limping heavily as they walked away.

“You are most welcome,” Fenris replied, in that soft, low murmur that sent warmth curling all the way to her toes. “Let’s get you to Anders.”

---

The rest of the walk was uneventful, which Leigh credited to the protective air radiating from Fenris. Anders was, thankfully, not busy when they arrived and immediately turned his attention to fussing over her. He and Fenris exchanged the occasional sniping remark, as the latter insisted on ‘hovering’ nearby, no doubt concerned about the fresh blood seeping through Leigh’s bandages.

The battering from her alley scuffle was easily healed--and she did mention Cob to Anders, just in case he’d feel inclined to help the man. But Anders frowned when he unwrapped the bandages around her arm. “Hawke, this is from today?”

“Just a couple hours ago,” Leigh nodded. “We were already on our way back to the city, and I headed here soon as we made it. Why-” She turned to look and grimaced at the angry red edges to the wound. “Oh.”

“It’s good you came straight here,” Anders said, then glanced at Fenris. “Well, nearly. There must’ve been something on the blade, deliberately or not.” He murmured a quiet spell, fingers tracing through the air before he laid his hand over the wound.

The spell rolled through her with a cleansing prickle that gave her goosebumps for a minute before fading. But the near-insufferable itching was gone. Anders’ hand flexed again, and healing magic chased the cleansing spell to knit flesh back together.

Leigh’s slumped with relief. “Thanks, handsome,” she winked as she gave that shoulder an experimental roll. “Much better.” All better, there wasn’t even a scar.

“Always happy to help,” Anders said with a tired smile. “Your knee might still be sore,” he cautioned as she started to stand. “You might want to take it easy for a day or two.”

“I will accompany you,” Fenris offered, soon as she’d made it to her feet. “To be safe, of course.”

“Of course,” Leigh chuckled. Her knee seemed alright, but she’d never pass up his company. She thanked Anders again, then she and Fenris headed out.

“Hawke, it’s this way,” Fenris commented when she walked past the turn that would lead back to Hightown.

“I’m going to the Hanged Man, not home,” Leigh said with a smile and a shrug. “Promised I’d join ‘Bela and Merrill. And I can take it easy there just as well as at home.” Better; at the Hanged Man she’d be around people. Friends.

His shoulders tensed, and she could almost see his overprotective instincts winding up, before he relaxed and nodded. “I shall accompany you there, then, instead.”

Leigh snickered. “That worried about me tumbling in a ditch somewhere, are you?” 

“There are plenty to choose from in this city,” Fenris deadpanned. “Or perhaps I wish to offer back up in case anyone is fool enough to attack you.”

“Oh, thank you. Whatever the reason, I’ll happily take your company.”

She hadn’t really meant to say it, no matter how glib her tone,and he clearly didn’t know how to reply, so they walked in almost-awkward silence for a minute.

“So, how many poor sods did you inadvertently terrorize on your way down through Darktown?” Leigh finally asked, playfully nudging his shoulder, before the silence became too much.  

“I... do not know,” Fenris admitted. He glanced at her. “I was too preoccupied to notice.”

Oh. She bit her lip and cleared her throat. “Bet you get turned into a phantom in children’s stories now,” she teased, struggling to make the words light-hearted. “You know, the ghost who’ll snatch them away if they get out of bed in the middle of the night.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” he said dryly, and Leigh couldn’t help but snort a laugh.

“It would fit, though,” she said, flashing a mischievous grin. “You glow, you... pass through things--or people, at least.. Practically writes itself. I should tell Varric.”

Fenris groaned, but there was something half-hearted about it, and she caught the smile he tried to hide. “I’m certain he has better things to do.”

“Better, maybe. But not more fun.”

Their easy pace during the conversation had carried them to within a stone’s throw of the tavern, and Leigh paused, turning to rest a hand on Fenris’ arm. “All joking aside, I am truly grateful you came swooping to my rescue.”

Fenris caught her gaze and held it as he took a breath, then slowly exhaled.  “Anytime, Leigh.”

He leaned ever so slightly into her touch, then stepped away and headed inside the Hanged Man. Leigh’s hand curled into a loose fist, and she closed her eyes to take a deep breath before trailing after him.

Isabela and Merrill greeted her cheerfully, and Leigh was all too happy to let their company and the general tavern cacophony distract her from... anything else.

(She caught a glimpse of silver-white hair across the bustling space and hastily focused back on Isabela’s challenge to a hand of Wicked Grace.)

Anyone else. 

#queens fic #fenhawke #leigh hawke/fenris #da2 #jarino dragonage

[freingriffen]

A Crashing Tide - 01

The black boulders of the mounded seawall jutted against the fluid arms of cobalt and white seaspray that launched between their crevasses. The frigid northern waves piled high before crashing against the rocky path that stretched out towards the faint silhouette of a lighthouse in the distant fog, looking like at any moment the harsh storm might break the illusion and snap the brittle barrier they were to walk upon.  Eight men in muted blacks and blues and garbed in various dull metals moved up in a column across the wall’s deteriorated wooden path. They were were ominously covered by black chain hoods like those of some dark and armoured executioners. Each of their wooden-stocked rifles pointed from the line in a new direction, unabated by the harsh waters spitting violently against them that tried to obscure their path. It was in these moments that seamaidens were said to leave the weary and confused to their deaths in the water, but these men had a purpose and knew their path. Where others found a destructive enemy in the storm that stood indomitably in their path, the men found an ally that ushered them in. The howling winds and crashing waves masked the first shot from the leader, causing the lookout on the lighthouse’s upper gallery to drop against the tower’s wall and disappear beneath the edge of the railing, leaving a red stain on the grey bricks. The group moved silently as far as anyone nearby was concerned, outshone in all manner by the deafening roar of wind and water so well that the pale guard with his jaw half hanging from his head failed to notice the men approach behind him in their heavy gear.  The nearest soldier gripped his neck and turned it sharply to the side and at a complex angle as another rounded on him and slit his throat deeply for good measure, preventing anything more than a guttural squeak from being uttered. The soldier in the lead extended his hand behind him and held it out, then raised it beside his hand and held four fingers before waving his hand under arm and pointing to the door of a building beside the lighthouse and drawing an upside-down U-shape with his hand.

Stop. Four men, move up, that building, on the door.

The four men immediately behind him in the line broke from the group and moved past the lighthouse to a two-storied building behind it. The other four remained with the group leader as he called similar signals; Three fingers before pointing to himself, then pointing directly to the door of the lighthouse and making that upturned U-shape, followed finally by tapping his helmet. 

Three men, me, move up, that door, breach.

He held his hand out again as one of the soldiers pulled up beside him to the large tar-painted door of the lighthouse with his rifle slung and a broadaxe in hand. 

Five... Four... Three... Two... One...!

The door’s iron hinges, rusted and pitted as they were, gave way well before the lock did. The door rent and pivoted on its lock with a loud crack and several pops as it fell away into the room. The soldier immediately following the breacher fired off right beside his ear at the rising Forsaken Deathguard, smacking the shocked look from his face with a bullet. The soldier raised his breaching device - The broadaxe with a pickhead on its back - and felled the next guard whom was rising from his seat on the stairs. The four of them advanced quickly up the stone steps, knocking away or crushing the remnants of the guards’ lunch under their footfalls as they ascended. The staircase ascended from left to right in order to enable its defenders, as all towers did, however the soldier in lead was left-handed and quickly brought his axe to brutal bear against the undead defenders descending upon them. Legs hooked and swept by the pick were followed by the hollow crunch of dusty, bloodless bodies being torn apart by the axe’s blade quickly thereafter.  Another shot rang past his ear as the axe came down on another, causing a Forsaken body to slump past him and tumble under their feet. They quickly broke out into a room - The lighthouse’s watchroom - and the stairs turned to grey oak timber stained with what can only be described as the dusty mucus that came from its new corpses. Several shots quickly cleared the room as the three behind the breacher entered it, scanning with their rifles for anything that dared to try and refute their recent volley, before just as quickly retreating.  Up they continued in their hasty pace, unabashed or unbothered by the next two defenders that made their way down, the last being clad in robes rather than armour and seemingly weaponless but for a wickedly barbed dagger. The staircase opened up into a service room, lit only by the dim candles that were haphazardly stuck however they could be to the clockwork mechanism beneath the lantern, which jutted out from the ceiling in the centre of the room. It was enough light for the several robed and hooded Corpses to dwell amongst, snarling at their attackers. The soldiers wasted no time, lining up their rifles and letting off a volley. 

Only one remained...

The group stepped out through the broken doorway and into the dim grey air of the raging storm. The lighthouse was well built, one of the soldiers remarked to himself quietly, given that they hadn’t ever thought of nor heard the tempest whilst inside. They stalked toward the bunkhouse and toward the door when one of the windows on the upper floor burst open.  A gangly corpse rolled across the overlooked rooftop and off the eave, hitting the muddy stone ground with a thud. One of the soldiers rounded on him quickly, rolling him under his foot to find the body already riddled with holes. They glanced up as a group and saw their comrades smiling down on them. “I s’pose we can consider the compound clear, aye?” One of them called in their thick highland accent, breaking the mission-imposed concept of silence.  “Come clean this up, he’s your toy.” One of the others called back up to him, pulling up the chain veil that obscured his face to flash the other soldier a cheeky grin.  The lot of them entered the bunkhouse, letting out a series of short cheers and laughs to one another as the two teams rejoined.  “No trouble then, Frasier?” The team leader asked, removing his hood and draping the wet metal around his shoulders and neck.  “Few guards, nothing above tier. Was a piece of pie, but no one felt like chatting o’er a cuppa today. Your lads?” He asked back as he lit up an uncommonly short pipe and glanced around the room. The others seemed to be taking up seats around the room, illuminated by the holes in its sides that allowed some of the seaspray to get in.  “Aye, acolytes of some sort. Non-magical. One gave us a location after we gave him a reason to.” He nodded, taking a similar glance around at the men.  “Griffen’s hunch correct?” He asked, looking over at the only soldier still with his metal hood on, but whom was clearly looking up at them listening to them talk.  “Aye... Looks more an’ more that way every day.” Griffen groaned, “I told you, McMillan, they would want the Capitol back.”

“Well calm your tits, mate. Our last acolyte, rest his soul in hell, gave us a clear direction first,” McMillan turned back to Frasier, “Best dress sharp lads, we’re goin’ to Kul Tiras first.” “Tea with the Admiral, then?” He quipped back, dousing his smoke as the men began to merge on the door. “Yeah, an’ you’re not invited.” McMillan threw him the two-fingered salute as they walked outside.

[rune-writes]

To Become A Hero

@ffseven #zackweek » Day 5: Dream

The Price of Freedom Part 5

Word Count: 1669

Rating: G

Summary: It is the summer of [ μ ] - εγλ 1997. Twelve-year-old Zack dreams of becoming a SOLDIER.

Note: A look into Zack’s childhood and why he wants to become a hero.

Read on AO3. 

~*~*~*~*~

It was one of those days when the sun burned bright over the barren wasteland and the day was too hot, too humid to stay cooped up in a small stone house, where his mother was making some soup or stew over a blazing fire in the stove. Zack lay on his back beneath the shade of a tree on the cliff, sweat covering his brow and neck and his shirt was already soaked. His jet-black hair plastered to his skin, he fanned himself with one of the bigger, sturdier leaves, but that didn’t do much good when even the air was hot. Summer in Gongaga was a hell of its own.

“And now, for our coverage on Wutai…”

The static voice came from the small radio he’d swiped from the house. No one used it anyway. His father was out working in the day and his mother was always busy, either cooking or up to other stuffs with the village ladies. He had no friends his age. Most kids were either older and leaving to find jobs outside Gongaga, or much younger that he couldn’t ask them to play his games with him. Not that he’d say no if they asked him to play. He was their big brother after all. But, sometimes, being on the cliff’s edge like this with the village’s blue circular rooftops dotting the jungle far below and the gray outline of the Mako Reactor visible in the distance, the vast cloudless blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see, all Zack wanted was to fly.

More statics. One reason why Zack spent a lot of time at the cliff was because the higher ground usually had good reception for the radio. “Usually” being the keyword. Zack hit the top surface with his fist. The static cleared up and a voice came out.

“…saragi has set up defenses. A fight has broken out. Under Sephiroth’s leadersh…SOLDIE…nd infantrym…eak past…………………”

Zack hit the radio several more times. He should try going to the Reactor one of these days. It had to have better reception, right? How else could Shinra monitor it from all the way over in Midgar? They'd told the kids to stay away, but Zack could probably go past security one way or another. He’d done so in the past.

“You’re going to break it if you keep doing that.”

The familiar yet unexpected voice jerked him in surprise. Zack glanced up from his position and saw a young man standing at the edges of his vision, upside-down, by the bushes and undergrowth, coming in from the path leading down the hill. Brown leather boots and pants with green checkered shirt beneath a brown vest, the man wore an amicable grin as he said, “Knew I’d find you here.”

Zack’s mouth broke into a grin of his own. “Rei!”

Rei was a friend and a neighbor. Older by a few years, he had left to join a traveling merchant group that used to frequent Gongaga a lot a few years back. They hadn’t been back here for a while.

“What’s going on?” Zack said, sitting up. “I didn’t know you were coming.” Rei chuckled. Summer breeze parted his dark hair, his skin a darker shade of the brown Zack had been familiar with. Zack patted the spot next to him. “Where did you go? Any new, exciting places? What about Midgar? Is it as big as they say? Tell me of all the places you’ve been to.” Zack had talked so fast he was running out of breath by the time Rei reached him, taking his seat next to him.

“Slow down, kiddo,” his friend said with a laugh.

“For your information, I’ll be thirteen in a few months. I’m not a kid anymore.” He had an air of bravado, as though being thirteen was everything a kid could ever dream of. Though, well, in actuality, it was. Being thirteen meant he would be old enough to make his own decisions, to look for a job, and no one would be able to stop him if he wanted to try his chances outside this backwater village.

The corners of Rei’s lips quirked up. He ruffled Zack’s hair. “You’re still going to be my little brother no matter how old you get,” he said. Zack brushed his hand away with a scowl. Rei grinned. He stretched his legs in front of him and leaned back against his arms under the tree shade. “Midgar, huh…” His dark gray eyes took on a faraway look as he stared across the clear blue sky. “It’s big, all right.”

“And?” Zack prompted when Rei didn’t continue.

“I never really stayed there long,” Rei went on. “The group’s always moving about. But…yeah, it’s kinda cool, I guess. Cool as in a lot cooler in the summer unlike Gongaga, and maybe cool with all the plates and all, too. We spent more time in the slums than the uppercity. Not many people would look at our wares there. They’re 'too elite', if that makes sense. Though, compared to their stores and whatnot, I can’t really blame them. To be honest, I like the slums more. More personality. People are nicer too—most of them. You’d still find thugs, but thugs are everywhere. The only downside I can think of is that you can’t see the sky.”

Zack narrowed his eyes in confusion. “How can you not see the sky?”

“You can, just a sliver bit.” His hand went to draw imaginary plates and walls to indicate where the sky in Midgar was. “The upper plate covered most of the sky. One might even call it a steel sky. But it’s nice when night comes and these lights flickered to life like stars. The central Corkscrew Tunnel is also lit up so bright you can't ever lose your way.”

“Corkscrew Tunnel?”

“This tunnel that goes around the central structure that supports the center of the city. It’s where trains go, connecting the upper plate and the slums below.”

Zack couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine the scale in which Rei described it. All his world had only consisted of the jungle, the cliff, and the village. Sometimes, people from Midgar would come to inspect the Reactor, but they only spoke to the adults and they’d leave before dusk even came. Other times, Zack would find spots in the cliffs and hills surrounding the village where he could see the vast expanse of greenery beyond the jungle and the sliver stretch of blue where ocean met the sky. The world was so big, yet he was stuck in this small village no one had probably heard about.

“You still thinking of getting into SOLDIER?” Rei asked with a glance from the corner of his eye.

“Of course!” Zack leaped to his feet and puffed out his chest, hitting his torso with a clenched hand like a proud soldier having won a war. “I’m gonna be a hero, the best SOLDIER there ever was.”

“You’re gonna have to take on Sephiroth if you want to be the best.”

“You bet I would.” He’d said it with great zeal and determination. In his mind, he could imagine himself battling the white-haired warrior with his long-bladed sword, a steel blade in Zack’s hand as he rushed in and strike.

Rei’s snort brought him back to the present and when Zack looked, his older-brother figure was doubling over with laughter. The corners of Zack’s lips tugged into a sheepish smile. “Not good, huh?” he said.

“You’re never going to defeat Sephiroth,” Rei said in-between chuckles. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be a hero, or a great SOLDIER.” He grinned, and after a while, Zack grinned back.

They went on to talk about everything, catching up on the last three years Rei had been away. Nothing much had changed. Gongaga was still a backwater village with not much else outside the jungle and the Mako Reactor within. Some of the adults still worked at the Reactor. Others looked for jobs as merchants or fishermen or hunters and foragers.

“Why not stay?” Rei asked one time, arms loosely hugging his knees to his chest. “Work at the Reactor like your father.”

Zack gave him a side-eye. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Rei stared, then nodded, saying, “Good point.”

Any normal person living in the middle of nowhere would dream of going out and having a job somewhere. Some place that actually had life—and Midgar was the best bet. A modern, bustling, metropolitan city—one could say it was the center of the world, with vast technological advances, lots of high-rises and skyscrapers, and, most importantly, job offers. SOLDIER was only one of them.

Zack had heard how difficult it was to enter the company. From the tough screening program to other exams no one was privy of. Only a handful of candidates graduated every year. But Zack would do it. Once he turned thirteen in September, he’d embark on this new quest. He’d go to Midgar, take the SOLDIER test, and he’d come out the winner. It would be the start of his new life. His new self. And maybe—just maybe—if he managed to gain fame and become a hero…

Maybe they’d do something about this place. And for once, his parents wouldn’t have to break their backs every day to earn a living.

“Have you told your parents?” Rei asked.

Zack went quiet. He hadn’t. They probably wouldn’t let him.

Rei drew a quiet breath as he smiled a soft, understanding smile. He gazed back down at the village, where people could be seen mingling around in-between houses. The soft sound of a babbling brook filled the space. From somewhere far away, a waterfall cascaded over rocks and boulders down the side of a cliff.

Rei ruffled his hair, and this time, Zack let him. “Make sure you tell them, all right?” he said.

Zack pressed his lips into a thin line. “Okay.”

~ END ~

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