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pettyprocrastination · 1 year

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whoever this beloved anon was I am so touched by your kindness! You definitely didn’t have to do this but I am so happy you enjoy this idea and I will happily expand upon it for you!

this is just a collection of word vomit bullet points for the time being but I will happily answer any and all questions about this pair!!

warnings: violence, angst, child death (Sarah Miller), foul language, the same warnings that apply to tlou, reader is Sarah's mom and described as having similar features to her.

So the general Idea is that you and Joel are happily married before the outbreak.

You had been Sarah's mother, his high school sweetheart he got pregnant when neither of you were old enough to have any reaction to the pregnancy test other than a fucking panic attack in one another’s arms. but you made it work

you both worked but made time for one another and your sweet girl, going to museums every other weekend and joel insisting on swooping you off for a date every now and then

nothing special. He knows you’re more of a diner gal than anything too fancy that makes you both feel out of place.

On his birthday in 2003, you had planned to tell him that you were pregnant again. But the memories of your own fears of motherhood from all those years ago begin to swirl through your head again and you get cold feel. deciding to tell him the morning after

it is his birthday afterall, you want to focus on him.

but when you’re woken up in the middle of the night because tommy needs to get bailed out, Joel kisses you sweetly one last time before promising he’ll be back and you can’t shake the feeling that something bad is happening.

its you that shakes sarah awake that night. shouting at her to put on her shoes when she’s still rubbing the sleep from her eyes because you’ve been listening to the radio for the past two hours, calling joel again and again and again praying for him to fucking pick up but to no avail.

Sarah, bless your little girl’s bleeding heart is the one who insists you check on the adler’s against your better suspicions and when you find the eldest looming over her daughter, blood and sinew dripping from her mouth, you grab your daughter hand and burst into a full sprint until something slams into your back and sends you tumbling onto their front lawn

its how joel finds you, struggling to keep the once sweet old woman, whose now nothing more than dead eyes and gnashing teeth straining to snap at your pulse point as you push against her while sarah shrieks before your husband runs forward and cracks her skull with a wrench.

there’s hardly a moment of pause, just enough for him to pull you up and into his arms before he’s ushering you both into the car with an urgency.

when the truck crashes, you get separated from them. Perhaps at Tommy’s side when the flames rise and create a wall, separating you from your husband, or maybe pulled into the mob of chaos when trying to escape from those already infected-

all joel knows is that you promise you’ll find him: just get sarah to safety and you’ll meet him at the river

Poor thing is already so frightened, held in her father’s arms with tears streaming down her face insisting they can’t leave you they just can’t but her father kisses her forehead and reassures her its going to be okay

“we just need to be brave, okay babygirl? Your mama’s real tough, she’s gonna be alright.”

he isn’t sure if he’s saying it to his daughter or himself.

but when he comes to the river you aren’t there. Only a soldier who points a gun at the scared little girl in his arms and then he loses everything

its when the light is gone from his daughter’s eyes that he realizes. His voice cracked and raw from sobbing that he looks around to see his brother with drawn in shoulders and tears in his eyes but his wife is nowhere to be found.

Tommy says you got lost in the chaos. Everything was so loud, so sudden that he turned around and suddenly you weren’t there.

Joel wants to go back but its Tommy that stops him, that dulls the red in his vision to a sad faded pink because his brother points at the orange horizon not too far from them, so much of the city is already in flames.

“We’re gonna find her, but not there.”

So Joel searches. for the first year spent in the world post-outbreak its all he did.

He became a smuggler because of it.

Information came at a price and he needed to be able to fucking pay it, whether it be in blood or ration cards. He was willing to do anything to find you or any thin thread that lead your way.

But it’s Tommy that asks him to give up. Not in those words of course.

The youngest Miller knows better than to say something so cruel that would make his brother, the only person he has in this world turn on him.

But his voice is worried when he asks him one night in Boston when he hasn’t even had the chance to wash the blood from his knuckles

“You think she would have wanted this for you?”

the fight that followed his words was brutal. Vicious insults and scarred fists slamming against each brother until they're both too tired and bloody to continue. Each leaning against a wall for support and Tommy’s wavering voice breaking the silence.

“I don’t know where she is, Joel. But I do know you're gonna get yourself killed if you keep lookin’ for her.”

All he can do is nod.

It’s a few days later when he meets Tess. Who has heard plenty of stories about the elder miller’s brutality and wants him to put that muscle to good use for some extra profit.

It begins his new life. One that empty and cold but one he can live.

Until of course, Ellie comes along. The sweet and incredibly opinionated girl that makes him become something akin to the man he thought died twenty years ago.

its when he’s traveling with Ellie, that it happens. When a warm familiarity has settled between the two because so much blood and pain has been shared he can’t help but see her as something close, something bright even though all he can force himself to utter in her reference is “cargo”

when theyre traveling through the woods as Ellie chatters away, probing his memory about a movie that may or may not have existed thirty years ago because her descriptions of the plot are incredibly odd he hears a voice shout for them to stop and finds himself staring at a man- no, a boy- pointing a gun at them.

Ellie stills, but Joel can see enough to know that from the lanky figure and dimpled face that he’s young. Maybe twenty, twenty-two at the oldest, but his eyes dart from Joel to Ellie with a pinprick of fear that allows Joel the time to charge forward and slam him to the ground before wrestling the gun from his hands.

He has enough to time to tuck it under the stranger’s chin before he hears the sound of the safety being turned off and finds himself looking up and seeing a gun just inches from his face.

Joel’s head whips around when Ellie’s voice calls out his name in fear, he turns to see another stranger holding her a gun point, shoulders drawn back and a shadow cast over their face by the had obstructing their identity.

“You hurt one of mine, I hurt one of yours. That a fair deal?”

Its takes him a moment to recognize you. It’s been so long since he’s heard your voice, the sweet tease when you would poke at him each time he woke up late despite the fact that you reminded him to set his alarm the night before, the times you’d chide him with a harsh “Joel Miller!” whispered in public anytime he was able to grab you a bit too passionately to be appropriate in public but the laughter in your voice let him know you were never truly mad at him. You didn’t know how to be.

But that sweetness is buried under a cold rasp that cuts through the air as you point a rifle at the scared little girl in front of you.

“You think I won’t?” You’re older now, skin covered in scars from a life he didn’t know you got the chance to live and your eyes are cold as they regard your husband. “Put the gun down and get the fuck off of him, I won’t repeat myself.”

Joel mumbles your name in awe. The woman he loved, the woman he mourned the one he fought so hard to find stands before him like some sort of hallucination and suddenly the world feels like its spinning until you bark orders at him again.

“You’ve got five seconds Joel, make a fucking choice before I make it for you.”

He looks down and realizes the boy under him, the one with the bleeding nose and snarling face has your eyes and his dimples.

“One.”

The one above him has Sarah’s hair. Soft brown curls that shine under the sun.

“Two”

Wait. No, they both do.

“Three.”

Twins. Jesus fucking Christ you had twins.

“Four.”

Joel holds the rifle up above his head and the one boy standing snatches it from his grasp, tossing it to the ground and kicking it far from his reach. He slowly stands, allowing your son- dear god your son- to scramble to his feet.

Your voice softens just for a moment. “You okay, Duke?”

Blood stains the bottom half of his face from where Joel slammed his fist into the boy’s nose just moments before, but he nods nonetheless.

Now, they both stand on one side of you and he can see the resemblance clear as day the same way he would whenever Sarah was by your side.

When you order him to hand over his bag, he does so without question before telling Ellie to do the same.

She watches him with wide eyes, her hands still up in the air but gaping at her companion as if he had grown a second head.

“Joel!” “Just do it, alright?”

He doesn’t miss the way you watch their interaction with narrowed eyes until she tosses her bag to you and you slowly lower your gun.

“Now, you want to tell me what the fuck you think you’re doin’ at my home?”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #i had an idea of something similar for tommy but on outbreak night he uh. abandons you instead of getting separated from you #because. angst :D #people say nice things #this was incredibly generous of you anon thank you so so much!#i may get myself a little starbucks drink this week now because I havent had starbucks since like january 1st lol #joel reeling from taking in all this information and also realizing he suckerpunched HIS OWN KID #id like to apologize for all the grammatical issues with this. this is just a bulletpoint word vomit to get my thoughts on the page before-#-beginning the actual fic. also I have to do a midterm tonight and this is my treat to myself hehe #but yes. joel getting separated from his wife on outbreak night and having to accept that shes probably dead #meanwhile youve lived this entire life without him because you think HES dead ad raising your boys all on your own #which just- further digs into his insecurities about failing in his role as a protector #he couldn't save sarah. he can't save ellie and he couldn't even save you #he thinks about you pregnant and alone. fending for yourself in a world full of infected and raiders and his chest grows tight again #this is all followed by Ellie going >:O 'you KNOW THIS PSYCHO?'and then joel immediately snapping at her to WATCH HER MOUTH #because that kid has no filter and he has to explain that youre his wife #anyways joels wife is a badass mfer who also maybe has a little garden and some chickens that you and your boys take care of <3 yeah .#reunion tag #ill be using that for this specific couple because I dont have a fic title yet but if anybody has suggestions!

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fatuismooches · 2 months

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EVEN MORE CUTE DOTTORE MOMENTS TO MAKE YOU SMILE 🙏 (because I am too tired to post anything of quality)

#smooches talks #ouhhhh... to experience the domestic life with him...#someone motivate me to start writing actual fics again...#the dottore honeymoon fic merely has the title “medicus scriptor amorem” and “Honeymoon fic” in the actual document LMFAO #i made it on... january 27 oops #idek if im gonna stick to that name because google translate for latin is so bad omfg #(TO THAT KIND PERSON WHO SENT ME IDEAS ILY AND I PROMISE I WILL RESPOND. I PROMISE IM NOT IGNORING U)#i also have another wip i havent touched with loving the harbingers when they weren't in the fatui yet #no like seriously i think churning out 50k words did something to my writing state 💀🙏#a snippet from dottores part: Il Dottore’s strength was nearly unmatched in the Fatui being the Second Fatui Harbinger and all.#what most people do not know is that he was… certainly not the best fighter during his Akademiya days.#A claymore was also out of the question - he grumbled when he had to lug his numerous research materials and parts to the desert…#In the end you settled on teaching Zandik the basics of a sword. do with this as you will...#however i am still so proud of myself for fabulam diu oblitus #i was rereading in class bc i was bored and i was like #damn i kinda ate with this #thanks for listening to smooches mini writing life crisis if u made it here #okay i go sleep now... i have midterms this week #OMFG THESE TAGS R SO LONG IM SO SORRY

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gatzbright · 11 months

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“you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars” — e.e. cummings

#apparently i am having ee cummings psychosis tonight #this one though GOD like these pictures if u showed them to a passerby on the street and asked if they thought these two were in love #they would say Yes like no doubt #that's the smile of love !! fondness !! tenderness !!! that's the one !!!#starts sobbing uncontrollably #okay im done its writing time now g oodnight #i literally opened this book of poems intending to choose a new fic title and it has now been an hour #its also midnight and i need to be up early #shrugs #dnf #poetry #ee cummings

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katnissmellarkkk · 1 month

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my aesthetics :

the second quarter quell generation, pt one (aka the generation with all the principal characters’ parents, and then also haymitch)

#thg #hunger games #haymitch abernathy #Katniss everdeen #Peeta mellark #maysilee donner #thgedit #okay so in order this goes #Haymitch Haymitch’s girl katniss’s parents Peeta’s parents and then the donner twins #i will make a part 2 with the characters if I can think of more than gales parents #if I can’t hazelle and her husband will be retroactively added into this one #myaesthetics #myedit #ya lit aesthetic #ya lit edit #and yeah this may be shameless promo one day for my lil 2nd quarter quell ficcy #which is why the little title for Mr E is confusing !!! because a lot of this is about my made up lore!!! his mom is Maude ivory but she #disappeared when he was a child #which is why Katniss knows nothing about her own gramma!!!#ok anyways if I ever write it all the little titles will make sense but for now they’re confusing because I made this specially for me for #my made up headcanons that make no sense to anyone else lololololol #oh oh oh also I put black eyes in both Katniss’ mom and Peeta’s mom’s edits for a reason!!!#ok so like I always interpreted it that abuse in the merchant class was more common #like what Peeta obviously went through at home was actually normalized in his circle #and it’s also implied Katniss’ mom was shunned by her parents for marrying Katniss’ dad so I figure they couldn’t have been good parents #and then Peeta’s mom Ruby also has blood on her own hands because we know she one day is abusive to her own kids so it’s like #she experienced abuse and then continues the terrible circle #but obviously Katniss’ mom lavender does not! she has other issues though but the young version is so fun to play with #also young Haymitch and his girl here would be the most judgey pretty couple #I have lots of headcanons for them some of which I’ve entwined already into at least one of my fics

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dollypopup · 17 days

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push it

"What have you done to me, Penelope?" “I–but I have not done anything!" “Then that is the problem! Because I want you to do so much, and have written of you, endlessly written of you, and wrapped myself in thoughts of you and it has done nothing to ease me. Day and night and morning and evening, all I can think about– all I can think about– is you. You have haunted me. So do not talk of how– how I have avoided you out of revulsion, when it could not be farther from the truth. When all I want and all I have wanted is you.” “Me?” she asked, almost dumbly. Feeling as though a lamb for slaughter and he were the knife, how he would sink into the soft underbelly of her, spill her loose. And how she yearned for it. “You.” OR: Instead of writing travel logs, Colin's entries in his journal are erotica. And, of course, Penelope finds out.

#polin #bridgerton #penelope bridgerton #colin bridgerton #brown eyed penelope superiority #every penelope i have ever written has been a size 18 MINIMUM #so if you're here for 14k of smut and soft tummy appreciation uh. . .i gotchu #also #did i post this once and then deleted it immediately after? sure did #but now i have determined that i am only in the polin tag to post fics #dolly's baba yaga era has officially begun #extra double bonus points if you can guess where the title came from #aaaaah push it- push it good!#push it push it to the limit limit cause we're in it to win it #you can't push it uuuuundergroundddd you can't stop it screaaaaaming out #push it to the limit! (limiiiiit)#push it in slow then mi pull it out back #push it in and twist the knife again #you'll never get it inside! push it back down!

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catsafari25 · 5 months

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A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.

#bionicle #cat writes #lego bionicle #do i have a weakness for the hordika arc? you'll never know #(yes. look i was a well behaved 12year old kid who loved plots about characters going feral. i ate the hordika plotline up)#(and two decades later or there abouts i still have nostalgic fondness for it)#heya so how do we feel about vakama returning to the temple and finding it is repulsed by him?#a discovery that might not only confirm he wasnt chosen by mata nui but has been forsaken #and yeah this was the fic i technically titled 'damned'#but also casually thought of it as 'god called to let you know he hates you personally'#because that's definitely a normal thing to name a fic #also yes i like the idea that roodaka pushed vakama to enter the temple knowing he would feel abandoned by mata nui #and thus helps sever the 'destiny' part of the three virtues #i like the idea that just like matau had to invoke the three virtues to get vakama back #roodaka worked on severing vakamas ties to the three virtues to get him to turn his back on the others #and while she succeeded with unity and destiny #duty she could only derail or corrupt rather than sever entirely #and that (esp since duty is vakamas whole shtick) is why matau reminding him of his duty finally worked #i'll probably add this and the stasis tube au to ao3 in time #but for now it goes here

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prince-liest · 3 months

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I have a question of the upmost importance after reading your radiostatic fics: IS our pathetic little Vox ever gonna get Al in a miniskirt after all? 😂 or just kinda suffer with the idea that it’ll never happen idk which is funnier

HAHA, everyone is so invested in this, I love you guys.

I actually thought it would be really funny if it was a running gag that literally never happened, and this was in fact my original intention because I didn't really think that Alastor would be even remotely interested in it, but... then I had a really cute idea that tied in with an interlude I've already been trying to figure out how to write, and it meshed well with the realization that it might be even funnier if it happened but was aggressively a "be careful what you wish for" situation for Vox.

Anyway, that's my vague way of saying that it's going to happen, haha.

#ask #personal #anonymous #my writing #get ready for “how embarrassing can I make Vox”: the fic #also I thought of the STUPIDEST title for it so I guess that means it has to happen #((but also writing is gonna be slower now bc my virtual rotation is over whoop.))#((also congrats on by chance sending this ask during the FIRST time I've had a minute free all day pfft))

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phyllisthefirst · 5 months

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[This fic is entirely about the fictionalized representations of the men of Easy Company that we see on the show. I mean no disrespect to the real men by writing this.]

[Part 2] [on ao3]

Donald Malarkey x OC

Summary: "Technical Advisor" for an Airborne exhibition in Paris - it’s a pity assignment, and Don doesn’t expect to actually have to put in any work. He’s going to enjoy the sights of Paris, do only as much as absolutely necessary, and wait out the end of the war. At least, that's the plan. He just hasn’t counted on Beatrice Mowbray - the historian determined to turn a pile of shot-up planes into an interesting exhibition.

Warnings: Flashbacks to war and violence.

Tagging @next-autopsy - perhaps you'll be interested in the story of Don and Beatrice as well.

Babe, there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you - Part 1

Technical advisor - it’s a bullshit assignment, born only out of pity, or perhaps worry that he’ll finally crack like that Craver fellow who shot at Grant. Still, when Major Winters sends him off to Paris, Don can’t help but be thankful. Not happy, that’s too strong a feeling most of these days, but relieved.

A part of him feels guilty for leaving the other men behind. Another, surprisingly prideful part of him wonders if he should be offended at being singled out like this - one step above being sent back from the line for battle fatigue, like he couldn’t quite cut it.

Most of him doesn’t care.

What he in particular will have to offer to an exhibition is unclear, but if it means not having to watch one more of his friends die, he’ll take it - as long as they stay safe in Austria with a toothless German army and he doesn’t have to worry about what's left of his friends being blown up or shot at every second of every day.

He doesn’t know what to expect when he gets to Paris, but it’s not her.

Beatrice Mowbray is the person in charge of putting together the exhibition, the person he’s brought to after he’s arrived in Paris and checked in with the battalion in question.

For a moment, he thinks it might be nice to work with a woman, after listening to men yell at each other for literal years. Then she looks up at him and frowns.

“You’re the Technical Advisor I was told about?”

He nods, but doesn’t get around to saying anything.

“You’re late.”

A flash of annoyance surges through him. The trip here was a long one, jeep to troop truck to train to taxi, and he still rushed to get here from the hotel, not even allowing himself enough of a break to enjoy the bathtub that was beckoning in his room. And this is the welcome he gets?

“Well, I only had to cross half a war-torn continent.”

She huffs, clearly not amused by his sarcasm.

“At least now you’re here. I can guide you through what we’ve got so far.”

Getting to her feet, she starts walking out of the office they’ve led him to and into the main building, an airplane hangar on the outskirts of Paris. Don follows without protest, too startled by her abruptness to ask any questions.

There are several airplane models standing around, some more banged up, some less, small crews of mechanics carrying out repairs on some of them. She walks past them all with him, her heels clacking on the concrete, making remarks about where they got this plane or that, and he listens half-heartedly until they pass by a C-47 and he stops in his tracks.

It’s the exact same model he jumped out of, on the night of June 6th, that fateful day he entered the war. It’s become a kind of marker in his personal calendar, cutting his life into Before and After. He can practically hear the roar of its engine as he stares at it, feel the pull of his line hooked to the central bar, smell the fire from planes exploding all around him…

“Sergeant Malarkey…?”

His thoughts are interrupted by her voice, hesitant and questioning and a lot softer than before. He shakes himself back to the present.

“Quite a collection you’ve got there,” he says just to say something, too polite to utter what he’s really thinking: That it feels a lot like the army dumped a bunch of planes too banged-up to bother repairing on her and came up with some bullshit plan like this exhibition as an excuse.

“Thank you. I’ve been personally overseeing the transport of the planes here, and I think the models cover a good portion of what was actually in use during D-Day and the days after. I even managed to get my hands on a few British planes, which will be a good addition, I think…”

She keeps walking to the next plane, silently expecting him to follow and he does, watching her bemusedly. If the exhibition is bullshit, no one bothered to tell her that - she’s completely serious about this ridiculous undertaking, rattling off stats about the planes with record speed. It’s quite at odds with her cool welcome, and reluctantly, he finds it kind of endearing.

He pushes the thought away.

“So what's my job in all of this?”

“Oh, I thought we could go over what I’ve gathered so far about the night of June 6th and you can tell me if anything's wrong. I’d like to have big plaques put up next to the planes that detail everything.”

He nods, a little skeptical. How can a plaque next to a piece-of-junk plane possibly tell all that happened that night - a night he still remembers as the longest of his life?

But that's not his concern, he reminds himself. All he has to do is say whether her intel is correct or not. She's the one who has to turn this junkyard into an exhibit people will come to watch - voluntarily, in a city filled to the brim with other wonders.

It seems like an impossible task, and he's had enough of those to last him for the rest of his life. He'll keep his hands clean, let her try and wrangle with it and only contribute enough to justify his being here.

He’s done his part in this war.

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #donald malarkey x oc #donald malarkey/oc #now I know this feels out of character for the Malarkey we first meet in Currahee #but I think the Malarkey we see in The Last Patrol and even still in Points has changed a lot. he's tired and grieving and traumatised.#So I think that would translate to him being very different from his earlier sunny self.#But don't worry he'll get better eventually.#also yes - for now all my fics will be titled after the same Hozier song (From Eden) because I love it

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ros-is-writing · 7 months

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Polyeclipse arranged marriage/mafia au drabble pt1!

Characters: Zam, Mapicc, Ro

Word count: 933

“It’s just gone? Like that??” Zam asked, open mouthed in the politest way he could manage. Outright yelling in a meeting like this was definitely not acceptable, but seriously??

“Our sources are reporting that the Pierce Mafia has collapsed,” the captain repeated, visibly shaking in fear. Across the table, Mapicc whistled and sat back in his chair, impressed.

Every executive sitting at the table was showing various degrees of the same emotion. Shock. The Pierce Mafia was massive, it took up a whole city while Zam’s family fought over the neighboring city with other groups. Its collapse would create an equally large power vacuum. Which, for obvious reasons, was an opportunity.

Zam’s mind was already racing, their neighboring city had resources upon resources, they would be powerful beyond imagining if they managed to fill the space at the Pierce family left. But how? Could they just walk in and take power? They didn’t even know how Pierce had collapsed, for all they knew the boss and his executives could still be out there.

Zam turned to his left, looking for the expression on the Boss's face. To his surprise, she was startlingly calm. Every other executive was deep in thought, eyes flicking back and forth as they imagined different situations, but she just sat there, waiting for their attention to return to her. One by one, the executives look to the Boss, realizing she already had a plan. She slowly lifted her hand, scrubbed her nails with her thumb, then said:

“Get me in contact with Eclipse.”

—

“I still don’t get why we’re working with motherfucking Eclipse,” Mapicc complained as he slid into the back seat of the car. “Aren’t they our number one enemy here?”

Zam shrugged and pulled his door closed, motioning for Mapicc to do the same. “An enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he quoted, waving his hands around like that made it make sense.

“Our enemy is fucking dead, no ones seen Pierce in weeks,” Mapicc pointed out. “I don’t think we have a common enemy anymore. I think it’s just us.”

“We don’t have a common enemy but we do have a common goal,” Zam said. “Pierce's city is massive, we can’t control it and our home city ourselves. We’re letting Eclipse take half on the terms that they help us put down any rebellions, and we do the same for them.”

“That’s what the Boss told me at least,” Zam finished.

“How though?” Mapicc asked. “How is this agreement with Eclipse working? They’re a bunch of backstabbers, everyone in Eclipse is a backstabber, how do we know they won’t backstab us?”

“Mapicc, you’re a backstabber, stop talking.” Came Roshambo’s voice from the front seat of the car.

“Shut the fuck up Ro,” Mapicc complained. “You’re in soldier mode right now, drive the car.” He leaned forward and tugged on a piece of Ro’s hair, making him shout and whip his hair away.

“Stop doing that! You’re literally pulling my pigtails right now, didn’t know you liked me like that, wow.”

“You’re deranged.” Mapicc deadpanned with no acknowledgement of Ro violently switching tones. “Also this is a ponytail.” He reached through the hole between the seat and the headrest and pulled Ro’s ponytail though. As he turned back to Zam and started speaking again, he began to braid Ro’s hair.

“All I’m saying is, what’s in it for Eclipse besides power? They have enough of that, they have so much of that. Too much.”

“Maybe they’re going to take over our city once we spread our resources thin in the Pierce’s territory,” Ro suggested.

“Ro! Shut up!” Mapicc exclaimed, yanking his hair again. “Sorry!” Ro laughed, “I have a point though!”

“He does have a point actually,” Zam interrupted before Mapicc could jump over the seat and throttle Ro. He wasn’t sure why Mapicc kept up their soldier-executive relationship when they were in public. Mapicc and Ro had been friends since before Zam met them, so it didn't make sense why Mapicc would want the illusion that they weren’t. But anyway-

“Ro does have a point but, the Pierce’s city is a lot more valuable than ours. Eclipse won’t be satisfied with just our territory in our city, they want their share of the Pierce’s city too.”

Mapicc and Ro nodded at Zam’s words, they knew he was right. Or rather, they knew that the Boss was right, she told Zam that.

“The Boss has a plan, remember?” Zam added. “She already has an agreement with Eclipse.”

“It’s like she knew the Pierce Mafia was going to fall,” Ro mused to the silent car.

“I don’t think she did…” Zam admitted. “Or if she did, she never told me anything.”

“She’s creepy,” Mapicc said bluntly. “No offense,” he added, looking at Zam.

“Not offended,” Zam shrugged. “That’s my sister, I’ve said worse!” All three of them laughed because it was true! Behind the privacy of closed doors and un-bugged rooms, Zam complained a lot about the Boss. He loved her though, nothing could break the bond he had with her sister. She was just so annoyingly cryptic sometimes.

“But seriously,” Ro brought them back to the conversation. “What does Eclipse value?” Mapicc and Zam went quiet, thinking. Mapicc was right earlier, Eclipse was notoriously full of backstabbers. If you weren’t officially part of the Mafia, you weren’t guaranteed safety. And you most definitely weren’t safe if you were part of an opposing group.

Maybe that was it though. It was the same as Zam and his sister.

“Family,” Zam said. “Eclipse values family over everything else.”

#I hate titling this as polyeclipse because this specific drabble very much does not have them in it #but I dont have a name for the au yet so I'm just calling it what it is #If anyone has suggestions for a name for this au I would love to hear them!#Also I'm looking for suggestions for Zam's sisters name too!#lifesteal smp #lssmp #princezam #mapicc #roshambogames #I'll just tag whose here right now I guess #ros fics

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chronurgy · 4 months

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Gortash x Durge reunion fic is doneeeee

Okay by done I mean I still need to extend the intro and do all my editing but I'm at the point there I'm EDITING and not WRITING so hurrah because I've been working on this since late November and I'm SO happy to see it finally coming together at last

I originally assumed this would be around the length of Departure from the Vulgar Crowd, maybe a bit longer, and it's looking like this bad boy will be clocking in around 9-9.5k so whoops

#I'm just so happy to have real serious progress on this bad boy #It's a lot of very intense conversation between two major freaks so everything takes extra time and planning to make it just right #Ugh now I have to think of a title rip #Also this has really been eating into even my fic reading time so I'll be able to catch up on my backlog soon!

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hippogrifffeathers · 7 months

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Don't Blame Me (Part 1)

Sebastian's concerns for MC's safety are at an all-time high. He's had it with their recklessness, their decision to trust a goblin the final nail in the coffin- if they refuse to listen to reason, insisting on continually endangering themselves, then Sebastian would simply have to take measures into his own hands.

When rumours begin to circulate about their latest exploit (the takedown of an ashwinder base) he's hit with an epiphany. Perhaps the enemy of his friend, could be his ally.

Whatever happened next, at least he'd always know MC was alive, no matter what the cost.

fic is on ao3 here

The heat of the Undercroft threatened to become unbearable, stifling air brought on by countless blasts aimed at the numerous target dummies, robes long since discarded and thrown to the side in a mindless shuffle, sleeves rolled up and rivulets of sweat clinging to the nape of his neck- anyone else would have long since abandoned the burning heat of the room to the cooler air of the Castle.

Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to care, hoping the air might burn some of the energy from his body, tear the frustration from his lungs, perhaps he could finally claim a night of uninterrupted sleep when all this was over.

There’s no concern of getting interrupted in here, nobody to tell him to calm down or to talk him through his racing mind. Ominis had holed himself up in some corner of the library to finish an essay, and the only other person who knew about the Undercroft had rarely visited the hidden alcove before their fight with him.

Unwillingly, his eyes drifted to the side, catching on the open triptych.

His next basic cast threatened to topple the training dummy over, viciously tearing from his wand on impulse.

MC had been avoiding him- the rare times they were even in the Castle, that was. Like they had any right to be the one avoiding him, after what they had done. He saw the way they slipped around corners at the sight of him, head stubbornly turned in the other direction when they crossed paths in the corridors- things he only caught sight of from the periphery of his vision, the glances he caught when they weren’t looking.

It’s how he knew they were so frequently sneaking out. They hadn’t been at dinner for an entire week now, fleeing the grounds at a moment's notice, and none of the staff could care less.

Neither could he. Sebastian had no interest in whatever fruitlessly heroic missions they indulged in when they took flight from the grounds, whatever daring mystery had caught their attention now. He. Didn’t. Care.

Except, that’s a lie.

A huge lie, it’s impossible to ignore. His skin itches at the thought of what dangers they may be facing, without anyone at their side to defend them, his gaze can’t help but seek them out in a room, settling on the rhythmic movement of their breathing, the steady gait in their walk, all signs of health- of life , anything to settle the racing fears in his mind.

Thoughts made worse when he remembers their latest argument, that goblin friend of theirs. Disgusting. Impossible. Terrifying . How could they be so stupid ?

A hissing diffindo slices the head clean off the training dummy. He casts reparo with hardly a second thought.

On the worst nights, images of them plagued his dreams. MC, dead in the middle of a goblin encampment, dragged off in a cage to meet their fate at Ranrok’s hands, bled dry of their magic until they had nothing left of use to Ranrok, pallor ashen and empty, lying dead at the goblin’s hands. Images fuelled by their latest visit to Feldcroft, the way the goblins had focused so intently on MC as they arrived in the midst of battle, the words of violence as they recognised MC in their trip to the Mines, none of it any surprise to the target of their ire, like they were used to it- even as the goblins’ attitude was only getting more violent, more targeted.

None of those dreams felt like his usual terrors- nothing like how the memory of Anne being cursed had haunted his sleep for months afterwards, or how images of his parents’ death still lingered on nights when he felt particularly alone or hopeless. No, these dreams felt different, leaving him lurching awake, his chest tight with panic.

Deep down he knew it was because these dreams were different- because every single image his brain conjured up was entirely possible.

MC had always been reckless, but they were taking it too far, putting their faith- their precious friendship- in the hands of a goblin , one close with Ranrok, no less.

The knowledge sat like poison on his tongue, disgust and fear raged a vicious war within him at the thought.

How long until MC was betrayed, and nobody would be there to save them?

Years spent in Feldcroft, dealing with the constant threat of Goblin Loyalists, and Sebastian had never seen them as violent, as determinedly targeted as when they clashed against MC. Terror races in his veins at the thought of what they might do if they finally got their claws on MC, what horrors MC might face before the goblins inevitably killed them.

Look at what they had done to Anne, for the mere crime of existing- what would they do to someone who was actively seeking out and destroying their camps, intentionally getting in their way and investigating their plans?

MC was ignorant to the true nature of goblins, couldn't understand it like Sebastian did. They were blinded by their own naivety, mindlessly putting their trust in centuries-old Keepers and goblins, with no care for how their own life hung in the balance.

Deaf to reason, MC refused to listen to Sebastian, insistently running out of the castle to face unnamed threats, believing themself invincible or ignorant to the fact that they weren’t- it was tearing him apart.

It was in dreams that the truth was hardest for him to deny or hide from.

If MC kept doing this, they would die. He was going to lose them.

Just like he’d lost his parents, like he was losing Anne- he hadn’t stopped those from happening, he’d been blind to the danger until it was too late- but not with MC. This time he could see the threat coming, he wouldn’t turn away from the danger they were in- not like MC was so determined to. He’d not allow their ignorance to get in the way, he couldn't .

Sebastian was tired. Tired of losing the people he cared about, of feeling helpless to protect them and feeling haunted by the ‘what ifs’ for the rest of his life.

He couldn’t lose MC too, no matter what the cost.

---------------------

“An entire base, I heard.”

“Natty owes them her life.”

“You think they’d tell us what happened if I asked?”

Sebastian grits his teeth as the whispers of Hogwarts gossip follows him through the Castle, whispers which had been impossible to escape since breaking out at breakfast that morning, all about how MC had supposedly taken out an entire Ashwinder base to rescue Natsai Onai- a story which had apparently originated from the staff themselves, and Natty was making no effort to refute, happy to praise the heroic prowess of her friend.

The rumour itself isn’t surprising, not to him. He’d seen first hand what MC was capable of- more so than anybody else he’d dare wager, they were the most competent magical study Sebastian knew and would confess to as much regardless of whether they weren’t talking right now- no, it was the rest that frustrated him.

MC had raided an entire Ashwinder base, on their own. It infuriated him- this same recklessness, the blatant disregard for their own safety, had they even paused to think , to consider the risks before acting? How hard would it have been for them to pen a note to him for back-up first? Regardless of their last conversation, he would have been at their side in an instant, and they could have burned down that Ashwinder base together- he would have thought MC knew that, regardless of how petulant they had been acting recently.

Privately, if only to himself, Sebastian could confess that not all of his frustration was directed towards MC.

He’d been neglectful.

So caught up in the threat of Ranrok and his loyalists, it had been easy to forget about the sight of Victor Rookwood that day in the Three Broomsticks- too easily, he’d forgotten that loyalists were not the only ones hunting down MC.

At least against goblins, there was a wand-casting advantage- but with Ashwinders, MC could be facing any length of dark magic thrown against them, forbidden curses and conjurations against a student who had only been studying magic for a few months…

And yet, the realisation didn’t send the same white hot fear racing down his spine as when he thought about MC going up against goblins, something Sebastian didn’t care to question, but the thought of the dark wizards still worried him. Especially since whatever MC was doing when they weren’t on castle grounds, was clearly drawing the ire of the Ashwinders when they already had a target on their backs.

What was so important, it took priority over their own life?

The triptych, Sebastian could understand- that was MC’s magic they were talking about, and they were investigating it with him - someone MC could rely on, who certainly wouldn’t allow himself to be in need of rescuing.

Which begged the question, why had Natty needed rescuing?

Ashwinders had been terrorising the highlands since before even Ranrok’s Loyalists had taken over, and they had only grown more bloodthirsty as their power grew- it wasn’t like the dark wizards to spare mercy on anyone, even a child. If Natty had been in their way, she should have been killed- not captured.

So why was she ?

Curiosity stabbed at the back of his mind like an errant gnat, an itch he couldn’t scratch without burning his pride and asking MC themself, breaking the silence between them.

He’d have to settle for the Hogwarts rumour mill, how dull and disappointing.

Still, he had to wonder what purpose Victor Rookwood had for pursuing MC like this, drawing their ire against Ashwinder encampments and, from what he had heard, poaching rings. Ranrok, MC had told him about- the goblin’s relentless pursuit of ancient magic, targeting MC for the knowledge they had, searching at the locations of previous keepers- Isadora Morganach’s old home, Rookwood Castle-

He stumbled in his steps, only vaguely aware of the way it drew Ominis’ attention his way, the frown in his friend’s browline, “Sebastian, are you alright?”

He pulled himself together enough to brush off the concern, resuming their casual stroll to lunch, “Y-yeah I just tripped, faulty stair. Let’s keep going.” If Ominis said anything in reply, Sebastian wasn’t paying enough attention to know, mind already reeling.

Rookwood Castle.

Oh Merlin, he was an idiot.

This went beyond some minor truce with Ranrok to hand over MC, beyond any anger with MC for disrupting Ashwinder operations.

Victor Rookwood was the descendant of a Keeper.

He had to know about the Ancient Magic, and if that were true then there was no way he’d be willing to hand MC over to Ranrok, not if he’d figured out that they were able to wield it.

Rookwood wasn’t stupid enough to trust a goblin, as much was obvious to him from the moment MC identified the pair conspiring together in Hogsmeade. Sebastian knew immediately that whatever alliance this was, it was tentative at best, built from a single shared goal- one that, once met, would see an immediate end to the alliance, with what he hoped would be a devastating fallout.

And he had a suspicion on the identity of their shared goal- not a ‘what’, like MC seemed to suspect, but a ‘who’.

First, he needed more information.

-------------------

By Beasts class that afternoon, his head was still swimming with his earlier realisation, with nothing else to focus on but all the questions he didn’t have answers to, a rush of energy through his body as he waited for the moment class would be over and he could head to the clocktower, hoping to find Natty there.

Anything that happened between then and now would fade to a trivial blur.

Or, so he’d thought, until Howin lead them all into a penned clearing not too far from the Beasts hut, and the creature held within was enough to temporarily abate all thoughts of Rookwood and the Ashwinders from his mind.

A Unicorn .

Pure white coat practically shining under the winter sun, shaking its mane with a gracefulness Sebastian didn’t know was possible, the ethereal image interrupted only by the careful wrapping of bandages around its torso, the slight limp to its steps.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Unicorn’s were so rare-

“Not too close, that’s it, Unicorns are excellent reads of character, but they tend to show a preference for witches over wizards. I wouldn’t want to startle them, especially not at the moment. Hopefully we’ll be able to introduce you all in the future, once they’ve gotten used to their new surroundings.” Howin directed them several paces away from the fencing, but still within sight.

Sebastian’s sure he isn’t the only one holding his breath when the Unicorn seems to finally notice it has company, but after a few seconds of watching them all, assured nobody is moving closer, the beast huffs, resuming its grazing.

He swears he hears Poppy Sweeting practically vibrating with excitement.

“Of course, their caution isn’t unwarranted. Magical creatures adapt their behaviours over time to ensure survival- the Unicorn is no different. Just about one of the most magically-imbued creatures that exist, from their hair to their blood, they are practically made of magic potential- a fact which puts them at great risk.” As if on cue, the Unicorn stumbled over its right hoof, the front of which had stitches racing up the leg, a detail he had missed until now.

He wasn’t the only one who realised. From the corner of his eye, Sebastian caught the twisted expression on MC’s face. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if they were feeling some sort of kinship with the beast, as Howin pressed on with her lecture.

“Unicorns are not aggressive by nature, despite how powerful they are, and we’d be better off describing them as ‘prey’ animals. To make up for this, Unicorns have a very keen judgement of character, and when combined with their breakneck speeds, they’re able to evade predators- well, most of the time.” The Professor sighed, anger bleeding into her tone, “This one, we rescued from a pack of poachers. Even the most agile of creatures can be caught off-guard, especially if their predator is cunning enough- their natural self-defence tools won’t always be enough.”

Sebastian tried to imagine that. One of the most pure and magical creatures in the known wizarding world, ruthlessly targeted and hunted down until it was overwhelmed on all sides- injured, alone, without escape. Helpless to the malicious whims of a predator who’d use them for their magical potential, and discard what remained.

It was too easy to imagine, felt too familiar to think about. Nausea curled on his tongue.

“Aren’t we just as bad, then?” One of his classmates interjected. A Gryffindor, Elijah Jennings, who stumbled over his words slightly when the full attention of the class fell on him, “I-I mean, keeping the Unicorn in captivity, even after they heal…how is that any better than the poachers?”

Howin didn’t seem upset by the line of questioning. If anything, she seemed happy to answer, as though she’d been hoping someone would ask. Knowing Howin, she probably had been.

“Well, what is kinder Mister Jennings- releasing the Unicorn back into the wild, where they’d continue to be targeted by predators and likely die in a matter of days, especially without the support of their pack- or keep them at Hogwarts, yes in captivity, but where we know they will be safe and protected from those who’d do them harm?”

At this Jennings shut his mouth, but more interesting were the reactions of several students to the left of Jennings. Poppy Sweeting, who looked like she couldn’t agree more. MC, who was nodding along to Howin’s words, even though their attention hadn’t wavered from the injured Unicorn.

Howin continued, and Sebastian found himself hanging on to her every word.

“Sometimes, in order to protect magical creatures- especially endangered ones- a difficult decision must be made on their behalf,” With a single flick of her band, Howin levitated a bundle of feed the Unicorn’s way, “What is better, an upset Unicorn, or a dead one? What is a little bit of unhappiness in the short term, if it means they stay safe in the long term?”

A heaviness settles amongst the group at her severe words, watching in silence as the Unicorn eyes the bundle of feed warily, caution in its every step as it approaches. Then, slowly, the head bows as it begins to eat, tail swishing to the side in satisfaction.

Satisfied she’s made her point Howin proceeds on with the lecture, failing to notice that not all of her students’ attentions had recovered from her earlier statement.

Sebastian forces his gaze away from where it had fixated on MC, but keeps them in his periphery even as class continues.

---------------------------

The Clocktower wasn’t as busy or loud as Sebastian was used to, but given it was the younger years on the roster today, he couldn’t complain about there being less spectators.

Besides, it didn’t really matter how busy it was- as long as it had attracted the attention of the one person he was looking for.

Fortunately, Natty had claimed her favoured spot on one of the upper viewing decks. Sebastian didn’t get the appeal of watching a bunch of amateurs that hardly know their basic cast from a protego duel, and he’d told Natty as much in the past, but the Gryffindor had insisted she found it interesting, so who was he to judge?

Especially when it provided the perfect opportunity to talk to her, uninterrupted.

“Surprised to see you here, from what I’ve heard shouldn’t you be raiding some Ashwinder base right about now?”

“Sebastian! It’s good to see you,” Natty beamed at him as he joined her by the railing, looking down on the Crossed Wands duel taking place, “And I believe we both know you have the wrong side of that rumour, my friend, I am not the one who raised as Ashwinder base.”

He shrugged, keeping his tone light, “We both know there’s no way you were an innocent bystander, Natty.”

Sebastian liked Natsai Onai, teaming up with the transfer student on a few occasions in their fourth year during Crossed Wands- her taste for adventure could rival that of his own, something she no doubt had been drawn to in MC, in not a dissimilar way as he had. But their friendship was tentative, Sebastian knew the Gryffindor’s opinions on magic differed greatly from his own, with a propensity for black-and-white thinking so typical of members of the lion house.

There were lines Natsai Onai wouldn’t cross, which he’d never cared for in the past, but knowing now that she was engaging with dangerous enemies and dragging MC into it, likely ignorant to just how in-danger their mutual friend was- a pit formed in his stomach with the knowledge Natty wouldn’t do what was necessary in the heat of battle, she’d let MC die if it meant never using ‘dark’ magic.

Worse still, she’d allowed herself to be landed in such a position that required MC engaging directly with an Ashwinder camp to save her. It was a fight to keep the ire from his tone, something he’d never had to do around the friendly Gryffindor in the past.

Instead, he kept any subtle dig from bursting forth, instead regarding Natty with a sympathetic tone, “Still, I can’t imagine how terrifying that was. Are you alright?”

Natty nodded, a smile still present on her face, as though it didn’t even bother her to think of what her own recklessness could have cost, “I’m fine, really I owe my life to MC- they did not let me stay imprisoned for long.”

Yes, that sounded infuriatingly like them- rushing into danger the minute someone else’s life was at stake. Sebastian could picture it now, their impulsive rush to be the hero, not even sparing a second thought for their own safety, relying only on sheer power to get themselves through.

He took a grounding breath, reminding himself what he was here for.

“How did you end up in such a precarious situation?” Sebastian keeps his curiosity light, eyes still observing the duel taking place below them in an image of casualness.

Natty matches his nonchalance, as he’d hoped she might, he liked to think that their friendship was strong enough that she’d feel comfortable sharing the details with him. That, and he supposed the fact Sebastian had his own rumours circulating about his out-of-castle adventures with MC certainly helped, “We’ve been investigating Harlow- MC and I, for some time now- our investigation led us to some of his victims in Hogsmeade,”

The name comes to him easily. Theopholis Harlow- Rookwood’s Second in Command. Merlin , how reckless could MC get? It wasn’t enough for them to be interrupting the operations of Ranrok and Rookwood, no, of course they had to be going after Theopholis Harlow too.

He tried to keep his frustrations at a simmer, as Natty continued, “I suppose I was too reckless, I didn’t even realise the Ashwinders had noticed me until it was too late- they took me to a hidden base next to the Hog’s Head, held me and another man they were extorting in some cells in the back rooms. Even then, I knew MC would find me- our friend is quite the powerhouse,”

That , Sebastian knew, was an understatement. Still, he wasn’t sure if he appreciated Natty’s praise, or hated how she just assumed MC would come running to her aid, like putting their safety on the line was something that should be encouraged- “One moment I am pacing in my cell, the next I am hearing the distant sounds of combat, and then MC is arriving to save us. Upon our escape, I realised they had taken on the entire base on their own- defeated every Ashwinder who had been on patrol.” Natty shook her head slightly, unable to keep the edgings of awe out of her voice, “I don’t know how they did it, I almost wish I could have seen it for myself. Watching them fight is…incredible.”

Yes it is.

Sebastian could watch MC take on legions of goblins all day, wield powerful ancient magic like the extension of themself he suspects it is, commanding the elements at their will, and still couldn’t believe what he’d witnessed. It was no surprise to him that MC was capable of clearing an Ashwinder base alone, but he wished they wouldn’t.

Still, there was another part of Natty’s story that didn’t quite fit, that Sebastian couldn’t make sense of no matter how hard he tried.

Why wasn’t Natty dead?

Ashwinders weren’t known for their mercy, they had killed and tortured their way into power over local hamlets indiscriminately- male or female, child or adult, none were spared the mercy of the Ashwinders if you had dared to get in their way. Natty should have been killed the second she was spotted prying into their affairs.

So why wasn’t she?

The question wrapped tight around his mind, the final piece of the puzzle he just couldn’t fit the picture together without.

This conversation had been pointless, leaving him only with the same questions as he’d started with.There was only one other person Sebastian could think of that might have any answers for him, and by Merlin , if they were still talking he wouldn’t have even gone to all this trouble in the first place-

His thoughts are interrupted once again by Natty.

“You and MC are close…right?” Her voice is low and quiet, hesitant in such a way he is completely unused to hearing from the normally self-assured Gryffindor, “You were with them in the Three Broomsticks when Rookwood came after them.”

His focus sharpens immediately at the slip of vulnerability, he almost forgets to reply, “Yeah, I remember.”

Natty nods, but doesn’t turn to look at him, her gaze distant even as she looks down on the next Crossed Wands match. There’s none of her usual excited interest in her now-distant expression. Sebastian waits, and soon after Natty continues.

“After we escaped MC..MC asked me not to tell Officer Singer or anybody else about- well, I don’t want to betray their trust. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it, I can’t stop worrying and…and I know you’re both close-”

Warmth rushes through his body as the muttered admission, the reminder of how he and MC were widely-acknowledged amongst the school for how close they had become- he’d not missed the way his former Herbology partner had silently made way for MC one day in class, or the whispers from his roommates when they don’t think he’s listening.

All the more indulgent now, that it seems they are considered close enough for Natty to divulge MC’s secrets to him.

Sensing Natty’s hesitation, he urges her on, “I worry about them too, wish they’d tell me more so we can keep them safe.”

It had been the right thing to say, Natty nodded absently, “I-yes, me too. You deserve to know- the Ashwinders, they only captured me in an attempt to gain information on MC. When I wouldn’t tell them anything they- I…I believe they were using me to lure them in, as a trap.”

Sebastian’s breath catches in his chest, the final puzzle piece falling into his lap, ready for him to piece together.

Rookwood and his Ashwinders were after MC. He knew that, Natty knew that, Merlin, Sebastian would bet everyone in Hogwarts knew that by now- but what Natty was talking about was something entirely different.

Capturing a Hogwarts student to lure their rescuer in, interrogating Natty for information- that took intent, it took desperation and more importantly, forethought .

“I was lucky MC rescued me when they did, any delay and I-MC could be- I overheard-” A deep, shuddering breath, horror laced Natty’s words when she spoke next, hardly above a whisper, “They were on their way. Rookwood and Harlow.”

His head snapped around to stare at Natty before he could stop himself,

“You’re sure?”

“It was the first thing the Ashwinders did after taking me, contact Harlow.” Natty’s voice was solemn, “I have been so foolish , Sebastian. If I’d known they were so desperate to get to MC-

“Did you hear anything else? Why they are after MC?”

“No, but Rookwood and Harlow have given direct orders to all their followers- to capture MC on sight.” Natty sighed, unmoved by Sebastian’s sharp attention. A testament to how deep her worry ran, “I am not the only one who has concerns, Poppy Sweeting heard the same whispers among Rookwood’s Poachers. But when she tried to warn MC-”

Sebastian knew the ending to this particular tale, a familiar bristle of frustration swelling in him as he completed her sentence, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, “They brushed it off.” Reckless. Disregard for their own safety. Ignorant.

“I am worried for them, Sebastian. You didn’t hear how desperate the Ashwinders were- and MC, it’s-it’s like they don’t even care . I could not keep this a secret- I figured if anybody could get through to them, it might be you.”

“You did the right thing, Natty. I’ll handle this, trust me, I won’t let any harm come to MC.”

His unwavering conviction seemed to settle some part of Natty’s worries as she sighed, suddenly looking as exhausted as Sebastian had been feeling, she offers him one final smile, looking far less burdened than she had for this entire conversation, “I know you won’t, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. You’re a good friend, Sebastian.”

And with that, Natty was gone, leaving him alone on the upper platform, free to let his thoughts finally come together, finally letting his earlier thrill of realisation overwhelm him.

The mere possibility of getting to MC had been enough to demand the immediate attention of two of the region’s most dangerous dark wizards, to summon them to Hogsmeade and abandon whatever other terror had been occupying their time. Not even he had seen such a sense of desperation coming, and yet everything Natty just told him had confirmed all of Sebastian’s earlier suspicions.

This went far beyond a simple alliance of convenience with Ranrok. Rookwood had his own plans where MC was concerned, and while the thought should terrify Sebastian, should fill him with the same torturous images as he suffered with the recollection of how Goblin Loyalists were targeting MC, it doesn’t .

Natty’s earlier words, whispered like some torturously painful secret, felt like guilty relief to his mind, ‘capture on sight’ .

Someone who wanted MC dead wouldn’t have their followers going to such great lengths to capture them- there would be blasts of the killing curse flying in MC’s direction every time they entered the battlefield, not convoluted plans to lure them into a trap.

No, Rookwood had plans for MC, and they depended on MC being alive.

And it was no mystery why , even some moonmind hit by the confundus charm could figure that one out.

Rookwood knew about MC being able to use the Ancient Magic, he had to, and if that were true then there was no chance he would deliver MC to Ranrok if he got his hands on them first. There was no chance death would come for MC, if they were under the hold of Victor Rookwood.

In fact, Sebastian would bet Salazar’s relic that the moment Rookwood had secured MC, a way to access the Ancient Magic, his alliance with Ranrok would fall apart- hopefully, with the Goblin dead at Rookwood’s wand.

With a sudden lurch, Sebastian pushes himself away from the railing he’d been leaning against, acid burning in his throat as his train of thought caught up to him, what he’d actually been considering-

Victor Rookwood was a dark wizard, an evil, conniving bastard who led an underground crime ring built on corruption and extortion. Merlin, Sebstian lived in one of the Hamlets that fell under Ashwinder territory, his neighbours were victims of their rule of terror- he’s heard about the kind of things Rookwood’s people did to those who wronged them, the cruelty and depravity that none were above sinking to.

There was no corner of the Scottish Highlands that the Ashwinders had not conquered, no rival crime ring that hadn’t been either recruited or all-too-quickly eliminated. They answered to no one, their victims too terrified or too under their control to speak out.

And if Ashwinders were cruel, then Victor Rookwood was even worse.

But he’s not afraid to backstab , a traitorous part of Sebastian’s mind whispered, He’s strategic, he has greater plans than this .

For all his cruelty and depravity, Victor Rookwood was smart. Smart enough to build a criminal empire from a measly local crime ring- the kind of ambition that spoke to greater plans, a hunger for power that extends beyond the simplicity of the Scottish Highlands. Cunning like that meant a want for a challenge , and Sebastian had heard whispers of Ashwinders spotted in other Wizarding towns- the beginnings of expansion.

Yes, Victor Rookwood was smart- smart enough to realise MC had more use to him alive rather than dead.

In spite of himself, Professor Howin’s earlier words resurfaced in his mind, louder than they had been all day.

“Even the most agile of creatures can be caught off-guard, especially if their predator is cunning enough- their natural self-defence tools won’t always be enough.”

Rookwood was smart in a way the goblins weren’t. Ranrok would kill MC the moment he realised they would refuse to tell him how to access the stores of Ancient Magic, blindsided by hate he’d slaughter them where they lay trapped.

“What is better, an upset Unicorn, or a dead one? What is a little bit of unhappiness in the short term, if it means they stay safe in the long term?”

But not Rookwood. No, Rookwood has lofty ambitions, a hunger for power- and he’d do anything to get there.

That much, Sebastian knew he could trust.

That much, he could work with.

------------------------

The ambient chatter of the Slytherin Common Room felt like a soothing blanket with the crackle of the fireplace, as he and Ominis sat in comfortable silence, lost in their respective textbooks.

Things between Sebastian and his best friend had been tense recently, they’d been bickering more than either of them were used to, terse words exchanged got increasingly heated in the days after Ominis had followed him to the Catacombs- but with MC’s intervention, it had been easy to move past. Ominis didn’t ask him about the relic, and Sebastian spared him the details, in moments like this it felt like everything would work out for the best. For now, this was enough.

Still, the familiar comfort of reading in the Common Room with Ominis wasn’t enough to settle his mind. With a frustrated huff, Sebastian slammed his textbook shut, resisting the urge to hurl the offending item to the floor, words a mess of squiggles behind his eyes.

To his side Ominis hadn’t so much as flinched, used to the petulance of his friend by now, and merely paused his wand from where he’d been scanning the Herbology textbook, raising one eyebrow.

“Honestly Sebastian, if you’re still so upset about your fight with MC perhaps you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to them? Merlin forbid, apologising ?”

The scathing tone was nothing new, nor was Ominis’ preference to take MC’s side- he had a tendency of doing that, Sebastian hadn’t forgotten how quickly Ominis folded in the Catacombs with just a few words from MC- pathetic, they just had to bat their eyelashes and suddenly Ominis didn’t have a word to say against them. And now here he was, taking MC’s side over his best friend of five years.

Ridiculous. Ominis didn’t even know what happened, what gave him the right to comment? Even worse, to take their side?

“Drop it already Ominis, I have nothing to apologise for.”

“ That , I sincerely doubt.”

Sebastian grit his teeth as Ominis’ perfectly calm reply, forcing himself to settle his frustrations, “You wouldn’t be so quick to defend them if you knew what they-” He took a deep breath, “Can we not, talk about this again? Besides, that’s not even what’s bothering me-”

“Oh?” At this, Ominis seemed to perk up slightly, “Then what is it? It’s got to be important, to stop you moping about MC.”

He wanted to argue, he had not been moping, but the need to talk won out, needing to clear his head.

Going to speak, Sebastian hesitates, the words dying on his tongue. He can’t tell Ominis what’s really on his mind, knowing ‘furious’ wouldn’t even begin to describe whatever response he’d get in reward for his candor- Ominis’ unrealistic moral principles and bias for backing MC withstanding.

“I just- I can’t stop thinking about something Hecat said in Beasts Class today.” Close enough to the truth, “Is it right to keep a magical creature in captivity, even if it’s for preservation?”.

Ominis frowned, “ That’s what has been bothering you? If it's keeping the beast safe, then what’s the problem?”

He tried not to scowl at the straightforwardness of Ominis’ answer, talking as if Sebastian were being an idiot, “Well, what if they’re unhappy?”

“I’m sure Professor Howin wouldn’t keep a beast in captivity if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, Sebastian,” That was a tone Sebastian was familiar with, and sure enough when he’d turned to look. Ominis was rolling his eyes, “At least this way it’s getting taken care of.”

“Oh yes , taken care of. What, for students to ogle at them, to be used for their magical features.”

“I don’t know much about Howin, but I doubt a Beasts Professor is motivated by greed, besides even if she was- would that be so bad? She wouldn’t be hurting the unicorn, and at least it will be safe here at Hogwarts.” Ominis paused, for a moment lost in thought, before he continued, a wrinkle of worry lining his forehead, “I hear Poachers have been getting increasingly troublesome recently.”

The veiled implications are not missed on him, Sebastian has the feeling he isn’t the only one aware of MC’s recent exploits in the Highlands, the expansion of their enemy list they seem ever-ignorant to think about.

In the past, when Ominis mentioned MC’s exploits, it was always Sebastian’s job to defend them, insisting they were capable of handling themselves out there, that they’d ask for help if they needed it. Beliefs he was struggling with more and more with each adventure he joined them on.

“How can Howin know that what she’s doing is right?”

Ominis’ head tilted slightly at his words, momentarily struck by the sombre tone. Uncertainty was never a good look on his impulsive best friend, “I suppose she can’t know- not for certain- but the Unicorn is safe now isn’t it? Nobody is going to harm it here, so she’s doing something right.”

He let the words wash over him for a moment, assured by the conviction in Ominis’ words- despite their recent disagreements, he could always trust Ominis to be honest with him. And if Ominis, one of the most virtuous people he knew, felt Howin’s actions were justified, then…

His thoughts are momentarily broken as Ominis speaks up again, voice notably quieter than before, “Are you sure that’s all, Sebastian? It’s not like you to get caught up on something so fickle.”

Fickle? Like any of what he was dealing with right now was even close to fickle .

Still, he was touched by Ominis’ obvious concern. They’d always been able to read each other so easily, something that had become more of a hindrance than help to Sebastian in the past year, with Ominis interfering with his every plan made towards a cure for Anne. No matter how deeply he wished he was able to talk to Ominis about this, he knew his best friend was beyond understanding.

“I’m fine, Ominis, it’s just been a long week.” A lot on his mind, ever more so now.

“Well, if you insist.” The false lightness of his voice wasn’t lost on either of them, nor the slowness of Ominis to pick up his wand again and continue reading, as if hoping Sebastian might change his mind.

The silent gesture is lost on Sebastian as his mind finally catches up with him, flickering heat of the fireplace burning its image on the back of his retinas as conflict rages a war within him. The urge to pace is unbearable, but the last thing he has the energy for is more of Ominis’ suspicion.

MC is a free spirit, he knew that, just as he knew how much they hated Victor Rookwood, but what else could he do?

What could he do against their blind ignorance to the danger they’re in, carelessly throwing themselves in the path of goblin loyalists and countless other threats, depending on raw talent and reckless fervour to come out the victor. Someday, Sebastian knew raw power wouldn’t be enough.

They’re endangered, yet they keep insisting on fleeing the safety of the Castle walls to invite trouble, throwing themselves to the line of fire even as the threats against them become more incensed, ever more determined.

Ranrok Loyalists. Ashwinders. Between the two, Sebastian knows which side he’d prefer to see win. He also knows there’s only one side which MC is likely to stay alive with. Against such stakes, why should he worry about anything else?

Mind made up, he pushes himself to his feet with renewed vigour, book nestled under one arm, “Well, I’m turning in, you coming?”

“No, I’m going to finish this reading first on dittany. You know, for Garlick’s essay- the same one you have? ”

“I’ll do it later.”

“It’s twenty inches Sebastian, you need to pace these sorts of things out!”

“Yeah, well I’m tired tonight.”

“ Tired ?” Ominis paused, likely realising the same thing he had- that Sebastian hadn’t been eager to sleep for weeks now. For a moment, Sebastian worried he was about to get questioned further on why the sudden change in spirit, fortunately, Ominis dropped it just as quick, “Well, I suppose you do need the rest, don’t think I haven’t noticed you nodding off in class.” What a hypocrite , he bit down on a witty retort, not wanting to antagonise Ominis any tonight, “I’ll see you up there.”

“Night, Ominis.”

Leaving the chatter of the Common Room behind for the silence of his dorm room had been a dreaded exchange for weeks, the quiet unable to defend Sebastian against his racing thoughts in the same way gossiping housemates and stray spells could- but tonight, he had no such wish to drown out his thoughts.

Lying in the plush four-poster bed, curtains drawn around him, Sebastian welcomes a new distraction, the familiar thrill of a plan unfolding before his eyes. It wouldn’t be without its challenges, he knew that, but if everything went to plan- if he was right about his, about Victor Rookwood- then the fears that had plagued him for weeks, the images that burned behind his eyes whenever they landed on MC- it would all be over, they would be safe .

He had to be right about this.

Lost in a whirlwind of careful schemes, moves and countermoves playing over and over in his mind, it’s hard to tell when the lul of sleep finally takes over- plans fading to black, fitful nightmares taking their place.

------------------

Taunting jeers sounded across the encampment, sounding over the blasts of magic and clanging of steel weapons, hurling down in flashes of obsidian red.

The target of their ire standing in the middle of it all, eyes gleaming in the heat of battle, was MC.

Hair whipping around them from the sheer might of their power, grin wide on their face as they effortlessly dodge another incoming blade, turning back just in time to pull from the might of the skies, another enemy fallen at their wand.

They were a deity of battle, the picture of beauty even amongst the drudge and viciousness of the battlefield, bodies at their feet, twisted grimaces of their enemies in their face. They were untouched by it all, above them in both image and power.

Until suddenly, they weren’t.

Without warning, the sea of goblin loyalists became an overwhelming tidal wave, ethereal blue swallowed by tainted red, all that could be heard was a single piercing cry, tortured and desperate, as MC fell to their knees. A plea, and for a moment, just a moment, he hears his name -

“Sebastian!”

Silence rang across the encampment.

Impossible to tell if a minute had passed or hours when the red sea parts, the scene changes, or maybe it stays the same. What does it matter, whether goblins outline the perimeter, or aren’t there at all, it’s all a blur against the picture of a broken figure in the dirt, held down with chains of goblin silver.

All he can see is MC, lying in the ground, battle-worn and weary, bruised and beaten from hours of torment, blood dripping from a mark on their temple. The urge to wipe it away, to sweep them into a protective embrace is overwhelming-

Footsteps echo across the empty cavern mine? camp? and MC’s head raises- eyes wide and alarmed, snarl across their lips as their attacker approaches, instantly recognisable to them.

Even in memory, he recalls this face.

Ranrok stares down at MC where they are held at his feet, blood red eyes glinting with promised malice, loathing written plainly across the goblin’s features.

One clawed hand wraps around an axe, long and sharpened, Ranrok raises it above his head and prepares to swing down

MC doesn’t move, they watch the blade with wide eyes, tear tracks cut paths down their face that hadn’t been there moments before. In the next beat they should struggle, start fighting- but they don't. Silently, their head bows in acceptance.

What happens next is inevitable, has played before him a thousand times, but he’s too far away, he can’t reach them- why can’t he reach them ? Damned only to watch, helpless to do anything, powerless to save MC, and yet he can’t close his eyes, even as the axe falls, death cuts through the air and a broken cry waits to burst from his chest-

A streak of grey shoots across the scene, seconds later the axe embeds itself in the empty earth where its intended target had just been lying.

In its wake follows a rage of fire, swallowing the goblins whole.

Breath stolen, the new image burns itself into his memory, in an explosion of fire all other possibilities are reduced to ashes.

The snake binds around MC’s frame to keep them kneeling in the ground, slitted red eyes survey the desecrated area, poised to attack, ready for whatever enemy next crosses their path. Perceiving of threats in a way its prize was not.

MC’s eyes suddenly ablaze and the flush of life hot in their cheeks. Any sign of earlier torture gone from their skin, which almost shines with magical potential, their delicate blue brushing against deep grey scales.

The Ashwinder holds MC tight within its coils, now, finally , safe against any blow that may be raised against them, no matter how much they desperately fight in its hold.

#hogwarts legacy #my fics #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow #seb means so well but he doesn't always DO well alright #has this been collecting dust in my wips for months now? yeah and what of it #(jk i am so very ashamed)#don't you love it when a whole fic revolves around one scene idea and that idea ends up being the ENDING of a PART TWO #pain #also yes the fic title is from a tswift song and no i don't listen to tswift and for some reason this felt like a moral conundrum for me #who had a worse moral conundrum: me naming this fic or sebastian sallow deciding to do....well what he's about to do #posting pt 1 because although i've started writing the second i'm not sure when i'll finish it #finding motivation to write in this fandom is difficult to say the least?? so apologies if this ends up forgottn i suppose

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sharkneto · 9 months

Note

Patiently waiting for more TUA grown up Five who didn't go to the apocalypse fic update.

thanks for the fic description, i'd forgotten what fic i was writing and not updating around my busy couple months. you've saved the day

#sorry you get my ire anon but like. come on #there are ways to ask and say you're looking forward to more but this ain't it #if you forgot the fic title it's first on my ao3 profile and it's also pinned on my tumblr #i am excruciatingly aware when it's been a While since an update #i know. i know! i also would like to have an update by now #but life's busy and the chapter has A Lot of dialogue #in the meantime support your local writers - enjoy fics that are updating (or not!) and give those authors some lovely comments #let 'em know how much you're enjoying and which bits specifically #or re-visit old favorites #and let those authors know the same thing!#spread the love while i languish with little writing time

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tenacious-minds · 1 year

Text

In Clays and Creams and Yellow Music is now on ao3

Robin is gay, is the thing. She always has been.

She remembers being very small and watching the way girls skirts twirled around their knees, the way their hair would brush they collarbones and get stuck on their mouths, lips sticky with gloss and— his hair has grown out, is the thing. Since everything. Since it's all been over. He hasn't gotten it cut.

Used to be every three months like clockwork, the minute it would start brushing his shoulders. And she'd asked him once, why he bothered when it looked so nice longer. He'd tensed up, facing away from her, hands still poised above the register. And then his shoulders had dropped, all at once, forced like, and he’d shrugged. Told her he didn't like the feeling of it brushing his shoulders. He hadn't looked her in the for the rest of their shift.

She doesn't think she believed him then, either, but she hadn't known what to say to him about it (years later, in the quiet dark of their apartment, he will tell her about his first hair cut and his father and the way his hair brushing against his shoulder's made him want to cry and how confusing that was because it was from happiness and from fear and sadness and some weird twisted second-hand form of disgust (and she knows if she ever sees Harrington senior again she will absolutely break her fucking hand for the sheer pleasure of popping him one right in his great big nose.))

So, yeah. His hair is getting long, and the longest bits reach past his shoulders, now, and the front pieces are falling just past his chin, with this one extra short bit— lifted by his great big swirling cow’s-lick— tickling his cheek-bone. And he’s stopped swooping it up with too much hairspray, lets it fall soft and wispy around his face instead— and the door opens, bell jiggling, and he smiles at the pretty girl on the other side of the counter. All big and flirty-like, that one that shows off his one crooked incisor and it makes her stomach twist uncomfortably and she feels sick with it. But Steve is talking with his hands now, fingers flying as he explains the plot of whatever movie he’s recommend, and she can see the way the girl tracks them, nose wrinkling, and that makes Robin's stomach twist for a whole other reason, sinking like a rock in her fucking abdomen, tugging at her diaphragm until she can't breathe with it either. Because really, Steve’s picked up a lot of that from her and Eddie, the way he flourishes his hands. But Eddie knows better than to really do it much in public, and he’s created the kind of personae that it wouldn’t matter even if he did but Steve doesn’t have that, and he doesn’t even really know.

But Steve is ringing her up now, and they’re both smiling and the girl is thanking him and—it’s fine, really, it's all fine.

Except that now Robin's looking at his hands too, all cluttered with rings, which he's slowly been collecting for the past month now—two months? All delicate weaved silver and floral motifs, one with a small inset amethyst and one with weaving ivy (from Robin) and another, the only chunky one (one of Eddie’s)— an old signet style ring with a heavy lined moth, weighing down his pinky-finger in tarnished silver. And his nails— they’re painted. A soft pink clear coat you can barely see, except for when it catches the light just right and the florescent bulb shines in arcs across them. He'd had Robin repaint them Saturday night, after the girls had left, from a bright yellow ( his favourite colour) to this ‘so he could still wear it into work’. (When pressed he had simply stated that he'd promised El, and then, in a much quieter hushed kind of voice, that he thought it would be good for Will to have some positive roll models.) They're well cared for, Robin knows, and by turns soft and rough—slightly callused from years of sports and swinging his dumb bat at dumb terrifying monsters, but he has this whole drawer full of fancy creams and she knows that he trims his cuticles, files his nails until they are a perfectly shaped oval—

“-obin" Steve is looking at her now, head tilted to the side with that soft exasperated Robin-smile he saves just for her. "Robs?" he says again, and he laughs softly when she just blinks at him, it makes something in her stomach clench painfully. She feels sick. Is she sick? She wonders if this is all some sort of fever induced hallucination and— Steve is looking worried now, stepping closer with that little furrow between his brows, one hand lifted like he's thinking about pressing it to her forehead to check her temperature and— is he wearing lip gloss what the fuck? But— no. Steve is not allowed to look worried.

He's worried so often— about her and the kids and Eddie and even Nance and Jonathan, and there's absolutely no need for him to be looking like that right now, not about whatever is happening inside Robin's head because its nothing. So she laughs and pokes at his forehead, and he swats at her hands, still kind of frowning at her, and she knows he's still worried.

“I'm okay, Stevie, really” she says, and then he goes a little pink, the way he always does when she calls him that, fond and pleased, and he squeezes her hand tightly between his.

"You looked a little warm, are you sure?" and she doesn't stop him from pressing the back of his hand to her cheek, forehead, neck until he's satisfied. He smells like the lavender he puts on his temples before bed and like something else sweet and musky and floral. Fuck.

"See?" She says, and squeezes his other hand where they're still clasped by their sides. “All good."

He hums, still looking her over. "Alight, but let me know if that changes okay? We’re closing early to day to help out at the middle school, so I can always drive you home and then come back to finish closing up on my own.” And then he's back to work again, squinting at the computer screen and typing with his painfully slow two-fingered jabs.

And Robin's gay, is thing. She always has been. She likes women, or at least, she doesn't like men.

But Steve is—

Well. Fuck.

Part 2

#part 1 #When I tell you I cried very real tears over this ship I am not lying #I read one to many NBfem steve fics and now I feel physically ill because this ship has invaded my entire brain and its all i can think abou #I'm with Robin when I say 'what the fuck'#I can't even type the ship name #anyway Robin is still a lesbian people hold tight we're going on a ride.#stobin #My writing #stranger things #headcanon #non-binary steve harrington #Tentively titled lavender haze becasue it's PERFECT but I also promised myself i would never title a fic after a TS song #but go on tell me that lavender haze (and midnights over all) isn't a good match #anyway #go forth and #die with me i guess #new hc alert #There's definitely more coming soon but if I didn't get it out of my brain and into the big wide internet im pretty sure I was gonna explode

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 7 months

Text

In time, this world will take a dark turn; for now, in Southtown, fighting bandits, Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa gain a new ally.

-----

Plumes of dark smoke rise from the direction of the town. These blasted brigands made it before the Shepherds could intercept them, leaving Chrom scrambling to catch up. He can see the flames crawling up the sides of houses and devouring brown shingled roofs; no matter how fast they move now, there’s already damage done. Hopefully they can intervene before anyone is killed.

Chrom takes the lead and Lissa follows close behind Frederick, clutching her staff as though to use it as a club. The main cobblestone road takes them in toward the center of town, past hastily-abandoned wagons still laden with bounty from the fields. The center square, when it comes into view, shows more clear signs of daily life hastily interrupted: farm stands battered and overturned, crops littering the ground. At this distance, indistinct yells and screams reach Chrom’s ears. He is ready to charge into the fray, careful approach be damned, when a clatter of footsteps precedes a woman who throws herself around the corner of the house to Chrom’s left. She collides with an empty farm stand and then intentionally catches hold of it to bring herself to a stop. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes catch on Chrom’s and the relief spreading across her face hardens immediately into a determined scowl.

“More of you damned brigands,” she hisses, straightening up. One hand plunges into her coat as though seeking a weapon, and she holds the other straight out, fingers splayed, straight towards Chrom. “Fine, then—”

A ball of lightning begins to form in her palm, crackling brightly and loudly sparking and snapping the way the flames do. She knows magic, and she probably means to kill them.

“Wait!” Chrom throws his hands up. He’d like to be ready to draw Falchion, but he’d like a ball of lightning to the chest even less, and if he goes for his blade she will probably strike. “We aren’t brigands! We’re Shepherds, here to help!”

“Awfully well-armed for shepherds,” the woman replies curtly, not lowering her hand even slightly. “Though you don’t sound like brigands.”

She shifts her stance and her long dark coat moves with her, revealing a glimpse of a blade sheathed at her hip. This woman is no ordinary resident of a simple farming village, that’s for damn sure. But she still hasn’t attacked him, so Chrom is optimistic about his chances to calm this situation. “So what do brigands sound like?” he asks.

“Plegian,” she says. Her eyes finally leave Chrom’s face, darting briefly across Frederick and lingering longer on Lissa, who takes up the rear. Surely she doesn’t think that a girl of Lissa’s age would be part of a bandit incursion? “You don’t, but you don’t look like knights - and certainly not like shepherds, either.”

“We hear that a lot,” Chrom says.

The lightning disappears from her palm, but her hand remains raised, still ready for the situation to turn south. She looks back behind her, toward the main square, as though expecting others to appear around the corner. When no one does, her gaze turns back on Chrom, cold and appraising. “Whatever you are, if you truly mean to help, your timing is perfect. These brigands think I’m their only opposition. You can easily ambush them while they’re preoccupied.”

“Wait,” Lissa pipes up from behind. “You don’t mean that you’ve been trying to fight a bunch of bandits all on your own! That’s crazy!”

The woman draws her hand back; her other still lingers inside her coat and the tome surely hidden away there. “What else was I to do?” she asks. “Let them run unopposed?”

“Surely the danger of such a venture has not escaped you,” Frederick says. He still looks wary of her - typical Frederick - but not as though he will be the first to strike.

The woman waves her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I know,” she says, and she sounds just as dismissive as her gesture was - sounds as though the danger of such a venture has in fact escaped her. “Now, they’re still going to be on guard waiting for me to attack again, but if you sneak up through here” - she indicates a thin alley between two homes that are thankfully not yet ablaze - “and I catch their attention from the main square and draw them toward us, you can strike from the side while they’re distracted.”

Her strategy, while simple, seems solid, and has more thought put into it than Chrom would have (his strategy being to run the bastards down immediately). There is just one key point that he objects to: “So you are going to charge them, alone.”

“I’m not charging them,” she reminds him. “I’m getting their attention and drawing them back, and I’m hardly alone if there’s an ambush waiting on my side.”

“That’s a lot of faith to put in strangers,” Chrom says. Her life in their hands, and they don’t even know her name. And she might be a stranger, but she’s fighting for the people of Ylisse; that makes her a friend to the Shepherds and the Exalt, and they’re short on friends as of late.

“So it is,” she agrees. Her expression doesn’t waver; her eyes don’t leave Chrom’s even as she says, “And you, girl with the staff - if this goes wrong, you might be my new best friend, not a stranger. Now shall we?”

She seems to have determined Chrom to be the leader of them. He nods and looks to Frederick. He does not appear at all happy, but he does not offer any verbal objection, either. Presumably he will go along with what Chrom goes along with, and Chrom is going to go along with this plan that is only slightly insane because he has no plan at all. “Let’s.”

The woman darts off into the main square, ducking around the broken farm stands as she moves between cover. Chrom wonders why she’s bothering, if she intends to get their attention, and several seconds later, as he advances down the alleyway, he realizes that she probably intends to make her approach appear less suspicious than an outright charge.

He really would have just charged, himself.

The alley between the houses, about two feet wide, is littered with debris. Chrom crouches behind the rainwater barrel that stands at the far mouth of the alley and presses his back to the wall. Further ahead lies the bridge across the river which cuts the town in half, and on the other side, the church. Two brigands, one with a large axe and the other with a sword, cross the bridge, yelling what must be every derogatory term to refer to a woman that exists. Moments later, a small javelin-shaped burst of lightning streaks through the air, slamming directly into the chest of the swordsman. He howls as he tumbles to the ground, still alive despite the force of the impact, and his companion continues on, disappearing out of Chrom’s line of sight.

Chrom gives himself another few moments, watching the swordsman return to his feet and put his back to Chrom. Then the sound of metal-on-metal rings through the air, and Chrom decides that is enough.

He throws himself forward from the alley, drawing Falchion. Now he can see the stranger, with a sword in her hands to parry the axe that bears down on her. The second brigand limps towards the duel and does not make it; Falchion tears through his back and he falls with a gurgling sound. The axe-wielding brigand, about to bring a second swing down on the stranger, hesitates and turns towards the sound. “What the—”

Falchion arcs through the air, meeting the chipped, rusting axe blade. The brigand’s face, contorted in fury, suddenly goes slack. He looks down; Chrom, however, does not dare take his eyes off the axe - not until it clatters to the ground from now-limp hands of a man with lightning magic still sparking in his chest.

“I killed two of them earlier, before I had to run and met you,” the woman says, lowering her right hand; in her left, she clutches a tome close to her chest. “I believe there should only be one of them left—”

She drops the tome and lunges forward. Chrom has no time to react and next he knows, she has knocked the two of them to the ground. Crackling flames burst in the air above them, right where Chrom had been standing; even from a few feet away, the spell warms the side of his face and he wonders what it would be like to have taken the full brunt of it. “I thought I killed two of them,” the woman amends, falling back onto the ground away from Chrom and fumbling for her tome again, and then with a wordless yell of anger she throws lightning right back.

Chrom scrambles to his feet. Across the square, he sees another man fall, a tome slipping from his grasp. “My apologies,” the woman says lightly, as though she didn’t just strike a man down with magic, turning her head to glance at Chrom. “I didn’t expect that.”

“That’s all right,” Chrom says. “I much prefer being thrown around a little to burning alive.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says.

“Anyone need help?” Lissa waves her staff about as she runs up, Frederick still doing his best to stay ahead of her and keep himself between her and any danger. It is, Chrom suspects, a losing battle, but Frederick valiantly fights it anyway, and for that Chrom is grateful. He doesn’t have to keep both eyes on Lissa at all times with Frederick around. “We’re all good?”

“The last man seems to have been the one giving orders,” says the woman, indicating the bandit lingering on the other side of the bridge. “Let’s see if he has any bite behind his bark.”

To the little credit that Chrom would give any Plegian brigands who are ransacking his halidom, the sole remaining man is not a coward who folds once he sees his backup is dead. Unfortunately this also means a second round of fighting, and more chances for someone on Chrom’s side to be hurt. And fortunately, when the stranger catches a thrown axe, it is with the inside of her billowing coat, and not any critical piece of flesh, and Frederick’s lance puts the bandit down before he can do any real damage to anyone.

And then there is no time to waste, as the town is on fire and the four of them cannot put it out by themselves. Lissa scrambles about trying to convince the townspeople that it’s safe to come out and help, and Chrom and Frederick search for any buckets; by the time Chrom returns to where he remembers a rain barrel, he finds that the woman has scaled one of the houses and stands on a roof about fifteen feet away from the crackling flames.

There’s something admirable in her audacity, that she’s running towards danger for the sake of helping others. That’s the kind of person who would be a good fit for the Shepherds. And Chrom’s no tactician or politician, but he can read the writing on the wall the same as anyone else: Plegia’s building up to something, and Ylisse needs to be prepared to fight back.

They need all the help they can find, here and everywhere else.

It is late afternoon before all of the fires have been put out and the wounded villagers treated. Chrom has not met a person who is not profusely thankful, offering anything they have as repayment. He politely refuses offerings of meager coin pushed on him - “it’s all we have but please, milord, you saved our homes, you saved us–” - to make his way back to the center of town. A man who had earlier introduced himself as one of the village elders greets them there.

“You must at least stay the night, milord,” he implores. “We would happily toast the valor of you and your companions with a feast - where has the last one of you gotten off to, do you know?”

Chrom looks to Frederick on his right and Lissa on his left and back at the older man. “You mean - that woman? She wasn’t with us - you mean she isn’t from here?”

“Goodness, no.” The man shakes his head. “We would surely know if we had any mages in town. I have never seen her before.”

Lissa has already begun to imagine, out loud, what sort of meal they might be having when there, rounding the corner, comes the stranger woman. She stops dead when she sees an already-assembled group of people staring at her, and she flinches when the town elder calls her over. Her eyes do not linger long on him even as he extends his grateful invitation to her; they rove, suspiciously, between all of them. “That’s a generous offer, sir,” she replies, her eyes finally settling on the village elder, “but I’m afraid I must decline. I’ve been away from home long enough and my mother will be getting worried.”

“Likewise, we must be returning to Ylisstol,” Frederick says - exactly what Chrom had expected him to say. They need to report back to Emmeryn.

Lissa, however, stops in the middle of a sentence. “Wait, what? Frederick, it’s nearly dark! We—”

“We will simply make camp where we find ourselves and hunt for our sustenance - as I believe you said that you would be ‘getting used’ to roughing it?”

Frederick has a point. She did say that, and from her expression, she clearly remembers saying that and can’t accuse him of making it up. “Frederick,” she says wearily, “sometimes I really hate you.”

The woman covers a laugh with her hand. “If you’re also heading north,” she says, “my mother and I live along the road back to Ylisstol. If we leave now, we should be able to make it before nightfall and you can have a roof to sleep under for the night - and I won’t have to worry if I run into another pack of brigands on the road.”

It’s a practical suggestion, but there’s something strange about the way she speaks it - a catch in her voice after she offers them her open door, and then the hasty addition. Like her offer of assistance would be too suspicious if she didn’t also gain something from it. Like people don’t help each other only for the sake of helping each other, like there always has to be a reward, but she was here in this town fighting bandits alone and might easily have disappeared without getting anything in return. And Frederick frowns, like he does find that offer suspicious, because he finds everything suspicious - that is Frederick’s way. And Chrom thinks of Emmeryn, and will do as his heart wills him, and he answers, “I think we all would be grateful for a roof after the day it’s been - my sister especially.”

“Hey!” Lissa aims to stomp down on his foot, but Chrom gets out of the way quicker than she can strike. “You - you shut it!”

The woman lifts her hand again, obviously shielding a smile from the way her cheeks rise to her eyes. “Oh, of course,” she says, lowering her hand and failing to compose her face into a stern expression as she tilts her body just slightly in towards Lissa. “He’s using you as the excuse.”

“Exactly!” Lissa cries, and the stranger’s mischievous smile widens and she doesn’t seem to think to hide this one. “Don’t listen to a word he says about me. He’s called me delicate before - delicate! As if!”

“Let’s not start this again,” Chrom says.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have started it—!”

Frederick clears his throat. “That is generous of you, milady, but as you said - if we leave now.” He glances to the sky, tracking the position of the sun and the length of the shadows. “So we should, then, be off.”

The woman straightens up. “Of course,” she says with a sharp nod, and already her teasing feels distant or imagined. She dropped her guard and then snapped it back up, and that just makes Chrom all the more curious as to who she is and what her story is. “That we should.”

“My name is Lissa, by the way,” Lissa says. “And this is Chrom, my brother - you actually shouldn’t listen to anything he says, not just about me - and Frederick.”

Frederick gives a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Pleasure to meet you,” Chrom says.

“Likewise,” the woman replies. “My name is Robin.”

She has short hair, a pale, sandy blonde lighter in shade than either Lissa or Emmeryn’s. Her long, dark coat has maroon detailing along the arms and through the interior and, as she offers when questioned, more than a few pockets sewn within it. Frederick’s first line of inquiry - as suspiciously as he ever asks such things - as they set off down the road is where she learned to fight, and she reaches within her coat and produces a book on battle tactics. “My mother was a mercenary tactician, and a mage,” she says. “She taught me everything she knew, and the other members of her company taught me the basics of the sword.”

“A tactician, huh,” Chrom says. “The Shepherds could really use one of those now.”

“Is that so?” Robin asks. “Is the situation with the brigands getting worse? The news we get from town was always of smaller incursions such as that, but nothing more.”

She’s eager for news from Ylisstol and hangs intently on Chrom’s every word about the progression of the situation with Plegia. If she lives a few hours’ walk from such a small town, it’s no surprise that she’s not up-to-date.

When Frederick returns to the question of her skills and Robin proves, among other skills, an uncanny knack for knowing where exactly in her tactics book to find certain references or information. It’s almost like a game, as Frederick or Chrom opens discussion of a cavalry or infantry formation and Robin immediately produces pages of diagrams in her book. As battlefield experience goes, she admits to having little - but Chrom’s recruited people to the Shepherds who have none at all, and Robin has already proven that she has quick reflexes and keeps a level head in a fight.

Gods, he’s really considering this. Ylisse is in dire straits.

“Have you always lived around here?” Chrom asks at a lull in the tactical discussion. Robin has a bit of an accent he can’t place; it isn’t the Plegian accent he’s familiar with, but she doesn’t sound quite Ylissean either.

The way she looks at him suggests that she knows the question buried beneath that: where are you from? A question of allegiance - though allegiance does not always correlate with one’s place of birth - but Frederick would probably be furious if Chrom didn’t ask before he asks his other question. “I spent my childhood in Ferox,” she says. “Until I was - eight or nine, maybe?”

Her pointed gaze lingers on Chrom for a moment longer, as if asking him if that answer is good enough, until Lissa pipes up, “Isn’t it cold in Ferox?”

“I have seen snow,” says Robin solemnly, “in every month of the year.”

Lissa scrunches up her nose. “That’s horrible!”

“It would have its charms, in moderation,” Robin replies.

“So, like, just a bit of snow sometimes would be nice,” Lissa says. “Like in the winter. Having a bit of snow in moderation in the winter, like we have here, is nice. That’s what you mean?”

Robin scratches her cheek. “Yeah, that’s - I deserve that, don’t I?”

“It was pretty silly,” Lissa says. “But you’ve sounded pretty smart otherwise, so it’s okay. You know how many silly things my brother says in a day–”

“None at all,” Chrom cuts in.

“—but without anything smart to balance it out?” Lissa continues, as though Chrom did not speak.

Frederick, as ever, stoically perseveres, his eyes on the horizon. Long ago he wisely chose that he would not involve himself in petty sibling squabbles. Robin, however, has not yet had cause to make that choice. “You’re awfully mean to your brother,” she says - as if she hadn’t joined Lissa in it back in town.

Lissa shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s what little sisters are supposed to be.”

Robin raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?” she asks, glancing to Chrom for confirmation, as though he’s going to say yeah, my little sister is doing exactly what she’s supposed to be doing every day of her life by calling me a dummy.

“Do you have any siblings?” Chrom asks. He thinks that her answer may clear the matter up quickly, or add a confounding new layer to it.

She shakes her head. “Just myself and my mother.”

“Lissa is convinced, that as my baby sister, it’s what she’s supposed to do,” Chrom says. “It does not mean she’s actually supposed to.”

Lissa skips up behind him and tries to kick him in the back of the leg.

“I still don’t understand,” Robin says.

“You won’t,” Chrom says. Lissa tries again to kick him.

“I find it better to simply carry on and not acknowledge any squabbling,” Frederick says. “It will pass momentarily.”

Robin nods and steps up beside him, leaving Chrom with room to try to ruffle Lissa’s hair while Lissa continues to try to kick him in return. A part of him has concerned himself with the impression that this will make on Robin, but she already seems to have taken easily to Lissa - and most of the Shepherds could be said to be a bit eccentric. If she couldn’t handle Lissa then what would her introduction to the other Shepherds look like?

He might be getting a bit ahead of himself.

Frederick and Robin are discussing weapons training, and if Chrom has heard right, Robin has been running the same drills since she was eight. “After we left the mercenaries, there was no one to teach me,” she says, and yes, that really does sound like it - and that means that Robin was a child traveling around with a bunch of mercenaries. Her mother worked as a mercenary with a child in tow. It’s impressive, Chrom thinks, if unfortunate.

He should just go for it. At a lull in the conversation, he clears his throat and steels himself. “Robin,” he says, and she sharply turns to look at him, eyes wide and then narrowing in suspicion. “I meant what I said earlier about the Shepherds needing a tactician. I know this is a very large thing to ask so suddenly of someone I’ve just met, but you’ve proven yourself willing and able to fight for the people of Ylisse - I’d be honored if you would consider joining us.”

“Join—” Her eyes widen again. “You want me to join your… Shepherds, as a tactician?”

“I do,” Chrom replies. “You are more than free to say no—”

“Milord,” Frederick says. “This is very sudden indeed.”

“I know, Frederick. But I said to you the other day - we have to be on the lookout for others willing to help us, no matter where we might find them. Even if your answer is no, Robin, and I’d understand that, I’d rather ask than wonder.”

Robin is quiet, her jaw moving like she keeps stopping moments before a question surfaces. Finally she says, “There are more than just the three of you, I hope?”

“Wh - yes! There are.” Her answer is a question that is not an outright rejection, so Chrom tells her a little bit about the others within the ranks of the Shepherds. He explains that they go wherever they’re needed, because the pegasus knights have to focus on the border and especially the Exalt, and with the situation with Plegia as it is, there’s more and more need to keep the Exalt protected. Robin is ready with a deluge of questions, but when she has exhausted them, she gives no further answer. That she has not outright said no bodes well - though Chrom tries to temper that hope. She has not said yes, either.

The sun is gone from sight and its light fading in the sky when Robin leads them off the road, into the trees. Frederick lights a torch which he carefully maneuvers beneath the hanging branches, and Robin conjures a ball of lightning that hovers above her head and illuminates little more than the ground directly beneath their feet. Chrom can sense Frederick’s ever-increasing suspicion - it would be easy for them to disappear here.

“Before we arrive,” Robin says, stepping over a tree root which Lissa stumbles on, “I should warn you that my mother is - well, she can be - she’s rather… brusque. If she starts to make you feel like you’ve personally offended her, you haven’t; that’s just how she is, I promise.”

She stops, holding up a tree branch to let the three of them easily duck beneath it. Lissa’s furious grumbling does not cease, but she grumbles something that might be a thanks in Robin’s direction. Robin smiles, just a little.

“Just as long as you’d understand some of the other Shepherds to be rather… odd,” Chrom says. He told her that the Shepherds have come from all manner of backgrounds, with all manner of skills. And while he’s sure that when he described Miriel as a scholar of magic, Robin can probably conjure in her head an image that’s similar to the real Miriel, describing Sully as a dedicated knight doesn’t capture what makes her Sully. And then what can even be said about the likes of Vaike?

Robin lets go of the branch behind him. “I think we have an agreement,” she says, and Chrom though he wants to does not ask if that is an agreement as someone who would be their tactician, because how weird the Shepherds are won’t actually matter to her if she never meets or joins them.

Lives alone in the woods with her mother is still very much not in the kind of recruit Chrom expected to be considering, to be hoping for, but - Ylisse is in dire straights, indeed. Lives alone in the woods with her mother is the start of fairy tales of witches who eat children.

And just as it seems that they will forever be surrounded by trees, just as Chrom is seriously trying to dig up the memory of any such witch stories, they step forth into a clearing. A fence, half constructed, partially circles a chicken coop, and past it sits a plain, weather-worn house. “Mama!” Robin calls, breaking the spell of the quiet hum of nature. “Mama, I’m back! And I brought company, so don’t be alarmed!” She glances around and stares at the chicken coop for a moment longer, and then yells louder, “Mama!”

The door of the house swings open. “I heard your squawking the first three times, birdie,” rasps a voice from within, and Robin’s magic lightning-light is joined by three small white flames which pop up into the air above the stoop. They illuminate an older woman with a stress-lined face and thin hair the same color as Robin’s where it isn’t starting to gray. “What in hell do you mean, you brought company?”

Robin holds out a hand and gestures to them. “Mama, this is Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick. They’re part of a militia and they helped me fight off brigands from town. I offered them a place to stay on their way back to Ylisstol. Everyone, this is my mother, Morrigan.”

Morrigan has the same cold and appraising glare as her daughter does. Even as she approaches Robin, her wary eyes continue to rove across Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa. She takes her daughter by the chin and turns her head side to side before she roughly lifts one of Robin’s arms away from her side, like she’s inspecting her. “Mama,” Robin sighs. “I’m not hurt.”

“Hmph.” Morrigan drops Robin’s arm and, over her shoulder, meets Chrom’s eyes with that withering gaze again. “Then I suppose I should thank these strangers for bringing my daughter home in one piece.”

“Not at all,” Chrom replies. “She helped us a great deal, as well.”

Morrigan’s attention snaps back to Robin. “Then you haven’t learned a thing from this, have you?”

Robin frowns. “What am I supposed to have learned? That everyone in town was right when they worried about being attacked? That I was right when I said they had no one to protect them?

“They did have someone to protect them!” Morrigan waves her hand through the air, a broad, sweeping gesture that encompasses Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa all. “But what of you, next time you go running off alone to defend strangers?”

She warned them that her mother was brusque, but Chrom starts to think she did not warn them that they would walk right into the middle of an ongoing argument.

“I’m not going to hide away while the countryside burns around us!” Robin says. Her gloved hands at her sides tense into fists, and she glances back at Chrom. “And I won’t be alone next time. They asked me if I’d come with them and help them fight, and I will.”

Chrom has spent this long waiting for her answer and now he’s been blindsided by it. “Wait,” he says. “You will?”

He’s not sure either of the women heard him. Morrigan stands statue-still, her expression unreadable; Robin stares back. “I know what you’re going to say,” Robin says, “and I—”

“Grab more firewood on your way in, if you please, birdie,” Morrigan says, turning away from her daughter and to the door. “Since I’ll be cooking up extra for our company.”

The door snaps shut behind her.

“Oh dear,” Lissa says.

Robin’s mouth, still open, closes slowly. She stares at the door. “That was,” she says, dragging a hand through her hair, only for it to immediately fall back into place over her forehead, “not what I thought she was going to say.”

“Er, right,” Chrom says. “Listen, Robin, I know I was the one to ask if you’d come with us, but if - I don’t want to be the person responsible for ruining your relationship with your mother—”

“Oh, it’s not you,” Robin says, directing them around the house to a pile of unsplit firewood and an axe, which Frederick immediately grabs and sets to work. Chrom takes the pieces he has chopped down to size, while Robin and Lissa gather the splinters into a kindling pile. “We argued before I left, too. She told me not to be stupid and risk my life, so then I snuck out and left before she got up the next morning.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye?” Lissa asks, her mouth hanging open. Chrom knows she is imagining doing that to Emm - how unthinkable to set off on a mission without their sister knowing. But Emm would never try to stop them, either; they all know what they must do for their people. They all agree on the responsibilities and the cost. Robin and her mother, evidently, don’t.

“We would have started arguing again,” Robin says. She picks up a sliver of bark that cracked off of a log and slowly bends it until it snaps. “I’d say I couldn’t stand by and do nothing; she’d say that it’s foolish to put myself into such danger for the sake of people who wouldn’t do the same in return.”

“What do you mean by that?” Chrom asks. “That - doesn’t seem right, to assume that of people without knowing them.”

“Yeah!” Lissa agrees. “Everyone in town was really grateful! They would’ve fed us!”

She turns a glare on Frederick, presumably for not letting them stay and indulge in that feast. Frederick, however, is not looking at her - and anyway, he would tell her anyway that she still has a roof to sleep under and someone else assisting with the meal, so she cannot complain. They could, he would say, be sleeping in the woods.

“Back when we were still with the mercenaries,” Robin says, “my mother saved every bit of gold she could. After years and years she had enough that every little town we passed through she’d ask around if there was enough room for a mother and her daughter to settle. But all the same people who gladly paid for her to risk her life and drive off a few ruffians balked at the thought of actually letting her - us - into their communities.”

She stares at the pieces of bark in her hands and drops them into one of the coat pockets where she has been gathering kindling. “It’s easy to be grateful to a stranger who sets off down the road at the end of the day; harder to welcome one into your peaceful village where you’ve known everyone since the day they were born. So we keep to ourselves out here, and she travels into town every week or two to trade, and we’ve always managed like that.”

“Until now,” Frederick says, “when we find you in a town under attack, rather than keeping safely to yourself.”

He does not try to conceal the air of mistrust which hangs around his words.

“Mama came home last week telling how bandit attacks are more and more frequent,” Robin replies, “and that people in the village are afraid that they’ll be hit soon. The forest out here will burn the same as a town if we hide away waiting for war to reach us. Or, I could go to meet it and perhaps make a better defense - I understand your suspicions, but all I can tell you is the truth. I heard they were afraid and I wanted to do something.”

“And the truth is, Frederick, that she helped us,” Chrom reminds him.

“And the truth is that the task of wariness has always fallen to me,” says Frederick. “Someone must be.”

“You and my mother are quite alike in that regard,” Robin says.

Frederick nods curtly. When the four of them return soon to Morrigan with the requested wood, they find that she has not started food preparations yet; she has waited to ask for their help. And that means that Frederick has an excuse to hover by Lissa’s shoulder. Make sure she doesn’t hurt herself (of course she’s not going to hurt herself; she knows how to cook). Make sure everything that goes into the meal is something that should be there (Frederick would hover to keep careful watch of ingredients anyway, but he is polite enough that he would rather have the excuse).

(Chrom wonders if the reason that Morrigan waited was to give them the excuse.)

The house is not furnished for guests, and when it is time to take their meal, Chrom finds himself seated on the floor with Frederick and Robin. A stool in the corner goes unused; Robin had insisted that she did not invite guests in so that they could all sit on the floor, Frederick had insisted that Lissa and Chrom seat themselves before him, and Chrom had insisted that he couldn’t further impose on Robin by kicking her away from her own table.

“You’re all so stubborn,” Lissa says from where she sits above him at the table with Morrigan, and even though Chrom isn’t looking at her, he knows she is rolling her eyes.

“If they all wish to be so foolishly sacrificing, then that is their prerogative,” Morrigan says. She almost sounds as if she is making a joke.

Robin shed her long coat when everyone came inside, but she still wears her gloves. “Yes Mama, it certainly is,” she says, and as she lifts her bowl to drink the broth her eyes flicker towards Chrom in a way that he can only think means something like watch this or well this had to come back up sooner or later.

Morrigan sighs deeply. “So,” she says, her attention turning without even a glance towards Robin, “this militia of yours.”

She asks many of the same questions that Robin did, but every single one of them feels particularly pointed in a way that Robin’s didn’t. And that makes Chrom feel like every answer he gives is the wrong one, especially the times when Morrigan will glance at Robin and something will pass between them. But whether they agree or disagree with each other, Chrom can’t begin to guess.

Only once everyone finished cleaning their dishes does Morrigan finally address her daughter again. “You know what I’m going to say, birdie.”

“Yes, Mama,” Robin says.

“And you’re going to tell me none of it changes your mind, is that so?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Then that’s it, is it not? If nothing I’ve already told you will stop you, then I’ve nothing new to say that will change your mind now. You well made your point running off like that.”

It is dark outside, and in the quiet inside, even past the windows, Chrom can hear the chirping and chittering of the insects in the woods. He almost wishes to grab Lissa and Frederick and drag them out into the night; this feels like a conversation that no one else should be privy to. Robin stands rooted in place, still holding a towel for drying dishes, staring at her mother who has crossed the room and opened a door on the far wall.

“You could at least give me your blessing,” Robin says quietly. “If I’m going no matter what, I could at least not feel like I’m abandoning you.”

“My blessing to throw yourself onto the front line of a fight?” Morrigan asks, her hand still on the doorknob, and Chrom glimpses what appears to be a bedroom past that. “I want you safe. I can’t tell you I’m okay with this.”

“We’ll burn the same out here as the towns do,” says Robin. “I would rather face the bastards with the torches - die on my feet if I would die either way.”

“There’s plenty terrible fates besides death. You know if you’re captured by those bastards, you’ll be lucky if all they do is kill you.”

Lissa shudders. As royalty of Ylisse, she would be spared from death by her use as a hostage, instead, but Chrom knows that he would rather die than be used against Emmeryn in such a way, and he suspects that Lissa feels the same. Anyone else - especially a woman - captured would face one of several other dire fates.

“I know, Mama.” Robin cracks the knuckles on her right hand. That statement, at least, seems to weigh on her; her words lack the same degree of confidence as her prior answers.

“You do know,” Morrigan agrees. “You’re a smart girl despite yourself.” She sighs. “You’ve my permission to take my damn coat with you, though I can’t fathom what you like so much about it.”

Robin straightens her shoulders. “It has good pockets for tomes and other books,” she says brightly.

“You know how to sew,” Morrigan says. “You’ve plenty of coats of your own to add book pockets to.”

“But this one already has book pockets,” Robin says. “And I know it’s sturdy enough to take whatever I put it through.”

Morrigan shakes her head. “That damned coat will outlive us both if you’re not careful.”

“I’m careful, Mama.”

“Hm.” With that, Morrigan disappears into the bedroom, leaving Robin staring at the door that closes behind her.

The only sounds that follow come from beyond the windows and walls of the house. Robin sets the dishrag down and starts massaging her hand again.

“You know,” Lissa says faintly, “you really don’t have to come with us.”

Robin shakes her head. “I told you this would happen no matter what,” she says. “We argued before I left; we’d still be arguing if I came back alone. She’s just trying to protect me but I can’t just - hide here. Meeting you was - it’s safer for me to go with you than to go off alone again. And I probably would.” She reaches towards a chair but as she lowers herself, she ends up on the floor instead, her back resting against the leg of the table. “I feel like I have to go. But I can’t be angry at her. She just worries. She never wanted me to have to fight the way she did.”

“I would hope that most parents should feel the same,” Chrom says, and he thinks of the mess that his father left Emmeryn and hates him again for it.

Robin’s mouth twists into a grimace. Is it over her mother’s protectiveness, or is it a thought about another parent? What brought Morrigan into the mercenary life - what brought the two of them out of Ferox to Ylisse, alone, instead?

When Robin next speaks, she has more questions about Ylisse’s military situation, and they discuss that such situation until she retires to bed in the same room as her mother, leaving Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick to the open floor of the living area. “Better than the woods, right?” Robin asks Lissa with a wink.

“Yeah, Frederick,” Lissa says after Robin has gone. “You wouldn’t have trusted her and had us sleep in the woods.”

Chrom wakes in the morning just before dawn. Lissa is still asleep and the bedroom door is closed; Frederick is nowhere in sight, but from outside comes the sound of axe hitting wood. Chrom eases open the front door - its latch already lifted - and around the side of the house finds Frederick splitting more large logs from the firewood pile.

“I woke when Robin left,” Frederick explains. “She said that she intended to go hunting and chop more firewood for her mother before she left with us. I am simply providing my assistance, as thanks for allowing us to stay the night.”

“That’s kind of you, helping out even though you’re sure she’s going to turn around and stab us in the back,” Chrom says.

Frederick frowns at him. “I am not sure of any such thing, milord. I am cautious, as is prudent, but I always hope that my suspicions should be proven wrong.”

“Frederick?”

“Yes, milord?”

“I was teasing.”

Frederick continues to frown, as though the very concept of a joke eludes him.

Almost all of the wood has been cut down to size by the time Robin returns with a wild turkey slung over her shoulder. She grimaces at them as she approaches. “What are you doing?” she asks, as though the answer is not obvious as Frederick brings the axe down on a long branch. As though the idea of someone helping her is still so inconceivable. “I said I would handle those–”

“I was already awake and with idle hands,” Frederick replies. “This way we will sooner be able to leave for Ylisstol - and consider this our thanks for providing a place to stay the night, as well.”

This thoroughly practical explanation seems to appease her, and without further protest, she simply says, “Thank you.”

On returning inside, they find both Morrigan and Lissa awake - though Lissa is yawning a great deal - preparing breakfast. “I wondered if you had run off with my daughter and left me this one as a replacement,” Morrigan says gruffly.

“He’d regret it if he did!” Lissa huffs, staring pointedly at Chrom, though Morrigan’s you could refer to all three of them.

Morrigan’s attention turns to the turkey that Robin hands her. “Birdie, why were you out hunting?”

“I wanted to make it easier on you when I left,” Robin says. “So you won’t immediately have to go yourself.”

“I’m not infirm, you know,” Morrigan says. “Really now, worrying after me when you’re about to go marching off to battle.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you–”

Chrom really, truly wishes that they wouldn’t start arguing again, but he suspects if he tries to intervene, they’ll both turn on him instead. Lissa’s shoulders slowly hunch up towards her ears, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Hell’s bells, girl, I know you better than to think that.” Morrigan sighs and shakes her head. Her tone has less bite than it did yesterday. “Even when you left without a damned note, I didn’t think you were abandoning me. You know what your problem is, birdie?” She smacks Robin’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “You keep looking back over your shoulder while you’re trying to march forward and you’ll get nowhere for it.”

“You’d really prefer I just go?” Robin asks, sounding confused and, even more than that, indignant. “Just leave without any thought to what I’ve left behind?”

“Well, I’d know that you have some confidence in the choice you’re making,” Morrigan says, “if you’re willing to burn your bridges behind you.”

“I’m plenty certain of my path, Mama,” Robin says. “Even without starting any fires.”

Morrigan huffs and turns away. “Then I suppose that will have to be enough.”

Chrom wonders what ashes Morrigan has left behind in her time.

Within an hour, they have eaten and prepared to leave. Robin has to be assured several times that Ylisstol has several libraries and large bookstores before she is willing to remove some of the books from her pack and trade them out for extra clothes. Morrigan watches silently, grumbling some answers only when Robin asks her which tomes she would rather keep here. Despite his time with Ricken and Miriel, Chrom doesn’t recognize any of the tomes; he can only guess, based on the magic she cast yesterday, that the two tomes Robin selects, each emblazoned with a yellow rune on its cover, are probably Thunder magic.

He pulls Lissa and Frederick outside soon after, to give Robin and Morrigan a private moment to say goodbye. It gives Frederick one last opportunity for questions as well: “Milord, you are certain?”

“I am,” Chrom says. “She went out of her way to help, at great risk to herself. My heart tells me we can trust her.”

“Your heart, yes; and what of your head?” Frederick asks.

“My head is telling me that this situation with Plegia will not be so easily solved,” Chrom says. “We can use the assistance of anyone willing to offer it.”

“I like her,” Lissa says. “I think she’ll be a great addition to the Shepherds! You worry too much, Frederick.”

“I find that I worry quite the proper amount,” Frederick replies, “given the circumstances.”

The door creaks open, and the object of one of those worries steps out onto the stoop. Morrigan clasps one of Robin’s hands between both of her own. “I know, Mama,” Robin says, exasperated, like she’s said it again several times already. “I know. But I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Hmph. I’ll just have to believe you, won’t I?” Morrigan pats Robin’s hand twice before releasing her, slowly, her bluster failing to mask her reluctance. “Goodbye, birdie. Don’t be a fool.”

“It’s not goodbye,” Robin says. “Ylisstol isn’t far. You know where to find us - and I’ll be home again, once everything’s calmed down.”

Morrigan shakes her head. “I don’t need you to home to stay. I just need you safe, wherever you are.” She turns her dark, piercing gaze over to Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick. “And I hope for all your sakes that I won’t hear that these skirmishes have turned to war.”

“The Exalt would say the same,” Chrom replies. And he - of course he doesn’t want war, either, but there well might come a time that these incursions turn to one, no matter what Ylisse - and Emmeryn - want. Emmeryn can hope, but Chrom has to prepare.

“Hmph.” Morrigan does not sound convinced, but she has not sounded particularly convinced by anything, especially not where the intentions of other people are involved. “But those fools in charge of Plegia hardly seem to agree, now do they?”

They call him the Mad King for a reason.

Robin steps back from Morrigan, slowly, and then another, until she stands with Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa. “I’m sorry I didn’t finish building the fence, Mama,” Robin says.

“Bah.” Morrigan waves a dismissive hand at her. The facade has sprung back up over the concern she showed mere moments ago. “If you apologize for everything you didn’t finish, you’ll be here all day. Get going, you fool girl. Stop looking back.”

“Yes, yes,” Robin says with a smile and a small laugh. “We’re going.”

“Thank you,” Frederick says, bowing to Morrigan, “for your hospitality. It is greatly appreciated.”

“Yeah, Chrom probably would’ve hunted us a bear to eat or something!” Lissa says. “Thanks for not feeding us bear!”

At that, Morrigan laughs, but it still sounds strained. Why wouldn’t it - she put these strangers up in her home and in return they stole her daughter from her. Chrom elbows Lissa, and to Morrigan, he says, “Thank you,” hoping she’ll understand that it is, really, about much more than the prospective bear meat.

He hunts normal animals, usually. Why does Lissa only remember when he brings down a bear?

“Bear’s not so bad,” Robin says, taking the lead out of the clearing to guide them back to the main road. The forest swallows them in an instant, the greenery pressing in on all sides. Robin weaves her way along a faint trail that Chrom can only see because he knows she’s following it; she stops and holds the branches of a bush back for Lissa to pass by.

“What?” Lissa says. “You’re crazy! No offense. I can’t believe we’ve let a lunatic join the Shepherds. We already have a lunatic leading us!”

“Very funny,” Chrom says, easing his way past Robin and waiting for her to resume her guidance.

But she stands there, eyes blank, and Chrom follows her gaze through the trees and the overgrown brush to catch a glimpse of the house out in the clearing, its front door already shut.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

She tears her eyes away and smiles at him. It looks strained at the edges, but the bright spark of confidence is back in her voice as she answers, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

#i started this fic two years ago. pretty much right after i finished my first fic introducing robin's mom #since it got me thinking about how chrom/robin would've met in the original timeline/what was robin doing out in that field #when grima whacked them with amnesia.#and only now. have i finished the last third of this fic. i've had this sitting mostly done for like. a year.#roddy fanfics #fire emblem chatter tag #fe #fe awakening mamabird lore #anyway Yes the actual prologue of the game is titled 'the verge of history' everything i do with chrobin is carefully overthought #also i love to write my fics with robin or corrin where i specifically mention facets of their appearances that are #Not in line with the default appearance. i love this for me. robin has short hair that's not quite white. corrin has black hair. hell yeah.

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