#apart from his duty to his younger brother her presence is the other reason | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

away-from-anthills · 3 years

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chapter two-

(prologue) (chapter one)

“Let all cats, old enough to catch their own prey…”

“Already?” muttered Stoatslink. A dash of doubt sat behind the white tom’s yellow eyes. “It’s been almost too soon for Shalestar to make a decision…”

Stoatslink’s tone stuck on Antstep like a burr. Had it been too soon? No- Shalestar had to know what he was doing. Antstep knew of Shalestar’s wisdom more than he knew of his own nest.

“Who do you think it’s going to be?” Russetfoot padded up next to him, his red tabby shoulder touching Antstep’s solid dark brown one. “I’d bet on Shadeflower, personally-“ -he beckoned with his tail to the dark gray tabby molly that sat at the edge of the nursery- “-but I think my brother could do a good job. My mate, too- but she wouldn’t want to follow her brother’s footsteps.”

Stripedwing and Rainleap had been close as kits, but had naturally drifted apart over time. She wanted to be a tunneler, and lacked ambition; he wanted to be a moor runner, and had had his sights on leadership since apprenticeship. There were no hard feelings between either of them- and Antstep recalled a dawn patrol not long ago where Rainleap said he intended to share tongues with his sister more.

Antstep had felt an envy towards Rainleap then. Rainleap, at least, had a sibling. Antstep had none.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Antstep realized Russetfoot was waiting on an answer from him. “So? What do you think? Did Shalestar tell you anything when he asked for you?”

“I- uh-“ Antstep tried to stall the conversation- but thankfully, Shalestar was already about to begin, and Russetfoot’s eyes had left Antstep to focus on the old scarred blue-gray tom.

“I realize it has been only a short while since I announced the loss of Rainleap to the Clan. However, we must follow the Warrior Code- even in unprecedented situations like this. I promised a new deputy by moonhigh, and my Clan shall get one. I have come to the conclusion of which WindClan member shall become your next deputy. I ask only that you be kind to him. He may not be an obvious choice, but with a bit of experience as deputy, he will learn quickly.”

It felt as all the Clan were eyeing each other. Half of Antstep wanted to puff out his chest with pride. The other half, meanwhile, wanted to shrink inwards and disappear.

“I say these words now, before StarClan, so our ancestors- Rainleap among them, now- may hear and approve of my choice. The new deputy of WindClan… is Antstep.”

There was a silence of deliberation for a moment, and then a gasp or two. Molethroat and Cherrycloud, who were near the back of the sandy hollow by the nursery, seemed to approve. Rockscratch and Russetfoot seemed to be in what Antstep could only assume was awe. He had never felt what it was like to cause awe before.

But there was a tense feeling among some of the others. Talonscar, their eyes still dimmed from mourning their former apprentice, sat in silence, shifting their weight from one paw to another. Sandwhisker looked pleased, but even she seemed to have some doubt about Shalestar’s choice, despite being particularly close to him. Antstep flattened his ears against his chestnut-colored fur as he scaled the rock to stand besides his leader.

“Again, I know he is perhaps not what you expected. But I mentored him myself, and it was I who brought him to WindClan when he was but a kit. I feel like I know Antstep particularly well- he reminds me of myself, when I was about his age. And I was about his age when Marigoldstar elected me as deputy, back before many of you were even born. It may take him a while to learn the ropes as deputy- but when he gets the hang of it, I promise you, he shall be a great deputy- and, perhaps… a great leader, once I pass on.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Antstep felt his spine coil. That sharp voice belonged to only one cat in the Clan- Sparkthistle. The ginger molly, with bright stripes and a snout that turned slightly upwards, pushed her way to the front of the hollow. “You’re telling us, Shalestar, that you’re replacing Rainleap with this sad sack? He’s not even a proper WindClan cat! He’s just your pet project! There’re so many cats in this Clan- and you choose that excuse of a warrior? He can’t even manage his own apprentice, let alone-“

“Sparkthistle, I am your leader,” Shalestar commanded, a fleck of anger on his tongue. “If you have any complaints, you can talk to me or Whitetooth in the morning.”

Sparkthistle opened her mouth as if she had something more to say- but, she began to flounder, and the shrewish molly backed away into the crowd. Cherrycloud rather embarrassed on Sparkthistle’s behalf, slinking back into the nursery den with Molethroat beside her.

“Meeting dismissed. Webwhisker, Stoatslink, remember it is your duty to keep guard over the camp tonight.”

As WindClan retreated to their dens, and Webwhisker and Stoatslink climbed the walls of the sandy hollow to assume the night watch, the coiled nervousness in Antstep’s belly began to loosen. He left the Tallrock and flexed his claws into the sand below. The moon- which was at the very center of the sky- looked downward upon him, and the hollow was filled with a certain stillness. The cicadas and crickets sang in the distance, and a curious hope began to flow through Antstep’s veins as his amber eyes locked with the moon’s pale one.

I’m WindClan deputy now… it’s my chance! They’re going to finally love me! I’m going to be the best deputy I can be…

It dawned on Antstep that he was not the only one there. He turned to see Whitetooth. The WindClan medicine cat seemed as if they were still analyzing him. They were nearly all white- the color of slightly stale milk- except for their ears, a spot or two on their back, and their tail, which was plumy and brown like a female pheasant.

“I look forward to our partnership and- if you’ll allow me to say it- friendship, Antstep,” they said simply. “As deputy and medicine cat. If you ever need anything- all you have to do is ask.”

Antstep nodded. Even the medicine cat wants to be my friend!

As Whitetooth slunk into their medicine den, where Marblepaw was already fast asleep, Antstep contemplated. He climbed the edge of the sandy hollow- away from Webwhisker and Stoatslink’s positions- and looked towards the east, where the sun would rise and where the marigolds grew.

As sunlight crept into the clearing the next day, Antstep immediately began to try and plot out what his first patrol would be. This was, after all, one of the most important deputy duties. He had to get it just right. Suddenly, the confidence he had had earlier dissipated. What will the Clan think of me if I’m not able to plan this out right? They already hate me, don’t they…

“Well, you may be a good hunter- but I’m far better!”

“You’re not!” “Am too!”

There was a squeal as Twigpaw, in the heat of this little spat, launched himself onto Spiderpaw, grabbing onto her shoulder. However, she was too quick. The dark gray tabby molly shook herself, and Twigpaw let go as soon as he had latched on. She then jumped over and pinned the smaller brown tabby tom onto the sandy earth. As he grunted and tried to free himself, she stood triumphantly.

“Spiderpaw, let him go,” Antstep instructed. She gave it a moment of thought, and- after pushing down on Twigpaw for a moment- let him go. He stuck his tongue out at her.

“Well, just remember, Twigpaw- my mom’s the leading queen and my mentor’s the deputy.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” warned Antstep, curling his paw around her feet to make sure she didn’t jump back out at him. “If I mess up too bad, you wouldn’t want to even look at me, now, would you?”

“Depends,” she said slyly, her lips curled upward like the biting adder. “But it means I have two on Twigpaw.” She grinned. “Hey, maybe when you’re leader, you could make my mom Shadeflower your deputy! Then Twigpaw won’t even be able to lay a paw on me.”

“Don’t get too ahead of me,” said Antstep. “It’s my first day. …Say, would you like to go on the dawn patrol this morning? You haven’t been out on it in a while.”

Spiderpaw nodded enthusiastically. Antstep felt proud of himself- but then the worries began to nip at his paws again. There’s no way that’s going to work! They’ll all think I’m favoring my own apprentice over the others! What other apprentices are there… Goldenpaw was on patrol just yesterday… Maybe Milkpaw or Coalpaw?...

“You’re up early,” yawned a sleek blue-gray tom. His shadow was identical to Shalestar’s; however, he was a tad shorter and far younger. A white bib-shaped marking covered his chin and chest.

“Oh. Hello, Toadpool,” said Antstep, nodding to acknowledge the blue-and-white cat’s presence.

“I think you’re going to do just fine as deputy.”

“Wh- what makes you say that?” said Antstep. Was his anxiousness that obvious already?

“Deputy jitters,” explained Toadpool, shrugging. “Everyone gets it. Even Grandpa told me that he had them. You’ll do just fine- I trust his choices, after all.”

Toadpool was right. Shalestar had a good head on his shoulders, and neither of them had a reason to doubt him.

“I’m trying to figure out the dawn patrol,” explained Antstep. “I was thinking Spiderpaw and your apprentice Milkpaw could take it this morning. Would you- uh- like to come along?”

“Sure! But you don’t have to ask, you know. Deputies usually just kind of say who’s going on patrol or not.”

Right. Antstep already felt hot embarrassment on his face.

“I have an idea. I can come with you and try to calm your nerves a bit. We can bring our apprentices, too. Maybe you could also take Rockscratch and Sparkthistle? I know you don’t like Sparkthistle and she doesn’t like you, but maybe you could talk it out…”

It was a naïve suggestion. But Antstep didn’t have the heart to tell Toadpool that.

“Sure.”

“Great! I know Grandpa will give you some tips and stuff, but I can tell you if there’s anything I know. And we can train our apprentices together.” He looked over to where Spiderpaw was- she was busy chasing down a centipede that had weaseled its way into the den. “Be careful of her,” he joked. “She’ll eat you alive.”

“Takes a brave one to be her mentor,” Antstep joked back, puffing out his chest with pride.

The sun’s lazy red eye began to peer over the earth, and Antstep’s first patrol slithered through the WindClan grass. It was a quiet morning, and the world seemed as though part of it had stood completely still since Rainleap’s death. Dew stuck to their pelts as they schlepped themselves along the trail.

“If Rainleap were here…” said Sparkthistle in the back of the small group, muttering something off-key to herself. Rockscratch, who was just in front of her, distanced himself.

But Antstep tried to keep his worries behind him, crowded around Sparkthistle instead of wandering to his head. It was his first day, after all. Anything could happen. He could worry later, with the comforts of Shalestar and Whitetooth there to listen.

Spiderpaw ran up to him with a fat mole in her mouth. “Look!” she said, in the muffled way cats do when their mouths are crammed full. “Milkpaw showed me how to catch it. You have to feel their tunnels beneath your paws, and you gotta have the right timing. She told me it’s a tunneler skill. Maybe I should show you how, someday…”

Antstep watched Toadpool sign a joke to Milkpaw, who responded with throaty laughter. He didn’t get the punchline- it was something to do with tunneling, which he had never been familiar with- but he began to think. Why hadn’t Shalestar chosen Toadpool? Shalestar was also fairly close to Toadpool, and had watched him grow up in a similar way as he had with Antstep, although the leader had not mentored him. Toadpool even had something Antstep did not: Toadpool was the son of one of Shalestar’s children, who had perished in that forest fire around the time Antstep had been found by a WindClan patrol.

But then it truly sunk into him, as he watched Toadpool and Sparkthistle converse. He was trying to let her on in the joke, but she responded with overdone apathy, flattening her ears tight like they were strapped to her skull to get him to shut up. Toadpool was too ineffective; too naïve. Tatteredstar and Pigeonstar could tear him apart with one word.

He would make for a great friend. Perhaps a deputy- but as a leader? He would fall apart like dried leaves in a fire, up there on that Great Rock.

Antstep knew Shalestar had to have chosen him for a reason.

But he couldn’t think of what that reason was.

The next few days went by with little incident. Patrols were organized; patrols were sent. Occasionally, when he was out with them, Antstep would see the wandering eye of RiverClan or ShadowClan cats, from deep within their own territories.

Did they notice a change?

Could they tell something was different?

Antstep did not know what he wanted the answer to those questions to be.

The camp was quiet. Besides his few friends, Antstep found himself once again a stranger in his own- or was it ever his own?- land. Perhaps the death of Rainleap weighed his Clan down too much still- this is what Antstep wanted to believe. But there was always this great, nagging feeling that sat on Antstep’s haunches- do they like me enough? What if they hate me? What if, on the night I become leader, they’re all going to kill me together? What if-

But Antstep tried to take solace in the fact that Shalestar was always there. Shalestar knew what he was doing. Shalestar would teach him all he needed to know. He’d learn.

It was a briar that shattered that thought.

It was an overcast day- the kind of overcast where the clouds look like a big, unraveling blanket; the kind of overcast that makes your head feel heavy with the promise of an oncoming storm. Antstep was taking a few of the apprentices out into the heart of the moors to learn some hunting techniques.

“Now, the key to catching a good rabbit is to know what way to chase it,” Antstep said. “Some of you have caught one of them before. And that is very good! But you need to have a plan.”

“You could raid a rabbit nest,” said Spiderpaw, in that sort of smart-alecky way that was practically her second language. “Bunch of little rabbits in there right for the taking.”

“Ah, but what about rabbits who live in burrows? And what about getting the proper taste of grown rabbit meat?” That- and Antstep always felt a bit of pity, raiding nests and newborns like that. He assumed an almost exaggerated posture and tried to project his voice towards them. “What you have to have is a plan. You have to know how to corner it. The rabbit’s always going to run away from you, and it’ll outrun you nearly all of the time. What you have, that the rabbit doesn’t, is strength in numbers. You need to drive it towards your Clanmates and pounce from all sides.“

The apprentices nodded in unison.

“Now- look, there’s one now. All of you, position yourselves here. Crouch down and hold steady. I’m going to chase it here, and when I give the word, leap.”

Antstep hunkered himself down into the grasses and slunk around it in a great circle. The rabbit turned its head, and for a short moment there was stillness between the two. Then it bounded away, slowly gaining momentum as Antstep broke into chase. Faster and faster, becoming rhythmic with the land below and the sky above- until Antstep recognized the shapes of the apprentices ahead, hiding below patches of Queen Anne’s Lace.

“Now!”

Goldenpaw and Twigpaw leapt from one way, and Spiderpaw and Coalpaw from another. Goldenpaw grabbed onto its chest and pulled it to the earth, Twigpaw grabbed its head by the front of its throat and pushed it back as far as he could. Spiderpaw grabbed its midsection, and Coalpaw pinned the legs to the earth to prevent the leporid from kicking further. There was a struggle, there was a finality, and then it was gone, as if the soul had slipped straight out of the meat.

“Very well done! Now, you see how I made sure to go in a big circle around it? That’s so it’s tricked into running this direction. If I went right towards it, it’d run away. If I went at it from the side, it’d run away. I’m going to show all of you how to chase rabbits one by one. Hopefully, we’ll make more successful catches, and we’ll have plenty to restock the fresh-kill pile with by the time we return to camp around sundown.”

He took the corpse of the freshly-killed rabbit with him, straddling it with his front legs, and the group quietly moved to another location a bit north of where they initially where. “Now, be careful,” said Antstep. “There’s a briar patch over there- the rabbit’s going to be smart enough to avoid it, so we must plan around it.” He pointed his tail towards where a big, bracken-colored mass of twisted thorny branches lay. The apprentices nodded- but not without Spiderpaw whispering a joke to Goldenpaw about how likely it’d be that Coalpaw or Twigpaw would get themselves tangled in it.

They can handle it.

There was the sound of a soft crunching of plant stems in the distance.

“There’s another,” said Antstep. “Here. Coalpaw, come with me.”

Coalpaw was bigger and heavier than the other apprentices- a cat built for fights, but not so much the hunt. Antstep figured he could go first, as he might take longer to learn the speed and stealth involved with rabbit-hunting. Antstep hunkered down again, Coalpaw followed, and carefully, slowly, the circled back around to the rabbit. Just like last time, they gave chase, and the two cats started to herd the rabbit. Antstep felt his paws go faster and faster, his muscles slowly easing to let sheer momentum swing his feet, the earth moving below him.

“Now!”

He leapt onto the rabbit, and again the other three apprentices leapt, there was a moment of struggle, a moment of release, and then Twigpaw and Spiderpaw declaring victory.

Antstep felt very, very pleased with himself until he heard a voice behind him.

“Help me! Antstep! Help!” He turned to see Coalpaw. Evidently, during the chase, the young tom had tripped himself on a pebble and sent himself flying into the briar patch, where he lay now. He was not particularly stuck, but Antstep could see he needed someone to pull him out.

“Hold on, Coalpaw, I’m…” He got a good look at the briar patch. The earth below it was lower than the rest of the ground, and there was a definite incline between the two surfaces. If Antstep were to pull out Coalpaw, he’d need to watch his step.

“I’m coming. Here, Goldenpaw, hold onto my back foot.”

He felt Goldenpaw grip his back ankle with her teeth. He grimaced at the feeling for a moment, and then leaned over the edge into the briar patch. He grabbed onto one of Coalpaw’s legs.

“Shut your eyes and make yourself go limp, so the branches don’t scratch as much.”

Coalpaw did so, and then Antstep thrusted him out in one quick motion. But as he did, he felt Goldenpaw suddenly let go of him on accident. Coalpaw managed to scramble out onto the grassy pathway as Antstep plunged into the briar patch backwards and belly-up.

Dammit!

Antstep wriggled himself back and forth to try and get back upright, but the briars further tightened around him. He clenched his teeth, trying to thrash himself free, but he only slunk deeper and deeper into the briar patch. Panic seized him as he watched the apprentices crowd around to watch their own deputy make an absolute fool of himself.

And then, finally, he gave up.

“Twigpaw, can you send for a patrol?”

“Well, well. Look who got himself stuck,” said a familiar unenthused voice. It was Sparkthistle, accompanied by Webwhisker and Emberheart. “Our own deputy can’t even get himself out of a stack of twigs.” “It’s a bit more than that,” said Webwhisker, cringing with sympathy.

“Here.” Emberheart slowly nosed her way into the briars and grabbed Antstep’s right foot. “Sparkthistle, you get the other one. Webwhisker, help us pull him out.”

Sparkthistle hesitated, and then grabbed Antstep’s left foot. The two mollies yanked him free- Sparkthistle a bit more forceful- and Webwhisker pushed him as soon as they had pried out his torso. Antstep flipped over onto his feet, his head dizzy from having been upside down.

“You’ve got a lot of scratches from it,” said Webwhisker. “You should see Whitetooth, I think.”

“For just that?” snarked Sparkthistle.

“I worry about it getting infected, that’s all.”

“It is rather bad,” Emberheart said as she inspected Antstep’s flank. “He’s lucky his ears and eyes are in one place.”

Great- I’m not even leader yet and I’m already incompetent enough that I nearly lost my eyesight!

“I can continue on with the apprentices,” offered Webwhisker. The two mollies waited to see Antstep’s reaction; he responded with a nod after some contemplation.

And so, Antstep, Sparkthistle, and Emberheart walked back to camp.

“’Tis not too bad,” said Whitetooth, inspecting Antstep’s myriad of scratches as they wrapped him in cobwebs. “You shall be on your feet within a couple of days. But it is important you rest so infection does not begin. Lie down on the nest Marblepaw prepared for you on the right. Avoid Shalestar, you don’t want him to give you illness.”

“Illness? Shalestar?” Sure, Antstep had noted the leader was a bit slow the past few days, but he hadn’t ever noticed he smelled of sickness. He watched as Marblepaw- a little brown tabby molly, nearly identical to her brother Twigpaw- carefully inspected the sleeping leader, who’s eyes were crusty and who’s fur had became oily from a lack of cleaning himself.

“Mild whitecough, with fever. We have enough tansy for it, but it is worrying given his age. …May I talk to you in private?”

The two cats exited the medicine cat den and sat on the edge of the sandy hollow. Droplets of rain began to fall from the sky, speckling the earth.

“…I suspect that Shalestar may not be long for this world. He may leave us sooner than he expected to.”

Antstep felt something inside himself, black and shivering, begin to coil. “You mean-“

“…This is mild whitecough, and it’s wrecked him. If he doesn’t pass of this- something else is going to come along, and it will be far, far worse.”

Antstep felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn’t even match wits with briars- and now, less than a moon since Rainleap died, less than a moon since he had become deputy at all, before he had even attended a Gathering, here he was. It felt as if a great shadow stood over him, one that only he could feel, who bristled the fur on his spine and clamped its paws on his shoulders.

“… What shall we do? I- I can’t be leader now! I barely got to be deputy! What will the Clan think? What will the other leaders think? What if they think I killed him? I can’t have that on my record, I can’t-“

“Calm yourself, Antstep.” Whitetooth’s voice was deep but smooth, like thick greenleaf tree-sap. “Take heart. You are not the first or the last cat to become leader on such short notice, and I am sure the other leaders will understand as will our Clan. Elsewise- I will be here for you. You know me to be very compassionate.”

The first thunders of a storm began to rumble in the distance.

“Please trust me, for the good of the Clan. …Now, rest. If our beloved leader passes within the next few days from this illness, take solace in that you will be there for him.”

Anstep nodded, and as the rain developed into downpour, the two cats headed back inside.

Shalestar slipped away, later that night, long after all but Whitetooth and Antstep fell asleep; his last words were faint mumblings too obscured by the thunder outside to understand. It was a slow and very peaceful death- the eyes closed, the breathing stopped, the muscles suddenly went limp. Whitetooth placed two leaves over his eyes and positioned the body flat and compact, like he was crouching forever, so when the Clan would visit his body before the burial the next day he would not look too ill. When he died, there was a moment where the clouds unweaved themselves, and a small patch of starlight lit the center of the sandy hollow.

It was over now, and it had begun.

Antstep awoke as Antstar two days afterward.

#warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story #ayyyyooooo

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val-aquenta · 3 years

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For Mace Windu Appreciation Week Prompt: A little bit of both AU and Padawan

Here on ao3

Mace Windu woke up and the first thing he noted was the cruel emptiness in his gut. The next was that one of his arms, his right, had been sliced off cleanly, a ring of burnt flesh the only remainder of it. Thirdly, his whole body ached, most likely a result of the lightning that had coursed through his veins before. The duracrete floor beneath him was cracked, a result of a desperate push at the floor to slow down. Some part of Mace, though, wished he had died in the fall from the Chancellor’s window. That he had not had enough strength to cushion himself from the fall. His lightsaber, sliced in half by Skywalker’s blue blade, lay strewn in two parts in front of him. The crystal glowed softly, a pale white light glowing within the broken casing. Mace groaned, his ribs aching painfully as well as his ankle feeling weak. He blinked, trying to wake himself up more. He was the Council Master, he had to warn them, had to warn his family of the Sith.

Mace sat up, wincing as his torso twinged in discomfort. His right arm went to cradle around his middle, the other shooting out to call his broken lightsaber to him. He mourned its loss for a moment, the blade had been by his side since his first gathering. It was his only blade, and he was saddened at having lost it. He spent a moment on the floor, assessing his health before he looked out at the darkness surrounding him.

It was pure luck that he had fallen onto a ledge still on the higher layers of Coruscant. Indeed, a few more metres to one side and Mace would have fallen to his death. He spent another moment gaining strength before he pushed himself to his feet, hand raising to massage his brow. Something… terrible had happened. More terrible than Anakin joining the Sith. Mace could feel it in his bones, feel it in the Force around him. It felt emptier, darker, and colder. How long had he been out on this ledge?

An urgency propelled Mace as he heard the familiar voices of a clone. He stumbled and was about to reveal himself before the voice spoke out, “CT-3401, no more Jedi traitors in this area.” Jedi… traitors. He froze against the wall, hardly breathing. The clones… they were at the Temple too. “They must have all been killed in the first sweep.” The clone continued, voice beginning to fade away as they walked away. Mace swallowed, he must have hope. Have hope that the younglings had escaped, that the elderly and the younger Padawans had somehow made it out. He’d just be going back for any stragglers. When he no longer heard the clone, the voice fading away into the background noise of Coruscant, Mace moved out and began the long journey towards the Temple.

Upon seeing the first billboard with the news, Mace almost threw up. The clones had, for some reason, swept through the Temple. ‘Killed all the violent insurgents,’ the billboard said, and Mace wanted to tear it to shreds. He simply gave it a cursory glance before shuffling along. The citizens, for some reason, did the same, looking at the board before turning and whispering to each other about the violence that the Jedi brought, and that it was probably for the best they all died.

Mace almost ran into a small squad of clones as they walked down a road, ducking into the corner to hide in the shadows. The brown cloak he had torn slightly and dirtied meant he looked as though he belonged in the streets. He peeked out after a moment and caught sight of the Temple, smoke rising from the centre. One of the spires had cracked and fallen. Dread filled him, but Mace had hope. Surely… someone had survived, surely the children would not have been slain.

He limped further, hoisting himself into the maze of disused sewage pipes that ran under the Temple, a path he had not taken in a long while. Nevertheless, the marking he had written on the sides still remained after all this time. Tepid water released a stench into the pipe so strong that Mace lifted his robe sleeve to try and ward off the worst of it. He made sure no echoes of footsteps were heard, trusting the plastoid armour of the clones to give away any squads approaching, but no clones seemed to have found the pipes yet. Perhaps some of the younglings had escaped through here; he knew he was not the only one who knew of these pipes. Still, he heard no sound other than the occasional slouch of his feet in the water. Part of him was relieved as there were no clones, but the other part of him worried that perhaps no one had been able to escape through the pipes.

Mace wandered upwards, crawling up ladders that maintenance folk had used many years ago before the pipes stopped flowing. His right arm ached, the fabric he had tied to it in hopes of keeping it somewhat clean and free of infection threatening to come free. It took a while, but eventually, he was at the exit of the pipe system, the exit he had chosen leaving him be the main hall. He stretched his senses out, not trusting the Force to be able to tell the blank clones from the background hum of life on Coruscant. No footsteps echo on the stone floor, plastoid or otherwise. Mace tried not to think about what it meant that no one walked there. He peeled back the exit grate of the pipe and quietly walked out, turning to replace the grate before looking out across the main hall.

There was so many… so many people. He had known, deep down in the recesses of his mind. He had felt it in the emptiness of the Force, but it had not registered. He had not wanted to. The idea of his family butchered and left in their own home, it had been too much. Surely, not even the clones would have… they had trusted the clones. He trusted them too. None of them would have done such a thing, he could not believe it but the evidence laid itself in front of him. Mace leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes to simply take in the knowledge before he opened them again and saw the fallen Jedi once more. The knowledge settled across his shoulders paired with the weight of guilt. He had failed them all, failed his family. As Master of the Order, it was his duty to keep them all safe, but here they lay, dead, for Force knows how long.

Mace looked across the main hall, the horizon line only unbroken by the low bumps from the dead bodies. He felt so much and nothing at all. The empty feeling turned him somewhat numb, spreading across his arm and even lessening the pain of his arm and his rib. He swallowed, desperately trying to regain control before tearing his eyes away from the hall where he recognised every other figure. The closest body to him was that of a young twi’lek Padawan. Her beads lay splayed out on the stone floor, her eyes wide open, stuck in a permanent state of fear and betrayal. Mace knelt gently by her side, dirty robes pooling underneath him, and leant over, closing the eyes. He could not stand seeing that gaze boring into him. Mace rested his hand against her forehead for a moment, murmuring a prayer for the dead softly before turning his gaze to the silka beads. They had been trampled on, some of them ground into the floor with enough force to break them. The symbol of her relationship with the FOrce and her Master, the symbol of her apprenticeship lay broken and scattered around her. He reached out, unclipping it from the headband, intending to wrap it around her hand. A few of the beads began to fall apart as he shifted the braid, the pale blue clay crumbling into fine dust around her. In the end, the beads were hardly long enough to wrap around her hand, both a result of the amount which had been lost as well as the fact that she was simply so young. He rested back on his knees once he was finished, wishing he could burn the body as tradition dictated, but he simply could not. She was simply one in the thousand or so Jedi who had inhabited the Temple at the time.

In the distance, he heard a blaster bolt go off, followed quickly by the familiar hiss of a sabre. His hopes raised once more and he clambered up, heading towards the sound. There was someone, perhaps he was not alone. He still snuck along the corners, fearful of getting caught by some wayward clone squad. While not defenceless, he still did not want to get even more injured if possible. There was the telltale hum of a sabre returning to its hilt before only silence remained. Mace took in a few breaths, fortifying himself for a possible disappointment before turning the corner and peeking through.

“Mace!” Obi-Wan said, somehow managing to whisper as well as shout.” His eyes lit up with relief, though there was a sorrow carved into his eyes, biting even more years from the younger man. The edges of their presences, raw and hurting, tangled together on instinct in a greeting. It was only then, he noticed the shorter companion of Obi-Wan, and he almost wept in relief. Two people, while not much, still remained with him. He was not alone, not really. Yoda shot him a grim smile, ears drooping in sadness. “You… your hand.” Obi-Wan rushed forwards, reaching for the stump that was starting to get worryingly numb. Obi-Wan cradled it. “Mace… this is a lightsaber wound, what happened to you? What is going on here?” Mace, like many others, often found himself forgetting the true age of Obi-Wan as it was often hidden behind maturity and wisdom born out of necessity.

He opened his mouth to speak, trying to bring the proper words to explain to the man that beyond the corridors there lay piles of dead children, and that Obi-Wan’s brother had betrayed them and might even be complicity, but nothing came out other than a croaked out, “Palpatine… he was the Sith. Dooku’s Master.” Yoda grew more old and weary-looking. A weight settled on those shoulders and he seemed to shiver. “Obi-Wan there’s, Anakin… he’s-” But Obi-Wan was already moving past, likely assuming that Anakin was simply dead and laying in the corridor ahead. Indeed, Mace would have thought that the man would have died protecting children, but it appeared he had been wrong about many things. He reached out and grabbed his arm, “He… fell. And they’re dead. All… dead.” The familiar choking feeling rose again.

“What?” Obi-Wan breathed out, arm going limp as he stared blankly at Mace. “He… would not do such a thing.” Something seemed to dim the younger man’s eyes, hand raising to cover his mouth.

“Come, warn the other Jedi, we must. Safe, the Temple is not.” Yoda said seriously, though not without sympathy. A clawed hand released his walking stick from its tight grip, going to pat at Obi-Wan’s leg. There was little they could do. They had a job to do. The rest could wait until they were done.

#mace windu #obi wan kenobi #yoda #mace windu appreciation #mace windu appreciation week #order 66 #duna writes #star wars fanfic #fanfic

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ladyseara · 3 years

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Infinity is just the beginning (1/?)

Fandom: Sk8 the Infinity

Rating: Mature

Tags: Nano Kojiro / Kaoru Sakurayashiki, Kaoru Sakurayashiki / Shindo Ainosuke (one-sided), Langa Hasegawa / Reki Kyan, Alpha / Beta / Omega Dynamics, Fantasy AU no one asked for, Miya Chinen is Joe’s son and I mean it, Miya Chinen is an illegitimate child, Forced marriage, Political marriage, Elf!Cherry, Demon!Joe, Elf!Adam, Carla is half-human / half-Elf.

Words: 2141

Kaoru Sakurayashiki knew his value and his place as an Omega Prince. He might have been born as a High Prince, descendant of the great Sakurayashiki House, which rules the Sun Elvish Kingdom, but at the end of the day, beside his lineage, he was still an Omega, a child who cannot ascend the throne. Of course, for his whole life he was treated with the respect and care he deserved, being prepared to become a suitable First Prince, until his brother, Langa, was born. The small Alpha has quickly taken his place in the line, but Kaoru was not angry with that. He loved his brother deeply, maybe even more than he loved his parents.

The High Prince, after his baby brother was born, got the freedom he never knew before. He was growing up, throwing himself into his studies. He was spoken to be the wisest of the family, more intelligent even than his grandfather, who was believed to be the greatest king in the history of the Elvish Kingdom. Many thought that if only he wouldn’t have been born as an Omega, he could have achieved even more. Kaoru was not only brilliant, he was brave and he was a visionary. He was not afraid of combining magic with technology, creating weapons and useful tools.

If he would had been born as at least Beta, he could have lead the army. But Kaoru was not concerned about that too.

The reason behind that was the Moon Elvish Kingdom’s Prince, Shindo Ainosuke. They met when they were both six years old. Firstly too shy to talk to each other, soon they realized they share a lot. Their parents were friends, so Kaoru and Shindo spend a lot of time together growing up. At some point, Kaoru was charmed by a young Alpha. They even shared a messy, a bit tipsy kiss in the garden, during some party. At that time Kaoru knew that one day he will marry this man. The Union between Sun Elves and Moon Elves, an alliance against the Demon Empire. Shindo, the Alpha, would lead their army to the victory on the battlefield, and he, Kaoru, would lead the rest of the country as his Consort. The mere thought of them, living such a bright future, was enough to send shivers down his spine.

One can only imagine Kaoru’s confidence, when at the day of his 19thbirthday, he was summoned by his father to his study. Omega Prince already knew the news: he will get married soon, in less than a month, in order to seal the alliance. He was more than ready to leave his title as a Sun Prince behind and become the Consort of the Moon King. Kaoru could only imagine new opportunities, lying in front of him. He was dreaming big.

“My King”, he said, greeting his father with a little bow. “You have requested my presence.”

“Yes, Kaoru. Sit down please.”

Kaoru sat in front of his father desk. He enjoyed the atmosphere of the King’s study. The room could be a little dusty, but it smelled of pine trees and lemon. One of the servants put a cup of tea in front of him and left quietly. “I think you are aware of the topic we need to rise today, Kaoru.”, his father looked a bit tired. His hair has turned white few years ago, but they used to be the same color as Langa’s.

“Yes, father.”, Kaoru said respectfully. “I know my duty as a Prince. I will marry the King.”, he said with a little smile on his lips. Of course he would marry The Moon King. Shindo was his friend, and now he will become his husband and lover…

“I am pleased to hear that, my son. I must admit that I was worried at the beginning. You were not raised like other Omegas and I was expecting you to rebel against my decision.”

“My King, I could never. The Union of two Elvish kingdoms will bring peace-”

“Kaoru, wait,” his father interrupted him. “I think you got the wrong idea, my child. You are not going to marry King Ainosuke.”

His world fell apart. Kaoru opened his mouth a bit, like a fish out of water, unable to breathe. He must be dreaming some nightmare. It could not have been real. Marrying Shindo Ainosuke was his destiny. There were friends, they would make such a good couple… It could not get worse.

“The Moon King was not interested in your hand,” his father explained. “Moreover, I think our Langa should marry Ainosuke’s younger brother. You, my child, you will marry The Demon King.”

Oh. So it could be worse.

“What-.. Father, please. Think about it again,” Kaoru said, pale and shocked.

“You have told me you know your duty, Kaoru. Your marriage will ensure the peace between us and The Demon Empire.”

Kaoru was thinking fast. He had to do something in order to stop this madness. There had to be a way for him to avoid being wedded to the barbarian Demon King. He needed to contact Shindo quickly. If The Moon King will hear about this, he would definitely change his mind and marry Kaoru, the Omega was sure about that. Ainosuke would never let Kaoru be taken away to The Demon Empire, moreover, to be married off to the brutal Alpha. He had a month, a whole month to cancel this insane plan and came up with a better one…

“Our guests will be here tomorrow, Kaoru,” his father said, as if he knew what was going through his son’s head. “Both The Demon King and The Moon King. We are going to sing a pact and then you will marry Nanjo Kojiro, The Demon King, and our Langa will be engaged to Prince Reki.”

“What?”, Kaoru could felt his lips moving on their own. “Aino.. The Moon King knew about that?”

“Of course he knew, Kaoru. It was his plan after all.”

“Master, are you alright?”

Carla’s quiet, emotionless voice brought him back to reality. Kaoru did not sleep that night. He was betrayed by the whole world. All his plans, dreams, ideas… All was destroyed in one moment. Both his family and his friend sold him to The Demon King. He was a tool, a bribe to The Demon Empire. Of course, he understood the reasons behind that. Langa, an Alpha, had to marry and Omega, so Prince Reki was a perfect candidate. And there was not a need to unite two countries with two marriages, so the spot for Kaoru’s husband was left open. Selling him off to the Demons were the best idea. Even if he dies, not matter how and when, Demons will be shackled with the pact. Moreover, if he dies after he gives birth to the Demon King’s heir, the child will link two counties even harder.

“Master? You look…”

“Terrible, I know”, Kaoru replied, looking at himself in the mirror. He was dressed in furisode, white with cherry blossoms embroidered at the bottom of the sleeves. His pink hair was carefully combed and Carla put a cherry blossom hair pin into it. She also put a little make up on his face, to cover dark circles under his eyes.

“Worried. You are worried, my Lord,” the girl said. She learned about the future of her master and decided to go to the Demon Empire with him. Kaoru saved her few years back and it was her duty to protect him. “And I am no surprised.”

Kaoru looked at her in the mirror. Carla’s skin was darker than his, she had black hair and purple eyes. She was half-human, half-elvish. Many would despise her, but Kaoru found her pretty, smart and loyal. He could not imagine his life without her anymore.

“Thank you, Carla. I think we should get going. Our… guests… will be here soon.”

“I overheard the guards, Master. The Moon King and his people are already in the Capital. The Demons were spotted near the border, they will be here in less than an hour.”

Less than an hour and he will meet his future husband. Less than a twelve hours and he will be married to The Demon King. Less than a day and he will be mated to the barbarian King. In less than two days, he will leave the Sun Elvish Kingdom ans travel up north, to The Demon Empire. He would be lucky if he dies in the meantime.

Kaoru was scared. When he was thinking about being wedded to the Shindo, he was a bit nervous, but sure that their intercourse would be gentle, sweet even. He was dreaming about The Moon King caressing his body, worshiping it before they connect with each other. Kaoru was dreaming about children, with blue or pink hair, running around and making their lives even more meaningful. Now he was scared that The Demon King will force him every night to sleep with him, force his body into his until Kaoru will give him an heir. He will simply fuck him, like a whore.

“Master, you are…”

“It’s fine, Carla. I’m ready.”, the Omega Prince said, wiping a tear from his cheek. He was an Omega Prince, who knows his duty. His life and his body do not matter, if he could buy a peaceful life for his people with it.

Kaoru stood at the top of the stairs, when Demons arrived. He was holding his head high, forcing a little smile on his lips. He will never show his fears and anxiety to those, who were around him. For them he was a definition of the perfection, and Kaoru was more than ready to uphold his reputation. He could be falling apart on the inside, but on the outside he will never show.

Of course, the first person he spotted, was The Demon King himself. Riding the biggest horse Kaoru has ever seen in his life, the Alpha was dressed all in black. He had green hair, which makes him look like a giant tree. When The Demon King came closer, Kaoru saw small horns at the top of his head, partly hidden inside of his hair. The Alpha was smiling lightly, with such confidence, that it made Kaoru annoyed.

The Omega Prince was not small, but when the Alpha dismounted the horse, Kaoru straightened up. It did not help much; he still was smaller than the Alpha and the top of his head reached slightly above the place the heart should be, if The Demon King had one.

“I shall welcome you, my guests,” Kaoru’s father took a step towards the Demons. Elves and Demons have not met since the last war. Kaoru knew his father and The Demon King must have exchanged letters, but this… This was a milestone in their history.

“King Sakurayashiki,” The Demon King smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

When the Demon moved his hand, Kaoru was sure he is going to stab the Elvish King. But instead they simply shook their hands as a greeting. Then the Demon welcomed The Moon King the same way. He exchanged few words with the nobles, at the end finally standing before him. “I hope,” the Demon King smiled to Kaoru’s father, “That his is your precious son.”

“You got it right, Lord Nanjo. This is my older son, Kaoru. The one who is betrothed to you.”

Kaoru felt a lump in his throat. He was glad he hadn’t listened to Carla and haven’t eaten anything, because at that moment he felt nausea. What a great beginning it would be, if he throw up on his fiancee feet.

The Alpha was big. Bigger than any man Kaoru knew. His shoulder were large and Omega was sure that The Demon King could kill anybody with his bare hands. For what reason he had a sword, attached to his belt, if he clearly does not need it? Moreover, he smelled like a danger. A mixed scent of sweat and sandalwood.

“You wasn’t making this up,” the Demon King said, “When you wrote me he is beautiful.”

Kaoru felt anger, boiling inside him. Does the Demon Lord think that he is deaf? He was talking with his father about him, without actually speaking directly to the Omega! Disrespectful ogre, Kaoru thought, but bit his tongue.

“Good afternoon, my dear Prince”, the Demon King finally spoke to him. “Forgive me my surprise, but you are breathtaking.”

Kaoru used his fan to cover half of his face, forcing a small smile. You were fine breathing and talking nonce just a second ago, you brainless gorilla, he thought.

“Welcome to the Sun Elvish Kingdom, my Lord.”

I hope you will die during this trip, Kaoru added in his mind.

#matcha blossom #kaoru sakurayashiki #nanjo kojiro #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #sorry for my English

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bharat-sonawane · 3 years

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Princess Diana

(1961-1997)

UPDATED: JAN 28, 2021 | ORIGINAL: DEC 22, 2017

Princess Diana was Princess of Wales while married to Prince Charles. One of the most adored members of the British royal family, she died in a 1997 car crash.

Who Was Princess Diana?

Princess Diana became Lady Diana Spencer after her father inherited the title of Earl Spencer in 1975. She married the heir to the British throne, Prince Charles, on July 29, 1981. They had two sons and later divorced in 1996. Diana died on August 31, 1997, from injuries she sustained in a car crash in Paris. She is remembered as the "People's Princess" because of her widespread popularity and global humanitarian efforts.

Early Life and Family

Diana was born on July 1, 1961, near Sandringham, England. Diana was the daughter of Edward John Spencer, Viscount Althorp, and Frances Ruth Burke Roche, Viscountess Althorp (later known as the Honorable Frances Shand Kydd). Her parents divorced when Diana was young, and her father won custody of the children.

Diana had two older sisters, Lady Jane Fellowes and Lady Sarah McCorquodale, and a younger brother, Charles Spencer, 9th Earl Spencer.

Following her initial education at home, Diana attended Riddlesworth Hall School and then West Heath School. Although she was known for her shyness while growing up, she showed an interest in music and dancing. She became Lady Diana Spencer after her father inherited the title of Earl Spencer in 1975.

Diana had a great fondness for children. After attending finishing school at Institut Alpin Videmanette in Switzerland, she moved to London. She began working with children, eventually becoming an assistant at Young England Kindergarten.

Courtship With Prince Charles

Diana began dating Prince Charles, heir to the British throne who was 13 years her senior, in 1977. The couple first met when Diana was a child and reportedly played with Charles’s younger siblings, Prince Andrew and Prince Edward, while her family rented Park House, an estate owned by Queen Elizabeth II.

Charles was usually the subject of media attention, and his courtship of Diana was no exception. The press and the public were fascinated by this seemingly odd couple — the reserved, garden-loving prince and the shy young woman with an interest in fashion and popular culture.

After Diana's death, her son Prince William proposed with the ring to Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge.

Wedding to Prince Charles

Diana Spencer became Diana, Princess of Wales, when she married Charles on July 29, 1981. Their wedding took place at St. Paul’s Cathedral in the presence of 2,650 guests. The couple arrived separately and departed together by a carriage ride through the streets of London.

Diana wore a taffeta wedding dress made with silk and antique lace and 10,000 pearls, created by husband-and-wife design team David and Elizabeth Emanuel. She donned an 18th-century Spencer family tiara with a 25-foot veil. Her ensemble barely fit in the carriage, and it took Diana 3 and a half minutes to walk down the aisle.

The royal wedding ceremony was broadcast on television around the world; nearly one billion people from 74 countries tuned in to see what many considered to be the wedding of the century

Princess Diana arriving at St Paul's Cathedral in London, England on her wedding day, July 29, 1981

Prince Charles and Princess Diana exiting their wedding ceremonye

Sons

Diana and Charles had two sons together: Prince William Arthur Philip Louis, born on June 21, 1982, and Prince Henry Charles Albert David — known widely as "Prince Harry" — born on September 15, 1984.

Divorce from Prince Charles

Diana’s separation from Charles was announced in December 1992 by British Prime Minister John Major, who read a statement from the royal family to the House of Commons. Their divorce was finalized in August 1996.

The couple became estranged over the years, and Diana struggled with depression and bulimia. During their union, there were reports of infidelities from both parties. According to The Diana Chronicles, a book by Tina Brown, Diana had fallen head over heels for Hasnat Khan, a Pakistani heart surgeon whom she met in 1995.

Queen Elizabeth II urged Diana and Charles to officially end their marriage. Diana retained her title of “Princess of Wales” and her apartments at Kensington Palace, but she agreed gave up the title “Her Royal Highness” and any claim to the British throne.

After the couple’s fairy tale wedding, Diana felt overwhelmed by her royal duties and the intense media coverage of nearly every aspect of her life. She began to develop and pursue her own interests. She served as a strong supporter of many charities and worked to help the homeless, people living with HIV and AIDS and children in need.

Following her divorce, Diana devoted herself to her sons and charitable efforts, including raising awareness about the dangers of leftover landmines in war-torn Angola. She maintained a high level of popularity with the public.

Relationship With Dodi Fayed

Diana whipped the British tabloids into a frenzy when she began dating Egyptian film producer and playboy Dodi Fayed in 1997. Fayed invited Diana and her family on his yacht in the south of France.

The couple reportedly met at a 1986 polo match when Fayed and Charles played on opposing teams. They reconnected and openly dated over the summer of 1997, spending time together in Sardinia, the south of France and Paris.

Their courtship was widely covered in the tabloids. It was reported that some members of the royal family and former Prime Minister Tony Blair did not approve of their relationship. Diana’s butler and confidant Paul Burrell told the BBC that Fayed was “a rebound” from her relationship with Hasnat Khan.

Death

While visiting Paris, Diana and Dodi Fayed were involved in a car crash after trying to escape from the paparazzi early in the morning of August 31, 1997. Fayed and the driver were pronounced dead at the scene. Diana initially survived the crash but succumbed to her injuries at a Paris hospital a few hours later. She was 36 years old.

News of her sudden, senseless death shocked the world. Queen Elizabeth II, who was criticized for not immediately responding publicly to Diana’s death, made a televised address from Buckingham Palace on September 5, in which she said: “No one who knew Diana will ever forget her. Millions of others who never met her, but felt they knew her, will remember her. I, for one, believe there are lessons to be drawn from her life and from the extraordinary and moving reaction to her death. I share in your determination to cherish her memory.”

Conspiracy Theories

Following an investigation into Diana’s fatal car accident, a report released in 1999 determined that the driver was at fault for driving at a high speed while under the influence of alcohol and antidepressant drugs. Charges were dropped against several photographers who were initially blamed for causing the crash.

Despite the report, rumors persisted for years about alternative reasons for the accident. One conspiracy theory held that it was part of an assassination arranged by the royal family, although no additional evidence emerged to support that theory.

Funeral and Gravesite

On the morning of September 6, Diana's funeral procession commenced from Kensington Palace, her coffin resting on a gun carriage drawn by six black horses. Thousands of mourners packed the street to watch, with 15-year-old William and 12-year-old Harry joining the final stretch of the four-mile procession for their mother.

An estimated 2.5 billion people tuned in on television to watch the ceremony at Westminster Abbey, which featured a powerful eulogy from Diana's brother, Earl Charles Spencer, and a performance from Elton John.

Diana’s body was laid to rest at a gravesite on a small island at her family's estate, Althorp.

Memorials and Charities

In 2007, just before the 10th anniversary of her death, William and Harry honored their beloved mother with a special concert that took place on what would have been her 46th birthday. The proceeds of the event went to charities supported by Diana and her sons.

William and his wife Kate Middleton also remembered Diana when naming their second child, Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana, who was born on May 2, 2015.

Continuing her charitable efforts, the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fund was founded after her death to provide resources for palliative care, penal reform, asylum and other issues. In 2013, the fund was incorporated into The Royal Foundation of The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and Prince Harry...

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seasidewriter1-writes · 3 years

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For the fluff ask, I would love to see an Obi-lara regency confession scene. I have a little headcanon where Obi-wan uses the line "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope."

Finally, a chance to delve into the Regency AU! I’ve had a lot of fun with this, and that line you gave? *chef’s kiss!* I need more Regency Obi-Lara, it’s official!

P.S. I’m sorry this is so long, I got... REALLY carried away with this one...

There was much that could be said about Mr. Obi-Wan Kenobi. He was a master of fencing. An excellent mentor. Level headed to the point he almost came off as impertinent. And, in the opinion of Miss Elara Skywalker, absolutely insufferable. Insufferable in the way that he smiled, roguish and charming. Insufferably handsome, with a face the classic sculptors would only have dreamed of creating. Insufferable in his impressive intellect and his ability to make every sentence sound like one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Insufferable because she was helplessly, hopelessly in love with him, and that was a torture.

For Mr. Kenobi was steadfast in his ways. He’d been many years a bachelor, and found the life quite suitable. A long passed father had insisted he was duty bound to marry for the good of the family estate. That he must marry for money, not love. This idea, drilled into him for so many years, had turned him off from the idea of romance entirely. He was considered to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the county––but he was entirely unattainable.

Elara would not have met Obi-Wan had it not been for her brother. Anakin was a fencing protégé and had flourished under the tutelage of Master Kenobi. There had been a time where Elara had known him only by name; he was the mysterious mentor whom her brother spoke so highly of. Nothing but words of praise would be spoken about him—and then, as was proper, Anakin introduced his sister and his mentor one night at a ball. Much to everyone’s surprise, the two got along smashingly. They bandied words as though they played tennis, kept up with one another intellectually. Elara was a learned, well-read woman; Obi-Wan was a learned well-read man. They discussed Shakespeare and Socrates, debated on the best authors of the day.

Gossip started to circulate and speculations were made––Mr. Kenobi and Miss Skywalker would surely be engaged by the end of the summer.

And then they weren’t.

Which was most confusing, as it was often observed they were in one another’s company. At balls, the first name on Elara’s dance card was always Obi-Wan’s. At parties, they were always seated beside or across from one another. They took turns about the room together. It confounded local gossips that the two were not engaged. And though Anakin did not consider himself a gossip, he, too was confounded. Though he was younger than his sister, propriety required him to be her chaperone if the situation called for it. He had bore witness to the insufferable flirtations, which he tried to ignore by hiding the display behind the pages of a book.

It was in one of the many books in the Skywalkers’ generous collection that Elara had chosen to lose herself in. It was a dreary day, with slate grey skies and an air that foretold an afternoon of rain. It perfectly reflected her mood. She felt positively dreadful. She lay half-reclined on their sofa, head propped up by a brocaded pillow. One hand held the book before her face, and the other picked at the elegant stitching on the front of her dress. And though she was reading the words on the page, she was not absorbing them. She had read several pages, but had no knowledge of what had transpired.

As Elara turned the fifth page, she sighed.

“If you keep sighing that way, you shall forget how to speak entirely,” Anakin commented on the opposite side of the room.

Elara dropped her book to her chest and glared at him half-heartedly. Anakin sat half-slouched out of his armchair, a book of his own open in his hands. His stock had been removed and discarded the table beside him, and the collar of his shirt slouched open at the neck. The position in which he sat did not look comfortable in the least bit, but it was one he often found himself relaxing into at his leisure. He shot her a sideways glance and smirked with a brotherly snark.

“If you keep sitting like that your neck will grow as crooked as an oak branch,” she countered.

Anakin let out an ungentlemanly snort and shook his head, eyes once more returning to his book. “A spat is not the end of the world, sister.”

The spat of which he spoke occurred the night prior at the most recent ball. Elara was unsure it could even be called a spat; it had been more of a heated encounter. Whilst they were dancing, Elara had made a comment about Obi-Wan’s opposition to marriage. Something in him had smarted and an indignance had washed over him. He had launched into a lecture of sorts, commenting on the monetary politics of marriage, which, in turn had caused Elara to prickle. She and Anakin were not badly off by any means, but they were not considered particularly wealthy. His comment had been taken as a direct insult. The dance ended with them parting ways for the evening, ignoring the two other dances Obi-Wan had claimed on her card.

Hence was why Elara had been in such a vial mood. It was difficult to be in love with a man who abhorred the notion.

Elara lifted the book and hid her face behind it. “The end of the world, no. The end of possibilities, yes.”

There was a knock at the front door.

Simultaneously, both Elara and Anakin lowered their books and met one another’s gazes. Neither of them were expecting any callers that day.

Anakin closed his book, snatched up his stock, and started to haphazardly wind it about his neck. He hauled himself out of his chair and disappeared from the room, tucking the ends of his neck-wear into his vest. Once he was gone, Elara righted herself. The parlor was, for all intents and purposes, their receiving room. If whoever had arrived was there to stay, they would be ushered in here. A couple moments passed before Anakin poked his head back into the room.

“You have a visitor, Elara,” he told her. He arched his eyebrows pointedly and stepped aside, gesturing someone in from the hall.

Elara rose to her feet in order to greet her impromptu visitor. The confused pinch of her expression melted away as none other than Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped into the room. There was a hat and a pair of gloves clutched in his hands and his cheeks were flushed from riding. Behind him, Anakin reached into the room, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it closed as he exited the room.

The silence that filled the room was stifling. It was all Elara could do to stare at her visitor. Obi-Wan stood before her, handsomely harried. Blue eyes wide, blonde hair ruffled, mud spattered up across his boots. He had arrived unplanned and unannounced, with absolutely no pretense. He had a reason for coming; and she was waiting on him to tell her what it was. But in that waiting, Elara could not deny that her heart was thrumming like the beating wings of a terrified bird.

“Miss Skywalker...” Obi-Wan breathed. He shifted the brim of his hat around in his hands, rotating it slowly. “I... fear I have made a grievous error.”

Breath caught in Elara’s throat, hitching so hard that her chest physically and visibly jumped. She watched Obi-Wan wet his lips, tongue darting out between them. He took a tentative step forward, and when she did not protest his further entering the room, he continued. He placed his hat on their sideboard without looking, moving as though he were entranced. Elara folded her hands in front of her stomach, and squeezed them tightly.

“And what error might that be, Mr. Kenobi?”

“The error of my words. I believe I misspoke last night. That is, I let my self-righteousness speak for me.” Obi-Wan stopped before her at a respectable distance. He swept his hands behind his back and did her the courtesy of meeting her eyes. “I did not mean to offend you when I spoke of the politics of marriage. It was not my intent to make you believe that I looked down on you due to monetary standing. I... find it difficult to even conceive looking down on you in any possible way.” For a long, still moment, all Obi-Wan did was stare at her. The guardedness that so often made him appear lofty had disappeared. A vulnerable tenderness had overcome him, and it softened his whole demeanor. “You pierce my soul. It is unexplainable. In your presence... I find that I am half agony, half hope.”

Elara felt as though he had stolen all words from her mouth, all thought from her head, and all air from her lungs. It took a moment for her to gather herself, and when she did, she asked,

“Why agony?”

Obi-Wan chanced a step forward and his hands dropped from behind his back. A shuddering breath passed between his lips before a confession spilled forth. “I love you so wholly... so completely... that my fear that you do not feel the same tears me apart.”

“And hope?” The question had been murmured so softly, it had come out in a whisper.

“The hope that you reciprocate these feelings is incandescently bright; it has guided me through the darkness of my idiocy and led me back to you. And should you find this profession offensive,” Obi-Wan bowed his head in deference, “then I shall excuse myself from your presence.”

Silence once more overcame the room. Obi-Wan remained with his head bowed, waiting for her reply. His confession clung to the corners of the quaint parlor like the most delicate cobwebs. It tickled the air like a pleasant, relieving breeze. Boldly––or brazenly, perhaps––Elara stepped forward and reached for his hands. For the first time, the skin of their hands met. It was breathtaking. His skin was warm, and it was calloused in spots from practicing with his saber. The minute their skin touched, Obi-Wan’s head snapped up. Breath visibly caught in his chest, which stuttered beneath the layers of his clothes.

“I, too, am at fault in this misunderstanding. In my inquiring of your aversion to marriage, I did not mean to offend you. I took offense quickly, and for that you must forgive me.” Elara swept her thumbs across his knuckles. “I will take away your agony. I will share in your hope. I will share in anything you allow me to... if you will have me.”

A stunned flutter of Obi-Wan’s eyelids dashed his lashes over the tops of his cheeks. His lips parted and a soft breath passed between them in a single word. In a name. “Elara...”

A thrilled shudder rolled along her spine at the sound of her name falling from his lips. It was the first time he’d ever spoken it; and she wanted to hear him say it again, and again, and again.

“Obi-Wan...” she breathed in return.

A breath fled from his mouth the moment his name left her lips. Slowly, his hands started to glide up her arms. They danced lightly over the skin of her forearms and paused at her elbows. Elara reached out and grasped the front of his riding jacket. One of Obi-Wan’s hands then rose to hover by her cheek. The tips of his fingers grazed against her skin as he tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. That hand then retreated back to her cheek, which it cupped tenderly. Simultaneously, Elara tiled her head back as Obi-Wan craned his forward. Their movements were achingly slow––but then their lips met in the sweetest, softest kiss. In that moment, everything was perfect. It was harmonious again.

There was no agony; only hope.

#valentine's prompts #LetObiLaraGetFluffy2k21 #a very balance valentine's day #obi lara au #obi lara blurb

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twitchesandstitches · 3 years

Text

Birth of a New City

(Commission for @alt-hammer of an AU we’ve worked on together, of a fantasy-themed Homestuck AU where the main characters are the descendants of noble families following a long and perpetual conflict. This comm concerns the establishing of a city by the Megidos as Kankri journeys to be with his lady-love Damara, prior to her accidentally getting ahold of an artifact that stuffs her with ghosts that make her super pregnant and her boobs absolutely massive!)

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Into the furthest lands of the north, at the limits of the lands the trolls called home, there came a line of caravans bringing people. There wasn’t exactly a road for them to follow; they had to settle for a slightly deeper trail flattened beneath them, rolling onwards by the first arrivals, who had engineered a special tool to the rears of their own caravans, digging out the ground behind them so that in their wake, they left a trail to follow for the second wave of caravans.

These caravans were massive freight carriers, and designed for the environmental peculiarities of their destination. It was always cold in the north, and they had taken considerations for the weather. Up here, it was usually some variety of wet, and at best it made for a gloomy atmosphere. In the spring, it rained. In the summer, it rained more. Autumn and winter would come, and then it would snow. Now, it was snowing, despite it being summer, but unpredictable weather was unfortunately a consequence of heavy magical activity, and this land was drenched in it.

Snow spilled off the scalloped, upwards curved of the caravan’s tops, leaving little piles by the side of their road as they traveled onwards. And inside, the people who had come (mostly from the lakeside lands of the newborn Vantas dynasty, Inside, they were lined with thick blankets and massive furs donated from the hunting guilds of the Leijons to the eastern lands, so they were quite warm even as the threatening chill of this place made people very nervous.

It was a basic rule of exploring new lands; you got the hell where you were going before winter happened. That it should be snowing, even in summer, was making the experienced caravaneers edgy. Fortunately, they were simply following the steps that had been laid before them, bringing badly needed supplies to finish the job.

And at the front, in a caravan the same as any other, there was an opening to look out through. And peeking out of it was a troll. He was short for a troll, nearly human-sized (though not as much as his younger brother), swaddled in the pale greys that had once hidden their blood from prying eyes. Thick furs, pale white and spotted in random patterns, adorned most of his visible body beneath it: furs for the cold, and a cloak for the wind. It was how they would likely remain dressed here, for the foreseeable future.

And he had enough time to reflect. He thought that he looked very much like his father, wearing old grey robes and swaddled in the furs harvested by Leijon claws. It troubled him.

His name was Kankri Vantas. And as it turned out, he was not exactly small. He was not as large as an ordinary troll, who tended to be among the biggest of the known thinking species. He was… compressed, as if someone had taken a troll and squeezed him up, but maintained the usual proportions into a package that seemed to emanate a frenetic energy bottled up with great difficulty. His horns were short and nubby like the closed claws of the great crab guardians that protected the lakes of his homeland, and to trolls, this combined with his body shape to suggest someone who spent a lot of time in libraries. Really old libraries. Something of the dusty, academic dryness seemed to have settled in him.

Now he marked his spot on his book, put it down, and looked out onto the road. He gazed upon a landscape that would be someone’s home soon enough.

From here, as they crested a high hill crowned by a last outcropping of forests, Kankri could see the north spread out beyond them. Frosty mires bubbled faintly, kept warm by the mysterious organic processes of a bygone era still operating on automatic to make a somewhat unconventional hot spring, and there were about four or so of them visible from here. They made a warm mist, rising into the snowfall to make the snow melt just enough to fall as a strange rain into the snow.

As a consequence of that, they had been trudging through a kind of slush for the last few nights. Their caravan was designed for this sort of thing, and the weather had been anticipated even if things this far north were totally unknown to trollkind. Even humans, who had their reasons to try to live anywhere that didn’t instantly kill them, had avoided this landscape.

It was a place of death, old superstitions said. There were such places known to scholars of magical lore; Kankri had read their works well in preparation for his apparent task to observe the world and determine a way to repair the damage made by their forebears. He knew that any strong emotion or action could leave a mark in the world, influencing the flow of magic by shifting its aspect.

If a place saw a happy family, for many generations, that place would become kinder and happier; just look at the Hoard Keep of the Pyropes, that ancient fortress in the mountains. Their predecessors had always been brutal and vicious, but dragons were loyal to one another, and they cherished duty to their own above anything else. Serene feelings of safety and joy lived in the stone, and had a tendency to leak out everywhere else.

Kankri thought of the wars that had torn the land apart. Ages and ages of almost ceaseless conflict, and his fangs bared at the thought of such… stupid wastefulness. He amended the thought to ‘careless’ wastefulness. People dying, human and troll and other beings, over and over, and for what? The same ridiculous rhetoric; some purplebloods declaring themselves superior or declaring bloody war in the name of their capricious, serpentine gods. Or humans fighting back and becoming consumed with pride, hatred; declaring that this war of total destruction was justified by atrocities almost as bad as what they were going to do…

Blood had soaked the ground more thoroughly than the rain up here could possibly try to do. Troll, human, or something else: it didn’t matter. Blood was life energy, blood represented ties to other beings both positive and malicious, and blood shaped the world, as it shaped the bonds between others. Blood in every color of the troll rainbow and human red drenched the world, with its hate and sorrow and loss, and now, the land was scarred.

He wondered if this territory was one of those places. It didn’t feel like it had seen so much death and horror that it had become some sort of inverse holy place, sanctified to the worst in sapient life. He’d been to those places, and he didn’t like thinking about the things he’d seen even when he shut his eyes, his magical senses treacherously open to the horrors replaying themselves in the astral realms forever and ever.

Here, it just rained. The air was thick with magic, and it tasted of something… distinctive. It didn’t feel bad. It did not have any associations with the true cruelties that made their work so very difficult elsewhere, and it didn’t make him remember horrible memories that weren’t his own. (Being in tune with magic, and the living memories that shaped it, could really suck sometimes.)

It felt like death. That was the bit that Kankri was having some trouble figuring out, and apparently so were his companions.

“Figures Ara and her family decided to settle out there.” The voice had a curious buzzing quality, as if a multitude of voices were backing up the speaker’s words. Kankri turned aside and acknowledged the speaker.

“I hope you are not impugning the Megido family, Sollux,” Kankri said, rather stiffly.

The speaker snorted, hanging off a supporting rafter like some kind of morose spider; his limbs were long and gangly, and his claws were surprisingly suited to hanging onto things, given that they had apparently been carefully filed down to serve as pseudo-pens. Given that he did a lot of time inscribing things, that made some sense. The rest of his body was on the lean side, perhaps the powerful magic coursing in his body running him so hot that any excess mass just burned away into the aether.

This other troll replied, “The Megidos have never been pugned a day in their lives and you goddamn know it.”

The speaker was Sollux Captor, scion of an ancient house of mages who had endured the long ages in their hives to the west, and Kankri had read that the power of the goldbloods ran particularly vibrant in his family. He didn’t doubt it; Sollux had a nervous energy like his body was stuffed with lightning, constantly itching to find an avenue loose, and even his horns (two pairs of them; not uncommon in golds, but their length and size certainly was) radiated a faint glow.

Troll horns acted as a… release, as Kankri understood it. There were some machines that needed to continually vent off heat or magical energies to prevent breaking down or structural problems, and trolls were much the same. They generated magical energy in ways that humans or the other magical beings did not, and it fueled many of the instinctive abilities that came to them; the psionic powers of the hot-blooded lines, the immense physical power of the cooler-blooded, and the many variants thereof. Horns, Kankri supposed, bled off some of that excess energy.

Without him realizing it, Kankri self-consciously put a hand to his own stubby horns. He scratched at a velvety peel his last trip to the manicurist hadn't gotten. A faint crackle of magic moved, and though he honestly wasn't sure if the old power moved in him, he felt the presence of something familiar.

He looked out towards the trail again. His expression grew solemn. "We are almost there."

"Make it sound more ominous," Sollux grumbled. "You sound like a spooky assistant to a creepy necromancer dragging up victims to the master."

Kankri sniffed. “Pardon me, then. We are absolutely not any such thing.”

“It’s a joke, Kanker-sore.”

Kankri ignored the… insult? Nickname? Who even knew, with Sollux; he was notoriously abrasive, even by the standards of a species that regarded biting and clawing down to the bone as polite discourse. He simply continued speaking (which was just what Kankri always did, if you believed the people who disliked him personally). “We are spooky assistants who perform ethical tasks for our cinnamon-blood masterminds.”

There was a long pause as the caravans rattled across the land. Gradually, something new came into view upon the horizon; an irregularity, breaking apart from the distant view of mountains and ancient forests that dotted the land like the tombstones of randomized cemeteries. This new sight looked… made, though ancient all the same. It was too far for them to make it out clearly, but there was no doubt that the trail they followed was winding through the landscape directly to it.

Sollux recovered his faculties and said, partly disbelieving and partly in grudging admiration, “Did you just make a joke?”

“The important point,” Kankri said, with as much grave pomp and gravitas as he could manage, which was quite a lot, “Is that no matter who you tell, no one will ever believe you.”

“You total bastard,” Sollux said softly, the admiration a lot less grudging now. “Didn’t think you had a talent for… trolling.”

“Father may have passed on a few things.” Kankri shifted awkwardly. He didn’t actually talk much about his father. Their relationship was good, all things considered, but it was a terrible thing to live in the shadow of the Signless Sufferer, the paradox troll; a mutant with the powers of the color-line he originated from, a messiah of peace who had started the most bloody war in modern history, a kind man who had done terrible things to end coldblood supremacism, who had set the humans free by tearing his own people down.

Kankri was a pacifist. His father was not. There was more to their fundamental disagreements and conflicts than that, but the fact of it was that Kankri looked and acted so much like him, that it was like looking in a mirror at times. It bothered him, even as he readied himself to take his father’s position, should it prove necessary in future times, and when Kankri was bothered by something, the low-grade hostility radiated off him like heat from a rock someone left in a desert at high noon.

Sollux could take a hint. He could take a lot of hints, all of them couched in varying degrees of passive-aggressive sniping that served pretty much the same function as a friendly duel; swords were crossed, without any real intent to do injury. Kankri, on the other hand, was very honest. He said what he meant, when he understood how to say it properly, and where Sollux was from, this was something very hard to understand.

To the west of these lands, a relative stone’s throw if you didn’t account for the mountainous terrain, were the lands of the Captor Orders. The bitter cold of these death lands evened out towards the coast, growing… if not warmer, at least more hospitable, and in the past, many trolls and humans and other things had taken up residence there for the ample hunting, lumber; the massive animals living in the sea could feed many people for a long time, wood was useful for building homes and fueling the artistic interests of those inclined, and the magical bees native to the area proved amenable to being bred for being living engines to refine magic and calculate complex spell patterns or problems.

The ages had come and gone. The Captors had come early, and they had stayed ever since. They’d built their wizard’s towers and college-fortresses high, and left the other lands to their own devices; never conquering, not waging war, but ignoring it entirely. When coldblood supremacism had waged war across the land, the Captors stayed out of it; when slavers came searching for goldbloods to put to the yoke,the Captors usually sent them back to their employers as little more than a pile of ash.

Sometimes people came to learn, and the Captors taught them, and those people went home with power and influence. ‘Come to the lands of the Captors’, they said, ‘they will teach you the secret lore’.

The Captors did not recover or keep ancient lore; they made their own discoveries, over the ages. They made new things; new wonders, new understanding of the hidden rules of magic. This made them possibly unique on the continent, where the creations and knowledge of bygone civilizations were the foundation of entire regimes. Their lore was their own, and this same indifference to the past also applied to politics; they were barely aware of the influence and power they gathered, with magic so essential towards modern society, and the orders of mages the Captors had gathered all showing fealty to their teachers and colleges above all else.

As they came closer to their destination, Sollux reflected that his father would go down in history for sheer controversy; convincing the heads of the mystical orders and all the leaders of the colleges to engage in continental politics, and aiding the Pyropes in the war, wasn’t just a risky move. It was completely contrary to their established tradition of neutrality. Sollux supposed he’d either go down in history as an unconventional hero… or a heretic who kicked their traditions in the nook. One of those two. Hell, people were already calling him that, not that his dad seemed to care.

The moment of good humor had already passed. The caravan wagons moved upon the trail, and as it advanced them closer to what appeared to be a vast and ancient city (with many tents pitched around the front, and the distant impressions of what might have been scaffolding, cradling the old walls), Sollux and Kankri both reflected, in their own fashions, that they didn’t actually know each other.

Kankri glanced at Sollux. Sollux did the same in turn. They looked awkwardly away. The thought that they didn’t really have anything in common stuck with them, hanging there like a persistent thorn that hadn’t quite pierced the skin; it didn’t hurt, but it stuck there, so needling that the mind couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

It was, Kankri supposed, the sort of thing to be expected when building a better world than the one their parents had known. Dealing with people you normally would not. Making compromises, and so on.

‘This is weird,’ Sollux thought. ‘I’m friends with his brother. He’s friends with mine… I think. Are they lovers? Rivals? Got a mutual pining thing going on with Latula from when they were kids? No idea what happened there before she got hitched and he moved on. How the hell is it that we’ve never even really talked before today?’

Both of them tried to focus on the road. And it dawned on them that the only thing they really had in common was their mutual connection to the women of the Megido family.

The women they were… in all honesty, probably going to marry, in defiance of cultural norms but for different reasons. The only trolls who would actually like this cold land, soaked in death and forgotten memory.

That made them both feel better, funny enough. Thinking about the Megidos, that is.

Love, even for the terminally proper and persistently grouchy respectively, had a way of lightening moods. This lay on their minds, the tension beginning to evaporate as they drew closer.

Especially for Kankri. He visibly relaxed; not stiffening or trying to look impressive, but the tension that normally forced him into the uncomfortable posturing that he thought a lowblood mutant, raised to his position, had to look like, all drained away from him.

He felt her. Kankri had powers of his own, perhaps linked to his own magical studies, and there was a presence nearby, now, as they drew closer to their destination.

----------

Their destination was, in fact, a city. It was rather more than that, based on the ancient documents, translated journal entries, and map fragments they had pieced together from archives and collections from all over the kingdoms. It was a city of the dead, from an era before internment of the dead had become an alien notion for trollkind.

Jack Noir, a carapacian who had served as Karkat’s guardian for the complicated and dangerous years of their childhood, had suggested it held a major necropolis. Odd, Kankri considered, that the stab-happy bureaucrat should know a thing like that, but everyone knew weird things.

And of course, that said ‘Megido interests’ all over.

The walls were very tall, rising very high into the sky, and beyond the first one they saw was another set, even higher than that. The city was built on a steep incline, so the walls outlined the shape of the city beyond it. As they rode closer, Kankri could see pathways and high windows in regular intervals, and while the form was unfamiliar, the basic principles were similar to geomantic construction techniques common in the old troll empire, many ages ago.

The walls had not otherwise fared well through the ages. There were large gaps missing towards the tops, perhaps sheared off by siege weaponry; there were fewer signs of that near the bottom, which explained how they had remained stable enough to survive the ages. Nevertheless, there was still damage everywhere else. Ancient murals, enormously complex and surely the subject of much worthwhile study, were tragically heavily damaged; burned, half-melted, and worse. Perhaps the result of some ancient conflict that had seen this place becoming uninhabited to begin with.

Kankri approached them, as their group waited to be properly received. He was hardly an expert in the visual arts of a bygone era, but he did spend a lot of time reading. He was an expert in few fields, but reasonably knowledgeable in many of them. A deep fascination with history (or at least that which was recorded, and that which was worked out later, and he viewed both with polite suspicion) gave him a useful toolbox for this sort of thing.

Now he studied what could be seen of the murals, on this side of the outer wall. It was difficult to make any firm guesses on what they were meant to convey; the artistic style was consistent with the era prior to the collapse of the last known pan-continental troll civilization. Perhaps due to local preferences and cultures particular to this part of the continent (for the old empire was cosmopolitan, if only for trollkind), that style had shifted into something unique. It was chiseled into the stone, if the material was stone, but the style was something different.

Kankri ran a hand against the material, just to see what it was. His short claws, cut and dulled to minimize any possibility of injury to another, ran against something improbably smooth and cool. Even exposed to the elements for untold generations, left without any kind of maintenance in these winds and piercing snows, beneath deluge and mud, it was largely untouched.

It did not feel much like stone. It was cool; not as cold as one would assume, given the weather. Somehow, it was warming itself, and pulsed gently beneath his hands. It felt… wholesome, but it felt like something that made him nervous.

Magic has a resonance, in many different forms, from both the nature of it, the impact it had made, and from events going on around it. A sword might taste of craftsmanship and deliberation, but it was also soaked deep in the violence that defined a sword. And this, distantly, felt like endings.

Kankri kept his hand there, letting his magical senses journey far, and it felt colder still. There was an echo of many things ending, with a patient and steady pace, their memory marching backwards to him.

The murals beneath his claws, clear etching of a time so long removed that it had no real bearing on his sense of ancestry or country, were abstract. Squarish figures, all right angles and stylized depictions of that seemed to be trying to convey the very essence of a troll; each figure showed both horns but a face in profile, all limbs displayed at geometric angles. He didn’t know why, but it seemed relevant.

Other figures arrived, and they had no faces, and they had no horns. The firner was setting; the latter was horrifying. He rubbed his own horns, wincing at the idea of losing them. To many trolls, they were symbolic of identity, and most artistic work used them as such. Had the people of this land done something as cruel as removing the horns of criminals?!

He frowned, studying the mural longer. He supposed that if the faceless, shorn of horns, were supposed to be viewed negatively, they would look more gruesome. But they were chiseled the same as the others, but identified by their lack of horns and faces. And, as he followed the path of the mural onwards, he realized that the mural seemed focused around their progression.

First, they approached a city; it looked much like what he had seen in the distance, so perhaps it was this city, seen from afar in days when it had been in better condition. And then, they were laying down, in lines. This was a lot more complexly drawn, he had to admit, and it took him sometime to suggest that was what was meant.

He had to keep going, on and on, around one vast opening in the walls big enough for a group to have passed through, until he came to a particularly large mural. It was massive, nearly twice as tall as he was, and so wide that it could have formed a wall in some looter’s museum, if someone had simply torn it from the walls and stolen it. It displayed the faceless, the hornless, lying in many rows, lovingly chiseled in intricate detail.

The damage of ancient days lay strongly here; scorch marks had melted the stone in key areas, so it was hard to tell what it was supposed to show. He thought it showed many of the hornless laying down, and an unusual effect in the air above them, the stone apparently chipped away in very gradual sections and then glazed with some process he did not know, so that it shone in a way quite unlike the rest of the mural. The surface there shimmered, like the pulsing of particularly powerful magic.

Behind him, he heard footfalls against snow. Tarps were laid heavily over the walls in an attempt to keep it out, but they were not as efficient as whatever roofing had once crossed the sloping rise of the walls. He turned around, and standing behind him were several hooded figures, their cloaks of fine fur and bearing the marks of their homelands. The nearest of them drew near; behind them, one of the two taller figures behind them, exceedingly voluptuous even in form-obscuring cloak, tried to march ahead of them but were frantically waved off by one of the two in the front.

“No, no!” said one of the two at the front, and this speaker was taller than the other one. Both of them wore the gold-colored robes of the Captor Orders (though a bit frayed, now), and they had the distinctive multiplied horns of goldbloods. One of them, the speaker, crackled with even more raw magical energy than normal. “We gotta do this by the book! The book!”

A much taller woman, whom the goldblood spoke to, stamped a foot and crossed arms across what must have been a spectacular bustline, to press so outrageously against a fur cloak as thick as that. The horns extending out from her hood curled like a ram’s, smaller spikes rising along the curve, signifying her as one of the Megido family of necromancers. “I don’t see why!” She said archly. “We all know each other. We can be formal and boring when we actually have a settlement going!”

This speaker wore a cloak trimmed in dark red; the colors of a cinnamonblood. The eyes beneath the hood glowed a faint dark red; what had been called rust, by the purplebloods a few generations ago. Her cloak was buckled by a distinctive symbol, of a ram’s head with its horns locking the cloak together (and under some serious pressure, given the speaker’s apparent curves trying their best to force the cloak apart), a symbol marked on tombs all across the continent, on necropolises and places where the magic of death was studied, away from the sun in accordance to the magical principles surrounding such powers.

The necromancers of the Time Ram were infamous. None of them had as much authority, or as much magical power, as the Megido family.

Kankri stirred, paying more attention now, and less attention to a brief argument between the two. He looked about, for someone in particular. They liked to move together…

“Miss, we gotta have you introduced properly!” pleaded the cloaked goldblood.

“I mean, we don’t have to,” said his companion. She was shorter than him, and a lot wider. In some very select, specific places at least, in a fashion similar to the Megido who apparently didn’t want a formal introduction. Her cloak had a definite look, even with the thick fur making up most of it, of fabric stressed by the pushing of breasts nearly two and a half feet around, pushing out so much that her cloak hung off them in a big canopy downwards. Her buttocks were just as massive, so big she’d require at least two chairs per cheek to sit down normally, with a simply draping effect behind her. It was like she had a miniature tent around her body. “I mean, she’s the boss here. Right? So if she says no, that means we can’t do it.”

“But we have to!” he retorted, with an air of aghast horror. It was probably what you’d get with someone who had spent most of his short life idolizing the nobility and was outraged on principle that they didn’t want to be super fancy all the time.

“We really don’t,” said the other Megido, slightly taller than what had to be her sister. She had an attitude of stoicism that contrasted with the manic energy of the other, and she had the distinctive body shape; not exactly chubby, but certainly thickset, belly prominent, and breasts so big they had the same draping effect on her clothing as the short goldblood. Perhaps it was that she was tall, but her assets looked even more outrageously massive; each breast was over three feet across, their lower slopes dipping nearly to their waist, and slung nearly four feet out.

Her backside had a similar dramatic effect; perhaps as thick across as two of her standing back to back, taking up a sizable amount of her thighs and pushing out against the confines of her cloak.

Now, Kankri focused on her.

He knew her voice; heavily accented with the distinctive accent of someone who struggled with Purpleglot (the common language in most of the continent, for several hundred years now), thick with world-weary cynicism, ready to shift into a more hostile persona if required. Kankri began to approach, as the argument continued.

“We are NOT getting out the trumpets, or red carpet, or purple carpets!” The first Megido, whom Kankri determined was probably Aradia, said firmly. She had the same, hyper-curvaceous build as her sister, but since she was moving around so much, her sheer heft felt much more prominent. People tended to stand back from her, as if instinctively afraid she might ram them with her curves if they weren’t careful. “We don’t even have any of those!”

The first speaker gasped in horror. Kankri realized that this had to be one of the people that had come from Sollux’s land. He hadn’t familiarized himself with all of them, and so he’d overlooked the matter entirely. After a moment of thought, he recalled a brief encounter on the way up here, with a pair of wanderers on Sollux’s land that Sollux had taken a liking to on a whim, and had gotten to come along with them.

Kuprem; a powerful goldblood mage, though totally untutored, and his friend Folykl, the shortstacked goldblood whose tremendous figure was partially genetic but mostly the consequence of her unusual power to siphon away magical energies and absorb it into her own body (and store it as bigger curves). Kankri had noticed them get uncomfortably excited over being in the presence of genuine nobility, or at least Kuprum did, but he tended to put people into little folders marked ‘NOT OF INTEREST’ until they did something to get his attention, and he’d completely forgotten about them.

Even so, they were of very little interest now that he’d spotted the girl he had come across half a continent for.

Kankri strode onwards, towards the Megidos. “At least let me scream like a trumpet!” Kuprum begged, almost on his knees, teary-eyed.

“Okay, uh, wow!” Aradia said, giggling with a strange enthusiasm. “That sounds kind of fun. I don’t want any formality here, but maybe we could do a screaming contest!”

Folykl groaned, bowing her head. Four crooked horns, bending out forwards, jutted from her cloak like the jaws of some fierce beast, and thick hair spilled out onto her front. Her eyes, though, were the dead black of the outermost void, a reflection of her singular power; the air felt strange around her, energy slowly draining into her, feeding her own abilities or perhaps nourishing her. If one looked close, they would see her cloak slowly straining, filling out as her breasts very visibly grew at a slow, steady rate. Magic ebbed into her, and took physical form as a curvier form. “Please, don’t. Tired of screaming already!”

Kuprum, conversely, was a lot taller, so much so that Kankri had seen her riding on him like a scowling backpack. He was a pretty athletic guy, or so Kankri would assume; he was currently carrying a massive load of construction equipment on his back without any strain, despite the fact that when Sollux had picked him out, he and Folykl had apparently been living out in the wild, abandoned by any caretakers, half-starved and oblivious to current events. His horns, double-rowed and hooked upwards, were startlingly similar to the Captor horn style. Perhaps, Kankri had mused before, this was why Sollux had taken an interest besides the potent magical abilities the caravans had spotted at a distance. He might have been a scion of a lost branch of the Captors.

Now, though, Kankri didn’t have much interest in him, and he was an impediment. He walked past him, pushing him aside. Or he tried to. His hand pushed against Kuprum with some force, but his load made him far too heavy. Kankri just rebounded and plopped onto some stony stairs. “Ow.”

“Hey, don’t go pushing in line!” Kuprum said. “I’m supposed to announce them and stuff first!”

“Hey, none of that!” Aradia said firmly, putting her hands on her exceptionally bountiful hips, her arms making crooked shapes inside her cloak. If Folykl looked curvaceous, Aradia made her look slim; the front and back of her robes both stuck out a startling amount, given the slackness of the material, and it was a testament to just how ample she really was. She radiated a sort of maniacal, happy wildness, like a clock freewheeling it’s hands all over the place so hard the gears might bust loose at any second, and even turning about to face him, Aradia did it with so much energy that she did not step, but sprang from one foot to the other, flailing around so that she didn’t unbalance herself. There was a lot of bouncing. Kuprum averted his gaze and wailed that he did not deserve to witness the wiggle of the nobility. Folykl just went ‘ooh wow that’s a lot’.

The face peering at Kankri was smiling extremely widely, lips thick and dark red, and her hood framed that face in such a way that her expression was disconcertingly concentrated. Kankri felt the urge to shuffle back awkwardly, just having her look at him. She was… intense, to put it mildly. “Hello, Aradia,” he said meekly.

“Kankri!” Aradia came forward, and with a twist of her hand, generated a swell of force that pushed the snow back, in a great burst of magic that felt like a faint wind moving by, and could have smashed him to a pulp if she was so inclined. The power she held radiated from her, and Folykl hopped up and down excitedly, drinking down the magic that came her way. Aradia regarded this with deep interest, grinning and showing all her broad, heavy fangs. But she returned to Kankri again, as the other Megido started to impatiently stride forwards. “Where have you guys been!? Oh, Dam’s been waiting on knives and daggers for you!”

(Which was like ‘pins and needles, but adjusted for the subject’s decidedly morbid interests.)

“Have not,” said the other Megido, taller than Aradia. She was possibly not quite as overwhelmingly voluptuous as Aradia, but perhaps her cloak was just too big to really emphasize her figure; it draped over her like an ominous cloak of the sort that the really dedicated necromancers liked to wear.

“Have so.”

“Did not,” Damara Megido said, with an unspoken air of ‘keep this up and zombies will use your head as a kickball’. The scowling face under the hood tilted up slightly, with an expression that suggested that a smile would be in completely unfamiliar territory there. Dark red eyes, obscured very slightly by a few stray hairs falling from an obsessively prim hairstyle, flickered from the obstruction to Kankri.

For a moment, the stern expression softened. Thick lips, several shades notably darker than Kankri’s own mutant blood, shifted like breaking stone into something that would have been a smile if she hadn’t suddenly remembered she had a reputation to uphold.

Kankri sat up. Damara stepped forward. She stood nearly a head taller than her sister, her shoulders around roughly the same level as Aradia’s distinctive curling horns, just like a ram’s. Damara’s were much the same, but polished to a shine, and capped with bone and rings curling around it, all etched with symbols Kankri assumed were magical. Damara walked with a wide, swinging strut, her hips so massive that it was the easiest way for her enormous thighs to move. And yes, her thighs were huge, easily as wide across as Kankri’s body, and her cloak swayed magnificently as she advanced towards him. Soon, a bustline advanced over his personal horizon, so that he couldn’t see her face. It was a shame; anything obscuring Damara’s face was, in his opinion, a travesty.

(He’d told her that, once. Her face had gone very burgundy and she had to cover her face in a pillow and she’d wailed a little bit. It took about five minutes of his frantic apologizing for upsetting her before someone had to come along and tactfully inform him that she was blushing.)

Now, Damara gestured, as if to summon him to come to her side, and Kankri felt a gentle and very firm grip around his entire body. The air shimmered with a faint darkness, and that same power pulsed around Damara, her native powers calling upon the death energies in the region and focusing through her. Up Kankri went, lifted into the air by the telekinetic spell, and then he was gently let down. The pressure of Damara’s mind did not abate until he was firmly standing on his own two feet again.

It was no easy feet to pick up a full grown troll, nor to apply the strength required to do so evenly across his entire body, and certainly not to pick him up and then down at a respectable speed, and definitely not to do all that as casually as someone picking up a letter.

Kolykl was practically drooling. “Oh, wow, she is really strong… your magical energies are delicious.”

Damara tilted her head. “Thank you. I suppose? Never heard that before.”

Folykl only grinned ghoulishly. Kuprum gasped, in horror, and rushed over to her. “Please!” He cried. “Do not smite my beloved for her impudence, my lady!”

“I… wasn’t?” She said, looking bemused. “And we don’t use that term of address here.”

Kuprum looked vaguely disappointed that he wasn’t going to have to genuflect himself into the dirt for the sake of Folykl. He tried again. “Your highness?”

“No. No monarchy here.”

Once again, he tried, “Your most doomy slaughter-monster?”

“Like that. But no. Try again.”

He slumped over, his extremely vague archive of noble address exhausted. “What do I call you!?”

Damara shrugged, an interesting motion that affixed Kankri’s attention. He moved by her side, which was a natural place for him to be in most circumstances. “Whatever you like.”

Kuprem scowled. “That is a terrible precedent for royalty!”

“We’re not royal.”

“We’re the nobility of necromancers!” Aradia said cheerfully. “There’s a difference! We do spooky stuff! That our ancestors did not necessarily do.”

Folkyl raised a hand. “Um. Miss spooky lady? What DO necromancers do?”

Sensing that Damara and Kankri probably would have liked a moment alone, Aradia seized the moment, and swooped ahead, telekinetically picking up both of the goldbloods. “I’m SO glad you asked! Let’s go find Sollux and we can tell you ALL the little details about the spooky, icky things necromancers do! First warning, it involves ghosts! And dead things! Sometimes ghosts IN dead things! Or ghosts in BREAD things!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Kuprum said as Aradia bounced away, taking the goldbloods with her.

“Pastry minions are a thing!” Aradia said cheerfully. “Flatbread constructs straight from the Pyrope lands!” She continued on, turning a corner and going out the walls, into the complex of tents that was marginally warmer and certainly where Sollux would be orchestrating his fellow mages to working on the walls and making long term habitation a bit more sustainable.

Damara and Kankri watched her go.

They looked at each other, and they did what many young lovers, who were still somewhat unaccustomed to such powerful feelings and keenly aware that their respective training to continue their own family’s work into the future did not cover this particular topic, were wont to do:

They froze up and looked at the ground awkwardly.

Tension sang out between them. Not a harsh tension. Not something uncomfortable; it was the tension of a string plucked and about to sing, or of a wheel rolling steadily down a hillside. They saw the inevitable conclusion, had been building up to it for some time, and these were the first hesitant steps towards something… real, and lasting.

It scared them. Kankri dealt with fear by pretending it wasn’t a problem, and Damara dealt with it by snarling at it, but for both of them, the usual way they handled fear was not an option.

So, Damara tried not to look directly at him, or his handsome face, or the vibrant, unique scarlet of his eyes. No, instead she studied the same walls she had, pretending they held an unbearable fascination for her. Her gaze now slid across them as Kankri’s presence grew more accustomed to being with her again, and then it moved upwards. Towards the tarp-laced borders between the walls, and the remnants of the glass-like material that had once bordered the inner and outer walls. Snow fell from the gaps between them, and she stared at that spot there for a while, as if distracted by something. A shy glance her way from Kankri caught her eyes staring upwards.

“Is there something up there?” He asked, mostly to fill the silence.

And then, he regretted asking it. Because there might have actually been something there.

Kankri saw only empty space.

Damara did not.

She stared there for a while, her head tilted very slightly beneath her cloak. She began to speak, and perhaps it was going to be a comforting lie, and then she thought better of it. Instead, she said, “Are you certain you want that answered?”

He saw the look on her face and shuddered. “Perhaps not.” he muttered, giving the area above them a brief look. He could sense many things, but there were things that he could not sense.

The dead were not his domain. But it was Damara’s.

She patted his hand. “Come here,” she said, holding her own hand out, palm up, offering it. Kankri calmly took her hand, and their fingers laced warmly together. She began to walk, and Kankri came with her.

They began to walk aimlessly. Damara didn’t have a destination in mind, and her feet carried her to a completely random direction, and Kankri allowed her to carry him with her. Her hand was warm, no, it was hot, a pulsing heat nearly as warm as his own blood, and he half-thought that it was a wonder that her heat did not make the snow drifting on down instantly become steam upon her cloak.

There was a wind, curling down from the sky overhead, and it rustled her cloak. For a moment, both their furs smacked together. They adjusted their stance on pure automatic, awkwardly shuffling together so that their cloaks laid over one another, and their arms lay flat against the other. Their hands met near their hips, and swayed gently as they walked.

And as they walked, Kankri could feel the massive sway of Damara’s… endowments, wobbling up and down as she pressed onwards, moving against her cloak. That made a distinctive noise, and he couldn’t help but feel his heart beat faster at the awareness of her. Damara, in all her amplitude, here and now.

Goodness. It had been months since he’d held her hand like this, for the first time.

He swallowed, thinking of a few scattered moments in his homelands before the Megidos had journeyed north, to found their own homeland up here; a reward from the ruling council of the nobles of the unified kingdoms, and personally administered by his father and Redglare herself.

It had all been so sudden. They hadn’t even announced their intentions to court, to their families.

Kankri swallowed again. He tried to think of something besides the heart-wrenching goodbyes for even a few weeks, and his dread that the Megido’s journey to end their diaspora and reclaim what had been their old homelands would end with nothing. Just dead silence, and them vanishing forever into the north, lost and gone as so many others who had journeyed there.

But then, the Megidos walked with the dead. Perhaps the whispers and advice of those long gone had given them some help.

He blinked back tears. Damara stopped in front of the wall, the same one he had studied earlier, and moved slightly. A hand came up to his face, and gently wiped away the hot wetness on his cheek. “Is something wrong?” She asked, quietly.

“No,” Kankri said, wiping his face with his cloak. The cold stung his face, but it seemed less so with her there. And also, that it was warmer here than it ought to have been. Uncomfortable, yes, but as if in a warm home with the door open during winter. “I was… worried. All this time. For you and Aradia and those that came with you.”

She regarded him with the stoic detachment he was used to from her, and then her face softened. “You didn’t have to worry,” she said, calmly. “We knew what we were getting into.”

“I know. But I worry anyway.”

“I suppose someone must.” Damara shrugged. Now she turned to the wall. “I see you were looking at this earlier too?”

He rolled his thumb against her hand in an unthinking, instinctive way. “Yes.” something she said struck him. “‘Too’? You were studying this as well?”

“Yes.” With her free hand, she gestured at the murals, and she began to speak at length; not in Purpleglot, but in the language of her own people, and though Kankri was not the most fluent in it, he was versed enough to follow what she said. And he was pleased to see that his own assumptions were on broadly the right track, though Damara went into further detail then him, which was only fitting. The study of the cultures of the past, and the things they left behind, was something of an abiding interest for her.

(Damara did not tell Kankri of the whispers in the wind. Of words spoken in ancient tongues so old and its speakers so abruptly torn away from their earthly vessels that there were few connections to modern language.)

“You see here?” Damara said, gesturing at the wall and the large hole there, with the few remaining fragments suggesting a large crowd of the hornless laying down, attended by other trolls. “I believe this suggests burial rites.”

“You think so?” Kankri said.

Damara glanced up, just for a moment, before she replied.

(She would not tell Kankri what was roiling about them. She didn’t want to keep looking at the roiling masses of limbs and blurred horns and yowling, serpentine forms totally unfamiliar to her, and she didn’t want to admit to Kankri they were there. Some secrets ought to remain quiet.

But she could relay what few things she understood from them.)

“Yes,” Damara said, politely declining to remark that it was the best she had gleaned from the… entities around her.

She didn’t see a sky, or even a ceiling. They clustered too thickly to see such a thing.

She indicated, instead, the mural once more. “I believe the people of this town used geomantic magic. Architecture that shapes local magic, rearranges the flow of it for a specific purpose, yes?” Kankri nodded slowly. “And things that happen in a place can shape that magic, too. I think this wall is a big part of that magic, and the carvings aren’t decoration.”

“Oh?”

“I think they were… encoding? Runes that direct it? They’re part of the magical working.”

“Ah!” Kankri brightened. “So the depictions here are not merely artistic effects! And much of this damage looks like the wall was being targeted, despite there being no signs of there having been a gateway; this place was not meant to be defended, I would think. So whatever happened to make this city fall started with this wall?”

“Perhaps to disrupt whatever magic the city was producing. Though I don’t think it is a city, as such. I believe it was a place where dead were laid to rest, interred, and cared for as they neared the ends of their lives. A necropolis, yes.”

“What makes you say that?”

Damara did not look upwards at what she supposed had to be a mass of ghosts, so many of them and in such intensity that they were a silent cloud. “Observation.”

She gestured at the wall. “In the era this mural appears to have been made in, horns and faces often had a very specific meaning. Horns equated to identity, in the sense of being people, in the artwork of the time.”

Kankri’s face grew dark. “I have heard troubling things about the way humans and other such beings were treated. It was very akin to the way lowbloods and mutants were treated until the Pyropes attacked.”

Damara waved off the knowledge of injustice as though it were rain falling down on them; important, yes, but not strictly relevant to her point. “Yes, I know, but hornlessness in artwork was often used to indicate death.” She pointed at one part of the mural. “Look at these figures. They have horns and distinctive faces. Look at them continue onwards, until they lie down.” There, at a point where the mural’s unnatural shininess was on full display, and even pulsed faintly, new shapes appeared: wispy figures rose from the things who were now hornless and faceless, but the figures rising from them had those same horns and faces.

“I think this symbolizes those dying, and their souls departing, or perhaps stamping their identity onto magic to create death spirits,” Damara said. Again, she definitely made an effort to not look at the very obvious evidence of this, presently wheeling overhead.

Those spirits, from what she, Aradia and the other necromancers that had come with them had worked out, had been here for a very, very long time. So long that they had no real means to communicate with them. The best they could do was listen to their frantic whispers, begging to be understood, and try to find something that was just close enough to a language family still spoken in the modern day. They had learned a few things, but so terribly little.

“The horns, and the faces,” Kankri said. “If those symbolize identity, then these might mean the identity moving onwards? That DOES sound like the way another culture might have viewed death. Are you certain enough to call it a theory?”

“Yes; I suppose it will be disputed, but if anyone has alternatives, I will be happy to tell them they are objectively fools and are obviously wrong.”

Now she pointed at the center of the mural; overlooking it all, as if a beneficent giver of goods, there was something coiled far overhead. She wanted to say that it was a serpent, with a head very superficially similar to a skull. The shimmering quality of the mural, which she supposed was meant to convey magical energy, did not extend around it, and perhaps that meant that it was not strictly related to the workings of the mural.

The serpent, though, was important. She just didn’t know why it was given a position right at the top.

“I am still trying to work out what that implies there,” she said.

Kankri pointed to something above it. “And what of that?”

Damara gave it a long look. It looked something like a large gemstone, suspending like a crown above the serpent. The mural had been shaped around it, so that something like bright rays were descending from it, pointing right at what she had theorized to be spirits, who were rising towards it.

“It looks like a beacon,” Kankri said thoughtfully. “I don’t know what it could actually mean, though that is what it looks like to me. Have you any ideas?”

“Actually, I have thought the same.” Damara stared up at it, and she glanced back at a stairway leading further into the city, for some reason.

Her hand squeezed him tighter. Any obvious indication of emotion from Damara was extremely startling, and so Kankri glanced up, looking alarmed. He turned to her, and her expression was strange; a grimace of sorts, caught between delight and… some kind of worry.

“Are you… hungry or tired?” She asked. “We could go find one of the makeshift homes and rest for a while…?”

The question surprised him; she didn’t seem certain, and Damara always felt so adamantly, indignantly certain about everything, even the things she knew she was objectively wrong about. Kankri felt unsettled, as though the ground beneath him was about to give way, with the distinctive panic that implied. “Is something wrong? You don’t sound like yourself!”

Damara shook her head, stray lengths of hair flashing over her eyes. “Listen! Some time ago, I found… something. In a chamber, not far from here. Blocked off by rubble, and I think it’s very important, but…” She tensed. “You came at an opportune time. I’d hoped that you would be the first to study it with me. And there’s no one else I trust to be responsible with it.”

She took both his hands, propriety (never exactly a priority with Damara to begin with) forgotten in favor of the wonders of study and exploration. “Please, let me show you!”

Kankri took her hands, but he felt he had to make at least one reasonable objection. “You haven’t shown Aradia?”

Damara’s expression flickered, and she hesitated before she spoke. “I would not say anything about my sister, but she is… perhaps not the most cautious when it comes to research and investigation. And believe me, this requires delicacy.”

“And Aradia likes to do digging by throwing big rocks at things.” Kankri grimaced. “I see your point.” Then, he smiled. “And I’d much rather examine the wonders of bygone ages as soon as possible. I am with you, Damara!”

She smiled again and, tugging on one of his hands, walked them both up the stairway. Kankri observed that not only was it abnormally wide, but in the middle of it was a ramp, smooth and worn.

They traveled further into the city, past several additional walls also covered in murals (alas, most apparently too damaged to read legibly at this point) and this reinforced the theory that the walls were not meant as defense, but as part of a larger magical working. There were large gateways in them, without doors or a sign that there had ever been doorways. These were here to dictate the flow of power throughout the land, not bar entry, and Kankri (again, quite able to sense the flow of magical power around him) felt a heavy pressure as he moved through them.

It was not unpleasant. But it did taste of death, and old death at that. The weight of centuries was heavy here, and it was certainly unsettling.

The moment passed as they advanced further into the city, moving upwards: the stairway sloped upwards, and he thought for a moment that it felt like they were climbing into an old volcano caldera: they had walked up the outside of it, the considerable distance of the walls from one another outlining first the base of it and than a midpoint to it, and now they were approaching the top. And beyond, would be the inner part of the caldera.

He mentioned this theory to Damara, who nodded approvingly. “It’s not a caldera or a volcano of any kind,” she said, and went on to name a number of geographic curiosities that would be particular to such a place, and were not present here in any form. “The people who dwelled here were originally diggers, I think. They simply dug down into a hill and kept going as they needed more space.”

“A traditional thing for our people to do,” Kankri noted. “Though not so common in recent ages.”

Damara’s expression went strange, then. “I don’t think the people who built this city were trolls.”

Kankri frowned. “Really? Why not?”

Damara thought of old ghosts, their winged shapes so totally unlike any troll… or human. “Some of the things I’ve seen are inconsistent with the builders being trolls.” And he accepted that, at least.

By then, they reached the top of the staircase; it did not open out into another wall. As Damara had surmised, the walls were not fortifications, and further ones wouldn’t serve the purposes of the original city-builders. They stepped upwards onto a broad flatness, of quarried stone cut into shape, leading directly into the broad ramp at the very center of the stairs. It continued onwards, forming a ring around the entire lip of the hillside (broken and smashed in a few places, but reasonably intact), looking inwards towards the city itself below them.

Damara and Kankri admired it for a moment, their gaze following down the trail; below the stars and ramp going down, and there the sight of the stairs was lost, as buildings rose up in a complex weave below them. All the horizon in front of them was the city itself, all the way to the distant other sides of the ring far from them. Winding towers rose up beyond them, triangular points sticking up far, and even from here it was plain that the construction was much more varied than the stony construction elsewhere seen here. Wooden structures, treated to endure the climate, still endured, though in terrible disrepair, and as they began to descend, Kankri saw that there was further variety; stone, metal-shod walls, even the remnants of what must have been the quasi-organic substances some trolls literally grew into being, though the bodies of those homes had long since decayed so that only their skeletons remained.

Undead walked here; zombies carefully treated to hold off decay, skeletons held together with leather straps and metal bolts, and they were wandering mechanically from one building to another, patching up gaps in the buildings or towing bedding here and there. The Megidos, and those who shared their teachings, were well known for their use of undead servants, and Kankri supposed these had been brought with them.

It was a long way to go, past the bulk of zombie minions. The stairs descended downwards, and from here Kankri saw the inward curve of the city. Yes; he saw well-organized districts, incredibly complex and adhering to principles of architecture that seemed very alien to him, tilting slightly down as their foundations followed the curve of the hillside.

He and Damara followed them, and as they did, his view of it became clearer. He also saw that, where there had been totally destroyed buildings or empty spaces, Damara’s group had begun to build new buildings, doing their best to match the geomancy of the area and not disrupt it. They were far from complete, ragged foundations covered with high-mounted fabrics to shield themselves from the wind, but they were sufficient as temporary shelter, and at least this was not destructive and harmful to the old city.

As they passed a few other people, tending to their work or simply minding their own business, Kankri saw the very base of the city. He couldn’t make it out very clearly; it was quite distant from them, and it would be a long time to walk there on foot. He suspected the original inhabitants had not; he could see the long, narrow pathways of what could have been ancient trains, rigged to slide down by the pull of gravity and pulled up by powerful counterweights, to convey passengers straight to the center.

He made out some vaguely triangular shapes, or perhaps pyramids. Old homes and what might have been businesses, all the buildings strangely crooked and tending towards curving shapes quite unusual to his eyes, the product of architectural sensibilities totally foriegn to him, bore so much damage they were hollowed out husks. Whatever had damaged the city had made a beeline to the center of the city from here. “Are we headed there?” He asked.

“Yes,” Damara said solemnly. “To the center of the city; the necropolis proper. The thing I found is there.”

He tried not to look terribly enthusiastic about going to an ancient ritual graveyard. “It is a bit of a walk,” he said vaguely.

She squeezed his hand. “I can carry us both there.”

He tried not to flush at the notion of being lifted aloft by her. “Oh, if you must.”

“I must, indeed.” Her fingers wrapped firmly on his palm, blunt claws tapped on his wrist, and then she suddenly swung him up, catching him in a carry with her other arm, his legs fitting snugly into the crook of her elbow and forearm, sliding him against her monstrously huge breasts so suddenly that he let out a cry that was meant to be a protest but just came out as a mortified squeak, compounded by the rush of heat of being pressed so firmly against her incredibly heated body, and the cold suddenly seemed very distant.

Damara floated upwards, carrying Kanki with her. She flew high, over the highest of the buildings around them, so that the city stretched away beneath them. Kankri’s nerve gave out and he clutched into Damara’s front, face buried in hot softness. The sheer inappropriateness of it didn’t matter as much as his stomach dropping out into a pit and his head swimming at so much distance beneath them, and he thought with a sudden certainty that he absolutely could not look down. Not at all.

His stomach felt that it was plummeting again as they descended downwards. Damara judged them in the right spot, and their cloaks flapping together, she came down right in the center.

Eventually, they dropped down. For Kankri, it was an interminable time, suspended between Damara’s astonishingly big bustline (and the temptation to snuggle; oh, that was a cruel thing indeed), her strong arms, and nothing between falling hundreds of feet except more Damara.

There was a sound as Damara’s feet touched down, eventually. She remained holding him in a bridal carry, though, a faint smirk on her lips.

“Please let me go,” Kankri said, still clinging to her.

She let him down, and he honestly expected her to say something just a little sardonic. She didn’t need to; she radiated smugness at seeing him so vulnerable.

Kankri needed a long moment to recover, and when he did, he was again overwhelmed; not by fear of falling far and fast, but wonder. He had thought he had seen pyramids from afar, and so there were.

High and angled surfaces rose far, pocked and burned with the injuries of ancient years, but they still gleamed, in the same way as the walls outside did. Power coursed through them: weakened, faint, but it was magical power all the same, an ancient circuit of magical energy still moving. It took him a moment to realize that they were indeed pyramids after all, and he stood in the center of a podium between them. Four of them, a narrow crossroads between them just wide enough for perhaps four average-sized trolls to walk, side by side, rolling their mysterious burdens along.

“I’ll thank you for being less needlessly terrifying in the future,” Kankri said. “But what are these wonders? Burial grounds?”

“No, those would be below us,” Damara said. “These are not pyramids in the sense of being sites for beings that are buried. That is, we did find beings interred within them, but the pyramids were not built for them. There were many rooms, filled with tools; scalpels, old funerary kits, containers that were probably filled with fluids used to speed decomposition of bodies after burial, alters for religious rites… I think these pyramids were most likely used to prepare bodies for burial, and a lot of them at once.”

“So perhaps a site where many people were interred? Or a city built specifically for that purpose?” Kankri halted, and he realized that Damara was avoiding talking about something. “You said ‘beings’. Not trolls?”

“No,” Damara said, and despite her fascination, she still sounded troubled. “They were… strange. I don’t know what they were. No one had ever seen anything like them before.”

Kankri frowned. “Can you describe them for me?”

“They were skeletons; still preserved, so I suspect that was important somehow. Not trolls, or humans. Humanoid from the waist up, much larger than trolls. Skulls.. I would say they resemble a snake’s, but with broader jaws, larger eyes. Wings, I think, extending from the back. And below the waist, they don’t seem to have legs, but a large flexible trunk. Like a snake’s body, some of my people thought.”

Kankri racked his mind, and found nothing that sounded familiar. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“Nor has anyone else.”

Kankri stared up at the pyramid. “I would like to study them later, if that is permitted,” he said. Damara glanced at the roiling storm of ghosts, always a present sight even this far down. They were thicker around here, as if something around the pyramids made them stronger, gave them greater substance than they would have otherwise. And four strange ghosts, so totally unlike anything she’d ever seen, were studying him with interest.

They gave a sense of, if not exactly approval, at least a lack of antagonism. “I think that would be acceptable,” she said carefully.

Kankr peerd outwards into the darkness; it was quite dim down here, as Damara’s people were unwilling to keep it too brightly lit. “Do we go down there?” He asked, pointing at a stairwell. He sounded uncomfortable.

“No,” she said, and he visibly brightened. “That leads downwards into the necropolis proper, I think; we found many catacombs down there.”

“How far down do they go?”

Damara recalled a staircase that had just… kept going, on and on, its design suited for both bipeds and someone that might slither, and in her mind the image had formed of a spike’s outline, made by the staircase. “We sent people down there. They followed it for days. It just kept going.”

Kankri’s eyebrows rose. “Ah.”

“Suppose the people who built this necropolis just kept digging downwards and building more catacombs as they needed,” Damara said. “They just keep going on… like spider webs, or canals.” She moved to the very center of the area between the four pyramids. The ground was absolutely torn up by damage, very little of the original stonework still intact at all. She went to a large pile of rubble and made a gesture; the whole pile moved up and floated away, piled up to disguise a large hole right at the center. “What we’re going to look at is down there.”

Kankri felt something pulse up from there. “At the very center of the entire city?”

“Going up, and down,” Damara said, with something distressingly close to cheerful. She offered her hand to Kankri’s again. He took it, and they floated into the air, and down into the hole.

They descended down into a chamber that was not, relatively, all that big. It was not brightly lit, but it didn’t need to be; trolls had very good nocturnal vision, though not to the degree of being able to see in the dark like many humans believed, but there was sufficient light to see clearly enough. It was not long before they stepped down, and for some reason that seemed vaguely disappointing. He expected a longer fall; perhaps some kind of interminably long drop, as fit Damara’s description of how far down the necropolis went.

He looked around into a chamber that was, surprisingly, reasonably well lit. Illumination radiated from… lines of a sort, set into the walls, though they were so badly damaged that he initially thought they were dots and circles. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw the walls, rising up to meet the floor above them in a gradually widening circle, and those walls were in ruins.

Scorch marks did not dot the walls, but engulfed it. The marks of devastation, a terrible impact blow and hints of some massive blast had rendered the walls all but unrecognizable. Perhaps something had smashed the entire chamber open, flooding it with the destructive output of some ancient weapon, or a dragon had descended down here.

There had been murals on the walls. Tragically, there was very little left of them. Some part of him cursed the moment he recognized the damage; it was hard to tell that there even was decoration on the walls, with so much of it having been smashing away, or lying in pieces on the floor. So densely covered was the floor, that there was hardly a space to stand upon. He felt a great sense of loss, and tragedy; what had been here? What ancient secrets had been ruined, in some ancient conflict?

The lines he had seen were clearly magical in nature, still powered by some ambient force just barely present. He thought perhaps they were magical conduction lines; a geomantic pattern of conducting energies from one place to another, or from a power source. They were still operational, if perhaps not to fuel whatever spell they had once managed, but enough to give them light.

They connected to a podium, in the center of the chamber. The very heart of it; perhaps the heart of the entire city. Once, it must have been a grand thing; a marvel of magical engineering, every inch honed to precise mathematical precision, and here and there he saw the fragments of curving shapes that once would have cradled the podium like the petals of a large flower. The conduits connected to it in a spiraling shape, like a spirograph, flickering steadily even in front of his eyes.

However, his gaze was ultimately drawn not to the podium, intriguing as it was, beautiful as it might have been. Rather, pulled in much the same manner as iron was tugged by a magnet, his attention came to something laying behind the rubble, near the podium. From the rubble and its position, it might have been once set atop that podium before being knocked away.

It was a crystal; a little taller than he was, nearly three times wider than it was tall. It shimmered a dull red, brighter shades periodically flashing as the magical forces it embodied moved within. It didn’t appear shaped; large bulbous swellings defined its shape into something that looked surprisingly like a humanoid figure sitting down in a calm position, but these were so smooth and rounded that Kankri rather suspected that it had been grown, not carved into shape.

It was not just a crystal, though.

It radiated age, even more than the city above and below them. It felt old, and Kankri felt a sudden and terrible awareness of how many generations of trolls could have lived and died before this object. And it radiated power, so fiercely that it was nearly a physical pressure weighing against him.

He’d felt power like this; in the halls of the mighty, in the presence of weapons whose mere existence threatened the world, in places where artifacts had been shaped into entire structures. He’d felt it shaped into forms radiating such magical might that their substances alone were transmuted into something otherworldly, their very touch dangerous to many.

Kankri’s breath caught in his throat. His senses, so tuned to the magical and the invisible ties of emotion and feeling, blazed at the sight of this, and the immense power dormant within it. It did not blaze with power, as such. Blaze implied activity, and this felt quiet, passive; asleep.

But to look directly at it with magical senses alone might have wounded him. It shone like a quiet star, with so much power that he was honestly shaken. How had it stayed here without anyone even noticing? How could anyone not feel it; how had he not felt it as they approached?

“I know the feeling,” Damara said, reading his mood, sympathetically. “It’s a bit.. Intense, isn’t it?”

Kankri breathed in. “Damara. Is that what I think it is?”

She stared at it for a long time, her expression distant, and then she swallowed loudly. She played well at being calm, but Kankri read the excitement, and the fear, in her voice when she spoke. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know exactly what it might be but…” he hesitated to say it. It sounded foolish. “It’s old. And powerful. It’s something like… I don’t know if I want to really say this.”

“Then you thought the same thing as me, I suppose.”

“It’s like the castle of the Pyropes. Or the ships of the Amporas. This is something from the old era, isn’t it? That’s an artifact of power; one of those relics that entire kingdoms fought and died over.”

Damara looked nervous, even as she nodded. “Now the city’s layout makes even more sense, doesn’t it? An entire city, built around this artifact, conveying its power.”

“Power to do… what, exactly?” Kankri bent low. He felt extremely nervous in its presence, but also excited. This wasn’t just something for the history books, this would define the Megido sorcerers! They’d found an artifact, an actual artifact of the ancient world!

“I’m not sure.” Damara leaned down, not quite daring to touch it. “It reminds me of the magical power batteries people make by condensing magic into something that can be stored and tapped, but this is far stronger than any of that.” She reflected, once more, upon the vast storm of ghosts lurking around here. Still here, even after so long, with nothing tying them to the world. And perhaps, sustained by something. “It could be naturally occuring, but I think it’s more likely that this artifact once powered this city.”

“Perhaps this was made after eons of this city’s spells discharging excess into something?”

“Or it predates even the city, and they designed those spells after harnessing its power,” Damara countered. “To be honest, I was hoping you might have some insight.”

Kankri crouched down as well. Being in the presence of so much power made him feel intensely uncomfortable, and he would have liked nothing better than to be away from it, but the excitement of the moment was more potent by far. He winced in the fast of so much spiritual power pulsing from it, and he recalled something. “Do you remember the mural?”

“Yes! The crystal it showed; do you think it is the same thing?”

“Well, it would be a strange coincidence, yes?”

Damara, impulsively, clasped his hand. He clasped back, smiling widely, his eyes shining with wonder.

Without thinking, Kankri’s iron self control slackened. It was her influence on him; just as he made Damara feel gentler, let her guard down for once, she made him calm, and so the magical power he possessed, with its ties to emotion and feeling, came loose.

Normally, it wouldn’t have meant much. Perhaps people sensing his feelings and thoughts, or spells materializing to suit his feelings.

But this was not a normal situation.

(For so long, the spirits had called, and cried out for form again. And it could not answer.

The city lay dead and forgotten, and it could not fuel it.

It’s people were gone. The last priest of death and endings had died long ago, the sacred rites lost and with them, the knowledge to maintain it.

It’s power pulsed out, the need of the restless dead and enduring memories pulling at it. The two lives around it pulled it to greater function, and here, HERE was an ideal priestess.

From the other came a pulse of magic, colored in love and affection, and it was a gateway. A road, to giving the spirits peace once more.

It flowed to its new container.)

The crystal pulsed, so brightly that both Kankri and Damara had to shield their eyes, and power radiated from it so furiously at the magical conduits around them ignited in actintic brilliance.

Kankri shouted aloud, and power jumped to him, and his mind ached beneath the strain as unimaginable forces coursed through him, and into Damara, using himself as a living conduit. It only lasted a moment, but it burned so furiously he nearly passed out on the spot. He heard her shout, and he forced himself to stay conscious. He took hold of himself and demanded, No! Stay awake!’

“What?” Damara said, voice steady even with a faint waver.

The light faded, just enough for Kankri to see. “What is it!?” KAnkri yelled. “What’s it doing?”

“I, I don’t know…” Damara’s voice was faint, uncertain. “Yes? Hello?”

“Damara! Who are you talking to!?”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and it was too long; power coursed out, twisting and churning around them, and it felt so alive, and moving with the moment, time itself flowing into its depths and somehow melded with it. It was terrible to behold, it was awful. And this was meant in the old definitions of those words; it was full of awe. It was terrifying, but also somehow a good thing.

And she felt a question directed towards her.

Somehow, she understood what it actually meant.

The weight of ages, of countless generations piling up long before her ancestors had ever walked the continent, loomed before her. She felt as though she were paddling before a tidal wave ready to crash down on her, and the wave had noticed her. And asked something.

She felt sorrow, all the countless and soul-rending sorrows of thousands of souls, trapped in torment for so terribly long. The need to alleviate their pain, to give them form and to find a way to move on, and regain what had been lost, and here, the last remnant of the city that had once tended to their needs lay before her.

“Yes,” she said softly to it.

The crystal flashed, even more brightly than before… and then, it faded. And then it was Damara who glowed with radiant light.

-----

And above, the churning mass of spirits paused.

And then, they slowly descended downwards to the very center of the city, with something like wild relief.

-----

In the chamber below the city, power flashed out, like a fist blindly striking around.

Kankri tumbled as Damara shone so brightly she became impossible to look at directly, flashing a brighter red than his own blood, and so much magic made a physical force that knocked him away. He saw her begin to float upwards, suspended by the power that was funneling into her, merging with her and infusing her living body with its limitless energies.

“Damara!” he wailed. “Let me… hold on!” He tried to crawl, and the pressure shoved him face first against the ground. Even so, he kept crawling, claws against the dirt and pulling him onwards.

And he looked up as the ghosts appeared.

It was the first time he had seen them properly, and he realized what Damara had been coyly hinting at all that time; that this was a place of the unquiet dead, and it was from them she had learned so much of it. HE had little time to dwell on this, though, as the first of them descended upon her.

He stopped, horror halting him completely still, as Damara tilted her head upwards with enough presence of self that his fears faded a little. She flung her arms open wide, as if a mother greeting long lost children, and it was not entirely Damara there, for a moment; there was another presence meshed into her, staring out through her eyes. Not overriding her, but channeled through her.

The ghost, a troll so old that its features were almost totally nothing but faint memory, flew into Damara. And then it was gone, flashing red and sucked up into her. Her belly grew slightly larger, as if it had entered her womb in some strange inversion of sacred birth.

And then another ghost came down, shyly fluttering down. This one landed right across her heart, and vanished into her two. Another did the same, and another, and then another; and with each one, her belly began to swell more than before. Her cloak fluttered, and the robes she wore beneath them swelled outwards, as her body began to take on a more excessively curvaceous shape: magic flowed through her, and her body responded to it by converting it into size and attractive mass.

Four serpentine shapes descended downwards. Kankri stared in awe and a little bit of horror as they hovered downwards, a tornado of spiritual force pulling like a vacuum around Damara’s willing body. The four creatures looking nothing like anything he had ever seen; there were long trailing tails like the bodies of serpents, muscular and powerful forms even more massive than that of the most mighty troll, body-dwarfing bustlines equal to the most magically powerful of mages, and enshrouding Damara now were spectral wings, feathered and gently cradling her.

There were few other details. They were old. They were so old. So many countless ages must have scrubbed away their memories of themselves, perhaps their very identities, until nothing was left but this vague suggestion of what they had once looked like, and an overriding imperative. He felt it, as keenly as he felt any other emotion and mind, and though the minds he touched were so profoundly alien that it scared him, the desperation and hope from them felt familiar indeed.

One of them leaned forward. As far as he could tell, it was presumably a woman, and the only hint of color left was spiral-shaped eyes shining a lime green. The same color as his own blood would be, were he not a mutant. It stared into Damara’s face, making its own mysterious judgements, and then nodded it’s fearsome face once at her.

All four vanished, into her. Damara’s belly billowed out, writhing beneath the surface and flickering with magical force. Kankri stared at this, shocked and bewildered, and then he turned his face away in embarrassment as her top swelled out; her breasts expanded nearly as much as her belly, and even her backside seemed to swell outwards. She radiated an image of fertility, and it was a little mortifying to watch.

He looked back, compelled to do so. It felt wrong to look away. He felt, suddenly, that he was witnessing something sacred; holy.

Damara’s belly expanded outwards even more, the shimmering ghosts stabilizing, becoming part of her and growing docile within her. Her body sustained them, endowed them with serene energies that soothed the torment of their condition, and they fed her back, infusing her with magical energies that made her keep growing even bigger than she already was.

And, above them, the air changed, and the magic from Damara gave shaped to the storm of ghosts descending pleadingly towards her.

There were thousands of them. More. So many of them that he couldn’t possibly keep count, flying with such ferocity that they packed together, spectral forms blending into each other; Damara’s magic gave them greater substance, and he saw their faceless features resolve into more identifiable features, and he felt their minds suddenly bloom again, resolving into being after eons of unraveling and suffering. Complexity flowed from her, giving them not life… but perhaps a form of peace.

How many had died here? How many had been here, all this time, trapped and in such awful torment?

They were all here. All the ghosts of this place, drawn to Damara.

She opened her arms and embraced them, drawing them into herself as they filled her up, and he could not look directly at her as the necromancer’s light shone forth.

(Her power flowed into the ancient conduits, the veins running across the city; into ancient buildings of law and good order. Into the places where food had once been stored, the foundries where the sacred tools had been fashioned, and into the homes where it must be warm and comfortable; for those who lived there, and for those who came there to pass away.

This was largely a moot point, now. But the new residents, the people who had come with Damara, saw portions of the wall suddenly turn on, and the dark city was suddenly illuminated.

Machines turned on, and then off again as they were not needed, scaring the hell out of several humans who’d been investigating the area.

Glyphs, once serving as person-to-person communications, lit up, forming a physical shape; there was no one to speak through them now, so they simply turned off. And unfortunately, Aradia had been sitting there, mistaking it for a chair, and its activation had toppled her right off onto her face. Or onto Kuprum, who had wailed that he was not fit for nobility to boob-slam him. Folykl simply observed that he didn’t seem to be bothered when she did it to him, and realized that ‘bothered’ was not the feeling there.

The walls were damaged, broken. But there was still enough of them to maintain the most basic of the spells, and warmth swelled up, sizzling away the snow. Blessed heat pulsed through the city, filling its streets with a pleasant warmth. Those now looking to give this place life again felt a great sense of relief, before they felt bewildered; what was going on?

And those who used magic, or could at least perceive it, felt the massive surge of magic shooting straight up and drawing restless spirits to it, and they felt the old power of it, enough to make them alarmed. This was the power of ancient workings, lost to modern wonder-workers, and they dreaded to know what it might mean.)

And below the city, in the chamber that had once housed the heart of the city, the roar of such immense power slowly petered away, the weight of it fading so that Kankri was able to get up, and he heard a sound as something very heavy landed on the ground.

He looked up; all the ghosts were gone. He looked to his side, and there was the crystal artifact. It was still there, reasonably intact, though it had been severely drained. It’s surface was translucent, apparently hollowed out, the vast bulk of the power it carried now somewhere else. Or in someone else.

He looked up. His ability to sense magical energies almost quailed before the sheer quantity of it in front of him, nearly as much as the crystal had done before, and there was Damara.

Well. Certainly, it was Damara. A lot more of Damara than he’d imagined ever seeing.

Damara rocked back and forth on her feet, groaning faintly, with a faint hint of satisfaction. She was bigger, her cloak not destroyed but pushed back by the expanding force of her enlarged body, hanging back like a too-small cape. Her body was broader; her hips more than four and a half feet across, her arms wider across than before, and her thighs noticeably bigger than they had been, and that was saying quite a lot.

But her stomach had grown impossibly huge, even by the generous standards that magically-fueled expansion could change for a body. Damara leaned upon it; an enormous mass slung out in front of her, so big that it was longer across than she was tall, and rose up nearly as high as she was taller. Some part of him thought that it was even bigger still than he was, or at least looked that way; there was just so much mass, so much gray-red flesh swelling out. The sheer volume of it was a physical weight, drawing both magical focus towards it, and the eye.

She rocked forwards, standing on her tip-toes into her stomach. Two enormous swells, barely contained by a robe top that had generously grown to keep them within a minimum of modesty, wobbled on the steady shifting of her belly’s firm surface. It took Kankri a moment to realize those were her breasts, grown by the same process that had made her stomach so big. They were huge; as big as a massive chunk of her own body, at least five feet out and easily over ten feet across each, sprawling over the top and sides of her stomach in much the same way that Damara herself liked to lounge on couches.

For that matter, her stomach was increasingly beginning to resemble a couch, at least in terms of size.

Kankri began to draw close, so worried that he couldn’t stay back. Damara groaned, her eyes fluttered. There was a red glow there, which faded; whatever alien presence had spoken to her, or merged with her, faded away. The crystal on the ground pulsed more brightly, almost like a living thing.

She was changed, even so. Even apart from having breasts so massive Kankri could have slept comfortably on them, or a stomach as big as she was. He glanced nervously from the firm and distinctive shape that suggested pregnancy to him, and he almost jumped at the movement from within, of serpentine shapes and many horned shapes brushing against it, briefly.

Damara blinked again, and now she looked directly at him.

“Oh,” she said, voice soft and low. “That feels… nice.”

She gave him another look. Instincts more central to her character took hold. She smirked. “What’s with that look?”

Kankri became vaguely aware that he was blushing horrendously.

“I think you need to cover up,” he said, looking away and covering his eyes.

Damara looked at herself, and took stock of the situation. As in so many other things, she took refuge in audaciousness and teasing him:

“Perhaps you could spraw upon me, and warm me up that way?”

“Damara, we are in the north, romantic cuddling will not help and anyway I don’t think you’re appreciating the gravity of the situation!”

“Firstly, it’s… surprisingly warm, now. Secondly, don’t you mean… gravid-ity?”

“Puns don’t count as helping!

-------

Less than a week went by, after that momentous day.

This was not much time, from an objective view of things. It was little enough time for life to be established or for the memory of it to fade from the world. Certainly it wasn’t enough time for the trolls, humans and carapacians who had traveled across from their lands to do more than simply settle into the city, and make it a little more comfortable for them.

It definitely was not long enough for Damara to really adjust to her new body. Or for that matter, for everyone else to adjust to her.

“You’re looking more like your mother every day,” Sollux observed, sitting on a table they’d set up in a fairly large building close to the entrance of the city as a whole. From the outside, Damara had seen as they’d struggled to get her in there, it loomed over the neighborhood around it, topped by a fancy dome; an upper level had been converted into a bedroom for herself via the addition of many plush bag-seats that piled together to form a makeshift mattress suitable for her body.

Kankri had his own apartments in another improvised dwelling not far from there, but in practice he stayed at her place every night, pouring over plans with her: devising new schemes for infrastructure, working out the logistics of supply caravans due to be called for within a few months, working out nearby eras to start establishing crops (rice, for example, making use of the swampy region to make paddies), and on and on, until the nights grew long and they both grew weary, and they fell into each other’s arms.

Well. Rather, he fell between her breasts and on top of her stomach, the spirits within her writhing invisibly as he came down. Her arms weren’t quite enough to hold him for a proper embrace, but the rest of her body could manage it fine.

The doors of this building were exceptionally wide, and high; it threw off the sociological assumptions many of them had come with, given that it was far too wide to make sense for a normal troll sensibility, and perhaps suitable for industrial-grade carts to be rolled in. The ramped stairway and a smooth floor, suitable for slithering, suggested it had been made for an entirely different kind of body, far larger than a troll.

It also meant that Damara was able to get into this home without too much difficulty, which had been a major consideration in choosing it as her temporary residence until the city was restored enough to find more permanent lodgings. ‘Too much’ was not the same as saying ‘none at all’ though; Sollux had said this while glancing wryly at the doorway, which was presently a massive lump of belly flesh squeezing out around the doorframe, from the ceiling to about halfway up it, softness pushing out so thickly against the doorframe that it made a faint noise as she tried to force her way through.

“I promise you, Captor,” Damara said through gritted fangs, clicking them in a grimace with each word, “I will get in here and I will find a way to hit you!”

“Just don’t drop your big-ass belly on me,” he said, tonelessly. “That’s what’ll ruin my day.”

Damara’s belly inched slightly through Roughly over a hundred pounds of solid cinnamonblood gut was pushing through and the dark grey tinting into genuine shades of dark red where she was exerting herself, or even pulsing with the thick essence of raw magic currently fused into her physical body.

Aradia was floating in the air, for reasons she had declined to volunteer to anyone. She was watching Damara’s progress with great interest, and a lot of envy. “How’s it feel having all those ghosts inside you like that?” She asked, grinning a little too wide to be entirely approachable.

Damara grunted. She pushed forward with one leg, shoving herself with telekinetic might, so much that she managed to get a few feet of stomach through the wall. She shivered as her stomach now touched the cool floor, but the outslung mass of her apparently pregnant belly had a lot more to go. “You’ve asked me this before, Aradia! Kankri, I need you to push hard - now!”

“As you ask!” Kankri shoved against her back, pushing with all his surprisingly considerable might. They moved together as a single unit, sliding her at a reasonably consistent, but insufferably just steady pace.

Aradia watched them slide in. “Oh, hey, your boobs made it in now.”

“I noticed!” Damara retorted. Now that her stomach was about halfway through, her massive mammary mounds wobbled at a slight incline, the rise of her firm belly pushing between them. Combined with her disinterest in supportive undergarments and her fondness for loose fabric, her breasts sloped gently downwards.

And that, in turn, combined with her stomach being very bouncy and rippling at the slightest touch. The ground slapped up from below her, the doorframe pinched so hard her stomach wobbled even more fiercely from the force redirected throughout the whole thing, and it rose into her breasts, and they were almost constantly wobbling and shifting.

And very sensitive, as it transpired. Damara was having a hard time pretending to be stoic and contain the erogenous pleasure of so much movement, so she channeled it into sounding angry all the time.

“Push, now!” Damara ordered.

Kankri did so, wearing a cloak low over his head to cover his face and his extremely intense blush. There was just so much… Damara now, and everywhere his unrefined hands fell, it just sank in. He was having to be very careful where his hands went; her butt was so massive now that just putting his arm on her waist could risk an inappropriate patting, if he wasn’t careful.

(Granted, she didn’t actually seem to care, but he thought he ought to. It was gentlemanly.)

“Somewhere besides the small of my back,” Damara said tensely. Kankri was pushing, but it wasn’t going with the rest of her attempts to keep moving, and now she was being pushed upwards onto her own gut, her boobs rising up and pinched by the door overhead, and now they hung directly above her as her powers misfired, and lifted them upwards. “Move with me!”

Kankri obliged by ramming into her with his shoulder, making alarming noises when his hip slid between her robed butt.

“Close enough,” Damara said, both of them sliding through the door.

Over the noise of something that sounded distinctly like enough sloshing to contain a couple troll-sized communal pools, Damara and Kankri’s struggles to get her through continued. There was a crude kitchen set up in the room beyond; a table that was probably meant for many people but in practice worked fine for Sollux, Aradia, Kankri, a couple attendants, and Damara in all her vast scope. At the other side of the room, there were several makeshift stoves, attended by the frenetic figure of Kuprum and the more reserved movement of Folykl.

To be specific, Kuprum was doing all the work. Folykl sat back, periodically running like a quadruped (her massive butt stuck in the air like the tail of a beat, wobbling so much that it was amazing it didn’t affect her movement) to steal some food when Kuprum wasn’t looking, and sometimes when he was, and otherwise she sat back to do whatever errands her superiors demanded of her. Or dared her to do, as Aradia had spent the week discovering to her delight.

“Eat that bug, I dare you!” Aradia said, growing briefly bored with the sight of Damara’s growth hampering her daily life.

“Okay,” Folykl said. She pounced, and there was the distinctive noise of a very large bustline smacking into the ground. A small bug was caught between her cleavage, that Folykl swiftly extracted and promptly gulped down.

Aradia clapped. “What did I ever do without you!?”

Folykl tilted her head. “Be super bored, I guess.”

Sollux made a face. “That’s disgusting. ...Do it again.”

Folykl went to chase more bugs, pausing to glance adoringly at Damara’s… bigness, slowly making its way through the doorway. There was a look in her black eyes, light playing against the pitch-dark coloration from corner to corner, that suggested she dearly wanted something like that to herself. Or to lay in those boobs. Or both.

In the meantime, Sollux went to Kuprum. “So, some good news, bud.”

Kuprum saluted with one hand, and continued flipping a monstrously huge collection of pancakes, each with its own pan, all at the same time. “You’ve made a motion to fuse me and Folykl into a horrible monster to serve as a minion?”

Sollux paused. “You want that?”

“No sir! It sounds existentially terrifying, sir!”

“No, we absolutely are not doing that. Why are you so excited about it?”

“I’m just happy to be of service, sir!”

“We have GOT to get you a backbone.”

“Understood! Where do you want me to have it installed?”

Sollux groaned. “I’ve got the paperwork finished, so you and your little buddy there,” he indicated Folykl, currently scratching her hair with her hindfoot, as Aradia mimicked her in mid-air. “Are now officially employed as Damara’s attendants, given her…” he sought for proper words. “Condition.” He showed the paperwork to Kuprum, who being barely literate, stared at the legal fine print and complex wording with polite terror. “...That’s a good thing. Means you get paid and crap. And given that service for a noble gets attention from the magical orders, that’s practical a shoo-in for being accepted into the Captor universities of your choice.”

Kuprum nodded gratefully. “Thank you, sir! So very much, sir! What’s a university?”

Sollux paused. “What’s your level of schooling, again?”

“Is that something you eat? Is it poisoned? Should i be a food taster?”

“No, no. Guess we should, uh, find some schooling for you before we set all that up, too.”

“That’s good! I think?”

Sollux cuffed him on the back of the head, in a friendly way. “It is, yeah.”

Kuprum shrieked in delight. “My head has felt the impact of a noble! I may never wash it again!”

Aradia shouted, from above, “Wash your head as soon as you can, mister! That’s just nasty!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Kuprum said loyally, though with obvious disappointment.

“And go help Damara and Kankri!”

Folykl and Kuprum both saluted. Or at least, Kuprum did. Folykl, being rather newer at the whole concept, just smacked herself in the face. But at least it was respectful. They hurried over to Damara’s emerging body, like cleaner birds flocking around a whale trying to beach itself. (And hopefully grow legs or something, because you didn’t want whales actually beaching themselves.)

“Hey, what’s that there!?” Damara said sharply as she felt a telekinetic power grip the sides of her stomach and the bottom.

“Ha ha, wow, this is really heavy!” Kuprum said cheerfully from the other side, his magical power manifesting as telekinesis, and Damara’s stomach began to float under his power, and inch through as he pulled.

“Who’s there!?”

Folykl began to climb up the front of Damara’s stomach. “Oh my shit this is so damn squishy I love it.” Beneath her, Damara’s newfound power gave shape and substance to the spirits housed within her, and several of them moved against her, so that her skin surged with horns and handprints at Folykl’s passing. “That looks DISGUSTING, your booby-ness. I dig it.”

“What’s climbing on me!?” Damara said, genuinely alarmed.

“Just push please, your booby-ness!” Kuprum shouted from the outside, readying for a massive pull.

“Fine, whatever!” Damara said. “And stop calling me that! Kankri, push! On the count of one… two…”

She counted to three, and she, and Kankri, pushed with their respective capacity for might.

Kankri was very strong now. Kuprum pulled her, and Folykl jumped up and down with so much enthusiasm that it squashed her belly up and down, the rippling motion making her stomach slide through easier.

But Damara’s power echoed out, as a wave of force that blasted clear to the skies above; in its wake, ghosts and spirits that had been drawn to the reawakened power of the city took on a physical form for an alarming few seconds, and then more alien shapes appeared above: her power called to thoughts and memories, to stray ideas, to even the basic resonance left in the old stone and that growing anew as people accumulated new memories and life in the city, and she was so strong that even this little exertion of power gave all that form, for a few miraculous moments.

The sky above twisted with eldritch forms, which faded.

The exertion also shoved Damara and Kankri into the house, right on top of Kuprum and Folykl, which did not fade.

After the shaking stopped, Damara groaned. “Is anyone dead?” She said grumpily.

Kuprum and Folykl made noises beneath her, indicating they were okay.

“Fine. Good.” Damara leaned up, her stomach firmly propping her into the air by a good eight feet, at the very least. Her breasts flopped down, barely robed, nearly to the ground. This kind of dress might have been a very bad idea, given the weather, but the magical awakening of the city she had caused had also made the climate within the city significantly warmer, so she felt free to dress as she pleased.

She leaned up, squinting. It was far too early in the morning for all this, and she was sorely regretting ever leaving for a bit of managing the construction outside the city. “Kankri! Where are you!?”

“I promise you I did not mean to do this, I am not doing any inappropriate touching!” Kankri said desperately from behind her, and also atop her, his arms firmly plastered to his sides, but the rest of him sinking into her backside. His face was pressed firmly against the small of his back.

“Actually, that’s quite pleasant,” Damara replied, a sly tone in her words. “You may stay.”

“Damara, that’s indecent!”

Her breasts wiggled. Eventually, Folykl’s horns and then her face poked up between them, her compact body brimming with energies as she leeched off the ambient magical energies gushing off Damara. “Can I stay!?”

“...Sure. Why not.”

“You are gracious and crap, your booby-ness.”

“But not if you keep calling me that.”

Sollux watched the whole thing with a faint frown. “Will you move already!? You might have crushed your new attendant!”

Damara tilted her head. “My what now?”

Kuprum wiggled out, head eventually appearing from under her belly. “I have been crushed by the firm iron belly of authority!” He said, obscenely delighted. “It’s everything I ever wanted out of life! I LOVE this job!”

Damara blinked. “Oh.” She glanced back again. “Why do I need attendants?”

“You did just spend fifteen minutes wiggling your way through a door until they helped,” Aradia said delicately. “I’d say that’s why.”

“Ah.”

Damara rocked up, so Kuprum could extricate himself, and she allowed her new attendants to get down and push her belly, so she rocked back up to a standing position. And everywhere, she felt herself bouncing, and Kankri sliding (absolutely mortified, which was a plus) onto his own feet again.

She felt a keen sense of her own body, and how massive it was. The spirits within herself as well, feeding her power as she fed them back with a sort of mystical complexity that made them more active, more aware, thinking and feeling more. Perhaps soon, they would be able to move onto whatever awaited them, or for the ones that were just memories imprinted, to fade away or express a desire to be shaped into useful objects.

The idea of it, and feeling them inside her, making her so big (inconvenient as it might sometimes be) genuinely felt very good.

The power coursing through her, making her an equal to any country-killing weapon hoarded from the old days, though, was something she was actively trying not to think about.

But that would be a matter for another day.

#my writing #fics #commissions #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!kankri #twitchy!damara #twitchy!aradia #twitchy!sollux #twitchy kinks: breeding

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

Swear To It.

Paul (The Lost Boys) x reader

Warnings: angst, mention of injury

Context: this is sort of a continuation of my last Paul fic (Behave Yourself). Basically, the reader is on duty and has to separate a fight, only to figure out that one of the people involved is their very own boyfriend.

A/N: I feel like I've released a lot of Top Gun stuff recently, so I thought I'd get this out of my drafts, as is started this last week and haven't had time to finish it. I felt in the mood for some angst, so here we go 😂😅

Masterlist

The Boardwalk is unusually busy for a Tuesday night, the normally popular attractions and shops swarming with people, the rides crowded and unpleasant to go on, what with the sheer volume of people trying to get on at the same time, drunk and tipsy gaggles of teens causing insignificant havoc all over the place. A few older visitors have complained over the last hour, but, as always, we ignore them, knowing by now that most of then are exaggerating about the severity of the problems, trying to get the younger population to leave the Boardwalk to them. Thankfully we haven't had to break up many fights, though my chest still hurts from where some screaming girl elbowed me when I had to pull her away from her sobbing "friend", red welts lining my arm from where she managed to scratch at me, the otherwise unmarked skin stinging a little under my uniform shirt.

Having been told to continue my rounds, I pace slowly around the perimeter of the carousel, eyeing the throbbing crowd with a practised eye, taking in the rowdy surfers and punks gathered a little way away, their leaders apparently having an arguement; though I don't see it escalating any time soon, another security guard walking up to them to sort it out even as they start to break apart. Not much is audible over the tinny music and cacophony of voices, but I recognise the general gist of what is being said: we'll finish this later. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, instead focusing on a group of three teenagers surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke, the pungent odour clearly cannabis, joints pinched between shaking hands, their laughter lazy and drug-induced, one of them practically using the others as a crutch. Cracking my neck, I prepare to deal with them, intending to remind them that drug use is not quite legal in the presence of smaller children, hoping to advise them that there are better (more discreet) places to continue their fun. I go to walk over to them, only to be stopped by a sudden shout behind me, the sound oddly familiar.

Turning towards it, I notice a commotion starting near the ticket booth, where a group of curious onlookers has gathered around what I can only imagine is two unruly teens initiating a fight. I start to push my way through the crowds towards them, my pace hindered by the multitudes of people in my way, my urgency spiking as more shouts and curses follow the initial one, the audience starting to chant the word "fight" over and over again, as if they were still in high school, cheering and taunting accompanying the uproar as more of us security guards move in to break it up.

As I approach, I am greeted by a few elbows to the body, feet stamping on mine as I push through the hordes, the riled-up onlookers pushing together into a near impenetrable wall of bodies. Yelling at them all to move out of the way, I manage to force my way through, where I have to take a moment to realise who exactly it is causing chaos at this exact moment.

My eyes lock with David and Dwayne's across the newly formed circle briefly, at which point I take in that they're trying to force their brother off of the cursing rocker beneath him, Marko trying to hold back one of the victim's friends as he tries to escalate the situation. Ignoring the shouts and commands of his friends, Paul continues beating the hell out of the guy on the floor, obviously in a rage over something, fists flying in a relentless volley, despite the hands on his back holding him away. Shock and anger flood me at the sight, noticing that the rocker at his feet is covered in blood and bruises, one of his eyes already starting to swell up into an ugly purple colour, though he hasn't submitted yet, choosing instead to kick and scratch at any available body part he can reach, swearing profusely at the vampire.

Without another thought, I throw myself forwards, being the first guard on the scene, latching myself onto Paul's shoulder, hands propped against his chest as I force my way under his arm, knowing that the most leverage I'll get is if I'm underneath him pushing upwards and away from the other, who is currently punching at my back. I call out to them both, telling them to cut it out, knowing I can't really use Paul's name in case I give away our relationship, my muscles straining under the vampire's supernatural strength, struggling to push him away. After a minute or so, my words finally seem to sink in, the lanky blonde pulling away with a growl of frustration, a sick smirk of pride plastered over his face as he watches another security guard helping his victim to his feet, eyes flashing dangerously at the scent of fresh blood before they flick to me, realisation setting in as I give him a disgusted look. I turn to the others, ignoring my boyfriend completely.

"Get him out of here." I simply say to them, nodding appreciatively at them as they agree, the three of them moving to take Paul away from the Boardwalk, and away from me. Anger and frustration race through my veins as I stalk over to help the other guard with the battered rocker, my own body aching now from the blows it received, though I don't say anything as we carry the guy away from the crowd towards the small building we use as a place to store our stuff whilst at work.

An hour later, I'm dismissed, my feet dragging in exhaustion and dull anger as I trek home, my mind replaying the events of the shift in my head.

He knew I was working today. He knew and he started a fight anyway.

Frustrated sighs leave me every now and then as I walk, subconsciously finding my way back to my home, where a motorcycle is already waiting outside, the sight of which stirs up a feeling of dead and frustration. Ignoring it, I go to the door and unlock it, stepping inside and throwing my bag to the floor, taking my shoes and jacket off as I shuffle further into the hall, going straight to the stairs. Instead of going to my room, I enter the bathroom instead, quickly stripping and getting into the shower, knowing full well that the person I least want to see is somewhere in the house, and that he knows I'm annoyed at him. As the water runs down my body, I try to ignore the fact that I'm going to have to face him, focusing instead on the motions of cleaning myself, finding the actions soothing to do, working the knots out of muscles, wincing when my hands run over the newly formed bruises and welts on my skin.

I take around ten minutes, climbing out and drying off at a relatively slow pace, trying to relax myself in preparation for what is to come, finally wrapping the towel around myself before stepping out of the bathroom. Going to my room, I halt in my tracks when I catch sight of the lithe vampire sat on my bed, a deep frown etching itself onto my face.

"What do you want?" I grit out, turning my back as I go to my dresser, rooting around in my draws for some comfortable clothes, pulling out a shirt and trousers.

"I wanted to apologise for the fight. I didn't realise it was such a big deal for you, and I didn't mean to get into one tonight." Paul responds quietly, audibly standing and walking to stand behind me.

Bristling slightly, I clench my jaw at his words, a spark of anger flaring up in me.

"You know full well how I feel about people starting fights on the Boardwalk." I snap back at him, turning and pushing past him.

"Yeah, I know, but I never meant to get into a fight! I'm sorry!" He reasons, trying to follow me, only just realising that I'm not wearing any clothes.

"It's always the same, though. You didn't mean to start it, you didn't realise, blah blah blah. When is it ever going to change, Paul? I'm fed up with coming home beaten and bruised because I've had to separate people, and then to have to pry my own boyfriend away from someone? It's just not fair to me, and that's something that you don't seem to realise."

The vampire is silent for a moment, his blue eyes fixed on me, mind clearly working to form a response. I don't give him the time, striding forwards to push him out of the door, closing it in his face with some force. Turning, I sigh heavily, hating the hurt look that flashed across his face as I did so, swiftly changing into my more comfortable clothes and collapsing on the bed, my fists clenching in the duvet as I try to control myself, resisting the urge to open the door to him again.

For a little while, I remain there, sprawled on the bed with tears of exhaustion and frustration threatening to spill from my eyes, my anger fading a little until it's just a dull emotion clouding my mind. Internally, I consider quitting my job, considering the factors keeping me there: I'm good at my job, it pays well enough to afford basic needs and it's secure, though the factors pushing me away almost seem to have a greater affect on me - coming home bruised most nights, having to put up with rowdy Boardwalk goers, dealing with verbal and some physical abuse from some of the more raucous visitors. Sniffing, I curl myself up into a ball, barely registering as there is a knock on the window.

Looking over, I let out a sigh of frustration at the sight of Paul crouched on the ledge, his tall frame bent almost in two as he peers in at me, gesturing with one finger at the latch, expression almost desperate. I stare at him, thinking over the options in my head: I could leave him out there, or I can let him in to explain himself. It takes me a couple of minutes to decide, a frustrated growl leaving me as I stand up, my steps slow and calculated as I go to the window, watching as a small smile works it's way onto his handsome face. Approaching, I keep my expression neutral, reaching for the latch and flicking it open, turning instantly and walking back to my bed, where I sit with my eyes fixed on him.

Awkwardly, he forces himself through the window, relief evident in his expression as he finally stands up straight again and closes the makeshift door behind him, hands wringing together, as if fighting the urge to move forwards, body tense.

"Look, I'm really sorry, (Y/n). I wasn't aware that your job was so difficult, and I hate that I made it difficult for you tonight. I'm really sorry that you got hurt because of me, I feel really ashamed that it happened. I know I have to make it up to you somehow, so I hope you'll let me, because I really don't want to lose you! I'll do anything to keep you!" He finally says, voice pleading and laced with shame, teeth biting at his lip as he watches me for a reaction, welts appearing on his pale hands from where he's digging his fingers in.

Eyeing him, I think over what he's said, silently wondering whether or not to accept his apology, the anger within me spiking a little, though I swiftly suppress it again, sighing heavily as I stand up from the bed, having made a decision.

"I accept your apology, Paul, but I need you to understand that saying you're sorry is a different thing to showing me you're sorry. I know I got hurt tonight, but I'm not the only security guard that works there, and I'm sure they'd all rather they didn't come home with bruises every night. If you want to make it up to me, then you have to swear to me that you'll not get into another fight on the Boardwalk, and that you'll make sure the others understand that, too." I explain to him, referring to the rest of his coven, watching as his emotions seem to force themselves put over his face, a variety of odd expressions following my words. Finally, he seems to settle on relieved, eyes bright with happiness.

"Yes, of course I'll swear to that! I'll do anything, (Y/n), you mean too much to me to lose you!" Paul gushes, rushing forwards slightly, as if to bring me into a hug, only stopping as couple of inches away from me, hesitating.

"Do it, then. Swear to it." I prompt him, looking up into his face.

"I swear to you, that I won't start, or get into another fight on the Boardwalk. I swear it on my life." He promises, completely serious for once, meaning it's totally genuine.

"Good." I smile up at him, finally giving in to the urge I've had since I first walked in, stepping forwards to rest my head against his chest, my arms linking around his abdomen.

Happily, he wraps his own arms around me, crushing me against his body as he buries his face in my hair, his familiar scent enveloping me as we stand there. Perfectly content, we remain in place for what feels like hours, neither of us saying a word, just happy to be in each other's company for the time being, my body trying it's best to relax.

The rest of the night is spent cuddling together, neither of us wanting to be away from the other, Paul only leaving when he notices that the sun is close to coming up, cutting it fine as he always does. As he leaves, he promises me that he'll be waiting for me on the Boardwalk the next night, ready to help me deal with troublesome Boardwalk goers.

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys)#kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#santa carla #marko(the lost boys)#star(the lost boys)#paul #the lost boys paul #brooke mccarter

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ladyfenring · 3 years

Text

virescit vulnere virtus

A slight tweak on The Spanish Princess episode 2x05: The Plague. What if Alexander Stewart had been there? And what if he didn't hate Meg as much as she thought?

thank you @itslaurenmae for encouraging me to write this and looking it over <3

read it on ao3

The Duke of Albany, Meg discovers, is not a bad man at all.

She had expected him to be as loathsome as his younger brother, as crude and rough around the edges, but she finds instead a refined man of good taste. He finds suitable clothing for her, and at a sumptuous private dinner, he serves the best wine she’s ever sampled, imported all the way from France.

“You spent a great deal of time there, didn’t you?” she asks, warming to her host.

“Most of my life. I was born there to a French mother; my father died when I was an infant, so I was raised in France. I visited my cousin from time to time, but in truth, I have always preferred France to Scotland. Have you ever been to France, Your Grace?”

“I have not,” she admits. “I had always wanted to visit, of course, but the time was never right.”

“Perhaps now that your sister is queen there, the opportunity may arise.”

“You saw her when you were there, I presume?”

“I did,” he says pleasantly. “She was most charming.”

Meg hesitates. She knows that Louis is an old man, and Mary was but a child when Meg left for Scotland. She has not seen her sister in years, but she cannot imagine that any woman would be happy married to an old man, even if he is king. “How...was she?”

The duke’s tone softens. “She was...well, Your Grace.”

“You hesitate.”

“In truth, I do not think she was wholly satisfied with her marriage,” he admits. “Her husband is...quite a bit older than her. But there are worse places to endure an old husband than the French court; she was always attired in the latest fashion, and there was a great deal of entertainment to keep her occupied.”

“Well, that is something, I suppose.”

“Were you close to your sister?”

“In truth, no,” Meg admits. “I was thirteen when I left for Scotland, and she was only six. I--”

She is interrupted, because at that moment, the door to the dining room swings open, and through it strides the last person she wants to see.

Alexander Stewart.

He and Meg regard each other with surprise for a long moment. She recovers first, turning to the duke. “I see now why you’ve been lacking for civilized companionship.”

“Alexander,” the duke says pleasantly, “we have company.”

“I see that.”

“Why are you here, Alexander Stewart?” she asks with a candor she doesn’t feel. “Come to take my children away from me again?”

His face darkens. “I didn’t--”

“Perhaps you’d like to wash up,” the duke says loudly, giving his brother a significant look.

Alexander Stewart turns on his heel, leaving the room.

Meg reaches for her glass of wine, trying to steady her trembling hands. This does not go unnoticed by the duke, who leans forward with a kindly look on his face. “You have no reason to fear my brother, Your Grace.”

“He took my children from me,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Only because Angus would have used you to become regent.”

“But he helped Angus, I saw him--”

“There was more that you did not see after you left,” John Stewart says gently. “Angus attempted to rule in your name; my brother led a siege on Holyrood, to extract the boys from Angus’s grip and bring them to Edinburgh Castle. He defended the castle and watched over them personally until I arrived from France. The boys have grown quite fond of him; they call him Uncle Alex.”

Meg cannot believe this; that not only did Alexander Stewart save and protect her boys, but that they have grown so close to him in her absence. It makes her stomach twist, the wine settling unpleasantly. “But...he hates me.”

The duke laughs loudly. “Oh, I assure you, Your Grace, my brother does not hate you. In fact, and don’t repeat this or I’m sure it’ll be the end of me, but I believe he is rather smitten with you.”

Meg gapes at him. “Smitten?”

“Oh, aye. He took it quite hard when you married Angus.”

She stares at him, uncomprehending. Does he mean to imply Alexander Stewart is jealous of Angus, and that’s why he betrayed her? “But...he…”

“I’m sure he’s done an admirable job hiding his feelings, but I assure you, he is quite fond of you. He speaks of you often. A little too often, as a matter of fact.”

Meg doesn’t know how to feel about this. Is this some trick the duke is playing on her? Some way to lower her guard? Play matchmaker between her and his brother and appease her while he rules Scotland? The duke seems a kind and honest man, but then, so had Angus. She doesn’t trust herself right now, or anyone else, for that matter.

She rises on unsteady feet. “I must beg your pardon, Your Grace; it has been a long day, and I fear it is catching up with me.”

He rises too, offering a small bow. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She makes her way up to her room--the duke was kind enough to leave her old apartments empty, which is another reason she trusts him. If he truly meant to steal from her, he would have taken the royal apartments for himself.

She pauses at the nursery, peering inside. She sees two golden heads resting soundly, eyes shut fast and chests rising and falling. She smiles, closing the door quietly and heading for her room, where she can get some rest and plan her next move in peace.

It is not to be; no sooner has she turned the corner than she nearly collides with Alexander Stewart.

“Your Grace,” he mumbles, lowering his eyes.

He took it quite hard when you married Angus.

She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if I should slap you or thank you.”

“Well, between you and me, I’d prefer the thanking.”

She almost smiles, and she hates herself for that. “You stood by and let Angus take my children from me.”

He looks down again. “I did.”

“And then you took my children back from Angus and protected them until your brother came from France.”

“I did,” he says again.

“Why?”

“Because I made a mistake and I wanted te fix it,” he says simply.

She takes another deep breath. “I mean, why did you let Angus take my children in the first place?”

“It wasn’t just me,” he tells her gently. “The Privy Council wouldnae let ye have the boys; if I’d said anything, I’d’ve had to flee Edinburgh with ye.”

“But you didn’t want to say anything.” She digs her fingernails into her palms, willing her hands not to tremble. “Because you were jealous of Angus.”

A flicker of fear passes over his face, and it’s all the answer she needs.

He was jealous.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks softly.

He huffs. “Why would I have? James wasn’t just my king, he was my cousin, and you were his widow. And you were the one who told us that you would be regent as long as ye did not marry. If I’d known ye were planning on marrying that fool…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It doesnae matter now. What’s done is done.”

“And no man can put asunder,” she mutters, remembering her marriage vows.

He hesitates. “He...lives in Holyrood now. With--”

“Jane Stewart. I know.” The thought makes her weary. What a witless fool she’d married, and what a mess she’d made of things.

Alexander huffs again. “Your Grace, say the word and I will kill him, I swear it.”

Something stirs inside her at his offer. “If you kill him, all of Clan Douglas will rise up against you.”

He takes a step forward, his voice like soft thunder. “I would face all of them alone for you.”

It’s Meg who grips a fistful of his tartan, pulling him down to her level, but it’s Alexander who kisses her so forcefully she has to wrap her arms around him to stay standing. She has never, not once in her life, been kissed this way. This is not the gentle, dutiful kiss of a man making love to his wife; this is something else entirely, fiery and consuming. That something inside her stirs more insistently, urging her to let Alexander soothe the ache between her legs.

I’m married to another man.

Who’s even now with another woman. Angus betrayed me, but Alexander...

“No,” she says when she pulls back for air, and Alexander’s face falls. “I mean, no, you cannot kill Angus,” she amends quickly. “I would not have you face the wrath of the Douglases because of my stupidity. I will petition for an annulment, and deal with the Douglases civilly.”

“Death is quicker,” he grumbles.

She cannot stop the smile that spreads across her face. “You’d have me widowed twice?”

His beard scratches her cheek, but she finds she doesn’t mind. “I’d make ye mine sooner than later.”

She shivers at the thought of being his. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She pulls back to look him in the eye. “Will you help me take back Holyrood? From him and his...mistress?”

He nods. “Aye. I’ll take ye in the morning.” He presses his forehead to hers, and Meg cannot believe that a man she’d hated for so long can be so attractive to her now. “Though I’d sooner take ye tonight.”

She flushes, her heart beating faster. “I’m married,” she whispers.

“Hmm,” he says. “Yer right.” And he lets go of her, turning to walk down the corridor.

She gapes, righting herself. “Alexander Stewart, you pig!”

He turns around with a grin, scooping her up easily and slinging her over his shoulder. Meg, sufficiently breathless, voices no word of protest.

In the morning, Meg kisses her boys goodbye before she rides to Holyrood. The duke has given her two of his own men, but it is Alexander’s presence that truly reassures her. Whatever happens, Alexander will see that Angus leaves Holyrood--whether he leaves dead or alive remains to be seen.

Angus is outside when she reins up, and it amazes her that she once found this face handsome. It looks ugly and sniveling now. Weak.

“Meg,” he exclaims, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Blessed saints, you’re safe.”

She dismounts, too angry to speak.

“You have returned to me,” he continues, and something in her snaps.

“Returned to you? You betrayed me, ripped my boys from my arms, and stabbed me in the back!” she snarls, storming into the house.

“No!” Angus protests, tripping after her. “I knew they would kill you when we stepped out of the kitchens, so I formed a plan to save you!”

Meg isn’t listening to him; she’s searching for Jane Stewart, and she finds her in the great hall, in an ill-fitting dress and tousled hair, leaning over James’s daughters Maggie and Janet.

“Oh, Jane Stewart,” Meg says as pleasantly as she can through gritted teeth, turning on Angus. “What a shock to see you here.”

“Jane’s been helping with James’s other children,” Angus tells her, emphasizing other children. As if she didn’t know her husband had bastards from before their time together. As if he can make her forget about his very recent infidelity by reminding her of her husband’s by-blows from a time before Meg.

“And to keep them safe from plague,” he continues, seeing that Meg is not swayed. “We heard that England quivers in its sickbed with this scourge.”

Meg makes no answer, only takes off her gloves. Behind her, Alexander mutters something to the maid, who takes Maggie and Janet by the hands and leads them quickly and quietly from the room before things get ugly.

Well, uglier.

Angus clears his throat, tucking his hair behind his ear. “I, ehm...I wrote an ode for you.”

Meg’s lip curls. Does he truly think a poem will save him now?

But he goes on, moving closer to her with a hopeful look on his face.

“Long were the nights,

Hollow was my heart,

If she returns to me,

Nevermore shall we part.”

“That was terrible,” Alexander comments from behind Meg, who has been watching Angus with a stony face.

Angus’s eyes flit between Meg and Alexander, clearly uncertain of who he should be more afraid of at the moment.

The answer, of course, is Meg, who slaps him across the face with her leather gloves. “You think that I don’t know you’re bedding her?!” she shouts, her voice rising up to the rafters as she advances on him, raining down blows with her leather gloves. “You lying, cheating son of a whore!”

“Yer Grace!” one of the duke’s men calls, but Alexander says, “No, let her be.”

“You left me!” Angus defends from where he’s hunched in the corner, arms raised to shield himself. “You went to England! I thought you were never coming back!”

“And your heart broke so much that you had to dip your wick in her?!” She walks away, clenching her fists before she loses her control completely.

“Hen, please! I love you!” Angus protests, and she lets out a bitter laugh. She’s always hated being called ‘Hen.’ If he really loved me, he’d know that. If he’d known me at all, he’d know that. “I’m weak for women. I-I admit that. Jane was here, and the bed was cold. She’s nothing more than that to me.”

“You lying sod!” Jane Stewart shouts, looking almost as murderous as Meg. “He’s been bedding me since before the two of you were wed!”

Rage seizes Meg again. Seeking another woman’s company while she was in exile, she may have been able to forgive, but betraying her, taking her sons from her, forcing her to go into exile, and bringing into her house, her bed, a woman he’d been bedding since he was courting Meg…

That, she cannot forgive.

She seizes one of the plates on the table, hurling it at her husband.

“No!” Angus screams as the porcelain shatters against him. Meg hurls another plate at him, and another, forcing him to retreat. “She’s lying! She’s lying! I’ll be worthy of you, Meg! I’ll send her away!” And as if to prove his point, he turns to Jane. “Go! This is my wife!”

Meg points at the door. “Get out of here.”

“That’s right!” Angus says, taking Jane’s arm and dragging her to the door and giving her a small shove. “Just go!”

Jane wrenches free of his grip, casting back one withering look before she leaves. Angus smooths back his hair, watching.

“The pair of you,” Meg tells him, chest heaving. “Get out and do not come back.”

“But…” Angus glances at the men, who give him flat stares. He turns back to Meg, eyes wide with fear. “But I’m your husband.”

Meg lets out another bitter laugh. “No, you’re not.” She snatches a knife from the table, pointing it at him until he stumbles out of the hall. “I will find a way to end this marriage,” she promises, backing him all the way out of the house. “You had best pray I end it with divorce and not murder. Now get out!”

Backed all the way onto the path, Angus makes one last, desperate stab at maintaining his dignity. “We’re not done here. What has been joined before God, no man can put asunder.”

“How fortunate, then, that neither of us is a man,” she says coldly, knife still raised.

Angus looks as if he wants to retort, but wisely does not; instead, he turns, following Jane.

Meg watches him go, wondering what on earth made her love a man like that. Was it grief? Loneliness?

Well, she thinks, feeling Alexander stand beside her, I am not alone anymore.

“Ye alright?” Alexander asks softly.

She breathes deeply. “I will be.” She turns to head inside the house. “First I have to see what sort of mess Angus made of things while I was away.”

Thankfully, Angus’s mess is nothing that can’t be fixed. Meg has his and Jane Stewart’s things thrown out and her own things sent to Edinburgh Castle. She decides to send Maggie and Janet, too, so that they can be closer to their half-brothers. Jamie and little Alexander will like that.

The elder Alexander organizes her household guard, leaving orders not to allow Angus or his mistress back into the house under any circumstances whatsoever.

The house thus rid of all reminders of Angus and armed should he feel foolish enough as to try his luck, Meg is ready to return to Edinburgh Castle, and more importantly, her boys. She heads outside, the duke’s men following.

“That everything?” Alexander asks.

She glances back at the house. “I think so.” She bites back a bitter smile. “I hope so. I don’t think I can look at this place again for a while.”

Alexander pats her horse’s neck. “I said it once, I’ll say it again: death is quicker than divorce.”

She tries not to smile. “You can keep on saying it: I’m not going to start a clan war.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be; I’d be starting a clan war.”

“Alexander.”

His beard twitches as he grins. “Fine. Ye ready te go home?”

Home. Home to her boys, with Alexander by her side. It’s hard to believe that only yesterday she considered him her enemy; now, here he is.

“Yes,” she tells him. “I’m ready.”

He helps her up into the saddle before he mounts his own horse, and then they’re setting off for Edinburgh Castle.

For home.

#the spanish princess #tsp #meg tudor #alexander stewart #meg tudor x alexander stewart #megander #fic by me

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anghraine · 3 years

Text

For my headcanon anon: Darcy and the Darcy/non-Fitzwilliam connections that he’s closest to in my headcanon.

Short version: apart from Georgiana, these are Lady Auckland, Thomas Stanley, Lord Carrington, and Cassandra Darcy.

Longggg version:

In general: Darcy isn’t at all detached from the Darcy-Howards, even though he isn’t as close to them as he is to the Fitzwilliams. The latter is partly due to how ages played out in the previous generation, partly due to more complicated relationships, and partly just temperament. But by and large, Darcy likes his father’s extended family, cares about them, and feels an even greater sense of responsibility for them than he does for his mother’s.

In particular: of the elder generation, he’s closest to his father’s younger half-sister—Philadelphia, Lady Auckland. The Auckland family, the Stanleys, are not as wealthy as the Fitzwilliams, as ancient as the Darcys, or as high-ranking as the Howards, but they had enough of all three for a match to be arranged while she was young, and she has always been contented enough in the alliance. It helps, however, that the Stanleys’ seat is only about twenty miles from Pemberley and she was able to maintain close ties to her brother and his children.

Lady Auckland is in many ways the opposite of Lady Catherine: friendly, thoughtful, and down-to-earth, and while proud, she tries to keep it regulated (more successfully than her nephew!). As a child, he couldn’t help but welcome her warmth and ease—qualities he’s drawn to in general, which both his mother and grandmother lacked—and her (quite genuine) manner of taking him seriously.

She was a very kind, steadying presence after his father died, while Darcy has tried to look out for her and her family since her husband died. For her part, she was always deeply sympathetic to him; she thought that little!Darcy was a very sweet boy who couldn’t help being reserved and awkward, and in the present that he’s grown into a fine, respectable, reliable man.

Lady Auckland has three children, but Darcy is closest to her younger son, Thomas Stanley. I imagine Stanley is a similar type to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Bingley, but a bit more serious and less forward. He’s still a basically cheerful character, comfortable in his own skin, and certainly the most like Lady Auckland. Even though he’s older, he’s willing to listen to Darcy’s opinions and has a strong respect for them—he has a general impression that Darcy is cleverer than he is—but is rarely swayed from his decisions once he’s made them.

Like his mother (and also like Darcy himself), he has a strong streak of dutifulness that Darcy approves of, and a sort of quiet but solid religious sentiment that makes him a good clergyman. He’s deeply grateful that Darcy gave him the Kympton living, but not at all obsequious about it, and they meet on friendly terms quite often when Darcy is at Pemberley.

In recent years, Darcy has also become friendly with a more distant cousin, his grandmother’s great-nephew, Lord Carrington.

Lady Georgiana, the grandmother in question, has always been very close to her birth family, the Howards. The somewhat early death of her favourite brother, the previous duke, only deepened her affection for his children and grandchildren, which most of them reciprocate (esp as the Howards are ever-more-deeply in debt with each generation and she has always been generous with them). But she has a particular fondness for Carrington, probably the only other Howard to share her pragmatic streak, and the only one who has made any serious attempt to live within their means.

This was largely peripheral to Darcy’s life until Carrington found even his limited allowance and careful living driving the family’s fortunes into worse straits. He swallowed his pride and turned to Lady Georgiana for advice and assistance. She knew things were in bad shape, but not that bad, and after some consideration, turned to her wealthy grandson to see what he could do. Darcy’s income and inclinations didn’t extend to salvaging the Howards’ fortunes in general, but he was perfectly happy to do what he could for Carrington, whom he had always found friendly, respectable, and competent.

One of his possessions is a small estate only slightly removed from Pemberley, mostly consisting of a manor and a little bit of land with a few tenants (rather like Hartfield in Emma). He’d had some difficulty with a succession of stewards and asked Carrington to effectively oversee the property in exchange for the payment of reasonable expenses; Carrington, though not fooled (Darcy is not subtle at the best of times), sacrificed the rest of his pride and accepted. Their proximity brought the cousins into frequent company with each other, and despite (or because of) their differences in character, they hit it off and became good friends over the next few years, aided by Carrington’s gratitude and Darcy’s approval of his capable management of the property.

Meanwhile, of the actual Darcys, Darcy is closest to his father’s cousin Cassandra Darcy. She’s the eldest child of the great-uncle the judge mentioned in P&P, who (in the headcanon) was much (around 20 years) younger than Darcy’s grandfather and then married late, with the result that his children are all younger than Darcy himself. Darcy’s father always felt a sense of responsibility for them, especially after his uncle’s death, so Darcy has known them well for a good amount of time and dutifully took on responsibility for them after his father’s death.

Cassandra is probably the most like him of the people he’s close to, though she doesn’t have his awkwardness and is more easy-going. But she, too, has tried to take responsibility for her younger siblings, which he respects, and he’s likewise respected her intelligence, good sense, and decorum for a long time.

He also had a very slight crush on her when they were younger, which seemed strange, embarrassing, and vaguely inappropriate to him—my Darcy is grey-ace—and which he very successfully concealed from everyone. It has long since passed, but he retains a very good opinion of her and sympathy for her situation and personality, and is careful to adapt his actions re: her family around her sense of dignity and her judgment of her siblings. Like Lady Mary, she’s one of the accomplished women he was thinking of at Netherfield.

#anon replies #respuestas #anghraine's headcanons #anghraine babbles #...at some length #austen blogging #fitzwilliam darcy #lady auckland #thomas stanley #lord carrington #cassandra darcy #these are probably the people who are most accepting of elizabeth btw #even though they're a bit disappointed like the rest they're kind of ... well what's done is done and she's One Of Us now #so we'll see what she's like and go from there #and then they're deeply relieved at the reality

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bi-naesala · 3 years

Text

A small push, a story about two (clueless) people - A talk between brothers

Cody receives a call.

The morning of their departure, Cody wakes up even earlier than he usually does. It happens often when they are on missions: he can use more precious time to check that everything’s in order and that the troopers are well-equipped and know what they’re doing.

This isn’t the only reason why he’s up already: last night he received a message from general Maul, telling him the time of his arrival, which will be shortly. He doesn’t bother telling Kenobi about this, convinced that he must know already, and also maybe because there’s a tiny bit of hope inside him that like this he’ll get to spend at least a few minutes with the zabrak jedi alone; it’s not exactly a long time, but Cody is well aware that it would be foolish to hope for more - even more than how he already feels when he has these thoughts.

He sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t need to think about that now.

After checking his gear - spotless as always - Cody puts on his armor, leaving then his quarters towards the refectory. He’d rather eat now with the certainty that he’s going to be the only one - or at least one of the very few - around.

Not that he doesn’t enjoy the presence of his brothers, but before missions he’d rather have some time for himself in order to gather his thoughts and focus. He needs no teasing vod now.

As he enters, he’s pleased to see that he’s the first one there, good. At least like this he’s going to avoid very embarrassing situations like the one that happened yesterday at the showers; Waxer and Boil are always a big headache for him, the way only younger brothers can be, so he can’t deny having been a bit too happy when he assigned them to cleaning duty, that way they’re going to learn how to keep their mouth shut.

He picks up a tray and some food, but most importantly he takes two cups of caf - knowing well that he’s later going to refill at least one of them again - chuckling between himself at the memory of Helix harassing him for his “caf addition”, something that he clearly doesn’t have - he’s just blowing things out of proportion. He can’t be disappointed in him if he doesn’t see how much he actually drinks, right?

Just as he’s sat down, ready to “enjoy” his breakfast, he receives a call from his comm. Weird, it’s not general Maul, is…

“Wolffe.”

“Hello there, Kot’ika.”

Cody tries really hard not to sneer at that name; no matter how many times he tells Wolffe to stop calling him that, his batchmate continues doing it without any consideration about how he feels about it. Typical.

“Aren’t you deployed?” he asks then. He knows Wolffe wouldn’t call him for no good reason, so he can’t help but to worry that something has happened.

Noticing the way he’s beginning to tense, Wolffe is quick to reassure him:

“Relax, everything’s fine here,” he says. “Actually, it’s nighttime here.”

“So why are you calling me now?” Cody asks, back to being wary. If Wolffe isn’t contacting him for an emergency, then it means he just wants to bother him. The smirk on Wolffe’s face only confirms his theory.

“A little birdie told me about a certain someone that you’re going to work with for the next few days…”

“Who told you?” Cody asks, only to realize that he knows the answer already. That little… “Rex is a dead man.”

Wolffe laughs at his words, something so rare that despite what caused it, Cody can’t even be that mad at him.

“So…”

“So there is nothing to say,” Cody replies, firm. “I don’t know what Rex told you, but the relationship between me and general Maul is purely professional.”

What Cody says doesn’t match up with what Wolffe has been told and what little he’s seen - he can’t exactly say that he, Cody and general Maul being together is a common occurrence - which means that either the rumors are wrong or Cody’s lying, and Wolffe knows exactly which one it is.

“You’re full of poodoo,” he says in fact, “Big, stinky bantha poodoo.”

“Kriff off,” is Cody’s kind reply. Nothing unusual for the both of them.

“Your pining is worse than Bly’s.” Wolffe can’t help but to say.

“What does Bly have to do with this? Besides, didn’t he get together with his jedi?” Cody asks, confused. Wolffe shoots him a completely unimpressed look.

“That’s why I said you’re worse than him.”

“That’s it! Next time we see each other, prepare yourself to have your shebs kicked!”

It’s time for their conversation to end, but not before Wolffe sends Cody a menacing grin.

“Oh, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Looking forward to what?”

Both Cody and the holographic Wolffe turn towards the source of voice. While Wolffe casually greets him with an “Hi, Rex” Cody looks more pissed than his vod.

“What did you tell him?” he asks as Rex sets his trail of food right beside Cody’s, sitting on his left.

“The truth, vod,” Rex replies. “Maybe he can manage to get your head out of your shebs and face the truth.”

“There is no truth to face,” Cody says, waving his hand dismissively, “And even if there was… It’s not like I could do something about it, alright? So let’s just drop the subject before I decide that you are my least favorite brothers.”

At those words Rex and Wolffe exchange a gaze, at least as much as they can while the other is on another planet entirely.

“Cody…” Rex tries again, putting a hand on Cody’s shoulder, who thankfully doesn’t shove him away, “We didn’t mean to upset you--”

“Speak for yourself, I’m just here to have a good laugh,” Wolffe interrupts him, though he soon turns serious again. “But enough joking around. What’s wrong Cody?”

“Is this like the Bly situation?”

“No, Bly was dumb.”

“Hate to break it to you, vod,” Rex intervenes, “But so are you.”

Cody huffs, but apart from that he doesn’t react much, which says a lot without the need to add anything.

“Maul’s a Jedi,” he says then, looking down at his trail rather than his brothers.

“So is Skywalker, and the dude’s married,” Rex points out.

“And general Secura is a Jedi too. It still didn’t stop her,” Wolffe adds, making Cody sigh.

“I know, I just… Ugh! I don’t know, actually!”

Kote has always been difficult when it comes with emotional matters; it’s a curse he shares with Wolffe and Fox and many other brothers. They just haven’t been equipped with the right tools to deal with them.

Wolffe understands this quite well. Normally he’d leave his brother alone exactly for this reason, but he also wants him to be happy, and it pisses him off when he self-sabotages himself like this!

“So you admit you like him, right?” Rex asks.

“I thought we had already established that,” Cody finally admits. It’s a step in the right direction.

“And you don’t think he’d be interested because…”

“Because why should he like me back?”

Wolffe remembers all the times he’s seen Kote and Maul together, they way they looked at each other, the way they fought together…

“That’s bullshit,” he says then. This time it’s Cody’s turn to roll his eyes, stealing Wolffe’s signature move.

“I just don’t think it’s the right time now.”

This is even more confusing that Cody’s refusal to admit that he had feelings for general Maul in the first place.

“Why not?” Wolffe asks. He’s beginning to become done with all of this, but unfortunately he’s not there physically, so it’s not like he can bash Kote and general Maul’s heads together, so he’ll have to use his words for once.

“Didn’t you notice, my dear brother?” is Cody’s reply, “We’re in the middle of a war.”

“Didn’t stop the others,” Rex points out, though both he and Wolffe think they understand the sentiment. It’s certainly not an ideal time, but exactly because of the life they conduct he shouldn’t waste this chance. Although Rex doesn’t have enough courage to bring it up - because that’s a scenario he always tries his best not to consider - Wolffe doesn’t have this kind of problem.

“Cody, you could die any time,” he says in fact, voice deadly serious. “You’d rather die with the regret for what you weren’t able to do?”

Heavy silence fills the refectory.

Wolffe’s words are true, but this doesn’t make them hurt less: in war nothing is certain, and as much as one can hope to come out of it unscathed, that’s not always the case, especially for them. If Cody doesn’t take his chances now, he might never be able to do it again.

“I’ll ask him after the war,” is what Cody says, and it’s final, both Rex and Wolffe can understand it from his voice. They could keep going at it for days and Cody still won’t change his mind. Stupid di’kut.

“As long as you do it,” Wolffe sighs. “Actually, if you don’t, then I’ll confess to him for you.”

“You won’t!” Cody squeaks immediately, which in turn only manages to convince Wolffe of the rightness of this choice.

“Oh I will, and it will be very embarrassing, trust me,” he threatens in fact, grinning almost manically at the juicy possibilities. He almost hopes Cody won’t confess anything now.

“I’ll bring a camera and the blackmail material,” Rex solemnly declares. Cody looks at him, betrayal evident in his eyes.

“You’re the absolute worst. You are not my brothers anymore,” he says, and after a tense pause… They all share a good laugh. See? In the end they love each other.

“Well, this is nice and all but…” Wolffe begins, yawning, “I think I’m going to retire for the night. Don’t you dare do anything stupid out there.”

“Same to you,” Cody replies, while Rex wavers his hand to say goodbye.

Wolffe rolls his eyes one last time before signing off, leaving Cody and Rex alone in the refectory.

“So…” Rex begins after a moment of silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’d say we already talked about it enough,” Cody replies immediately, sipping his - now cold - caf.

“Yes, but you’re also the king of repressing feelings, so…”

Cody gives Rex a half-hearted elbow.

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” Rex insists, though he doesn’t press the topic anymore, mostly because more people are beginning to arrive and he wouldn’t want to be overheard by someone who should mind his business.

They keep eating their meal in companionable silence as the refectory becomes louder and more alive by the second.

Rex would love to stay more, but he’d better go fetch general Skywalker and commander Tano since he still hasn’t seen them around, so once he’s done he gets up, taking his trail in hand.

“Well, see you on the battlefield,” he tells Cody then. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I should be the one saying it,” Cody replies with a smirk. “I’m not the one who has to run after Skywalker.”

“Point still stands,” Rex retorts, and with that, he walks away, leaving Cody alone.

This is the first time he admits his feelings to someone else. It was already a big deal when he finally did it to himself, but now more people know about them…

He’s not worried about the news going around because he knows Rex and Wolffe: they might love to tease him but they’d never betray his trust. Besides, he could sense that they asked him not out of simple curiosity but out of worry.

It’s true war is unpredictable, but he doesn’t feel like that alone is enough motivation to ask Maul out anyway. He doesn’t want to do it as marshal commander Cody, but as Cody and just Cody. This is something that he wants to cultivate outside the warzone, even if he knows that this way of thinking can be seen as naïve or too romantic, but that’s not going to change his mind.

He’d never tell it to anyone, but part of the reason why he wants to wait is that he still has to come to terms with this whole thing. It’s a lot, alright? Nobody on Kamino ever taught them this. It’s a new world that he’s navigating alone.

Is he afraid? A bit, even though he doesn’t like it, but well who likes being afraid? Nobody he supposes.

He sighs.

Now it’s not the time to think about that: they have a mission and Cody must focus on it. He’s a professional, damn it; he won’t let his feelings getting in the way, especially in situations like this one where even a small distraction can lead you to your death.

The mission will always come first, as for the rest… he’ll just have to see, he supposes.

#codymaul #commander cody #captain rex #commander wolffe #tcw #the clone wars #sw #star wars #a small push #clone husband #my fics #mine

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Grounded pt2

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Kayo, Virgil

Still no idea if this is going to end up a multichap or just a long oneshot, but it’s still going, still not finished, and here’s another 6k words to add to the pile. I don’t like lifting lines and stuff from episodes, so this section works around the canon stuff in Venom but doesn’t actually quote it directly at any point (I have watched that ep so many times today). Ditto to yesterday - no proof reading has happened yet. As this section deals with the episode Venom, watch out for spiders.

Part 1

The journey passed in mostly silence, Virgil wrapped up in whatever thoughts were running through his head and Gordon controlling the ice compress. At one point, he set it to one side entirely in favour of retrieving a tub of Brains’ anti-bruise cream. Compared to the ice, it was slightly warm to the touch as Gordon applied it liberally across his shoulders and torso; he couldn’t stop his chest hitching at the touch and his brother gave an apologetic half-grin but didn’t relent until Scott’s bruises were entirely smeared with the stuff.

Scott was grateful for it – past experience told him that while it was no miracle cure, but it would certainly help. With the painkillers almost entirely worn off, and well over an hour before Virgil would let him have any more for fear of an overdose, anything that would help dull the pain was welcome.

The chill of the returning ice pack some ten minutes later elicited an unexpected sigh of relief, which in turn seemed to coax another almost-smile from the brother standing over him.

If he’d thought the rage of his brothers was intense, it was nothing compared to the short woman waiting with firmly crossed arms and eyes of steel when Scott emerged from Thunderbird Two, flanked on either side by brothers keeping him upright when his body wanted to curl up from the pain. He’d been spared the indignity of being stretchered out, Virgil adamant that the best thing for him was walking on his own two feet despite the pain, but was leaning rather heavily on his brothers. Without any painkillers, every breath sent stabs of agony through his torso.

There was no sympathy in Grandma’s eyes as she’d ordered him to the infirmary. Scott had known better than to expect any, even though he would have preferred some – he was in the wrong for going out on another mission knowing he was injured, and Grandma wouldn’t let that slide.

It wasn’t a long walk, but even that wore him down as he stumbled his way through the hangar, brothers still keeping him steady up until they entered the room. One of the beds was already raised at the head, ready and waiting for a patient. Unless there was something Scott didn’t know, they were only expecting one.

“Uniform,” Grandma said firmly, arms still crossed. He was already stripped down to the waist from Virgil’s initial check, and it was Virgil who held him up as Gordon ducked down to remove his greaves and boots before pulling the flight suit down his legs. Any protests Scott had about being able to deal with his own uniform were swallowed before given a chance to be vocalised. From the look in his grandmother’s eye, he’d lost the right to his pride the moment he’d left for Cornwall.

That didn’t make it any more enjoyable to stand in the middle of the infirmary in nothing more than his underwear. Thankfully, as soon as his uniform was gone Virgil guided him over to the prepared bed and insisted that he get on it. Scott didn’t protest, and not only because his ribs were killing him. Grandma looked no more impressed than his first sight of her in the hangar, and if there was one person in the family Scott would never dare push too far, it was his grandmother.

She didn’t say anything, just watched as Gordon folded up the dirty uniform and put it out of the way while Virgil rummaged around behind him for several seconds before returning with a needle. Scott looked away with a grimace as it headed for his arm. He hated needles – always had done, always would do – but after the prick of it pushing through his skin came the much needed rush of relief. He sagged back against the raised head of the bed, tentatively taking deeper breaths now that the action didn’t send stabs of agony through him, and let Virgil fuss with the covers.

“I’ll take it from here, boys,” Grandma said after a few moments. “You two go and get yourselves cleaned up.”

“But-”

“Now, Virgil.” Favourite grandson or not, Virgil knew when not to push his luck. With one last look at Scott, brown eyes still dark with guilt and even some betrayal, he put a guiding hand on Gordon’s shoulder and left the room, younger brother in tow. Scott watched them go with a heavy feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with his ribs.

Grandma cleared her throat, the noise loud in the silence, and he reluctantly turned his attention to her.

“I know you know better than this,” she started. While he was normally taller than her, even with the bed in a reclining position she towered over him and Scott was reminded of being a young child having been caught climbing the tree he’d been forbidden from going near. “What on earth possessed you to get back in that pilot seat not once but three times with a broken rib, young man? You’re lucky it didn’t cause more damage.”

Scott thought back to the trash mine, Virgil storming off without a backwards glance and Gordon turning his back on him in order to get the surviving pod secure in the module. Part of him wanted to say he hadn’t had a choice that first time, his brothers totally ignoring him, but he knew that wasn’t true. All it would have taken was a single call to John to get Thunderbird One remote piloted home, and on the miniscule chance even that hadn’t alarmed Virgil and Gordon, he was perfectly capable of boarding the large green ‘bird without their permission.

“I didn’t want to upset them,” he admitted. After whatever had set them both off, he’d thought giving them some space would be best, and they’d both feel awful about not noticing.

“Your brothers are big boys, Scott,” Grandma cut through his protests. “Whatever little spat the three of you were having, you know they would have much rather you came clean then than find out the way they did.” Scott winced. Finding out from someone they’d barely exchanged three sentences with was hardly the best way. “I don’t care what argument you boys get into, you all still have to trust each other on rescues or International Rescue will fall apart.”

Her words stung. There was no doubt she knew that he’d been failing as a commander since they’d received the SOS from Braman. Gordon had even called him out on his distraction at the air show, reminding him that even though they were trying to save Dad, they still had a world to look after in the meantime. He’d been right then, and Grandma was right now.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I messed up.”

“You did, but I’m not the only one you need to apologise to,” Grandma replied, perching on the edge of his bed. “I want you to stay in here tonight.” He agreed, and after a moment she made her way to her feet again. “Now then, I need to talk to your brothers.”

“No!” he protested, reaching out for her wrist to stop her. “Please.” Don’t scold them. He knew he was in the wrong, but he couldn’t let his brothers be punished for his poor judgement.

For the first time since the hangar, Grandma softened. “I think they’re punishing themselves enough,” she assured him, before stepping back towards him and gently cupping his cheek with her hand. “It would help everyone if you looked out for yourself like you do your brothers, Scott.” He blinked at her, not quite comprehending her point – it was his responsibility to look after his brothers – and she gave him an almost sad smile before leaving the room.

His hand, no longer holding her wrist, fell to his side limply.

Despite everything, he found weariness creeping up on him. It was gone two in the morning, the day had been a disaster from beginning to end, and by the time two figures slinked back into the room, a third flickering into view, he was fast asleep.

Scott had been grounded many times in his life, for a wide variety of reasons, but being grounded thanks to a broken rib was one of the most frustrating. The combination of painkillers and rest meant that after two weeks he felt perfectly fit, but every time he tried to reinstate himself on active duty his brothers dragged him straight back to the infirmary for another scan to prove to him that just because he didn’t feel it didn’t mean the rib wasn’t still broken.

At least his brief spat with his brothers had come to an end; as he’d predicted, a night to sleep on it and the whole thing was water under the bridge, proven by a stretchy toy sat on the table by a tray of breakfast when he’d woken up. Conversations had been had with all of his brothers, including Alan despite the youngest not being directly involved in either rescue, apologies offered and accepted, and everything had returned to normal.

Normal except for the presence of the Mechanic in their home. The man kept himself to himself, rarely seen outside of Brains’ lab, and never without Brains himself, but while intellectually Scott knew he’d been used by the Hood and genuinely wanted to fix his mistakes, he couldn’t forget Thunderbird Two crashing to the ground, Thunderbird Four torn in half and Thunderbird Three locked in a deadly battle – let alone the TV-21’s fate.

He knew they needed the Mechanic’s help, he knew that the Mechanic hadn’t once done anything to any of them since the Hood’s control had been removed, he knew Kayo owed her life to him after the mess that had been their visit to the Hex. That didn’t mean he trusted the man, and ordinarily that wouldn’t have been a problem. He’d have buried himself in rescues, kept his brothers away from the man and trusted Brains and MAX to keep an eye on him.

Unfortunately, Scott was banned from not just rescues, but leaving the villa at all until his ribs were fully healed, and he’d never done well at being cooped up, even without being in constant close proximity to a man who had almost killed three of his brothers. With nothing else to do, he found himself growing more and more agitated about the entire situation – being grounded, the T-Drive still being built so Dad was still stuck there waiting in the Oort Cloud, close proximity with the Mechanic – and his temper quickly latched on to the obvious target.

It was honestly a surprise it took five weeks for it to come to a head, the Mechanic’s patience with him running out at the same time his inner frustrations exploded, leaving an uncharacteristically bold Brains to intervene. If not for Virgil and Kayo’s timely interruption, Scott had no idea how that confrontation would have ended.

On a surprising upside, it got him off the island, although it rankled a bit when Kayo eased herself into the co-pilot’s chair and he was reminded that technically he was still grounded and only along for the ride. Considering the nature of the mission, it was obvious that he was only along as an extra pair of eyes.

Painkillers stashed in baldric at Virgil’s insistence – while he didn’t need them much anymore, occasional flare-ups happened and on a mission was a likely time for one to occur – he reluctantly slumped into Alan’s usual seat.

“So what exactly are we looking for?” he asked.

“Dr. Furnier got bitten by a Creeping Banana spider and the drone delivering the antivenom’s been lost,” Kayo leaned back to tell him. “We’ve got both the co-ordinates of Dr. Furnier’s position and the last known location of the drone, so Virgil’s going to drop me off in a pod to look for the drone while he heads to Dr. Furnier’s location to see what he can do.”

“What am I doing?”

“Your choice, big brother,” Virgil informed him cheerily. “But if you do anything to worsen your ribs I’m grounding you for even longer.” Scott knew better than to consider that an empty threat, and also knew that Virgil was hoping against hope that he’d stay in Thunderbird Two like a good technically-still-grounded person. He also knew that Virgil knew his hope was unlikely to happen.

“I’ll go with Kayo,” he decided, and chose to ignore the eyerolls he got from his siblings. “We should find it faster with two people looking.”

“F.A.B.,” Kayo agreed. “But I’m still piloting.”

Scott rolled his eyes but decided that battle wasn’t worth fighting.

“Remember, we’re on a time limit,” Virgil informed them. “Dr. Furnier needs that antidote as soon as possible or he’ll die – and if either of you get yourselves bitten I’ll murder you myself, got it? There’s only enough antidote for one person.”

“I’ll make sure Scott’s careful,” Kayo promised, ignoring his hey! Virgil gave a chuckle in return.

“You, too, Kayo,” he cautioned.

“I’m always careful,” she scoffed. If Scott didn’t know her, he’d think she was offended at the accusation, but there was a glimmer of a smile on her face as she said it. No, his siblings were teasing each other – and him.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” he chimed in, and they both had the audacity to laugh at him.

“Joking aside, time is of the essence,” Virgil reminded them. “We’ll be at the drone’s last known position in a few minutes so you’d better get that pod set up.”

“F.A.B.,” they chorused, both releasing their safety belts to stand up.

“And Scott?”

“Hmm?”

“Take it easy, okay?” There was no teasing in Virgil’s voice any more, just a quiet yet sincere plea.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, equally sincere. He couldn’t swear he would, not when there was always a risk on rescues, even one as seemingly-simple as this one, but he could promise to try and he knew that was what Virgil was asking.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Kayo added, echoing their joking from earlier but now equally as serious as them. “Come on, Scott.”

Perfectly aware that he’d been nudged out of his role of commander and into Alan’s usual role of lowest-ranking operative, he followed her into the module as she set up a dragonfly pod – and accidentally revealed her fear of an insect they might encounter. Whether it was a true accident or an attempt to distract him from the fact that she was the one headed for the pilot’s seat he wasn’t entirely sure, but the idea that Kayo had arachnophobia had never occurred to him before. She seemed far too feisty to be afraid of any spiders.

Virgil gave them a brief warning before there was the distinctive noise of the module being released. Unlike a Thunderbird Four drop they were only lowered slowly until the door could open and Kayo directed the pod to pounce out into the air.

Dragonfly Pods were much more comfortable when you were sat in one of the designated seats, rather than clinging to the outside by the tips of your fingers. Scott didn’t let himself think about that too hard, instead focusing on his scanner for locating the drone in question. As Virgil had said, it wasn’t far from where they were, but even their smaller wingspan wasn’t enough to get them below the treetops.

He spied a bare tree that looked sturdy enough and directed Kayo down to it, already making plans to climb down and see some action. Yes, he’d promised to be careful, but he’d been climbing trees his entire life. He could handle that with a five week healed rib.

It turned out that he didn’t need to convince Kayo to let him out, because by the time he’d finished his initial reasoning the tree had decided it didn’t like being landed on by a giant mechanical bug and dropped them all the way to the jungle floor.

Ouch.

The impact jarred his rib uncomfortably and he couldn’t quite swallow the gasp of pain.

“Scott, are you okay?” Kayo asked, her voice full of concern. She twisted in her seat to look back at him, eyes wide, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin.

“I’m all good,” he promised, pushing up his harness. “How’s the pod?” The roof lifted up and he jumped out onto an extended leg as she ran diagnostics. Thankfully, they’d only lost the wings and it was otherwise still functional. After his confrontation with Brains and the Mechanic, he really didn’t want to have to face the engineers with another destroyed pod – especially not Brains.

Even more thankfully, they’d found the drone, although typically it was now up near the top of the same tree that had just dropped them all the way to the floor and now they had to climb up. Kayo’s challenge of a climbing told him that she was reassured his rib hadn’t worsened in the crash, which he was grateful for. He was less grateful for the fact that he’d lost said race. True, time was of the essence, and his rib was twinging so he was far slower than usual, but that didn’t do much to soothe his pride when she dropped down from ahead of him to climb along the branch in question.

He hung back by the trunk. The tree had already proven that it was all too willing to drop them down, and he was really tempting fate by being up there with a healing rib as it was. Kayo was lighter and also more agile – the branch was less likely to collapse under her weight, and he was ready with a helping hand in case she had to beat a hasty retreat.

Until a leaf – a leaf, of all things – settled on top of the drone and the tree decided enough was enough. Torn between darting for the security of the trunk and getting to Kayo, he didn’t manage to get back in time before the entire branch parted company with the tree, dropping them straight into the water.

Ouch. It wasn’t quite as bad as being dropped back onto the ground, which would have certainly thrown him straight back in the infirmary with his sister for company, but it still hurt. With the combination of the sharp pain and the strong current of the stream, he definitely fell short of Gordon’s minimum requirements for water competence, and it was luck more than skill that found him clinging to the branch again as they were spat out at the top of a waterfall.

Well, he was. Kayo ended up halfway down the waterfall, clinging to the edge of the very rotten branch. Scott was hyper conscious of the long drop if she lost her grip – or it broke. The pain in his ribs wasn’t enough to stop him from moving to help her when her attempt to climb back up ended in her falling further. It certainly wasn’t enough to stop him going straight for his grapple when it broke as he’d feared, aiming and shooting at his sister for her to catch.

He wasn’t suicidal enough to call Kayo heavy, and she certainly didn’t rate as such compared to half the people he’d rescued, but the sudden jerk as his arms and braced chest took the entirety of her weight did nothing to help the pain lancing through his chest again. Virgil and Grandma were going to kill him for this, even if it wasn’t really his fault.

Speaking of Virgil, his brother’s sudden reminder about their time limit, while no doubt necessary on his end, could hardly have come at a worse time as Scott realised his lunge to catch Kayo, while successful, had put him over the edge of the outcrop the branch was balancing on. Even if his chest wasn’t in pain, he wasn’t sure he’d have made it back without it falling – physics was still physics, as John liked to comment. As it was, both his and Kayo’s survival relied on his core strength keeping him balanced while also not dropping his sister.

Ordinarily, that would have been a strain, but doable. Now, it was agony, and he needed a solution sooner rather than later, which Kayo thankfully found in the form of a ledge in the cliff. Getting her there was more of a challenge, and by the time she managed to cling on more than a few grunts of pain had passed his lips. She didn’t comment on it, saving her breath for more immediate concerns like summoning their pod – since when was it coded to respond to ‘here boy’? – but he knew she heard them.

As he watched the pod clamber down the cliff edge, he made the mistake of thinking the worst was over. Kayo could secure the line to the pod, he could secure the other end to the outcrop, and then it would be a case of ziplining across. His ribs wouldn’t like it, but they’d manage. The tree branch had other ideas, overbalancing despite his best efforts and pitching him down the waterfall.

It was purely instinct that had him still clinging to his grapple, arms wrenching sharply from his own weight – greater than Kayo’s – as he fell, trusting Kayo to do something to stop his fall. He couldn’t see what she’d done, exactly, but when he realised he was swinging – fast – towards the cliff face, he assumed she’d found something to hook her end of the cable onto.

The impact, mostly absorbed by his legs, had him crying out in pain as his ribs heaved.

“Scott!” Kayo yelled, and as he hung limply from his arms, fingers locked around the grapple, he looked up to see her head poking out from the ledge, looking down at him worriedly.

“I’m okay,” he wheezed, hoping he was imagining the tremble in his arms. Calling on his core muscles again – which after five weeks of minimal use were not appreciating the sudden work out either – he managed to raise his feet to connect with the cliff again, knowing the best way was to walk up. Knowing that Kayo would have secured his line, he used the grapple to shorten the cable, pulling himself up until he managed to reach the ledge.

Kayo pulled him up as soon as he was in arms’ reach, helping him clamber up next to her, where he paused, using dismantling his grapple as an excuse. From the narrowing of her eyes, she wasn’t convinced.

“Scott, I know we’re on a time limit, but on a scale of one to ten how much worse are your ribs after that?” she asked, rummaging around in the pod.

“Maybe a three?” he hedged, stowing his grapple pack back in his baldric and replacing the grapple itself at his hip before pulling himself to his feet with the help of a nearby pod leg.

“On what, the Gordon Scale?” she asked sharply, clearly disbelieving. He rolled his eyes.

“On the Gordon Scale it wouldn’t even register,” he retorted. “But like you said, we’re on a time limit so let’s move.” His attempts to get into the pod were foiled by her turning around and stepping right up to him, nimble fingers darting into the baldric pouch containing the painkillers.

“Take them,” she ordered, a bottle of water thrust at him alongside the pills. Realising it would do more harm than good to both the mission and his body not to, he obeyed, popping back the medicine with a swig of water while Kayo carefully manoeuvred the pod into a position where they could more easily scramble inside. “You first.” She knelt down and cupped her hands, giving him a step to use. Normally he wouldn’t need the help, but he’d already suffered enough damage on a supposedly harmless mission and wasn’t interested in worsening the lecture he was due for. With a grunt that was half effort and half painkillers still kicking in, he accepted the boost, settling in the passenger seat as comfortably as he could and stowing the water bottle as she clambered into the driver’s seat once more.

Travelling down cliff faces head first was always an interesting experience. With the pod’s wings gone, they were at the mercy of its grips and gravity, and Scott tried not to let himself lean too heavily into the harness holding him in place with minimal success. During their descent, the painkillers kicked in properly and the pain in his ribs was finally dulled by the time he spotted the damaged, grounded drone on the opposite side of the stream.

Kayo jumped out and hopped across with a determined aura. He watched her go before remembering that he should probably be helping, climbing out and following her at a slightly slower pace – which gave him a front row seat to the thing neatly evading her attempt to grab it, and a sinking feeling.

Earlier, he’d wished for his jetpack. Now, he wished for his own Thunderbird, and more specifically her drones. It had taken a combination of them to capture the camera drone on the mountainside, and despite his and Kayo’s best attempts – Kayo’s better than his; painkillers dulled the pain but he was still aware he couldn’t lunge and dive for it the way he ordinarily would – it danced just out of reach before eventually settling on a branch. Even if they dared climb another tree in this jungle, by the time they got there it would just take off again.

Scott had always despised the kids who thought it was funny to throw stones at animals, and in turn had found it karma whenever the cornered animal eventually fought back, but as the drone wandered from side to side – he agreed with Kayo’s assessment that it was taunting them – and he caught sight of some loose stones on the ground, he wondered if that was the answer. It wasn’t like the thing was actually an animal, after all.

When it came to him and Kayo, their marksmanship was pretty equal. However, in their current conditions, Kayo was far more mobile than him and had a much better shot of catching it if – hopefully when – it decided to attack him, so Scott unanimously selected himself as the bait. Even though he was fairly certain overarm throwing was another thing he probably shouldn’t be doing. The painkillers kept the worst of his body’s protests at bay, but the grunts he let out weren’t entirely down to exertion. Kayo eyed him disapprovingly as she checked in with Virgil, letting him know about the delay.

Just like the poor cornered animals, the drone took its sweet time deciding it had had enough of stones being pelted its way; Scott’s hastily scavenged ammunition was running low by the time it chirped angry-robot noises at him and Kayo ducked behind a rock, out of side as the small machine divebombed him. It was small and lightweight enough that chances were it wouldn’t do much damage if it actually collided with him – at least, if his ribs were intact – but thankfully he didn’t have to test that hypothesis as Kayo’s aim was true.

Unfortunately, it appeared the drone could lift a fair amount of weight, and Kayo found herself being carried around as she fought to find the power switch. Scott should have been able to catch her with ease – it was hardly the first time he’d caught someone dangling precariously from a rope or similar – but he hadn’t been this physically active since the trash mine, and his body decided that now Kayo had hold of the drone, adrenaline was no longer a requirement, leaving him feeling suddenly quite tired. Thankfully, Kayo proved to not need his help, powering down the frustrating little drone and wrestling the antidote away from it.

He had a brief moment of panic about how long it had taken them, and how they’d get all the way to Dr. Furnier’s base with a wingless pod fast enough, when familiar VTOLs sounded overhead. He grinned in relief as Thunderbird Two came into view, lowering until it was possible for Kayo to grapple her way up into the module, antidote in hand, and run for the medbay and their patient.

Far more tired than he was happy with, Scott scooped up the deactivated drone made his way back to the pod, settling in the driver’s seat to nudge it directly underneath the bay doors and remotely engaging one of Thunderbird Two’s high tensile cables to latch on to the pod in question, drawing it – and by extension, him – up inside the bay. By the time he made it to the medbay, a man who had to have been Dr. Furnier was sitting up and talking, clearly reacting well to the antivenom that had given them so many problems.

Satisfied with a rescue – finally – well done, he made to put down the drone by a sample jar, only to realise it was carelessly lying on its side with the lid off. Virgil was never that careless, and the panic on his brother’s face, compounded by the cry of “the spider” from the expert told him that Virgil’s adventure hadn’t been entirely smooth either.

And that there was a spider, presumably the same one responsible for the whole mess in the first place, loose on Thunderbird Two. He knew for a fact they didn’t have any more of the antivenom – if they did, Virgil would have used it rather than waiting for them – and the hospital didn’t have any in stock either. That was not good, and he froze at the command not to move, seeing Virgil do the same.

Kayo did not freeze, instead crouching down and bobbing back up a moment later with a large and vibrantly coloured spider with somewhat intimidating fangs in a clear specimen box. From Virgil and Dr. Furnier’s reactions, that meant crisis averted, although Scott couldn’t help casting a suspicious eye over the rest of the medbay to make sure there hadn’t been more than one. Gordon would complain about messing up ecosystems if they brought any back to the island, and he didn’t think he could live with the knowledge there was a spider that deadly in the same home his brothers lived.

No sign of webbing, and no more bright orange blobs of spider, had him reassured and he remembered as Virgil relocated to the cockpit to get their passenger to Rio’s hospital, just to be on the safe side, that he’d thought Kayo was afraid of spiders. Despite everything that had happened, and perhaps because of the lecture he knew was coming his way, his curiosity was piqued over what insect could possibly have her so afraid.

That it was butterflies gave him a much-needed laugh – and part of him wondered if it really was butterflies or if that was her intention, although he couldn’t see any of her usual tells for lying – and also successfully distracted Virgil long enough for them to get to the hospital and drop off Dr. Furnier, who seemed delighted to be safe and well. Not an unusual reaction for someone they’d just saved, and Scott once again felt that warm happy glow he never told his brothers about for a job well done. It had been a while since the last one – neither the trash mine or the following Cornwall mine had ended on a positive note, despite the rescues being a success.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he looked around to see brown eyes surveying him intently.

“Kayo said you had to take the painkillers,” Virgil observed, because of course his sister had run straight to Virgil with that bit of information. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” he protested. “Just a precaution, that’s all.”

“A precaution after our pod crashed, we fell out of a tree – twice – got tossed around underwater and then spat over the edge of a waterfall and had to climb up a cliff?” Kayo asked innocently.

“Hey, that happened to you, too!” Scott protested, over Virgil’s horrified what.

“Both of you sit down and let me have a look at you,” their brother demanded. “What happened to this being a simple search and rescue?”

“Someone jinxed it by calling it ‘simple’?” Scott offered, making a dash for the co-pilot’s chair and beating Kayo to it by pure virtue of already having been closest. Kayo glowered but settled in the chair behind him.

Virgil growled, although whether it was at his words or their antics, Scott wasn’t sure. Doing up the safety belt so there was one more reason not to turf him out of his victory seat, he sat back and let Virgil run the medical scanner over him. The events of the trash mine and Grandma’s subsequent scolding were still too recent for him to kick up his usual fuss, even though he feared his recovery had taken a major set-back.

The scan flagging up a red in amongst the various ambers he knew had to be bruises from the multiple falls was most unwelcome.

“Kayo I thought you said you would keep an eye on him?” Virgil demanded. Behind him, Kayo sighed.

“I did!” she protested. “He stayed in the back of the pod, didn’t do anything strenuous except throw some rocks and climb a cliff face – which needed to be done, by the way – and was the most hands off I think I’ve ever seen him on a rescue. We just got unlucky. A lot.”

“Well that bad luck’s just landed Scott at least another three weeks of grounding,” Virgil grumbled, and Scott groaned. “It might be more.”

“More?” Scott whined. “I only came out on this mission because you asked.” And because he’d been going stir-crazy in the house, so his family had probably been looking for an excuse to get him out of it. “I didn’t even know about it until you came looking for me!”

“I know,” Virgil sighed, looking and sounding apologetic as he put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, this wasn’t supposed to have any risk; I would never have brought you along if I’d known this would happen.”

Scott looked up at him, his brother’s brown eyes once again full of guilt, and pulled a small smile onto his face that he hoped was reassuring.

“I know,” he said, covering the warm hand with his own. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t your fault. I should have stayed on Thunderbird Two like you wanted.”

Virgil gave a rue smile. “I’m glad you didn’t; I almost didn’t notice the spider, and considering how today went, you’d probably have been bitten if you’d also stayed.”

Scott chuckled. “Yeah, that would’ve been bad,” he agreed. “That would’ve been really- look out!”

He shoved Virgil to the side, getting just enough purchase to catch his younger brother off guard and force him to stumble a step away. The bright orange blob of spider he’d seen at the last second descending from the cockpit ceiling missed Virgil by scant inches, but instead landed on Scott’s outstretched arm.

He froze, holding his breath and hoping – really hoping – that he wasn’t about to find out if those dangerous looking fangs could get through neoprene.

“Scott!” Kayo and Virgil both moved, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the spider regarding his arm to see what they were doing. They didn’t keep sample jars in the cockpit – there was no need to – but he heard a locker opening as one of his siblings presumably hunted for something to trap it with.

Huh, its legs were striped with black and its body was actually really quite hairy. Scott hadn’t noticed that with the previous one he’d seen, and wasn’t entirely certain now was the best time to register that, either. Not when it reared suddenly, fangs on full display, and stabbed down at his uniform.

For a moment he thought it was okay, that the neoprene had been tougher than the fangs, but then he felt it.

Two tiny, needle-like pinpricks.

Uh oh.

“Scott!”

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#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #gordn #kayo kyrano #grandma tracy #brains #the mechanic #spiders #grounded

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