#but he's so underfoot for me i nearly trip over him a dozen times a day | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yatorihell · 3 years

Text

In The Darkness Chapter 58 - Beyond The Veil

Noragami x Harry Potter AU

Words: 7,308

Summary: The prophecy is within reach, but who will reach it first?

Also available on Yatorihell A03

The ex-Order were now in a hostage situation; reveal Tenjin’s ‘secret weapon’ or face the Cruciatus Curse. What Hiyori was planning, Yato had no idea, but if it wasn’t something smart, they’d all end up in St Mungo’s Hospital.

Yato had hoped that Oshi would only take him and Hiyori and leave the others out of it, but with a bigger group, one of them might be able to disarm her if her attention was diverted.

The group were marched out of Oshi’s office under her thin black wand, and Yato briefly thought about the whereabouts of Professor Takemikazuchi. As they left the castle and headed down the path, Yato looked behind Oshi, hoping to catch a glimpse of him or Madame Kofuku. Alas, no one seemed to notice them being marched into the night.

“So, you’re the one behind all of this?” Yato asked, not turning back to look at Oshi as they walked. “Trying to make me a less credible witness to the Sorcerer’s return, sending Dementors after us?”

Yato looked out the corner of his eye, not that it helped see the smirk on Oshi’s face. She was playing right into his hands. Deep down he knew that she wasn’t – couldn’t – be alone in this, but she wouldn’t admit it. Not entirely.

“Who do you think convinced the Minister that the Sorcerer hadn’t returned?” Oshi didn’t hide the malicious smile from her voice, twigs breaking underfoot as she hoisted her robes above the dirt and kept a wobbly aim on the group ahead. “You think he’d want half-bloods and mudbloods ruining his plans, especially when Tenjin was a threat?”

It dawned on them all too quickly. They really did have no luck with Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, but now it seemed the Ministry was corrupt as well. Holding onto whatever power they could and silencing those who would oppose them, all the while Deatheaters hid right under their noses.

Yato’s eyes slid back to the front, but not before they caught on Nora who walked just ahead of Oshi. He scowled as her eyes slid away from his.

Dusk had enveloped the castle, candlelit turrets disappearing as they made their way down the steep steps and past Kuruha’s hut which had a thin trail of smoke coming from the chimney. Twisted knots of trees under a half-moon greeted them as they stepped inside the Forbidden Forest.

“It’s hidden deep within the Forest, where no one would find it,” Hiyori said.

Branches snapped underfoot and roots threatened to trip those who didn’t keep their eyes on the path. The trees became thicker and taller, nearly blocking out the moonlight with their overlapping summer canopies. Yato’s fingers brushed against his trouser pocket where he felt the outline of his wand; the darkness should hide his movement if he moved slowly.

They came to a stop in the middle of a clearing. Owls hooted from their perches concealed in the trees, watching over the wizards and witches beneath them.

“Well,” Oshi said. Yato hand stilled in his pocket as her eyes darted over them. “Where is this weapon?”

Oshi circled around in front of the group with Nora by her side, wand trained on Hiyori in particular.

Hiyori remained silent, eyes on Nora who nervously looked between her and the group. Behind her, Yato, Yukine, Kazuma and Bishamon exchanged looks, and their cluelessness finally made the penny drop.

Oshi’s face fell, and she came to a stop. “There isn’t one, is there? This is a trick…”

The silence spoke the truth, and the moon dappled light which shone on the group illuminated the barren glade. There was a dangerous glint reflected in Oshi’s eyes, like a façade finally crumbling away to show what lay beneath. Something dark.

Yato felt his heart stop, his fingers only just brushing his wand when a spell began to tumble from Oshi’s chapped lips.

“Cr-,”

Time seemed to stand still but was broken by a resounding snap.

Oshi spun on the spot, facing the sloped tree-lined hill behind them with her wand aimed, spell dead on her lips and eyes narrowed.

Yato grabbed Hiyori’s arm and pulled her back into his chest. A whoosh of air left her as she fell into his protection, along with Yukine’s who had placed a hand on her back as they watched the shadowy figures beyond their gaze move closer. Kazuma and Bishamon huddled closer to each other with Touma, creating a tightknit formation behind Oshi.

From the corner of his eye Yato could see Nora – who seemed to back away closer to the small group – melted away into the treeline on their right, half-shadowed and her eyes on the hill.

A thundering of disembodied galloping hooves grew louder, snapping twigs and rustling the eaves around them. Yato expected some dark creature to emerge from the trees and make short work of them. Nevertheless, he pulled his wand from his pocket and held it by his side.

Instead, what emerged was something they had only see in books and heard about in stories. From the treeline, silhouetted in the moonlight, were Centaurs.

Half-human half-horse, the Centaurs stood on the ridge looking down at them. Even from a distance it was easy to see that they stood taller than humans, muscular builds taunt as their hooves stomped the ground at the intruders. The leader, a brooding Centaur with black hair plaited down to his waist, stood at the forefront of the herd glaring daggers at Oshi, who had her wand raised at him.

“You have no business here, Centaur!” Oshi exclaimed, rather shrilly. “This is a Ministry matter!”

A few of the Centaurs shifted in response, but the situation had seemed to worsen as Yato noticed they had taken bows from their backs and notched them with arrows. He glanced at the others, relieved yet heart quickening when he saw Kazuma also had his wand drawn by his side as the Centaurs took aim.

“Lower your weapons, you mutant half-breeds!” Oshi snarled.

An arrow loosed on the word ‘mutant’, aimed straight at Oshi’s head which she deflected effortlessly with a wordless spell.

Yato took Hiyori by the arm, pulling her to the side closely followed by Yukine, Touma, and Kazuma who held Bishamon’s hand. They spared quick glances at the Centaurs as they moved to make sure they weren’t being targeted. However, it seemed the Centaurs knew Oshi was the only threat here.

Yato spared a quick glance at Nora as they came to a stop a short distance away, close to the path they had taken in. Though half visible, Yato could see she her shocked expression as she watched Oshi whip her wand in the air.

“Incarcerous!”

Ropes materialised and lashed out at a Centaur closest to Oshi, the one she believed fired the arrow. They whipped around his neck and torso, extracting a mutated scream from him. Thicker ropes had entangled themselves around his kicking legs, rearing back too far and falling backwards onto the hardened ground with a sickening thwack. A prolonged scream tore through him as his hands grasped at the choking cords around his throat.

“Professor, stop!” Hiyori cried.

Yato could feel her try to make a move but he held her fast; Centaurs were proud and dangerous creatures, and right now they were in a frenzy. They let out cries and roars, turning in circles and their hooves stamping the ground at their inability to help their fallen brother.

Yato’s eyes flickered to Oshi. She stood proudly, watching the Centaur writhe on the floor whilst ignoring the pleas for mercy, human and centaur alike. Her mouth had twisted into a sadistic smile, wand dropped to her side, pleased to have taught the ‘lesser being’ a lesson.

One thing was for certain; if Oshi didn’t stop, they would all end up dead.

The dying cries and ignored pleas proved to be too much. The leaders face had twisted in a snarl, and his arm raised in their air and came down in one fell swoop.

With a sickening realisation Oshi realised her mistake too late.

Their bows in hand, the Centaurs galloped down the hill, sending clots of mud flying in the air along with their war cries as they bore down on Oshi. She stumbled back, but her foot caught on a stray rock falling down in the dirt with a cry and her wand falling from her hand.

A rattling gasp came from the ridge and the Centaur had kicked his way to his feet, ropes melting away from his body, the spell broken. His head snapped to the horde that surrounded Oshi. Like a bull to a red flag, he charged downhill alongside his whooping brethren.

Oshi scrambled for her wand, head snapping from the oncoming storm and the dirt which camouflaged her wand. Within seconds the Centaurs were upon her, the wand kicked away by a dozen hooves which crunched her hand underfoot with a sickening scream.

Oshi turned on her side, hand in the dirt and legs curled up to protect them from further assault as the Centaurs circled her.

“Do something!” Oshi screamed – beseeched – at them.

Oshi’s eyes implored each of them before the Centaurs crowded around her and hid her from view.

Hiyori could feel her heart in her throat; Oshi was a bad woman, but she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t know there were Centaurs here. Her mouth went dry, trying to think of another quick excuse to save Oshi, the way she had tricked her into coming into the Forbidden Forest, but none came.

Yato’s gripped tightened on his wand, but he knew if he attacked then they would all become targets. No one moved, too shocked to say or do anything. The moon had begun to hide behind clouds, obscuring their view of what was happening.

It felt like hours before Oshi re-emerged, captive and dangling between two Centaurs who held each of her arms. Her hand was bent at an odd shape, limp on her wrist, and Yato winced at the sight. Her black shoes peeked out of the hem of her dirtied robes and her hair had become untied, falling loose and dishevelled around her waist.

Her eyes, wild and helpless, once again implored the huddled gathering of students she had tormented.

“Tell them I mean no harm!” Oshi cried.

They stood frozen, words escaping them, but a voice came from Yato’s side.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Yukine brushed past Yato and stood in front of the group. His eyes bore into hers. “I must not tell lies.”

As if on cue, the Centaurs took off into the night. Oshi’s cries could be heard over their thundering hooves as they wove between the darkest thickets of the Forbidden Forest where no one dared venture. The clouds parted and the clearing was once again cast with shadows from moonlight. A collective sigh of relief passed through their lips, although it was tinged with uncertainty about Oshi’s fate. They would have to tell Madame Kofuku about that as well.

Madame Kofuku.

Yato’s thoughts snapped back to Sakura. He needed to get to the Department of Mysteries. He quickly looked to the treeline, but Nora had vanished without a trace nor whisper. Just as well, he didn’t want her hearing this.

Yato spun around to face Kazuma, Bishamon and Touma. He promised he wouldn’t say anything to them about the Order yet, but Sakura was in trouble, and he needed all the help he could get.

“Look, no time to explain but I need your help,” Yato said quickly.

The three of them looked at him quizzically as well as Hiyori and Yukine. Yato took a breath.

“The prisoner that escaped from Azkaban is my sister, there’s a prophecy about how to defeat the Sorcerer in the Ministry, and we need to break in and save my sister from the Sorcerer who’s torturing her there right now.”

An unsettling silence fell over them. It was apparent from the blank expressions from Kazuma, Bishamon and Touma that they thought he was joking, and Yato’s heart sank when he realised that they didn’t believe him.

“It’s true.” Hiyori stepped forward to stand by Yato, facing the group. She looked at him and then the group. “Her name is Sakura, and she isn’t a criminal.”

Yukine stepped forward and stood on the other side of Yato. “And she is the real leader of the Order of the Phoenix. She’s been fighting the Sorcerer when the Ministry has been ignoring it.”

Yato gave Yukine a half-smile and looked back at Kazuma and Bishamon.

“I need you to help me,” Yato said. “Please?”

“I believe you,” Kazuma said, and Bishamon agreed. “But how do we get there? We’d need to get some brooms without getting caught by Kiun, and work out how to get there as well.”

He had a point; Yato’s broomstick was back at Grimmauld Place, and the others had borrowed theirs from Hogwarts.

“Thestrals,” Bishamon said suddenly. Her hair blew slightly in the warm breeze as she looked from Kazuma at Yato. “Kuraha said you can ride them, and they’re smart enough to know where to go.”

Yato’s eyes lit up. It was no Hippogriff nor broom, but Thestrals were better. Yato nodded his affirmation.

Yato looked at Touma, who stood in front of Kazuma with her arms folded across her chest. He dropped his voice gently; she was only a second year, and he needed her to do something important.

“Touma, I need you to go tell Madame Kofuku where we’re going, ok? We might have a fight on our hands.”

She regarded him reproachfully but nodded.

Yato gave her a small smile. He looked up to Kazuma who gave him a short, determined nod.

“Let’s go.”

The Thestrals had taken them to the heart of London, to the Ministry of Magic, as daybreak crested its way to illuminate the skyline of the city. After a brief explanation of the Order of the Phoenix and the prophecy to defeat the Sorcerer, Kazuma and Bishamon understood what was at stake, and why it had been kept a secret from the Ministry.

Now, underground and descending into the bowels of the wizarding government, Yato could almost hear the soft whispering call of his destiny.

He knew where to go.

The black marble corridor reflected their faces in the walls as they wove their way down, avoiding stray souls that hurried between doorways with their noses in folders, too preoccupied and tired to notice the intruders slip by.

Kazuma brought up the rear along with Bishamon, wands drawn and alert as they scanned and strained to hear for approaching ministry officials. Yukine and Hiyori followed Yato, wands in hand and breathing quiet as it mingled with their soft footsteps.

Yato looked to his side. This hallway, as mundane and uniform as the rest, stirred something in him. The glistening scales of a snake’s skin shimmered in his memory, reflected in the same polished marble alongside his reflection.

Yato looked ahead, and as his visions had shown him, a dark grey door with a brass handle in its centre stood at the end of the hall.

“We’re here,” Yato said softly.

Yato held his wand tighter as his hand wrapped around the cold metal and turned, and the door swung open without a noise. An abyss greeted them, pierced by dim lights that shone at them like stars in the sky that eventually came into focus under the gentle light of their wands.

They varied in size, from as small as a marble to as big as a globe, yet their contents were concealed only for the eyes of those named on their stands. Each one a life. A destiny.

“Are these the prophecies?” Kazuma whispered. He regarded the orbs closest to him, the milky film reflected in his glasses as his eyes travelled higher to the uppermost globes.

Yato nodded, but his gut twisted. It was deafeningly silent. He cast his wand in an arc in front of him. The aisles spread around them, a maze mirrored by their likeness to the next, making it impossible to locate where he had seen Sakura.

Their footsteps fell gently as to not disturb the prophecies unforetold and ominous. Although it was an unspoken thought, they wondered if their own destinies were hidden within the depths of the cobwebs.

The tips of their wands shone into the bleakness, sending phantom shadows over the pale globes, and creating spectres that would make them look twice before continuing.

Yato…

A faint whisper caressed Yato’s ear, echoing away from him like ripples in a pond. He stopped short, shushing the group and arcing his wand slowly from left to right. His ears strained, yet only their bated breath could be heard.

Yato…

The voice whispered again from the heart of the maze, straight-ahead where Yato’s wand was pointing.

They paced forward slowly, the light of multiple wands shining down each aisle behind Yato glittering out of the corner of his eye. Their paths traced shapes in the air as they followed, searching for hidden assailants and any trace of Sakura between the dull glow of futures untold.

Yato strained to hear the voice, bidding for some sort of direction in the uniform aisles, but the longer time passed, the more his stomach twisted at the silence.

“Yato,” Yukine said softly.

Yato paused and, tearing his eyes away from the path ahead, looked behind. Yukine, wand raised in front of him, stood eye-level with an orb that grew a murkier colour as Yato’s eyes fell on it. A yellowed label on its pedestal showed Yato’s name scribbled in large black lettering that tapered off as if it had been ripped away, leaving the sticky residue of the label.

All eyes fell on the orb. It was no bigger than the spheres they used in Divination, the contents alternating between light and dark swirling clouds.

Yato tentatively reached out, fingertips brushing against the smooth glass. In an instant, the colour became true once again, and the group held a collective breath. After a moment, Yato tightened his grip on the orb, lifting it from its stand and cradling its weight in the palm of his hand before him.

Yato gazed into the smoke, willing the prophecy to reveal itself. Ghosts of moving lips passed by the glass, lost just as quickly as they appeared, and their voices stolen.

Yukine and Hiyori exchanged looks as they watched Yato, who seemed transfixed on the orb just mere inches from his face. They remained silent, bystanders to the revelation of a prophecy that would save their world or destroy it.

It seemed nothing had appeared, as within moments Yato broke out of his trance, but it was not the lack of prophetic voices that distracted him – it was the hint of movement behind Bishamon.

From the blackness a figure emerged, cloaked in dark robes which masked their form well in the dim lighting. Yato pushed his way through, prophecy clenched in his hand as well as his wand which he held aimed at the intruder. Their mask, welded into a blank expression and nondescript, reflected the light of their wands as they drew closer.

A Deatheater.

Hiyori and Yukine drew closer to Yato’s sides, wands aimed ahead whereas Kazuma and Bishamon stood behind them, wands equally as poised and alert. Yato clenched his jaw, steeling himself for an attack.

“Where’s Sakura?” Yato demanded.

The Deatheater began to slow, hands raised by their sides where they could see a thin black wand between their gloved fingertips. His voice, deep and all too familiar, rang into the cavern and surrounded them.

“You should be able to the difference between dreams,” He raised his wand and cast it across his mask. The cold metal plate dissolved from his face in a whisper of smoke, revealing grey, matted dreadlocks and piercing green eyes. “….and reality.”

Kugaha.

The shock on their faces made his lips twist up at the side. It had been a while since he had seen his less-than-favourite ex-students, Yato more recently under the guise of a Deatheater at the graveyard upon the Sorcerers return.

Kugaha’s eyes lit on the globe in Yato’s hand and his smile faded into its usual grimace. He held out his hand, palm up.

“Give it here, boy.”

Yato glanced down at the orb, conflicted. Hiyori was right – Sakura was not here. Only his destiny.

“I’ll break it if anything happens to us.” Yato looked up, grip on his wand tightening, and from the fire in his eyes, Kugaha had no doubt that he would.

A laugh broke through the darkness behind Kugaha, one that was unhinged and manically high-pitched.

Yato felt Yukine tense beside him as the woman emerged beside Kugaha, her white robes nearly black with dirt and her hair flowing loose around her shoulders. He heard Kazuma mutter something to Bishamon behind him, but he was too fixated on the newcomer to make out the words.

“This one knows how to play,” Oshi rasped.

It seemed that Oshi, unrecognisable from the dignified Headmistress they knew, was able to escape the Centaurs at the expense of her pride. She bathed in the shocked and disgusted looks they gave her as she sidled up to Kugaha, a head shorter than him but just as imposing.

Oshi’s eyes slid over to Hiyori, and then across to Yukine. She smirked, the dried mud around her mouth cracking as she did so. “How’s the hand?”

Yukine inhaled a hissed breath, taking a step and wand jerking up to aim at Oshi.

A mixture of noise came from both parties, inhaled gasps and lost words. Yato put his arm up to catch Yukine from lunging forward, whereas Oshi had shrunk away from the advance and tucked herself behind Kugaha. Her hand, damaged but functioning enough to hold a wand, waivered over the outnumbering group.

Kugaha held his hands out in the air, shielding Oshi behind him as he spoke.

“Let’s just calm down,” Kugaha said smoothly. He brought his palms down with his wand balanced between the tips of his fingers. His eyes gleaned over the orb in Yato’s hand, obviously calculating a plan. “All we want is that prophecy.”

“Yato,” Bishamon hissed.

Yato didn’t turn, but he could tell from his friends’ movements that they weren’t alone anymore.

Kazuma and Bishamon turned their backs on Yato, wands aimed at the new, silent intruder behind them. Hiyori looked to her side, and then to Yukine’s own. The glimmer of emotionless silver masks reflected by the prophecies showed Deatheaters advancing on all sides.

Wands at the ready, Hiyori and Yukine turned to take defensive stances either side of Yato, creating a square with him at its helm facing Kugaha and Oshi.

“Don’t you want to know, Yato?” Kugaha said gently. He took a step forward and froze when Yato’s wand twitched. His eyebrows drew together, feigning concern for Yato’s troubled expression. “Don’t you want to know how to make all of this stop?”

Yato looked down at the prophecy in his hand, every aware of his friends casting glances at him as the Deatheaters drew closer.

It was his fault they were here, now he had to get them out.

“I do.” Yato sounded wistful as he watched the clouds swirled in his hand. His eyes broke away to look at Kugaha, who once again stopped mid-step. “But I think I can wait. NOW!”

“Stupefy!”

Five different voices and curses flew in different directions, and flashes of blinding light rippled out in all directions, slamming into each Deatheater before they could react.

The spells blue hues spat out from the tip of Yato’s wand, illuminating Kugaha’s and Oshi’s blindsided faces for a brief second once they realised that Yato had no intention of giving up the prophecy. Neither had time to deflect it as the force hit them and sent them flying down the aisle along with the dissipating light.

The light fizzled out into blackness for a moment before it exploded like a firework, blue sparks ignited by something within the darkness. The orbs waivered mid-air, and a tinkling sound grew louder as Yato realised the shelves had lilted, and orbs had begun to rain down and shatter on the floor.

“Go, go go!” Yato shouted.

Yato pushed Hiyori and Yukine ahead of him, orb clutched to his stomach and wand raised up to defend Kazuma and Bishamon as they ran past him, eyes darting on the lookout for more attackers. He tore after them a second later, breathing hard and fast already and trying his best to not trip over his own feet when he glanced behind into the smoky hazy of destroyed prophecies and their whispers which filled the chamber.

Wordless spells and bolts of light glinted from the Deatheaters masks who drew too close, their arms attempting to protect them from falling debris as well as attacking the group as they weaved through the maze.

Shards of glass encompassed them, the shelves crashing and cracking against each other in a domino effect which sealed off any others means of escape besides the door they had entered through, and most likely trapped Kugaha, Oshi and the other Deatheaters.

Kazuma turned a hard left, his hand gripping Bishamon’s to pull her around to the side, closely followed by Yukine and Hiyori.

Yato felt his lungs burn, his arm thrown over his head, but the sight of the slightly ajar door at the end of the aisle had him let out a huff of relief which intermingled with his exertion. He held the prophecy tighter to his chest, feeling the curve of the glass in his gut, as he threw himself through the door after Hiyori… into nothing.

Yato’s gut lurched against the orb. The reflective hallway that they had walked through not so long ago was gone, caving into an abyss that left them to hurtle face-first to the ground. The blur instantly gave way to dirty, sand coloured floor, and speckles of black that grew larger as they neared their splattered demise.

Yato felt his body seize as if something had wrapped around his chest and waist to stop him mid-air. He heard the caught breath of Hiyori beside him, her wand stretched out beside his, face equally as surprised that she was suspended a few inches from the ground alongside Yato, Yukine, Kazuma and Bishamon.

It only lasted a second before the group were dumped unceremoniously on the ground, sending up puffs of dusty from the cracked mud. A collective grunt and coughing echoed in the chamber as they attempted to rectify themselves.

“Nice catch,” Bishamon groaned as she pushed herself up onto her knees.

“No problem,” Kazuma replied. His glasses – miraculously intact – hung precariously from one ear as he sat up and looked down at his dirtied uniform, before rectifying his frames and looking around.

Yato uncurled the orb from his stomach, feeling the painful pressure still there and the tightness of his locked fingers wrapped around the precious ball. It had survived the fall, but still the whispers grew louder.

“What is this place?” Yukine said, just off to Yato’s right side.

Yato tore his eyes from the swirling fog. Whilst the room was dimly lit, a stone obelisk stood on a raised platform in the centre of the room. Carved stone benches ran along the walls, creating a look of a raised amphitheatre that a crowd would look up or down to depending on their position.

Yato regarded the statue closely, walking around slowly behind Bishamon, afraid he would break the stillness and revere of the room with his muffled footsteps. Yato stopped beside Bishamon.

From this angle, Yato could see the pillar was in fact an archway. The peaked stone had cracked and crumbled away in places, a testament to its age, and a translucent, tattered black curtain hung from invisible railings within it. The curtain fluttered gently despite there being no breeze, but a chill came over both him and Bishamon the longer they stared. Gentle voices washed over them, seemingly every time the curtain fluttered in their direction, beckoning them closer.

Yato’s eyes focused beyond the veil, seeing Yukine approaching. Hiyori followed closely with Kazuma who’s eyes traced over the archways form.

“Stop!”

The three halted, giving Yato a questioning look. Although he couldn’t explain it, Yato had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that something bad would happen if anyone so much as touched the curtain.

“Don’t touch it,” Yato said. He held his wand in his fingers with his palm outstretched, telling them to stay still.

Yukine looked at the curtain again, but his eyes did not see. Yato could see the same confusion reflected in Hiyori’s and Kazuma’s darkened faces.

“Can you hear them, Yato?” Bishamon said softly.

Yato looked at Bishamon’s face, and his ears pricked at the louder whispers that floated to them. He looked from the orb back at the veil, realising that the whispers hadn’t grown louder.

There were more.

“There are no voices, Viina,” Kazuma said gently from across the veil. His words intermingled with a ghostly voice whose words went unheard, but Yato shook his head in response.

“There are,” Yato said gently. Just like Thestrals, only he and Bishamon could sense that which belonged to the realm of the dead.

Yukine, Hiyori and Kazuma shared uncomfortable, silent looks. They stepped around the archway carefully, eyes flicking over the aged stone as if it may collapse at any second from the numerous fault lines that spider-webbed across it.

Bishamon was the first to tear her eyes away from the archway, and Kazuma pretended not to notice their glassiness; if the dead were truly speaking, he could imagine who she had heard calling out to her.

“Let’s get out of here,” Yukine said with a nudge on Yato’s elbow. “There’s gotta be a way out.”

At this he scanned the room, looking for the exit, thankful that no Dementors had fallen in after them nor found where they were.

Yet, in that instance, it seemed that they must have heard his private thoughts.

A low whooshing came from above them, and as Yato’s eyes flicked heavenward, distracted from the whispering ghosts that waited on the other side of the veil, he saw they were no longer alone.

“Get behind me!” Yato ordered.

His fingers gripped the orb and his wand even tighter, the latter aimed skywards as the four came behind him, all wands aimed at the swirling masses that descended upon them quicker than they could draw breath to utter a curse.

Swirling black robes engulfed them, billowing and translucent as the Deatheaters surrounded them in a storms eye. A flurry of arms lashing around him, Yato clutched the prophecy closer to his chest, throwing spells from his wand that seemed to go straight through the black curtain that swirled around them.

Yato heard Hiyori’s – or was is Bishamon’s? – yelp, quickly followed by a few muffled yells and grunts. A blunt impact came across the back of Yato’s head. Whether it was a fist or a boot he couldn’t tell as he crashed to the floor, sending dust into his mouth and nostrils in a splutter of coughs. Yato winced as he looked up, just in time to see something fly into his field of view, long and cartwheeling to the ground.

A wand.

The Deatheater black forms swirled above Yato one last time before they glided away, the tail ends trailing over him like a Dementors rags. Yato breathed heavily as he pushed himself onto his shoulder, head raised to look around him. Whilst the prophecy and his own wand were safe in his hands, he could see that his friends weren’t so lucky.

Spaced around the auditorium, Deatheaters stood alone or with their hostages caged in their arms, wands to their throats. Kazuma and Bishamon, both held behind Yato, met his eyes with unbridled hate for those that held them, their wands in the dirt tangibly close.

Yato’s stomached flipped as he stood, realising that his elevated position made him an easy target, even more so with the precious cargo in his hand.

Yato tried to keep his wand from shaking, not wanting it to be mistaken for an attack when his eyes caught on the unmasked Deatheaters that in front of him. Oshi, her smile as twisted and deranged as before, held Yukine tight to her chest, her wand making a clear indent in his throat.

A few metres to his left, Hiyori stood caged against a tall man with hair as grey and matted as Kugaha’s. He held Hiyori tightly by her hair, her head drawn back to rest just below his shoulder, wand under her chin. All too quickly the recognition hit.

Rabo.

Yato’s heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing just as fast as he tried to think of the shrinking chance of an escape route that didn’t abandon his friends.

Dark chuckling greeted him, and from the darkness Kugaha emerged. His green eyes twinkled with victory as he picked his way slowly up the weathered steps of the podium, growing nearer to Yato. His voice, as deep as night and silky, broke through the muffled whimpers that emanated through the chamber.

“Did you actually believe...” Kugaha’s voice lilted into a hiss. “That you stood a chance against us?”

His clothed boots, tinged brown in the dirt, came to a halt in front of Yato. He stood a few inches taller, yet he inclined his head to look down on Yato. His eyes, still glinting with a feigned kindness, as if he were being merciful, peered down at Yato.

“I'll make this simple. Give me the prophecy now...-” Kugaha held out his hand, palm up, with a pause. “Or watch your friends die.”

“Don’t give it to him, Yato!” Yukine’s shout came as quickly as Kugaha had finished his sentence.

Oshi gripped him by the neck and pressed her wand even harder beneath Yukine’s Adam’s apple, ordering him to be silent.

Yato tore his eyes from Yukine, to Hiyori, and then to the prophecy. Every fibre in his body screamed to fight rather than give Kugaha – the Sorcerer, even – the future.

But he had no choice.

Slowly, Yato raised his hand, the orb feeling heavier than before from the strain its weight had put on his hand. The orb slipped, warm and smooth, from his palm into Kugaha’s waiting hand.

Kugaha held the prophecy aloft, fingertips delicately wrapped around the smooth surface as he surveyed the hidden contents. He inhaled through his nose, and a breath of victorious relief flooded through his features.

A flash of white caught Yato’s eye, shining through the orb and highlighting the side of Kugaha’s face as it twisted in confusion.

Yato’s breath caught as Kugaha turned on the spot, his bulky figure no longer blocking the woman who had appeared in front of the veil.

“Get away from my brother.”

A glancing blow struck Kugaha in the side of his head, sending him tumbling over the precipice of the raised platform with a grunt. The prophecy, fallen from Kugaha’s tenuous grip, shattered. The mist clouded upwards in a dissipating cloud of smoke and fading whispers that crept up between Yato’s stunned face and Sakura’s cold eyes.

Sakura, her fist still clenched, cast her wand over Yato and gave an order that rose to a shout. “Get down!”

Blue sparks shot through the air where Yato’s chest had been milliseconds before, leaving him semi-blinded as a rush of wind tousled his hair and lightning strikes of cascading white mist exploded around the auditorium.

Yato took a breath of dusty air, hardly noticing the burn it made in his lungs as he saw the smoky hazes dart around the chamber, seemingly made of pure starlight in contrast to the Deatheaters dark matter. Glancing blows could have struck the Deatheaters and their hostages if they had not released them at the last moment, leaving Yukine, Hiyori, Bishamon and Kazuma to stumble or let out gasped breaths as they felt the wands leave their throats.

Madame Kofuku and Daikoku lurched from their own respective furls of white, the mist dissipating from their shoulders and their faces screwed with determination as their eyes fell upon the masked Deatheaters that advanced on them in a blur of black robes and distorted facades.

The Order of the Phoenix had come to save them.

Sakura grabbed Yato by the shoulder, fingers digging and twisting into the fabric of his jacket and dragged him down the uneven steps and pushed him down to the floor with little grace.

“Stupefy!” The cry echoed out and Yato heard an unknown Deatheater grunt followed by a thud.

Yato dared to peak his head above surface level. On the far side of the room he could barely see the top of Daikoku’s head, seemingly ushering the others around the circumference of the chamber.

Overhead, the Deatheater – consumed by their own darkness – intertwined with the shimmering force of an Order member that threw themselves across the room in a struggling battle for dominance.

Bright pink hair caught Yato’s eye, just in time to see her head bobbing just above the surface and screaming unknown curses or hexes in the direction of a Deatheater.

Yato felt himself being pulled down again, this time by his forearm, and once again being dragged away by Sakura. A myriad of spells exploded overhead followed by faint yelps. Yato dared not to look behind in case he lost his footing in this crouched position, until Sakura stopped short ahead of him and pushed him back without a glance.

Sakura stood, moving her wand across her chest and blocking a spell that would have hit her dead on if not for her quick reaction, and followed it up with a spell that distorted the air around her with the force of her magic. Whoever was on the receiving end, Yato thought in wonder, would be lucky to be alive.

Sakura hunkered down once again, this time facing Yato and pressing him against the wall beside the steps. Just behind her Yato could see the tip of the veil and the second set of steps that led up to it, but his attention was taken by her finger running over his shaking hand.

“Yato, I need you to take the other and get out of here.” Yato blinked at the instruction. Leave? He would never leave her in a place like this, not in the Ministry, not facing Deatheaters.

“No, I want to help!” Yato began to protest, but Sakura’s hand gripped his tightly, making his wand dig into his palm painfully.

Her eyes, serious but warm compared to the look she had given Kugaha, raked over his face.

“You need to go. We’ll take it from here. I’m right behind you.” She said this last sentence with a pointedness as if she knew it would silence his worries and make him leave, and for half a breath he was right, until the Deatheater appeared behind her.

Without thinking Yato’s wand darted under Sakura’s arm and the Deatheaters curse bounced off the protection shield Yato had conjured. No sooner than the spell had bene deflected did Sakura stand and while around, a curse spitting from her lips and slamming into the Deatheaters face, knocking their mask to the floor. Dark hair spilled out from under their hood but their face was hidden, pressed into the dirt and knocked out cold.

Two more Deatheaters advanced from behind their fallen comrade. Knowing there was no escape and that there was no convincing him, Sakura pulled Yato up the staggered stairs back up to the podium.

The chamber was a mess of dropped wands, scuffles in the dirt and never-ending tornados of black and white swirling across the room. Witches and wizards faded in and out of view as they fought and dropped to the ground, picking themselves and delving right back into the fight quicker than they had fallen.

Maniacal cackles reverberated around the chamber, and on the far side Yato could see Oshi facing off against Madame Kofuku and Daikoku. Although he scanned Yato could not see his friends, only their wands at his feet. He could only hope they were tucked out of sight or had escaped altogether.

His thoughts were interrupted by a bolt of light being deflected effortlessly by Sakura, her long hair whipping around her as her arms waved, conducting a series of spells in all directions that either found their mark on a Deatheater or fizzled away against the stone walls where they had missed.

Yato threw his wand up in defence as a curse hurtled at him, returning it just as quickly, barely noticing whether it had hit its mark before he was sending out the next curse, and the next, and the next.

A swirl of white and black spun out of control overhead, the white falling away and landing sickeningly against the far side of the wall where an Order member collapsed to the floor out of sight. Dark mist tinged with white hurtled down towards where Yato and Sakura stood, but made no attempt to hit them. It slowly far too rapidly a few metres ahead of them just before the veil.

The black mist dissipated from Kugaha’s smile as the distortion melted away.

“You will not live to see the Dark Lord defeated, prophecy or not.”

The polish of his wand was seen to slowly before Yato was flung away, crumpling to the dirt. He heard Sakura’s shout, dulled in his ringing ears as he fought for breath in his lungs. A heavy darkness settled over his chest, nearly crushing it with the weight of his empty lungs screaming for air.

Sorcerer… Prophecy… Deatheaters… all the things that had plagued his mind, his every waking moment. Legilimens that barely worked, teachers he couldn’t trust, his friends risking their lives for him. The frustration of not being good enough, of not being able to protect his friends. His family…

It made him want to utter a curse. One that would stop this madness, for just one moment of breath that would show the Sorcerer that he was not a child who could be quelled so easily.

A curse that was unforgivable.

Yato scrambled to his feet, his lungs finally taking in a breath of air that nearly cleared the darkness from his head, his heart, but not entirely. This was anger he hadn’t felt since he was a child; not since he lived with Father.

Anger seething in his vein, Yato’s wand spat out a bolt of green light aimed at what should have been his target. What Yato didn’t see was the ongoing battle he hadn’t seen in the dark edges of his vision. He had not noticed the waif figure now stood fighting for her life in front of the veil.

The light hit her chest just as her wand came up with another curse, spreading and dissipated as if it had sunk beneath her clothing and been absorbed by her skin. Her hand came up to press against where the invisible wound lay. Her face showed confusion, eyes looking into his as reality dawned on them both. Her wand fell from her hand and rolled with a dull click against the rocky outcrop of the veil.

Ever so slowly, Sakura stumbled backwards, arms falling to her sides and eyes falling shut. Silently, the grey mist of the portal embraced her in smoky tendrils, letting her float away and evaporate from the world.

The only family Yato had known was dead, and he killed her.

#noragami #noragami aragoto #yato #yukine #hiyori #iki hiyori #hiyori iki #bishamon #kazuma #touma #sakura #kugaha #oshi #kofuku #rabo #daikoku #hp au #harry potter au #in the darkness #my writing

16 notes · View notes

a-tamed-dragon · 4 years

Text

Within These Walls: Chapter 3

The only thing I’ve been consistent on in the past... well, at since 2017. Isn’t that sad? Here is Chapter 3 of my Tokka fic “Within These Walls”.

In the wake of my own crumbling relationship of 3+ years, I have hope that somewhere in the atla-verse (lol like a pocket universe we spoke into existence) at least some people are happy somehow.

I would really appreciate feed-back on my writing. Thank you all!

Enjoy,

Prue

Part 1 Part 2

There wasn't anything out there as far as she could see. The wind was so loud in her sensitive ears it was deafening. She wasn't used to the cold, growing up in Ba Sing Se it was warm all year round. Her nose was numb with frost and the hair in her face was caked in snow. The thick fur around her hood muffled the whip of the arctic wind but did very little to clear the air. It was impossible to hear her travel partner, and currently, the man that was her eyes.

She knew they were in the village just outside of where they landed on Appa when many pairs of hands touched her shoulders and when she politely recoiled, a familiar arm encircled around her back.

"It's nice to see you too." His deep voice perked her ears up, attentively. "Where's Gran-Gran?" He excused themselves from the moderately sized crowd. The frozen girl heard her name passing numerous lips.

"That's Toph Beifong" – "Toph Beifong in our village." – "She must really be blind here." The comment made her set a hard brow, it wasn't malicious, but it was a weakness.

They were guided into a hut, the wind was silenced and warmth finally reached her frostbitten cheeks and nose. Even on rugs, the shoes she wore still muffled her vision like a heavy blindfold.

"Gran-Gran!" Sokka let go of his partner to rush towards his grandmother.

"Sokka, it's so nice to see you. My, you've grown." The old woman's voice was a new one to be stored in the blind-girls memory. That's how she knew everyone, she never forgot a voice. Sokka looked around the small hut of ice and blankets.

"Where's Master Paku?" He inquired.

"Oh, he had to go back to the Northern tribe and take care of a few things. You just missed him by 2 days." Before Sokka could say anything, Gran-gran asked, still in a merry tone. "How's Katara?"

"She's great! You'd be so proud to see her. She's a master, AND is working very closely with Aang." Sokka said in an excited tone, even though the siblings fought, they were still very proud of each other.

"That's my granddaughter." She said with a laugh. There was a pause and Toph stood where ever she was, still and tranquil with a hint of uncertainty.

"Gran-Gran, I'd like you to meet our very close friend- Toph Beifong, the best earth bender of all time." He gestured towards her, still one hand in his grandmothers'. The old woman approached her.

"Ah yes, I've heard so much about you. The fearless girl who can see with her feet." Toph smiled and extended a hand, she could hear the muffled sound of boots on the furs underfoot but couldn't distinguish much else. A rough warm hand closed around her mitten covered one.

"You invented a new form of bending, yes?" Toph was taller than Gran-Gran but not by all that much, she was still behind on a growth spurt.

"Metal bending, was it? Very smart." She clasped another hand over Toph's upper arm. "And very strong too." She turned back to her grandson. "Don't be a smart mouth with this one Sokka or you'll be through the roof." She said with a serious set face. Sokka rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders in the spotlight.

"Oh believe me Gran-Gran, I know." He nodded.

"It's so nice to finally meet you- uh, Mrs. Sokka's Grandma." She made an unsure laugh.

"AH HA" Gran-Gran chuckled wonderfully and warmly. "Just call me Gran-Gran." She smiled, even though Toph couldn't see it. Even with her red cheeks, the girl looked dangerously pale, almost ill.

"You two must be exhausted. I'll send some food. There are two pelts for each of you and I set out more blankets on the small table over there." She gave the direction really to Sokka but spoke facing Toph.

"Pleasure meeting you." Toph bowed respectively as Gran- Gran let go of her and went back to Sokka. Kissing his cheek and walking back out into the cold.

Unsure how to take off any of the heavy clothing, Toph was completely reliant on Sokka to take care of her. She was just a helpless little blind girl all over again.

They were alone and without the watchful eyes of the village, Sokka took the liberty of undressing her and began helping Toph out of her freezing clothes.

Taking his gloves off first and stuffing them in his pockets, he pulled her hood down ad untied the scar. He unraveled it with care and let the soaked scarf hit the rug. Occasionally his fingers brushed her cheek with undenounced purpose.

"Hands up." He had a smile with a light-hearted laugh.

Toph sniffed and raised her arms up, allowing him to pull the thick long coat over her head. She didn't feel odd about having the young man undress her. Beforehand, she had dressed her in traditional water tribe garb. Some of the clothes actually belonged to Katara: a blue shirt that V necked: pair of sweatpants over tight leggings: and boots he had to make her. He spend months finding just the right materials for the boots to be made, making her try many dozens of different furs on her feet to see what would be comfortable for him. He knew, and she had told him, that she would be blind once-off of Appa. However, he was grateful she took the trip with him.

The whole time Toph was like a compliant doll, probably used to it from the years of pampering from her parents and servants in Ba Sing Se. She raised her arms as needed and lifted a leg to slip the sweatpants off over her boots without a hitch or complaint. Nor was there any attempt by her to do it on her own. Sokka questioned that most of all, but upon getting the baggy pants off he discovered just why she didn't.

He slipped the pants off of her left booted foot and with her right leg only planted on the ground, Toph lost her balance. It startled Sokka as she immediately bent to put her hand on his shoulder for stability. Without her ability to see through earth bending, everything was dark except for herself.

Sokka stood up, untied the string holding each of her mittens on, an original design meant for a child, and pulled them off with care.

"Cold?" His voice was amused but soft, he was leaning forward and into his charge.

"Freezing." Toph didn't sound as nearly amused as him.

Sokka brushed the long ebony hair away from her delicate face and tucked it behind her ears. He wore a half-smile with pride and laid the inside of his hand on her face, cradling her frozen cheek in his palm. His hands were warm and brought the feeling back in the tingling skin.

"Here." He rubbed his thumbs on the apples of her cheeks. Her pale green eyes were distantly lingering on his chest, although out of habit he looked into them.

With his hands on her, she was given an entire image of him, the way he stood close to her, his muscular arms held up gently to hold her face in his big hands.

"Thanks." Toph paused but her tone left more than one word. She saw the way Sika's chin tilted. "Huh." Her laugh was empty. "So this is what being blind feels like." Her indifference sparked concern in her best friends' chest.

"I guess." The back of his hand ran up the hollow of her cheek. "Are you mad about coming? I could take you home tomorrow morning if you want." Toph shook her head.

"No. I want to stay with you. How many times have I made you suffer at the academy, anyway?" Now there was forced humor in her voice, and she licked her chapped bottom lip. "I just hate feeling so- so"

"Hate feeling helpless?" Toph turned her face away, out of Sokka's hold.

"But this time I am, I've been here 10 minutes and am sick of not being able to see a thing. I mean, YOU'RE my feet. It's amazing if I'm not dead by the time we leave." She threw her hands up in a very Toph way and her voice was animated with amusement, not to hurt Sokka, but in her common joking vernacular.

"You're not missing anything and there's nothing to see but snow for miles. And the village? Not much either. And, HEY, you trust me more than that! "He chuckled when Toph stuck the tip of her tongue out at him and smiled, brightening her sullen face.

"It's funny." She raised her hands up, one finding perch on his broad chest, and the other searching for his hand. "I can't see-see you, it's like being completely alone."

"But you're not alone Toph, you're here with me." She could faintly see the sway of his head nodding in assurance.

"Not like that, dunder-head." She moved her head in her way of rolling her eyes. "It's like… look." She slid her fingertips up to his face and covered his eyes with her hands. "See that?"

"No."

"That's what I'm feeling. Like there isn't anything around me, there's only me, until I can feel through someone else." She moved her hand off of his face and was alone again. "Right now. I can't see you. Or feel your heart. Or tell if you're going to step one way or the other."

Sokka still looked into her eyes, now with a better view that her hair was pulled away.

"You can still see me Toph, you just have to use your hands." He put his hand around hers and brought it flat to his chest, just above his heart.

Toph's fingers splayed slightly, feeling the thump of his strong heart. It was silent in the hut for a moment as he looked down at her, and her face was tilted up towards his. The tiny ridge between her eyebrows told him that she had something on her mind.

"What else?" She asked.

Sokka smiled and took her other hand that was now at her side. He placed it to his cheek lightly. Toph could count on one hand the amount of times she purposefully touched Sokka’s face. Mosr of them in chaste kisses they no longer talk about, she felt his cheekbones but never tried to map his features out.

Toph's fingers swept up his temples and down along the bridge of his nose, delicately sweeping over his eyelids, and brows. She could feel his heart beat faster. The tip of her index finger and first knuckle caressed just along his jaw that was even sharper than the last time she thought she mapped it. She reached the dimple in his chin, he was looking down at her, and his lips were just barely parted.

The pads of her fingers brushed his lower lip and a small smile pulled at the corners of her baby doll lips. He didn't know what she was thinking about but had a feeling it was the same thing he was.

The young pair were pulled apart by a voice calling their attention from just outside the hut.

"Sokka, I said are you both hungry?" Sokka looked up, clearing his throat as Toph turned her head away and cast her glassy eyes downwards.

"Yeah, just leave it here. I'll get it. Thanks." He let her hand slip out his and went to the entrance

Part 4

---

I hope you are enjoying my little... excursion into this ooolddd ship... That I still ship.

Leave a comment with constructive criticism or simply what you think!

#tokka #tokkafanfic #atlafanfic #sokkaxtoph #tophbeifong #toph #sokka #tokkafic #atameddragon #withinthesewalls!tokka

24 notes · View notes

inyri · 4 years

Text

Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 39- Extinction Burst

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M. Trigger warning: graphic violence.) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

(Yes, yes, I KNOW. A new job, two moves and a new baby- four months old now- will rather put one off one’s writing game. Mea maxima culpa.)

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Extinction Burst

The wire bites in; a memory surfaces.

***

She is sixteen years old.

The final combat examination is tomorrow and she ought to be in quarters but she begged an extra hour before curfew from the matron; the training rooms aren’t kept locked, as a rule, and she needs every minute of practice she can scrounge. If her mark isn’t in the top five she may as well forget the advanced course next year and that means goodbye to any hope of an Intelligence traineeship, which is entirely unacceptable. She hasn’t worked this hard to wind up stamping travel papers on some backwater planet, another factory-molded cog in the machine of the Diplomatic Corps. Father would be so- he’d be-

He’d be-

-angryashameddisappointedIraisedyoubetterthanthispathetic-

( oh, that hurts, oh, oh- a blank space in the memory and then it keeps going, like a stutter in an old recording-)

Not that ImpInt would be any less of a machine- she isn’t so naive as that. This is the Empire, after all.

In any case, her favorite room at the end of the hall’s empty. Setting the program to random- not nearly as good as a live partner but being out of quarters is bad enough, even with permission; any two of them caught together now after stupid Taima ratted out last weekend’s party’d mean a week locked in at least- she squares off against the combat droid.

Half an hour and three-quarters of the way through the fifth training sequence later, sweat prickles on her back beneath her shirt as the door slides open behind her and chill air from the corridor wafts into the room.

“Matron Rossi gave me a pass,” she pants between dodges, lifting her right arm to block and then counter the droid’s swing. It must be one of the patrolling guards, she thinks- heavy steps behind her, booted soles scraping on the duracrete floor, not another cadet soft-footed in standard-issue trainers. Turning around now would be dangerous; whoever it is, they’re disrupting the program. Rather rude. “But it’s in my trouser pocket so you’ll have to wait until the end of this sequence.”

Two more steps, drawing nearer as she aims a punch at the center target- stupid guards, they never did listen worth a damn. Against her better judgment she turns her head to look and suddenly she can’t breathe- something wraps around her throat, stiff and unyielding under her scrabbling fingers, tightening, tightening-

(It wasn’t a wire, then. But she was only a child, really, still fighting training dummies and shooting practice guns at printed targets between arithmetic and elocution and Imperial history lessons. A strap, one would think, ought to have been enough.)

She can’t cry out, she can’t get her hands beneath it, she can’t breathe, oh stars -

The room’s going dark. Did the lights shut off? She can barely see the combat droid as it lurches forward to flank her, still working its way by rote through the program; it’s going to catch her right in the teeth if she doesn’t move but that’s really not going to matter if she strangles first, which frankly seems more likely (what are you doing , stupid girl, think or you’re going to die here, MOVE)-

- until she finally, finally remembers the lesson from three weeks ago’s grappling practice and pivots toward him, throwing her weight sideways as hard as she possibly can.

The pressure eases on her throat just a little. Balling up one fist, she drives it hard into her attacker’s groin. He- thank all the stars it’s a he, that’d have been properly useless on a woman- flinches and she tries to snake her hand up the gap between his arm and body, searching for leverage. Whoever he is, he’s got probably a quarter-meter of height and a few dozen kilograms of weight on her and she’ll never be able to throw him over but if she can at least get him off-balance she might stand a chance. With the little breath she has she tries to scream; he claps a hand over her mouth and she bites down hard, wishing for pointed teeth like Nyssa’s or Dzurai’s because she only tastes leather and not blood and he’s got both ends of the strap in one hand, now, twisting it roughly around her neck and pulling her down until she’s bowed over-

She’s been hit by the droid dozens of times in her training. She remembers the sound and the feel of it, a dense slap of metal on flesh hard enough to leave welts for days, and wonders why it doesn’t hurt this time- she hears it strike home, that same awful thudding sound and then a crack, sharp, like dry kindling breaking underfoot. She should feel it. It should hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt?

The strap slips away, sliding against her skin. The combat droid’s tinny voice chirps accusingly, warning light flashing in the corner of her vision- SEQUENCE FAILED. She needs to run, needs to get away; she starts to stumble toward the door and trips over something underfoot, falling to her knees, crawling.

SEQUENCE FAILED.

Her hand comes down on the man’s face. Frantic, she yanks it away but he doesn’t stir, doesn’t even move and-

SEQUENCE FAILED.

His eyes are open, vague and staring, his head twisted on his neck at an awful angle-

SEQUENCE FAILED.

(It was pure stupid luck how the droid had hit him, though her would-be assassin had had it coming: couldn’t even kill a half-trained girl and he was stupid to boot, leaving the last message from Ellix’s father- fucking Ellix, that lazy little shit, it wasn’t her fault all his family’s money couldn’t buy him decent marks and that she’d thrashed him in the preliminaries last week- on the commpad in his pocket for security to find. But she’d never seen anyone die before. She’d never killed anyone before, even if indirectly, even if it was an accident and she was only trying to run.

He’d had it coming. She had let that thought soothe her in the moments when his face filled her dreams.)

She takes a deep breath in, and screams.

***

It isn’t the first time Nine’s had a garrote around her throat; it likely won’t be the last. But she has two things in her favor that she didn’t at sixteen.

Even as the wire cuts at her skin she can feel the attack angle’s not quite right, meant to snare someone taller- as it is, it nearly hits her jawbone and bites into the soft flesh beneath her chin. On someone Theron’s height- on Theron, it would have been Theron here if she hadn’t intervened - it would have caught him just at the pulse-point, through to the carotids maybe even before he lost his breath. Their nasty little mole sprung his trap on the wrong person and it took him a few seconds too long to realize it, long enough for her to start to shift to counter him. Too bad for him.

The misjudged angle alone might have let her survive, even unarmed. But the second thing in her favor is that unlike all those years ago she’s armed with more than her bare fists tonight and (all right, maybe it’s three things in her favor) she gives precisely zero fucks about how badly she’s about to make him hurt.

Fighting the reflexive urge to grab at the wire, she moves her right hand to her belt instead and draws her knife. It springs into her fingers, blade humming but inaudible beneath the scuff of boots on duracrete and her desperate ragged breaths; she reverses grip and drives it straight backward into her attacker.

(She hopes. If she misses she can strike again, of course, but even at a bad angle the wire’s still making mincemeat of her throat and there’s only so much time before- well. Best not to test whether Valkorion really does mean to keep her alive.)

If Theron’s scars are anything close to par for the SIS course, its agents take twice as many beatings as she ever did in Imperial Intelligence. Whether that’s down to bad luck or subpar training is a matter of debate, but all the thrashings in the galaxy still can’t prepare one for a vibroknife to the groin and when her strike hits home- more in the thigh, really, she feels the blade bite through fabric and into muscle without the telltale skitter-scrape of metal on bone- she twists it hard.

It’s enough. For a fraction of a second the wire pulls tauter and she smells blood before she feels it, trickling down into her collar, but then he lets go with one hand to push her away, to put some distance between himself and her knife. When the blade rips free he snarls, the first meaningful sound she’s heard him make since she entered the room. He hadn’t expected that, clearly. Theron too often only carried his blasters or at best a utility knife and it would have been a tricky shot; if he’d hesitated for even a moment-

Theron always tried to talk his way out of things. But it’s hard to talk with an opened throat.

Her attacker- human or near it in this light, with the sort of face one could pass in the street and forget a moment later- starts to duck back behind the crates that had hidden him initially. As he moves out of sight she reaches for a kolto syringe, then thinks better of it. It would only take a few seconds and he won’t be getting at her neck again but what else is he armed with? A few seconds might be long enough for her to find out the hard way.

The stack of crates casts a dark shadow in the flickering light. He’s only a step or two ahead of her now, slowed by the wound, and she closes the distance with a leap and throws all her weight at his back. Grabbing with her free hand at his collar, she manages a fistful and holds tight to it, clinging fast to drag him down. He staggers and braces himself against a corner as she gets her blade arm up around his throat, then the other.

“Yield,” Nine hisses in his ear. “Or-”

She barely hears the shot go off.

It misses, more or less; the bolt of energy only grazes her right thigh, a split second of heat and pain that she dismisses before the sound of it leaves her ears. He would have had to shoot through himself to hit her anywhere vital but still- now she’s brought a blade to a gunfight and he appears to be going for or.

Oh, well. Too bad for him.

When she won’t let go he turns instead, putting her squarely between his body and the crates behind, and her back slams against the corner with enough force to rattle her teeth once and then again and then again. Between blows she slashes at his side; his throat would be easier but she wants him to talk, not bleed to death on the storeroom floor. The blade skitters off something hard beneath his jacket, raising sparks within the shadows. Armor. This isn’t going to-

She hits the crate a fourth time and it knocks the air out of her.

Oof. Change of plan, then.

He rocks forward once more. This time, though, she lets go and drops before he can pin her, tucking into a sideways roll that takes her just clear of his feet to the left as she throws her knife to the right. It clatters across the duracrete and with her weight suddenly gone he pauses, turning in the direction of the noise. (It’s a little disappointing he fell for that one, really. Oldest trick in the book.) She flips on her stealth generator in one quick movement and by the time he looks back toward her she’s gone.

“Stop fucking around, Cipher.” His voice is softer than she would have expected and subtly hoarse. Unfamiliar, though clearly he knows her- or of her, at least. “Let’s finish this.”

A single larger storage box, perhaps two meters tall, sits further to her left amid the stacked-up piles. If she can get on top of it she’d have a better angle to get a shot off, or a dart-

“You’re bleeding,” he says, not moving; she takes a silent step toward the box and then another and another, glancing down at the ground around her feet. Maybe she ought to have used the kolto after all; the best stealth tech in the galaxy can’t mask a blood trail. “You think you can hide?”

She’s behind the box now. She reaches up, hands outstretched, gripping the lid. Keep talking, idiot. Keep talking.

Click-click-click, the sound of an augment screwed onto a blaster barrel. “Don’t bother going for the door, by the way. Got it covered.”

Oh, now he’s just being insulting.

Slowly, carefully, silently- her belt clasp knocks slightly against the lip of the lid and she freezes in place, one foot atop the box, until she’s certain he’s not moving toward her- she pulls herself up and edges toward the far side. Where is he? She can’t quite see him. Hiding up against something, maybe- his voice hadn’t moved, but he could be projecting it or- shit, what if he’s got stealth tech, too?

No. He hadn’t been cloaked when he struck at her, she’d just been distracted. He’s hiding, and probably telling the truth about a sightline on the exit: he thinks she’s prey. He thinks she’s wounded, bleeding, frightened. He thinks she’s outmatched and trying to escape, to regroup and find allies to come back and finish the job.

(Cipher, Cipher, run away, live to fight another day. Valkorion’s voice sing-songs in the back of her head. A pithy little rhyme. Isn’t that what you were taught?

Nine grits her teeth. Shall I just let him lop my head off, old man? How long will your ghost last after I die?

Spirit, Valkorion murmurs. Spirit. But I can show you where-

Be silent, she says, and loads a sedative dart into the launcher on her wrist. I’m hunting.)

Crouched atop the box, she scans the room. Think like a ‘pub- he expects her to break before he does. Where would she have holed up, were she him? No stealth and a leg injury- somewhere ground-level but with cover, a niche in the wall or a well-placed column-

There! The tip of a blued-out blaster pistol peeks out beyond the edge of a ration crate, reflecting just enough light to be visible from her perch as it tracks back and forth along the line of the exit door. Target located. Step one, complete. Now to step two- three quick hops ought to put her just above him but only if he doesn’t get punchy at the first hint of a sound, and if he’s already wiggling his fucking gun around like a stimmed-up infantry grunt she’d bet he’s the punchy type.

She can think of a quick way to fix that, of course: can’t get punchy if he can’t hear. Hylo won’t be happy with her, but to mangle the metaphor one can’t make an omelet without breaking a few crates.

Sorry, Hylo.

She pulls a flashbang off her belt and yanks the pin with her teeth, holds the grenade clenched in her fist as she starts to count down the fuse. Five. Four. Three- she lofts the grenade and watches as it soars, landing a meter away and rolling toward the SIS agent’s feet as he peeks out of cover at the noise - two - and she presses her hands firmly over her ears. One.

The moment the glare fades through her pressed-shut eyelids she’s moving, launching from her perch to the next-nearest stack and then the next, knocked out of alignment by the shockwave and wobbling alarmingly, and then one last leap to just above where her opponent’s now bent over and shaking his head back and forth like a half-stunned bantha. His bowed head creates a perfect target, a wide strip of skin exposed between hairline and collar.

She fires the dart into the back of his neck.

She waits.

He keeps moving for another six seconds (quicker-than-average metabolism; she makes a mental note) before his legs give way and his blaster falls from his limp fingers. Slumped against the crate, he slides down into a half-seated sprawl, head turning slowly from side to side as he squints into the dark.

“Where-?” He’s slurring now. Good. “Gonna kill me now, Cipher? Too ‘fraid to not hide?”

Switching off her generator, she jumps down to the floor beside him and kicks his blaster well out of reach. “Hardly afraid.” She doubts he can even hear her after a flashbang practically to the face. “You’re going to have a nice little nap, and then you and I-” he’s nearly unconscious now- “need to have a little talk.”

He heard that much, at least. Making a face, he grits his teeth and she hears something crack just as his eyes start to roll upward and one cheek starts to spasm.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Amateur.

“You’re not getting out of this,” she sighs, reaches into a belt pouch for the antitoxin injector she always keeps there, flips the cap back and jams it roughly into the man’s neck, “nearly that easily. Sleep well, agent.” His eyelids flicker, then drift fully shut; she slaps him hard- he deserves it, after all, for what he would have done to Theron and for her mangled throat; she’s still bleeding where the wire bit in and it’s worse than she’d first thought, shirt soaked down to her collarbones now and the smell of her own blood filling her nose even over the lingering oxidizer- and he doesn’t rouse. “We’ll chat again soon.”

No answer.

Good.

“SCORPIO?” She activates her comm but suspects she doesn’t need to. That droid has ears everywhere. “SCORPIO, I need you and Lana at my location- and Doctor Lokin. And a pair of restraining cuffs.”

“Of course, Commander.” A pause, and then- “Transport?”

“And a duffel bag. A large one.”

SCORPIO never smiles; her chassis isn't capable of it. Given how smug she sounds, that's almost certainly for the best. “Of course, Commander. En route."

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange #swtor fanfiction #nine #imperial agent #wow it's been a long time #but baby girl's finally sleeping through most nights #so maybe I'll get a little free time back now #maybe

32 notes · View notes

keatsblue · 4 years

Text

Hawks Are Migratory Birds

Hot take: Hawks & other winged BNHA characters migrate annually. It’s a huge deal.

He’d never been one to wonder at his heritage.

From a mother whose drunken delirium he barely remembered to an absentee father whose face he could no longer recall, the disparate snippets that formed his childhood were as sand slipping through a sieve, gone too quickly to be truly perceived. The president, who was like a mother and yet not, told him that was for the best. Older now, and motherless by his own design, Hawks was beginning to agree.

And yet, every day he felt the pull.

He pulled his flight jacket tighter to his form, fingers slipping-numb as he beat up with his wings. They were on fire from exertion, muscles straining even in the cold weather from the ever-so-draining tension of building a career, an agency, a life, building, building, building.

Patrols had been rougher, since some ragtag group of villains had launched that spectacular failure of an attack on Endeavor’s alma mater. Most of those involved had been apprehended, but it seemed it didn’t matter. Villains were getting bolder, slinking out of the shadows and onto city streets, where he was forced to deal with them.

He didn’t even want to begin with this Hero Killer business, but fuck. If the locals didn’t wreck that one’s shit, soon, he imagined he’d be called in on the case, as well.

The low rooftop he’d been perched on grew smaller underfoot, disappeared. Another beat, and the rest of Fukuoka’s darktown went with it.

It was always worse, when it got colder. Like an itch he needed to scratch. Sometimes he would fly out to the edge of town, eyes glued to the horizon, just for some relief.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere , far beyond the city lights (they glimmered below, like tiny, happy fireflies). Lush, green landscapes haunted his dreams in visions of places he’d never been, yet somehow knew.

They’d first come to him when he was of a young age, though not so young that he didn’t already comprehend the phenomenon as something not to be shared with his handlers. It was an abnormality, certainly, yet it was one that could be successfully hidden--unlike fingernails that grew into talons, or feathered crests that necessitated a trip to a quirk cosmetologist every few months.

Abnormalities that could be hidden, it was safe to say, were always preferred.

He’d kept his landscapes, the pretty pictures in his head. He hadn’t told a soul, and when he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, trembling from equal parts frigid air and longing , Hawks couldn’t help but smile. It was his last bastion, the only part of himself he doubted he could be trained out of.

He was so tired.

The shrill tone of his phone’s ring interrupted his reverie. He dug a hand into a pocket on the inner lining of his flight jacket, goosebumps breaking out across his flesh as a rush of winter wind wormed its way through the opening. “Yo.”

“You really ought to be more professional when answering a call, Hawks.” His handler’s tinny voice cracked over the speaker, and Hawks suppressed a sigh.

It was an effort to affect his usual oblivious veneer. “Ah, can’t hear ya, man. Poor reception when I’m flyin’ this high. Come again?”

“Never mind,” his handler said, though his undertone was telling. “There’s a new mission on your docket. We’ll need you to report in to discuss it further.”

“Another so soon? C’mon, it’s the holidays.” But he’d already adjusted his course, eyes narrowing. What could they want with him now? He’d only been kinda kidding about the Hero Killer thing.

“You act like that has some sort of meaning for you,” came the clipped reply, and damn, they really liked to hit him where it hurt. “I expect your arrival shortly. You wanted to be a hero, didn’t you?”

He barely had time to grumble out a rebellious yes, mom before the man hung up, leaving Hawks with a million questions and a niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t until later, well after he’d planted his bony ass dead center on his handler’s too-firm, stiff-backed office sofa, that he was validated.

Hawks crossed his arms. “No. Absolutely not.”

His handler’s lips thinned. Fingers that had been busy clacking away at their keyboard paused in their work, so dead silence reigned. “You seem to be under the false impression that this is optional.”

“Am I a joke to you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the man said, finally, finally looking away from his monitor. He fixed the hero with a blank look. “Your mission is of the utmost importance-”

“It’s not my mission if I haven’t taken it yet.”

“Hawks.”

“No,” he repeated, with as much vehemence as he could muster. It was still a challenge, even now, not to immediately retract his statement. He wasn’t a little kid, anymore. “I’m not spying on the League of Villains.”

And there it was. The crux of the matter, thrust out into the open like so much dirty laundry. He wasn’t even trained for espionage, didn’t have the skill set for it, much less the desire to dabble. And he wasn’t that pathologic of a liar.

He wasn’t evil.

His handler released a deep breath, one that reverberated from deep within his lungs and rattled on the exhale. “You’re the only one who can do this.”

Hawks would’ve had to have been deaf not to catch the sudden shift in tone, subtle enough that it couldn’t be anything but intentional. He’d seen this song and dance, before. “No one’s gonna believe it. Me, falling to the figurative dark side? I’m the third-ranked hero, for fuck’s sake.”

When he only received another blank look, he raised a brow. “Really?”

“Your lackadaisical attitude lends your public persona a certain… côté méchant,” the man intoned, and Hawks couldn’t actually believe what he was hearing.

“What about Endeavor? Dude’s awesome, but he scares little kids.”

The response was automatic. “Endeavor is an upstanding man, destined to be the next pillar when we inevitably lose All Might. He would never stray to villainy.”

Hawks blinked, and beneath his skin, blood simmered and raged.

Then, he smiled. “Alright.”

Both of his handler’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. “Alright, you’ll do it?”

Hawks stood, and pretended to brush some stray debris from his pant leg.

“No.” He took great pleasure in the way the man’s face crumpled, like he’d just flushed his holiday bonus down the drain. And who knew? Maybe he had. “I meant, alright, I’m done with this conversation.”

He didn’t look back as he dropped from the office balcony, no less than fifteen stories up. Didn’t turn around to answer his handler’s increasingly frantic cries.

No, Hawks kept his eyes on that tantalizing horizon. And this time, when it beckoned, he didn’t have the heart to resist.

He thought of lush landscapes. Of heroes, and villains.

Everyone’s waiting for me to snap.

So goddamnit, I’ll snap.

***

He flew for hours. Days, perhaps. He’d lost track.

After a kilometer or dozen had passed him by, the near-constant noise from his jacket pocket had begun to grate on his ears. It had been simple, to pull out the offending object and drop it.

His phone. He’d dropped his phone.

He might’ve been flying over ocean at the time.

After that, the only thing filling his ears had been the welcome roar of the high winds, and the occasional monotonous chatter of customers in small-time general stores where he stopped for snacks.

Upon entering one such establishment, the shopkeeper had taken one look at his bedraggled wings, his windswept hair, and offered him a free meat bun. Hawks had wolfed it down before thinking to make conversation, much to the other’s apparent amusement.

That shopkeeper had been an old, portly man, with a patchy mustache to match thinned nails and faded tattoos. He’d regarded the hero with kind eyes, and spoke in warm tones.

You’re a little late this year, aren’tcha?

“Hah?” Hawks had replied, intelligently. In his defense, he’d been speaking around a mouthful of meaty goodness.

The shopkeeper laughed. “It’s okay. I know you winged fellas have your ways. My wife dated somebody, years before she met me, who made the journeys.”

At the time, Hawks had been speechless. Before he could think of a reply, the old man had disappeared behind the counter, calling out from a back room that the hero could also grab himself a cold beverage on the house.

Hawks had chosen a can of green tea that’d tasted like shit going down, then promptly high-tailed it out of there. Now, though, he wondered if he should’ve stayed.

The skies around him had grown dark, and it wasn’t only due to the late hour. There was a brief flash, then thunder soon followed, rolling in from the distance to confirm his worst suspicions.

“A storm,” he murmured, and he couldn’t tell if he was speaking from inside his head or out of it. Fucking great.

Another boom of thunder threatened to split his eardrums, and Hawks careened to the side, before righting himself. Something wet landed on the crown of his head, trailing ice-cold down the back of his neck.

Fucking-

More raindrops fell in a sudden deluge, and he was instantly soaked to the bone. Maintaining altitude became more difficult, as he wrestled screaming gusts of wind for control of newly-laden wings.

When Hawks risked a glance downward, and saw only the obsidian spearpoints of violent, cresting waves, he knew he was in trouble. His chest heaved, but he couldn’t hear the sound of his own breath, over the static in his ears.

Freezing rain clouded his vision like salty tear tracks, except Hawks couldn’t blink them away. He rubbed at his face, dug his fingers into the crevices between his eyelids, to no avail.

It started to dawn on him, that he was going to die.

He was going to die a hero, but one that everyone suspected would turn villain.

No.

He wanted to live, he wanted-

Lightning cracked just in front of him, searing bright, and close enough Hawks could smell the ozone even through his waterlogged nostrils. His heart leaped in his chest, alive on pure adrenaline.

Were the waves below getting closer? Or was that just-

Another powerful gust sent him spiraling, beaten back and forth by the elements. Sharp pain and the taste of copper erupted in his own mouth--he must’ve bitten his tongue. When Hawks finally managed to stabilize, he’d definitely gotten closer.

Scanning his surroundings with renewed vigor, he knew he had to find land, or he was toast. Fried chicken. It was difficult work, through salt-reddened eyes, as the only thing darker than the squall surrounding him was the deadly water below. And contrary to popular belief, Hawks lacked the pinpoint vision of his namesake. He was forced to wait between deadly illuminations, to make any headway.

Flash.

Flash, and-

There. A hulking shape, an island, standing proud against the storm.

Hawks’ stomach leapt, and then sank.

It was so far away. He would never make it.

He strained toward it, anyway, reaching out a hand with fingers outstretched, as if that would make any difference when seaspray from the crests of waves was already lapping at his feet. His calves.

His back was on fire.

The world went dark once more on the dying breath of yet another spiderweb of lightning, though Hawks hardly noticed. He’d already been forced to shut his eyes against the strong headwind that’d just slammed against his front, pitching him back and into the unforgiving embrace of the sea.

Hawks’ first thought as the wings that’d formerly granted him freedom became sodden deadweights in the vice grip of the ocean’s gyre was damn, this water’s cold. His second was that this was, without a doubt, the worst possible reality. How else could he explain perishing of his own stupidity?

Then, black currents dragged him down, and he didn’t think at all.

***

Something rapped against his forehead, threatening to wake him. He didn’t want to wake. He ached all over, his eyes stung, and that incessant tapping was going to give him a migraine. He groaned, and tried to stretch a hand up, to shoo the tapper away. His arm didn’t quite comply, but it had the intended effect.

The assault halted abruptly, and there was a skittering of voices from above, too low and too fast for Hawks to catch. The sound of footsteps, retreating.

It was too late, though. He’d already been stirred to wakefulness, wings twitching minutely as he attempted to shift into a more comfortable position. He opened his eyes, which proved to be a mistake, as he immediately had to close them again for the brightness that pierced his retinas.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wasn’t supposed to have woken, ever again. He just couldn’t remember why.

“I see you survived,” a voice called, different from the others he’d heard. He forced his eyes open, once more, squinting.

Slowly, the fuzzy shapes surrounding him started to coalesce. He adjusted the level of his gaze, and locked eyes with the one he presumed had spoken.

The newcomer was an older woman, from her appearance. She had grayed-out locks that framed a wizened face, all angles and sun-scars, though that was far from the most striking thing about her.

No, this woman had wings. They loomed large over her shoulders, slightly translucent and veined, like a bat’s. Hawks blinked to clear his vision, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite connect what he was seeing with reality.

It had to be part of her quirk, though he’d never seen someone with wings as large as his, before. They weren’t quite the same, but they looked capable of flight.

At his continued blank stare, the woman tilted her head. She smiled, to reveal pointed canines. “You’ve taken quite the tumble, mister. Didn’t you read the advisory? It’s not safe to fly alone, around these islands.”

Fly alone? Who would he fly with?

His voice croaked as he voiced the question, throat scratched all to hell. The woman only laughed, as if he’d made a particularly funny joke.

Then, of all things, she smirked. “Guess I can’t blame you for wanting to catch up, though. You’re lucky the tide was coming in.”

Catch up? Why did people keep saying that?

Fuck. The general store. The storm.

“I have to get back to Kyushu,” he breathed. He didn’t know what came over him. He’d abandoned his agency, his sidekicks -

Now, it was the woman’s turn to blink in confusion. Her voice was carefully level. Quiet. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Hawks frowned. “Know what?”

The woman only shook her head, like he’d said something incredibly sad. Then, she stretched out a hand, waiting patiently until he took it.

He followed her out of the shade, which he could now see had been formed from a makeshift hut. Bare feet padded on soft grass, and he didn’t know where his boots had gone. Probably lost at sea, if he had to guess.

Despite everything--his aches and pains, the old woman’s strange demeanor--Hawks couldn’t help but be taken in by the greenery all around him. It was lush, vibrant. So unlike the concrete jungle he’d claimed to love all his life.

It seemed… familiar. Pulled straight from his dreams.

They turned a corner, and Hawks gasped.

At first, all he could see were the wings. There were so many different colors, different textures. Plumage, furred, leathery. He could even see some that were scaled, gathered together on the fringes. Horned, like a dragon’s.

Then, he noticed the people. They were also of varying colors, though not as glaringly so. There must have been hundreds, if not a thousand below, from what he could make out from their vantage point.

There were children playing. Adults, sharing foodstuffs between campfires.

Some were flying.

He turned, a million questions on his tongue. They all died when he found the woman already looking at him, her expression solemn.

He let out a nervous chuckle. Reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ve been missing something big, haven’t I?”

The woman ignored his question, in favor of asking another. “What is your name, young man?”

“Keigo,” he sputtered, before he could say Hawks. “Takami Keigo.”

His companion nodded, like he’d revealed something of great importance, instead of just stating his name. She stretched out a withered arm, gesturing toward the scene below with sharp, taloned fingers.

He hadn’t even noticed that, when she’d taken his hand.

“Keigo,” she said. “Welcome... to the migration.”

Uncertain of his welcome, he took a cautious step forward. Then, emboldened by the encouraging look the older woman shot him, he took another. Stretched out his own wings, unafraid of frightening passerby, or knocking something over. Maybe, he thought, I can stay. For just a while longer.

He took flight, and it felt like coming home.

Deep within his gut, the pull lessened.

Wavered.

...

Disappeared.

***

côté méchant = villainous, nasty side (via Google translate; I don't actually speak French)

#pro hero hawks #wing hero hawks #mha hawks #bnha hawks #character study

5 notes · View notes

impossible-rat-babies · 5 years

Note

For DADWC “I’m scared” off the two word prompts

Thank you Madison! I’m gonna go with Darva and Dorian for this one!

Pre-Relationship Pavellan | 1731 words | sorta fluff | mostly below the cut

for @dadrunkwriting!

Darva isn’t a stranger to nightmares. He’s had them all his life, since he was young enough to fear the idea of his father getting hurt or killed by nearly anything his brain could come up with, which was anything in the world. It was easy to crawl out of his own bedroll and climb up next to his father, his gentle words enough to send him back to sleep. None of the dreams were real, at least in the sense of his father dying by a pack of wild mutated wolves with twenty pairs of fangs. It was people who killed him and after that the nightmares were much too human.

Sixteen years and he still isn’t used to the visceral image of a sword cleaving his father from neck to shoulder, the rest of the nightmare lost as he roughly startles awake each time, chest heaving and tears stinging his eyes. He knows what happened after that, trying to scrub it away from the backs of his eyes; it never works, only leaving white spots and the hard fact that his father is dead. A sigh of defeat and curling up too tight in the blankets, hoping he can get back to sleep.

But the nightmares have changed since he was dragged into the Inquisition, since he had been given a crackling green magical mark on his hand. Since the venture into some dark and twisted future, the world marred and destroyed without the mark on his hand to stop it. Just like packs of wolves with twenty pairs of fangs, his head imagined all sorts of terrible things. Piles and piles of bodies heaped along the walls of Redcliffe Castle, the lake around it filled with the viscera and blood from their decomposing bodies. The screech of demons far off in the distance, setting the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. The very real and actual feeling of the bones in his hand twisting and curling, the Mark trying to flay his hand apart.

Days later and the feeling still grips him in waves, the sensation strong enough to convince him for a few agonizing minute that he is actually going to lose his hand. But a glance at the Mark only reveals the crackling lighting across his fingertips and wrist from the gash across his palm. His fingers still work, all twisting in time with him directing their motions. The pain continues, but he could manage that over the overwhelming sensation of his hand turning itself inside out.

He watches and twists his hand in the dim light of the cabin, watching the light jump across his hand, the little strikes slipping down his fingers and back to the Mark. It stings, like the energy digging itself through his muscles and bones. A disconcerting thought, one that drags him out from under his blankets. His boots slip on easily, only half tying them before he grabs his thick coat and shawl, pulling them tight over his nightclothes. The cabin door opens with his shoulder and the air is sharp and cold on his lungs. Good enough to distract from the pain. The sky above is clear, both moons lighting up the camp with a blue glow, dispersed by the orange warmth of fires. A few soldiers linger about on their shifts, none of them paying Darva any mind. Right now he looks nothing like the images already spreading about him--his heroics already bigger than his shoulders can bear.

The snow crunches underfoot and he’s careful on the few stairs, circling his way around to the fire near the front of the Chantry. It easy to spot others around it, but it’s curiouser than Dorian is sitting on one of the logs scooted close to the flames.

Darva hadn’t been spared the time to talk much since their travel from Redcliffe back to Haven with a Mage alliance in hand. Dorian’s reasons for being in the South were admirable, from what Darva had gathered. He wasn’t shy at all about talking about himself and he did it with pride. A highly amusing quality to Darva, but he still didn’t really know the man. He would talk and talk, but it was all hot air, things that didn't say who he was. Darva knew that looping sort of conversation--he used it himself on more than one occasion. Well, more times that he could count on his fingers.

“Are you cold?” Darva asks on his approach and Dorian turns his head, his frown curling his mustache.

“The South was wretched enough without mountains covered in snow.” He huffs and Darva hums, sitting down on the neighboring log, pulling his shawl and jacket in tighter.

“I hope you get used to it since we’ll be here for a while.” Darva scratches the side of his nose and Dorian rolls his eyes.

“Oh goody. I’m already regretting my choice to stay with your Inquisition.” Dorian mumbles.

“It isn't mine.” Darva replies, tucking his hands into his armpits. “I’m just the one with the fancy mark on my hand which is fun to wave at people and demons alike.”

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who settled the deal with the mages.” Dorian point out.

“I couldn’t leave them hanging there, not with Queen Anora giving them her well wishes. Besides, sending anything back would have made for a squabble between Josephine, Leliana and Cullen and then we’d be nowhere.”

“Most likely sitting off in some camp with neither mages or templars.” Dorian remarks and Darva snorts, half a smile twitching on his lips.

“Can’t deny that. Still, that doesn’t make me any sort of leader of this...organization.” He waves his hand.

“You don’t want to lead them?” Dorian asks like he genuinely wants to know and Darva snorts.

“No, I don’t want to lead them. I barely like being toted around as a symbol of Andraste; being seen as the leader of this organization...” He trails off, shaking his head.

“I do admit the idea of a Dalish elf at the head of an organization the Chantry hates would be nice icing on the cake. Add in a supposed Tevinter Magister and I don’t know how the Chantry mothers will sleep at night.” Dorian snickers and Darva shakes his head, chewing his lip.

“Not as if they don’t sleep at night anyway. Should have seen them in Val Royeaux.” He clicks his tongue.

Darva is used to glares and stares of humans; he got used to it thirteen years ago. Their care or lack of it never mattered much to him, more than capable of taking care of himself. But to have all those people staring at him, listening to him talk, hanging on every word and passing the judgment based on that. The memory still makes his skin crawl. He’s not meant to be noticed, to be seen. He likes the shuffle of a crowd or the dark of a alleyway or back corner in a tavern where eyes slide right off of him like water off a roof.

Being around, being remembered, staying in one place...

He stares down at his boots, shuffling the snow around his cold toes. The pain flares in his hand, bringing him back to the present.

“Lavellan, are you alright?” Dorian questions and Darva looks up at him briefly, eyes sliding back to the fire.

“No.” He admits softly and he picks at his lip, the green glow a sharp contrast against the orange flames. The same green crackles high above in the sky, scattering light across the snow covered peaks. The place that started it all, the trip he had been foolhardy enough to take from Fisk and Livonah. The one that gave him this constant pain in his hand and made him so memorable.

“Do you....need anything?” Dorian leans in closer from his own log, his eyes settling on his hand. Darva tucks it back under his arm; he doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

“I’m scared--frightened.” He continues, staring at the fire still bright and comforting, but he feels the cold air against his back, the pain of his hand. Darva glances off towards the mountain peak, where the Temple is--where The Breach still remains. The Mages will arrive soon and then there will be no more reasons not to seal the Breach. Not even if it could kill him.

“Frightened? Of the Breach” Dorian asks and Darva squeezes his lips together.

“Frightened of failing, frightened of the pain.”

Pain in the moment is easy to grasp, to compartmentalize to agonize over later. He can’t lose himself in a fight, lose his nerve because the enemy that wants his head won’t stop. The stumps where his pinkies once were a testament to how if someone wants pain, they will create it.

But seeing pain coming, playing it out in his head over and over again, turns his gut to jelly and his legs stiff to run. It can’t hurt him unless it catches him. But here he’s trapped in a cage with only one way out.

“Darva...”

Dorian’s voice is soft and it’s his name; not Herald, not Lavellan. Darva. The name he picked, the one that tastes right on the tongue. Darva looks and Dorian is half smiling at him and it even sparkles in his eyes.

“You’re not going to fail. We’ll get the Breach sealed and then be off to solve all the smaller, littler problems about. I’m sure there are dozens of them that they can’t solve on their own, ones that need heroes to solve.” Dorian waves his hand and Darva snickers.

“You? A hero of the South?” He asks incredulously and Dorian almost is convincing enough to look genuinely offended. Convincing enough for Darva to laugh, the sound loud enough to push away the dark clouds lingering, to bring the warmth of the fire back all over him, soaking back into his bones along with a bit of hope. Just a bit of hope is all he needs.

“Well, I can't give the people of Southern Thedas too much credit. Half of their countries smell like dog.”

“Wet dog, and you still aren't used to it yet?”

“You have gotten used to it?”

“It’s....grown on me.”

“Grown on you like some awful tumor more like it.”

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #pavellan #m!lavellan #owen writes #oc tag #darva lavellan #thank you!#this prompt got me good #dickeybbqpit

20 notes · View notes

pcttrailsidereader · 5 years

Text

Sierra Buttes Fire Lookout: A Worthy Side Trip

By Rees Hughes

Perched on the very top of Sierra Buttes, nearly 8,600 feet high and well above any surrounding topography, the decommissioned fire lookout offers an amazing 360-degree view. On a clear day, the view extends west across the Sacramento Valley to the Yolla Bollys and Sutter Buttes, south across the Yuba drainage and far into the High Sierra, and north and east are equally stunning. It is a couple mile side trip from the PCT and well worth the detour. I’ve gone a couple of times now including a visit in early August.

In 1975 the National Geographic Society published a comprehensive 196-page book on the nascent Pacific Crest Trail. The book chronicled the thru-hike of author Will Gray and photographer Sam Abell. This was well before trail names, trail angels, and even completion of the trail. A friend of mine recently gave me a copy he had purchased at a library sale. It truly captures the era when external frame Kelty packs, wool, and heavy leather boots reigned supreme. It is well worth a read.

This short excerpt begins at Sierra Buttes, just north of Sierra City. I have included a few photos of the lookout from my walk through the area:

“Lightning makes an incredible whipping and crackling sound just before it hits. Then there’s a loud buzzing like radio static as the thunderclap shakes the whole building. Sometimes there’s a blue glow around the roof overhang, and I’ve even seen electricity arc back and forth between the beams. The first time I saw that, man, I was scared!”

Bill Thomason sat with his feet on a desk inside the fire lookout station that perches – at 8,587 feet – atop the highest of the Sierra Buttes. The thumb-like spires of volcanic rock provide a vantage high above the rolling ridges of the northern Sierra, and I could trace, far below, the Pacific Crest Trail near Sardine Lakes. A side trail ended at the base of the 178 metal steps that climbed the rocks to our steel-and-glass cage.

Bill, a college student who works summers as a fire guard for the U.S. Forest Service, continued to describe the awesome display of a thunderstorm and I was glad that the sky was bright blue and cloudless. “One of the first things I learned,” Bill said, “was not to touch metal during electrical storms. But I’ve gotten so used to them now that I can usually sleep right through.”

What were his duties? “Basically, I just look for smoke, I take a compass reading and check my card file to see if it’s coming from a sawmill, say, or a campground. If not, I radio headquarters to have it checked out. Fortunately, this area’s not too vulnerable; there are relatively few fires each year.”

I asked Bill whether the isolation of sitting alone high on a remote mountain ever bothered him. “Usually it’s not all that lonely,” he answered. “Besides the hiking path, there’s a jeep trail, so I get a few visitors almost every day. Sometimes more than a few – over the Fourth of July weekend, at least 150 people trooped through. And there’s always communication through the radio. But I have gone as long as four days without seeing anyone. I guess I’ve learned to appreciate both company and loneliness. The time of day I most like to be alone is at sunset. It’s so peaceful up here then.”

Fire lookouts are fast going the way of the typewriter, Kodachrome and the handwritten letter. According to author Philip Connors, 90 percent of American lookout towers have been decommissioned with only a few hundred remaining, mostly in the West and Alaska.

A dozen miles north of Sierra Buttes, the trail skirts placid Gold Lake, named in acknowledgment of one of the biggest hoaxes of the gold rush days. In 1849 vague rumors of a lake with banks strewn with gold spread through the mining camps. In the early summer of 1850, an English miner named J.R. Stoddard appeared in Nevada City with a poke of nuggets and a dramatic tale. While on a hunting trip, he said, he had stumbled on the fabled lake of gold, and was astounded by its abundance of riches. As he scooped up handfuls of nuggets, he was suddenly attacked by Indians, and was wounded in the leg by an arrow while escaping.

He offered – for a price – to lead an expedition back to the lake; dozens of gold-hungry prospectors responded and paid the fee. When the party left Nevada City, a throng of perhaps a thousand other men followed along.

For days the horde vainly tramped the mountains. Stoddard became increasingly vague about his bearings, until at last the miners rebelled and gave him an ultimatum: He had 24 hours to find the lake or he would be strung from the nearest tree.

That night the wily Stoddard stole out of camp and disappeared. In the morning the miners, thoroughly chagrined, headed back to their old claims or sought new ones in the Gold Lake country.

Sam rejoined me on the trail north of Gold Lake and together we walked the dry, hot ridges of the northern Sierra. Late one afternoon, as we followed a dusty road toward a bluff overlooking the North Fork of the Feather River, the aroma of cooking drew us toward a small prefabricated house alive with young men.

It was a crew of the California Ecology Corps, sponsored by the California Division of Forestry. Under contract with the U.S. Forest Service, the men were building a six-mile section of Pacific Crest Trail from the ridgetop down into the Feather River Canyon near the town of Belden. After we had demolished a supper of roast beef and corn on the cob, I sat sipping coffee and talking to Dick Hansen, project foreman and a 20-year veteran of the Division of Forestry, and Rick Lawrence, the 22-year-old crew leader.

“We’ve been up here for just under three weeks, and we’ve already got more than half a mile of trail built,” Dick said with pride. “The whole project should take no more than four or five months, we hope.”

“We’re averaging about 250 feet of finished trail per day,” Rick added, “and that’s through manzanita, which is hard to dig out. We have to follow strict specifications of trail width and drainage, of course, and we’re anxious to do a good job; we’re hoping that this one will lead to more contracts.”

In the late mountain twilight the corpsmen returned from swimming, fishing, or rock climbing and crawled into the sleeping bags scattered around the prefab building. A few minutes after five o'clock the next morning I was served a tasty cheese and mushroom omelet by camp cook Jim Atha. Breakfast over, we crowded into a truck and bumped along the dirt road leading to the new trail site.

Following the newly constructed section, I rounded a well-engineered switchback and faced a tangle of brush. Ahead of me a proficient team of two strong corpsmen worked with lopping shears to cut out the tough branches and trunks and form a rough corridor. A couple of dozen yards behind them, another team wielding picks and shovels grubbed out rocks and roots and widened the initial path. Other teams graded, cleared, and trimmed, until finally a permanent section of Pacific Crest Trail had been completed.

“We rotate the men every day so they don’t get burned out on any one job,” Rick told me. “As we work, we’re careful to preserve the natural lay of the land as much as possible. We only take out boulders or trees where they would be a serious hindrance to hikers.”

From the top of the canyon wall, Rick looked down at his crew and said, “This is the kind of work you can appreciate doing. You feel like you’re leaving your mark, that you can come back in 20 years and be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

Bob Birkby wrote a wonderful piece that is included in the Oregon/Washington volume of The Pacific Crest Trailside Reader, “The Art of the Trail: An Aesthetic Appreciation of What’s Underfoot”. It captures the work of art that results from good trail building … and reminds us not to take for granted the work of Dick Hansen, Rick Lawrence, and their team and countless similar teams that built the PCT.

#Sierra Buttes #Fire Lookout #Gold Lake #trail construction #Sutter Buttes #Yolla Bolly Mountains

13 notes · View notes

naturepointstheway · 5 years

Text

“Blanket” (BatB/Harry Potter crossover; #batb14fics)

Righty, we’re back to the crossovers again--and by that, I mean BatB and Harry Potter. Also, another Christmasy fic, apparently, even though it’s still only JULY for heaven’s sake.

@morgaine2005 @dand3l1on-fluff @rose-of-the-underworld @insectoid5 @tinydooms @sweetfayetanner @lumiereswig @astudyinchocolate @batbobsession @gryffindorbraids @shardsofarendelle

Once again, much to his parents’ and grandparents’ exasperation, Chip ran around underfoot as the adults prepared the house for Christmas day less than a week away. Chip managed to break three different vases his father had created so lovingly (all were mended with a sigh and a fixing spell from Jean), knocked down the chopping board, peels and all, when his mother was off to help his grandma with a boggart discovered in her trunk at the foot of her bed, and he tipped over a chair while trying to jump on it, sending it to the floor with a crash that sent his mum running back into the living area.

“Oh for goodness sake, Chip!” Mrs Potts cried, running her hands through her hair in exasperation. “Go outside and have a run around--it’s nice and sunny!”

“But it’s cold,” Chip complained, putting the chair back upright again, “I don’t like the cold.”

Mrs Potts took out her wand from her apron pocket and flicked it in the direction of her son’s coat and scarf hanging on a coat hanger. Both coat and scarf zoomed over the floor into Chip’s arms.

“Put those on and button up tight and go enjoy a run outside. You’ll warm up in no time, love.”

“Yes, mum,” Chip mumbled as he finished wrapping the scarf around his neck and started to button up his coat, one of the buttons nearly falling off by a thread.

“And don’t go too far now, will you?”

“I won’t.”

“And be sure not to go playing in that old cottage over there,” Mrs Potts pointed out the window at a tumbledown cottage that appeared in serious need of repair, looking for all the world like it was abandoned years ago. “I want you to stay safe. Promise? Here, let me get that button.”

Mrs Potts swished her wand at the dangly button on Chip’s coat, mending it in a jiffy, leaving the boy snug and warm. Satisfied her son was now all bundled up against the cold, she gave him a tight hug and a firm loving kiss on his head, his arms wrapping around her waist in a hug just as full of love too.

“Be safe, love,” Mrs Potts tapped his nose with a finger, before releasing Chip, who raced to the door, wrenching it open, letting in a blast of air. Mrs Potts was about to yell after him to shut it, but he had already sprinted out of earshot into the sunny outdoors. Mrs Potts tried not to shiver, quickly flicking her wand at the fireplace to make it burn hotter and brighter, and then finally at the door to close it firmly once and for all.

Contrary to Mrs Potts’ belief, the worn-down cottage with its leaking roof and cracked, webbed windows was not abandoned--not anymore anyway, not since Remus Lupin had moved in at least a year ago in this remote part of Yorkshire. Having moved from place to place, drifting from one very basic job to the next, he was used to living in “houses” whose conditions, at best, were just barely passable. Peeling paint from walls, stiff beds with no pillows, taps that only dribbled water at best even with the strongest of spells, windows that were cracked or even broken, and spiders and mice as housemates--he was long used to these sorts of conditions. He was lucky to live in one place for more than a couple months, before his lycanthropy forced him to move on before anyone figured out why he disappeared once a month, every full moon, regular as clockwork.

Nevertheless, he still found reason to smile at the little things this morning, completely unaware of a young boy running in the direction of his cottage, believing it abandoned and, therefore, full of adventure. Pulling out a cup, Remus tapped the full kettle on the bench, and it began to steam and whistle. He leaned his elbows on the bench, taking a minute to look at the fresh winter morning outside the window, taking note of the skeletal trees, the rolling clouds high up, and the wide, wide expanse of green falling over the distant horizon. It wasn’t too bad here, really, and he’d lived in far worse places, with only his years-old world-weary robes to keep him warm as he passed cold nights sleeping on benches, homeless, with only a handful of flames to keep him warm.

It didn’t stop him feeling a pang of longing on seeing how festive the distant cottages were becoming with Christmas Day just around the corner. Usually, he would have visited his father on Christmas, but this year, the full moon was too near Christmas for him to have the energy to visit. He would be too exhausted to make the trip, spending most of the day resting or sleeping, ignoring his always-hungry stomach that was never quite full enough as he lived his hand-to-mouth existence.

He’d just sat down, mug of tea in his hands, on the worn-out sofa, when a sound of splintering wood and a child yelping in surprise came from outside. Concerned now, Remus stood back up, tea still in one hand, and opened the front door to go look outside, catching a fleeting glimpse of a child brushing himself off quickly and then running around the back, leaving behind the piece of wooden railing that had broken off, clearly too rotted to have stayed affixed.

For a few seconds, Remus thought the kid might have run off altogether, were it not for some clattering around and a happy yell of “WOW! Big spider!” escaping from around the back of the house. Amused by the unexpected company, Remus mused that he ought to say hello, and perhaps wish him a merry Christmas. Everyone deserved a merry Christmas, even if he felt he himself didn’t, for who would welcome a werewolf to their Christmas dinner, if they knew?

Better to be alone and avoid rejection, than to try. It was safer that way, and he was used to his loneliness anyway.

Going around to the back of his rundown, temporary home, Remus spotted the boy crouching down low, apparently deeply intrigued by something he was watching on the ground--possibly that huge spider he had yelled so excitedly about several seconds ago.

Remus took a sip of tea before greeting--and surprising--the boy with a pleasant “Lovely morning for spider hunting isn’t it?”

The little boy jumped and whirled around, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh! Hi!” a merry wave, a stamping of feet. “I didn’t see you coming! Where did you come from?”

Remus smiled. “I live here--thought I heard a little ruckus gong on around here.”

“Sorry,” the boy looked guilty, his eyes flickering around and to the ground, “But mum told me this cottage was abandoned.”

Remus acknowledged the old, crumbling wall next to him with a little agreeing nod.

“You’d think so wouldn’t you?” he commented, “But no, not quite abandoned.”

The boy’s mouth fell open. “You live here?! Are there ghosts around? It’s gotta be haunted!”

Remus couldn’t help but laugh, “No one else haunting this place but me, I’m afraid.”

The boy dusted dirt off his hands, now folding his arms around his middle, as if to stave off the winter cold despite his thick coat and scarf.

“You’re pulling my leg aren’t you? Mum says this place isn’t even fit for rats.”

No, but it is more than fit for a werewolf like me.

“I don’t know, I’ve got a couple of rodent friends keeping me company in my house right now.”

The kid pulled a face. “Ewww!”

Remus shrugged with a wan smile. “I’m used to rats by now.”

“Why do you live here? Mum would be horrified!”

A fleeting pang of panic went through Remus, though he remained outwardly calm, trying to remind himself that there was no way this kid’s mother knew of his lycanthropy. If this kid’s mum was horrified, it was at the run-down cottage, not at him.

Remus shrugged in a would-be casual manner. “I have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. What more do I need?”

The boy’s eyes wandered up to the broken window next to Remus. “Fixed windows and a not leaky roof. Can you not fix it with magic?”

“It’s not for lack of trying,” Remus admitted, before taking another long sip from his cup. “Even so, there’s only so much I can do.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

And the boy looked sorry too, and Remus tried not to think about the fact that if he knew he was a werewolf, the kid would run off in the opposite direction back to his family. He quickly changed the subject.

“So, about that spider?”

“What spider?”

“Sounds like it was an impressive specimen from what I heard.”

The boy’s face lighted in a huge grin. “Yes, sir, it was a big one! It’s a brave spider walking around in this cold!”

“Very brave indeed,” Remus concurred, finally draining his rapidly cooling mug of tea. “Found anything else?”

“Nope--wanted to find the biggest worm to show my dad, but can’t find any.” the boy shrugged. “Too cold I think.” The boy stuck out a hand to Remus, waiting for him to shake it. “Name’s Chip, sir. Chip Potts.”

Remus shook the boy’s hand with cordial warmth and a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Chip Potts.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“Rem--”

“CHIP!”

Both turned to spot a lady waving from a few dozen feet away, trying to get Chip’s attention.

“Oh! Think mum wants me to go inside again--probably got me a chore or two to do around gran and grandpa’s house. Bye, sir!”

With a merry little bow and salute at Remus, Chip turned and hared away back to the house where the lady was waving for the boy. After watching for a second or two until they went inside the house, Remus tightened his cloak around his shoulders and returned into his own home, ready for one more cup of tea to warm him up against the wintry morning, feeling happier now than he had for a long while, all because of one small interaction with a cheery boy full of energy and life.

Remus wasn’t expecting any more visitors for the rest of the day, and so he settled into his usual routine, the sun playing over the fine lines already settling into his face, and the dusting of grey already streaking his brown hair. He sung an old ditty or two to himself as he cobbled together a small lunch, followed by a cup of coffee and some work on the house, trying his best to keep it on this side of just barely livable. He had been in worse places, and, as he had told Chip Potts, he was lucky to have a roof, even a leaky, damp one at that, over his head. He’d occasionally gone most of, if not all, of a year without a single shelter to keep him snug and warm.

Really, it was another normal day for Remus, adjusted to his lonely, cold existence since...

Since a long time ago.

The sun had long ago set, with twilight darkening the sky, when Remus heard a firm, loud knock at his door. Who could be visiting him this time? Surely not that boy who’d been so excited over spiders and so horrified about his living conditions. While the moon was out, still more or less in its quarter phase, it was already dark enough for any young kid not to be wandering about on their own.

Getting up from his seat at the table, the man walked to the door, ignoring its loud creaks on rusted hinges as he opened it to discover the same boy and the same woman--his mother, Remus presumed--standing at the threshold. Chip was standing smiling at her side, waving at him merrily with a “hello again!” The woman, red hair pulled back in a single long plait over her shoulder, held a thick woollen blanket that Remus could never have afforded in his lifetime.

“Good evening,” the woman greeted him, “My son, Chip, told me you live here.”

“I do.”

The woman’s eyes wandered, looking over Remus’ shoulders, taking in the poorly scene inside.

“Well! This is no living condition for any human being!”

Except a werewolf.

She tsked and held out the blanket toward him, Remus taking an instinctive step back, reluctant to take it.

“You’re kind, but I can’t accept it.”

Chip’s mother gave Remus a hard look, a flash of no-nonsense in her eyes.

“Believe me, my mother and father have enough blankets for all of Hogwarts with more to spare left over, I swear to God,” she insisted, a smile now lilting on her face, “I think you really should have at least one properly warm woollen blanket.”

Still somewhat reluctant to take the gift, Remus reached out and took it anyway, the fabric soft and fluffy under his fingers.

“Thank you...Mrs Potts?”

She nodded, taking Chip’s hand in her own. “Beatrice Potts is my name, and I’m Chip’s mum.”

“Remus Lupin, madam.”

“Will you have anyone visiting you at Christmas? We always have room for one more in my parents’ house for Christmas.”

Remus, though moved by her kindness, shook his head. “I’m used to being alone for Christmas.”

“Surely you must have family!”

“I have my father, but I cannot visit him every Christmas, including this Christmas.”

“That is a shame. Then you must come over for Christmas--I can tell you my father makes a most excellent breakfast that would make a king jealous. Isn’t that right, Chip?”

“Dead right! And there’ll be lots of dessert too!”

“Not at breakfast, however,” Mrs Potts’ voice was firm, but her eyes twinkled, even in the twilight. “You must come over--I’d hate to think of you spending all of Christmas day alone in this...shack.”

“Christmas is a time for family, and I’m not part of your--”

Beatrice shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, Mr Lupin, Christmas is for all, whether they are family or not.”

“I appreciate it, but--”

“No buts. We have enough room at the table for one more person, and my family back at the cottage hate to think of someone having Christmas all alone--what sort of day is that?”

It was clear she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and Chip was looking up at him with an eager grin, nodding his head as if to encourage him to take up the invitation.

“Will you then?” Mrs Potts persisted, “You deserve a happy Christmas with other people for once, and I can tell my son has taken a shine to you already.”

Remus glanced up at the sky, catching a glimpse of the quarter moon, wincing inside as he knew his transformation was only a week away, but fortunately it would miss Christmas by four or five days. For the longest time, he didn’t ever have anything happy to look forward to post-transformation, not since he had left Hogwarts, not since his friends’ death, not since Sirius’ betrayal. He would still be weary on Christmas day, for only a few days would have elapsed after his monthly transformation, but if he had a warm Christmas meal or two to look forward to for once...

How could he say no to such an eager and earnest invitation? He could barely remember the last time anyone had invited him anywhere--perhaps not since the Potters’ wedding.

Remus Lupin smiled.

“I’ll see you on Christmas morning, then.”

#I didn't know I needed Chip befriending Remus in my life #but now I know I do #Beauty and the Beast #Harry Potter #batb14fics

8 notes · View notes

missnmikaelson-main · 5 years

Text

Who Are you Part 4

I do not own TVD or TO.

Manosque was severely underpopulated in comparison to Manhattan. Twenty-two thousand people could barely hold a candle to one and a half million. The city was nearly the same size, but so very different. There were no towering skyscrapers, no crazy rush of people hurrying to and from work in an impenetrable wave; men and women still hurried to and fro but maneuvering around them was no problem at all.

It was refreshing.

It was a city with the feel of a small town. It was beautiful, full of old world charm. The picturesque streets of the old city, restored by local government, were lined with lovely houses.

Every stone whispered a story lost to time. There were imprints from each year left behind.

Without heavy matters pressing down her shoulders, forcing her closer and closer to the ground, she would have been happy to just stroll through the city and absorb its beauty while drinking in the rich history.

However, she did not currently have the time to enjoy the scenery or attempt to make conversation in order to practice her rudimentary French. They were there for a reason.

++++

The pub was all but empty in the early hours of the afternoon. The majority of people in the city did not appear to be day drinkers. It was a lot like Mystic Falls in that regard.

Finding Damon or Alaric at the Grille on their third, or sometimes even forth, drink by two o’clock was not an uncommon occurrence. Manosque held a small majority of day drinkers, at least the ones that didn’t care about drinking in public.

Aside from the two of them there were only to other people in the pub. A burly bartender wiped down glasses and stacked shelves. In the far corner, shielded by shadows, sat a woman with her head bowed over.

Every other table was empty.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” He folded his jacket over his arm.

“It’s the right address,” Elena ran her fingers over the black and white keys of a piano. Her eyes found a clock on the far wall. “We are a little early though. I got so used to New York that I thought we’d have to fight traffic.”

“Walking?” His lips lifted in a smirk.

“Yup,” she chirped. “Manhattan is wall to wall people.”

She glanced over her shoulder towards the bartender when his gruff voice broke the still air.

“Qu’auras-tu?”

Her brows puckered in confusion. They rose when his smooth voice returned in flawless French.

“Nous rencontrons quelqu’un.”

The bartender went back to work.

“You speak French?” Elena turned back to Elijah.

“Apparently,” he frowned. Clearing his throat he nodded to the keys beneath her fingers. “Do you play?”

Elena glanced down and smiled softly.

“I used to. I had lessons as a kid and I played with my mom.” Her expression clouded for a moment. “I haven’t touched one since my parents died.”

“Do you play?” She felt like kicking herself the second the words slipped through her lips.

“I don’t know,” he chuckled, “you’d have to tell me that.”

She tilted her head and looked at him as her embarrassment faded. In the length of their acquaintance she had never seen him display any musical talent, but it seemed like something he would have tried at some point in his life. A thousand years was a long time, and she knew at one point he and his siblings had posed as nobility; weren’t nobles supposed to be proficient in foreign languages and accomplished on several musical instruments.

“One way to find out,” she cocked an eyebrow and nodded to the piano. Glancing over her shoulder she asked in broken French if it was alright.

“That was terrible,” his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Forgive me for not being fluent,” she rolled her eyes. Sliding onto the bench she ran her fingertips over the ivory keys. Thirteen years had passed since the accident, but the pain she had once felt before a piano had lightened.

He draped his jacket over a nearby chair when she began to play. Sitting on her left side he spotted a slight shimmer in her eyes that she blinked away.

“Here,” she smiled softly, “put your fingers over mine.”

The gentle melody stilled as he moved his hands in place before picking up when he shifted with her. A sweet tune filled the hollow room when Elena began to play again with the pleasant weight of his hands over hers.

She watched from the corner of her eye.

His features shifted into a confused frown: the look of a man who knew what he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words on the tip of his tongue. The furrow in his brow deepened as he tilted his head.

“I know this feeling,” he murmured. The music washed over him lifting his mood in the way her smile did.

Elena bit her bottom lip and smiled while moving her hands back.

The music didn’t stop.

He kept playing.

Soft laughter bubbled up from Elena’s mouth. She couldn’t stop it when she watched the pure joy playing across his features. She was glad she had chosen a happy tune.

She wasn’t going to do it but she lifted her hand back to the keys and joined him. They played together for a moment until he froze and took her wrist in his hand effectively stilling her movements.

It took her a second to pick up what his enhanced senses already had.

A third person had stepped inside the pub and was watching them intently. Together they turned and found the woman in the door.

“That was beautiful.” She nodded to the instrument at which they were still seated.

Elijah’s eyes flickered over the slim young woman. She appeared to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five with blonde curls secured in a low ponytail and glittering emerald eyes.

“Who are you?” He frowned.

“I’m your three o’clock,” she shrugged with a small smile. “I mean, I’m assuming you’re the ones I’m meeting since it is now three o’clock and the two of you are the only vampires in the pub.”

Elena’s eyes grew round and darted to the bartender and the woman scribbling away in a spiral notebook.

“Don’t worry about them,” the newcomer waved dismissively. “They don’t speak English.”

++++

She slipped through the narrow streets silently. Her eyes darted to her phone every few seconds to ensure she was still following the dotted red line that google had laid out for her.

She rolled her eyes when she spotted the house in front of her. Her final destination was a sixteenth century home that she felt confident dubbing as a palace.

She didn’t hesitate before pulling open the gate and stepping into the maintained courtyard and approached the fountain. A glance over her shoulder revealed the cold marble eyes of some deity overlooking the garden.

The gravel crunched underfoot as she approached the house, but when she heard the screams coming from inside she ran.

She couldn’t remember a time when she had ever feared him, so there was no hesitation when she pinned him to the wall with a hand around his throat.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Her eyes flickered over his features.

“Hello, luv,” Klaus smiled. His eyes darted to the half dozen bodies littering the palazzo floor.

Caroline followed his gaze and counted, adding the six deceased to the mental list she had begun when she landed in Italy. Rumors, hearsay and her own eyes put the numbers close to triple digits, and those were just the ones she had heard about.

Ignoring the cloying smell of fresh blood she turned back to him.

“Are you trying to break your record?”

“Currently, I’m trying not to flatter myself that you’re here on a sudden whim to see me.” He tilted his head when she took a step back and watched her draped the bodies with an antique rug. “Why are you here Caroline? Surely the Boarding school can’t do without its headmistress so soon after its opening; you must be needed across the pond.”

“Call it a work trip: parent-teacher conference,” Caroline crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed in a glare. “You no longer answer your phone so I had to resort to hunting you down.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “You do realize I have a very busy life right? I’m responsible for an entire school full of kids, including yours.”

She caught the way his eyes flickered.

“You remember, obviously,” she cocked an eyebrow. “The little girl you have yet to ask me about. You’re avoiding her, and I want to know why.”

“I’m not…”

“You are,” she stepped back into his personal space. “I found her in my office a few weeks ago upset because her father wasn’t answering her calls.”

“She’s heard the rumors, you know.” Caroline hummed. “She’s clever and small, so eavesdropping isn’t that difficult.”

“What rumors would those be, love?” His jaw ticked.

“Oh you know,” she waved one hand towards his handiwork, “that you’ve gone completely bonkers.”

“As you can clearly see,” he chuckled darkly.

“You seem normal crazy too me,” she scoffed.

“High praise.”

Caroline shifted back on her heels and met his eyes.

“Two men from the family that own this building were killed at a nightclub last night by an alleged maniac, and here lie more bodies.” She clicked her tongue. “Care to explain why you’re methodically picking off all the members of one family?”

“Because I’m compulsive,” he shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just wiling away the time; I do have an eternity of it. Or,” he held up a finger and smirked, “maybe, just maybe, Klaus Mikaelson has finally gone mad.”

“Or,” she smirked, “you want people to think you have because this little spree you’re on isn’t random. You’ve got a list, don’t you?”

She saw the confirmation in his surprised eyes.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “it shocked me too. I was honestly expecting to find you on some sort of bender after I talked to Hope.”

++++

“You can’t be serious,” she scoffed; it had to be the most ridiculous plan she had ever heard, and she knew Damon.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he glanced down at the basket she thrust into his hands. Turning on his heel he followed her back towards the corpses. “In my experience those that have been wronged seek revenge, and since many of them,” he gestured to the dead with the basket causing bottles to rattle, “have long memories, I am determined to systematically annihilate each and every one of our enemies, and the heirs of our enemies.”

“That’s insane,” she twisted off the cap on the bottle of bleach. “That list has got to be endless by now.”

“It has to be done,” he shrugged. “It’s the only way I can ensure my brother is protected.”

“You’re doing this for Elijah?” Caroline’s brows shot up.

“Of course,” he nodded, “in his present state he wouldn’t know an enemy it they sat down beside him. How did you know it was Elijah to whom I was referring?”

“Heard about his ‘memory loss’ through the grapevine,” she shrugged. She poured the bleach into a bucket and knelt on the floor after grabbing a rag from the basket in his hand.

“Why exactly are you bothering with this?” He gestured to the stain she was now scrubbing at furiously.

“Because the building is historic,” she sighed. She pulled out another rag and held it in front of him. “Take it and start over there.” She poured more bleach in another bucket for him.

They had been cleaning in silence for several minutes when Caroline lifted her head. Her eyes darted to the dead now wrapped in plastic to protect the floor. What were the odds that any of them had ever even heard of Klaus, or knew about the wrongs he had done some obscure member of their family countless years ago?

“This isn’t right,” she shook her head; “even for you this is going too far. What happened to you?”

He balled the rag in his fist and wondered if the break would have come on eventually regardless of Hope’s sudden appearance in France a few months before. Rebekah had once called him a lost soul who couldn’t be predicted without Elijah to stand in his way, but he thought his actions were easily discerned.

“I’m no good without Elijah.”

“You must have been parted before,” she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Not like this,” he shook his head, “I’ve lost my brother, and I’ll never see him again.”

“You’ve still got a daughter,” she wrong out the last of the blood into the bucket.

“She’s better off without me,” he averted his eyes. Shame prickled his scalp. “I know what it’s like to be raised by a monster.”

Her annoyance flared with the phrase. She choked on her anger to keep from shouting but she could still hear the suppressed rage in her own voice.

“Seriously?” Her eyes flashed. “It was a thousand years ago. Newsflash,” she tossed her hands in the air, “the guy is dead, so get over it. Stop using Mikael as an excuse to be a bad father!”

There were few times in his life when he had ever been startled by another being, and upon quick reflection he realized that most of the moments, most of the times he had been shocked into silence, were caused by her.

His muttered insistence that she was better off was met with a glare that would have melted ice.

“I happen to know what it’s like to be a kid missing her father too,” her voice softened when she thought of the sad little girl at school.

“I can’t be around her Caroline.”

“I figured,” she rolled her eyes. “Hayley mentioned that none of you could be near her, didn’t go into details, but I got the sense it was some sort of issue centering around magic and keeping her safe, am I close?” She waited for his nod. “I thought so. You may not be able to be in the same room as her, but there is this…” she reached into her back pocket, “… ancient gadget called a telephone.”

“Use it before the two of you lose each other.” She got to her feet to dispose of the chemicals.

“You came halfway around the world to yell at me and tell me to call my daughter?” His brows shot up when she tossed him her phone. “Why?”

“Because…” she hesitated, and tightened her hold on the bucket, “… I… I happen to think you’re someone worth knowing.”

++++

“Do you think you can help?” Elena ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

“Potentially,” Lexa crossed her legs under the table and leaned back in her chair. “I just want to make sure I’ve got this straight.”

“Sure,” Elijah nodded.

“Okay,” Lexa hummed. “This Hollow possessed your niece and was going to kill her so she could take over the child. A witch in New Orleans came up with a solution that moved the Hollow from the girl to you and your siblings, who you no longer remember. And now you can’t be anywhere near them because if you are the Hollow will reform and go after your niece again.”

“That about sums it up,” Elena crossed her arms over the table.

“There’s just one small problem with all of this,” Lexa bit her bottom lip, “one thing that doesn’t add up.”

“What’s that?”

“The choice of vessels,” Lexa tilted her head and regarded Elijah. “Assuming the witch had enough power to lift the Hollow from the child and split it in four pieces they could have contained it differently. Placing it in people is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard of, siblings is even worse.”

“What do you mean?” Elijah’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean people move about,” she leaned forward and whispered. “Their locations fluctuate and there’s no way to regulate that movement, or to account for the bond between family. Eventually you’ll all make your way back to each other if just for a glimpse.” Her fingers drummed the table lightly. “There are ways to contain these sorts of things.”

“Could this be contained somewhere else?” Elena rolled her wrist, sloshing the liquid in her glass. She’d had that thought a few times since meeting Rebekah in New York, but without an adequate understanding of magic she thought her thoughts were a pipe dream at most.

“It’s going to be more difficult now,” Lexa chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes rolled to the left in thought. “The Hollow’s now in pieces which means it will have to be drawn out carefully and sealed in a mystical container.”

“Shouldn’t it be easier now that it’s broken down and weak?” Elijah frowned.

“Wouldn’t that be more dangerous? Couldn’t people locate the containers?”

“Not if they’re on different plains of existence,” Lexa cocked an eyebrow. “Niamh sent you to me for a reason, and in her mind it’s because I’ve made a career of the history of magic in its many forms. Do you know what my studies have taught me, Elena?”

“I’d think many things,” she tilted her head.

“You’re right,” Lexa nodded. “I know about the origin of the different supernatural races: vampires, werewolves, travellers, hunters, immortals, and doppelgangers. I know the different forms of magic: nature, spirit, traveller, ancestral and expression. And I know about the various states of limbo that are separate from each other.”

Elijah whetted his bottom lip quickly as he tilted his head to watch her through narrow eyes. The set of her jaw told him the young witch had an idea, and he suspected he knew what it was.

“You want to extract the Hollow and store it somewhere else in some sort of box?”

“A locked box,” she held up a finger to clarify. “Obviously you can’t seal something permanently because there has to be a way to open it, but I can try and make the key… hard to find. Something nearly impossible to locate would be best.”

“Like Klaus’ curse,” Elena murmured. She felt two pairs of eyes on her a second later. “He couldn’t break it without the blood of a doppelganger: my blood.”

“You’re the doppelganger?” Lexa looked at the brunette in a new light. “That would do it. Doppelganger blood is said to be a powerful binding agent and also incredibly rare.”

Elena shook her head slowly.

“I’m a vampire…”

“But your blood retains its magical properties,” Lexa cut her off. “Did you have kids before you turned, Elena?”

She was mildly taken aback by the shift in conversation, but shook her head regardless.

“Do you have any family left alive that could carry on your bloodline?”

“My brother, but technically he’s my cousin on my dad’s side,” she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Would I be correct in assuming your doppelganger nature comes from your mom’s side?” When Elena nodded she smirked. “Excellent; I could use your blood to seal the containers.”

“Would that work?” Elijah’s eyes darted to Elena.

“It should,” Lexa nodded. In her head she was already going through a list of possible containers and spells to draw out the leech attached to his soul. “For good measure I’d put the pieces on separate plains; one on the Ancestral Plain, one in Hell, one in reality and one in the Dark Realm.”

“The dark realm?” Elena blinked slowly.

“It was supernatural purgatory before the creation of Hell and The Other Side,” Lexa explained. “In order to reunite the Hollow one would have to collect the pieces from each plain and obtain your blood…”

“I sense a ‘but’,” Elena met Elijah’s eyes for a moment. “Would it be hard to place the Hollow there?”

“There are gates into each of the realm,” Lexa shook her head, “for those who know where to look, and spells to temporarily open them. The problem isn’t moving them to limbo or finding a container to hold them. The problem is extracting it from its current host.”

“You’d have to find them all,” Elijah reached for Elena’s hand under the table.

“And you better believe pulling out something that wants to stay put is going to be difficult,” Lexa shook her head.

“What can we do to help?” Elena ran her thumb over his knuckles.

“You can retrieve the wood or stone I’ll need to create the containers, and give me your blood when I need it,” Lexa’s eyes shifted to Elijah. “You can be my willing guinea pig; it’s probably going to take a few tries to get it out of you.”

++++

He stared down at the phone in his hand. The contact information for the school had already been pulled up. All he needed to do was press call, but he hesitated.

How could he ever hope to explain what she had seen?

He sighed when he felt her eyes on him.

“Must you hover?”

“Just making sure you actually call,” Caroline leaned against a pillar.

“She astral projected Caroline,” he murmured, “and saw something.” He could still see the look in her eyes, and feel the horror in her expression. Hayley, his mother, his father, and even his siblings, in moments of anger, had said he would ruin his daughter if given half the chance.

“I know,” she straightened up and circled around to stand in front of him. She could still see him covered in blood; she could hear the shell shocked tone as he choked out his daughter’s name. “She misses you.”

“I can’t…”

“Don’t you dare give me that,” her eyes narrowed in a glare. She plucked her phone from his hand and pressed the call button. Holding the phone to her ear she told Bonnie to get Hope.

“Pull her out of class?”

“Yes,” Caroline nodded. She passed back the phone when she heard small feet entering her office.

“Hello?”

His throat clenched at the sound of her voice. The innocent curiosity was in stark contrast with the terror that had burst from her lips. It reminded him of the day he had taught her how to mix paint.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sweetheart,” his fingers curled tightly around the phone.

“Dad?”

Caroline could practically see the puckering of Hope’s lips and the vulnerability in her eyes. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that father and daughter shared the same facial expression. Stepping away from him she moved outside and perched on the edge of the fountain to wait.

++++

“You left me,” she held the phone in both hands. She had wanted the words to sound angry, accusatory, but she seemed to be stuck on sadness; it weighed heavily on her chest and behind her eyes. She didn’t notice when Bonnie left the room.

“I had to, Hope.”

“That’s what Caroline said,” she sniffled.

“It’s the truth. Had there been another option I would have taken it, but we had to get the Hollow out of you.”

“That’s what mom said,” she stared at her plaid skirt. Catching her toe on the desk she spun the chair back and forth in a half circle. “You stopped calling.”

The anger that had fallen under the blanket of sadness reared its head causing a candle to light on the desk and the flame to raise six inches into the air.

“I didn’t think you would want to hear from me after what happened. I’m sorry, sweetheart I should have called you much sooner.”

She agreed before falling quiet. Her eyes locked on the candle flame now at a respectable height. She wanted to tell him she missed him.

“Are you coming back?”

“I can’t do that Hope.”

“Then I can come to you,” she sat up.

“Hope, you can’t come to me, sweetheart. We can’t be anywhere near each other.”

“But…”

“I can’t see you ever again, Hope. If I do the Hollow could take hold of you again.”

“I don’t care about the stupid Hollow,” she cried. The flame sputtered higher and higher when he repeated his previous statement.

++++

“I can’t be near you, Hope.” His heart wrenched painfully when her sobs echoed over the line, and for a moment he was back in the courtyard stealing one last look at the child he would never again see.

“I love you,” he disconnected the call before her tears could draw him to Mystic Falls. He stared at the hunk of glass and plastic for a long moment before curling his hand into a fist.

Blood dripped from the cuts on his hand and from his knuckles when he punched the pillar hard enough to create a series of cracks. His fist collided with the stone again and again until a slim hand wrapped around his forearm.

Caroline pulled him into her arms. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she tucked his head into the crook of her neck. She made no comment on the choked sounds rising in his throat or the tremors shaking his body.

Her eyes fell to his bloodied hand when she let him go.

“Did you crush my phone?” She bent and picked up a bloody piece of plastic, rolling her eyes when he rubbed the back of his neck. “Good thing I got the extended warranty.”

tag list: @rissyrapp20 @elejah-wonderland @elejahforever @eternityunicorn

#who are you fic #elena gilbert #elijah mikaelson #elejah #caroline forbes #klaus mikaelson #klaroline #hope mikealson #fanfic #tvd #to

28 notes · View notes

thewildheroine · 5 years

Text

Fly Away |Part Thirty-Two|

Warnings: Violence, severe injury, language, blood, near death

Word Count: 3.5 K

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

A/N: Enjoy the chapter and please remember to either reblog or comment :) <3

|Masterlist|

I like to think of myself as an eloquent sorceress. One that is certainly on the dramatic side, but eloquent and graceful nonetheless.

This may be the clumsiest, most inept thing I have ever done.

It will definitely annoy Dormammu though.

“Come out ass hat!” I scream as I clench my fist and mimick pulling something down. Behind me, a skyscraper follows my movement and comes crashing down. I listen to the boom of stone and metal crashing and bending. The dust bursts behind my back but I don’t pay any mind to it. I have more important things to think of.

My mom meant it when she said I was on my own after she left. Handling my dad was easy, but Dormammu is a whole other issue. One that required relentless planning. Now I know exactly what I need to do to win against him. Tony would think it’s a horrible idea. Stephen might kill me for it if it didn’t kill me. Peter would probably faint from the first sentence. It’s the only way to win though. There’s no other option.

“Let’s go Dorma-bitch!” I pull down another building. This one smashes against the building that he usually sits on. “I have a complaint to make.”

I’m starting to get worried. If he doesn’t come this will all have been for naught. He has to come if the spell is going to work. The spell Strange made.

“Y/N.” I twirl around. Cold wind bludgeons my face but I maintain my composure as I stare into Dormammu’s neon purple eyes. “Surely you could’ve thought of a more creative insult than, Dorma-bitch. ”

I shrug. “Had you waited to show up a couple more minutes I might’ve come up with something.” He offers me what seems like a smile, though it’s hard to see with his face rippling. “I’m here to make a bargain.”

“Aren’t you all?” he drones tiredly and leans back against a building. It groans under the weight of his body but he doesn’t move.

“I think you’re going to like this one though.” I sway to the side and kick away a brick. “You’re going to give me back all my magic, time stone remnants included, and I’m going to kill you.”

“And why would I like that?”

Silently, I begin making designs with my fingers. My sling ring purrs and even my magic tries to persuade me to stop. It’s too late now. He’s here and I have to save my family.

“I hear hell is a lovely temperature year round.”

His growl makes the ground underneath my feet shake. I have to brace myself on the stairway to keep from falling over. Looking up I see his fist prepared to come down on me, ensuring my death. Instead of recoiling I smirk. So far, everything is going as planned.

Now is the hardest part.

I close my eyes and feel the magic deep in the Earth, I feel my magic in Dormammu and I feel the magic that resides in dozens of dimensions in the multiverse. Without a second thought, I pull it into me.

It takes one moment to know that this isn’t going to feel good. No sorcerer has ever drawn in this much energy and probably for good reason. Usually one just pulls it in bit by bit. It allows the multiverse to continuously replace it. Now I’m shoving it all down my throat. It may be the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I slam my hands together. Every building around me, whether it’s made of stone, glass or metal shatters. Light explodes out of every pore. The pain sears every cell in my body, but I keep pushing, keep shoving more magic in so I can keep the spell going. Strange required nearly an entire dimension’s energy to do the spell on the Sanctum alone.

And I’m going to do it on all of Earth.

Dormammu is screaming something at me but there is no time to listen. At this moment there is only the spell.

My sling ring is burning my fingers. My magic is entering and exiting my body from every direction. It feels like I’m being ripped open —but the spell.

I can feel my fingers working to complete the spell. There’s an orb of light surrounding me, but I can’t tell if it’s because of the suit or me. Probably both. In fact, the metal scales feel like they’re burning away. Everything’s burning.

I slowly bring my fingers together, preparing myself for what is to come. Like Strange’s spell, this will be sending Dormammu and his zealots away but I did make some additions.

I concentrate on the glasses, on the spell wrapping around them so the video remains. I concentrate on the memories of this past week. Of my friends, Peter, Strange, Tony, and everyone remembering what has happened.

I imagine myself going to the mirror dimension with Dormammu.

That’s the plan? I imagine Stephen saying. You’re going to shut yourself in the mirror dimension with the most dangerous being alive.

I laugh through the pain, the heat of tears on my cheeks semi-apparent to me.

Well, I would say back, if I win, I’ll be the most dangerous being alive.

You once got your hand stuck in the sink.

You had me on opioids!

And you started crying because you were afraid it was going to shred your magical fingers.

That makes me laugh again, even if the words aren’t real. Even if they mean nothing. I laugh because what else can I do as the tips of my fingers connect and the spell ripples outwards.

I hear the sound of shattering glass, of the time spell following even as I’m placed in an entirely different dimension. What I hear the most is the sound of Dormammu shrieking as his fist comes down right next to me.

I’m thrown to the side, shards of glass and stone and metal chasing me down. I look over my shoulder and see the building I’m approaching. Hastily, I conjure wings to keep me from hitting it. I’ve exerted too much energy though, and it’s a matter of seconds before I drop to the ground with a harsh crack. Pain shoots through my collarbone again. The bone never had the proper chance to heal.

“You really thought bringing me to the mirror dimension was wise?” Dormammu ridicules. “My power here is infinite. I am the master of this place.”

“Yeah?” I cough into my hand. When I look at my palm there is a pool of blood. “Well, I think the mirror dimension could use a new queen.”

This only enrages him, and I turn to see a tidal wave of buildings heading straight towards me. Raising my arms I pull in more energy. A bright blue shield encircles my bleeding figure. I push it out towards the tidal wave and watch as every building is pulverized.

When I turn around I see Dormammu staring on in disbelief. I don’t utter a single syllable as I snap my fingers. The earth between us splits. Even the distorted planets around us shatter under my influence. And Dormammu only watches.

Once his attention returns to me I smirk up at him. “What are you?”

I step into the air. Instead of my foot going straight through and hitting the ground again the wind brushes under it, pushing it up. I take another step. And another. The planets Dormammu has taken for himself continue collapsing in on themselves, all because of me.

Dormammu’s face comes down to meet mine halfway. For the first time, he is not looming in front of me like this to assert his dominance but rather his curiosity.

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I am the Bluebird. I am a powerful sorceress. I am one of Earth’s mightiest heroes.” I shrug lazily. “Most of all, I’m a teenage girl who’s sick and tired of you controlling her life.”

He opens his mouth to reply, perhaps to insult me, but the sound of a million planets shooting towards him keeps the words from coming. Meanwhile, I turn my back to him and run. I run faster than I’ve ever run. I skid down the steps made of air and wind. On the last couple, I trip and go flying forward. My body hits the ground. A chunk of metal collides with my head and a piece of an approaching planet strikes my shoulder. Pain ripples through my collar bone and I shriek out. Fatigue is starting to settle into my bones.

I stand though. I stand and run. My legs are pounding against the ground. My lungs are burning. If I could just make myself go faster—

But if I use my magic any more than I already I have I risk even more fatigue. That would mean risking passing out which would mean I wouldn’t get home. I have to get home. I have to get to Peter. I have to run. Run. Run. Run. Run.

Behind me, I can hear Dormammu. Hear him scream in agony as the planets smash against him. He must be fighting back, but the spell won’t stop throwing planets at him until he’s dead. That’s why I had to get so close. Why I didn’t have a head start. Because I had to place the marker on his head.

I raise my hands over my head as a sphere smashes against the earth next to me. Rubble is thrown underfoot and my feet threaten to falter. I stay upright though and keep sprinting. I just want to be a little further before I start making a portal and then—

Dormammu’s cold fingers wrap around my waist and pull me backward. I try kicking against his hand, scratching his palm, releasing my needle so it goes straight through his skin and bone. Nothing makes him release me and soon enough I’m back where I started.

I don’t bother screaming because there’s no one here to hear me. Just Dormammu who would laugh. Laugh as we both got smashed to death. I could stop the spell but then I may never be able to begin it again. Then he could find a way back to Earth and everything I had done would be worthless. Not now. Not after my mom and dad. Not after I killed for my own gain.

Tears are beginning to run down my cheeks. I can’t have lost. Not this way. Home. I have to get home.

And then he’s squeezing. I gasp for air. There’s a crack within his hand, but it’s not coming from him. It’s me. I bite my lip to cage the pain. Then there’s another though. Then two more. I raise my head to the dark sky and pray that my back stays intact. That he only breaks my ribs.

I’m thankful when he loosens his grip enough for me to breath. Before I realize it he’s laying me back in his ice cold palm. Everything is becoming blurry. Even his neon eyes have turned warped. I see something bright pink in the corner of my eye. It has enough shape for me to tell it’s a planet. I might run if I felt like I had the strength. Every breath of air hurts though. It would be so much easier to sleep than to run.

“Little bird,” Dormammu murmurs. His voice is rough, telling me he was severely hurt. I do not look at him. Instead, I keep watching the great neon pink planet hurtling towards his head.

“It looks like you’ve broken your wings.” I’m faintly aware of his other hand coming towards me. It’s only when it presses against my chest that I scream out. “Is it kinder to let them heal,” he wonders and raises his hand, but I see the way one finger sharpens into a thin point, “or to put it out of its misery.”

I see the pointed finger coming for me and I do not move. All I can do is watch as it pushes through what little remains of my suit, through my ashen clothes, through my bruised skin and into me. There is no scream that can match the amount of pain I feel in this moment. The only testament for how excruciating it is are the tears rolling down the side of my face. Black spots appear around my vision and I realize what is happening.

A cold shiver runs up my spine, the world fades a little, but I keep my gaze locked on the planet. Using what little energy I have left I focus my mind and watch as the planet is honed into a frighteningly sharp point.

Dormammu pulls his finger out of my abdomen. I feel my blood immediately rush out of the wound and hurry to cover it with my shaking hands.

He smiles down at me, victorious, but I see that the planet is far closer than before. He opens his mouth to mock me more.

The words are cut short by the neon shard slicing through the veil of black smoke. The noise when it splinters through his head is indescribable. If I weren’t bleeding to death I might throw up.

His neon eyes go dark. The rippling in his face stops. Dormammu’s hand drops…

And I drop with it.

Suddenly there is only air against my back. Soft, rippling air. I’m ready to keep falling. To find sleep while I’m doing so, but the mantra comes back. Home. Peter. Strange. Tony. Natasha. Thor. Bruce. Clint. Bucky.

The list goes on and on. All my reasons to get back home. Aunt May. Ned. MJ. Heather.

I still have to talk to Wanda and Vision. I still have to get back at Loki for that dumb prank he pulled on me. I still have to visit the library with Wong but just end up making fun of Strange with him. Michelle owes me coffee and I owe May dinner. I promised to modify Ned’s tech with a spell. Natasha wants to teach me how to dance. Clint wants to teach me sign language.

Bruce has to pay me back for accidentally causing me to astral project. Steve wants to take me to victory dinner for acing my chem test. I still have to make that Asgardian style vase for Thor in ceramics. I still have to repaint Bucky’s arm after messing it up during lessons. I still have to let Tony make modifications on my suit. Strange still has to give me a tour of Kamar-taj so I can see what my magic is rooted from. Heather has to tell me everything that happened to her.

Peter is going to take me to prom.

I had so many reasons to leave but there’s so many more to come back now, and I did not save them, I did not impact their lives just so I could abandon them now. I am not my father. I will go home. I am coming home.

I spin in the air so that I face the ground. Pulling my hand away from my gaping wound, I hold it in front of me and begin making a portal. I’ll be cutting it close but I’m coming home. More planets crash around. The ring of gold opens just before I hit the ground.

Instead, I land in the handcrafted feather bed I slept in at Kamar-Taj. I roll over, the pain too sharp in my stomach to actually enjoy the soft mattress. My feet find the ground and I stand. Everything hurts. I want to sleep, but I’m almost home. All I have to do is find them now.

I wander clumsily through the halls. There’s no one out, telling me that I must’ve arrived either during lessons or the night. While one hand stays on my stomach the other follows the wall. There is a trail of blood left in my wake, but I don’t care.

Finally, I hear the murmur of familiar voices through a nearby doorway.

“Just tell me how we can get her back, Strange.” Tony. Tony’s here. That means Strange is too. I wonder if all the Avengers have come to see where I am.

“All we can do is wait.” That doesn’t sound like Stephan’s voice. It does but it doesn’t because I’ve never heard him sound like that. Hopeless. I wish I didn’t have to leave him hopeless.

“What if Y/N doesn’t make it that long?” Then I lose my breath.

Because that’s Peter’s voice. My Peter’s voice. I hadn’t heard him in so long. For more than one instance I thought I never would again, but here I am, listening to his voice from my spot next to the doorway.

“The kids right, Strange,” Tony agrees. “You told us yourself that this Dormammu guy is like a god. Y/N—”

“Y/N is strong,” Stephan interrupts. He’s angry. “Besides,” I hear his footsteps as he walks across the room anxiously, “she hasn’t left me with any other choice besides waiting.”

“What does—”

“She siphoned all of our dimensions magic into her,” he announces. “This dimension, the one of ours, before our, the one that lays a hundred dimensions away.” I hear something thud as though Stephan had lost his temper. “She took it all and I can’t get a hold of anything that’s left. Even my sling ring can’t get me to her.”

“Why?” Peter’s voice rings out helplessly. I want to step in now but I can only lean against the doorframe and wait for enough energy to return so that I might speak.

“I think the video she left us explained that pretty well, kid.” So they did see the video. How long was I gone then if they were able to find it in it’s hiding spot. Maybe they just worked quick. Maybe I’ve been gone for months and they just happened upon it. I don’t know which answer I prefer.

“No—no.” I can practically hear Peter’s frustration boiling over. “Why can’t we do anything? Why can’t we save her, you guys? You promised Y/N you would keep her safe and you failed!” I flinch. “Why did we fail?”

They’re all silent, not knowing the answer. I hear my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. Looking down at my stomach I see all the blood I’ve lost. Too much.

“Because Y/N had to save herself one more time,” Strange answers.

As I enter the small room there are so many different things I want to tell them. I want to say that I defeated Dormammu. That he’s dead and that I got to meet my mom but I had to kill her to get out of my dad. That I think me killing her might’ve been her way to escape my dad too. That I don’t think she got to hear me when I said I love you.

I want to tell them I killed my dad too. That he told me things that still scare me and won’t stop scaring me. That I found my best friend he killed when I was little and that she’s been with me all this time.

I want to say that I was scared I’d never see them again… Hear them again and that even just listening to their muffled voices through the walls of Kamar-taj brings me unimaginable peace. That I was a hero and I saved the Earth with my own two hands. But most importantly, I want to tell them that I missed them. That I came back because I want to live every last second of my life with them… even if I don’t have much time left.

While I’m trying to figure out what to say though, I realize that the three of them have already turned towards my bloody and beaten figure. I glance at each of them quickly to read their expressions. A soft giggle threatens to escape my throat when I see the way Tony's mouth has dropped open in silent shock. The way his eyes gleam a bit just from seeing me intact. That humor that was once in me though is replaced with dread when I see Stephens eyes scanning my entire body, expression hollowing when he sees the way my shirt has been stained a dark shade of death by the blood still slipping through my fingers. Finally, I look to Peter whose golden brown eyes are locked intently on me to make sure I don't disappear again. My gaze softens immediately at the sight of him and a warm tremor moves up and through my spine. I offer them all a single soft grin.

“I'm home,” I manage to force out of my mouth. Though it's only two words I feel that it conveys everything I need them to know in this moment. And although I wish I could be strong enough for Peter to rush worriedly to my side, to feel his lips on mine and the kind words that drop onto my bludgeoned body another tremor curls up and through every nerve in my body, pulling me towards something I'm terrified of but ready to accept. Before the cloak can reach me or Peters webbing or even the sound of Tony shouting my name I fall backward and allow my eyes to roll into the back of my head.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Part 33 will be up in about two hours :).

Tag List

@jadepc / @paigeyisme / @unlikelygalaxygiver / @lubrielx / @why-am-I-here-again-shitheads / @meoodle / @nexitye / @akarah-sommah / @literally-just-for-fanfics / @lafayettes-baguettes-1 / @dizzy–izzy / @artofotherness / @georgiiamat / @asianromelle / @prancingdestiel / @bands-and-shietz / @the-fandom-ness / @anise-d-castle6 / @purplecactl / @mummy-woves-you / @saturn-aka-six / @alilblogger / @star-gaziing/ @southsidespidey / @hansbrak / @jellybean-gg / @taegukgis / @sincereleygmg / @taegukgis /

#peter parker #spiderman #tom holland #peter parker x reader #the avengers #marvel #mcu #mcu imagine #avengers x reader #enhanced!reader #magic!reader #master of the mystic arts #doctor strange #iron man #writers on tumblr #stark!reader #strange!reader #female protagonist #coming of age

9 notes · View notes

eremiss · 5 years

Text

Humility

Why Drest made his home out in the Severed String, Gwen wasn’t sure. Maybe so he’d be left alone, shielded from the outside world by the sheer effort it would take to reach him. Maybe he thought himself hidden except for the occasional work he did at the Raincatcher docks. Maybe he simply liked the wilderness, or some equally mundane reason.

It hadn’t rained in days but the ground was soft and wet underfoot when Duskfeather lighted on a low hill near Drest’s shack, the lowest points in the ground marked with shallow pools of stagnant water. Gwen’s griffin shifted and fidgeted unhappily, trying to keep his clawed feet from sinking into the mud as she swung down from the saddle. She patted his neck sympathetically and mumbled her gratitude, earning an annoyed-sounding squawk before he took off into the sky.

The strap on her borrowed rucksack slipped and Gwen shifted it back into place, threads of self-consciousness winding their way up her back now that she’d arrived. The trip had been spur-of-the-moment, and she’d been plagued with indecision about it since arriving on La Noscean soil. Gwen intended to be helpful, her motives for the visit and the supplies she’d brought nothing but altruistic. But not everyone was receptive to random acts of kindness, or viewed charity as anything but an opportunity to become indebted. Gwen had learned that from her visits to the Brume, along with how easily unrequested aide could come across as insulting or an effort to flaunt one’s wealth.

When Gwen tried to imagine what Drest would make of her visit she wound up with dozens of outcomes, mostly attributed to the fact that she hardly knew the man. And that was another thing that had her questioning her idea, her confidence still withering as she glanced up at the growing night. She didn’t see Duskfeather overhead. He probably found somewhere more suitable to perch, but she knew he wouldn’t be far.

Maybe she shouldn’t...

But Drest was Dalmascan. The only one around, if rumors were to be believed. And though Gwen had been born in Ul’dah, her parents’ constant praise of their conquered home had instilled a love for the place and its people that stuck to her like treacle.

“Hiraeth,” Thancred had said once.

A strange word. He’d probably found it in a poem or a play. “What’s that?”

“A term for homesickness or longing for a home one cannot return to. Or a home that never was.”

Hiraeth. That may have had something to do with her visit, as well.

Gwen slogged doggedly across the marshy grass, trying to push the swell of uncertainty aside.

The recollection of past interactions with Drest, when the Company of Heroes had sent her on all those ridiculous tasks, eased her uncertainty a little. Drest had been willing, if skittish, to accept her help, and he’d seemed like a decent enough person beneath his unfortunate state. And he was also someone who seemed to need a great deal of help. More than Gwen could give, honestly. Even still, she could at least make an effort, to try to do something, and that was what had spurred her into action in the first place. From there she’d just have to hope for the best.

The ground dried out a little as she approached the rickety shack, perched precariously amongst the branches of an old tree. She paused to look and listen for any sign of Drest or problematic wildlife, eyes scanning the twilit jungle around her.

All seemed quiet, aside from the chirp of birds and incessant screech and buzz of insects. She didn’t see any signs of recent travel, beast, humanoid or otherwise, and she wondered about the last time Drest had left the house. She felt a little better about the contents of her rucksack, though more worried about what state she’d find him in.

Gwen turned aside before reaching the stairs, approaching the remnants of a fire pit and a swath of dirty oilcloth that had been haphazardly draped over a small mound. Under the cloth she found a dwindling stack of kindling and split logs, the lot of it carelessly piled atop squat stones to keep them off the ground.

The cold pit was almost too damp to be useful, but she could work with it. Gwen discarded the oilcoth and arranged the kindling and logs in the driest part of the bit as best she could. She raised a hand to her mouth before mumbling an incantation, a tingle of aether and a burst of heat flitting across her palm before a small flame shimmered into existence. She tossed the ball of flames onto the waiting wood, deciding at the last second to nurture it with her aether to make sure it would burn despite the damp surroundings.

Once the flames had caught Gwen dug into the rucksack with both hands, pushing and shuffling the contents around until she found a pouch reeking of citrus and a sweet, medicinal tang. She pulled a few leaves from the pouch, deep green and oily to the touch despite being mostly dried out, and tossed them onto the burning wood. They quickly turned to ash, and the air was filled with a similar citrus-and-medicine smell. She hadn’t expected the scent to go acrid around the edges as the leaves vanished, but she was hardly surprised.

Gwen paused once she mounted the bottom step, peering up at the dark windows and closed door in search of any sign of movement.

Seeing nothing, she called, “Drest? It’s me, Gwen.”

No response, aside from a few of the weathered boards creaking..

Doubt started to rise again, twisting nervously in her stomach and making her hesitate a little longer. Was this a good idea? She’d only met Drest once, and it had been ages ago. But she’d done far more for people she didn’t know at all, hadn’t she? She fidgeted, shifted her weight, and glanced back out to the hill. She was very aware of the light weight of Duskfeather’s whistle on its chain under her shirt.

Well, she’d already called out to the man. She couldn’t just leave now, right? Gwen squared her shoulders and rallied her determination before she started climbing, tamping down the nervousness by concentrating on her feet, controlling her steps to make her approach audible but not intimidating.

The weathered door at the top of the stairs was slightly too small and hung at an odd angle in the frame. The largest gap at the top let out a faint, weak light that Gwen couldn’t see until she was a fulm from the door.

She knocked gently and waited, listening past the buzzing and chirping insects in the trees.

She heard fabric rustle and the hollow clink of glass bottles. Boards creaked, distant at first and then gradually closer until they stopped on the other side of the door. The hinges squeaked and ground in protest when the door shifted, the crack between it and the frame suddenly widening a few ilms.

A sliver of a tired, scarred and worried face peered at her through the narrow opening. She could barely see sunken, tired eyes hidden behind the dark glasses and a fringe of wild, wheat-colored hair.

Drest stared at her with palpable trepidation for a moment before the door opened slightly wider, showing more of his face. He didn’t visibly relax, but the tension in the air eased somewhat. “You,” he mumbled, grasping for recognition, “you. You’re the...you’re the Dalmascan.”

“By blood only,” Gwen corrected gently. “My parents were Dalmascan, but I was born in Ul’dah.”

He hesitated, gaze drifting for a moment before returning to her face. “Huh, ah, aye. Aye. Too young for Dalmasca...” His head lowered slightly, lips forming a few inaudible syllables and his hands fidgeting with his tattered shirt.

She’d considered bringing him clothes, but she had no idea what size or type of clothing he needed, and had decided against it. She regretted that, just a little. Next time, she told herself. If there was a next time, anyway.

Drest was still mumbling to himself, eyes moving aimlessly and hands twitching nervously. Gwen wondered if he’d... forgotten she was there?

Drest’s head suddenly snapped up, expression tinged with fear. His voice was tense and quivering when he spoke, the opening in the door narrowing to barely more than a slit. “What--what do you want? W-who sent you?”

“Nobody,” Gwen said quickly. She fought the urge to try and make a calming gesture or raise her hands and display they were empty, fearing he’d take it as aggression. Instead she spoke as gently as she could and maintained a calm, even expression, “Nobody, Drest. I thought of you and came to visit, that’s all.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Drest mumbled softly, his voice aching with something akin to despair. “I didn’t. I...didn’t?” He paused, turning slightly away as he tried to think, “Did I?”

“You didn’t. I came on my own.”

He opened his mouth, stopped, and audibly sniffed the air. “Smoke…? It’s odd. Why is it odd?”

“For the midges. The smell will keep them away,” Gwen said.

His expression shifted, though she wasn’t sure he looked happier. “The buzzing… can’t sleep with the buzzing.” He cocked his head to one side, “But it’s--it’s much quieter now.”

Her exhale carried a note of relief, “Then the herbs are working.”

“Herbs…”

“I brought you some,” Gwen fumbled on the word, “gifts.”

He blinked owlishly, the door still nearly closed.

“I...I was thinking maybe you could tell me about Dalmasca in exchange,” she said slowly. A lie, and she was terrible with lies, but her curiosity about her parents’ home was genuine enough. And maybe he’d think a visit with a reason or motive was more comforting than a spontaneous decision. “Or I could just-- you could just have them. Really. You don’t--ah, I mean, you don’t have to talk to me. That’s okay. I understand.”

“Dalmasca,” Drest breathed the word, drawing back from the door. It was nearly dark inside.

He was silent and still for so long Gwen started to wonder if he’d moved away from the door and she hadn’t heard it.

His face appeared at the door, eyes distant behind his glasses “...Ex-exchange for what?”

Gwen cautiously reached for her pack, moving overly-slowly and not quite exaggerating the motions. “More herbs to burn, to keep the midges away. And,” she hesitated, “well, it’s not much, but I have some wine and food, too.”

Food. Technically it was, but few put food that was trail- and travel-ready in the same category as actual, regular food. But in her haste not to reconsider her decision she hadn’t thought of anything better that might survive the trip. Or anything else that could stand to be left out in the warm, muggy air for...well, however long it took Drest to eat it. If he ate it at all.

Anxiety had stiffness creeping up Gwen’s spine and into her shoulders as she produced the herb pouch first, turning slowly back to the door. She relaxed slightly when she saw he’d opened the door a few ilms, watching her carefully but not suspiciously.

She held out the pouch, “For the fire. You only need to burn two or three leaves at a time, and they will help keep the bugs away.”

Drest stared at it, then at her, and then at it again. One hand rose cautiously, inside the safety of the door, like a starving stray animal that was scared to take food. His hand hovered for a moment, trembling, before he slowly, carefully reached out. =

He touched the bag and immediately recoiled, wincing as though it had bitten him. Gwen labored not to let a cringe or dismay touch her features, trying to be patient and understanding and nothing else.

This wasn’t going anything like she’d hoped. Sh’d thought a familiar presence might give a little ease or comfort to the distressed man, but clearly it did neither.

Drest reached out again, tentatively resting his fingertips on the bag.

Her heart skipped a beat hopefully when he didn’t jerk away again.

His fingertips slowly transitioned to his hand, and then he tightened his grip just enough to dimple the fabric.

Drest paused for another long moment before breathing a shaky sigh, visibly slumping, and pulling the pouch inside. “Keep the bugs away...Yes.” His furtive gaze flicked all over, from the pouch to her face to her surroundings. He held it to his chest, nodding, “Th...thank you.”

The tension that had Gwen standing ramrod straight cracked, threatening to send her slumping to the ground in relief. “You’re welcome.”

She shrugged the rucksack off her shoulder and into her hands, offering it. She froze, elation fizzling immediately. Too fast. Moving way too fast. “I-if you’d have it, I mean. You don’t have to...I just-- I just meant, ah... There’s a bit more, if you’d like it--if you want it, I mean. Um...”

Drest blinked slowly, the ease his expression fading to be replaced with confusion. He suddenly looked very tired. “W...why?”

“Because I…”

Gwen knew a tired face like his, though that one hadn’t had so many scars. And the eyes in that one had been the same green as hers. They had stared ahead, empty, hollow, tired, in a face that had forgotten not only how to smile, but do anything at all. The eyes and face of a man simply existing rather than living. A man who sat, resolutely blind and numb to the world as he waited out the time he’d been given, even as his young daughter and infant son stood at his knee and pleaded with him.

“I wanted,” the words came out slow, stilted, the sudden realization lodging like a rock in her throat, “I wanted to...help.”

That man and Drest weren’t the same, though. Drest hadn’t given up, though only barely.

And she had sympathy for him, but not the other.

Because children made to parent their parents came to resent them, and that poison was a bitter and long-festering one. Drest wasn’t her father, no matter how tired and haunted his eyes looked.

Perhaps that was due to age. She wasn’t so very little anymore. Age and experience had brought her a wealth of understanding, perspective and patience her child-self simply didn’t have.

Perhaps it was because she’d felt loss, too, and knew how devastating it could be. She’d experienced grief and mourning all her own, and she’d learned she handled it scarcely better than he had.

The years-old bitterness lingered, but new empathy had left a gaping hole in it.

But he was dead, and had been for years. And so was her little brother. And there was no helping or changing that.

Drest was alive. She could still help him, she could still make a difference. And in helping him, maybe she could... Maybe it would be good enough.

Gwen coughed, clearing the lump in her throat, and offered the rucksack again. “I-I just wanted to help is all, Drest. It’s...it’s what the Warrior of Light is supposed to do.”

“I did, too,” he mumbled softly. He opened the door a little more and reached out, grasping the rucksack firmly with one hand. “I…” He glanced between her and the bag, vaguely guilty, “I can’t talk today. Not today.”

“Not today,” she agreed, blinking hard to stop the mounting stinging in her eyes and swallowing down the returning lump in her throat. “Can I--”

Drest nodded, withdrawing inside. “Come back. Some time...” He trailed off, whispering syllables and half-words she wasn’t meant to hear, then he added, “And we can...Yes. About Dalmasca.” He shifted slightly, towards the door, “Maybe you...maybe you can keep the others away, too.”

Duskfeather’s whistle made high, clear sound, and as his clawed feet squelched into the earth Gwen realized she’d given Drest the rucksack. She looked down at her hands, only distantly registering that they were empty.

She decided immediately to replace it. Perhaps before returning to the Rising Stones, though the hour was growing late.

Either way, Thancred would understand.

Does anyone else feel bad for Drest? I’ve been more than a little worried about him ever since you do those quests for him before Titan @_@ I’m glad they brought him back in Stormblood even though he’s not in a better way D: at least you give him a little comfort then?

Gwen is Dalmascan! TADAH. *cymbal crash* Her parents were from Rabanastre, and paid almost every gil they owned to a smuggler to get them out of the country just days before the siege of the city. Some years later Gwen was born in Ul’dah. WOOOO

This didn’t quite go where/how I wanted, but it was already getting long and I couldn’t figure out how to shorten it any way that I liked. This is probably getting a rewrite later.

Also it may or may not have been getting late.

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #write ffxiv #ishgard #february prompt #literal #idk somewhere around 3.2?#timelines are things I suck at #still literal #can you teil most of this was barely edited #I can #Guinevere Ashe #Drest #Dalmasca

2 notes · View notes

starlitesymphony · 6 years

Text

Novel Snippet #2

I was really tickled by your response to the first one (thanks again, you guys rock!) Here’s a much longer one, featuring grand-theft starship--and also some of Quin’s abilities. Space station security? No biggie!

You can read the blurb for Ark of the Timelost and the 1st snippet here.

@lady-redshield-writes, @ally-thorne, @toboldlywrite, @writeontheedge, @writerray, @hklunethewriter, @danceny, @loveiseldritch (please let me know if you’d like off the list--or on)

The shuttle hatch splits open and Maddox steps out like we’ve just arrived in Gallanthius’s Central Promenade. A loose swarm of people fill the cylinder-shaped concourse, emerging from and stepping into airlocks on all sides. The shuffling of footsteps is nearly louder than the sparse conversation.

I stride after him, resolving to mimic his professional air. Every color of uniform streams around me. The occasional floral dress or casual top break up an otherwise very official crowd. All of them with hair cropped in a practical manner. All of them at least a head shorter than either of us.

|Not to worry,| Maddox messages. |Here, the more you stand out, the fewer questions they ask.|

I catch a few sideways glances in my periphery, but soon focus on his back and the art of walking casually. By now, security is watching, perhaps even following. I haven’t spotted anyone yet. I bet Maddox has, though.

It’s odd. All of these officers, all of these middle-aged and even elderly people, all of them traveling alone, with no apprentice in sight. I know the Imperian military is entirely unlike the Troika. But it still feels more foreign here than I thought it would. And they just seem…so old. Maddox is old, really old, but he doesn’t resemble them in the slightest.

We board a sterile trolley with a somber group in burgundy and silver. Their eyes are too busy with glinting cortex feeds to pay us much mind, other than sideways glances from two younger women with matching jeweled insignia on their neck scarves.

Almost everyone files into the hall on our first stop. Maddox and I move toward the front. Soon, after the next stop, we find ourselves alone, whisking along increasingly rusted and mossy tunnelways with only the occasional blocky hatch on either side. Moments of darkness pass where lights have broken. This may be a space station, but it feels like a derelict mine, left to decay long after its ores had been extracted.

|What is this place?| I tap. We couldn’t have missed our stop. Maybe we’re going to some forgotten security terminal.

|The Imperia has to keep its decommissioned starships somewhere, in case a new prisma deposit is discovered, although that particular hope is roughly six centuries dead.|

|Couldn’t they grow more ships, though? If more prisma was ever found.|

Maddox smiles darkly, and sighs. |Growing a fleet would take years. And imagine if a sizable prisma deposit was discovered. If the Imperia didn’t outright crumble, they would have multiple rebellions on their hands, across at least a dozen star systems. Hale would probably be first in line. The Imperia’s power lies more in its monopoly on prisma than anything else.|

|So when the Collective ordered the missile strike on Vassra’s base—when they called it preemptive—|

|They’ve been challenged by organized pirates before. Not in a long time, but they don’t want to take their chances, clearly.|

I glance at my feet, eager to change the subject but unable to stop thinking of Mother, and what if she’s somewhere in that base? Only a slim chance, Maddox said. But he could have been hiding the truth. He could have lied. He might know she’s there for sure, but would he even tell me?

No, no. This is no time for that. I’ll watch the windows, try to blank out my growing alarm.

Meanwhile, Maddox is a picture of tranquility. Perhaps weathering an internal storm, or as unworried as Ash accused him of being, there’s no way for me to know. As if the conversation I’d overheard never happened. He suspects his own mentor of betraying us, yet watches through the trolley’s spotless windows with resignation, eyes glinting blue.

We slow to a stop, and the doors slide open, almost tentatively, as if our transportation is having second thoughts about dropping us off in such a remote location. A wide platform awaits us when we step through. The tiles, arranged in what must’ve been a spectacular mosaic, lie chipped and fragmented and overgrown with moss and creeping vines. Lichen-speckled reliefs cover the walls. Towering statues guard the outer bulkhead. The Navigator, with her signature third eye, nothing but a blank divot where a sapphire should be. Beside her, the Mariner, the second-in-command who braved the first warp journey. Some of the gold leaf is still visible in her hair.

I crane back my head, gaze wandering up the length of the diamond bulkhead, taller than Ash’s shuttle.

Maddox slips back his sleeve and presses his seal against a corroded sensory bar. Low rumbling fills the tunnel as the trolley whisks away, leaving us in the glimmering light of a thousand pinpoints in the rafters. Broken glass twinkles along the base of the walls and at the feet of the deities. The picked-over remains of offerings from a thousand years ago.

Maddox pulls back from the bulkhead as a burst of stale air vents from the bottom. “Rather humbling, isn’t it? I wonder if they could’ve guessed that one day, it would be merely the two of us standing here, not even paying reverence.”

I nudge some pottery shards with my toe. “I think they would’ve been more appalled to see their holy site turned into a military base.”

Once the bulkhead grinds open enough for us to duck through, we emerge into a great cathedral of a vestibule, so overgrown with foliage that almost all of the lights have been blocked out. Orchids spring from defaced reliefs. Glass and wood and Mariner-knows-what-else crunch underfoot. A pile of brown bones lies off to the side of the next bulkhead. Animal, or…? Perhaps better not to look closely.

Another press of Maddox’s seal, and machinery protests and grinds far below. Like we’re breaking into an ancient crypt.

|This next passage is where I need you to wait. Find a place on the ceiling. You can’t interrupt me until I finish with the codes, so if anyone comes, it’s your job to neutralize them.|

We duck through into darkness. A rotten, nostril-burning stench washes over me. Insects…I hope insects…scuttle at my ankles, and the buzzing of flies makes a perfect compliment to the hideous smell. Luckily, it only takes a few moments for my olfactory system to recognize and block out the molecules. My visual feed ever-so-helpfully identifies their source. |Chupher’s corpseflower approx. 45 blooms detected.|

“If the whole ship is like this, we’re taking a different one,” Maddox grumbles.

I follow his faintly glowing outline. “It’s not so bad once the scent’s blocked.”

“I won’t have you breathing poison for the length of the trip. This ship’s environment must be severely unbalanced to allow an infestation like this.”

My eyes haven’t fully adjusted to the dark, only enough to show monochromatic foliage and the flat, gargantuan surface of the primary bulkhead. Maddox rips back a few vines to reveal a control array sitting cockeyed on a pedestal. He sinks his hands into ports on either side, with a lot more indifference than I’d be able to muster. Imagine how many insects have found their way to the tactile jelly within, if there’s even still enough to make a neural connection.

“Now,” he says, hands working tentatively, the glow of his skin intensifying. “I’ll be unresponsive for only a few minutes. Off you go.”

I glance up once more. I don’t see any movement, but…am I really going to stop and check for centipedes? Creepy-crawlies dart up my arms. I squeeze my hands into fists. What would Maddox would say if I told him I was more afraid of bugs than security guards? It’s not even a very good joke.

Shadowy armor tendrils rise from my shoulders and attach in the depths above. My senses expand with them—I feel the touch of warm dew, followed by the papery flick of leaves, and the squish of layered moss. Then, the rough stone lining the passage.

Once my nanoarmor has shooed all the insects away, I sail up into darkness, leaving Maddox staring resolutely ahead, eyes bright with data streams.

I anchor myself with a few tendrils from my calves and back and hang like an upside-down spider.

This chamber would have been a sort of inner sanctum, back in the Age of Pilgrimage. Starship captains weren’t just pilots. They were practically disciples, chosen to lead congregations in the Navigator’s footsteps. While the captain initiated boarding sequences, like Maddox is doing, the room would have been packed with the most privileged followers, chanting the same low, breathy prayers heard in cathedrals all over Imperian worlds.

The only ones doing any chanting now are toads croaking off in the far corner.

A message snaps through my visual feeds. It’s from Ash.

|Docked. A lot of shuttles just entered the tracks above us. No definite ID on them until their next orbit, but you should probably hurry.|

|That was quick,| I tap against the carbon black of a nanoarmor tendril.

|Yeah. And four security guards just got on the trolley, headed in your direction.|

My stomach jolts. Four of them? Why couldn’t it be just two? |Carrying plasma rifles, I suppose.|

|Didn’t look like it. No masks, either, so just put them to sleep. And yeah, you should really hurry.|

Tense, silent seconds tick by, stretching into minutes, or possibly years. My breath is perfectly measured but it makes no difference to my flailing thoughts. We already broke the law by leaving Gallanthius. Still, I hadn’t exactly planned on adding assault on Imperian security to my records, too. At least, not all in the same day.

Maddox’s eyes are still glazed when the soft whirring sound of the trolley echoes through the passage, followed by four sets of cautious footsteps. Judging by their disjointed movement, they’re carrying rifles of some kind, but not with much sense of authority.

A woman’s voice rings out. “Navigator’s breath, what is that smell? You there! Turn around. Now.”

She uses a surprisingly diplomatic tone, considering that Maddox’s silhouette must look taller than a willow tree, stillness matched by the stone in my armor’s grasp.

The guards shuffle into view, hefting ordinary projectile rifles. Bars of light blink from their meandering spotlights. They truly must have no idea who they’re dealing with. I’m going to keep it that way. They’ve only seen Maddox’s back so far.

With the ease of a thought, my hair twists into a web of armor tendrils and whips out to a new anchor point. I slip silently into position just above the guards’ heads.

The woman speaks up again. “Sir, we would be happy to escort you to the proper concourse. We just need to scan your military seal and we can all be on our way. Turn around, please.”

My visual feeds light up with new information from my armor. |Mapping scent receptors of (4) individuals—Grade 6 tranquilizer available—(3) seconds for Grade 7 availability.|

“Shh. Look at him. He hasn’t moved.” A male voice this time, a bit shaky. “He’s locked into boarding sequences.”

“Boarding sequences?” the woman scoffs. “For what? One of these old heaps? Come on.”

“No, but look.” One of the spotlights settles on Maddox’s back. I focus on the four helmeted heads below. I extend my hand, nanoarmor tendrils trailing from each fingertip, obsidian points sharpening to microscopic needles.

At last, all four of them exhale at the same time.

Armor tendrils dart beneath their nostrils, release a puff of odorless tranquilizer, and whisk back into my hand in the space of a blink. Even grade seven takes a few seconds to knock someone out. Hopefully, with their adrenals rushing as they are, it’ll work faster this time.

“You smell something dead, madam?” It’s the male voice again, hitching on some of the consonants, slurring almost imperceptibly on the m’s.

“How many times do I have to tell you, call me Sergeant Nathine.” She takes a few determined steps forward, only to stumble on a broken tile and pitch forward with gurgling growl.

“What’s the matter with all of you?” she mutters, and passes out on a rough-looking root mass.

The other three crumple down without another coherent word. Pulses beat steadily in my visual feed, and their brain waves fluctuate rapidly toward REM sleep. Those will be some interesting dreams.

I lower myself to the ground and withdraw my armor, returning skin and uniform to their usual appearance, and pause to straighten the hem of my jacket. I glance over the security guards, reduced to a sullen, humiliated heap in this dank cell of a boarding passage. It’s not like I killed them, but a knot grows in my chest anyway.

It’s not like I even harmed them. Even so, I, a Troika, laid hands on Imperian guards, sort of. Will that get me a mere wrist-slap when all of this is over? Or will Maddox insist on taking the blame, for this and everything else?

“Quin.”

I whirl around. Maddox pulls his hands loose from the control array, and gives them a firm shake. He nods toward the bulkhead, which hasn’t so much as budged. “We have to move quickly now. I’ve received a message from Aneke.”

Clicks and whirs of machinery grumble far below us. My ankles vibrate with the first groans from the overgrown bulkhead. I wait for him to continue, but he merely tucks away his hands and stares ahead with a thoughtful tilt of his head.

“Let me guess.” I hug my arms to my chest. The bulkhead ticks unenthusiastically upwards. “Aneke does not approve.”

“Worse.” He grits his teeth a moment before continuing. “She’s been sent to convince us to cease and desist. And she’s in orbit now.”

He crouches beside the bulkhead, watching the gap widen. Crystalline black nanoarmor glints at his brow and temples, and licks out from his fingertips when he touches the ground.

“Our only chance is to outrun her,” he says, with typical finality.

“But you were her apprentice. Ash, too. Would she really stand against you? She can be a bit cross at times, but I don’t think—”

“Forgive me, Quin,” Maddox interrupts, tone dropping low, “but you don’t know the first thing about Aneke. She’s going to stop us, if she can. She has no other choice.”

He slides his arm under the bulkhead, pokes and prods with a narrow-eyed glare, and sinks into a shadowy black pool before vanishing altogether through the narrow opening.

I kick out at an upturned tile. It breaks off with a crack. If he’d only tell me. The truth about himself, his mentor, anything, ever.

“Are you still coming?” Maddox calls.

“Well, yes—”

“Then get in here, because we have to run. Hurry!”

I drop flat and jam my way through the opening, teeth clenched all the while.

((Thank you so much for reading!!))

#my novel #looong snippet more like excerpt #writing science fiction #writeblr #my ocs #trying to share a bit more instead of sidelining lol

24 notes · View notes

neothebean · 7 years

Text

I shouldn’t be talking about my next novel when I haven’t finished the first one, but here’s the start I wrote to the burra story like....two, three years ago? I’ve edited it only slightly, to make up for name and story changes. It’s very intentionally Tolkieny, as I started writing it as a sort of ode to The Hobbit.

Sorrel woke up in his den far earlier than he liked. The gemstone above his bed had just the faintest hint of a glow about it, marking the time to be predawn. He preferred to be awakened by the gem reflecting light fully into his face, long after the dew but well before lunch.

He lingered under the warm covers, reluctant to start the day. His parents would still be asleep. He'd have to make breakfast on his own. A shame, really; he was a worse cook than even Perennial Frost, and she was truly awful at the craft. Still, with the faint bit of light in his room and the prospects of the day before him, getting back to sleep was hardly an option.

Disgruntled, he tossed away the blankets and slid his furry feet to the floor. Even in the dim light, he could make out the details in the old rugs scattered across the dirt floor. He didn't much like walking through the room in pitch dark; he had tripped over the rugs enough times to avoid it altogether.

The hall was a bit brighter, lit as it was by four crystals. Sorrel moved down it into the kitchen. There, a giant crystal cast pale blue light over the counters and breakfast table. On the far side of the room was the pantry, blocked off by a sliding door. He made his way there and searched out some bread and honey. Though more a snack than a breakfast, it would have to do; he had forgotten to pick up a new load of firewood the day before.

Once fed and the bread washed down with a bit of milk from the cellar, he returned to his room and dressed for the day. He washed his face quickly, smoothed back his unruly locks, and then left a note before leaving the den and entering the quiet morning streets of Warren.

Even at the early hour, other burra were up and about, opening shops and sweeping down doorsteps. Sorrel walked down the street, nodding at the neighbors and toying with the few coins in his purse. High above, earth arched over the broad streets, punctuated here and there by gemstones in various sizes. Unlike the long crystals inside his den, these were flat against the earthen roof, cut that way to diminish their weight.

The street he was on opened into the Atelier, the largest open space in Warren. Already the smells of fresh bread and fruit wafted across the area, and dozens of burra in bright clothes were ambling from shop to shop, filling baskets and handing out coins for the goods. He spotted Mrs Frost, setting up tables of pastries, and moved in that direction. As he neared the stand, he could hear her husband in the shop behind, whistling as he baked.

"Oh, good morning, Sorrel! Up early for a young buck, aren't you? I can't get Braeburn up before the sun crests the mountains."

"Didn't mean to be up," he admitted, eying a particularly fat jelly-filled. "Had to have bread and honey for breakfast."

Mrs Frost tutted and shook her head. "We can't have that, now. Here, here, have a nice seedcake, fresh out of the oven, we've cranberry and lemon this morning. Or a jelly-filled, that one's strawberry."

Smiling and tossing out polite thank-yous, Sorrel took the jelly-filled and shuffled out of the way of paying customers. As he filled his belly on the bakery steps, he was joined by another burra. He knew instantly from the smell of strawberries that it was his best friend's younger sister, Perennial Frost, likely the most annoying burra he'd ever met.

"I know you and Brue are outing today," she said between bites of her own breakfast.

"Could you say it any louder, Penny? I don't think that half of Warren heard you."

"It isn't like it's forbidden."

"Well, no, but you know very well that your mother doesn't like it. She'll start bringing up stories of griffins again."

"I want to go."

He groaned. Last time they'd taken Penny along outing, she'd fallen into the stream while picking blueberries. Before that, she'd tripped on a root and nearly got them all mauled by a bear. That had been a hard story to cover up; the bear had got close enough to shred the bottom of her dress.

"You aren't coming, Penny. You nearly die every time, you're the clumsiest creature I've ever met."

She huffed. "As if you're the most graceful burra."

"Doesn't take much to be more graceful than you. If you'll pardon me..." He stood, brushing the sugar from his fingers, and hurried into the crowds growing in the Atelier.

On the other side of the vast mosaic floor, he spent his coins on a load of firewood and borrowed a cart to return to his den.

The kitchen was bright with reflected light by the time Sorrel left the den again. He'd had a large breakfast once his parents had awakened and was fully prepared for a day on the outside.

Hauling the cart he had borrowed, he made his way back to the Atelier. The crowd was regenerating after breakfast, but Braeburn was easy to spot. The Frosts were known for the white fur on their legs, and Braeburn was no exception.

"Sorrel! I heard you were up early." Braeburn embraced Sorrel when he approached. Like Penny, Braeburn smelled like strawberries, though the scent was fainter on him. Sorrel knew from experience that it was due to their father's obsession with the fruit; there were baskets of them piled throughout their den.

"Not by any choice of my own. Don't know what woke me, but I couldn't sleep a bit after." Sorrel accepted the pack Braeburn passed to him. It contained bread and cheeses and some jam, as they'd be gone past lunch.

"Well, as long as you don't fall asleep on the rocks, it'll be all right. Come on, let's go by the south exit."

They set off, following a general crowd of burra heading out to get a breath of fresh air or tend to the fields. The exit itself was a broad set of stairs winding up a gentle slope. They came out at the base of a hill, and the entrance was overhung with vines. Though the burra liked to get above ground, they were overly cautious about hiding the entrances to Warren's tunnels.

Sorrel and Braeburn emerged behind a group of chattering mothers towing children on their apron strings. They squeezed past, breathing in the open air, and set out toward the rocky hills to the south. The going was easy, and they talked and laughed as they went.

They'd barely scaled the first of the low outcroppings when they heard a scuffling behind them. Sorrel looked back, already having an idea of who it was.

"Penny, you clumsy-footed burra, get back on flat ground where you won't hurt yourself."

"Don't you tell me what to do, Sorrel Buckthorn."

Braeburn groaned as his sister joined them on the ledge. "Don't you two start with this again, honestly. You're worse than kits."

"She still is a kit," Sorrel grumbled as Penny made a face at him.

"I'm barely two years younger than you!"

"All right, enough. If you want to come along, Penny, you'll have to not poke at Sorrel. You weren't invited, so you ought to keep your thoughts to yourself." Braeburn gave his sister a stern glare before turning back to the ledge he'd been climbing. "And watch your skirt, Ma'll have a fit if you ruin another."

Still pulling faces at one another, Penny and Sorrel followed Braeburn's lead in climbing to the next shelf of rock. They went about it for some time, the boys often having to reach back to stop Perennial from falling.

Though it was slower going than usual due to the third member of their team, the burra reached their usual resting spot just before lunch. It was a small expanse of soft grass, dotted here and there with wildflowers, and with more silt than stone underfoot.

Sorrel lay back in the grass, enjoying the rest after the climb. The spot, which he and Braeburn called the Break, was his favorite in the Rockhills. In the spring, when the rain met up with the melting snow, a small stream ran by the side of the Break, bubbling and gurgling down over the rocks. Now that midsummer was nearing, however, the only water nearby was a small pool at the eastern corner. Frogs had made their home there so that the whole area was full of their chirping.

Penny sat beside Sorrel, picking at the grass and eyeing the rocky hills they had yet to climb. She knew that the plan was to angle westward, a way sensible burra avoided. Tales of a great griffin living in a cavern full of gold that way made even the toughest burra wary.

As children, burra were told stories of a time when venturing above ground was done rarely and only at night. Long ago, in the Dark Times, when griffins and other beasts had been plenty in the Rockhills, burra had been little more than prey. The tales were intended to keep the young ones off the Rockhills, but the younger generations put little stock in the stories. Few creatures hunted burra anymore, not near Warren. The Rockhills, which surrounded the whole area, were generally avoided in favor of the flatter land beyond by elves and other People who might want a servant burra or two.

"All right, kits, lunch time. Sorrel, pass me your pack, we've got some dividing to do."

"Don't give any to Penny, she should've brought her own."

"I'm not starving my little sister, Sol."

Penny wrinkled her nose at Sorrel and stuck out her tongue as Braeburn set to dividing the two meals into three. Sorrel grumbled under his breath; even tiny victories in the burra girl's favor were annoying.

Despite the ongoing argument between the two younger burra, the warm sun and soft breeze lulled the group into a state of calm. Jam and cheese sandwiches and a bit of cider Sorrel had managed to sneak from the cellar made for a pleasant lunch. They sat about for a bit afterward, letting the food settle.

"Nice day," Braeburn mumbled. "Almost makes me not want to do anymore climbing. Pleasant, just lying here."

"I want to see the griffin cave." Penny sat up, frowning at her brother and Sorrel. "Come on, we're supposed to be exploring."

"What's a few more minutes? You've too much energy, Perennial."

#neo writes stuff #burra

4 notes · View notes

networkingdefinition · 4 years

Text

Travel Quotes

Official Website: Travel Quotes

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push();

• A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving. – Laozi • A man of ordinary talent will always be ordinary, whether he travels or not; but a man of superior talent (which I cannot deny myself to be without being impious) will go to pieces if he remains forever in the same place.- Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart • A traveler without knowledge is a bird without wings. – Saadi • A wise man travels to discover himself. – James Russell Lowell • A wise traveler never despises his own country. – William Hazlitt • All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. – Martin Buber • All the pathos and irony of leaving one’s youth behind is thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel: one knows that the first joy can never be recovered, and the wise traveller learns not to repeat successes but tries new places all the time. – Paul Fussell • All travel has its advantages. If the passenger visits better countries, he may learn to improve his own. And if fortune carries him to worse, he may learn to enjoy it. – Samuel Johnson • And if travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end. – Pico Iyer • And, obviously as a, as one who likes to travel around myself a lot, I think the Earth is a beautiful place. And, I’m looking forward to some new perspectives. – Duane G. Carey • As a dreamer of dreams and a travelin’ man, I have chalked up many a mile. Read dozens of books about heroes and crooks, and I learned much from both of their styles. – Jimmy Buffett • As the traveler who has once been from home is wiser than he who has never left his own doorstep, so a knowledge of one other culture should sharpen our ability to scrutinize more steadily, to appreciate more lovingly, our own. – Margaret Mead

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Travel', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_travel').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_travel img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Be the inner journeys, be the outer travels, all trips elevate man, all voyages lift him up! – Mehmet Murat Ildan • But that’s the glory of foreign travel, as far as I am concerned. I don’t want to know what people are talking about. I can’t think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most rudimentary sense of how things work, you can’t even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses. – Bill Bryson • But why, oh why, do the wrong people travel, when the right people stay at home? – Noel Coward • Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living. – Mary Ritter Beard • Escape through travel works. Almost from the moment I boarded my flight, life in England became meaningless. Seat-belt signs lit up, problems switched off. Broken armrests took precedence over broken hearts. By the time the plane was airborne I’d forgotten England even existed. – Alex Garland • Experience, travel – these are an education in themselves. – Euripides • For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come down off this feather-bed of civilisation, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints. – Robert Louis Stevenson • For the born traveller, travelling is a besetting vice. Like other vices, it is imperious, demanding its victim’s time, money, energy and the sacrifice of comfort. – Aldous Huxley • Go at least once a year to a place you’ve never been before. – Dalai Lama • Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness. – Ray Bradbury • He travels safest in the dark night who travels lightest. – Hernando Cortes • He travels the fastest who travels alone. – Rudyard Kipling • He who will travel far spares his steed. – Jean Racine • I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. – Mark Twain • I have wandered all my life, and I have also traveled; the difference between the two being this, that we wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment. – Hilaire Belloc • I know all we’re doing is travelling without moving. Speed freak faster than a speedin’ bullet, slow down. If I don’t, I might just lose it, locked up. You’ve got me honey, locked up under heavy brakin’, yeah. You know I’ve got to hang on, drive too fast, I might be last. – Jay Kay • I love to travel, but hate to arrive. – Albert Einstein • I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train. – Oscar Wilde • I see my path, but I don’t know where it leads. Not knowing where I’m going is what inspires me to travel it. – Rosalia de Castro • I travel around the world constantly promoting my projects and endorsing products. Yes, I do get paid to go to parties; in fact, I’m the person who started the whole trend of paid appearances. But when you see me at a party, I’m always working or promoting something. – Paris Hilton • I travel light. I think the most important thing is to be in a good mood and enjoy life, wherever you are. – Diane von Furstenberg • I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.- Robert Louis Stevenson • I traveled a good deal all over the world, and I got along pretty good in all these foreign countries, for I have a theory that it’s their country and they got a right to run it like they want to. – Will Rogers • I wanna hang a map of the world in my house. Then I’m gonna put pins into all the locations that I’ve traveled to. But first, I’m gonna have to travel to the top two corners of the map so it won’t fall down. – Mitch Hedberg • If you actually look like your passport photo, you aren’t well enough to travel. – Vivian Fuchs • If you wish to travel far and fast, travel light. Take off all your envies, jealousies, unforgiveness, selfishness and fears. – Cesare Pavese • In America there are two classes of travel – first class, and with children. – Robert Benchley • In both business and personal life, I’ve always found that travel inspires me more than anything else I do. – Ivanka Trump • In life, it’s not where you go, it’s who you travel with. – Charles M. Schulz • In traveling, a man must carry knowledge with him, if he would bring home knowledge. – Samuel Johnson • In travelling I shape myself betimes to idleness And take fools’ pleasure – George Eliot • It is not fit that every man should travel; it makes a wise man better, and a fool worse. – William Hazlitt • Let your memory be your travel bag. – Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn • Life is a journey that must be traveled no matter how bad the roads and accommodations. – Oliver Goldsmith • Like all great travellers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen. – Benjamin Disraeli Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry. – Jack Kerouac • Man is an artifact designed for space travel. He is not designed to remain in his present biologic state any more than a tadpole is designed to remain a tadpole. – William S. Burroughs My home is in Heaven. I’m just traveling through this world. – Billy Graham • Never trust anything you read in a travel article. – Dave Barry • No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow. – Lin Yutang • NOT I – NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. – Walt Whitman • Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote, and I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life – Michael Palin • Once the travel bug bites, there is no known antidote. – Michael Palin • Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey. – Pat Conroy • One of the great things about travel is you find out how many good, kind people there are. – Edith Wharton • One travels more usefully when alone, because he reflects more. – Thomas Jefferson • Only by going alone in silence, without baggage, can one truly get into the heart of the wilderness. All other travel is mere dust and hotels and baggage and chatter. – John Muir • People travel to faraway places to watch, in fascination, the kind of people they ignore at home. – Dagobert D. Runes • People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering. – Saint Augustine • People who don’t travel cannot have a global view, all they see is what’s in front of them. Those people cannot accept new things because all they know is where they live. – Martin Yan • Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends. – Maya Angelou • Please be a traveler, not a tourist. Try new things, meet new people, and look beyond what’s right in front of you. Those are the keys to understanding this amazing world we live in. – Andrew Zimmern • Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel across the country from coast to coast without seeing anything. – Charles Kuralt • The attention of a traveller, should be particularly turned, in the first place, to the various works of Nature, to mark the distinctions of the climates he may explore, and to offer such useful observations on the different productions as may occur. – William Bartram • The fool wanders, a wise man travels. – Thomas Fuller • The impulse to travel is one of the hopeful symptoms of life. – Agnes Repplier • The more I traveled the more I realized that fear makes strangers of people who should be friends. – Shirley MacLaine • The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • The traveler was active; he went strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him. He goes ‘sight-seeing.’ – Daniel J. Boorstin • The trouble with travelling back later on is that you can never repeat the same experience. – Michael Palin • The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time. – Sidonie Gabrielle Colette • The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality. – Samuel Johnson • The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. – Samuel Johnson • The value of your travels does not hinge on how many stamps you have in your passport when you get home — and the slow nuanced experience of a single country is always better than the hurried, superficial experience of forty countries. – Rolf Potts • The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • The wise traveler learns not to repeat successes but tries new places all the time. – Paul Fussell • The world is a country which nobody ever yet knew by description; one must travel through it one’s self to be acquainted with it. – Lord Chesterfield • There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign. – Robert Louis Stevenson • There is a part of me that still wants to go out and grab a backpack and unplug – not take a cellphone or even a camera and just get out there and experience the world and travel. I have yet to do that, but someday I hope. – Emilio Estevez • They say travel broadens the mind, but you must have the mind. – Gilbert K. Chesterton • Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • To move, to breathe, to fly, to float, To gain all while you give, To roam the roads of lands remote, To travel is to live. – Hans Christian Andersen • To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted. – Bill Bryson • To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive. – Robert Louis Stevenson • To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries. – Aldous Huxley • To travel is to live. – Hans Christian Andersen • To travel is to take a journey into yourself. – Danny Kaye • Too often travel, instead of broadening the mind, merely lengthens the conversations. – Elizabeth Drew • Tourists don’t know where they’ve been, travelers don’t know where they’re going. – Paul Theroux • Travel becomes a strategy for accumulating photographs. – Susan Sontag • Travel brings power and love back into your life. – Rumi • Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection. – Lawrence Durrell • Travel does what good novelists also do to the life of everyday, placing it like a picture in a frame or a gem in its setting, so that the intrinsic qualities are made more clear. Travel does this with the very stuff that everyday life is made of, giving to it the sharp contour and meaning of art. – Freya Stark • Travel is a fools paradise. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. – Mark Twain • Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness. – Mark Twain • Travel is the art form available to Everyman. You sit in the coffee shop in a strange city and nobody knows who you are, or cares, and so you shed your checkered past and your motley credentials and you face the day unarmed … And onward we go and some day in the distant future, we will stop and turn around in astonishment to see all the places we’ve been and the heroes we were. – Garrison Keillor • Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones. – Sophie Swetchine • Travel is the most private of pleasures. There is no greater bore than the travel bore. We do not in the least want to hear what he has seen in Hong-Kong. – Vita Sackville-West • Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world. – Gustave Flaubert • Travel teaches toleration. – Benjamin Disraeli • Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience. – Francis Bacon • Traveling in the company of those we love is home in motion. – Leigh Hunt • Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it. – Cesare Pavese • Traveling is a fool’s paradise. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, ‘I would stay and love you, but I have to go; this is my station. – Lisa St. Aubin de Terán • Traveling is seeing; it is the implicit that we travel by.- Cynthia Ozick • Traveling tends to magnify all human emotions. – Peter Høeg • Travelling is the ruin of all happiness. There’s no looking at a building here after seeing Italy. – Fanny Burney • Unusual travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God. – Kurt Vonnegut We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend. – Robert Louis Stevenson • We can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home! – William Hazlitt • We must go beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths and untrodden depths of the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of our journey.- John Hope Franklin • We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost. – Ray Bradbury • We travel, in essence, to become young fools again – to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more. – Pico Iyer • We travel, initially, to lose ourselves, and we travel, next, to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again—to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more. – Ray Bradbury • We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next to find ourselves. – Pico Iyer • We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel to bring what little we can, in our ignorance and knowledge, to those parts of the globe whose riches are differently dispersed. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again- to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more. – Pico Iyer • We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls. – Anais Nin • We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment. – Hilaire Belloc • What you’ve done becomes the judge of what you’re going to do – especially in other people’s minds. When you’re traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road. – William Least Heat-Moon • When one realizes that his life is worthless he either commits suicide or travels.- Edward Dahlberg • When traveling with someone, take large does of patience and tolerance with your morning coffee. – Helen Hayes • When you are everywhere, you are nowhere. When you are somewhere, you are everywhere. – Rumi • When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable. – Clifton Fadiman • Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow. – Anita Desai • You do not travel if you are afraid of the unknown, you travel for the unknown, that reveals you with yourself. – Ella Maillart • You get educated by traveling.- Solange Knowles • You know more of a road by having traveled it than by all the conjectures and descriptions in the world. – William Hazlitt • Your true traveller finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty – his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure. – Aldous Huxley

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'y', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_y').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_y img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

0 notes

equitiesstocks · 4 years

Text

Travel Quotes

Official Website: Travel Quotes

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push();

0 notes