#but the last thing I need is more swords (rare lucid moment)

[inkbotkowalski]

I picked up one of my swords again after ages and swung it around a bit and only hit the chandelier twice... and gods it felt GREAT. now I just have to either move stuff around in my apartment or go outside after dark so I can practice again without destroying any furniture

#“maybe I should change chandelier to ceiling lamp? no wait I'm writing about swords it's much more genre compliant that way” #hema #sword practice #just European things #living in castles swinging swords you know normal European stuff #too many hobbies #I guess I could get one of those simulators without a blade that smiths started making when there was an actual lockdown #but the last thing I need is more swords (rare lucid moment)

[drowningbydegrees]

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt whump #emotional hurt/comfort #Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth #mentions of blood and injury #In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug #conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one #my fic

[what-if-i-imagine]

Another request from my love @a-single-drop-of-ink​ for the quote “I was dying to hear someone say that I didn’t need to try so hard to be perfect, that I was enough and it was okay“ with Damian, Jason and Talia in the League of Assassins.

Damian grunted as he hit the ground again. Just as all the other times he had been knocked down, he sprung right back up without hesitation and faced his teacher again.

The young assassin eyes him carefully with a raised eyebrow. He seemed no more impressed by Damian’s stubborn refusal to stay down than he had any of the other times. And just as all the other times, the assassin finished his always silent assessment of Damian’s physical state and turned to Talia.

Damian rushed forward while the teen’s face was turned away, but both his bokken and fist were easily caught and held still without him so much as glancing back.

“If he wishes to continue then let him,” Talia assured the silent teacher. “He must learn somehow when it is time to give up.”

His teacher gave a small nod and turned back to Damian, roughly pushing him back to put a yard of distance between them.

There were many things that frustrated the young al Ghul about his teacher. The teacher had been around since the day he was born, and had been one of the first to ever hold him, but he had never spoken a word. As the years went on, his mother explained that the boy was completely catatonic when she found him, and had remained that way for a very long time.

His mother never told him what jolted the boy out of his catatonic state, or why even after seven years he still sometimes slipped back under and when lucid remained silent. He thought he might have heard his voice once, speaking in a hushed tone to his mother, but he wasn’t sure anymore.

Another thing he found extremely frustrating was the way his teacher carried himself. It was filled with so much sorrow, wonder and indifference. He had only seen a few expressions on his face that were not microscopic. Damian was always unsure if it was due to his mother’s training, or some other thing from the boy’s past that his amnesiatic brain would possibly never remember.

Then there was the thing that frustrated Damian above all else. It made his blood boil and he gnashed his teeth and rushed forward again, raising his bokken to strike.

His teacher treated him like a kid.

Ever since his birth when the boy was nine, he had treated Damian as if he were delicate, fragile. As if he weren't the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, the grandson of Ra al Ghul. He found it more than frustrating, it was infuriating.

Damian had aged through his infant and toddler years at an accelerated speed due to the nature of his birth but had quickly slowed to the normal age progression, leaving him now physically ten when he was technically only seven. Physically speaking, the boy his mother called his teacher was only six years older than him at the most. He had no powers, unless you counted the multiple times he had to be thrown into the Lazarus Pit after some of his missions resulting in a quicker healing process as a power, which Damian did not. He was small for his age even with the growth Lazarus had tried to force him into, his muscle was lean and though Damian knew how damaging one of his punches could be first hand after watching it shatter a man’s skull, he was nowhere near intimidating.

And yet this boy, this fool his mother called her greatest warrior, had the audacity to treat him, grandson of the Demon's Head, as a child.

He went easy on him in training unless his mother prompted him not to. He fought with only his hands while forcing Damian to use a bokken. He jumped into every fight Damian picked with the other assassins and teachers, putting it to a swift end in whatever way he could then personally tended to Damian’s wounds as if he couldn’t do it himself.

Damian tried to channel his anger and frustrations the way his mother had taught him into every strike of his bokken. His teacher effortlessly dodged every attack.

When he saw a split second entry, his teacher snapped forward, using one hand to meet Damian’s bokken with an open palmed uppercut as the other hand’s heel struck Damian's chest. All air was pushed from his lungs in a painful surge, and for a second he was almost sure the boy had pushed his soul entirely from his body.

Damian's back collided with the ground, his neck giving a snap when his head bounced from the force. His bokken had left his hand before his descent,and he now found himself staring up at blank, almost unseeing eyes, with the business end of his bokken pressed right below his throat.

Damian was about to reach up and push the wooden sword away so he could stand again when his mother’s voice stopped him.

“Damian, that’s enough,” she snapped.

“But mother-” he tried to protest but she cut him off.

“You have lost fifteen matches in ten minutes. It is fair to say that will be enough for today.”

“I can keep going-”

“Did I not just say enough?”

Damian gulped down any words that tried to escape him after that, glaring with a vengeance at the teacher who still stood over him.

“Alwarda,” his mother said, causing the boy to turn his gaze back to her. “Your assistance is not needed for the remainder of tonight. You are dismissed.”

The boy nodded and stepped away from Damian. He offered both the mother and son a small bow of respect before disappearing inside with the bokken still in hand.

Damian had bathed and tended to his wounds alone, brooding in his defeat. His mother often told him the way he brooded reminded her of his father, who happened to be an american billionaire completely unaware of his existence. He would never say it to her face, but he always thought during these moments that she was wrong. He brooded like her as well.

After he was dressed comfortably for the uneventful evening ahead, one of the servants came to his door to inform him his mother was waiting for him.

It did not take long to find her. He knew when it came to their private dinners, they rarely ever ate in the actual dining room, or with his grandfather and other members of their family. This night in particular he found her in her meditation room with her favorite incense burning and her eyes closed. A pot of oxblood soup sat between her and another mat with two empty bowls and spoons beside it.

In moments like these, he would enjoy just staring at his mother in the awe and respect she deserved. She was more deadly than anyone he had ever known in his short life time, but it was sometimes hard to forget when she was sitting there, looking so beautiful and at ease.

Damian always wondered if he would inherit any of that beauty. Sometimes prayed that he would, though he would never tell anyone that.

“If you keep standing there, the soup will get cold,” his mother informed him without opening her eyes or moving a muscle.

He obeyed the silent order, making his way over to the mat to sit in a cross legged mirror of her position. He served up both bowls, presenting his mother’s to her with a bow of his head. She took it with a small chuckle.

"You fought hard today, I figured you deserved your favorite,” she said as he tried to control himself while taking down spoonful after spoonful of soup.

“But I lost,” he said, almost baffled. The loss after loss would have been considered intolerable by his grandfather. Unacceptable. Not the makings of a true al Ghul heir.

“Loss is inevitable,” his mother said easily. “Without it, there is no way you would learn.”

Damian tried to let her words sink in, tried to learn the lesson she was trying to teach, but it wouldn’t stick. He had lost fifteen times to a foul blooded boy right in front of her. How could she act as if his failure meant nothing?

He filed the question away for another day and accepted the moment for what it was. He ate three bowls of the soup before deciding he was satisfied, and went into meditation, allowing the scents of the incense, soup and his mother to overcome his senses. He let all his thoughts go by as if he were watching waves on a beach from afar, letting them go to be dealt with in a different time.

As much as they had helped to ease him in the moment, the soup and meditation’s effects did not last long.

The next morning he had woken up and spent sunrise until noon doing non stop training. He avoided his mother the best he could, sure that the shame must have sunk in by now, even opting to eat his lunch with the other assassins.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what it had felt like each time he hit the ground. The distasteful sound of his body colliding with the dirt. The way his teacher would stare down at him with the unreadable expression and expertly masked emotion. The way his mother had snapped when he found for a sixteenth round.

He was tired, and his body ached with sore muscles that didn’t want to work no matter how late in the day it had gotten as he kept up his training as intense as ever. His mind blurred the hours into minutes and the minutes into seconds, his attention laser focused on getting better.

He reminded himself over and over like a mantra that he would never be good enough the way he was. That a true al Ghul, a true heir to the Demon’s Head, is so much better than this. He trained until it became hard to breath, then said air was for the weak and kept going.

As the sun started to set, he took a brisk shower and toweled off, dressing in his copy of the outfit he had seen the assassins of the League wear to dinner. It was more casual and comfortable than their usual uniforms, but still displayed their place in the League based on color and material. Damian’s was made from the finest silks just as all his other clothing and was green to remind everyone of his biological superiority to them.

With his katana resting on his hip, and his green hood pulled up, he melted into the crowd of tired assassins as they filed into the dinning hall.

He took his serving off food, as always pleased with how well his grandfather fed his warriors and took a seat at a fairly crowded table. The moment he was seated, everyone cleared away from the table besides one assassin, even as his little friends tried to pull him away.

“I’m not moving just because some demon brat decided this was his table,” the assassin said.

“Just move,” one of his friends said. “You don’t want to provoke him.”

“And why not? Didn’t you hear how badly he got his ass kicked yesterday during his training. From what I heard, he came out of the training center looking like absolute shit,” the assassin laughed. “I bet any idiot with two thumbs could beat him.”

“Then do it.”

All the assassins in the room slowly turned to look towards Damian, who had finished almost all of his food already while the assassin was talking.

“What?” the assassin snapped. “What did you say to me?”

“I said do it,” Damian glared at him. “You think you can beat me? Then do it.”

“Let it go,” one of his friends tried, but he brushed her off.

The man stood and marched over, his tomahawk already in his hand. When he brought it down, Damian was able to dodge it, taking advantage of the time it would take to pull it out of the wood as he hopped up onto the table and drew his katana.

The tomahawk came flying at him and he dodged it again while moving forward in one fluid motion to sink his katana into the man’s shoulder. As any good member of the League, he didn’t even flinch from the piercing cut of the blade and got to work on trying to cut Damian down.

The battle was not long by any means, but it had its fair share of blood. The man was surely going to bleed to death if he took any more trauma from Damian’s blade, and Damian himself was littered now with gashes. The next blow was sure to be the end to either of them.

Damian had never needed the Lazarus Pit yet, but by the looks of it, he might. Then again, if he won he wouldn’t, but they would be down one assassin.

He didn’t have time to fully process his katana being roughly forced from his hand, and he wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew, the chain of an all too familiar kusarigama style fixed knife was wrapped around his wrist, slamming him down into the table with a harsh force no one else would dare to use on him even during a fight.

Damian managed to push himself up enough to take in the rest of the scene that ended his fight. He belatedly realized that the chain was not the only part of the weapon fixed on him, as he came face to face with the two blades of the weapon perfectly angled by the chains to stab into his arms at any moment.

The assassin he had been fighting was no better off, a sword trained on his neck just far enough to not cut but just close enough that any breath could cause it to. Everyone around them were covering their mouths, paralyzed by one of the few things they feared, or were scrambling to get their food and run back to their rooms.

“Red,” the assassin sputtered, staring up at the red hooded boy. “It’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t going to kill the kid!”

The red clad assassin seemed to consider the man for a moment before the tension left his body and he resheathed his sword. He waved the man away, and the man took the order to leave as a gift.

Damian prepared for the disappointed, or unimpressed, or patronizing look Red was sure to give him. He geared up to shoot a few insults at the boy and push his luck until Red snapped- which he never did, yet another insufferable aspect of his teacher.

When Red did turn to him, Damian stopped dead in his tracks. Red wasn’t looking at him in any of the ways he had expected. He didn't even look at him with pity. Instead, it was an unsheltered, raw kind of worry, fear and something else Damian didn’t recognize written plane as day in every line of his body. His eyes were a deep blue with only a hint of green around the edges, and they were fully in focus in a way Damian was so unused to.

Damian felt every ounce of anger drain from his body, quickly being replaced with a gut turning guilt he had never felt before. Because no one had ever looked at him like that before. Without a hint of disappointment or berating.

He ended up having to avert his gaze to the floor to stop himself from throwing up.

Feather gentle hands unwound the chains and coiled the weapon back up to be clipped to his belt on the other side of his hip from his katana. Without warning, the same hands lifted Damian as if he weighed nothing and carried him away from the dinning hall and to his bed room.

“Are you going to tell my mother?” Damian asked in an almost whisper, risking a glance back up at the teen. His lips had set into a hard line, the same way they did every time Damian though he might want to say something. He started to mentally panic before the assassin gave a small shake of his head.

They reached the room quickly, and Damian expected to be let down to attend to his wounds on his own. Though the red assassin his mother so deeply trusted had taken care of him after fights many times before, it had never been in the secluded comfort of his room. Always in the infirmary, training room or his mother’s office as she scolded him.

He didn’t expect it when the boy opened his bedroom door and carried Damian in. He only let him down when they reached the bathroom, where a hot bath had been pre prepared.

Damian wondered if Red had prepared it, or one of the servants at Red’s order.

“I already took a bath today,” Damian said, regaining some of his mentality.

Red gave him a hard look and nodded to the bath.

“No,” Damian said stubbornly. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was fighting it. Maybe it was the idea of being babied by a sixteen year old mute, or maybe it was because he wanted to see how far Red really could be pushed before he lost his always controlled temper.

Red nodded to the bath again with never ending patience.

Damian crossed his arms, wincing as it pulled at one of the smaller gashes, “Are you deaf and mute? I said no. I don’t need a bath.”

“Get in the bath Damian.”

It was Red’s lips that moved, but for some reason, the barrier between Damian’s eyes, ears, and brain tried to remain strong. He had never, not once, been spoken to by Red.The mixture of Red’s odd bought of full presentness and his first words to him that he could remember were enough to shock Damian into doing as he was told.

Red disappeared from the room for a moment, long enough for Damian to undress and climb into the bath. He had no qualms with his modesty around Red, no matter how old he had gotten. Red had been the one to bathe him, dress him and change him for the first few years of his life after all.

It was a few minutes before Red returned with Damian’s favorite pair of pajamas, a first aid kit, and a few wash cloths.

“Wash off the dried blood, but don’t scrub hard enough to reopen closed wounds,” Red instructed, his voice having a stuttering effect on Damian’s brain that only got worse with every word.

When he snapped out of it, Damian was quick to act, taking the washcloth and lathering it with soap so he could wash himself properly. When a bucket of water was dumped over his head, he flinched away, looking up at Red as if he had burned him.

Red only put up his hands as a show of peace and waited for Damian to calm down and move back into place where he could reach him.

With shampoo covering his hands, Red scrubbed away at Damian’s scalp, his fingers catching, massaging and scratching in the perfect way that eased Damian’s nerves. Another bucket was dumped over his head with fresh water untouched by the now grimy and bloodied bathwater, and this time Damian didn’t flinch away. He did, however, wonder how many buckets of water Red had filled for the bath ahead of time.

With the shampooing process over, Red moved on to working conditioner into Damian’s hair in the same way he had the shampoo. When he seemed satisfied, he pulled back to let it sit for a few minutes and grabbed a fresh washcloth instead to clean the deepest wound Damian had acquired in the battle.

It honestly looked worse than it was, and was the only one that would need stitches as it spanned from the center of his shoulder to his peck.

Red washed it as gently as he had done everything else with Damian that evening and applied pressure enough while cleaning to stop the bleeding. With an alcohol wipe and cleaned it even more, not letting up even when Damian flinched. Without warning, a needle and sterile thread started to run through his skin with expert ease and Damian gripped tightly to Red’s arms to not scream.

The stitches were done in a record time, and Red carefully guided him to lean his head back to rest against the rim of the tub. His head was met by a bucket of freezing water, and he tried to jump forward, but Red’s firm hand kept him in place. When he was adjusted enough to the water, Red massaged his scalp and hair until all the conditioner was out.

“Stand up,” Red instructed with a small nudge. With Damian standing, Red dumped a few more buckets of water over his body to completely watch him off, then wrapped him in a towel and lifted him out of the tub.

Damian was horrified when he found himself curing up in Red’s arms into his chest and realized that he was enjoying the nurturing attention of the red assassin.

“You could have gotten badly hurt you know,” Red said, setting Damian down on his bed to dry him off and dress him in his pajamas. He wasn’t scolding, just pointing the facts out.

“I had it under control,” Damian huffed.

“No, you didn’t,” Red said.

Damian looked down, once again finding himself feeling too guilty to meet his teacher’s eyes.

“Why did you get into that fight?” Red asked in a whisper. “Why do you get into any of them? You have nothing to prove to the League.”

“It’s not about the League,” Damian snapped before quickly coming back down. “They say I’m weak. They mock me.”

“Why does it matter what they think?”

“It doesn’t,” Damian balled his fists. “But if they all think I’m weak, what if they tell my grandfather? I know I’m not the perfect child for him. If I fight them, prove I’m stronger than them all,then maybe I can become perfect.”

“You don’t need to be perfect Damian,” Red said.

Damian scoffed, “Easy for you to say.”

“It’s not,” Red shook his head and lifted Damian’s chin with a finger so that he met his eyes. “I may not remember most of my life, but I can remember feelings. I remember how inferior I felt compared to a superior in my past. Someone who’s role I was supposed to fill. I remember how angry and small it made me feel. But above everything else, I was sad.”

“How did you stop feeling like that?” Damian whispered in wonder.

Red smiled, and Damian’s heart stopped. He had never, never, seen Red smile. His mother had claimed Red smiled when he was born, but he had never seen it himself. Despite that, the smile had the same familiar, easing effect that seeing his mother meditate did.

“I realized that the perfect person does not exist, so I should stop wasting my time on trying to be one and just be the best that I could be. I didn’t become better than him, or my adoptive dad, or anyone else around me. I became better than myself,” Red explained. “I’m still becoming better than myself every single day because I have Ms. al Ghul and you. And all you need is us. Not the League and your grandfather.”

“What if I can’t become better than myself?”

“You can. You are. Just by listening to your mother and I, you are becoming better than yourself. But Damian, I need you to hear me when I say, you need to stop trying to be perfect, because the way you are now is more than enough for us. We love every part of you as you are, without you being able to beat assassins twice your size in mortal combat.”

So that’s what I saw in his eyes earlier, Damian thought in awe. Love.

It was all it took for Damian to burst into tears and hug close into the teen’s chest. Red wrapped his arms safely around him and lifted him into his lap.

“What’s wrong Habibi?” Red whispered fearfully. The small pet name his mother called him caused Damian to cry even harder, latching on tightly to the assassin.

“I was dying to hear someone say that I didn’t need to try so hard to be perfect, that I was enough and it was okay,” Damian said, shaking his head.

“It is okay,” Red promised. “Damian, you are great. You are going to do great things. Your mother and I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Damian said, relaxing from his crying fit as quickly as it had come on. “I love you Alwarda.”

“My name is Jason,” Red whispered.

“I love you Jason.”

“I love you too Dami. Let’s get you to bed.”

#damian wayne #jason todd #talia al ghul #league of assassins #assassin!jason #young justice #willow writes

[areyougonnabe]

Gerry Keay learns that the last place a very dangerous Leitner was seen was an international rare book fair in London, just last week. He intimidates the trader into giving him the information of the buyer, and hopes it’s not too late by the time he gets there, he hopes that his mother hasn’t beaten him to it, hasn’t arrived and done something unspeakably awful to the shop owner in order to get her hands on that 17th-century tome, Athanasius Kircher’s Ars magna lucis et umbrae, which Leitner’s catalogue indicated had the power to induce a catastrophic hallucinatory state in the reader. 

When he gets there, prepared to intimidate and bargain and wheedle and terrify his way into possession of the book, his heart falls as he steps in to see a pale, bookish man seated in a chair, the book propped open on his lap. 

“No—!” he yells, panicked, horrified. This is worse than being beaten by his mother, somehow. With that, at least, he could have had somewhere external to direct his anger. But now, the idea that if he’d just been a bit faster, a bit quicker to research, he could have saved this poor man from a ruined mind— there is only one person to blame, and it’s himself. 

And then, as Gerry rushes forward, prepared to see the telltale swirls of distorted light behind the man’s eyes, marking him out as a lost cause, yet another casualty of a Leitner, the man looks up at him. His eyes are clear and blue, utterly and obviously entirely lucid. How the fuck—? 

The man snaps the book shut. “Mr. Keay, I presume,” he says. "Um,” Gerry stammers, and the man smiles kindly and stands up from his chair, holding the book in wide, solid hands. 

Gerry points at the book, trying to regain some sense of his mission. “That book,” he says, and before he can continue the man interrupts, “It’s quite interesting, isn’t it?”

This nearly draws a laugh out of Gerry. Interesting isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe a Leitner tome that has permanently incapacitated six people in the last year. “It’s dangerous,” he says, as seriously as he can. “I don’t know how— look. If it hasn’t already done its damage on you, it’s only a matter of time. It’s got to be destroyed. Please. You’re in danger, as long as you’ve got it with you.” 

The man— who Gerry realizes must be the A.Z. Fell of the store’s marquee, though that hardly seems like a real name a person would have— looks him up and down, with a stare that seems to penetrate to the very heart of him. Gerry feels like he’s being— well. Read, like a book.

“I appreciate your concern,” Fell says, “but I assure you, it’s not needed. A little thing like this could do just as much harm to me as you could.” He smiles, a little twinkly smile wildly at odds with the outlandish implications of his statement. 

“But my mother—” Gerry begins, wondering how he could possibly convey the threat Mary poses to anyone who stands in between her and her precious books. Fell, in his waistcoat and reading glasses, looks like he’d last about five minutes against the fearful torments she’s capable of dishing out, even in her weakened state of undeath.

“Your mother,” says Fell, stern, like a schoolteacher, “is, I’m sure you won’t mind me saying, an utterly horrid woman. She knows very well that she’s not to come anywhere near this bookshop, and the consequences that await her if she should even so much as try.”

“...You know her?” 

He raises his eyebrows. “In this profession, one must be acquainted at least superficially with one’s competition."

Gerry’s eyes are drawn inexorably to the book Fell still holds in his hands. “I don’t want to take it from you by force,” he says, “but I will. If I have to. I’m telling you, it’s no good, I’ve got to destroy it—”

Fell tsks softly, letting his gaze fall to the book as well. “Such a beautiful book,” he says quietly. “A shame, what’s been done to it...”

And now those eyes are on Gerry again, and he feels pinned beneath their weight. He’s suddenly conscious of the dirty blonde roots showing at his scalp, clashing with the black dye above; he’s aware of the holes in his shirt, worn down from constant wear; the pitted acne scars on his face and his crooked teeth. 

But Fell is not looking at him with judgement, not the way his mother did, constantly condescending, rating him short of standard. It’s whatever the opposite of that is— a look of pure acceptance. Pride, even— but how is that possible, when he’s never met this man before in his life—? 

“My dear boy,” says Fell, “you’ve done so very well. I think it’s high time someone told you that.” 

He places the book gently into Gerry’s hands. Gerry is frozen in place for a moment, mind whirring prematurely with plans of how to destroy it (would it respond to flame? Necessitate drowning? Shredding, burying, a single stab to the heart of it?) 

But then Fell snaps his fingers, and the air around them shivers, sings silently like a ringing bell, and the book crumbles cleanly to white ash in his hands. 

Gerry’s seen enough to not question the mechanics of such an act. 

Instead, he asks: “Why?”

Fell smiles now. “You remind me quite a bit of an... associate of mine. Someone who’s done me many a favor over the years. Sentimental of me, I suppose, but I have my vices.”

Gerry finds it hard to believe a man like Fell would associate with someone like him— if Fell were to have a friend, Gerry would imagine them to be another stuffy academic type, not a shabby goth with a sarcastic streak fathoms deep.

"Thank you, sir,” says Gerry, because Mary may have utterly failed to impress up on him her worldview and morality, but she certainly taught him his manners. 

“Oh, please,” says Fell, “call me Aziraphale.” 

He extends a warm hand and Gerry takes it, and mid-handshake something clicks in his mind. A tome in his mother’s library, an ancient and obscure manuscript containing illuminated portraits of the hierarchies of angels— one of the few books with pictures, so naturally one he read over and over as a child. One of the pages rattles around in his head and then settles, coming into focus. A white-robed, sun-haired angel with great white wings, bearing a flaming sword, and underneath it in black ink against gold leaf: The Principality Aziraphale.

Gerry steps back, a bit shocked. Aziraphale sees the flicker of recognition in his eyes and raises a single finger to his lips conspiratorially. 

There’s a moment where Gerry thinks he might do something embarrassing like beg for help, or ask to stay a little longer, here in this wonderfully warm and bright and safe bookshop— but it passes, as his purpose reasserts itself inside of him with the burning force that’s kept him going for so long on his own. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, testing the ancient name on his tongue. “Well. If you ever come across any more Leitners—”

“You’ll be the first to know, you have my word.”

Gerry nods. “I— You— you’ve got a very nice shop.” Aziraphale beams at him. “Best be off, though,” Gerry goes on. He dusts off the last of the white ash that used to be the Leitner from his hands and turns to go.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale understandingly. 

At the door, Gerry pauses, and turns back.

“Your friend,” he says. “The one I remind you of. For your sake, I hope he’s better than me at staying out of trouble.” 

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. “He is trouble.” 

“Much better,” says Gerry, and with that, steps back out into the busy Soho street, and disappears into the crowd. 

#the magnus archives #tma #good omens #my writing #LOVE TO POST FIC AT ONE THIRTY IN THE MORNING #in an act of pure self sabotage

[renaroo]

The Dark Half (2/20)

Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were created by Kevin Eastman & Peter Laird and are owned by Viacom. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Psychological horror, Character death Rating: T   Summary: For years Leonardo has vowed to protect his family, but how is one supposed to protect their family from something that no one can see? And how can you tell whether or not the worst danger to your family is yourself? [TMNT 2k3]

A/N:  So back forever ago when I rewrote the first chapter of this fic I wanted to state it was kind of a side activity, for me, to rewrite story at all. Something to work with on the backburner because it’s already complete and available on my ffn account. But if it wasn’t obvious by the amount of time between updates, this is not a super high priority for me and, worse than that, rewriting something I did when I was 12, as it turns out, takes a LOT more effort and work than I initially thought it would. But good lord lol 

Like most people, I have some unexpected time on my hands recently, so that gave me time for a new swing at chapter 2 and I had a decently good time working on it, so here it is in its glory. 

[[Original Author’s Notes circa 2005] Turtlefreak121: Ah...the smell of a new story fresh out of the oven - gives me that calming sense of accomplishment...like a banana split on Christmas Eve. (crowd looks strangely at TF) Ahem...alright, maybe it's not that big of a deal, but this is my first 'pure' turtle story. Heh heh...nice to lay out the facts. I may sound a little jumpy - that's because I'm probably going to get mauled by an angry reader of Baby Bro for leaving them on such a sour note... (shrugs) What can ya do? Anyway, back to the present!Thanks to: coldsunshin, Scottenkainen, Lunar-ninja, jaunt, and kinguofdoragons.]

Chapter Two: Restless Night

When they made it home, Master Splinter was awake and waiting for them. In some ways, it felt infantilizing, but in other ways, the ways Leonardo usually chose to examine these things, there was a genuine comfort in their father’s persistent guidance.

Usually, anyway.

That night, Leonardo led the explanation of the night’s events with inserted commentary from his brothers which ran the usual gambit from helpful to utterly unhelpful. But the concern for the incident didn’t seem to go anywhere.

“It sounds as though you have done everything within your power to do what is good and correct, my sons,” Splinter had said. “You deserve to rest.”

And that is exactly the advice that everyone followed.

Leonardo had watched as his brothers and even his father packed up and moved to the bed. Everyone in the entire lair other than him.

He tried to follow their leads eventually. There was, after all, nothing from his nighttime routine left. His swords were cleaned and purified. His body was loosened with his warm down exercises. He drank water to hydrate, his alarm was set, his sheets were turned down.

But his aura, it seemed to him, was weakened and unsettled. Unfocused. Unnerved.

There was something more to the night than what had happened even in the playbacks of his mind. Something off and unnatural to the events which haunted him without making themselves so obvious as to be known.

He paced his room, he went through his sleeping routine a second time, and he made a point of checking the lair, just to settle his nerves with the reminded security of their home.

When his head hit his pillow, however, Leonardo was left starring at his brick ceiling once more.

Giving in to the sinking feeling in his stomach, Leo got up again and headed for the stairs.

There was only one person in the family he knew for certain would keep the curious and, quite frankly, embarrassing feelings Leonardo had quiet.

Each step Leonardo took seemed to stretch the walk to Master Splinter’s room even more. It was like trying to reach the light at the end of a never-ending tunnel.

He could always see the light and could almost reach out and touch it, but Leonardo could never quite get there.

After a few moments of dragging his feet, Leonardo stood in the rare silence of his home and put a hand to his head. He screwed his eyes closed and thought to himself, wondering, what exactly it was he was wanting to discuss with his father? What was it that he wanted to accomplish? What was keeping him up late at night?

Compared to so many strange and unusual things in their lives, this was nothing. This was completely useless. A waste of time.

He was upset by the death of two men who had meant less than nothing to him before. Whose lives were arguably not worth the thought, all things considering. At most, they would be footnotes in a territory grab between other fractions in the city.

That aspect was worrisome, especially when the city had been in an all-out war not terribly long before, but it was manageable. It wasn’t something that would affect Leonardo’s family directly soon.

But he was sickened all the same. He just couldn’t figure out why.

Leonardo wasn’t sure what to do when he heard rustling from Splinter’s room. Through the paper walls, he could see a light come on and be carried from one side to the next.

Mind racing, Leo tried to think of a concise explanation to his father why he was standing in the dark, staring at his door, but it was too late by the time Splinter opened his sliding door.

The old rat stood at the entrance of his room, holding a single candle as he looked through the darkness and at Leo directly.

Then, so very peculiarly, Splinter looked from left to right, checking the area. He swung his candle in each direction, never stopping directly on Leonardo again.

Leo couldn’t help himself, he blinked and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

When Splinter stopped his check and faced forward toward Leonardo again, his eyes did not focus on anything in particular. Let alone on Leo. More clearly than ever before, Leo could see that his father had been looking through him somehow before.

It was as if there was no Leo there. Only the darkness of the lair.

Uncertain of how to process the information, Leonardo shuffled back and away from Master Splinter. Away from the light, even if it had done nothing to reveal Leo yet.

When he worked up the energy to at last turn back toward his room, however, he was met with something different. Something frightfully dark, putrid. There was a muskiness to the air as shadows gave way to sharp and moving coiling darkness. The hall led not to bedrooms but onward to endless, caverns and consuming umbrae.

The world disappeared and in its place stood frightfully familiar forgotten passages.

“What is going on?” Leo asked out loud, voice returned in the nothingness.

He turned again, back toward Master Splinter and the home he had just seen with his own eyes, but it was eaten up by disturbing darkness as well.

Heart racing, Leo tried to square himself, ready for attack in the uncertainty.

In the confusion of the moment, he wasn’t sure where he needed to go but he knew movement was his only possible salvation. So he moved, he climbed, he ventured through gnawing and echoing blackness until he could no longer tell when his eyes were open or closed.

Leo had stared so long into the darkness that he felt truly blind.

“This is a dream,” he finally concluded, stopping his stride and taking a breath.

The realization was immediately soothing. He felt as though a great burden had been lifted from him. Dreaming — of course, it had to be dreaming. There was no logic to the fright, to the sights. He was lucid enough to catch the disturbing nature.

And, surely, if he was lucid enough to make the realization, he was more than enough awake to pull himself from a strange nightmare.

Standing still, Leonardo continued his breathing then closed his eyes tightly. As before, there was no difference between the darkness of his dream and the blackness hidden behind his own eyes.

It all changed the moment his eyes were reopened.

But not how Leonardo expected.

He looked at the alley before him. It was nighttime, but the light trickled down to him from the tops of the buildings and from the corner of the alley’s opening. There were bricks and mortar, even a trash bin near him. He could see a manhole cover and the fire escape positioned exactly where he knew they should have been for April’s building.

“What the,” he muttered, backing up and away until there was the soft click of his shell against a hard surface behind him.

Turning around, Leonardo could see the flutter of his mask’s tails fly past him. It was enough to urge him to look down to his person, see that he was fully dressed as if he was out for a patrol. He blinked, head throbbing, and reached with one hand for his aching temple.

His other hand found purchase just over his shoulder, gripping onto the familiar handle of his katana.

When he looked back to what his shell had hit earlier, he saw that it was the backdoor to Second Time Around. And, more than that, it was creaked open.

Considering how late it was, Leo knew it was wrong for the door to be open at all.

Deep within him, something stirred. Coiling angrily around his heart was heat and it wasn’t entirely unwanted.

If there was something wrong with April’s shop, that meant that there was trouble. And where there was trouble, well, dream or no, Leonardo had more than enough reason to unleash on it.

No more hesitation, Leo unsheathed his blades and kicked the door open with a swift, singular motion.

The heat around his chest moved and churned in him, hungry and ready for something Leonardo wasn’t ready to give voice.

He stepped onto the hardwood floors with ferocity in his spirit. It was wrong, everything that was happening was wrong, but Leonardo felt why exactly it was wrong was intangible.

The intangible feeling grew as the slithering, hissing claws of darkness began to warp the vision of April’s store again. The darkness chewed away at the scenery, the silence breaking into a ring of deafening noise.

He rushed in, the heat in his chest much more preferable to the terrifying unknowing he had felt from before.

It was anger, it was thrill, stepping into nauseating satisfaction of breaking and busting and hurting the familiar setting around him.

When he came across the junk on display, watching as it stuck out from the tendrils of blackness like a sore thumb, he smashed and broke it.

Glass clashed against his fists and dresses ripped jaggedly with the edges of his swords.

It felt good. It felt right.

When he came across the large glass central display, he mindlessly used the edge of his sword to scratch into the glass.

The sound of scraping glass momentarily disoriented him and Leo sat back on his haunches.

“Stop,” he said to himself. “Why are you doing this?”

But the darkness never stopped growing. A dream, it had to be.

And if it was a dream, then what was the harm? It was as simple as that.

“Who’s going to stop me?” his voice asked, his lips unmoving. “You?”

It was a ridiculous question to ask oneself. So ridiculous, especially, when it felt as though — when he knew — he had been the one to ask himself. He laughed at it, at the pure insanity of it all, and continued on with his mindless destruction.

And it did feel good. He watched things shatter and break — objects that were no doubt considered priceless to a former owner. He crushed an old collectible figurine then knocked over a dusty coat wrack. He brought a hanging bike down crashing onto the register and felt the glee of it.

“This is wrong,” Leo reminded himself. “If I was awake, it would be so, so wrong to do this.”

He paused and smirked as the shop began to come out of focus, like eyes blearily opening awake. “Yes, it’d be terrible to do this if I was awake.”

Even though Leo was watching himself in motion, he knew where his body was going almost immediately. Toward the back of the store, clear for all customers to see when they first entered, was the prized picture of April’s family hung for all to see. It was there as a testament to the store’s history. Even though it had been burned down and lost once before, it was still something old and handed down. Just like the store’s stock.

Family, history — it meant something.

“It’d be terrible if I was doing this. Wouldn’t it?” Leo asked himself.

He looked down at his forearm taking in the familiar sight of his own green flesh and the definition of his tense muscle. Leo sheathed one katana, then rested the flat side of the blade against his arm.

With a swift motion, Leo cut through the top layer of skin. He could feel the sensation for only an instant — the searing heat that had been fueling him since he entered leaving with a sickening, oozing sensation across his arm. Then he went numb and painfully, painfully cold.

Mesmerized, he watched the trickle of red escaping him, so bright and contrasting to his dark green skin.

Then his body, never seeming to give him time, moved again. He mashed his thumb into the painful wound, searing pain hissing through his body.

When his body strode over to the family portrait, Leo used that red soaked hand to begin pressing and pawing and destroying the image in front of him.

When that wasn’t enough, he began writing.

The longer it went, the less real it began to feel, and Leonardo felt his mind begin to teeter back away from the dark visage that had unfolded before him. The image clouded, the gnawing darkness that had been ever-present in the dream finally eating up the little light he could see.

A whisper followed him into the bleariness halfway between waking and sleeping.

An old voice, more ancient than any Leonardo had once known, whispered into his mind fervently. And together, I said to you once. And together, I say to you again. And together we shall rule the world. All you need, all I need, is for you to sleep. Sleep and I will let you have so much fun. It will be like living in a dream.

Leonardo didn’t wake with a start, didn’t jolt out of his bed.

He opened his eyes and stared into the quiet nothing of his room. It wasn’t the blackness of nothing he had been staring into like the void. It was his room, in the dark. A familiar and not altogether unwelcoming sight.

There was some sweat at his brow which he wiped at with one arm, flinching slightly at a sting he felt when he did so. But he didn’t do much else.

He laid in bed and tossed to his other side, vaguely uncomfortable. Despite having only just woke up, he was exhausted. So he closed his eyes and drifted off again.

***

With a turn of her keys, April unlocked the front door of the shop. She turned and faced Casey, pushing the door open so they could walk in together.

It had been a rare, quiet night for them, kept far away from the noise and nonsense that usually followed their unusual lives and, especially, their unusual adopted family. And she would have never had such a night to herself had it not been for Casey’s encouragement, if not full insistence that they do so.

“Thanks, Casey,” she said as she looked down at her shoes. Despite herself, she always managed to go slightly pigeon-toed in her nervousness, the points of her red heels nearly touching. “I mean it, for everything.” When she dared to look up, she found her date smiling back.

He always managed to put a smile on her face more easily than anyone else.

Fishing in her purse for her favored pocket, April began to deposit her keys securely.

Casey slicked back his hair again, in that nervous way he seemed to do. His smile dropped into unadulterated nervousness. “It was the dinner,” he concluded from nothing. “Man, I knew I shoulda made reservations at that stupid Chinese—“

“No, really, Casey,” April laughed. “I’m not being sarcastic. I really had a good time. I like Italian, and the movie was great. The park was great.”

Before April could walk much further into her shop, however, Casey’s large hands grabbed her shoulders and held her back. April felt herself be pulled flush to his chest and she was momentarily confused.

“Did you leave the backdoor open?” Casey asked in hushed tones, nodding to the other side of the shop.

“Of course not,” April whispered back. But, of course, the door to the alley was open, letting in the pale moonlight and illuminating reflective glass on the floor. “Oh, god, my shop.”

“Maybe it’s the guys,” Casey muttered, twisting himself around April and putting her between him and the known safe door they had come through. He groped around in the darkness until his hands found purchase on something hardwood and he pulled it up like a bat. “Just in case, though.”

“That’s an umbrella, Casey,” April informed him before securely walking over to the wall and pulling off an antique cavalry sword she had hung up only a few days prior.

“Hey, you’ve heard Master Splinter,” Casey shrugged. “Anything’s a weapon in the hands of a monster.”

“Master,” April corrected. She sighed and shook her head. “Okay, if there was an element of surprise we’ve lost it, I’m turning on the lights.”

She reached for the switch and flipped it, only to receive an ominous click. She frowned and attempted again — off then on — and received the same lightless response. “That’s funny,” April muttered. “The power must be out.”

“Or cut,” Casey offered.

When April turned to face Casey, she saw from the corner of her eye something darker than even the shadows of the store move. It nearly made her jump and, considering Casey did jump, he must have seen it as well.

The couple looked at each other curiously, but silent. They knew that the turtles had enemies, and it wasn’t unheard of for those enemies to attempt to make easy targets out of either April or Casey. It was best to stay calm, alert, and quiet until they had a better grasp of what was happening.

At least, that was April’s take on it.

“It’s totally Raph, he knew I was taking you out tonight,” Casey grunted. “Maybe Mikey, he’d totally break something.”

“Casey, hush,” April shushed him, going so far as to put her hands over his mouth for emphasis.

He muttered around her hands, childishly, but it was muffled enough that they both could hear an eerie dripping noise from the blackest shadows of the store.

“Okay, c’mon, guys,” Casey burst out, grabbing April’s wrists to pull her hands away from his mouth. He looked toward the darkened store. “This ain’t funny anymore!”

April looked to see that the light just outside the door was on and it clicked in her mind that the power wasn’t cut as Casey suspected. She then glanced at the large neon open sign in her window.

Pulling herself free from Casey, April stepped back over to the light switch and flipped it again. She didn’t flip for the indoor lights, however, just for the sign, which immediately shown with a brilliant glow, lighting up the shop behind it.

With more of the shop lit up, April and Casey could both see the ruin which had been left by the intruder. Hanging instruments were on the ground, a bike smashed through the main display, fabric slashed, glass cracked and strewn around.

It was enough to make April gasp, her lip quiver. She worked so hard on her store, worked with so much pride.

Casey was already on the move. He stepped over the left display window with cautious, slow steps. He was gripping the umbrella tightly as he felt around the darkness.

“On the right,” April directed him toward the display’s plugin.

“There’s something sticky over here,” he informed her. “The open sign’s not strong enough this far out, can’t see what it is.”

“If you plug in the display lamps, we’ll be able to get a clearer assessment,” April coaxed. She walked closer herself, daring to examine her destroyed retail. She held the cavalry sword in her hands. “Casey, we saw something move, we need to get the lights on—“

“Got it,” Casey said and, with a click, the display lamps began to light up, a good number of them flickering and buzzing from damage.

Once more of the store was lit, April put a hand over her mouth and held back a gasp.

The damage was worse than she had hoped, but that seemed like such a small thing compared to the true horrors of the scene. Everything, particularly the countertops, was bloody.

Casey got to his feet almost immediately and looked down at his hand to see the thick, dark blood on him. He looked back to April worriedly.

“Oh my god, what happened here?” April whispered in awe. A cold chill ran through her body as the words escaped her.

She was mesmerized and, yet, she also wasn’t sure she wanted to know, that she could have accepted whatever evils had taken hold of her store.

All the same, she looked to the aisles where their moving shadow had appeared and saw, to her relief, nothing. Perhaps her mind had been playing tricks on her. But, then again, Casey had acted like he saw it, too. Whatever it was.

Her mind raced with possible answers, but they all came back to the most likely scenario.

“Casey, we need to check on the guys,” she said, beginning to walk around the store and inspect the damage closer up. “This is a lot of blood. Maybe something happened tonight and they haven’t called us yet.”

“God, let’s hope not,” Casey muttered, wiping his blood-covered hand off on his pants before fishing a shell cell from his pocket. Long before he said a word, April could take a guess of who was first on his list to call. “Hey, Raph!”

There were some unkind sounding words thrown out on the other side of the phone, but April had wandered far enough through the store that she missed the specifics. She looked down and noticed a pool of the dark blood, like it had been settled for a while. And out from it were red splatters against the hardwood — the drips from before? But then how could the blood look so coagulated and darkened already?

Had she been seeing things or not?

“You mean you’re in bed right now?” Casey asked, putting the umbrella down on the counter. “How long? Did you guys get into something tonight? Come by the store?” He paused then, earnestly asked. “Okay but are all of you in bed?”

April followed the drips of blood, only nominally taking in the conversation between Casey and Raphael. As she did so, she found herself reaching the wall, where even more blood had pooled.

“Yeah, someone trashed the store, looks like someone got their butts handed to them.” Casey walked in a tight circle. “No, I mean someone got hurt it looks like. Wanted to make sure it was none of you.”

When April looked up the wall, her heartfelt as though it dropped out of her chest, plunging into her stomach with a cold splash. She covered her mouth with her free hand and let out a choked cry.

“April!?” Casey yelled in alarm, immediately rushing to her side.

Even at a distance, Raphael’s voice carried in a harsh, “What’s going on over there!?”

Turning her gaze from the wall to the counter, April couldn’t help the sting of tears that reached her eyes. Her family portrait, her store, everything defaced with some sickening message.

“Christ,” Casey muttered, coming up behind April and comfortingly putting his hand on her shoulder. “Raph, listen, I know it’s late, but you guys need to come here immediately.”

***

“Sure thing, we’ll be right there!” Raphael yelled back into his shell cell before hanging up.

As groggy as he had been when he first got the call from Casey, by the time it ended Raphael had been in full motion. He was put together and had his sai in holsters before he was out the door.

Outside of his room, two of his three brothers were already up and dressed to leave. Michelangelo and Donatello both had expressions that ranged from concerned to exhausted, but there was no doubt that they had overheard Raphael’s expressive conversation over the phone with Casey.

“What’s going on?” Don asked, tightening the tails of his mask.

“Something bad’s gone down at April’s store while they were out,” Raph growled, already making his way to the stairs. “Casey said we needed to head over immediately.”

“Yikes,” Mikey uttered, leaping athletically ahead of Raph like it was a competition.

Notably, though, Don hung back. “Hey,” Don called, drawing Raph and Mike’s attention back to him and the hallway. Don’s face was drawn down into a frown. “Where’s Leo?”

When they looked around, the air felt stilted and strange.

Leo wasn’t there. But his room was closer to Raphael’s than Don’s room was. Not to mention, their fearless leader was a notoriously light sleeper — arguably more difficult to sneak past than their constantly alert father.

“Weird, think he’s okay? He was kinda acting weird earlier,” Mike noted, tapping on his chin in thought. “Maybe he was coming down with something.”

“Hey, what part of immediately do you guys not get?” Raph asked, pushing past Mikey to continue down the stairs. “Let him get his beauty sleep for all I care.”

“Now, hold on,” Don argued, walking back down the hall and toward Leo’s door. “He’s going to want to be there if it’s something serious, Raph.”

“Again, for all I care,” Raph grumbled, but he had come to a complete stop already. He crossed his arms and theatrically tapped his foot in wait. “Just hurry, won’t ya?”

Don waved off Raphael’s comment before knocking on the door. “Hey, Leo? Leonardo! I’m coming in.”

Their brainy brother followed through and continued talking, his words more muddled with walls between them. If Raphael had initially cared more about the specifics of their conversation, he might have paid slightly more attention, but for the time being, he couldn’t have cared less.

“What do you think he was dreaming about?” Mikey asked, bouncing on his feet. “Had to be dreaming and snoozing pretty deeply to not overhear your racket, Raph.”

“I don’t care,” Raph huffed. “I just know I’m gonna leave both of them of they don’t hurry up.”

There was a lull in the conversation as whatever was happening in Leo’s room picked up. It was enough to make Raph and Mike glance at each other in mutual concern.

Don’s head popped back out and he looked frazzled. “Hey, guys, you go ahead, we’ll meet up with you at April’s. Won’t take us long.”

“What? Why?” Raph demanded.

“Thought you didn’t care,” Mike whistled, earning the punch to the shoulder Raph gave.

“Leo had some kind of accident or something. It’s not…” Don hesitated, then waved at them. “I’m just going to take care of it. Don’t want it to get infected or something.”

“Infected?” Mikey asked, face scrunched up.

“What the hell did he do exactly?” Raph snapped.

“We don’t know, just, get to April’s, they said it was immediate, right?” Don said, ducking back into Leo’s room and disappearing from sight.

Michelangelo crossed his arms and tilted his head. “This is the weirdest night we’ve had in a while, isn’t it?”

“God, don’t jinx us,” Raph grouched before grabbing onto the top of Mike’s shell and dragging him along. “Now, c’mon. If Don’s got whatever’s going on with fearless leader, more power to him. But I ain’t leaving April and Casey hanging when they ask for our help directly.

“Fair, I guess,” Mikey responded, though he wasn’t sounding particularly convinced. “Hey, did you hear Leo talking in his sleep earlier?”

Raph glanced back at him only momentarily as he unlocked the sewer gate. “No. I was happily asleep before Casey called. Why?”

Shrugging, Mikey attempted to seem calm and collected, but there was a hint of something unsettled in him. Uncertain. “It was just weird. Like it was definitely Leo but, I don’t know.”

“What’d he say?” Raph asked over the echo of their footsteps through the cold tunnel.

“He was just talking in the third person or something,” Mikey explained. “Never heard him do that before. Never heard him talk in his sleep before either.”

Giving it only a passing thought, Raph frowned. “Yeah, me neither,” he admitted. “Now shut up, we’ve got April and Casey to worry about.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Michelangelo attempted to joke, but his heart wasn’t in it.

The rest of their run was eerily silent.

#TMNT #Leonardo #Master Splinter #Turtlefreak121 #April O'Neil #Casey Jones #Raphael #Michelangelo #Donatello #turtle fic #TMNT: The Dark Half

[nerdybubblebee]

Transcendent

Chapter 1: Once Upon A Dream

Chapter Summary:

A new life, a new reality, a new world, a new start. Thus, begins our tale of two  souls, destined to find one another to rekindle a love that was forged many, many years before their time. Will this love story unfold as it should? Will two strangers be able to fall for one another? Or will they flee from their fates?

Ao3 link here: Prologue. Chap 1.

Enjoy~ I hope this cheers people up after the prologue hehe :) 

Credits of the mood board go to @midqueenally. Couldn't have made it without your help~

“Oh, bugger.”

His elbow connected with a paintbrush lying on its side, sending it toppling head first over the edge of his workbench. Its bristles were still wet with paint as it plummeted through the air, coming to land on the floor with a clatter. Reaching down to grab his trusty paint brush, a bright splash of colour caught the painter's attention. On its way down, the brush had streaked a line of orange across the blank canvas that was propped up against the leg of his easel. The orange paint adorning the canvas conjured up a vision of fire, flashing through his mind.

Scorching Dragonfire.

He needed to paint.

Lifting the canvas from the ground, he set it on his easel. Uncapping his paints, he squirted several dollops of them onto his well-used palette. Settling himself upon his familiar stool, he picked up his brush, moistening its tip with water before dipping it in the paint and set to work.

As a prodigal artist, Jon had been painting all his life. Strokes came easily, almost naturally as his mind wandered freely through his imagination. His mother used to say that he was born with a paintbrush in his hand and given some paint, he could create pictures that captivated everyone that laid eyes on them. When he was a child, no more than seven, a number of his art pieces had even been displayed in art galleries and sold for extremely high prices. All he needed was some paint, his trusty brush and his hands would do the rest. He simply smiled every time Catelyn Stark would gush about his achievements at such a young age to her friends. Those were moments when he felt so glad to stand out for once from his five siblings who all had an artistic, scholarly talent of some kind. Nowadays though, he preferred the anonymity more, selling his work mainly online through his shop to anyone around the world who wanted to buy them.

Besides his artistic gift, he was born with a unique quirk - the ability to lucid dream. Since he was old enough to remember, his nights were plagued with dreams of a life he never lived. Or at least he thought so. How could he have? The images and words that appeared in his sleep were nonsensical almost. Words, and sentences, meaninglessly circulating in his head. They were too outrageous.

As a boy, he saw himself training outside in a castle courtyard, alone, training on a dummy with a wooden sword. That image of the lone boy who looked like him always filled him with loneliness. As he grew older, he saw glimpses of himself wielding a real sword, hacking at the gruesome zombie-like creatures, cutting them down. He saw himself scaling a wall of ice. He saw himself riding on the back of an emerald green fire-breathing dragon.

He told his parents about them but they always shrugged it off and said it was just his overactive imagination. They all felt so real to him as if he were transported out of his body in his sleep and plonked into a medieval world. His dreams were uncanny but his nightmares were things of terror. During his nightmares, he saw himself being stabbed repeatedly. It was so real that he felt the pain of each stab to his torso and the last one to the heart. He felt his life slip away, as his blood seeped into the snow under him and he succumbed to the cold embrace of death. For a long while, there was only darkness. Until, he awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat and heaving. Instinctively, his palms drifted to his chest, searching for the seven distinct stab wounds that marred his body in his dreams. There would be none, expect a dull ache beneath his crescent-shaped birthmark above his heart. Every nightmare was the same. All he saw was his death. How could something so horrific be real?

He had no inkling why he had these dreams. Nonetheless he knew he had to do something, something to remember them by. A voice in his mind and heart told him these dreams were of crucial importance. So, he did what he did best. He painted them all since he was a boy. The collection grew from scrap pieces of paper, to sketch pads to canvases that currently lined the walls of his art studio. He kept them all. Over time, he even began incorporating some of the things he saw in these fleeting dreams into his regular art pieces. His customers seemed to love them quite a bit.

Lately, his dreams have evolved somewhat, to include someone new. He saw a woman. He didn’t know her name, but she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Every part of her was, from her silver hair to her piercing purple eyes, her plump peach pink lips and smooth alabaster skin.

It was like looking through a window into an alternate reality. He would see the man who wore his face with this beautiful lady. They were so happy together, so in love. The utter adoration that shone in the king’s eyes for his queen filled Jon with awe. It felt almost intrusive, watching their intimate moments, sharing stolen kisses in alcoves of their castle, holding each other in bed as they drifted off to sleep. Would he ever get to experience a love like that in real life? A love so deep, so pure, so strong that it survived through so many losses and wars.

Would he get to meet his own true love? Jon wondered as he added the finishing touches to his painting. True love in this day and age? In a world so full of cynicism and hatred? It's a nice notion but reality is rarely that generous. A love so sweet would most likely be too good to be true.

With each stroke of his brush, his vision of black and red came into creation, fearsome and monstrous.

Drogon.

Adding some black to the golden amber pupils of his mythical creation, the painting was complete. Dunking his paintbrush into the jug of water by his easel, Jon sat back on his stool to appraise his work.

The black dragon with accents of red upon the ridges on his back and the underside of his wings hovered in mid-air with fire spewing from his gaping jaws against a backdrop of white snow and ice, his red-hot flames ploughing through a hoard of dead soldiers, incinerating them to dust.

It looked pretty good if he could say so himself, a near perfect recreation of his dream. With a pleased nod, he reached over to grab the can of fixation spray and sprayed a thin coat over the surface of the painting.

“There,” Jon exclaimed.

His phone rang just then, breaking the silence of his studio. Dipping his fingers into his pocket, he retrieved the vibrating, jingling device. Looking at the caller ID, Jon smiled.

“You’re up early for once little sis. Who are you and what have you done with Arya Stark?” Jon couldn’t help teasing his wild child of a sister. “And on a Sunday no less? You didn’t have a late night?”

“You know I did. But honestly, Jon. Can’t a girl ever be awake at a reasonable hour?” He could hear her annoyance through the phone.

Chuckling, Jon clamped his phone between his shoulder and ear as he placed the cap over his glass jar. He would have to tip out the water later on. “Sure you can. But we both know that a reasonable hour for you starts at noon. Given it’s Sunday, this must have something to do with our mum.”

Arya groaned. “Can’t believe she wants us to go for brunch at this hour. Midday won’t be here for another two hours.”

“It’s good to spend time with the family.” Jon simply shrugged. She couldn’t see it but it came as a natural reaction. “Play nice with mum okay?”

A drawn-out groan came for the other end. Jon imagined Arya having her face stuffed into her pillow. Her eventual grunt and begrudging ‘fine...’ in his ear from the other end of the line enticed a chuckle out of him.

His little sister was a free-spirited, strong-willed young lady. Like all the other children in his family, Arya had a talent as well. Hers was closest to his. She was a part-time freelancing wall mural artist with a knack of graffiti art. Her ideal time to do her work was late in the night. According to her, that’s when her mind is the most active and creativity came easiest. Her current project was a street art gallery. A gallery in the laneways behind buildings where no one usually traversed in hopes that it would encourage people to explore their city more.

“Anyway.... on to more pleasant topics.” Jon heard Arya clear her throat. “I’ll be coming over to Paris in a bit!”

“That’s great! When will you be here?” Jon was delighted. Ever since he decided to move from London to Paris to bask in the culture in the vibrant city of love, he hadn’t seen his family in quite some time now.

Arya hummed, thinking when she could leave her gallery which was very much still a work in progress. “We’ll have to see when we get done with more murals. Iris and I thought it’d be fun to have a short break before we launch officially. Somewhere not too far away from home. So, I suggested Paris! It shouldn’t be long now, we have a few more walls to cover.”

“That’s awesome, Arya! I have no doubt you’ll do a great job.” His baby sister utilizing her dream and talent for good he couldn’t be prouder of her. He couldn’t curb the well of emotions gurgling, welling up to push at his ribs, puffing up his chest. His baby sister was growing up so fast. “I’ll give you the biggest hug you’ve ever received as a reward when I see you.”

“A hug? That’s it? Thanks so very much.”

“Hey, didn’t you once say I gave the best hugs?”

“I was five and in desperate need of comfort after scraping the skin off my knee from tumbling down a hill.”

The siblings laughed together for a few moments before a deep sigh filled Jon’s ear. “I wish you were here though. It’s less fun without you. I miss you, dear brother.” His sister muttered quietly into the receiver.

“I miss you too. I can’t wait for you to get here.”

After saying a quick goodbye to his sister, Jon hung up and headed to his kitchen. Time to get on with his day. First on his agenda, breakfast. An omelette or maybe a sandwich with coffee. Tugging open the metallic door of his fridge, Jon peered inside. “Well....” The fridge was desolately empty, only a lone sad lemon, a bottle of milk that had probably gone bad, condiments and the like, occupied the space. He’d been so busy with his orders lately, groceries were the last thing on his mind. “Cafe down the street it is then.”

Burlap shopping bag now stuffed full with groceries for the week and his breakfast purchased, still warm to the touch, Jon made his way back home. The advantage of living just above a market street meant there was food all around, easily accessible. You just had to step outside. Shifting the bag from one arm to the other, he retrieved his breakfast from its makeshift paper home before taking a hearty bite. The flaky pastry crumbled in his mouth, coating his taste buds with an explosion of rich buttery flavour. Monsieur Seaworth, as the baker liked to call himself, made pastries that tasted like heaven in every bite.

“Jon. Jon Snow.”

Pausing mid-munch, Jon glanced to his right. A lady was standing on the curb outside the fortune teller shop. A chill swept up his spine at the peculiar grin quirking at her lips.

“Umm... My name is Jon yes, but it’s not Snow. It’s Stark.”

The lady took a step onto the cobblestone road, unhindered by his words. “I know your dreams, Jon Snow. I know the things you see every night in your sleep.”

A torrent of goose bumps rose to attention all over his body. Who was this lady? He stood frozen on the spot and his mouth went dry as his stomach began to pitch and roll. How could someone know when he never, ever revealed that part of himself to anyone?

“She has come, Jon. She is here, very close by.” Lifting her arm, she pointed a slender finger in the direction of the bustling market up the slope. “The woman that you see in your dreams.” The strange lady in red spoke, taking another step forward. Jon gulped, recoiling slightly at the quickly diminishing gap between them. The lady kept walking still. Peering at Jon with unblinking eyes, she glided closer and closer toward him, completely unperturbed by the filth and grime staining the ends of her swishing velvet dress that trailed along the ground as she moved.

“Find her, Jon Snow.Go to the place where many people traverse and sell their wares.” The fortune teller implored. Now standing directly in front of him, Jon could see an unnerving gleam in her eyes. Her voice had an oddly serene tone about it almost as if she were reciting, reciting some sort of cryptic prophecy aloud. “You need to find her. You need to make her believe you.”

“Believe? In what...?”

“She won’t believe you until you show her. Show her your paintings.”

As her next words tumbled from blood red her lips, his half-eaten croissant slipped from his slackened grip and landed onto the cobblestone with a mute thump. Jon’s heart leapt into his throat and his blood lost its warmth.

“Show her your dreams.”

Dun dun dunnnn hehe. See ya next time! Thanks for reading!

#iceandfiresource #jonerysevents #jonerys fic #jonerys fanfic #jonerys #jonerys modern au #jonerys fluff #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #jon snow x daenerys targaryen #got fanfiction

[faierius]

In His Shoes (27. Lost Souls)

Chapter Twenty (Once, There was Happiness)

Chapter Twenty-One (Intermission with Intent)

Chapter Twenty-Two (Of No Consequence)

Chapter Twenty-Three (Loss of Self)

Chapter Twenty-Four (Voices in the Dark)

Chapter Twenty-Five (Blood Frost)

Chapter Twenty-Six (Who We Are)

               Ignis’ panic-fueled lead foot brought them to the forest in record time. Not a single word passed between them after they left Lestallum—there was no need. They knew where they were going, and what they had to do.

               Heading into the forest, side by side, felt like a death march. Silent, Grim. Darkness falling fast. Even the birds and insects seemed to know the situation was dire and watched on silently.

               Together, Gladio and Ignis trudged through the overgrown grass and flora.  When dusk became too heavy, they switched on their lights. Though nothing followed them, and no otherworldly voices spoke to them, they could sense they weren’t entirely alone out here. And when they reached a clearing, that sense only grew stronger.

               The last shred of daylight disappeared beyond the trees as two viscous puddles of black and purple bubbled out of the grass. Daemon portals. From the portals rose lanky humanoid figures, clad in dark, elaborately embroidered kimono. Long, dimensionless black hair sprouted from their heads in ponytails, bound by leather bands. They both held gently curved swords almost the same length as they were tall.

               “I’ve never seen this type in female form,” Ignis whispered, taking in the distinctive features of the Ronin. The one on the right, the female, wore her kimono hanging off one shoulder, the bandages binding her chest yellowed with age and stained. She shared the same blank face as all the other of her type, save for a puckered scar in place of her left eye.

               Her counterpart, the male, was identical to every other Ronin, with the exception of a missing arm.

               “These ones have been around the block, Iggy. Be careful.” Calling on Prompto’s arsenal, Gladio summoned his Auto Crossbow.

               “You, too.” Flexing his hand, Ignis pulled Noctis’ sword.

               The daemons regarded the men without moving. They held their swords at their sides, watching, studying. These daemons were showing how different they were to their clan type. Instincts were not all these beasts acted on, it seemed.

               Different.

               Ignis’ brow twitched. “Excuse me?”

               “Uh, these things don’t normally talk to us before we kill ‘em.”

               Ignis raised his hand a stepped forward. “What do you mean?” he asked.

               Like us.

               The eerie, windy whispers whipped about them like a gust preluding a storm.

               Save them.

               Kill us.

               End it.

               Both Ronin sank into defensive stances, their blades at the ready.

               Ignis and Gladio mirrored the daemons.

               A tense moment passed. No one moved, no one breathed, no one so much as blinked. The world was frozen. Until the female made a move. Faster than any human, she rushed Ignis and spun, whipping her sword around in a wide arc. In the last second, Ignis brought his own sword up to counter. Steel caught steel, clashing noisily in the otherwise soundless clearing. The strength of the blow caught Ignis off-guard and he had to adjust his stance to utilize Noctis’ strength. He couldn’t fight the same way he always did, or they would both end up dead.

               Twisting, he shoved the Ronin’s blade back and immediately attacked the beast’s exposed side. A deep slice opened in its purpled flesh. It howled, sliding one sandal-clad foot out and dropping low to put power into an upswing.

               Noctis’ body wasn’t quite as agile or flexible as his own, but Ignis jumped, twisting his body in an evasive move. The blade swept harmlessly past him and gave him another opening to attack. As the edge of his sword cut a hole through fabric and flesh, he vaguely wondered if he could warp as Noctis did. Though he wasn’t sure how, there was only one way to learn.

               Using the same method he utilized to master the armiger, Ignis visualized his results, concentrated, and went for it. Thrusting his arm forward, he let the natural magic in Noctis’ body take over. The air condensed around him, blue energy pulsed at the edges of his vision, and an invisible force yanked him to his destination. Gravity seemed to suspend itself briefly and he hovered in the air above the Ronin for a split second before falling back to Eos. A downward strike of his sword cut deep, sending the daemon reeling.

               While it was disoriented, he moved in to shower it with a barrage of close-quarter attacks. Behind him, Gladio was trying to stay as far out of his opponent’s reach as possible. The quiet thump of arrows lodging in flesh could barely be heard over the sword fight happening simultaneously.

               Gladio grunted, hefting the oversized piece of machinery and unleashing another volley of bolts. The Ronin was beginning to look like a relative of a cactuar. The bolts were as effective as he hoped, however, and he switched over to Prompto’s regular pistol. He knew what to expect from his one training session with the weapon, but the kickback from the weapon was still difficult to compensate for. The first two shots went wide, but after getting himself under control, he peppered the monster’s torso with bullet holes. Black ooze leaked from the wounds.

               Past the noise and the flash of each fired shot, Gladio had no trouble keeping the target in sight. And he was able to keep far enough away that each time the Ronin swung its long sword, it missed by a laughable distance. But it was fast, despite its missing arm. It spun and twirled its blade with ease and closed distances with alarming speed.

               Gladio’s footwork didn’t hold a candle to that of a monster like this. The edge of the Ronin’s sword opened a slice from his elbow to his shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he used the daemon’s proximity to his advantage. Lifting his gun, he fired three shots, point-blank, into the monster’s gnarled, featureless face.

               Gore showered Gladio, coating him in that same black ooze that seemed to create the daemons. Soundlessly, the Ronin dropped to his knees, then over onto his side, tendrils of black and purple coming out of the ground to reclaim its body.

               Without stopping to tend his wound, or clean some of the slime from his face, Gladio quickly found Ignis and rushed to his side. He reached him just as the female Ronin disappeared into whatever otherworldly void they came from.

               “They wanted to die,” Ignis said, staring at the ground.

               “Definitely a first,” Gladio replied with a nod, flexing his injured arm. It could wait to be patched.

               Ignis’ borrowed blue eyes found his, bright with adrenaline. His gaze dropped, seeing the blood running down Gladio’s arm. “Are you okay?”

               He never had a chance to answer as a wail, mournful and broken, filled the night air.

               “This is it, Iggy.”

               “Ready?”

               “As I’ll ever be.”

               The ground shook as a massive black puddle formed before them. The creature they knew as Tuudoh pulled itself from the darkness.

               Gladio took a deep breath. “Noct, Prompto, even if you guys can’t hear me wherever you are, please be safe. Love you idiots.”

               “I second that,” Ignis replied next to him.

               Tuudoh stared down at them, its twisted, shifting features the stuff of nightmares. Pain and anguish rang clear, however. With a scream loud enough to rumble the dirt beneath their feet, it attacked.

 ***

                Tears fell in earnest down Prompto’s cheeks. Pain not his own gripped his chest as he absorbed the remainder of Eyoralin’s existence. In her brother’s lucid moments, they helped people. Made the world safer. But Timorea fell into his other self with increasing frequency. Though she felt a tug of familiarity with his destruction, Eyoralin could no recall any of her past lives. Not until the Starscourge finally claimed them.

               “He succumbed quickly after we left Insomnia,” she told him. “It has always been in our veins, a product of our father’s sacrifice lifetimes ago.”

               “What happened to Thanra? Beto? The…your baby?” Prompto swiped his hands over his eyes. She hadn’t shown him their fates despite the other gruesome sights she bestowed upon him.

               Eyoralin bit her lip, looking more a scared young woman than the centuries-old soul she was. This pain was still fresh in the scope of her long life.

               “At first I thought they were both dead. It wasn’t until Timorea’s next shift I realized I was wrong. I wished they were dead when I saw those daemons. Beto, always the same. Always a masterless wanderer carrying a sword. Thanra…jumps. Her soul is part of mine, impossible to kill unless I die as well. She just kinds a new host if her current one is destroyed. Rarely does it resemble her last human form.” Eyoralin’s jaw twitched as she clenched her teeth. Lifting her head, she met Prompto’s eyes and offered him a soft smile. “Thank you for giving her some solace in her last host.”

               Shaking his head, Prompto frowned. “I don’t understand.”

               “She sensed him in you. Just as I do.” Extending her hand, she placed her palm against Prompto’s chest. Warmth spread through his body.

               Prompto’s eyes widened as he searched Eyoralin’s face. “Every lost soul needs a home. Its why I told my story to you.”

               Swallowing hard, he took Eyoralin’s hand and pulled her into a hug. “Let us help you. We can end your suffering.”

               She shook her head against his shoulder but didn’t resist the embrace. “I can’t. Timorea has gained strength, and once I release you, I’ll go back to that first version of myself I showed you. A monster.”

               “This is what we do. We can kill Tuudoh.”

               “No one can kill Tuudoh.”

               “We can. We’ll free you, I promise. Just let me go.”

               Tears sprang to Eyoralin’s eyes as she clutched his shirt. “All I can do is release you into the Void.”

               “What does that mean?”

               “I’ll be serving you up to Timorea on a platter.”

               “Then do it.”

               Inhaling a deep breath, she sat up. She held his gaze for a long while before putting her hand to Prompto’s forehead. “I’m sorry.”

               Though he couldn’t speak, he forgave her in his heart as everything shifted into a world of black, empty nothingness. The Void.

#writing #ffxv #fanfiction #ignis #gladio #prompto #noctis #gladnis #promptis #fighting #combat #violence #what a twist #its a subtle twist #body swap #faierius writes #in his shoes

[kurtty-drabbles]

“Please don’t leave me here.” (Fem!yandere Kurt, per our messaging)

N/A: This is sort based in the anime/manga Revolutionary Girl Utena.

@djinmer4

In Xavier´s school there a rumour that flies around among the students. If you, according to the said rumour, find the rare gem in this world you can do anything and any wish and desire are in your reach.

Kitty wasn´t the one to believe in such tales(a hypocrisy on her part since she vows to be a prince as gallant and amazing as Prince Quill, who once saved Kitty when she a merely child) but once she did found Cassandra Wagner, a woman who carries as much mystery as pet animals with her, Kitty´s life change.

“Finally, I won” Shaw Sebastian´s voice is echoing through the ballroom such is his victory and his own ecstasy that he doesn´t mind the fact the mirrors are showing a distorted image of his own reflection or that Kitty´s body lays dead on the floor.

“Finally, I´ll have my wish, right, my dear Cassandra” Shaw spot the blue woman with a sadistic gleam in his eyes. Cassandra for her part, just look at the scene in front of her with vibrated golden eyes.

Cassandra´s reaction wasn´t what Shaw was hoping for.

“Is the rules of the game, who kill the knight can get the princess, Kity knew this since the begin …but the fool was too caught up in saving you to realize her chance…now, I want you to grant my wish”

Cassandra ignores him and goes to where Kitty is. Her outfit is a rattle from the battle and the blood is still fresh and warm. Is not a pretty sight.

“Cassandra, forget about the past, let´s focus on a future together” Cassandra looks at Kitty´s lifeless form and back to Shaw.

“Yes, you are right, let´s focus on the future together, you did win the battle” this pleased Shaw greatly, but it was a momentarily as the mirrors are broken and each piece of glass are now piercing his body (with extreme violence, ironic enough, it was in the same violence he did with Kitty)

Cassandra´s mishappen hands open and the pieces who are in Shaw’s body are now on her control and are levitating the man as he was a mere ragdoll. The blue woman looks at Kitty one last time.

“I´m so sorry, I thought he was weak, I thought you could defeat him…I´m so sorry” Cassandra looks penitent “ but I´ll fix that, I promise” there´s a crestfallen expression direct to Kitty, and only her.

Now looking at Shaw and his utter confusion with irksome.

“Your wish is as pathetic as the others, you humans are disgusting, force me to be in this plane to satisfy our selfish needs” her eyes are red and blood is dropping from Shaw´s body as his screams echoes in the room. “Shut UP, the only joy I have in this pathetic world is her…and according to the game, you win and I can grant a wish to you and I can also grant a wish to me”

Her smile is really sadistic and cruel.

“You want to a place where your talents will be appreciated? How about Limbo? The dire wrath is always needing food and you, Shaw, would make an excellent appetizer” Shaw start screaming that this wasn´t what he wanted, but Cassandra is not in the right mind to negotiate.

“Shaw…I don´t play fair, I´m a demon…you should know that, but rest assured, in exchange of your pathetic life…I´ll use your energy to bring Kitty back to life”

“But…that isn´t part of the game,” Shaw said in desperate tone trying to escape his doom, only in vain.

“Shaw, if your pathetic energy isn´t enough to bring her back…I´ll kill every single student of this school until I can have her back” Her smile is anything but sweet or kind(revealing her fangs) as Shaw finally face his damnation.

Kitty Pryde never believes in magic or anything of sorts, however, she firmly believes in justice and to be kind to others so when she saw Shaw abusing Cassandra, her body acts on its own.

Kitty Pryde wants to be a prince and save someone. Did she save someone? Is she the real prince in the story?

As her doe-brown eyes slowly open revealing that she is in her room, Lockheed is by her side sleeping as well. As she sits down on her bed a blue figure is easily spotted.

Cassandra Wagner´s head is resting on the bed and by the look of it, the woman didn´t have a calm night. Kitty´s fingers did caress Cassandra´s hair (short and fluffy) tenderly until Cassandra wakes up.

“Guten Tag, Cassie” Kitty respond to the blue lady with her golden eyes fixed on Kitty.

“Guten Tag, did you sleep well?”

“I …sort of, I have a dream where I was fighting someone for your hand and you go all berserk on school´s staff and it was mindblowing, there are incest and lots of strange and fuck up things” Kitty explained not understanding the things she is talking about either.

Cassandra just chuckles amused and lift Kitty´s chin. Their eyes met and Kitty can get used to gaze at such golden eyes. They kiss in a sweet and tenderly way.

“You know what I think? I think you are playing too much video games” Cassandra explained teasing Kitty a little. The other woman scratch her neck and murmurs something in the lines “but I like video games” and “it feels so real”

“Oh, why you were sleeping like that? ”

Cassandra yawns and lifts up. Kitty did the same, for a moment, Kitty´s hand touch her own stomach the memory of swords piercing her stomach was too real, what a lucid dream indeed.

“I was busy doing homework and when I get here you are already sleeping like a Katzchen…I didn´t want to wake you…and I didn´t want to leave”

“Cassie, next time, we can share the bed” Kitty blushes “ we can sleep, play video games or something else”

Cassandra just chuckles at the implication in good humour. Kitty decided to do the breakfast and as she is about to leave Kitty asked something.

“That dream…it wasn´t real, right?”

“Silly Katzchen, it was just a dream, we are normal students in this school and nothing more” and goes to kiss Kitty for the second time, suddenly, Kitty realizes how stupid her question was, of course, that was a strange dream.

Cassandra and Kitty are normal students.

Cassandra and Kitty are a couple and there´s nothing else that matter.

#kurtty #yuri!Kurtty #Revolutionary Girl Utena au #fem!Kurt #kitty pryde #shaw sebastian #how old is shaw? for creepiness I will let you decide #Yandere!Kurt #not sure if is good or yandy enough #an attempt at gaslighting #opening ending #gore? #death #implications of our belasco #I love him #lockheed is here

[atamascolily]

Fanfic Excerpt: Alternate version of 2x21 - “The Guardians,” 3/?

AU version of Adventures of Sinbad episode 2x21 - "The Guardians" - from Bryn's perspective. Parts One and Two are here and here, respectively. 

In which I replace the sand monster attack with something so much cooler and Bryn gets something to do with actual narrative significance.

(If you don't know what fynbos is, check out the Wikipedia page for a general overview. Basically, it's the background landscape for at least 75% of the show.)

Her sleep that night is restless, but she finds herself in that familiar place, the lucid state where she is dreaming, and knows it. She is sitting cross-legged by a fire not too different from the one Firouz lit earlier in the evening, staring at the flames, when she feels the skin prickle on the back of her neck and she knows that someone is watching her.

It takes a moment for her to find him. He's tucked away in the shadows, dressed in black and silver, but his oily blond hair gleams in the fire light and she can feel his presence radiating outward like heat. He's staring at her intently with a gleam in his shadowed eyes that she doesn't like. He does not threaten her, but he does not mean her well, either. He is curious, in the way that a voyeur is curious, and she doesn't like it.

"What do you want?" she says, not even bothering with pleasantries.

"Give up the child. The bandits will kill him and leave you alone. It seems a shame for such a pretty woman to suffer on account of a stranger's babe."

"You're a magician," she says, her eyes narrowing. "You work for the bandits. Why?"

He shrugs. "None of your business, pretty witch."

There it is again: that slur that might as well be a title. Witch. Is that what she is? She doesn't know. But people are afraid of her, afraid of her magic, and sometimes, their fear is useful. Suddenly, she knows this man is afraid of her, and his efforts at belittling her only make her bolder and angrier. He does not want to fight her because he is afraid he will lose.

"Tell your master a prophesy isn't worth crossing swords with us," she says, because it's true. "If he leaves the child alone, the child will leave him alone."

The man laughs. "Oh, my lovely, it's far, far too late for that. You of all people should know better."

She does. The cycle of violence and revenge has started and now it's the bandits' turn to go down in a sea of their own blood at the hands of the caravans' only survivor. Or his adult chaperones. It's not inevitable, but the weight of the world bends in that direction, and with every act of violence, it becomes harder and harder to overcome.

"Leave us alone, or you'll regret it," Bryn says, abruptly out of patience, and yanks as hard as she can, up and out of the lucid dream, where he can't follow her. To his credit, he doesn't try.

Later, when she wakes, she replays the conversation in her mind, over and over again. Ajeeb is cradled against Doubar's chest, rising and falling with the big sailor's hearty snores. Sinbad is silhouetted against the fire's light, in the same position he was in when she fell asleep. Only the moon, which is halfway across the sky now, marks the passage of time.

She says, quietly, because she knows Sinbad will hear, "There's a sorcerer with them."

She doesn't have to say any more. He doesn't ask how she knows and she doesn't volunteer. He nods, and that's enough.

****

Para opened his eyes to find Korla staring at him, a baleful expression in his eyes as he cleaned his weapons. "Do you know where they are?" the bandit leader growled. He'd been in a nasty mood all afternoon, ever since he and his men trickled in after what should have been an easy ambush proved more challenging. Para ignores the grousing and the wounded male ego - bandits, for all their physical toughness, are so fragile on that score - but it doesn't make for very companionable evening. Tonight there's been more grunting and shouting than usual, not to mention more drunkenness - a truly distasteful thing for magic-users, which required steady hands and a clear mind.

Para keeps to himself most of the time, and is careful never to show any of the contempt he feels on his face, especially around Korla. The man might be an ignorant brute, but he pays well and the work ranges from downright easy to occasionally interesting. This particular case looks to be one of the interesting ones.

He shrugs, and stands up, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs. "Well enough. They're on the road to Balardi with the infant, a few hours' ride from the desert. An ambush on the other side, before they get to the gorge, ought to be sufficient."

"Good." Korla's eyes narrow as he contemplates his options. "Follow them and make sure they don't change course. And keep them from reaching the gorge bridge, just in case. I want them caught like rats in a trap."

Para smiled in amusement. Oh, this was going to be fun. "Oh, and the woman is a powerful witch. I suggest you leave her to me, lest you find yourself picking your mens' bones off the rocks. She doesn't look it, but she can cause quite a bit of damage."

As he expected, Korla is dismissive of his warning. The bandit leader doesn't think much of women, a tendency that is going to get him killed sooner or later, and almost got him killed today when he tried to murder the child's mother. She fought like a hunted beast with a hidden dagger, and no doubt Korla will bear a scar on his sword arm for the rest of his life. But at least he won't blame Para for not warning him if their opponents' witch does inflict some damage.

In the meantime, no reason not to play a little. Para always enjoyed a good game, and the desert crossing offers no end of opportunities for a little mischief.

***

The next obstacle to cross is the white-sand desert - thankfully a small one as there are no oases marked on the map and they didn't come prepared for a longer stay in such an inhospitable wasteland. Doubar complains bitterly for a while - of all of the crew, Bryn thinks, he's the one who misses the sea most. Despite his title as Master of the Seven Seas, and his considerable skills as a sailor, Sinbad seems indifferent to the sea's charms, as long as he doesn't linger too long in any one place.

"He doesn't like to be tied down," Firouz said, when she asked him about it once. Rongar just shrugged. "We do live an active life, don't we?" Doubar chuckled, and she had to agree. Life with Sinbad was certainly unpredictable but never boring.

They were riding through fynbos, with nary a tree in sight, for hours already before they reached the desert, and it's already hot as blazes under the noonday sky. Somehow, the desert is worse. Somehow the low shrubs of the fynbos cool the land and block the hot wind that rises off the desert, drying out the skin and parching the throat. Firouz is carrying Ajeeb in his sling because Doubar fears an ambush and doesn't want Ajeeb caught in any crossfire if he has to make any sudden moves. Bryn isn't sure why, given that they ought to be able to see any bandits coming at them from miles away in the desert, but she appreciates the big man's need for a break even if he is the one least likely to see the baby as a burden. And, if there is an ambush, it's better if Doubar has his hands free, anyway. Firouz has his talents but hitting people isn't one of them.

Bryn feels a familiar prickle on the back of her neck, the taste of last night's magic in her mouth. "He's here," she says, tightening her grip on the reins as she feels her horse ready to spook underneath her. "'Ware ambush!"

"What kind of ambush?" Firouz wants to know - a reasonable question, but one Bryn never has to answer. At that moment, there's an explosion of sand and her horse rears up as something white and scaly erupts from the earth below them.

"A sandworm!" Firouz can't keep the wonder out of his voice. "I've read about them but never seen one! They're pretty rare!"

"How do we kill one? With your exploding sticks?" Sinbad shouts, as the worm rears up above them, and plunges back down into the sand, sending grit everywhere as the horses go mad with terror.

"Hardly! Their skins are too hard for that! All we can do is run!"

Bryn manages to get control of her horse again and steer the beast over towards Sinbad, but it's no easy task. "Can we escape it?" Doubar shouts, as the sandworm rears up again.

"I think so! They're carnivorous but territorial. If we can just get out of its range --"

"RIDE!" Sinbad's order needs no elaboration. They don't have to ride far - it's only a few minutes, to judge by the angle of the sun in the sky - but it's a hellish journey, the worm rising and falling out of the sand around them, blinding them and terrifying the horses. Doubar almost falls off his horse, and Bryn is glad that Firouz is the one carrying Ajeeb at the moment. Even when the worm falls back and retreats, they don't stop riding, not until the horses are soaked with sweat, and they have to get off and walk for a while.

"Any sign of them?" Sinbad asks and Bryn shakes her head, her throat too dry to speak. "How's Ajeeb?"

"Still asleep," Firouz says. "Doubar, you want to carry him again?"

"I'll do it," Bryn volunteers suddenly, although she doesn't know why. She doesn't know anything about infants, but she feels a protective instinct rise up within her and bares her teeth. Come and get me, you monsters, she thinks. Just you wait.

She feels the magic prickle again, and she knows that the bandit's pet magician is gone, and relaxes, just a little. For the moment, at least, she doesn't need to worry.

Still, it's a relief to reach the end of that white-sand expanses and drink their fill at a spring indicated as a waystation on the road to Balardi. Bryn goes behind a rock to shake the grit out of her clothing - it isn't as good as a bath, but it definitely helps. Doubar changes Ajeeb's swaddling, with some strategic help from Firouz, and the child is surprisingly agreeable considering their most recent brush with death. Thankfully, Ajeeb is old enough that he can eat moistened bread and other softened ship rations, which is all they have.

Sinbad tries to hold the baby, but is so discomfited, he quickly passes Ajeeb back to Bryn. She tries and fails not to smirk - Sinbad may be quite the ladies' man, but he's more experienced at how to make babies than to take care of them. She's not the only one, either - Rongar is grinning from ear to ear, and Doubar makes a few jests at his younger brother's expense. Firouz is chattering to anyone who will listen about sandworms, but Bryn mostly tunes him out. She's glad Firouz has a chance to update the natural history books, but right now she has other things on her mind.

Bryn sings a lullaby to Ajeeb, rocking him back and forth. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue, and insects sing in the rocky fynbos around them, a staccato beat to her song. Despite the pain and terror of the last few hours, this is one of those precious golden moments in the midst of chaos that she treasures. It may be fleeting, but it is there to draw on in her memory when she needs comfort. Unlike other people, she doesn't have much of a reservoir of past happiness to draw on, no childhood celebrations, no adolescent awakenings, nothing before she woke on a beach, isolated and alone.

She doesn't know who she was before, so she treasures who she is now, and these peaceful moments, precisely because they are so fleeting. Who knows what she'll remember later on -- all the better to experience it as fully as she can, right NOW, when it is actually happening.

#adventures of sinbad #adventures of sinbad live action tv #my fanfiction #virtual season two: bryn #sinbad fanfiction #spleen #Sinbad 2x21 #this story really needs a better name #guardians rewrite

[sneeple-confirmed]

Salcis/Shahala: Part Two

Hi, Mod Mom Friend here! Here’s the second part of this character intro! Warning for blood and other bodily fluids in this one. As usual, story under the read more so that it doesn’t spoil things for my players!

After the evening passed uneventfully, Salcis assumed that he’d managed to avoid the Mutaphraen, so Elekas provided him with a few of their products to go deliver. However, on the way, a feeling of foreboding washed over Salcis. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And it hit--someone was trapped outside the gate, without the code! He could hear them screaming for help, very faintly, and without another thought, Salcis sprinted to the gate, forcing it widely open.

But no one was there.

Slightly shaken, Salcis stepped out, looked around. No one was there, but he could still hear the screams, could still hear faint cries. Leaving the gate open just in case, he cautiously crept out to look for whoever was trapped, sword in hand. And after walking around for a good few minutes, finding nothing, Salcis started to lose touch with himself. Without truly absorbing that he was doing it, he started walking back to the city, ignoring the Coleoptids that had started to enter. Someone screamed, sprinting out of a home, followed by a Coleoptid, and suddenly, it hit Salcis--everyone in this town had been infected. He had to save the town. He had to save himself. So naturally, when the man being chased by a Coleoptid ran toward him for help, Salcis reached forward, stabbed, the motion too practiced, too mechanical. He felt no remorse--the man hadn’t even had time to scream. As the Coleoptids started to dismember the corpse, screeching in perverse delight, Salcis moved on. From house to house he went, propelled by something unearthly, something beyond his control. His thirst for blood didn’t stop at anyone--any person who screamed, ran, made sudden movements, was killed at his hand, because Salcis knew, for certain, that they’d all fallen victim to the Mutaphraen and needed to be culled.

Eventually, his sword was caked with blood, entrails, and other substances that he couldn’t identify. Salcis looked at it, numbly noting that it needed to be sharpened, and started to leave the final house, the one that he’d completed his mission in. But on his way out, as he was examining the sword, his eyes lit on the ring on his finger, one that Elekas had given him to celebrate their engagement, and suddenly, clarity hit. Like a rush, the delusions stopped, the voices quieted, and Salcis found clarity. And with clarity came the horror.

The first thing Salcis noticed in his newfound lucidity was the smell. Around Salcis’s feet, the floor was slick with blood and other bodily fluids, all of which stank in the hot desert air. He dizzily collapsed against the house’s wall, vomited, took a deep breath, vomited again, and then fully surveyed his handiwork. In this house, a mother and her seven year old son had been preparing food when Salcis entered. The mother was collapsed over the table, her blood oozing into the wood’s cracks. A wooden spoon hung limply from her hand for a moment before it clattered to the ground. The sound seemed to reverberate far too long in the silent room. Her son, who had been the second to die, was in the corner of the house. He’d fled there, Salcis realized with horror, when he saw his mother stabbed. His eyes were still open, staring forward in mute horror for eternity.

Salcis dry heaved, too stunned even to scream, paralyzed. His hands shook, the blood drained from his face. He had no words, stuck in a horrific limbo between feeling everything and nothing all at once as he numbly stared at what he’d done. In fact, the only thing that forced him to move was a single horrific thought: Elekas. Elekas. If he wasn’t dead now, he would be soon. The Coleoptids spared no one. Elekas. Salcis stumbled out of the house, almost slipping, barely catching himself. He could barely keep his feet, but Elekas drove him, Elekas needed him, if he got there in time he could make this absolutely fucked up situation marginally, marginally better.

After what felt like an eternity, Salcis burst through the door, but he knew almost the moment that he looked at his husband that he was too late. Salcis was efficient with his kills, and it was very rare for people to survive long. However, Elekas must have had the strength to marginally heal the wound, just enough for him to survive. The wound was grotesque, puckered, covered in dark blood...and Salcis just couldn’t take seeing it. “Elekas, El, El…” Salcis gasped, falling to his knees beside his boyfriend. “Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods El, I’m so sorry, El, El, El…”  He yanked the herbalism kit off the table, where it had been left after last night, and tore through it with shaking hands.

“Sssh, my love,” Elekas groaned, gripping Salcis’s hand. “Don’t...have time…Hold still…” he coughed, gasping for air, staring into nothing for a moment before hoarsely beginning an incantation.

“El, no, no don’t do this…” Salcis sobbed, but he held still, fearing that even the slightest jostling would prove too much for Elekas. But once the incantation finished, Salcis felt pure, cleansed, and refreshed.

“You’re...better...Damage...might be permanent...but...keep fighting...mil alul…” At the sound of the nickname, Salcis’s heart contracted, because suddenly it was all too real, he had killed the best thing in his life. Salcis knew he wouldn’t be able to handle Elekas’s passing, that’s why he’d been so glad that his lifespan was so much shorter than his husband’s. And now, as Elekas’s breathing stopped and his chest fell still, Salcis screamed, a scream of pure agony, hatred, because Elekas was gone, he’d destroyed the love of his life, and now that Elekas was gone, what was there to get him home at the end of the day? Who would ground him? Who would be there with him? No one. Because he’d murdered every person he could trust.

Salcis took a deep breath, staring at the sword that he still carried, coated in the blood of almost every person he’d ever loved or cared for, and prepared to put it through his stomach. The most agonizing death wouldn’t be as bad as he deserved, but he’d do what he could. He touched the point to his stomach, took a deep breath, began to push...and just before it broke the skin, his gaze fell on Elekas’s holy symbol. Elekas had used the last of his life force to make sure Salcis survived...and Salcis couldn’t waste that. He had to keep going. If not for himself, if not for anyone else..for Elekas, the light of his life. Salcis inched closer to Elekas, gently touching his holy symbol, the emblem of Helm, god of protection. Some part of him hoped that through contact with the holy symbol, Helm would allow Elekas to hear his words.

“Elekas, faeli...I don’t deserve you, I’ve never deserved you...but I’ll keep going for you. You’re the light in my darkness, my reason to take care. I’ll do it all for you, faeli. I...I love you.” Salcis clasped the holy symbol, weeping, paralyzed by grief for the time being but no longer ready for death. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but some time later, the holy symbol started to radiate a comforting, beautiful warmth. Startled, Salcis dropped the symbol, and the moment he did, a new voice resonated in his head. However, this one didn’t feel illusory, didn’t feel like a delusion. Somehow, it felt more real, though elevated.

“Salcis. I can feel your wishes to atone. In order to prevent others from suffering the fate of Elekas, I will grant you some of my power. However, this will come at a great cost. It will take much of your energy, and you will have to continue to fight. I can still sense the darkness in your mind, and it will be painful to combat. Will you accept this?”

“Yes, of course…” Salcis gasped. “I vow that no one will ever suffer my fate if I can prevent it. I’ll learn all the ways to destroy the Coleoptids, I’ll do everything I can.” And with the vow, Salcis felt power flowing through his veins.

“You will need the emblem. Take it with reverence, for its previous owner gave his life to save yours, and you must carry that burden with you for eternity. Begin your quest. Do not waste the life he gave you.”

After the voice faded, Salcis gently took the emblem from Elekas’s neck, putting it around his own. Tears continued to stream down his face, running down the chain and pooling on the engravings, but Salcis wiped them away. “This is for you, faeli. I’ll do what I can while I have time. And when I’m done...I hope you can forgive me so we can still be together...together in eternity like I promised you.”

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