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virgil-writes · 3 years

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ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 6 - the spork

SFW, but usual blood/gore warning. around 2.7K words.

chapter 7 - shower thoughts

on ao3 only, to avoid tangling with tumblr's nip ban rules. contains naughty things.

Why was it he had let her live again? Heisenberg couldn’t help but wonder, making his way across the bridge that led to the factory. The pot of stew felt heavy in his hands, heavy and warm; a pleasantry, not a threat, despite his impulsive behavior. What puzzled him, really, was that she seemed so comfortable in the face of animosity, like an aggressive man invading her home and threatening to kill her was just part of a humdrum day. He had thought the illusions and ominous offers were meant to lure passersby in, to drain them of blood and use their skin and bones for sordid rituals. He had gone through it all because he was certain nothing could kill him, even if it tried, but no violence came from her. Was she trying to keep people out?

There was no trace of blood on his face, no trace that he had ever broken his nose in such a ridiculous manner, no trace that he had ever been bitten by a half-dead lycan. She had been the only witness, and he doubted she would bother entering the village to spread the news. He would go as far as saying she was happy to see him, his restraint a breath of fresh air in what he could imagine was a violent existence. He would know; they both had that look in their eyes, the look of someone drained of life because they had seen too much, done too much.

Power, he cut himself off when his thoughts had started leaning too much towards emotions. Power, that was the reason he had let her live. She was a cyphered book, an old witch’s grimoire locked away in a dusty tower. He had treaded dangerous waters and climbed through the window holding onto unsteady stones, and had only been given a glimpse, a quick look at the first page. And what he had seen was intriguing, dark and mysterious, so alien compared to his parasite-infested, mold-ridden world. Power and curiosity, nothing more.

As if on cue, the front gate’s buzzer went off, the whirring sound reminding him of the old American game shows he used to watch as a child. Wrong answer.

“Oh, fine.” He grunted in exasperation, free hand thrown in the air in defeat. “I liked her.” The words felt like soap in his mouth, a punishment for his profanity and transgressions. But there was no mother to wash out his mouth anymore, to keep him quiet and obedient. It felt good to say it, good to admit it. He was no machine; he may no longer be simply a man, but he still had his humanity well rooted within him. Or at least he liked to think so.

He liked her, he repeated, an awkward wave of relief washing over him. Not in a sit and commit sort of way, though, he wasn’t about to run back to her cabin come morning with a fancy ring to put on her finger. Hell, not even in a hit it and quit it way, either. The enigma of her existence was intoxicating, a lonely witch living in the woods of powers untold, his very own little secret. His own puppet to manipulate, another tool in his arsenal against Big Bird Bitch, if all went well. What a great find, his chest swelling with pride at his masterful move.

And she did seem to take a liking to him, modesty be damned.

The garage doors greeted him with the familiar screech of metal, a cloud of soot and hot air blowing out into the yard, like a nice warm hug from his beloved metal beast, like it wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. Though there was little need for such precautions, Heisenberg checked the locks, scanned the room for any suspicious activity. Everything in place, every last bit of scrap metal thrown carelessly to the side exactly where he had left it. The factory was quiet enough at this hour, and you would have to pay close attention to hear the haulers walking to and fro, their rare vocalizations every now and then. He was in high spirits and there was much work to do, improving Eins and Zwei, setting aside some time to study Sturm’s case and prepare accordingly. And then there was the planning, the pouring over reports of the latest events, coming up with the best strategy to take out each of his precious “siblings”, wedging his beautiful little hag in just the perfect place within his plans.

The complexity of it all was a marvel to him, a puzzle he never got tired of putting together. He supposed he had Miranda to thank for that, for turning his world upside down, forcing him to push his capabilities to the limit because of it. Sometimes he dreaded to think about what would come after; his hatred was all that kept him going, doing the bare minimum to keep himself alive and functioning, to get him out of bed come morning. What would he do when they were all out of the picture? He could finally be himself, he supposed, though that sounded like a tremendous amount of work and pain for the meager reward of knowing the shell of a man he had become.

This was not the time to think about it, he reprimanded himself. The rebellion hadn’t even began and he had many sleepless nights ahead of him.

The smell of the stew reminded him that he would starve if he waited any longer to eat. He barely remembered when he had eaten last - was it this morning? Yesterday? Such moments were but a blur, a mere nuisance in his schedule. Heisenberg was good at many things, but cooking, that he had never gotten the hang of. Putting a stove together? Piece of cake. Making a fridge out of scrap metal and elbow grease? That he could do. It’s not like he had grown up on much, either, had developed a taste for fine dining, wine and biscuits. His parents had been the industrial kind in more ways than one: blunt, efficient, cut and dry. Their meals were few and far in between, whatever cooked up fast and was filling enough to keep them standing. He had lost the parents, but kept the philosophy over the years, surviving on jerkies and raw produce, or whatever the Duke had in stock to be stored and crudely roasted later.

Heisenberg turned the key to his quarters with a sigh. Home, sweet scrapyard at last, and he wasted no time kicking off his boots and levitating the hammer to place it against the wall next to his favorite chair He set the pot on the metal table before discarding his hat and trench coat, eyeing the bowl the entire time as if it was about to attempt murder. Which he figured it might, considering the person who had given it to him was a woman he had met just a few hours prior, who lived in a hidden shack in the woods and could shapeshift into a giant horned monster. She had tasted it before preparing his bowl, and it did look harmless enough. Heisenberg inspected it closely - it definitely looked very appetizing. Some meat, potatoes, herbs mixed into a thick broth. A hearty meal for a cold winter night. Even if it was poisoned, it looked good enough to be worth the hassle.

“Ah, right.” He stared at his empty hand, shaking his pointer finger disappointingly. A laugh escaped him as he pulled every drawer, went through every shelf. Chisel, saw, hammer. Screwdriver, nails, wrench. Pliers, clamps and cutters, nuts, bolts and screws. An old TV antenna, pewter tankard, and even a goddamn tooth crown. Everything he could think of, except the one thing he needed: a single fucking spoon.

He stormed out of his quarters and into the foundry with the fury of a god. Nothing would keep him from the possibly deadly bowl of stew that smelled like the best thing that would ever grace his lips. He had reanimated the dead to do his bidding, could move metal with his fucking hands. A spoon was no match for him. Grabbing a sheet of metal and a long-abandoned pen, he roughly drew the shape of what he remembered a spoon to be - it had been a while. Cutting through took longer than he expected, and he refused to buff the steel to make it shiny. If he did not ingest his sustenance within the next few minutes, he was positive he would simply lay down and die. He took hammer to metal to make sure the thing would actually hold liquid, then the idea hit him like a flash of lightning, and he cut three small indentations at the tip: half spoon, half fork. The perfect piece of flatware. He would call it… The spork. Finally, he filed the edges just enough that it wouldn’t accidentally rip out a piece of his tongue, and proudly walked back to his quarters, plopping himself down unceremoniously onto a nearby stool.

If this turned out to taste like boiled dirt, it would be the biggest disappointment of his life yet. But it wasn’t - in fact, it was the best thing he had eaten in decades. Creamy, just the right amount of spice, meat cooked to perfection. Somewhere deep within his soul, he knew a proud ancestor watched as he took a generous bite out of a tender potato chunk. He could get used to this, he mused, a mouthful of pork and a hum of approval later. Maybe he should visit more often.

It was over all too soon, and he found himself staring at the empty bowl with so, so much sadness in his heart. Maybe he should have stayed for dinner. Forlorn and full, he leaned against the workbench, one hand reaching down to untuck his shirt, dexterous fingers then quickly unbuckling his belt and popping the button on his pants. Head thrown back, he let out a happy, satisfied sigh when his stomach was finally free of its cloth constraints. He pat his belly with a chuckle, feeling the faint lines of toned muscle above his belly button, then the creases on his hips - he didn’t look bad for being almost a century old, eh? He had gained some extra weight, it’s true, since the Duke introduced him to some modern novelties such as frozen pizza and energy drinks, but hauling corpses and building intricate machines was good exercise. Just the right amount of bulk and sprinkle of muscle, if he did say so himself.

For a moment, unbidden, he wondered if she would like it. If she would like him, all of him, more than what she had seen, more than what she had heard, more than what he had offered in their brief encounter. He hadn’t kept up with the beauty trends, and any man with functioning limbs and two braincells passed as hunk material in the village, but he just knew that he was quite the specimen. He was reminded of that look in her eyes, the one that stirred something within him he hadn’t felt in way too long.

Not that he was interested, of course. His curiosity was only natural, seeing as he hadn’t spoken to anyone from outside this little bubble of a hellhole for decades. Even when he was sent out into the world, his orders were very specific - grab what needs to be brought back, do not talk to victims of the evil plan. As much as he wanted to do it as a fuck you to Miranda, instead he always decided to bide his time. Blowing his cover could mean failure - or death.

She would like it, he decided, checking out his reflection on a well polished piece of metal. Not that it was difficult, of course. Who wouldn’t? The charming beard, killer smile, steel blue eyes. He could treat his hair better, true, wash the soot off his face. His clothes needed washing and his feet needed some time out of those damp boots. He had one too many broken fingernails and more scars than skin at this point. Still, she would like it - on second thought, maybe after a nice, hot shower.

He busied himself with all manner of tasks after dinner. Washed it down with a nice gulp of Gibcos, then made his way down to one of the operating rooms. He pushed aside the gurneys in his way, the quiet humming of the soldiers’ reactors a comforting sound despite the macabre landscape of the room. Beyond the door and behind the large window pane a very, very dead body lay waiting for him, a chunk of its torso and head missing. The lycans had done a number on the poor bastard, catching him off-guard as he made for the outhouse, so we was told. A man couldn’t even shit in this village in peace, he laughed humorlessly. The corpse was barely cold when Heisenberg dug it up and dragged it back to the factory. There was no funeral, no mourning of the deceased: in cases such as these, the villagers thought it best to bury the disfigured relative and be done with it, fingers crossed that they wouldn’t return with a hunger for human flesh a scant few days later. Despite the body’s horrid conditions, it would still be of great use to him. Strong legs and a wide torso, a perfect specimen for his latest experiment.

Sturm, he would call it, after the god-awful noise the propeller engine made. He tentatively pushed down one of the blades - it needed more oil. Rusty recycled chainsaws had been abandoned for a reason, but there was time to better the mechanical parts yet. First, he needed to figure out how to attach the engine, set up the circuitry, add in the artificial blood. Removal of internal organs was simple enough, a nice big heart to tie it all together. On the other hand, seating the mechanical core was a messy process that took him hours to get right. He didn’t want to waste time, or this corpse, when he had already come this far. He abandoned the project for a few minutes when the thighs gave with the weight, off to build braces to hold the thing together.

It looked mostly done after that, and revival was one powerful electric discharge away. Heisenberg held tight against its mechanical nervous system, focusing on channeling all of his energy - it would need an even bigger discharge than Eins and Zwei. Seven thousand volts, and not even a hint of movement. Eight thousand, he grunted as the current flowed through. Attracting metal was easy enough, but having electric organs was tiring work. He had all but given up when he heard the whir of the blades, Sturm’s body jolting on the operating table in a mix of eagerness and terror. The thing lifted its arms to touch him, chainsaw rippers spinning uncontrollably as Heisenberg took several steps back. He covered his face just in time - the desperate creature once again reached out to him, dumb enough not to notice the death machine attached to its own body. An arm hit and shattered the glass of the operating room, the other colliding against Heisenberg’s chest. Fuck, there was blood everywhere.

“Halte!” He bellowed before Sturm could get any closer, removing his now bloodstained glasses to stare at the thing like his gaze could drill a hole right through its spine. “Dummkopf.” And just as quickly as it had risen, it fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, metal bending in odd places with the impact. Heisenberg let out his frustration with a furious kick on the engine before deciding that if he tried again for the night, he would probably end up throwing the whole thing in the grinder. He’d rather avoid having to clean the blades of all the tissue that would be stuck to them.

Seemed like he would have to take that shower after all.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenburg x reader #but only if you squint really #virgil writes #long post ///

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sp00kworm · 4 years

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H,,hi is it possible for you to do a darth maul with a male s/o sfw and/or nsfw imagine? Love your content!! UwU

Pairing: Darth Maul x Male Reader

A/N: I’m glad you enjoy reading anon! Due to the nature of events on tumblr at the moment, I don’t think its wise for me to write adult content for anonymous asks since there has been a big issue with underage users consuming this content. However!!!!!! I adore Maul and I would die for some content with him so I have written this to rot your teeth.

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Fathier Race

Raising Fathiers was perhaps the hardest thing you knew of in the Galaxy. Sure, Republic fighters were out and around constantly, the Jedi helping in wars and disputes everywhere, but you could show them bruises and aches beyond anything like that half the time. Fathiers were needy and required hours of hard training to keep them in shape. You’d spent numerous years on Naboo, looking after the beasts for the races that used to occur. Rich Senators and other such Nobles liked to race them, and had done for years before the race courses were set up across the Galaxy. Highly prized and known for their ability to run amazingly fast across any terrain, you’d grown to love Fathiers more than anything. That aside, you grew to hate the Stable Master, and that had quickly made you leave. Even the money you had stashed wasn’t enough for even one of the Fathiers in your care.

All that had changed when you’d encountered the silent Zabrak.

You’d been in the stables late. Far too late. Late enough that you would be undoubtedly questioned roughly by the guards or the Master if he was still around. Golden eyes glowed underneath a shadowy hood. A fist clenched by his side as he caught sight of you, teeth clenched with a snarl as he stalked away, out of the ring of stables, and towards the door. With a last look at the door, you dared to breathe again, feeling the tension in your entire body dissipate as you glanced back and remembered the red skin and black, thick tattoos. The golden eyes glared at you behind your eyelids as you tried to sleep that night.

The memory of the Zabrak haunted you often after that but it wasn’t until many months later that the city exploded with violence, the thunder of rifle fire bouncing from the walls as the military moved in to take Naboo’s trading federation back by force. There was the hissing of lightsabers being drawn as you reached for the stable doors of the Fathiers. They bucked and brayed unhappily even as you undid the doors and got them running. They would be safer running in the greens rather than in here when the roof caved in. You grabbed a saddle and pushed it over the back of your favourite mare. She tottered unhappily with the noise but let you on top of her with minimal fuss.

The hum of a lightsaber made you freeze, sat atop the Fathier with your bags clutched close and a rope for catching some of the stray beasts.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked as you turned in the saddle, holding your breath at the sight of the burning red saber and golden eyes.

The Zabrak reached for his hood and tilted his head as he pulled the black hood away from his head, revealling the crown of horns on top of his head, golden eyes boring into you. The man hummed as he took three, slow steps forward, prowling closer, looking at the quivering muscles of the beast underneath you. It was ready to bolt, nostrils flaring at the smell of him.

“Run, little stable boy. Take those beasts with you...” He turned back to the door, stalking away, stance low as he readied to fight, “They stink of spices.” He was gone in an instant, the sound of his saber cutting through flesh deafening. Your Fathier bucked underneath you. With a snap of your heels she bolted, howling to the wind as you clutched your belongings close, trying to escape from the war zone behind you.

Years later, you were set up with your own farm. Fathiers were happier with space to be free and roam, and although you didn’t race them, a few were selected as studs or mares for breeding sometimes. Most of your visitors were childrens groups. The farm was, however, often silent. Just you and your rescued Fathiers. Getting them from Naboo had been a task, and your favourite mare was living her final years out now in pasture. Ten long years had passed, and life was finally good. Sicemon was a long way from Naboo. The bribery of two of your Fathiers had been the price to get the rest here to the planet of vast grasslands. Still, the cargo ship’s crew had promised they were for the youngsters more than anything. One went to live on one of the crew’s own farms.

With a smile you watched two young Fathiers prance around each other in the paddock, kicking powerful legs up in the air as they darted underneath the adults and around their legs. Holding your tea close you watched them play for a little while more, breathing in the fresh air. That was until a figure appeared out of the trees, clad in black. The Fathiers startled as the figure stepped into the pasture, swathed in tattered cloaks, dragging their feet as they came close. The Fathiers brayed and scattered, leaving a clear path for the person as they stumbled in some of the longer grass before righting themself again.

With a growl you reached for the blaster tucked at your back and pointed the muzzle dead at the person’s chest, “State your business!” You hollered over the field.

The figure stopped and seemed to take heed of the weapon pointed at their chest. Gloved hands reached upwards slowly, careful of making sure that you weren’t going to shoot them my accident. They pulled back the black hood and scarfs to reveal a familiar crown of horns on top of red skin and inked black tattoos. Golden eyes looked at you from a gaunt looking face. This was not the man that had once scoffed at you before telling you to take the Fathiers. This man was the leftovers from that creature you had watched prowl to the slaughter.

“I mean you no harm.” He growled, teeth grinding as he looked upon your farm, a small home with miles of land around it. A little something in the middle of nothing, “I am...looking to inquire about your beasts.”

You glared, holding the blaster tight, “Liar. You look like you’ve been beaten up pretty bad. The least you can do is admit you need help. Plus, my Fathiers aren’t for sale.” He grumbled again with that and and directed his eyes at the blaster once more.

“I need food, water and maybe a bed.” He ground out, “If you would be so kind.”

“No I won’t.” You snapped, “Get on your way. I don’t want your trouble. Not after what I’ve heard.”

The Zabrak growled, “And just what have you heard.” He sneered at you.

“That a Zabrak swathed in black leads a criminal underworld gang.” You offered peering at his feet, “Something about him being half robot.” With a flick of the safety you looked at the man and sighed, “But I also know you have nothing left.” With a gentle curl of your fingers you let him come closer, “I’ll let you rest a while. You look like you need some food...” You pinched your nose at the stench emanating from him, “And a very hot bath.”

The Zabrak snarled at you once more as you turned towards the house and offered him a smile. He didn’t return the grin as he ducked inside of your home, pushing away dried herbs and vegetables away from his horns as he entered.

“Here. I have some breakfast. Its just porridge but its better than nothing.” You spooned a heap of it into a wooden bowl, placing a spoon alongside it before taking the pot from the fire and replacing it with one for water. You drew over the metal basin and took the hook along with some buckets, “I’ll be back soon.” The Zabrak nodded as he sat at the table, peering around the room with tired, sunken eyes.

It took three days to coax his name from him. Maul. Just Maul. He said nothing about it for three more days before you both drank rice wine and told each other about the brutality of your childhoods. He told you of his home planet and the Nightsisters. His brother. You watched a tear drip from the Zabrak’s cheek before gently reaching out to wipe it away.

“This is weakness.” He hissed, snatching himself back, pressing his fingers together tightly around the wine.

You smiled and swallowed the last of your own wine, “This is normal. There’s no weakness in expressing yourself.” You grinned at the other male before leaving him to look at the dozing Fathiers and to contemplate your words. Maul felt a cynical smile turn his lips upwards, stretching the tattoos on his face as he poured himself another long drink of alcohol.

“So, Maul, when can I expect you to actually ride one of these Fathiers?” You asked, perched on top of a young stallion, riding in tight, quick circles.

Maul scoffed from the fence, searing eyes watching every movement closely, “I would rather wrestle a fabled demon than sit on top of one of those.” He commented as he watched the male Fathier spin and buck, prancing with energy despite the exercise.

“They’re not scary.” You laughed before leading the stallion close and pointing over at your old mare, “She would be easy to learn on, I promise.” You leaned over in the saddle and grinned at the Zabrak before sticking your tongue out at him.

“You are not a child.” He snapped before pinching your tongue between his thumb and finger, tugging harshly before he rolled his eyes, “I will not learn to ride. Accept that and find another thing to pester me about.” He stretched his arms over his head and turned before you caught him by the sleeve and tugged him back.

“What?” Maul snapped before going silent, eyes wide.

You kissed the Zabrak harshly before letting him go, cantering away with a great laugh.

Maul snarled behind you, “You are the single worst human male I have ever met.”

“Then get off my farm!” You teased from across the paddock.

#darth maul x reader #darth maul x male reader #maul x reader #star wars #darth maul #maul #star wars the phantom menace #star wars the clone war #the clone wars #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #request #sw #star wars the clone wars #star wars: the clone wars #the phantom menace

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marshmallowprotection · 3 years

Text

Calluna

Pairing: Saeran Choi/Reader

Fairytale AU.

Description:

The Prince has been bound to the castle walls, and he’s never been able to leave from it. The only place that he has to escape to are the books that he reads and the garden that he’s allowed to venture into every evening. But, what happens when he encounters someone that has eyes that know a world unlike his own?

Inspired by a drawing by @sensetenou

Chapter Index

Chapter Thirteen

Saeran stared at the scene below as the guards took away people one by one. The castle grounds had become more of scenery that looked like it was on the brink of war rather than a kingdom that’d been in peace for such a long time. Trampled were the roses and flowers that had once called the castle their home and in their place was devastation and destruction.

It was a small price to pay for revenge and righting what had been wronged, or rather, who had been wronged.

He knew nothing but anger and frustration. The second that this crown had been placed on his head, he knew that he had to get back at Red Hood and anyone that had worked with them. It was the sole thought in his mind. He couldn’t think of anything else and when he did, he was dragged back to his anger and plans.

He watched until Rika’s hand rested against his shoulder and pulled him back inside of the castle walls so they could discuss plans. She had been hard at work with her master detective that had found out the identity of Red Hood. He was a man with brown hair that had somewhat faded with time and golden eyes.

Something about him felt familiar to Saeran but he didn’t know why that was. It was like a memory that he couldn’t touch. But, the queen trusted him and she was the only person in his life that had not ever lied to him for a moment. So, he trusted that she knew who was working with and this was for the best. They were working together to round up who remained of the villains and thieves.

“My king,” she said, once he took his spot at the table. “It’s hard to say who hasn’t been deceived by that villain, Red Hood. The limits of their powers seem to know no bounds, even within our castle walls. It seems like they’ve received more than we can count. It seems that the only ones that we may trust are in this very room.”

He rested his hand against his open palm.

It made sense to him.

Deception was one of the more advanced forms of magic. It was one thing to be a liar and it was another thing to be a skilled liar. One could hold all the cards in their hands if they know just how to enchant people to get them to do as they wanted.

It would make sense for someone to place a curse on people to assume that their lies were true. It was no wonder why people assumed that Red Hood was still a wicked man in his growing years.

You were the worst kind of liar and he never saw it coming. It was bad enough he was already cursed to be trapped in this castle forever but to pour salt in his wounds and laugh?

Now, that was what a villain would do just to hurt him for added measure. It wasn’t right and just thinking about it burned him to his core. The idea of you was the only target that he could focus on. His hands curled into fists in his lap as he glowered at the map on the table in front of you.

He just needed to find all the pieces of the puzzle so that he could punish you in front of all of them for good.

That’s what he needed to do, he knew that for sure. He needed to see it through to the end but his veins were itching for a better kind of punishment that he was still considering since he had spoken with you a few hours prior, it hadn’t come to him yet.

Saeran couldn’t make up his mind on what he wanted. There were so many useful punishments in his mind but he kept thinking of better ones before he settled on a single thought. Annoying, but such is the life of someone in power of a kingdom.

“That being said,” Rika drew him from his thoughts. “While we know that we can only trust each other, we need to destroy whatever hope the criminals have in Red Hood. That is why you must get rid of them as soon as possible. Within the next day or so, my king. We need to set an example so they will have nowhere to run and full knowledge of what awaits anyone that dares to break the law set by the crown.”

“No,” Saeran pressed his hands against the table in a firm slam. He didn’t understand why she was trying to rush him to punish you. He was the king now, and she was supposed to listen to him and his word was meant to be law. She was only meant to advise and do whatever he asked of her hand. He knew that she had a point.

But it was his choice to do whatever he pleased with you.

“No?” Rika repeated, her eyes on him as she watched him stare at her with a clouded look in his mint eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Are you saying that you’ve decided that they shouldn’t receive the highest punishment for their crimes? What would you do instead? Keep them around because you hold a fondness for a liar that tricked you?”

He clenched his jaw. Saeran could feel his teeth grinding against each other but he didn’t care.

He didn’t care about you. He didn’t. This wasn’t about him holding some fondness for you, because he didn’t hold anything for you but hatred and anger. He wanted you to know what it felt like to have salt in your wounds. It was only fair but he knew one thing, death wouldn’t be enough to show you what it felt like.

What it felt like to be humiliated in front of the world.

Everyone had seen how pitiful and easy it was to trick Ray, and someone had to pay for breaking his heart into a million pieces. The person that had looked into his eyes and made him think that he knew what it felt like to be free only to shatter that freedom away like a bit of glass. He should have known better but there was no changing it.

Freedom was dead and gone, wasn’t it?

Saeran paused, his eyes resting on the window just beyond his reach. The magic that sparkled and caught his eyes. He could see the walls of the castle in the distance. The ones that were enchanted to keep him inside of the walls. His price of life was to know what it felt like to see the world pass him by while everyone else got to live their dreams to the fullest on the outside.

He was punished by jealousy.

His curse was to know what he could never have as he watched it.

Isn’t that true?

He knew what he wanted to do with you now.

“I’ve decided that death is too light of a punishment for Red Hood,” he said, flatly. “Death means that the darkness takes them away and that’s frankly too kind of a hardened punishment. Why should they get eternal rest instead of wallowing, knowing what they’ve done and that they will never taste what it feels like to rest?”

Rika doesn’t say anything, nor does her companion.

Nobody could argue with the king, not even people that once bore the crown. It was about the respect and transition of power in the line of succession. His word was law. Everyone understood that and it didn’t matter what anyone thought about it.

Saeran would get what he wanted, and that was that. Saeran has made his point known. He rises from the table and spares a look between the two of them, “Now, I’ve made my point clear on what I wish to do. I ask that the two of you keep working to find every member that you can find and bring them here. I promise that I’m going to make an example of their precious leader, but they need to be alive for me to humiliate them and destroy the hopes of every fucking criminal in this country.”

The former queen didn’t voice her approval or disapproval, but Saeran knew that she wasn’t very happy about his choice. If she had faith in her son, then she would trust him to see this through as he wanted to. “Of course,” she said, simply. “If that is what you wish, my king. We will continue to see this thought to the end.”

Saeran left the room without another word. The door to the room closed with a hard slam as he returned to his chambers to tend to other matters that he had one his hands. Rika blew out a sigh, shaking her head at his tantrum. She wasn’t happy with this.

The crown was supposed to make him listen to whatever she wanted of him.

The anger charm that she had placed on him was seemingly stronger on him than she intended, but no matter, she thought. She knew what she had to do to make the magic control him in the right way, it was just the fickle nature of magic to bite back in the wrong way if you didn’t have the right amount of power for a specific spell.

It wouldn’t be much longer until she had what she wanted in her hands. She turned her attention back to the true Red Hood, who seemed amused by all of this more than anything. She wasn’t surprised by that either, this man was known for thriving on chaos and control. He liked being able to do whatever he wanted.

Power corrupts, but only those that don’t know how to handle what they were handed.

“I suppose you find his tantrums adorable,” Rika said, turning her eyes onto the table as she looked over the marks that they had knocked down. “Magic can be a powerful force when imbued with the right charm but when the wrong amount of power is placed into the object, it can warp someone in an unintended way.”

“I find it amusing, yes,” Red Hood responded. His arms were crossed over his chest. “I knew that the legends were interesting but to see its power in person is much more intriguing than I thought it would be. When that fool Zen brought me the stones, he had no idea just how much power these items held within them.”

“Yes, but they’re useless without the right item to embed in them,” Rika said. “The crown was forged with the same elements as the stones. That’s why it only works for the wearer. Traditionally, the power is only sprinkled in small doses to the ruler over their life but we’ve given him such a large dosage of my magic. That explains those dark fits of childish desire.”

Red Hood merely chuckled. They both knew what that was about. “Forgive me for my curiosity, but may I ask why you aren’t donning the crown yourself?”

That brought a smile to Rika’s face. She merely cocked her head with a curious look in her eyes, “Why, aren’t you an insightful one? You know better than anyone how important it is to have a puppet take your place at the last second to ensure that you’re holding all the cards in your hands. We both know well to mind our reputations. I must commend you, though, the Sparrow made the perfect person to tip him over the edge.”

“They’ve always been too naive for their own good,” he chuckled. “It’s what they earned after trying to fight against monsters bigger than them. I frankly don’t care what happens to them. I’m interested to see what your king does to them if he’s not going to kill them so quickly. The power that you hold in your hands is deviously delicious, my queen.”

Rika’s hand traced a location on the map from the castle as she looked through the layout of the land to see if she could locate the spot she was searching for. She closed her eyes and let magic rush through her fingers to reveal hidden spaces on the map. Underneath an unlabeled mountain range was a small building hidden away.

She began to laugh as if delighted by what she had seen. “I only aim to gain more magic to ensure that the stones never run out, dear Red Hood,” her finger tapped against the paper. “Look here, deep in the mountains is the home of the coven that is training my next well of power that we need to cement our win before the battle starts. I need you to bring this letter to my crow the second he returns from the Han kingdom.”

He took the note from the queen’s hands and nodded. “Absolutely,” he said, simply. “I get the full picture. Consider it taken care of. I can’t wait for you to show me what your darkness looks like.”

Rika couldn’t wait for herself. Her goals were finally coming together. “Hahaha… don’t worry, they’ll all know soon enough what it feels like to know true suffering and misery. I have a point to prove and I won’t stop until I’ve brought him to his knees.”

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wormtoxin · 3 years

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“Carrion Flowers: Prologue (Pt. 2)

Prologue Pt. 1 here

Her grandfather named her Luka. He had her hair cut short, and enrolled her at an all boy’s catholic school. When the boys would pick on her, he’d sit with her in his library and they’d study Machiavelli and Sun Tzu. Before long, the boys knew better. He raised her on horseback and in the fencing piste. He nourished her on food, and water, and decades worth of blood, remembered from his time in the Crusades. Then he died, and left her alone.

She stood alone in a crowd of mourners who traded stories about him. Luka had only ever met a few of them- old veterans, scarred by teeth or claws or the effects of Wildfire. Before her grandfather died, his friends would call her “ragazzina” or “caraibica”, but they always let her play poker. They’d ask how the boys at school were treating her. They’d tell her stories about her grandfather. Then, all Luka had were those stories. Luka attended the burial outside the manor where she grew up, knowing it would never really be home again. That was when Luka met her for the first time.

Viola had made her debut at court about a year ago. She’d been attending events like this since, to keep up appearances. The signor who passed on had been an important friend of her father’s from the old days, so it was important the Royal Family make an appearance. With the rise of a new political group, Yggdrasil, the Crown’s influence was in more danger than ever. It was important the King’s sweet daughter arrive, remind the people what her family stood for. She wore a new black dress for the occasion, a simple frock. Her dark skin shone in the light. Her cloud of dark hair was drawn into neat plaits. Viola’s uncle, Signor Angelo, who was with her, wore a similarly sparse black suit and coat.

Signor Angelo only said two things to Luka. First, “Are you San Giorgio’s granddaughter?”

Luka recognized her Grandfather’s old nickname, and nodded. Then,

“Do you want a job?”

———

“Buon lavoro, Principessa,” Luka smiled wryly. As Viola’s retainer, it was Luka’s responsibility to keep her swordplay sharp. Luka had been well-trained by her grandfather, but Viola’s royal education had all the money for fencing masters. Now, years after their first meeting, Viola had Luka at sword-point in the courtyard. “Remind me why you keep me around? You’re more than capable of protecting yourself”.

“Then who would be the lucky victim of my regular practice?” Viola caressed Luka’s cheek with the tip of her blade. “Besides, you’ve taught me soooo much,” she purred.

“Ah, well, I,” Luka flushed, “it’s my honor, My Lady”.

Viola withdrew her blade. “And anyways, I’ll be the Queen soon. Queens don’t fight their own battles.”

“Not even with me?”, Luka pouted, and Viola helped her back up.

“Well, I can make an exception.” Viola stood, tucked her sword under her arm, and brushed the dirt from the knees of her breeches. “We’ve got to change, I’m needed at the ball tonight. Will you be my attendant?”

Luka watched her untuck her dark cloud of hair and let it fall around her shoulders and jawline. “Of course, my lady”.

———

That night had been as beautiful and stuffy as any other royal occaision. But that evening, when they’d had enough and slipped out of the arcade, Luka would remember forever. The stars were beautiful, and the flora in the lamps had begun their soft fluorescent glow. Luka let her tie slip, her collar fall open, and hung her jacket out on the balcony.

“Would you help me out?”, Viola asked, and Luka loosened the ties at her back dutifully. Viola picked up Luka’s jacket and threw it over her bare shoulders. She untied the ribbon in her hair, tossed it at Luka, and laughed. Luka watched the wind run through her hair, and her heart jumped in her chest. She pocketed her ribbon.

“Should I get us one last drink?” Luka offered.

“I’d love that”, Viola said. She grabbed Luka by the now-loose tie, and drew her in for a kiss.

“I love you,” Luka murmured, and sauntered back out to the halls. She slipped into a side room off the main foyer, and took two flutes of champagne from one of the waiters.

“Grazie mille,” she said to him, and Luka saw she had entered the chamber where Viola’s Uncle Angelo and his friends had gathered. “Buonasera, My Lord”, Luka said.

“Buonasera, Luka”, he said. The chattering had stopped. “Where’s Viola?”

“I’m just getting some drinks”, Luka said, and patted the sword at her hip with a free hand. “Non preoccuparti, she’s safe in my care”.

“I should hope so”, he said. None of his sullen companions spoke. “With Viola to be crowned so soon, I worry for her. Yggdrasil is moving in the shadows, even now.”

“Oh?” Luka took a sip from one of the flutes, “Well let those bastards try,” Luka felt the night’s drink swell within her, “Viola’s safer than in a fortress with me!”

“That’s the spirit”, Viola’s uncle hummed. He called one of the waiters over. “Get a bottle for my niece and her guard, per favore? And that special drink.”

Luka raised an eyebrow, and the waiter produced a flask of swirling, shimmering gold. “It is a royal drink, given to the monarch before his coronation. Viola’s father had a taste from this very same brew.”

Luka held the little vial reverently. “Oh, grazie mille Zio Angelo!” Luka took them both graciously. “You’re a good man, My Lord.”

“Buonanotte, Luka”.

———

She arrived back at Viola’s bedroom. “Principessa!”

“Benvenuti, Luka”. Viola was still at the balcony, nodding off in her chair.

“Ciao Viola!” Luka collapsed next to her, and handed Viola the vial. “Your uncle says this was your father’s. Una bevanda per un Rei.”

“My father’s?” Viola held the little vial up to the starlight and watched it swirl between her fingers. “Here’s to you, papà.” She split the wax seal and downed the little drink, lips stained with glittering gold. Luka poured them each a glass of champagne.

“I take it you’re ready to be a ruler?” Luka said, and swallowed another mouthful of cold fresh champagne.

“I think I am” Viola said, tightening Luka’s jacket around her. “I was nervous at first. When father died. But now, I think... I’m... ready”. Viola clutched at her necklace, and pulled it loose with a snap. She dropped the little vial, which shattered on the balcony. “I- I think-”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Luka looked over at Viola, and froze. She was clutching her throat, and struggling hard to breath. When she tried to talk, she choked. Blood poured from her mouth.

“Viola!” Luka jumped to her feet, and rushed to her side. Viola stood up, the front of her gown stained red. “Viola! Viola, what’s happening?”

There was a knock at the door. Luka recognized the baritone of Viola’s uncle, the former King’s brother. “Viola, are you there? May we speak?” All at once, a cold wave of realization crashed down on Luka. She realized exactly what he’d done- what he’d made her do.

Viola choked and sputtered on gold-stained bile, while Luka tried desperately to pat her back, help her breathe.

“Guards!” Viola’s Uncle bellowed, and soon the door was broken at the hinges. Luka cradled Viola’s cold body in the dark. Her other arm held her sword, point drawn relentlessly on the final member of the royal family.

“Bastard”, she wept, “You dirty bastard!”

“Oh god,” He said to the guards, “She’s dead.”

A guard drew his sword and approached Luka. She swung at him wildly, but her eyes never left the late king’s brother Angelo. Other guards approached her.“Luka, you’re under arrest”, one of them said.

Luka placed Viola on the ground, gently, then stood. She lunged at Angelo, blade slashing him across the face. Finally, one of the guards caught her by the wrist and threw her backwards. She stumbled, heel catching on Viola’s limp skirt, and she tripped over the princess’ slumped form. Luka collapsed backwards, sword falling from her grip and slipping off the balcony.

Angelo, Viola’s uncle killer, one hand held to his blood-streaked face, moved over Viola’s body and held her. As Luka stood, the guards moved towards her, swords drawn.

Luka gave one last look at her girlfriend. She turned, and went sailing over the railing into the fountain below.

———

Luka sat, soaking wet, in a tavern. She clipped her shoulder on the concrete basin of the fountain on her way down. It hurt, badly, and her open shirt was soaking with blood. She had retrieved her sword, at least, but it wouldn’t be long before every polizia in Verona would be looking for her. Luka wondered if there was a single Italian who wouldn’t hear what she’d done by sunrise.

She was starting to sober up by the hearth, which only meant she felt the cold chill in her bones freshly. She’d have to run. And to hide, somewhere she’d never be found. Viola’s uncle was now the only remaining heir of the royal family. He’d have the police, the military, and every eye in the nation on her trail.

Then Luka thought of him, being crowned in Viola’s place, laying her body in the royal tombs, setting flowers on her casket in the view of photographers. She thought of the speech he’d give at her funeral, regretting her untimely death, promising to take up her responsibilities, mourning the very girl he’d killed. It made Luka sick.

She stood up, dripping water all the way to the bar. “Do you have any clothes?”

“What am I, a tailor?”

“Do you have any rooms then?”

“No, we’re full. Are you just gonna stand there soaking wet, or are you gonna buy a drink?”

Luka crossed back to the fire. She watched a policeman come into the bar, and she froze. Before she could duck her head, he locked eyes with her.

“Barkeep, got any rooms?” In his voice, she recognized the familiar haze of liquor, and breathed a sigh of relief. It would be noon tomorrow before this officer woke up and heard the news, started looking for her.

“The usual is open for you, go on and collapse,” the barkeep told him, and the policeman trotted upstairs.

Luka waited until the tavern owner’s back was turned, and slipped upstairs herself. She listened to the policeman undress himself clumsily, then settle into bed. When he was snoring loudly, she carefully opened the door and snuck inside.

Finally, she opened the second floor window, adjusted her new stolen uniform, and climbed down the tavern’s facade. Her shoulder gave her trouble, and she eventually had to jump the last few feet to the ground.

Luka was careful to take Viola’s ribbon from the pocket of her other slacks and place them into the coat of the officer before she changed. It might be all of the princess Luka would see for a long while.

Luka gave the royal palace one last look, recognizing the emergency torches and the distant call of alarm bells, before she turned her back and disappeared into the moonlit alleys of Verona.

#historical fiction #alternate history #alt history #Carrion Flowers

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specialagentsnark · 4 years

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Marriage of Convenience - Chapter 1

Happy Fili Friday! In honor of this wonderful day, I’m going to start posting my first ever Hobbit fanfic on here. Enjoy a little Figrid! This can also be found on AO3 if you’d like to read the entire thing all at once. Please leave me some comments. They help support my fragile writer’s ego. Happy reading!

Story Summary:

Two years after The Battle, pressure mounts for Fili to marry to help secure Erebor's stability. In Dale, Sigrid is being pressured to marry as well. Faced with a series of horrible suitors, the two friends hatch a plan to avoid unhappy marriages - marry each other. The only problem is everyone thinks they're already madly in love. After all, no dwarf would ever willingly pick a human otherwise.

Chapter 1

The first time Fili woke, he wasn’t sure he was awake. Everything hurt. He could feel someone wrapping something around his leg. Excruciating pain lanced up his limb and into his back. He tried to protest, tried to raise his hands but he hurt too much. All he could really move were his eyes. Nearby, towards his feet, he could see his uncle laying on his own cot as healers moved around him, Oin shouted orders for more bandages and hot water and needles and salves. Thorin, hands shaking in his own pain, carefully braided Bilbo’s hair.

Fili tried to protest. Thorin shouldn’t be putting those braids in their burglar’s hair until he was better and they could have a proper ceremony, not until his amad had arrived at least. Dis would be furious to know she’d gained a brother-in-law before she made it to Erebor. And since when had Thorin planned to even propose to Bilbo? He’d known they were close but hadn’t realized they were that close, let alone courting and engaged.

“Smart to have someone immune to gold lust on the throne, even if it is just a consort,” someone murmured nearby.

A marriage of state then, of convenience, not of love.

Fili gagged at the notion.

Someone shouted by his head, calling for something he thought he recognized but couldn’t think of what it was. Everything was so odd, so muddled, so loud. The pain didn’t help. Thorin was finishing the braids in Bilbo’s hair and his hands dropped, exhausted as the King Under the Mountain fell unconscious.

A cup met his lips and he drank reflexively. His throat burned with the effort. He dropped back into oblivion again.

~*~*~*~

The next time Fili opened his eyes, he wasn’t in nearly the same amount of pain. He could feel his hand was loosely wrapped around something and what he thought were two hands kept his fingers in place. He blinked his eyes open slowly, fighting against the dim light of the room. His brother’s sleeping face greeted him.

“Kili?” he asked, voice coming out a rasp. His fingers tightened around what he held, realizing it was his baby brother’s hand.

“He lives.”

Fili looked up, toward the voice. The redheaded elf captain sat at the head of the large bed he and his brother had been placed on. She was the one holding their hands together. What was her name? Kili had taken a liking to her and had mentioned her name more than once. He struggled to think of it.

“I am Tauriel,” the elf said, seemingly noticing his internal struggle. “It is good you are awake. I’ll send for your kin.” She released their hands and went to the door. Instinctively, Fili gripped his brother’s hand tighter. His hand ached at the attempt and dismay coursed through him at how feeble his grip felt even as he held on with all his might. The elf returned.

“How is he?” Fili asked, not looking away from his brother. A few small pink healing scars littered the skin he could see on the younger Durin and on himself. His throat closed up on the last word and he started to cough.

“Here, drink.” Something touched his lips and he obediently opened his mouth. Cool water dripped in and he swallowed reflexively. The amount was too small and he continued to cough until more water was given. Finally, after a few more additions, the coughing ceased.

“We will know more when he wakes laddy.”

Fili struggled to look around, his eyes finally finding Oin entering the room. The healer approached and started checking Fili over, patting and prodding and poking and searching under bandages.

“You’ve been out for almost a month,” Oin explained as he worked. “We weren’t sure you would wake. You have the elf lass here to thank for that. I don’t know as I would have been able to keep you three alive.”

“Three?” Fili asked.

“Aye, three,” Oin said. He looked up, nodding toward the doorway.

Fili followed his gaze and felt his throat constrict again, this time for an entirely different reason. “Uncle Thorin,” he managed to choke out past the lump.

Thorin Oakenshield leaned heavily on a cane in the doorway. He wore clothes similar to what he’d traveled in, minus his armor, just shirt, tunic, and trousers. His crown, any and all finery for that matter, was absent. The only things of any value he wore were the silver beads in his hair and a single, unadorned, silver ring on his left hand.

“You had us worried, Fili,” Thorin said.

“Sorry,” he croaked. He felt so tired but he didn’t dare take his eyes away from his uncle or his little brother but he had to ask. “The others?”

“All survived,” he said. “You and Kili are the worst.”

“Bilbo?” he had to ask, to make sure the figure he’d seen having marriage braids put in his hair wasn’t a figment of his imagination, brought on by blood loss and whatever mess of medications they’d poured into him.

“Here, Fili. I’m here.” Thorin stepped aside to let the hobbit into the room, his hand instinctively going to rest on the smaller male’s shoulder. Bilbo didn’t even flinch at the contact and Fili marveled a moment. To think he could forgive his uncle and trust him so easily after Thorin had threatened his life.

“Alright, you’ve seen him awake,” Oin said. “Go tell the others while he gets back to sleep. He needs rest. Get some willow bark tea.”

“Yes, Master Oin.” Fili glanced toward the foot of the beds where the voice came from to find a dwarrowdam, probably a bit younger than Kili.

“Drink up lad and sleep,” Oin ordered. “Hopefully the next time you wake your brother will have woken too. You give us more hope.” The old healer helped him sit up enough that he could sip at the bitter tea. Sleep drew him away before he could finish the cup. He dreamed of dragon fire and orcs. Gold and death.

~*~*~*~

The next time he woke, he still held Kili’s hand, this time without assistance from the elf who still sat near their bed, now to the side besides his little brother. Like last time, he first asked after his brother in a croak.

“He woke yesterday,” Tauriel said, a fond smile on her face as she gazed at Kili. “You will both recover from your wounds though it may take a while.”

Fili breathed a sigh of relief and submitted to more nasty tasting teas Oin gave him when the healer arrived. He slept again.

~*~*~*~

He drifted in and out of consciousness for what he was told was the next few weeks. Each time he did, he felt stronger. He started to wake more naturally instead of when the teas and medicines wore off, leaving him in pain. That lessened too, leaving him feeling more willing to try to move on his own. Unfortunately, he never woke when his brother did and he was left yearning to see Kili awake.

It was some time later when Kili’s movements woke him. He’d been dreaming about riding down a river in that barrel that had smelled so strongly of apples when suddenly his hand was shaken violently. He startled slightly, coming to faster than he had in a while. He looked to the side to see his brother reaching his hand into Tauriel’s hair and pulling her down for a kiss.

Feeling generous and just happy to see his little brother awake, Fili gave them a moment of loving contact before saying, “Better not let Uncle catch you.” He snickered as they jumped apart. If they moved that fast at his voice, they’d probably kill themselves trying to seem innocent if Thorin caught them.

“Fili!” Kili gasped and turned where he lay. He wrapped his arms around Fili who returned the hug with just as much enthusiasm. They both cringed when aching, healing wounds made themselves known at the contact. Fili noticed Tauriel head toward the door, presumably to inform someone that they were awake as always happened when he woke.

“It’s good to see you awake Kee,” he said, shifting so their foreheads touched. “Although I’d rather not wake up to the sight of you kissing someone. Couldn’t you let me sleep?”

“Loosen your grip then,” Kili retorted, “or you could just not watch.” He turned his eyes back up to Tauriel as she retook her seat, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to have to get used to the idea though Brother.”

Fili shuddered in mock horror. “Please,” he begged, “don’t make me watch my little brother kiss anyone. The very idea is unbearable.”

Kili laughed and then winced, his ribs straining.

Thorin entered the room with Oin and Bilbo. Fili tried not to flinch at the sight of the marriage braids in his uncle’s and the hobbit’s hair.

Oin started poking and prodding at him before he could start to feel ill at the sight. The process was routine now and Fili was even able to carefully push himself into a sitting position this time to make it easier for Oin to check the wound on his back, the one that should have killed him. The healer then moved the blankets aside to check his broken leg, loosening the splints.

Once Oin had checked him over and Kili as well, he declared, “They’ll both recover though Fili my limp for a long time, possibly forever. Certainly when the weather is poor.” His landing after Azog had thrown him from the tower had broken his leg and done something to the way it sat in the joint with his hip. He would possibly experience pain there every day for the rest of his life.

A ragged cheer erupted from those in the room. And Fili gripped his brother’s hand, glad to hear that the damage done to his innards wasn’t permanent. The infections had been fought off and all open wounds had all but closed entirely, leaving scars they’d carry forever, reminders to be thankful for the lives they still have ahead of them.

~*~*~*~

“This is not the life I wanted for you, my girl.”

“A life of plenty? Of full bellies and the knowledge that it will always be so? That we will not starve when the snows come?”

Bard’s lips quirked up at the corners at her display of optimism. “I had always hoped for that, strived for it. And I am so very, very glad for it to be true now.” His smile faded a little. “I never did, however, want for your life to be decided for political gain.”

A sinking feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean Da?”

“I am Girion’s only heir. Against my wishes and better judgment, I will be crowned as King of Dale. You and your siblings will be crowned as prince and princesses.”

“I’m aware of how lines of royalty work.”

“As a princess-” his grimace deepened at the word “-you will be expected to marry for political advantage Sigrid, and not for love.”

The bottom of her stomach plummeted further but somehow still managed to remain firmly in her torso. “I-I need air,” she stammered and ducked out of their home and headed for the slopes around the Lonely Mountain.

~*~*~*~

“You jest,” Fili said, trying to laugh off the situation.

Thorin flinched. “Fili, it’s been a year since you recovered. The mountain is being rebuilt. More and more of our people return to the mountain each week. We must look to the future of our people now.”

“How does this affect our people?” Fili demanded. “It’s my personal life.”

“We must create strong political ties with other nations. The easiest way to do so is through marriage.”

File bristled. “You may have been willing to marry for political reasons,” he growled and ignored the way Thorin and Bilbo both winced and glanced at each other furtively, “but I am not. You’ve got ties with the Shire,” he nodded at his uncle’s husband who is the grandson to the ruling Thain of the green country to the west, “and to the elves in Mirkwood through Kili’s engagement to Tauriel. We have Dain and the Iron Hills to the east and those that remain in the Blue Mountains. What more do you want?”

“We have alliances, aye,” Balin said, voice apologetic but matter-of-fact, “but if we are to survive until trade routes are established, we will need as many ties with other kingdoms as we can. The strongest alliances would be created through your marriage.”

“Amad,” Fili said almost pleadingly, looking to his mother who stood to the side of her brother, a scowl on her normally serene face.

“I am sorry Fili,” she said and looked at her feet. Resignation and sorrow rang in her voice. He found no comfort there. “If you had found your One, maybe things would be different but as it stands, we must secure Erebor’s safety.”

Fili didn’t bother responding. Taking up his cane, he turned and left the council room, slamming the door behind him. He would seek out his brother but Kili was off with Tauriel, working with Dori and Ori and the visiting delegation from Mirkwood to find ways to meld traditions from both cultures into a single courtship and wedding. He didn't want to dim his little brother’s happiness with his own grouchy mood.

He’d go to the training grounds if he could but his leg still troubled him greatly. Oin said it was healing better than he had dared hope but that the recovery would still take time. He wouldn’t be able to fight properly for some time yet. He still did what he could but actually sparring with someone, especially with someone that would challenge his skills like Dwalin did, was still out of the question. With rain on the horizon, he hurt even more than normal.

Fili returned to his rooms, grabbed the new travel fiddle he’d had made once a proper craftsman had returned to the mountain, and left the stone walls around him, heading up the slopes to find solitude while he played until his frustrations ceased and he could think clearer. Maybe then he’d be able to find an alternative that his uncle and his advisors had not seen.

The hike up and around the side of the mountain to a secluded area took him longer than it normally would have. Between being thrown off balance by the fiddle case across his back and struggling with his aching leg, the sun was high in the sky. He leaned his cane against the rocks and set his instrument aside. He’d rest before he started to play. He paced, limping heavily without his cursed cane, trying to think of a way around the prospect of an arranged marriage.

“A political marriage is the only way to make the kingdom strong,” he grumbled under his breath. He turned to look at the mountain and he felt his anger grow.

“Not bloody likely!” he shouted and then jumped as a second voice joined him in the same words. He whirled. A young woman’s head appeared above a grouping of rocks to stare at him. She looked familiar.

“Prince Fili?” she asked, eyes wide in shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

He remembered her now. He hadn’t seen her for a few months but he remembered. “Lady Sigrid,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He picked his cane back up and the case to round the rocks to where she was. Her coat was laid out on the ground where she’d been apparently sitting on it out of his view.

She heaved a sigh as she motioned for him to join her. He did so, leaning his fiddle on the rock gently and setting his cane next to him once he was settled. She sat next to him when he patted the spot on her coat he’d left for her.

“Avoiding politics,” she told him once settled.

“Political woes seem to be going around,” he muttered as he leaned back on his hands and stretched his aching leg out in front of him, trying to take pressure off the joint at his hip. “Which do you face?”

She grimaced. “Expectations for a royal wedding.”

“You too, huh?” he asked and shifted, trying to find a better way to situate his leg.

She crossed her legs in front of her, leaned forward, set her elbow on her knee, and propped her chin in her open palm. “Is King Thorin telling you to marry as well?” she asked looking slightly up at him from her bent position.

“As a newly reestablished kingdom, it’s expected for us to create strong ties with all peoples of Middle Earth. Kili has Tauriel, Uncle has his Hobbit consort, Amad had my father who was a dwarf of the Blue Mountains, and we have kin in the dwarrow of the Iron Hills. All we need now is a solid alliance with men.”

“I thought you had that with the alliance written up with my father and the people of Dale.”

“Written alliances aren’t as strong as marital,” Fili said.

They heaved simultaneous sighs. “Being royal isn’t any fun,” Sigrid said. “Ever since Da slew that dragon and the battle ended he’s been worked to the bone and people now expect so much from my brother, sister, and me. I miss being a bargeman’s daughter, poor though we were.”

Fili nodded. “There are days I miss being a jeweler and musician,” he admitted. “Times were slimmer then but it was honest work and it was easier being a prince in name and nothing more.” They stared at the distance in comfortable but brooding silence for a time before Sigrid threw up her hands.

“I’m tired of thinking about it,” she said. “You say you were a musician before you retook the mountain. Will you play?” she nodded towards his fiddle.

Fili glanced at the case now regretting not grabbing one of the finer instruments. He shrugged though. He’d come up here to play to clear his head. Maybe having an audience would help him remember his time in the Blue Mountains. Pulling the instrument out, he started tuning it. “Any requests?”

Sigrid shook her head. “Do you have perfect pitch?” she asked as she watched him.

He tested the strings and adjusted just a little more. “Yes,” he said. “Do you play an instrument?”

“No,” she said, “but my father used to sing all the time. It’s odd to think of a bargeman knowing musical theory but he does.”

Fili smiled and then drew the bow across the strings. Happy with what he heard he started playing from his seated position. He should stand, he knew, but he just didn't want to deal with the pain in his leg right then. Instead, he concentrated on the piece he played, a drinking song from Ered Luin. Most of what he knew was more fit for taverns over great halls of a recovered kingdom so he rarely played outside of his own rooms these days and he found himself happy to be playing for someone. Sigrid smiled and listened, clapping her hands to the beat for certain songs.

“Oh! I know this one!” she said as he started the intro to a third song.

“Then you should sing,” he said, grinning.

So Sigrid sang the silly song of a young man that went to sea only to fall in love with a mermaid with green hair and pale blue skin on his first voyage. Fili joined in on the chorus. When the song ended, he set his violin aside and applauded her even as she laughed and applauded him.

“Your father isn’t the only one in your family that can sing,” he said. “That was lovely.”

A charming blush rose in her cheeks as she gazed at her lap. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It was nice hearing you play. You’re very good.”

Fili snorted. “I’m well enough,” he said. “It brought in extra coin to play at taverns and inns. Kili plays too and he sings better than I do. I haven’t played with him in a while. I don’t know if he still does.”

“I’m glad you still do,” Sigrid said. “That was fun.” She stretched her arms above her head and he heard faint cracking sounds race up her back. “Thanks. I needed something fun today.”

He grinned at her. “You’re welcome.” They stared back at the view again, Fili keeping his fiddle on his lap, wondering if he should play something more when a raven dropped to the rocks next to them and pecked at his good leg and squawked at him. He sighed. “Fun time’s over,” he said. “I’m being summoned.” He looked at the bird. “Let him know I’m on my way down but it will take a while. Leg and all.” The bird took off as Fili started packing up his fiddle. As he stiffly rose to his feet, Sigrid stood as well and offered a polite smile as she gathered up her coat, shaking the dirt and dust off it.

“I’m glad I ran into you today,” she said.

“Me too,” he said. “I hope to see you again soon. Good luck with your suitors.”

She rubbed a hand down her face. “I wish you hadn’t reminded me,” she groused but her lips twitched in a half smile. “Good luck your highness,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.

He bowed and bid her farewell, heading back toward the path he’d originally climbed, leaning heavily on his cane. By the time he reached the road to Erebor pain was lancing up his leg and spine. He managed to flag down a cart and get a ride into the city on the back.

#my writing #hobbit #the hobbit #AU Everyone lives/nobody dies #Figrid #Fili #Fili Friday #marriage of convenience #angst with a happy ending #unbeta'd #chapter 1 #finished work #multi-chapter #weekly post #cross-posted #AO3

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officialleehadan · 5 years

Text

This is my Battle Cry

Eskyl had been to war before.

Many times, in fact.

First, as a sellsword with a family to provide for. He joined whatever army would have him, although he preferred the easier jobs. The ones that kept him close to home, and his beloved wife.

When she died, he raised an army of his own and stormed the countryside, raging and nearly mindless with grief. His only desire; to see the world crumble with his broken life.

When the heroes came, he led his army again, this time, to failure. His keep was sundered, his army scattered, and his strong right arm lost.

But never before had he lead an army with the fear of failure in his heart.

Now, as he looked out over an army a dozen times the size of any he ever saw before, he wondered if they could win. Bald-Face and Zain stood at his sides, and he looked at one, and then the other. His oldest, truest friends. At Zain’s side stood Adelaide, her hair braided up, and her eyes hard. It was odd to see her without tiny Kia, but the little princess was back in Zain’s tower, protected by Nihalis, who would kill a thousand men before he let harm come to a child. He had also, much to Eskyl’s pleasure, rummaged through the storerooms and found a fine set of student-robes for Adelaide. Now, for the first time, she looked the part of the fierce young woman she was.

Trevor stood at her side, in spelled armor and with a better sword than he ever could have bought for himself. It had been Eskyl’s, before he forged his curse-blade, and it was the best steel money could buy. He would defend Adelaide to the death. Eskyl was proud of their young hero. He hoped to train the boy more, and maybe even risk his own ghosts by paying a visit to the boy’s mother.

But that, for now, was not the task at hand.

“Let him know we’re here,” he murmured to Zain, who held a shield over them with effortless ease. It protected them both from magical attacks, and from sight, visible as they were on this lone, high hilltop. “No sense doing this the hard way.”

“We’re old,” Bald-Face agreed, leaning on his staff. There was a single, massive wasp perched on his shoulder. The creature was nearly the length of his arm, and Bald-Face held her as easily as another man would hold a hunting eagle. “Best to make it simple, yes?”

“Well,” Zain said, and slammed his ruby skull-topped staff to the ground, sending out a shockwave that shook the army below. “I had best knock, shouldn’t I?”

The army roused, rattled to life by the shockwave and the sudden appearance of their small party on the hill.

It didn’t take long for the Master of Evil to take note, and come sniffing around.

“Hello, whelp,” Eskyl greeted him, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He stood comfortable, wrapped in his black armor that was, for the first time since his fall, bared ot the world. His standard, thought fallen, fluttered above their heads, two clenched fists, with three swords at war above them.

Beside it flew the banner of the toddler queen they fought for, blue to Eskyl’s black, and edged in silver.

Zain’s red deathmask and Bald-Face’s green and gold honeybees bordered them. An ostentatious show of power, maybe, but the whelp had stabbed him, and Eskyl was not in the mood to be kind.

“Well, I wondered what happened to you,” Coil said when he appeared, all purple glitter and black smoke. As if the barest baby magician didn’t know that the showier the appearance, the more inexpert the spell. Poor darling he really just had no idea. “I stabbed you. Usually when I stab people, I mean for them to die of it.”

“It wasn’t a very good stabbing,” Zain noted, and eyed the whelp with sincere, judgmental, disapproval. “You can’t dress yourself at all. Master of all evil. Crying shame.”

“You could give him the name of your seamstresses,” Bald-Face suggested mildly, and petted his wasp. It buzzed happily at him. Coil eyed it with profound alarm. “They’re dear sweet things. They would teach him.”

“No, no. He would probably kill them. Murderous baby overlord.”

“Ah, yes. That would be sad. Besides, he won’t be living long enough to care much.”

‘I am going to kill you all,” Coil decided, but he also vanished again with a puff of black smoke and more purple glitter. Zain rolled his eyes.

“Not very good at that, is he?” he said, and vanished the remnants of Coil’s poorly-done transportation spell. “oh look, here they come.”

“I suppose it’s my turn,” Bald-Face said, and kissed his giant wasp between her bulbous, gleaming eyes. “Would you mind, sweetling?”

The hornet buzzed, and lifted off into the sky.

The army below them rallied to action and charged.

Eskyl glanced over his shoulder as nearly thirty massive creatures stepped out of the forest. They looked like ogres hewn of sandstone, built in layer after layer of tan and brown.

It wasn’t until Coil’s cavalry raged up the hill at them that the secret of the creatures was revealed.

The ogres stepped forward to make a wall of themselves. One by one, they raised massive hands, and beat on their own chests, the thud of a battle drum and the rustle of crushing paper.

Paper wasps poured out of the ogres, furious at being disturbed, and turned their ire on every living creature they could see.

Bald-Face casually raised a hand when the cloud of furious insects came for them, and the wasps turned back, doubling over on themselves.

The cavalry fell apart. No horse would willingly run into a cloud of angry wasps. Their riders were bucked off, fell off, or clung desperately to their saddles as their mounts bolted in every direction except towards the wasps.

But as terrible as the wasps had been, they faded quickly, retreating back into their paper-enclosed-skeleton nests. But Bald-Face wasn’t done.

Far off over the forest, the sky darkened, covered by fast-moving clouds that powered against the wind with ease. A roar filled the air, thick and terrible.

Direwasps.

Millions of them.

Each as long as a man’s arm, with a stinger filled with poison, and a temper to sent grown dragon scrambling for the hills.

But they didn’t attack. Not yet. First, they had a more important task, for each giant wasp flew heavily, a precious cargo clutched in their pincers.

Instead, they began dropping their burden, and circled back for more. In moments, the army was shouting as the rain of bones built up into a rattling snowstorm of remains.

Zain smiled. Without a word, he raised his staff to the sky, and slammed it down again. A second shockwave, this one far more powerful than the first, rocked the shaken army before them.

But as bad as Bald-Face’s ladies were, his creatures were not the stuff of nightmares.

Zain, however, walked a different path.

The fallen bones trembled furiously as his moon-pale magic ghosted over them and sank into the clean, bleached surface. In moments, the bones began to skitter across the ground, collecting themselves into heavily-armed skeleton soldiers. The ground shook as Zain’s potent magic sought out the dead entombed below the army, left in cemeteries and catacombs beneath the city, now roused to life once more in the service of their young queen.

When at last they stood, formed into neat ranks under Zain’s command, Zain turned to Eskyl.

“You asked for an army, brother,” he said, and clapped Eskyl’s shoulder. “None will fall that do not rise again to the cause. We will protect the younglings. Give him hell.”

Eskyl, smiled, cold and terrible, and drew his curse-blade. The unearthly howl of the blade echoed even above the cries of Coil’s human army as they saw the force brought against them and wondered if they could face such an army and live.

Before they could decide, Eskyl kissed Adelaide’s forehead, nodded once to Trevor, and charged down the hill, his undead army at his heels.

+++

Unforged, Unforgiven:

Fourteen years ago, Eskyl’s wife and child were murdered. Fourteen years ago, Eskyl’s rage leveled half the country, and left thousands running in terror. Fourteen years ago, Eskyl vanished.

But now the heroes are dead, and the only one who can challenge a terrible new evil is one Old Monster.

Old Monster

Into the Lair

Taking out the Trash

When the Ice-Wind Blows

Under Tree, Over Blade

Flower Crowns and Dancers

Under Cover of Darkness (Subscriber Only)

Age-Old Promise

Curse-Blade (Subscriber Only)

Old Friends

Drunken Honey

+++

MORE STORIES!

+++

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shewhowantsmouseears · 5 years

Note

If you’re still taking requests, something from the weblena red riding hood au?

Sorry this took forever and a half to get to. Decided to go with “first meeting”!

If things had ever gone easy in Lena'slife, well, she doubted it would be her life at all – nothing hadever gone easy for her from the moment she was born, even when shemade every effort to be lazy and slide through difficult situations.Sometimes she wondered if she had a past life where she did somethingso bad that she had to make up for it in this one – it was easierto think that, then believe she was hated and ostracized for no goodreason at all, as if her very existence was a curse upon the pack.

She thought about this now as she stoodin the tree, looking down at the innocent villager who was casuallystrolling through the dark woods. Lena had yet to take a life, whichwas one of many things the pack leader, her aunt, criticized herover. But now here was the perfect victim in Lena's clutches – alittle girl, probably younger than Lena herself, all alone andlooking like she couldn't hurt a fly. If Lena couldn't chow down onthis delicate flower, maybe her next life would be screwed up too.She moved along the tree branch, inspecting her future meal.

The little girl suddenly stopped,blinked, and then looked right in Lena's direction. Looking back atthis moment later, Lena would realize this was the first sign thatthe little girl was more than she appeared, but here and now sheassumed she must have made some sound she didn't notice. Fine by her– stealth had never been her specialty. So she took a jump, landinga good distance away from the other girl, and then calmly brushedherself down, as if not having noticed anyone at all.

The little girl, dressed in a red hoodand holding a wicker basket in her tiny hands, raised her eyebrows.“You're a wolf!”

“A+ detective skills there, chief.”Lena replied, inspecting her claws. “You're in the woods. What wereyou expecting?”

The girl glanced up, mentally debatingthis, then nodded once. “Well, I wouldn't like any trouble today,miss wolf. I'm going to my Granny's house. I've got some stuff todeliver – pastries, breads, jams, those funny cheeses that smellbad but taste good-”

“Tell me your whole life story whileyou're at it.” Lena replied, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, okay, um, my name is WebbigailVanderquack, but my granny calls me Webby, and I was born on a sunnyday in the middle of-” She stopped abruptly, holding up a finger.“Ah. Sarcasm. I have not mastered that yet. Sorry.”

Lena wasn't a master killer like therest of the pack, but she could pick up clues when she wanted – andthis Webby was clearly in desperate need of companionship, someone totalk to, even if it was a complete stranger and a wolf. She continuedto look and clean her claws, putting on an air of boredom. “Yourgranny must be pretty important if you're traveling through the woodsfor her.”

The hook worked, and Webby lit up likea campfire. “Oh, Granny's the best! I haven't seen her in ages, butshe's nice and warm and has taught me a whole bunch of stuff and Ireally hope she likes the stuff I'm bringing...” She trailed off,realizing how much of a delay this chitchat was making. “Speakingof, I'd probably better get going, she might get worried if I'm notthere on time.”

“Go for it,” Lena said, not oncelooking up. “If those pastries are all you're going to bringher.”

Webby had made it two steps beforestopping glancing back, surprised. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Hm?” Only now did Lena lookWebby's way, as if none of this had been intentional at all. “Oh,well, I was just thinking... eh, what do I know? I'm just a wolf.”She shrugged, and began to walk in the opposite direction.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Webby jogged upto her side, and upon closer inspection, Lena could see that thisgirl had big eyes, wide as saucers and full of naive innocence.“What's wrong with bringing my Granny this stuff? It's what shelikes.” Yet even as she tried to defend herself, her voice betrayedher worry, fingers nervously squeezing the basket's handle.

Lena clicked her tongue and exhaleddeeply. “Well...” She drew out the word, testing Webby'spatience. “If I was bringing a gift to someone I cared about, Iwouldn't just get them something anyone in the village could gettheir hands on. Me? I'd add a little something special, something noteveryone could get.”

Webby frowned, brows furrowed. “Likewhat?”

The wolf gestured to a darker path downin the woods. “There is this special patch of the most beautifulwildflowers that most villagers don't even know about. Completelygorgeous, if you're into that sort of thing.”

And judging from Webby's interest, hereyes widening and sparks of imagination fluttering within, she wasvery much into that sort of thing. Yet there was still a beat ofhesitance, as she took a look back where she'd been originallywalking towards. “I don't know...” She said quietly, biting downfor half a second. “Granny told me to never stray from the path ifI've got a destination.”

“Suit yourself.” Lena began walkingon again. “Shame that your Granny doesn't really trust you to takecare of yourself.”

Hook, line, sinker – Webby wasimmediately at Lena's side again. “She trusts me! She taught meeverything she knows! She wouldn't let me go into the woods at all ifshe didn't trust me!”

Lena almost felt sorry for how easilyWebby was made into a mark. It was a wonder she lived this long amongregular people, who Lena knew would betray one another for a singlecoin. Maybe if was for Webby's own good she'd be snuffed out earlybefore someone worse came along. “Hey, that's great. It's reallynot that far ahead, and picking a few flowers will just take a coupleof seconds. You'll be seeing your Granny before sunset.”

Webby relaxed a little, and flashed acute smile that Lena was certain would win the hearts of man andwoman alike once she got older – though maybe it did a handy jobfor the boys and girls of now anyway.

At the very least, Lena had told thetruth about the path of wildflowers – it was big, beautiful andspacious, resting underneath golden sunlight and creating a field ofrainbows on blissful days like these. Lena often used this patch as agood spot to nap, away from the pack and all its troubles. It seemeda sin to taint such a lovely place with her upcoming crime, but allgood things must come to an end. Lena was supposed to grow up and bea real wolf, one that didn't care for flowers and beauty and only didwhat was good for the pack.

Webby let out a gasp and a squeal atthe same time, which Lena found odd but hilarious. “OH MY GOSH ITREALLY IS PRETTY!” She dove right into the patch, giggling wildlyas she ran her fingers over soft petals and new smells. She kneltdown and placed her basket aside, hands wiggling as she struggled todecide what to talk. “Granny's going to love these!” But beforeshe plucked a single one, she placed her hands on her lap and turnedher head back enough to flash another sweet little smile. “Thanks,miss wolf!”

Lena blinked rapidly, the word soforeign it took a good minute to understand what had been said –wolves never thanked one another, they merely obeyed and it wasunderstood. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, sure, whatever.” Webby turned herattention back to the flowers, and Lena ran a hand down her face.This kid was too nice for her own good. She trusted a wolf? Thanked awolf? Maybe this Granny had sent out Webby to get killed, and Lenadidn't think this was unusual at all. People betrayed people all thetime for their own needs and wants, and family didn't make a lick ofdifference.

Webby had begun humming a simplemelody, deciding to tie together flowers of different colorstogether. Lena wiped her mouth with the back of her arm, settlinginto her choice. Sorry, Red she thought to herself. Survivalof the fittest out here. One good chomp to the neck would endthings quickly, and she slowly, quietly, began to advance upon Webby,her claws sharp in the sunlight, fangs glistening. Webby had one handon the flower crown, the other reaching into the basket, probablygrabbing a quick bite to eat, if Lena had to guess. She hoped Webbyenjoyed her last meal, and raised one hand high, ready to seize her -

Only to find a butterfly knife ever soserenely placed against her throat, Webby holding it to Lena'sthrobbing vein without looking back. “Maybe if you hadlistened to my life story,” Webby said, her voice never losing anysugar or honey, “You'd realize I wasn't born yesterday, miss wolf.”

#ducktales2017 #weblena #webby vanderquack #lena de spell #fanfic #Anonymous

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 5 years

Text

Salvation In Ink

It has been way too long since I worked with my girl, Bella and I’ve been meaning to do something with this headcanon of mine.

Summary: AU where Bellatrix has been banished to the muggle world to get salvation. In order to fill her itch for pain, she takes up a job as a tattoo artist. A job made harder when Hermione walks in.

It buzzed in her hand.

She was growing used to the hum.

It was a constant and daily noise.

And it comforted her.

Bellatrix supposed that the comfort came from a sense of stability. At finally having at least one constant. For as much as she hated her predicament, she accepted resentfully that it was probably doing her some good. For the first time in a long while, her head was mostly clear. Her mind was mostly lucid. And she supposed that it wasn’t so bad, her line of work.

She got to do what she loved.

Even if it wasn’t via her usual means.

These days, muggles came to her seeking pain. She obliged without having a single beat missed. Today’s victim was a man in his late forties. A burly looking man with a bushy red beard and a biker jacket. She knew him well enough, he was loud and rowdy as she and had a habit of asking what business a woman had in this industry.

She tied her hair back, a task much easier vocalized than put into action. Eventually, she had her collection of unruly curls, remotely tamed and away from intruding upon her sight. With that done, she washed her hands thoroughly. And after that she checked on the needles, they had been sitting for awhile and she decided that they are sterile. She motioned for the man, Kyle to seat himself. He did so after barking another thing or two about how it wasn’t right that such a skinny, scraggly looking woman could do his tattoos better than the best of the men he’d been to in the past.

“And yet you keep coming.” She commented as she brought the tattoo gun to his bicep. Today she would be touching up a tiger tattoo--an old work from a less talented friend. It was a gaudy thing, but she would make good work of it. He may not be a fainter nor a crier but paid her generously to make up for the lack of entertainment he provided.

The orange ink she put under his skin is much more vibrant than what he’d had before, with a tinge of gold ink, it truly stood out. She had a feeling that he wouldn’t be making many more comments about how she wasn’t suited for the job.

All in all, it was good work.

So long as she didn’t think about how she had been stripped of her magic.

How she had been barred from the wizarding world and was confined to this muggle hellhole.

She began sterilizing the needles in preparation for another client. She didn’t have another booking for a few hours. An unusually slow day. Should she get a walk in, she would prolong the consultation process until the needles have been cleansed to her liking.

Bellatrix didn’t expect that drawing out a simple, ‘what kind of ink are you looking for’ would be so easy. Usually people just plopped themselves down and got straight to the point. Occasional someone would ramble on about how, such and such was a depiction of their ex or a tribute to their dead mother and other interesting matters. But the woman who walked in wasn’t that sort.

The former witch was busy drumming her fingers upon the countertop and eyeing her own tattoo. She’d done it herself, turning her dark mark into a reaper with curvy and gnarled scythe and a snake curling around it.

The action had bought her a chance to re-enter the wizarding world should she live out her exile without causing too much of a stir.

Some nights she woke with a faint dread that her master would come to berate her for her disgusting act of disloyalty. For the blasphemy of defacing her dark mark. But he was gone, and for permanent this time.

It was time to release herself.

It was time for freedom.

Bellatrix didn’t notice her until she cleared her throat. “Relax, mudblood, I’m just doing my job. Any screams you’ve heard were completely voluntary.”

“I’m not here to check up on you.” Hermione replied. “That’s not my job.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Then what are you doing here?” Bellatrix frowned, almost certain that she was about to be on the receiving end taunting and mockery.

“This is a tattoo parlor isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Bellatrix confirmed. “Why are you standing in it.”

“To make flower crowns and cupcakes.”

“Down the street.”

“I want a tattoo, Bellatrix.”

The pure blood quirked an eyebrow.

The humor had drained from Hermione’s face. “You’re going to fix what you’ve done.”

“They tell me that, that’s why I’m here.” Bellatrix returned. “Something, something, atone for your crimes and live a... saner lifestyle.”

Hermione’s expression grew duller still. She held out her arm. “You’re going to fix this.” The scar was still heavily prevalent. “Make it into something meaningful and empowering.”

Bellatrix wrinkled her nose, it was one thing to sit idly doing a muggle’s work and another entirely, to actively right a specific wrong she done. Her stomach lolls unpleasantly. She hated the smirk on the younger witch’s face. The smug, triumphant smile. It would seem that just coming into the shop was a victory. Making demands of someone who ought to be above her was another, larger conquest. Bellatrix did what she does best and retreated behind a wall of jesting and sarcasm. In a falsely cheerful sing song she replies, “the more you pay the more empowering.”

But the mudblood wanted to draw things out and make things as mentally painful as Bellatrix had dealt her physical pain. “You’re going to do it free of charge.” Simple. Clean. Cutting. Such was the nature of her demand.

Bellatrix scoffed. “You’re going to have to pull your wand out and utter an unforgivable if you want me to do that.” She wouldn’t specify if she was referring to crucio or imperio.

“No.” Hermione refused. “You’re going to do it because I told you to.” She fixed Bellatrix with a hard stare.

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

She looked at the clock. The needles should be clean. “I suppose that I can, since you flashed that gryffindor courage of yours. It’ll be nice to see you cry again.”

Hermione followed her without another word and sat herself down.

“So what are you looking for specifically?”

“Nothing so long as it gets rid of this.” She rubbed at the scar with her thumb.

“You’re really going to trust me with full creative control?” Bellatrix perked up rather deviously.

“I trust that you won’t do something that will ensure that you’ll never hex another house elf again.”

Bellatrix frowned. This mudblood was really sucking the life out of her. Hadn’t she a solid form, Bella might have thought her a dementor. She took a moment to work out a sketch. “Do you want to see it?”

“Surprise me, and make it a good one.” Hermione replied. “You getting your wand back depends on it.”

What a vexing human being. “Just sit still and scream very loudly if I hurt you.” She picked up her tattoo gun and drank in the soothingly familiar buzz.

The mudblood was annoyingly quiet as she dragged the needle across her skin. The only indication of pain or discomfort was a contortion of her face every now and again or a reflexive tensing of her muscles. Once or twice she hissed in pain, a small thing that Bellatrix relished in. At least it was something to tickle her humor. It was another two hours before she declared, “you’re all done, nice and pretty. You better refer your muddy and half-blood friends.”

Hermione held her arm out in front of her, inspecting the fresh ink. Where blood once marred her skin was an elegant owl. Bellatrix drew the ‘L’ up and connected it to the ‘D’ of ‘blood’ to form the owl’s head and ears. She used the first ‘O’ as an eye and the second to shape the beak. And the circle of the ‘D’ became a second eye.

“An owl?” Hermione questioned.

“You think that you’re smart so I gave you an owl.” Bellatrix shrugged.

She held her arm to the light. Bellatrix clicked her tongue as she decided how she wanted to approach the next part of her work. It had been harder to make something of mud so she took the easy route and drew a few aesthetically placed swirls amid a few feathers and flowers. She replicated the design on the other side of the tattoo.

Bellatrix hadn’t expected Hermione to smile. “This is actually…” she trailed off. “It’s really pretty.”

“If you’d like to put that down, I can wrap it up and send you on your way.”

Hermione held her hand out for Bellatrix to dress. There was something so nerve grating about tenderly caring for and helping cleanse a wound she formerly created. Something degrading, that sent tingles of repugnance resonating up and down her vertebrae. It was appalling.

“Why flowers?” Hermione asked.

“Do you want me to tell you that it was just a random pattern or do you want me to make up some story about how the flowers represent something beautiful budding from something ugly?”

“I’m going to pretend that you put some thought into it.” Hermione smirked. “It almost looks like you put a lot of effort into this.”

“Believe it or not, I take pride in my work, mudblood.”

“Thank you.” Hermione said.

Bellatrix furrowed her brows. “I only did this because you told me to.” But was that entirely true? There was something satisfying in completing that one. Perhaps it was the same brand of satisfaction that came with redoing her own dark mark.

The prospect of new freedom.

Of making her own decisions, ones that aren’t tainted by her master’s will.

Perhaps it came with her newfound semblance of clarity and semi-peace.

“Wash it thrice a day. No swimming, no excess sun...you have an owl on your arm, I’m sure that you can figure out how to care for a tattoo.”

Hermione took a picture of her new ink. “Do you want to take one?”

Bellatrix gave an indigent sniff. “What is with muggles and taking pictures of everything.”

“It’s called building a profile, Bellatrix.”

“Word of mouth is my profile.”

Hermione inspected her arm again. “You have a very distinct style.” She noted.

Bellatrix nodded. “In most aspects of my life, I do.” She knew that she wasn’t making it easy for the muggle born to compliment her. But she didn’t know if she was ready to accept praise from such a low place. Ready or not, there was a small prickle within her that took well to the prospect. She didn’t return Hermione’s parting words nor gestures. She merely watched as the girl walked away, untethered from past injury. Moving forward in full with aid from the one who’d set her back in the first place.

Victorious, indeed.

Another client stepped in to take her place.

Bellatrix had a feeling that the mudblood would be back.

To her own dismay, she wasn’t entirely off put my the prospect.

#Harry Potter #Bellatrix Lestrange #Hermione Granger #One Shot #Fanfiction

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foreignersgod-rp · 5 years

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Though the snow-capped crowns atop the mountain range were miles away, they seemed somehow to loom over the massive structure known as Fort Briggs like silent, foreboding guardians. Elio found it difficult to direct her attention to the four Fotian soldiers awaiting her instruction and not glue herself to the awe of the surrounding nature. They were grown, hard-faced men, perhaps the youngest less than a year older than Elio. All of them towered over her in height, but definitely not in confidence- or ego. It was now nearly two years after her sanctioning as Knight Commander, and she felt as though she was tending to children when giving orders.

That was a considerable improvement, considering at the start she viewed them as nothing more than the cattle she used to herd back at home in the northern alps.

"Pair Ceann, guard the vehicle and cargo," she demanded firmly in their native tongue. A small nod back at the black metal wall behind them, and she continued, "Pair Biert, you will enter with us ad are assigned to Earl Od Nua. A distance of three paces, at most. This is low risk, but do not let anything catch us flatfooted. Are we all clear?"

"At your mark," they all affirmed.

"Go."

They dispersed like flies being waved from cow shit, and Elio turned to Arcturus who observed quietly by the car, fiddling absent-mindedly with the hem of his gloves. A common tick, she learned, that he did when his nerves were getting the better of him. "The air is so crisp here," the woman commented as she slid to his side. "You should take some deep breathes. Just look at the mountains over there!"

But as she gestured to the scenic view, Arcturus merely shook his head and rubbed his nose, reddened by the biting wind. "There's reason I don't travel to Northern Fotia often. This weather doesn't agree with me."

Elio smirked crookedly but didn't fail to caught sight of the Earl's eyes fixate on the wall of the fort. Who could blame him? Such a terrifying, cold structure looked so tasteless among the simplistic, peaceful wilderness holding the border of Drachma and Amestris. That ominous letter received prior to this visit was undoubtably pushing his anxiety to its limits as well as the meeting with the Fuhrer approached ever closer. Elio wasn't so oblivious that she didn't know Arcturus was witholding information, and the entire trek across the sea and land to Amestris was a constant battle with her own desire for pettiness in retaliation.

"... Anything I should know before we move forward?" Her face was still holding its warm smile, but her tone was provoking. She watched him tense up, the muscles his jaw and neck tighten with the stress, his knuckles clench slightly. Surely, he overthinking what to say next and Elio tipped her head in anticipation. In the end, Arcturus could only gulp and shake his head.

Elio's hazel eyes thinned. 'What a terrible liar, for a politician,' she thought and found herself unsure whether to pity him or to strangle him right there in the open field. Resisting the urge to huff, she stated shortly, "At your mark then, m'lord".

There was a moment's hesitation, but after some mental preparation, Arcturus took a determined lead into the maw of Fort Briggs. Every step closer, and the darkness cast by the colossus building enveloped him bit by bit, and he was surprised to find it much colder in its shadow. Just as he realized the pain in his temple from grinding his teeth, he could hear Elio from his shoulder, so gentle and soft he could've mistaken her hiss for the wind. "You need to breathe, Arcturus..."

He then forced a deep inhale and a steady exhale, training his eyes to the Amestris soldiers now approaching. She was right. The air was very crisp.

***

As much as Anostraus respected that his presence was obligated for the arrival of the ambassador of Fotia, he couldn't help but try to make his presence as small as possible within the Fuhrer's office. Reading the ever tense atmosphere of the room, he had managed to perch himself onto whatever allowance the windowsill overlooking the landscapes surrounding Fort Briggs allotted, out of the way of the few uniforms busily striding about the room (and yet somehow accomplishing next to nothing). He could hear Mustang quietly sigh among the stressed murmurs and confused questioning about the Queen's disappearance. And though it pained Anostraus to keep his mouth shut on the matter, he just barely managed to do so.

The cold radiating from the window bit at his cheek when he leaned in closer, daring to press his head against the pane to get a better view further down the one main road below, barely visible from the snow. However much the world appeared to be the very picture of tranquility and peace outside, there was little to be found among the Amestrian military. Anxieties had even wormed their way into the idle gossip of the nurses under Anostraus's authority at the Briggs clinic. He had heard theories from some secret military execution, directed by a coupe within the ranks and that was hurriedly being covered up by Mustang, to the more entertaining idea that Queen Ixelia had elloped away to Creta with a nameless gentleman. Anostraus may have enjoyed laughing to himself about the insanely out-there stories the public was entertaining themselves with, but there was an undeniable ache felt by those close to Ixelia in her absence.

But instead of giving into temptation that was political turmoil, he drew a lazy, long drag from his cigarette, trying to keep his mind occupied by the arrival of his nephew- pardon, the ambassador. That scheduled meeting alone was enough to send him into cardiac arrest, as it had been so, so long his he had last seen the boy. But there was also the thought that little Arcturus was now carrying his father's title brought a small nostalgic smirk to his face. Arcturus was a quiet, well-mannered child, one that Anostraus found little complaint in- and that was saying a lot coming from an infant-despising man like Anostraus. He couldn't resist wondering, though, how Arcturus came into power as Earl of Nuada when he had enlisted with the King's Guard specifically to revoke his claim... He supposed he might be able to inquiry the lad himself, perhaps, depending on just how vexed he may still be over Anostraus's abrupt uprooting and migration to Amestris.

As he rose his pursed lips to the crack of the window and blew the smoke from his lungs, he overheard the Elric boy speak. “Have you been able to get ahold of Mr. Krol, Roy? I feel that he might have the answers we need out of anyone else we can ask. But if he doesn’t know what’s happened, then…” Without waiting for Mustang's response, Anostraus interjected flatly: "No. Nothing from him yet. But we're being cautious about where we lay our tracks, remember?" He peaked over his shoulder to Elric. Mustang, though it seemed painful to admit aloud, grunted in agreement. "We possibly won't hear from him for another couple days," he huff as his grip dug into the edges of the table.

'A few days' was being optimistic, he was regretful to acknowledge. Anostraus wished he could just simply ring up his old friend, just like any other day before this disaster, and ask how things were happening around there in Jozefat's little cabin in the middle of nowhere. But they all knew just how far Drachma would curl its fingers around Ixelia and her family. And they all knew that there was a very real chance that the Drachman government already had its nails right into Jozefat's throat. Turning his attention back to the scenic views, he could feel the weight of the matter settle uneasily on his shoulders yet again. Jozefat was more than capable of handling himself, and Airenne was just as much a hellcat as Ixelia, if not more so. He wanted to believe they were all resilient enough to endure, but they weren't going to be able to pry from Drachma's grasps by themselves.

'So many emotions to process, so little ability to process them to begin with', Anostraus thought with a tired sigh. There were a handful of difficult tasks ahead, so he'd focus his efforts on the easiest one...

There was an abrupt knock at the door. A guarded calm fell over the room as the door swung open. A single Amestrian soldier stepped forward and announced, "Fuhrer, may I present Earl Od Nua of Fotia." Mustang calmly rose to his feet and fastened the button of his uniform, and the rest of the soldiers in the room filed out in an orderly custom until it was just Roy, Elric, Anostraus, and their two foreign guests. From under his knitted brows, the Fuhrer's dark eyes took a some time to surveyed his new company. There was a tall, limber man with skin as pale as the snow just outside their window, as well as jet black hair braided and drawn tightly at the back of his head. For someone from Fotia, which was known for their overly intricate fashion at such formal occasions, he was dressed in a basic, all-black fashion, with a long tailored coat adorned with hanging sleeves that trailed behind him. Though he was perhaps in his early thirties, Roy could make out the creases of stress forming beneath his blue, down-turned eyes. No doubt he was the ambassador.

Arcturus stepped in the middle of the room, seemingly determined to keep his sights solely on the Fuhrer. Deeply he bowed his head. "Good morning, Fuhrer Mustang, and thank you for the invitation to visit your country. It is truly an honor," he said. His voice, though not necessarily loud, was notably full-bodied, compelling. And despite his prominent accent, his Amestrian was remarkably clear. Arcturus bowed slightly lower before rising again to his full height. With a gesture with a single gloved hand to the second guest, Roy's attention turned to a thin woman with sharp features, tanned skin kissed passionately by the sun with dark freckles, and short, messy ginger hair. She too wore a uniform somewhat similar to her master's, but somehow she appeared entirely out of place in it. Nevertheless, her chin was raised with an air of poise and her narrow eyes sharp and steady as she meticulously scanned every inch of the space.

"Please, allow me to introduce my Knight Commander, Elio Illuka, who hails from County Beira. She's been enjoying your weather here in the Briggs." Roy regarded the woman with a small simper. "Is that so? It's pretty harsh, out here." In turn, Elio tipped her head in acknowledgment of the Fehrur, but offered nothing more than her intense scrutiny.

Roy continued on, "Thank you for coming all of this way, Earl Od Nua. I hope your trip was a comfortable one?"

"Yes. I haven't visited the Briggs before, only Central of Amestris. This was... ," With a brief pause, Arcturus couldn't resist a quick glance to his uncle any longer. "An unexpected rendezvous point, I must admit." Anostraus, refusing to waver under the attention, offered a strained grin. The atmosphere of the room began to hang awkwardly over everyone in attendance as they stood about in a sea of many unspoken words. Anostraus unhurriedly directed his gaze to the king once more, this time he wore a more somber, focused cast. "Though I'm hardly bothered by idle chat, Fuhrer... May I know what you and my uncle would have of me?"

#*tosses this across desk* w/e take it lol

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twinfanfics · 5 years

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The tale of the three head beast:the marching fishes (9/20)

Second part of the tale of the three head beast series, our extra large Digimon Game of thrones Au, you can read the first part The chosen children Here and here, or look for the tag 3t3hb on this blog.

And you can read all past chapters of the marching fishes in the links below

ACT 1. ESCENE 1: THE RAIN

ACT 1. ESCENE 2: THE WILL

ACT 1. ESCENE 3: THE TRIP

ACT 1. ESCENE 4:THE SON

ACT 2. SCENE 1: THE ARRIVAL

ACT 2. SCENE 2: BROTHERHOOD

ACT 2. SCENE 3: MOTHER | **warning suicide attempt**

ACT 2. SCENE 4: THE BATTLE OF THE IKKAKU ISLAND

ACT 3. SCENE 1: THE INTERROGATION *After the cut

Resume: Davis is now a prisoner of the crown, and Taichi and Yamato plays bad cop, good cop with him.

He didn't know what scared him more: the shackles, the silence or the cold blue eyes that watched him since the door.

Davis expect a dungeon or a cell, not a dinner with the King and his hunting dog.

The King smiled at him since the other side of the table, part of him wonder if the food where poisoned, the part of him who wasn´t to busy devouring everything. Once there were no more than empty plates Davis finally speech

“Are you gonna kill me?” Davis wasn't the kind of person who circle around difficult topics

“If we wanted you death, you wouldn´t be here” the voice of the Wolf knight was almost as cold as his eyes

“Yamato please…” Yagami seems casual and relax, but Davis didn't let his guard down “I want to talk to you Davis, you know, since that time we face each others on the chosen children tournament I had always want to talk with you”

“Bullshit”

The Wolf Knight drew his sword but the King stopped him

“It is true, at that moment you remind a lot about myself when I was young” Davis didn't know exactly why, but he believe him

“So what?”

“So, I know you are confused and lost Davis “ His smile was warm and his voice calm “I´m give you an opportunity, a last chance to do the right thing: work with us, join our side and….”

“You want me to betray my brothers”

“Don't interrupt at his majesty”

“Brothers? is that how you call them?” The King continues as if he didn't listen at his knight “You three betrayed the Kingdom first”

“Your Kingdom?”

“Joe´s Kingdom, and let me tell you, I can understand Hida and Ichijouji seek of revenge; but you Davis? you are not truly a son of the sea, if you ask me you have more a mountain look”

“I'm not gonna betray my brothers”

The sword in the hand of the knight move faster, deadly faster but again the King hold him back.

“Do you know why was posible your capture?” Yagami stand up of the table “Ichijouji shot me an arrow while you were fighting” he smiled “my army respond to his tread, did you honestly agree with that? You? the same man who refuse to kill his enemies? Ichijouji broke the accords of a battle, if you ask me, the men you call brothers doesn´t share your honor or your bravery, I know you are not like them”

“You don't know me, or them, I trust them with my life”

“And that's why you are here and not them” The King walked around him, his long cape make him look bigger, not just that, he was so different from the Sea King or even Iory, he didn't have to convince anyone about his royalty “Ken Ichijouji has no honor, and Iory Hida is so consuming by his desire of revenge that he kidnap innocents and refuse to surrender in an imposible war”

“It wasn´t Iory”

“Then who?” Too late he realize his words were inappropriate

“Who?!” the knight repeated when he refused to answer the King

“Our master” Stupid boy, Ken would be so disappointing of him “Our master Ryo kidnaped the Queen and.. he is the one who refuse to surrender”

More terrifying than the King were the steps of his executioner “Where are the Queen and the prince?”

“I rather die to condem my brothers” Ishida approach to him, turn the table and with just his right hand he pick him up

“Where is the Queen?” He repeated only a few inches of his face and Davis spit on him

The cold hard floor and and punch in his face was totally worthy

“Enough Yamato!” The knight stand back; they were dancing around him “You rather die, i understand, you loved them, your brothers” For a moment it's seem like the King where doubting “is it fair to call Ken Ichijouji your brother? or it would be another word more appropriate for your relationship?”

Every insult that he knows he yell at the King until the knight shut him once again

“Did you finish?” One movement of his hand and Yamato stopped “Davis, do you know at the desert Queen?” And odd question, he taste his own blood on his mouth

“We meet her years ago, when she was still a princess” the memory of Jolei warm his hearth, a past time when everything was simpler.

“I'm sure you hear about her parents deaths a few months ago, she herself is a extrange Queen; single, young and intelligente”

“That's Jolei” Davis didn't understand why he bring her up

“Yea, for what I know, she and her sister didn't get along, Joe was supposed to married her but he chose Mimi; a resentful queen; and she is a friend of you and your brothers right?, here is my question: Why is she not helping you in your little rebellion?”

it's took a while before Davis understood that the King actually expect an answer.

“I don't know!” dam him “I´m not the one deciding those things, Ken is the strategist and… “ his head hurt so badly “Why you care?”

“Did you know she has a son?”

“What? No I don't” what was the point?

“Are you good at math Davis?”

“Just fucking said what you wanna said”

“Her kid is a little over two years old, he has blue hair and dark eyes, his father is not a desert man that's for sure”

For the first time in all night Davis keep silent

“I would let you think about it, and later we can discuss if you are still so certain about your loyalties”

#Digimon #got au #3t3hb #tmf 3.1 #davis motomiya #taichi yagami #yamato ishida

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mortyandcarlsbespokesalvage · 4 years

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Day 1 Sequence 5

Night had fallen and Raven found himself back at Fortuna’s, sitting at the counter while Marie and her girls tended to the masses of customers at the packed tavern. The morning crowd had been weary but with a kind of focused determination. Now the mood was downright festive, and a haze of revelry seemed to spill out of the tavern into the streets. The last of the Griefers had fled shortly after he and Carlos had blown the gunnery ship. No other ships had come. The rest of the day had been spent cleaning up, and now, with the work day behind them and victory coursing through them, the locals of Southport were ready to celebrate.

Raven wished he could share the enthusiasm. Instead, he watched Marie work. She juggled and twirled a series of bottles, pouring and mixing into a large, elaborate sundae glass. Sparks and streams of tiny lightning bolts crackled around her hands as she went, and, when Raven thought the drink looked finished, Marie set both hands straight on either side of the glass. A bolt of something like lightning but not shot through the glass. Whatever was inside changed color, from amber to electric blue.

She stuck in two sparklers and placed it in front of Raven.

“This one’s from the master of the fishmongers’ guild. Be sure to drink up; he’ll notice if you don’t.” She nodded across the tavern and Raven turned to see a portly man in a battered hat raise a glass in his direction. Raven waved back with an uncertain smile before looking back to Marie. She was all smiles and nameless menace. Raven struggled to imagine her almost single handedly taking out an invading land force, but also had no doubt that she’d done so, as easily as Carlos had suggested. The effort to reconcile the two Maries made his head hurt.

He considered the drink. It was the latest in a series of drinks and dishes the locals kept ordering for him. Helping Carlos sink the Griefer ship had earned him no small amount of good-will from the people of Southport. Details had been lost in the telling and retelling. According to the chatter in the bar, he had stormed the destroyer, single handedly taking on the crew and giving Carlos the time needed to sabotage the guns. Carlos had told him succinctly to not correct them. He wondered why. He took a sip and felt something buzz along his tongue. The static around the pancakes, he thought. He wanted to ask how she did that. Instead he asked, “Are the sparklers really necessary?”

Marie winked at him. “I’ve got half a master’s in elemental-mancery, and a minor in mixology. The sparklers are absolutely essential.” She emptied her hands and placed herself directly in front of Raven, giving him the full force of her attention. “Now tell me what’s eating at you, hon. You’re a hero tonight, you should enjoy it.”

“I guess so. What will happen to the Griefers who didn’t get away?” Raven asked. In the wake of the attack and subsequent retreat, some forty odd surviving raiders had been captured. Raven had seen the Griefer bodies being loaded onto a palette by some of the Southport denizens, but he had no idea what would become of any of them.

“Hmm.” Marie paused for a moment. “Once we make sure that none of them are in immediate danger of dying, we’ll pile them onto a barge, along with their dead and tow them out to the edge of their territory. After that they’ll be on their own.”

“So you just leave them?” Raven asked, a twinge of defeat in his voice.

“Hon, you gotta understand,” She said with a look of pity. “Griefers are something else. You can’t just put them to work in the yards under supervision like you would with your basic troublemakers. They hurt people. They kill people. If they think they can’t get away, they hurt as many people as they can and then kill themselves. The safest way to deal with them short of killing them, is to send them back where they came from and trust their fellow assholes to come pick them up.”

Anxiety squirmed under his skin. “I guess I just don’t get it. Things seem so… harsh out here.” Raven sulked into his manically cheerful drink.

“That what’s got you down, hon?” Marie smiled and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Like, Carlos. I don’t know… I don’t understand. I don’t feel like much of a hero. Carlos did most of the work after all. And I guess I thought Carlos was a good guy. Like we were fighting to save the town! But he just wanted the money? Maybe? And also, he fights dirty. Not like a hero at all.” Raven sank into his stool.

Marie laughed, a full bodied sound that, near the end, leaned a bit towards cackling. “I’m trying, but I don’t think I can imagine Carlos’ face if he heard you accuse him of being a hero!” Marie looked down for a moment as she got herself under control. Still smiling, she looked at Raven. “Was this your first fight?”

“No way,” he said, determinedly. He wasn’t that much of a rookie. “I’ve fought Shamblers, and Rollers, and Mechs… I fought a Doom Rat and a bunch of Walkers just this morning!”

“I mean against people, dummy.” She smiled. “I’m guessing this was your first time fighting the kind of monsters who choose to be monsters?”

“But, they’re still people though!” Raven nearly jumped out of his seat. “I can’t just cut them down like, like Shamblers!”

The smile slid from her face. Marie looked somber. “Shamblers used to be people too, you know.”

Raven paused, his brow furrowed. It was easy to forget that the undead had lived, were people once. Did Marie and Carlos think of Griefers like Shamblers? What did she mean that they chose to be monsters? That they too, used to be people?

Marie smiled. “Look, babe. I think the world needs more people who want to be heroes. But the world is messy, and the good guys aren’t always nice guys. Don’t mind Carlos. He just thinks he has an image to keep up so folks leave him alone. Where do you think the money to fix the damage to the town is coming from? Or the tab for this party?”

Raven suddenly was struck with realization. “...You mean when Carlos talked about salvaging or selling the ship we sank?”

Marie’s smile was back and broad as the horizon. “You worked hard today, babe. Take the night off and try to have fun.” Then she slid out from behind the bar and disappeared into the crowd. Raven looked down and found a sandwich under his nose.

Marie drifted through the assemblage of friends, neighbors, and patrons. She let the current pull her leisurely to the ‘Grown Up’s’ Table in the back corner. It was a private joke, Marie had with herself. Carlos and Poliviralos could sit at any table or counter in the bar individually, but when the two of them were together, they invariably huddled together at the table in the elevated corner of the tavern, like a couple smugglers discussing a deal. Always so serious. Marie enjoyed laughing at them. Just a little.

Tonight, as the two conspirators conversed they looked especially intent. Marie would allow it; this had been one hell of a day. And it wasn’t as if she had good news.

The table was covered in papers. As she drew closer, Marie saw they were charts and maps of the outer ring. Carlos had found something, then.

She pulled up a chair. “I’ve left your boy at the bar, Carl. I’m afraid we’ve caused him to have something of a crisis of morality; he thought you were a hero, you know.” Carlos pulled a face. Something between a wince, a smile, and a glare. Marie carefully filed it away among her happy memories. “Don’t worry!” she grinned, “My girls have him well in hand.”

“Hopefully they’ll leave enough of him for me to send back to the city tomorrow,” Carlos grumbled. He had been until a moment ago engaged in serious discussion with Poli, the Southport Librarian, and local sage.

“He’s had a long day. We all have.” She paused, looking down for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. She leveled a bright smile and hawk-like gaze at the two men at the table.

“So. Did any of that seem strange to you?”

Carlos and Poliviralos each raised an eyebrow. The old librarian quipped, “You mean their bringing a destroyer all the way up to the harbor, or your deciding to jump into the fray and bring a ruinstorm to a knife fight?”

Poliviralos was a short, dark skinned older man who had looked to be in his early 70s for the last four decades. He wore a purple paisley waistcoat, small round reading glasses, and short, wiry, white dreadlocks that flared in all directions from around a balding crown.

Marie shrugged. “What can I say? They knocked on my door and I came out to greet them.”

It was true that Marie rarely took such a personal interest in the town’s Griefer misadventures. Their raids tended to be smaller affairs, carried out in the dark of night. Griefers invariably came to steal food, medicine, or other supplies from dockyard warehouses. Night shift workers, sailors, and fishmongers were usually more than enough to drive them away and finish mopping up long before they came within sight of her bar.

Carlos coughed. “Circling back to the matter at hand. Our xenophobic friends are trying something new, and that may mean that we could soon have bigger issues than a charred pier to concern ourselves with.” He gestured towards the stack of papers unrolled on the table.

Poliviralos nodded. “It’s not unusual for them to raid in the wake of a storm, but considering that they brought cannons into the harbor proper this time, it is strange that their artillery didn’t make more of a mess.”

“Because they weren’t aiming for the town.” Carlos stood over the table and shifted the charts, bringing the map of Southport to the top of the pile. “Look here. Their targets are marked, and each mark has a corresponding line to the barrier wall. They didn’t shell the entire town because they were there to check trajectories. Every spot they hit was a target along one of these arc lines. They were aiming for the vent shutters on the wall, and testing arcs to go over it.”

Marie scrutinized the lines on the map, comparing them to another page showing elevation drawings with dotted line firing arcs into and over the Barrier Wall. “So they’re looking to shell the inner ring? Those cannons didn’t seem to pack enough punch to do more than scuff the lower Wall. Let alone hit the vents or arc over it.”

“Well I suppose it makes sense.” Poliviralos leaned back in his chair. “They can’t take back the city so they want to destroy it. They’ve been salty about their exile for a hundred years. I expect they’ll be salty at the municipal offices forever, but those guns aren’t going to breach the wall, even if they could reach the vents.”

“Unless they get bigger guns.” Carlos said matter of factly. “Which begs the question of where they plan to get those guns, and their munitions, and a platform large enough to hold steady when they fire cannons that big. Does anyone believe that the bastards have had those kinds of resources at their disposal, and just haven’t used them until now?”

“I have an idea about that.” Marie interjected somberly. She had been holding onto her discovery since she had watched the Griefer forces scurrying away to their boats. She thought of their ultimate cowardice, and the face of their commander. He had stood proud even as his men beat their craven retreat, as if knowing some haughty secret, shared nonchalantly within a circle of wretches and profiteers.

Marie leaned forward, low over the table, bidding the two conspiratorial grown ups closer and lowering her voice. “Whatever the Griefers are up to, Mercer has a hand in it. I saw the foreman from their shipyards talking to the Commander of their ground forces, and someone dressed all in black. Hood, robe, mask, whole package. Now, the attack was nowhere near their yards, so it’s no surprise that they didn’t come to help, but did you notice how many of their ships were docked when the Griefer’s hit? None. All their ships being out of the harbor, and a foreman talking with a Griefer right in the open is brazen even for them. I can’t figure what they would get out of it though. Mercer is all about the bottom line. Maybe it could just be protection money, but what if Mercer is supplying the Griefers?”

“Hrm” Carlos grunted. “Not as if Griefers take cash for payment. Whatever their deal is though it involves an artillery barrage over our town and the Griefers getting their hands on some big damn guns. So it is decidedly our business.”

Poliviralos scowled down at the table. “As much as most everybody around here would love an excuse to tear down the Mercer Yards and run the jackals off the island, one witness is weak tea, even if that witness is you, Marie. It’s enough to stir up a mob maybe, but not enough to hold up in arbitration.” He shook his head, casting off his dire musings. “You said there was a third party?”

“Yeah. Generic hooded weirdo.” Marie said, her voice tinged with tired frustration.

Carlos put his thumb to his temple, leaning back with similar fatigue. “Not like there’s ever a shortage of new cults, but not many that ever show up in the outer ring.”

Marie nodded. “So you agree that our mysterious third party hails from inside the wall?”

“Well, Wreckers are certainly big enough assholes to be a part of something like this,” Carlos said contemplatively, slumping in his chair. “But besides them, I can’t think of anyone else on the outer ring. Wreckers might leave the yards sometimes to sell their scrap, but their fashion sense doesn’t include robes or hoods. So yeah, I figure that our well dressed third party is from inside the wall.”

Poliviralos looked thoughtful. His eyes cast down at the maps and charts on the table. He smiled a wry grin. “We should at least consider the possibility that it is just some sort of trade for protection. Or that the foreman could be working with the Griefers independent of the rest of the consortium for his own gain.” Marie and Carlos looked at him skeptically. “The ships being out to sea during the raid could be a coincidence, or one man’s meddling with shipping schedules.”

Carlos sneered and chuckled to himself, considering. “Could well be. But I doubt it. I could see Mercer paying off the Griefers to leave them alone, but an individual foreman taking on that sort of deal in service to the entire company doesn’t make sense except as a fall guy.”

“Buuuut,” Marie rolled her eyes to the side, “it does give us a place to start!” She smiled. Her face then turned to a scowl as she thought about the damage wrought by the day’s events. “And after today, I know I’d love to have a word with that foreman.”

Piloviralos laughed. “That might be a worthwhile conversation indeed. Particularly given your delicate touch. But better if we can link him to his new friends in the inner ring, and find out more without alerting the Consortium via a deep fried underling.”

“Speaking of the inner ring,” Carlos nodded across the tavern at Raven, still swarmed by celebrating patrons and being teased by hostesses. The Kid was otherwise oblivious to the adults talking in the corner of the room.

“Yes, his story,” Poliviralos mused, considering. “It’s not as if we ever have a shortage of megalomaniacal sorcerers or damn fool mad scientists either. But this one could be real trouble if he has power over the Walkers.”

“Oh really?” Said Marie, her eyes widening and eyebrow raising. “Seems like I missed a beat in this story!”

“It’s not a short one.” Carlos sighed. “Ask the Kid about it and he’ll talk your ear off about it, I’m sure.” He looked weary, his gaze seemed far away. “ But the short version is that there’s a new weirdo in the deeps, and he might be a whole new flavor of pain in the ass. I managed to get through to Henrie earlier, and there’s some trouble at the Tower that they want some help with tomorrow. That could be related now I think about it”

Marie closed her eyes with a slight nod. “Well,” she pushed herself back away from the table and stood. “I should make sure that the girls don’t scar him too badly. But it looks like you and I are going to be chaperoning him to the gates tomorrow with this much business in the city proper. I’ll let you read me all the way into our Raven’s story once things die down.”

Marie turned with a slight smile, and sauntered down the steps and away from the Grown Up’s table, leaving Carlos and Poliviralos to their brooding and scheming. Quiet settled over the corner table in the dim light. The two men sat with eyes cast down, each contemplating the ramifications of the day’s discoveries.

Carlos rapped his fingers on the table, his brow furrowed. He was glad of the Kid being there. Not just for his help in the afternoon’s adventure, but for his being there to draw the crowd, and shape the narrative. It minimized Carlos’ involvement and made it easier to slip away. Away from the attention and adulation that came from simply doing what needed to be done.

It had been fun when he was younger, and lighter. But now it tired him. He thought about what Marie had said: the Kid had thought him a hero. What did that even mean; being a hero? Did the Kid even know? Had he given it any real thought? Carlos couldn’t remember thinking much about it before, but he did now.

To Carlos, it had always been an easy thing. The Job needed doing, the Job got done. Simple as that. Heroism was something that came after the fact; the mythologizing that came with making the facts of the events into a story. The Job wasn’t pretty, and supposed nobility seemed irrelevant. People needed someone to do the Job, and he was good at it, from a long time back.

Long ago, it seemed there had been someone to do the Job for him when he needed help. Then the time came for it to be his turn. He had been doing the Job long since, and now it seemed that more work had come to him.

Poliviralos interrupted his thoughts. “What about you Carlos? That boy washed up right at your doorstep, and you saved his life. How deep are you planning to go this time?”

Carlos was silent for a moment. The kid was young. Too young, too naive, and too eager. He hadn’t yet gotten his scars or gained the hard fought understanding that the Job required. Carlos feared that the boy would get himself killed before he could. “I said I’d get him back to the inner ring where he belongs. Leave the whole thing to ASEC after that.”

Poliviralos hummed noncommittally and, Carlos thought sourly, with some skepticism. “Well. It seems like you have things to think about, but I don’t plan to sit out a good party.” Poliviralos smiled as he rose from his chair. He picked up the staff that he had rested against his chair, and stepped with a hitch down the steps towards the celebration, leaving Carlos alone at the table.

Carlos looked out on the gathering from the corner table. A pretty picture of people celebrating their survival. A picture he stood apart from. That hadn’t bothered him for a long time. Tonight, though. Tonight something itched. It was a small itch, in a corner of his mind that he had not thought of for years.

If Carlos could be said to have people, then these would be them. Marie at least made certain that no matter how much he might distance himself, he could not fully escape. And Raven, well, Carlos had saved his life; the Kid would be his people too now, wouldn't he? Carlos couldn't say how he felt about that. And now all of them were caught up in the middle of a gathering storm.

With any luck, they'd be able to get the Kid back to the city in the morning. That, at least, would would be one less. Gods, the Kid wanted to be a hero. If Carlos didn't deliver him back to the Sweepers pronto, he'd be looking out for the boy for the rest of his life.

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#Arpage #Children of the Storm #raven daniels #Carlos Desocrates #marie fortuna #poliviralos #hi poli

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kayleepetey · 6 years

Text

Hic Sunt Dracones: Chapter 2: Into the Breach

Hello, readers! I’m so sorry I’ve been so absent, real life has been a mad house. Work had me running around like crazy, then my mother and I had to move me, and I immediately thereafter started law school. I’m heading into finals, but with the bit of time off from Thanksgiving I was able to finally finish this chapter and I wanted to post it since it was supposed to be a birthday gift for @agentsassydirewolf way back in August, plus for a Thanksgiving gifty, and for Olicity Week. So, it’s long, but not a lot of action, sorry for that. But I hope it’s still good! Happy Thanksgiving! :-D

To my dear dartie, Sassy, you are just the BEST and I’m sorry this took so long to finish!!!! ;-*

Disclaimer: I do not own Arrow, Constantine, or Flash, they are the property of CW, WB, DC, Berlanti, etc. No profit is being made off of the production of this work.

Fandom: Arrow, Constantine

Pairing: Oliver/Felicity, Olicity

Chapter Summary: You’d think that finding someone in their own mind would be a piece of cake… Yeah, right.

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Into the Breach

You’d think that finding someone in their own mind would be a piece of cake…

Yeah, right.

Felicity and Constantine had been tromping through the jungles of faux-Lian Yu for what felt like hours—though according to the Dark Arts Master the passage of time is deceptive in the “mindscape”. Also, nothing was where she remembered it to be from her two, admittedly brief, forays onto the island; she was so turned around and utterly confused. Constantine had explained that in part it was Oliver’s mind protecting itself from invaders, by making the familiar landscapes more like a labyrinth so that the parts he wanted to keep safe were harder to find. Also in part it was simply that a person’s mind will place locations in positions that, while not geographically correct, made sense to them and connected in their mind, and that sizes and distances will be thrown off by the person’s perceptions of them. The explanation rang bells, reminding Felicity of the episode of Fringe where they went into Olivia’s mind—the mirroring of the situation was not lost on her: Oliver. Olivia. She'd almost find it funny if she wasn't so damn terrified of losing Oliver to this...thing forever.

The eerie silence around them, not a single bird chirping, along with the shadowed and ominous forest was truly disconcerting. And while they did not see a single person, there was this eerie, undeniable feeling of being watched, as if eyes stared at them from every shadowed, veiled corner of the forest. While this might be Oliver’s mind, it didn’t feel…right to Felicity, it didn’t truly ��feel like the man she loved, it was so blindingly obvious that something was wrong. Like Oliver was here but something else had infected his mind, something else had taken over, but the emerald archer was still trying to hold on. If only they could find where he was.

"Everything looks the same. I mean it all looked the same in real life, but now it looks even more...same...ish." Felicity spun as she walked—admittedly probably not the best idea, a point reinforced when she stumbled and nearly fell but managed to keep her feet—taking in their surroundings. "How are we supposed to find him? Especially when everything looks the same?"

"That's up to you, love."

She rolled her eyes, glaring at Constantine's back. "You keep saying that. You're real specific on the how, but not so much on the how to do." Because Felicity had been looking down at that moment to watch her footing over a log she didn't realize Constantine had stopped, and she ran into his back, letting out a soft "oof."

"Well, love, I think you've gotten it started at least." He was looking out ahead of them, somewhere she couldn't see from behind his back. "Unless you think he's really here for me?"

Felicity leaned around him to see who he was referring to.

Al Sah-him.

Her breath caught in her chest. She could feel the menace, evil, and utter cruelty rolling off of the tall, dark figure. Even though his hood was drawn up, the mask was on, and his eyes were completely obscured, Felicity knew he was looking right at her.

Fuck.

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Felicity wondered how she could begin to tire from running when she didn't have a body. How was that a thing?! She and Constantine were running as fast as they could through the foliage—praying she didn't step on an Oliver-mind-version of a landmine—persistently hunted by the shadowy figure just behind them, shooting black arrows and swiping his sword when he got close enough. She had never dreamed that Oliver's fighting skills would be turned on herself, certainly not in a mindscape.

Finally they ran out of space to run, a sheer cliff rising up around them, caging them in.

"Fuck!" Constantine slapped the rock of the cliff-face, as if looking for a way through—not unreasonable, Felicity would realize when she had time to think about it, when considering they were in a non-corporeal mindscape—to no avail.

They both spun to face their advancing attacker.

"Love, any sort of help you could get him to give us would be much appreciated." Constantine kept a weather eye on the dark figure while also trying to find something that could help them against him.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?!" Felicity hissed, her back pressed against the rock alongside his; eyes never leaving the twisted, dark version of the love of her life.

The dark arts "master" was digging around in his pockets. "You're his fucking girl! Let him bloody well know you need his help!" He pulled out a lighter and a flask; he began pouring some of the alcohol over his hands.

The tech-genius let her head momentarily fall back against the wall, eyes staring at the sky...which was the exact blue of Oliver's eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment, holding onto that vibrant blue, drawing on the memory of Oliver gazing at her with such utter breathless adoration while he made love to her. Felicity clung to that image before opening her eyes and returning her gaze to the creature before them. Just as Al Sah-him raised his sword, angled to strike off her head, she took a deep breath, swearing she could smell Oliver, and slowly releasing it, breathing his name. "Oliver."

The sword whooshed through the air towards her naked neck.

The whistle was the only warning before a green arrow buried itself in Al Sah-him's sword-arm shoulder.

Felicity whipped around, searching in the direction from which the arrow had come, she thought she might've seen a green hood ducking behind a rock, but she couldn't be sure.

A hiss of pain escaped the figure and he drew back.

"Nicely done, love," Constantine muttered to her as he flipped his lighter open.

Felicity turned back, just in time to see Al Sah-him rip the arrow out of his shoulder and casually toss it aside. She backed up further against the rock face, eyes wide. “Yeah, it helped…for all of ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds that we didn’t have before,” he countered easily. “Time enough for me to do this.” Flicking the lighter on Constantine ignited the alcohol on his hands, drawing one hand back and then throwing a fucking fire ball at the dark figure.

Al Sah-him ducked the ball, and rolled out of the way of the second one Constantine immediately threw, the minute pause between that and Brit’s next throw was just long enough for the assassin to draw back, aim and fire an arrow.

It all happened so fast Felicity only had a heartbeat long enough to realize that the black projectile was aimed right at her. She instinctively tried to step back, even though she was already pressed against the rock behind her—

And fell through the rock.

“Oof!” The breath whooshed out of Felicity as she landed flat on her back…staring up at a pristine white ceiling, perfectly coifed with rich mahogany crown molding. Once she’d caught her breath she slowly sat up, looking around her at the antique wood paneled walls; her fingers sunk into the decadently thick, Oriental rug that ran as far as she could see down the eerily familiar hall.

It was Queen Manor. Specifically the upstairs hallway in the “family wing”—how had her life come to where she was friends with people who lived in houses with wings?!

Felicity pushed herself to her feet, eyes scanning around her for any sign of Al Sah-him, but the dark-clad assassin was nowhere to be seen. In fact, for the first time since entering Oliver’s mind, it actually felt wholly and entirely like Oliver, as if the taint hadn’t reached this place.

“Oliver?” she couldn’t help calling out; it felt like he was truly, literally surrounding her, like the rare occasions where he’d hugged her, when he’d held her on the zipline, clung to her as they swung across the elevator shaft, and the one time he’d carried her during Slade’s attack on Starling. There was no audible answer, but then Felicity felt something brush past her and she whipped around, calling his name again. “Oliver!” But no one was there, instead she was faced with one of the many dark wood doors that lined the hallway. Her brow furrowed slightly at the feeling that she was being urged toward that door; she clasped the handle.

Before Felicity could open it the memory of Constantine popped into her mind—how had she forgotten about the man trying to help her save Oliver?!—she looked back around her, trying to find the snarky Brit, but there truly was no one else there. She bit her lip, torn; she was worried about Constantine, but the need to go in that room and look for Oliver was overwhelming.

“Felicity…”

Her head snapped back to the door, that was Oliver’s voice, she had no doubt, even though it was just a breath, like wind, she knew that it was Oliver who had called to her. Felicity right then decided that since she had no idea how to find Constantine, but it felt like Oliver was so close, who better to find Constantine in Oliver’s mind than Oliver himself?

Finally decided on her course of action—and perhaps ignoring a little voice in the back of her mind saying that her reasoning for wanting to find Oliver first was much less altruistic than she was making out—Felicity turned the doorknob and pushed it inward, cautiously peeking around the edge of the wood—this was Oliver’s mind and it had already proven to be a dangerous place.

The room was definitely not one in Queen Manor, the building itself bordering on run-down, the room far too shabby for a place Moira Queen would’ve ever stepped a toe into, much less ever had in her home.

An Asian couple were off to one side of the room, the woman cooking—Tatsu, the name was whispered into her mind—while the man—Maseo—cleaned a gun. They were a striking couple and an abiding love and peace flowed between them—though Felicity swore she could feel a current of grief and guilt, not theirs but Oliver’s, flowing through the air—an aura Felicity longed to grow and share with Oliver. But what drew her attention was Oliver himself, sitting at a low table with a little boy—Akio, Maseo and Tatsu’s son, a fond affection threaded the thought of the boy, but was quickly chased by stabbing grief and guilt. She couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, just Oliver’s familiar rumbly tones, and the lighter, higher pitch of the pre-pubescent boy, but whatever the child said had his parents bursting into hearty laughter, and Oliver gaping at him before he did his familiar duck, grin, and huff-laugh, which caused Felicity to smile—God, she loved Oliver’s smile and laugh.

Why couldn’t I save him?! Why did he have to die?! Oliver’s tortured tone weaved through the air.

There was a flicker to a different memory: a destroyed store, the bloody, mutilated body of a man in fatigues, Oliver sitting nearby, the hammer in his hand still dripping with blood. A woman, Tatsu’s, ghostly voice saying, “What he did was monsterous.”

How could I do that in your name, Akio?! Please, forgive me?!

Felicity’s heart shattered. “Oliver…” Somehow she managed to choke out his name around the lump in her throat.

The memory—because that’s what it was she realize—around her dimmed and faded until the only thing she could see was another door, drawn inexorably towards it. This time she was less wary moving through the door, somehow knowing, deep in her bones, that she would be safe, that this was the way to Oliver—though perhaps “the long way ‘round.”

She pushed the door open.

A fire crackled inside a cave, a hooded man crouched over a fire, roasting what looked like a bird of some sort on a spit. Oliver was bent over beside him, listening to the man—Yao Fei, deep respect and gratitude—speak in a mixture of English and Mandarin, harsh truths, words of survival. It wasn’t pretty, none of it, but it was real, it was his reality then, and they were lessons he needed to survive. A flash of Yao Fei in a uniform…abruptly shot through the middle of his forehead.

Felicity’s surroundings morphed into another fire, this time under the cover of the wrecked plane in the jungle, the one she remembered dragging Oliver from over a year and a half ago. Comradery, hard-won through blood, fighting, sweat, hardship, and tears bound Oliver with the lovely Chinese woman—Shado, so this was the woman Oliver cared for and Slade was so obsessed with—and Slade—Google the man looked so different smiling, laughing, sanity in his eyes, she could feel and truly understand the love Oliver held for the man, why he called him brother and it was so hard for him to even think of killing him. Laughter, joy, a moment of relaxation, amidst the daily grind that was the battle for survival, a moment of home in hell. Shado’s grinning face flashed to a point of red blooming through her forehead before she fell over face-first. Slade’s laughing expression twisted into madness, a cruel sneer below his eyepatch.

Tears pricked Felicity’s eyes as it all faded to black around her, Oliver’s pain aching in her chest alongside her own for the loss of these friends who were more like family to him.

She moved, almost woodenly, to the new door, heart heavy in her chest.

It was Verdant. Middle of the day, sun streaming in through the skylights to the dancefloor and bar, where Oliver stood…with Sara on the other side.

The breath caught in her chest at the sight of her friend, bright, laughing, in her familiar position behind the bar, shaking up a cocktail, oh-so-very alive.

Oliver’s affection, and fond love for the blond former assassin joined Felicity’s own love for her, along with their shared ache over her loss.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Please, Oliver. Please. I don’t want to see…” Her lower lip trembled, squeezing her eyes shut not wanting to watch what happened to her friend again.

A breeze whirled past Felicity, what felt like fingers brushing her shoulder; lips across her forehead. Blue eyes snapped open. “Oliver.” She searched for him around her—the scene had faded to blackness again, without replaying any of Sara’s deaths before Felicity. There was no sign of Oliver, though Felicity could swear that she felt him even stronger than before.

The breeze, smelling of the so familiar forest, leather, and rain, blew past her again, seeming to nudge Felicity into turning. She whirled around, blue orbs seeking out her love’s familiar form…instead finding herself back in the Queen Manor. Memory!Oliver was on the phone with someone—Samantha, the emotions attached to that name were complex and heavily tinged with regret.

“So… How are—” Oliver began, his memory-discomfort and nervousness twisting around them.

“I lost the baby, Oliver.” A feminine voice—the woman on the phone—cut him off.

Felicity gasped, hand clapping over her mouth. Oliver had a child, or nearly had a child apparently.

Now came the greatest confusion of emotion yet, his emotions from the memory: relief, guilt, a pang of grief he tried to push away. And his emotions now: aching grief over the loss of his unborn child, guilt and self-loathing over the relief that his younger-self had felt. They mingled and melded in Felicity’s heart, blending with the pain she felt for his loss; she pressed her palm against her chest, trying to hold in the ache.

The blond genius turned away from the scene, biting down on her lip so hard that were she in her real body she was certain she’d be tasting blood. These memories, these people she was seeing, they were the deepest parts of Oliver’s heart and soul, the people he cared for, the parts that made him the man he was, the man she loved. She felt like a voyeur into these intimate parts of him, seeing these deeply personal things that the archer likely never shared with anyone, but were now playing out before her like a movie.

Part of Felicity felt like she shouldn’t open her eyes again, that she should find some other way to find Oliver, but she was unable to prevent her lids from lifting.

She found herself surrounded by a half-finished Verdant, boxes of alcohol stacked behind the bar, scaffolding along three of the walls, half of the chairs and tables spread out. Oliver was seated in one of the lounge chairs haphazardly drawn up to a short table, in the other sat…Tommy Merlyn. Felicity swallowed thickly, already feeling Oliver’s deep love for his life-long brother-of-choice and the agony of losing him.

Tommy raised a glass of what looked like Scotch, Oliver mirroring him, “To new adventures, with the best friend and brother a man could ask for.”

Someone who did not know Oliver as well as Felicity did would have missed it, but there was the slightest pause before Oliver clicked his glass against the dark-haired man’s, and she could see the emotions that flashed through his eyes as well as feeling them. Anticipating the moment to come, the blonde took a deep breath, bracing herself, but was surprised when it wasn’t just one memory that passed.

Tommy’s eyes burned into Oliver’s. “You’re a murderer.”

The light fading from the young man’s blue eyes as he died in Oliver’s arms amidst the utter destruction.

Oliver weak, with barely any fight left in him, sprawled on the floor—his fight against Gold Felicity realized—Tommy knelt beside him. “You are a hero.” The emotions that swelled at that, both his and hers, had tears slipping down her cheeks. Felicity couldn’t say if it was a hallucination or perhaps some kind of divine intervention, but either way it meant the world to Oliver and thus it meant as much to her.

The tears blurred her vision and she swiped at them, blinking hard to clear it again.

It was a sunny day, it looked like summer, she stood on a dock on a small lake next to a blond boy of maybe 12 years—Oliver, she realized—sitting beside his father, a younger Robert Queen she’s only seen in family photos. The pair smiling as father showed son how to properly bait a hook and cast a line, a rare, precious moment of father-son bonding with his work-obsessed father. It blurred into Robert picking Oliver up from the police station for the first time, the disappointment radiating from every line in the older man’s face. Memory!Oliver tried to pretend he did not to see it, shame and embarrassment colored his emotions now.

The SCPD station faded into a sight that Felicity dreaded much more: a life raft out in the middle of the water.

A much more haggard Robert lifted a revolver and shot another man on the far side of the boat, startling Oliver; he then turned to his son. “Survive.”

“No!” Oliver screamed, as Robert put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Felicity screamed with him, clenching her eyes shut.

Silence.

After long moments of nothing, slowly Felicity cracked her eyes open.

Oliver, ragged from his years away, was hunched on a couch in Queen Manor, watching a tablet.

Robert Queen smiled gently, encouragingly from the screen. “You can be better than I was. You can save this city.” Oliver’s heart was utterly shattered, and the self-doubt was nearly suffocating. “I love you.”

A sob escaped Felicity, feeling Oliver’s pain as deeply as her own.

She moved to comfort the past image of her love but it faded, replaced with a much younger Oliver, lying on the same couch, head in his mother’s lap, sobbing. Moira, always so stoic and unflinchingly confident before when Felicity had seen her, had red eyes, her makeup was streaked from tears, and sadness and pain furrowed her brow.

“Why’d Mrs. Merlyn have to die, Mom?” Oliver—God his voice was so young—managed between hiccupping whimpers.

“I don’t know, my darling. Bad things happen sometimes, even to good people.” Moira’s voice quavered, grief apparent in every wobbling syllable. She tenderly ran her fingers through her son’s pale hair.

“It’s not fair!” Little Oliver wailed. “Tommy needs his mom!”

She bent over and kissed his forehead. “But he will have us. It won’t be the same, but he’ll have us in whatever way he needs.”

He sniffled, hugging his mother’s knees tighter. “Yeah… I’m glad you’re not dead, Mom.”

They were suddenly in a hospital room, Oliver stood at a window looking out over the nighttime skyline of Starling City. His name, spoken so softly, each syllable wavering with barely restrained hope; Oliver’s heart jumped, breath catching in his chest, so happy…and so very afraid. Swallowing hard, slowly, oh-so-slowly he turned to face his mother to see the tears filling her eyes.

“Hi, Mom.” How had he managed that around the boulder in his throat?

“Oh, my beautiful boy!”

He was surrounded in her softness, her familiar scent. Comfort.

It changed again; Felicity sucked in a jagged breath as a dark night, a car wreck overtook it all. Slade towering behind a kneeling Thea and Moira, demanding Oliver make an impossible choice. Felicity clapped a hand over her mouth, hearing the torment in her love’s screams, feeling it like her own, as Moira stood up and told Slade to kill her, giving her own life for her children, so that her son would not have to make this choice he would have never been able to make. As Slade drove his sword through Moira, Felicity went to her knees beside Oliver’s bound form, reaching for him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. She could not move him, he was bound to the events in the memory, so she moved instead, hugging him as tight as she could; whispering in his ear, “Your mother loved you, Oliver! She was proud of you! You didn’t fail her!”

The scene flickered, the Oliver under her hands going between solid and not.

“I know, Oliver.”

“The night of the Undertaking, everything became so clear.”

Finally the Oliver in Felicity’s arms entirely disappeared, and the scene resolved itself into the backroom of Verdant. Moira was cupping her son’s face, tears shimmering in her eyes, but pride glowing from every line of her face. “…I could not be more proud.”

Calm, peace…hope. A smile, the first in so long, creased Felicity’s face, happy tears welling in her eyes, that Oliver, who knew so little of those had this moment to hold onto.

Once she’d managed to blink away the tears the memory had changed; she stood in the driveway of Queen Manor as Oliver strode out.

“Oliver!” Moira darted over, reaching out to take his hand and lead him in the opposite direction, towards John. “I want to introduce you to someone: John Diggle…”

Annoyance ran through the memory; Felicity couldn’t help grinning feeling it along with Now!Oliver’s amusement at his own reaction at the time, and the knowledge of what he and John would eventually be.

Oliver and John stood across from each other in the driveway, sizing each other up. The world around them blurred so they were now standing in the Queen living room.

“Diggle, I’m not looking for anybody to save me.”

What is there left to save? The grim, resigned thought drifted through.

Nothing anymore. Felicity gasped at the echo from Now!Oliver.

“That’s not true,” she protested to the disembodied voice; the only response was another flash of doubt, much to her frustration.

Diggle shrugged. “Maybe not. But you need someone, just the same. You’re fighting a war, Queen. Except you have no idea what war does to you. How it scrapes off little pieces of your soul.”

God, how right he was. John was always right. The blonde genius’ lips quirked at that; how very true it was.

The former soldier stepped closer to Oliver. “And you need someone to remind you who you are, not this thing you’re becoming.” John held out his hand.

The relief, and even a sliver of hope, flooded through Memory!Oliver as he took Diggle’s hand. The beginning of something so very important.

A flash to them sitting down in the Arrow Cave, the pair toasting with Oliver’s vodka. Talking over chili cheese fries in Big Belly Burger. The pair hugging tightly in Lyla’s hospital room, celebrating Little Sara’s birth.

It settled again on what looked like a dungeon, most likely in Nanda Parbat; both of them were chained to the floor.

“How do you feel about being my best man?”

Felicity choked on laughter.

Oliver’s familiar half-smile crept across his face, trying to hide the swell of emotion inside him. “I feel pretty good.”

The tech genius snorted with laughter, of course John asked Oliver to be his best man while they sat in a freaking dungeon straight out of medieval times, when they believed they would be killed at any moment. She shook her head ruefully, only her boys.

The amusement was gone in an instant as the memory resolved itself into a frighteningly and excruciatingly painful scene: the trade-off of Lyla and Nyssa. Oliver, locked in Al Sah-him’s control, was focused on the fury, hurt, and, most painful, the betrayal in John’s eyes. Oliver’s regret and self-loathing was breathtaking, literally, Felicity was struggling to catch her breath as it slammed her in the chest.

“He’ll forgive you!” she called again in Oliver’s hypothetical direction. “John will understand! And so will Lyla!”

Doubt permeated the air around her, thicker than pea soup—not that she actually knew how thick pea soup was, she’d never had any, sounded pretty gross to her, so she didn’t know how thick it really was, but that’s what people always said so…

Felicity bit her lip, finally deciding to try something she really probably should have tried before. “Oliver, where are you?”

A sound behind her had Felicity whipping around.

Children laughing.

The first floor of Queen Manor in the sunroom. The blonde again heard childish laughter pouring through the open French doors, following it out into the garden.

Teenage Oliver, grinning broadly, was running over the lawn after a pair of curly brown pigtails in a pink sparkly dress. Thea. Tiny, maybe six-years-old Thea in a fairy dress.

“Ollie! Ollie! Catch me!” She ran up the short wall, less than a foot off the ground, spun and flung herself at her brother.

Oliver had to quickly hop forward, but he managed to catch her, sweeping her up, and swinging her around, to the little girl’s delight.

Oliver’s joy and love swirled around them—oh, how Felicity would love to see him happy like this again!

Thea wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a sweet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Love you, Ollie!”

Another blur and they were in the main entrance of Queen Manor; Post-Island!Oliver was staring up one of the two main staircases, a soft gentle smile on his face.

Thea appeared at the top and her expression lit up. “I knew it!” She was dashing down the stairs, nearly heedlessly. “I knew you weren’t dead!” The lanky teenager flung herself into Oliver’s arms, trusting that he’d catch her just as much as she had at six, and clung to him just as tightly. “I missed you so much!”

Oliver’s heart squeezed, love and fondness, filling him; his baby sister, his Thea, she was so very precious, and he would do anything to keep her safe, to let her keep her bright, inner light.

The siblings stood in the all-too-familiar hallway of Starling General, Thea’s arms cross and disappointment clear in her gaze upon her stoic brother. “Maybe you should spend a little less time trying to be a hero, you’re obviously not any good at it.”

I really am not.

“Oliver…” Felicity murmured, how she hated how he doubted and hated himself.

“I love you.” Thea was slowly turning away from him and towards the hospital room door. “Mom loves you. But it’s getting hard when you won’t be truthful with us.” She shut the door firmly in Oliver’s face.

“Thea loves you, Oliver!” Felicity shouted in his ephemeral direction. “And she’s proud of you! Remember?” She spun in place, as if she could somehow finally find him somewhere around her. “Remember when you told her?”

Everything rippled around her, reconsolidating into the Arrow Cave.

Thea stared at the Arrow’s suit in its display case, shock and awe on her face. “You’re…you’re him. That was you. All those times I got so mad at you for being…a flake, or telling me something I knew that had to be a lie.” A pang of regret and guilt shot through memory!Oliver. Thea whipped around to face him. “You were saving someone’s life.”

Hands clasped white-knuckle behind his back, bracing himself, unsure exactly where this would go, but he gave a short nod.

His baby sister stared up at him, tears gathering in her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed out before she dove into his arms, hugging him as tight as her petite, but strong, body could.

Shock ran through memory!Oliver, flaring over his features, he’d truly believed she wouldn’t accept him, that she would hate him.

“You know how many times I’ve wished that I could thank the Arrow for things he’s done for this city?”

Love, hope ran through now!Oliver, remembering his little sister’s unconditional acceptance and support. But then wrenching pain and grief ripped through him, as the hugging Queen siblings blurred into Oliver crouched on the floor of the loft, cradling Thea to him in a pool of her blood.

Felicity clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her sob, eyes burning. She’d known what had happened, of course, but…seeing it…

“She’s all right, Oliver! I swear Thea is okay! After we got back she remembered everything and she loves you and misses you!”

Al Sa-him stared up at a hooded Thea, bow and arrow aimed right at him. Now!Oliver—God, Felicity wasn’t sure if she should laugh or smack him—was shocked and unspeakably proud of his baby sister.

The bespectacled blonde gave a choked laugh. “Yeah, apparently like brother like sister.”

Concern wound around her as everything faded except for Thea, standing tall, strong, and proud.

“She’s safe,” Felicity called out again. “I told her where Roy is and she left right after to go find him. She’s safe, Oliver.”

Felicity could’ve sworn she felt his hand cupping her cheek, it was such a strong feeling. “Oliver?” she breathed, eyes searching for him, as Thea finally faded as well. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a light brighten a spot, and turned. Another mahogany door; she could hardly breathe around the strength of the pull drawing her towards it and she didn’t even try to deny it.

She grasped the brass handle and paused, heart racing, because even though she didn’t know what memory was beyond this door, somehow she just knew that this was it, that just past this last barrier was her Oliver.

Taking a deep breath Felicity pushed the wooden slab open.

>>>------------>

So, sorry that we didn’t get any actual direct Olicity, but I felt the need to have this, where we see Felicity receive this insight with Oliver since she’s in his mind, and it helps build up to where we go from here. The next chapter, I promise we’ll see REAL Olicity and LOTS of fun with that! ;-) Thank you for reading! Happy Thanksgiving!

#olicity #oliver queen/felicity smoak #arrow #constantine #felicity smoak #oliver queen #john constantine #olicity fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #s3 #s3 au

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rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars · 7 years

Text

false veneers and failed façades

of broken mirrors and haunted rooms (i’m empty inside but so are you), chapter two

An ATLA fanfiction.

Not a lot of people read the first chapter, or even seemed interested in this story, but who cares, I love it, so I’m putting it out there once more and with a brand-new chapter to boot. :)

Here’s a direct link to the chapter on Ao3, where I hope you’ll drop by to leave me some feedback on this work. :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10998975/chapters/24795549

The tea takes nearly an hour to fully block her chi.

A liberal helping of sugar does little to mask its bitter taste.

Azula traces her fingers around the rim of the empty cup, one by one, as she waits. The delicate edge of gold-rimmed porcelain hums beneath her touch as she leans back against the stone wall of her cell. Across the table is the Avatar, who calmly sips his own tea as they sit in amicable silence.

She feels every second of it, feels every path to her inner fire being carefully closed off and boarded up like a building deemed too dangerous to enter.

For the first time in years, Azula feels truly cold.

Even sailing through Arctic waters hadn’t left her such a chill, not a firebender with her prowess and skill. Her thin summer robes feel like paper against her skin, and she works hard to suppress a shiver.

The Avatar watches her with undisguised worry shining in the depths of his grey eyes- in spite of the years spent trying to perfect this drug, no one was quite sure how well a bender of her caliber would react to it.

“Just spit it out, Avatar,” she scoffs, tossing her hair back with a smooth shrug of her shoulders. These days, without a crown to pin in place, Azula leaves her hair down more often than she bothers putting it up. “I may have all day to loiter here, but I’m sure you must be a very busy man.”

“Not today, Princess,” he says, inclining his head with a soft smile, “Today my only obligation is to you.”

“You can’t be serious. You don’t honestly intend to spend the rest of the day here, do you?”

“Why not?”

“You’re the Avatar.” Azula speaks slowly, the way one would to a small child or a particularly stubborn animal. “You have responsibilities to the people.”

“You’re my friend.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and Azula resists the urge to slap the cheery grin off of his face. He shouldn’t look so thrilled at the prospect of calling himself a friend to the Mad Princess, as she’s so aptly been nicknamed by the denizens of the Four Nations. She’s no longer sure exactly who the crazy one is in this relationship. “I have a responsibility to you as much as anyone else.”

Azula channels as much of her newfound frost into her voice as possible when she speaks again. “Is that what we are?”

His expression doesn’t falter in spite of her icy tone. “Do you think we aren’t?”

“I think you should be careful with who you choose to call ‘friend.’ You have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

The world wouldn’t take to kindly to the Avatar calling a war criminal a friend.

She doesn’t realize she’s spoken her thought aloud until he frowns down at her, a crease forming in the space between his brows.

Azula remembers being taller than him when they’d first met. Now, even sitting, he’s tall enough to have a few inches on her. On anyone else, the height difference coupled with his uncharacteristically severe expression would have appeared condescending.

“The war made criminals of us all.”

Somber.

There’s no other way to describe his tone.

He sounds like a mourner at a funeral, and in a way, she understands. None of them had gotten through the war unscathed. They’d all lost something- friends, family, homes. And, of course, Azula’s personal favorite-

Innocence.

But he’d lost everything.

A hundred years, buried in ice as the world moved on without him, everyone he’d ever known dying or growing old while he slept.

No matter how good a façade he showed the rest of the world, he couldn’t fool Azula.

She was a good enough liar to recognize when somebody else was concealing the truth, master though he was at deception. It’s a skill she initially never thought he’d have any talent at. Time and time again, the Avatar has proven her wrong, much to her amusement.

Most people are predictable to her.

Easy to read.

Even easier to intimidate.

Easier still to control.

Puppets dancing on strings Azula had been able to see since she was old enough to remember.

She’d learned how to pull the strings herself, even as Ozai had twisted hers into knots she might never fully unravel.

The Avatar is a pleasant change of pace from the monotony of all that. Like the element he was born to, the Avatar is unrestrained.

“Not like me.” Azula lets her eyes slip lazily shut as she replies, a wave of sudden exhaustion flooding her veins.

She’d been warned that this could be one of the side effects of the medication. Chi-blocking was an art truly mastered by only the Avatar, and since he’d point-blank refused to permanently take away her bending at the Fire Lord’s request for reasons she didn’t even want to bother trying to comprehend, this was the only alternative that wouldn’t leave her as a pile of drooling mush in the corner.

Never like me, she thinks, and the world should see that as a gift.

The world should be grateful Ozai hadn’t succeeded in molding Zuko into his personal weapon alongside her, or they’d have likely razed the world to ash side-by-side, and built their father a kingdom on the bones of the fallen.

She dreams of it sometimes, a castle made of blood and bone.

Her father stands at the very top of it all, smiling his terrible smile as he surveys a kingdom forged in death and endless pain.

If there is one thing Azula knows better than even her bending, it is pain pain pain-

A crown dripping the same crimson that stains her fingers, never to wash off.

She scrubs and she scrubs until the red is her own, the blood is her own, the skin is rubbed raw and oozing-

A hand reaching out to beckon her to stand at his side, the monster’s daughter, the demon princess.

She scrubs and she scrubs as if the taint of his touch could be cleansed, as if his poison didn’t run through her veins, blood is blood Azula, blood is blood is blood-

“Princess?”

A single word drags her back, spoken by the one voice that could actually anchor her to reality unlike so many others.

Ozai had shattered her mind, and the sounds of Zuko’s voice only ever served to yank her back to the start of it all. Everything about him drew her back into the past. The same went for Mai and Ty Lee. All three of them served as constant reminders of the childhood she’d never really escaped, at least, not with all her pieces intact.

Not with all the pieces normal people aren’t supposed to live without.

Azula’s never been normal, that much has been evident since she’d been blessed with Agni’s blue flames. But perhaps she could have come close without Ozai to warp her beyond repair.

“Mmm?”

“Are you well?”

A drowsy smirk tugs up the corners of her mouth. “Fine. Jus’ tired.”

“You’re slurring your words.”

She musters up the energy to half-open her eyes, and makes a conscious effort to speak clearly. “Am I?”

He’s leaning across the slender table and wrapping a hand around her wrist before she can even think of moving away, fingers pressing down lightly over her pulse point.

“You feel like ice.”

If she’d been more awake, Azula would have been able to hear the concern weighing his words down. But she is tired, too tired to listen and almost to tired to even bother voicing a response.

“I just need to sleep. They warned me of the side effects, as I’m sure they did you.”

After that, her eyes slide closed and she finds that has neither the energy nor the desire to force them open once more.

The last thing she remembers before the rest of her senses give way to the alluring darkness of oblivion is the feeling of a sudden, soothing warmth wrapping her in its embrace.

Safe, her sluggish brain murmurs to itself before finally succumbing to the ceaseless siren song of slumber.

Safe.

A burst of airbending keeps Azula’s body from hitting the ground as she slumps sideways, clearly unconscious.

It’s easy enough to maneuver her prone form into the bed on the opposite side of the room with his bending, and it takes little effort to summon the nurses assigned to watch over the sleeping princess for any signs of possible harm caused by the drugs, but a sense of unease lies heavy in the pit of his stomach nonetheless as he leaves the facility.

It wasn’t like Azula to display such overt signs of weakness in front of anyone, least of all him.

Even in the beginning, even with dark circles under her eyes from night terrors the nurses gossiped about in hushed, horrified whispers, even with moon-pale skin and trembling hands from the overuse of sedatives that the previous doctors had used in a futile attempt to keep her docile and meek, defiance had shone bright and clear in her golden eyes. Her calm, steely demeanor betrayed nothing to anyone who visited her, even him.

The drugs back then hadn’t suppressed her bending, but they had nearly made her too weak to even use it. He’d hated seeing her so drained, but never once had she allowed herself to appear vulnerable. Not until today.

Zuko had fired them all after Aang had informed him of their form of so-called treatment. He’d questioned the nurses after seeing the way Azula’s hands trembled despite what he knew to be her best efforts to keep them steady, the way her golden eyes looked dull and glazed over during his other visits.

Today, her eyes had looked hollow and distant.

The last time she’d seemed so out of reach she’d been completely unstable and out of touch with reality, screaming curses at Ursa for leaving her with Ozai.

Seeing her so visibly unhinged had shaken him.

Azula didn’t know about his first trip here with Zuko.

He hadn’t even gone into the room.

The nurses mentioned she was having a bad episode, and it wasn’t safe to introduce her to an unfamiliar face.

Apparently hunting someone down for over a year didn’t count as familiarity.

He’d watched from the bars as she’d writhed and screamed, watched as she huddled in the corner as soon as she’d laid eyes on Zuko’s face, recoiled from the sight of him with wide, terrified eyes.

It was the sight of her then that had convinced him to stay, to extend his visit to the Fire Nation.

Here he was, three years later, a permanent resident on Ember Island, one of the closest islands to the one that the mental hospital had been built on to house the fallen princess.

He still traveled the world with Appa on occasion, but for the most part, he was only called upon to resolve the most dire of situations. It had been agreed that the Four Nations needed to learn how to stand on their own and forge peace without the constant use of the Avatar as a crutch.

The repair of the Air Nation temples could wait, at least, for now.

Sokka and Suki split their time between the Southern Water Tribe and Kyoshi Island. Chief Hakoda refused to accept anything less than regular visits from his children and his new in-laws. The rebuilding of the tribe was going much faster now that most of their captured benders and warriors had been returned home.

Toph hadn’t exactly settled down yet- at the moment, she was spending some quality time at the Fire Nation Palace, doing her best to annoy Zuko to death. But the Earthbender finally had the one thing she’d spent her whole life clawing for- freedom.

She’d nearly been disowned, but in the end, her actions had spoken for themselves, and the Bei Fongs finally accepted the fact that their daughter was more than her disability.

And Katara.

The first kiss they’d shared had also been their last, they’d broken apart laughing from the sheer hilarity of it.

After a clarifying conversation, they’d walked away with a bond stronger than ever, finally confident in the knowledge that they were destined to be the best of friends and nothing more.

She’d been crowned Fire Lady a mere year and a half after the final battle against Ozai and the Agni Kai against Azula.

While there had been dissenters in the beginning, Katara had earned the love and respect of the Fire Nation with her fair judgement and compassionate heart. Even the most stubborn of the nobles had eventually caved in and developed a grudging respect for her unbreakable spirit.

Surprisingly enough, Mai had been one of Zuko and Katara’s most staunch supporters. She’d been the one to break off her relationship with Zuko and push him to act on his feelings for Katara. Now, she served as royal advisor to both Fire Lord and Fire Lady, though Katara made it clear she had a monopoly on her best friend’s time.

Their friendship had been another welcome surprise- not many had expected the girls to develop such a close bond, not after everything that had happened between them all, especially with regards to Zuko. But Mai had worked hard to redeem herself after being freed from her imprisonment after betraying Azula at Boiling Rock, and so had Ty Lee, who now lives happily among her fellow Kyoshi Warriors. That had earned them both a second chance in Katara and everyone else’s eyes- after giving one to Zuko and so many others, it wouldn’t have been fair not to.

Unlearning a hundred years of prejudice and hatred was hard, but it was something that people from all of the nations were finally learning how to do.

Everyone was finally getting some semblance of a happy ending, and it was more than a little unnerving to witness.

They talked about it sometimes, when they gathered. It felt odd, living without the weight of war on their shoulders. None of them had ever really thought of what life might be like after the war. Most of them hadn’t even assumed they’d survive.

Yet survive they had-

And there was no denying that it felt good.

Azula deserved peace like that too.

He’s never been as certain of anything as he is of this.

Aang had made several disturbing revelations over the years, many of them concerning the princess herself.

Nobody had ever given the girl a chance.

Ozai had seen a weapon.

Ursa had seen a monster.

Even Iroh had thought her past saving.

He’d worked hard to guide Zuko, even when the banished prince had been consumed in the same darkness as his sister. But he’d never extended the same hand towards his niece, to steer her towards the side of good with the same ruthless, unyielding determination he’d used with her brother.

Beneath the carefully crafted veneer of cynicism and sarcasm was a girl whom nobody had ever really thought to show kindness to.

Three years ago, after seeing her trapped in hallucinations drawn from memories of what he was horribly sure had been a childhood even worse than Zuko’s, he’d become determined to change that.

Because in a way, Azula wasn’t totally responsible for who she had become.

Not when she was simply following the path that everyone else had forced her to walk.

Had he been in her shoes, he’s sure he would have crumbled long before the Agni Kai.

At the very core of her being, Azula is a survivor.

He hopes she’ll survive this, prays that her indomitable willpower can endure this change.

Spirits help her.

Spirits help us all.

As always, feel free to drop me comments here or at Ao3 using the link above. :)

#ATLA #Avatar: The Last Airbender #Azula #Aang #Avatar #fanfiction #Ao3 #rudderless writes #Post-Series

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let-me-love-you-loki · 7 years

Text

The Purpose of a Heart--Ch. 17

Author’s Note: Trigger warnings for incest/abuse insinuation. Please be careful, loves.

Chapter 17: Never Asunder

It was, in all a moment of sound and rush, a scene of chaos upon the termination of the elder Mrs. Hiddleston’s actions.

“Mother!” cried Misses Emma and Sarah.

“Diana, really!” seethed Mr. Hiddleston.

“Rebecca!” gasped Master Hiddleston.

Tears sprang to the eyes of the new Mrs. Hiddleston, and yet she worked to keep her composure. It was with a determination such that none of them had ever seen that Master Hiddleston’s wife took her skirts in her steady fingers, dipped her head low, and curtseyed as if she were being presented to the Crown. For a long moment, she was silent. And then she whispered steadily into the shocked quiet.

“I am sorry to have offended you, Mrs. Hiddleston. It has never been my wish to upset such a great lady as yourself.” Her lip trembled and the young woman drew in a breath to steady her nerves. “It is my sincerest hope that you will forgive me this trespass against you and come to be a mother to me.”

Master Hiddleston stood at his wife’s side, his hands held at his side in a strange kind of limbo. He was unsure of whether she would encourage his touch and support in such a moment. Misses Emma and Sarah held their hands over their mouths, such scandal that they had never seen before. The innkeeper tried to avert her eyes, but found that she failed in such a show of humility in one who had been so wronged.

“You have done more than offend,” the elder Mrs. Hiddleston spat. “You have stolen my son away and soiled his good name and reputation with the filth that comes from one such as yourself. You have come to him thinking he would raise you from a brothel and, instead, you have brought him as low as possible.”

“Diana!” Mr. Hiddleston said at last. He took his wife by the arm and quickly drew her out of earshot, his face a mottled sort of purple as he spoke to her. While Miss Sarah attempted to gather intelligence regarding her father’s words, Miss Emma dashed toward her brother and new sister to provide some comfort.

“Rebecca,” Master Hiddleston said quietly, his head tilted toward his wife. “Are you all right?”

The younger Mrs. Hiddleston drew a shaking breath and looked up to her husband with a shadow of steel in her eyes. In that moment, Master Hiddleston began to fathom the true depths of the horrors his wife had seen in her young life. Even with the burning red of his mother’s strike across her cheek, his wife gave him a steady glance that turned his stomach. He felt a simmer of anger with his mother for her actions, felt as if her strike to his wife had been a strike to him.

“My dove,” he whispered as his fingers gently lifted her chin. He inspected the mark that still bloomed brightly on her cheek. “Please speak to me.”

She could not stop the tears that blurred her vision. Her fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, holding his fingers against her skin. “Your mother… She is right. I should never have agreed to come here with you. I have ruined your life.”

Master Hiddleston felt as if his world was falling away beneath him. He had, in such a short time, enjoyed the happiness of being a husband, of holding her in his arms and waking up beside her. A Scottish marriage—and quite less than that, a Scottish marriage over an anvil by a village priest—was likely to be voided by any who wished to argue the point. Master Hiddleston had perhaps thought that his wife’s solicitor father would make inquiries, but he did not ever believe that his mother would attempt to dissolve his marriage.

“You have done no such thing,” Master Hiddleston said firmly. He gathered her close, a fear finding root in his chest, fear such that he had never known before. In an instant, he was overcome with a terror of losing his wife the moment that he had claimed her. “Rebecca, you are my love. You are my wife.”

A moment of silence grew into a pause that nearly made him drop to his knees. And then, when he was certain he could hold not one second more of it, the younger Mrs. Hiddleston fell entirely into tears. The mettle that kept her on her feet, that allowed her to face his mother with dignity, that pressed her to walk away from him—it shattered around her. Master Hiddleston stepped forward in the moment when her legs could no longer support the weight of her sorrow. Miss Emma nearly gave a shout as her new sister collapsed into the arms of her brother.

Miss Sarah glanced from her position at the stairs, gathering intelligence of her father’s reprimand of their mother. It was quite the escalation.

“You cannot lay hands on the girl, Diana,” Mr. Hiddleston hissed, very close to his wife’s face. “Not only is she the daughter of a solicitor, she is now your daughter-in-law.”

The visage that came upon the elder Mrs. Hiddleston was a sight to behold. It was as if the spirit of a viper had taken possession of the woman. “She is not mine,” she spat back at her husband. “She is a whore. She is worse than a whore.”

Mr. Hiddleston let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. “You are driven by gossip with no foundation in fact.”

“Those two hellion boys are hers,” his wife pressed. “She is a whore thrice over. Two children and both of them by her father!”

Those words were spoken loud enough that the entirety of the inn’s great room heard them. A gasp of indignation erupted from Miss Sarah, quickly giving away her position as intelligencer. Miss Emma found herself quite put out by her mother’s indictment. And Master Hiddleston, more perhaps than them all, felt himself doused with righteous rage.

It was not entirely certain that those words had penetrated the fog of sadness that had descended upon the younger Mrs. Hiddleston. Not, that is, until the sobs emanating from her chest became an embittered wail of despair. She pressed her hands against her husband’s broad shoulders and gave her greatest effort to push him from her. Something leaden and molten seemed to writhe inside her, a fear and a horror that she had once thought to put behind her in every way. And yet, here in the furthest reaches of the country, it had come to haunt her.

The younger Mrs. Hiddleston gathered her strength and pushed her way past her husband, dashing across the inn’s common room on legs that scarce seemed strong enough to take a single step. Her vision blurred with tears as she flung herself out into the street. Her slippered feet slid in the mud puddles, the hem of her dress gathering muck as she attempted to flee the horrible scene behind her.

In the inn, the elder Mrs. Hiddleston gave her family a firm glare as if the flight of her new daughter-in-law settled the matter. “You see, Thomas? She cannot even deny the nature of her crimes.”

Master Hiddleston struggled within himself to maintain his composure. He desired nothing more than to treat with his mother, to define all that was wrong with the accusations she had laid at the feet of his wife. And yet he could not find it within himself to waste his words on someone who would not hear. Rather, he turned to his father with a plea for his support.

“I have to go after her, Father,” Master Hiddleston said quietly. “I am sorry if I have offended you and Mother, but I cannot deny the desires of my own heart.”

With that, Master Hiddleston sped away from his family in search of his wife, who had all but vanished on the streets of Gretna Green.

Miss Sarah looked desperately toward her brother’s retreating figure. “How could you say such a thing, Mother?”

The elder Mrs. Hiddleston seemed quite aghast at being challenged by her eldest daughter. “I spoke but the truth.”

“How have you the truth of it, Mother? Were you her midwife, who delivered her bastard sons in secret? Or perhaps you have the secret of this incest from her father’s mouth?” The pitch of Miss Sarah’s voice began to rise as her anger began to bubble to the surface. “How have you come by this horrible truth, Mother?”

A sickening pallor came over the elder Mrs. Hiddleston’s face. “You will not speak to me in such a fashion, Sarah. I am your mother.” She turned her nose up at her daughter’s determined glare. “And besides, the entire village knows of the hellish sins of the Rochfords.”

Mr. Hiddleston gave an exasperated huff. “The old biddies of Weatherby have little more to do for their activity than to make up tales of their neighbors or their betters. I shall say this to you and I will not say it again, Diana. You dance on the edge of a knife, and if you should continue to twirl, you will end in a place where you are without your son and your daughters. I do not know why you are so against this poor girl, but I am certain that there is no truth to the rumors which you are spreading so voraciously.”

“Explain. Those. Children, James,” hissed the elder Mrs. Hiddleston.

“Two young boys left with an overly indulgent father and a terrified elder sister after their mother died.”

Miss Emma stepped toward her parents, a brilliant red blush rushing into her face. “Mother, what you say cannot in any way be true. I have had it from Thomas this morning, from his own lips, that his wife was a maid.”

Discomfort settled upon Mr. Hiddleston upon hearing his daughter speak so blatantly about matters that were best kept secret. And yet it was to his advantage as it was proof enough that his wife had slandered the poor young Mrs. Hiddleston.

“Are you like to call your son a liar, Diana? Shall you tell him that he does not know of what he speaks? Has he been tricked by some witch?” It was quite enough for Mr. Hiddleston. “I shall provide Thomas with his income until he is in his own. Rebecca shall be as if she is my own, regardless of what you believe. And should you attempt to get in the way of our son and his wife, so help me, Diana, I will pack you off to the furthest reaches of the moors and not feel poorly for it.”

With that, Mr. Hiddleston and his daughters took their leave from his wife. They purposed to go after Master Hiddleston and his young bride in an attempt to mend the pain that had been inflicted upon her.

Tag List

@hallotom @habeshawit-konjo @theotherspiderlady @mrshiddelston @aletheladyinred @jrubalcaba @tinaferraldo @micaleann @kategoricaly-challenged @sapphiredreamer26 @triski73

#the purpose of a heart #purpose of a heart #tom hiddleston #regency!tom #tom hiddleston fanfiction #real person fanfiction #AU #alternate universe #ofc #oc #original character #multi-chapter #trigger warning

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