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bugsandchatons · 3 years

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when you weren’t mine to lose (5)

Summary: Change is a scary thing, especially when it feels like nothing has stayed the same.

It’s been a year since Marinette became the Guardian of the Miracle Box - a year of struggling beneath a burden she never asked for, a weight that has her leaning on her partner more and more as the hours fly by, of letting him come to her, too, when he needs a soft place to land. A year of falling for the boy who takes on the world by her side with a smile made of sunlight, and fighting the growing urge to tell him what he means to her.

After all, they’ll have time enough for that when Paris is safe.

But when the unthinkable happens, Marinette learns the tragedy of loving someone quietly, and the lines she’ll cross to save him.

[[AO3]] {from the beginning}

*****

[five: where the light goes]

Tikki had tried to warn her, to the best of the kwami’s knowledge, what it might be like when the Akuma took over. The nature of the Butterfly Miraculous was to influence, she’d said, not total control - when used negatively it was strong in its coercion, but not irresistible.

Still, Marinette’s not sure if she could have fully prepared herself for the heavy fog that rolls in over her mind, blurring everything but the violet splash of the butterfly sigil in front of her eyes.

Hold on to your purpose. Go back, change the timeline, save Chat Noir.

Over and over, until the words stuck.

“Ladybug,” the smooth voice that washes over her is a horribly familiar one, now. “I must admit, I’d begun to wonder if this day would ever come.”

She clenched her fingers into fists. Hold on. Go back. Save him.

“Your partner has died,” Hawkmoth says. The cold flash of agony that ripples through her is muted, pushed back and away somewhere in the distance. “So our purposes have aligned for the time being. We’ve both lost someone who, together, we can restore. Bring me both the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculous and we can fix it. You need me to put everything back as it should be.”

Ladybug takes a deep breath in. His request is a siren song; the need to comply is just as strong as the tidal wave of her own anger, her own misery. She buries them together and, little by little, the fog recedes.

Go back. Save him.

Despite how it might feel otherwise, he only had as much power over her as she allowed him. She’s Ladybug, and even broken, she would not bend to any will other than her own. “You’re right about that,” her voice sounds far away to even her own ears, “but your plan won’t work. Chat’s Miraculous is broken.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. She can feel it when his disbelief gives way to fury in a steady, rising throb behind her eyes. “I can fix it, but not within the limits of my own Miraculous.” She lets this hang in the air, but still, Hawkmoth says nothing. Ladybug continues, “But I’ve seen what you did for Queen Bee. When she was akumatized, nothing stopped her from using her powers as widely and often as she wished. With the enhancement of your Akuma, I could fix everything.”

“Very well,” Hawkmoth concedes, his voice ringing with displeasure. She feels the leaping need to appease him, but she can control it - she has him. He’s listening to her now. “The Miraculous you wear grants you the power of creation, but even our powers have their restrictions. Without limits, you are unstoppable. Fix what has been destroyed, and then you will bring the Miraculous to me.” She feels his smile and the smugness that radiates from it. “You and I aren’t so different after all, are we?”

The fog threatens, shifting closer and looming at the edge of her vision. The pain behind her eyes blossoms until she’s nearly seeing stars.

Through it all, she can feel Hawkmoth’s glee. He believes he’s already won. Even now, that’s what matters most to him - bringing back the boy he’s convinced is his son is secondary to besting Ladybug. It makes her sick.

Go back. Save him. The thought calls Chat to mind, sharp and clear despite the press of shadows; all bright green eyes and beatific smiles. It’s the best thing to take with her, Ladybug thinks, as she finally falls.

She closes her eyes and gives herself over to the touch of his dark magic until she’s immersed in an icy cold that steals her breath. For a moment, she struggles - submerged, trapped beneath the surface - before she uncurls her fingers, one by one, and lets go.

It ends almost as quickly as it came over her, and then she’s not quite Ladybug any more.

“Hmm. What shall we call you, then?”

She presses a hand over her own racing heart and rises to her feet. The name comes to her at once and she takes it, branding herself before he can do it for her. “Ouroboros.”

“Ahh, creation and destruction, life and death. An interesting choice. Now,” he commands, “fix his Miraculous.”

There it is again - the overwhelming tug to give in. She’s not sure if she could fix Chat’s Miraculous, even now. It’s tempting to try.

“I’m afraid that’s not what I’ve got planned.” The pounding behind her eyes intensifies, and she grits her teeth against the split of pain. “We are not the same, Hawkmoth. I won’t sacrifice a life to save another. I will find a way to save him, though.”

She had what she wanted, now; a do-over, a second chance.

Reset the clock. Go back. Save Chat Noir.

She clasps her forearms - one hand finds the Snake Miraculous on her left wrist, the other curls protectively over Chat’s ruined ring, tied to her right.

Creation and destruction, she thinks. Together, always.

The end of everything, or the beginning of it.

She closes her eyes and thinks of where the light goes when the night inevitably comes to claim it, and of the sun’s sure return to chase the dark away, An indomitable circle, infinite in its ability to rise again and again. With that in mind, her pain ebbs away to nothing.

*****

The next time Ouroboros opens her eyes, it’s a new day - or, perhaps more accurately, an old one. She gasps, drawing in shallows breaths of cold morning air once, twice, before exhaling and rubbing her palms over her temples. The heavy fog in her mind is gone, as is the agonizing pressure of Hawkmoth’s power struggle.

“When you jump back in time, Hawkmoth should no longer have a hold over you,” Tikki had told her. Like Timetagger, Ouroboros remembers. He’d left the man holding his leash behind, and so had she.

So far, so good.

She looks first down at herself, then at the statue of Ladybug and Chat Noir, lit to sparkling as the dawn breaks. In the shining bronze, she can see what has become of herself.

Her suit changed. Where there’d always been red and black spots were now soot-black scales, as though she’d been doused in fire and risen from embers. A violent splash of color streaks down a single line from chest to belly, scarlet like a red-bellied snake - a clear warning that this new species was venomous. The mask over her eyes looks as if it's been painted to her nose and cheekbones in charcoal.

In ashes.

She turns away and glances dispassionately down at her gloved hands. She’d need a disguise if she wanted to traverse the city.

As if in answer to the very thought, a dark hooded coat materializes in her waiting palms. Ouroboros supposes she has the limitless powers of creation to thank for it. She pulls it on over her head and lifts the hood to cover her hair. Her reflection in the statue shows her that, while not quite incognito, she could now make her way across Paris without immediately causing a panic.

The urge to seek Chat out and tuck him away somewhere safe is an overpowering one. To just see him, even, would be enough.

She has hours before the battle. She knows what she should do: find a place to hide, at least until school lets out, then place herself near enough to Trocadéro to watch for Mirror Image’s akumatization. Tikki had warned her not to be seen until she had to be - that any changes to the course of the day before the Akuma battle could affect her ability to change what she had to when the time came. She knows when and where Ladybug will be throughout the day to avoid her, but Chat -

Ouroboros pauses, her breath hitching in her chest. She knows where Chat Noir is right now.

Everything else vanishes. With only that in mind, she runs across the park, scales the building across from the bakery, and perches - just one shadow among many on the rooftops.

She doesn’t have to wait long. There, backlit by the rising sun as he climbs out of her skylight, is Chat.

The sight of him, whole and vital and breathing, feels like a punch to the stomach for all that it fills the cavernous empty space inside of her.

God, there he is.

Her knees hit the rooftop and a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp shakes out of her chest. Relief, unfettered, sends cold chills down her spine until she trembles with it. It wasn’t until she saw him again that she realized just how terrified she’d been that none of this would work.

A shadow falls across her. She looks up and all she can see is green before she ducks her head back down, wishing she could drown in him instead.

“Hey, are you okay?” Chat Noir offers her a hand, his brow furrowed. His frown only deepens when she places a shaking gloved hand in his. “How did you get up here, anyway?”

Something inside her crumbles. She wants nothing more than to throw her arms around him, to press her cheek to his chest until she can feel his heartbeat, until it’s all she can hear. He reaches out towards her face and pauses, his hand freezing in midair when suspicion wars with the concern in his expression.

When he doesn’t touch her, she raises her own hand and finds tears on her cheeks. When had she started crying?

His gaze is sharp, but his voice is still gentle when he asks, “Do you need help? Have you been akumatized?”

“I-” her voice fails her. She swallows and tries again. “You’re in no danger from me.”

Chat watches her warily, rocking back on his heels. He’s probably never seen an Akuma that didn’t attack first and ask questions later, but even his troubled look is so far and away better than his empty one. The life in his eyes is a balm to an open wound and the love that strains to burst out of her is enough to keep tears flowing.

“Come with me,” he offers her his hand again - his left, the one without his Miraculous - and she’s so proud of him, for his boundless kindness even in the face of caution, for the bravery that pours from him so effortlessly. “We’ll find Ladybug and she can fix everything.”

The sob that bursts out of her this time is broken and raw. To have to hurt him while he heals her is a cruel twist of fate. “Kitty-”

He tilts his head and she sees it when his guarded confusion gives way to horrible, wretched understanding. His mouth falls open, then he snaps it shut and whispers, “Ladybug?”

Ouroboros bites down on her lower lip. She should never have approached him. She can do nothing to help him now, and if the absolute devastation on his face is anything to go off of, she’s more likely to get him akumatized than anything else. “It - it’ll be okay, Chat.”

“You - you’re not Ladybug,” he says slowly, his voice thick. “She can’t - she would never allow herself to be akumatized.”

If only he knew. That was the funny thing, wasn’t it? She didn’t deserve his unwavering faith. He held her up so high without realizing that she was as fallible as any other person, and all it took for her to tumble down was for him to be ripped away from her. When it all came down, Ladybug was not unbreakable.

“Never say never,” she murmurs.

His throat bobs as he struggles for words. She reaches out for him, only to think better of it a moment too late - his eyes snap to her arm and widen even further, and she realizes at once what he’s seen.

Nestled above the ruined Black Cat Miraculous on her wrist is the lucky charm that Adrien had made for her birthday. Ouroboros watches his shocked expression give way to a fragile sort of uncertainty right before his gaze flicks back to the building he’s just left.

Her heart breaks for the second time. She knows now, and so does he. He might not understand, but he knows.

There’s no way this moment doesn’t change everything, in any given timeline.

“Hey, kitty,” Ouroboros steps closer, pitching her voice low to soothe, “I shouldn’t have come here, but it’s going to be okay. I’m...I’m gonna fix it like you said, okay?”

Chat stares at her for a long time, his gaze raking over dark earrings, blue eyes, freckles, and black hair. He searches for an answer she can’t yet give him until the silence is all but unbearable. “I...I know you will, my lady. You always do.”

Her heart turns over. Even when thrown face to face with the unbelievable, he still chooses to place his belief in her. She won’t let him down again.

He glances at her, then away, as if something about her hurts to look at. “Do you need me?”

She puts a hand to his cheek and something in his expression twists as he turns his face into her touch, his lips brushing her covered wrist. “Always, Chaton. I’m afraid I have to do this part on my own, but I’ll see you soon though. That’s a promise,” she whispers, before glancing past him, scanning the sky for any sign of a butterfly.

There’s not one to be seen, but she’s not surprised. With a teary smile, she meets Chat’s gaze once more before reaching for the Snake Miraculous.

As many times as it takes. Even if it's twenty-five thousand, nine hundred and thirteen times, she’ll save him. At least as long as he fought to save her, or until her breaths stop coming and her heart ceases to beat.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fics #ladynoir #ml fic #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #lovesquare #fic:when you weren't mine to lose #hope you enjoy

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jiamour · 4 years

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christmas in july

pairing: johnny x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2k

summary: domestic christmas dad johnny, that’s it, that’s the summary

a/n: i wrote this two years ago so its not great and its bullet point which is annoying but im posting it because i was thinking about domestic dad johnny

・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ ・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ . 。・

“suh soojin stop throwing snow at your brother we have to go!” you spoke loud and stern trying to get everyone in order because you were already late

you were going to the christmas concert in the park that started 10 minutes ago

you had everything perfectly planned out

or at least you did until your son, hyungsik, refused to leave the house without hot chocolate

or your daughter somehow breaking all of your thermoses the night before while having a tea party

or your fucking husband johnny who existed only to wreak havoc and start a seemingly endless snowball fight

you felt johnny’s arms wrap around your waist and his head rest on your shoulder

“come on yn they’re kids let them play” he hummed into your ear his tone smooth and sweet

“no” you shook him off and walked towards your kids clapping your hands as you spoke “we have to go i am not missing the concert for the fifth year in a row because of you guys”

finally they listened, swishing their mittens together to get rid of the snow and running off in front of you with their infinite supply of energy

you lived in a small town so the concert was about a 10 minute walk away if your family didn’t decide to take any detours

something of which was inevitable

you were stopped first to buy santa hats for the whole family which johnny said we’re absolutely essential

then obviously you needed candy canes

and of course marshmallows for the hot chocolate

but other than that it was a no distractions walk

you walked into the park and to your relief the band was still playing christmas music that you’ve already heard 1000 times that month

you and johnny sat on a hay bale set out as seats at the very back while your kids played in the snow right behind you

you listened intently as a loud rock version of deck the halls blasted from the speakers on the small stage

for about 3 minutes

and then the song ended

the lead singer took the mic off the stand and began to speak once the scattered applause from the frozen people in front of you ended

“that’s the end of our show thank you so much for coming. merry christmas everyone”

they left the stage

your head dropped into your hands

you had missed another year

at this point you don’t know why you kept trying

johnny softly moved your hands away from your face and lifted your chin so your eyes met his

“next year okay” he said in a soft mutter, his nose and cheeks tinted pink from the cold

you nodded with a sigh and went to get up and walk all the way back home

before you could move johnny grabbed the ends of your scarfs and pulled you into him

he kissed you softly trying to cheer you up

and of course it was working

even though it was happening while you were sitting on itchy cold hay and groups of loud people were leaving around you

it was nice

or at least it was until your daughter chucked a snowball at the both of you

when you turned to look at her she was glaring a hand on her hips “there’s children around, y’know! no one wants to see that!”

ah the homemade cock blocks strike again

johnny leaned down and rolled up a snowball with his bare hands tossing it back at your daughter

“this means war soojin” he said in a over expressive triumphant voice making your daughter laugh and begin to stock pile snow balls into her pockets so she could have quick ammo

johnny got up from the hay bale and ran towards your son getting an “alliance” as he called it before picking him up on his shoulders handing him snowballs so he could throw at both you and soojin

one badly aimed snowball by johnny went flying past you and hit an old lady in the distance who glared back in surprise

when her eyes met his he ran.

child on his shoulders and all

“sorry” you waved to her hearing an angry mutter in response

your head fell into you hands again

once again your childish husband embarrassed you in front of the whole town

・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ ・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ . 。・

it was 9pm when you got off work and driving home in the snow was a pain

it was almost pitch black when you pulled up to your house, you sighed as you got out of your car hating the extreme cold

you hit your boots against the edge of the door to get the snow off before opening the door and entering your warm cozy house

while you were gone johnny and the kids had decorated it

which is why it looked a little bit of a mess

but you still loved it

shivering from the chill of the cold you shrugged of your jacket and took off your boots

quiet christmas music played in the front room where you assumed johnny was still decorating

a box sat on the stairs filled with decoration so you decided to help

you were about half way through the box when you heard johnny’s angelic voice begin to sing

outshining the song on the radio

“oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining”

his voice made your heart skip a beat

it was so peaceful and beautiful that you didn’t want to interrupt

you continued decorating swaying to the music as you went along

“fall on your knees, oh hear the angels voices. o night divine, o night when christ was born”

how did you get so lucky

eventually his voice brought you closer to him wanting to hear more

he was hanging the last of the decorations on the tree not hearing you come in

quietly you walked over and hugged him from behind, arms around his waist and cheek against his back

he jumped a little but relaxed into your touch

to your dismay his singing stopped leaving only the quiet radio

“hey baby” he hummed turning around so he could hug you back and rest his head on top of yours

“keep singing” your voice was slightly muffled from the sweater on his chest “you’re going to make me a christian”

he laughed and paused for a second listening to the song before singing again

“chains shall he break for the slave is our brother and in his name all oppression shall cease” he sung beautifully swaying both of you slowly back and forth

“fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices o night divine, o night when christ was born o night divine, o night, o night divine” the calm aura and his honey smooth voice made your eyes droop and his arms tighten around you pulling you even closer

he kissed the top of your head before singing again until the song ended

“i love you a lot” you hummed into his chest and you felt his heart speed up as well as his small loving chuckle

“i love you too”

・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ ・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ . 。・

johnny took a sip of coffee adjusting his over sized and useless glasses as if they actually helped him see (he claimed they made him look like an intellectual) as he looked through the flyers

he shifted the flyer over to you pointing to a robot at the top “don’t you think hyungsik would love that”

“johnny we got all their gifts, we still need to get something for your parents and we’re already over budget” you yawned out rubbing your tired eyes and taking a sip of your own coffee to try to wake you more

“but yn~” he whined, even though he was a grown adult and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes “okay, i don’t appreciate the sass”

“you’re such a child” you scolded playfully and kissed his pouting lips

“don’t you want our creations to be happy baby” he asked still pouting despite the the kiss, holding the flyer right in front of your face

“oh my god fine” you huffed grabbing the flyer and folding it up, he did a silent cheer “but you have to find something under $50 for your parents”

“that’s fine my mom just knitted you an ugly sweater” he said laughing at the end and your mouth fell open in a shocked oh

“MY MOM KNITTED YOU AN UGLY SWEATER TOO” you yelled out happily, hoping you didn’t wake the kids

“we’re going to look so awful this christmas” johnny laughed out “this is amazing”

“i can’t believe your mom hates me that much” you laughed as well, taking a bite of toast

“what? no. she doesn’t hate you, she just loves knitting” johnny stole the toast out of your hands and took a bite but after a second he choked “wait a minute..”

“does that mean your mom hates me?” he cried out a frown gracing his face “i thought we had something special”

you shook your head in response “she doesn’t hate you she’s just pretty sure you’re an alien and she doesn’t trust you”

“yn what the fuck”

・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ ・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ . 。・

he had strategically planned this out

watching your patterns when you walked through the house

analyzing trends and odds to figure out where to put it

well actually he just placed mistletoe everywhere

obnoxious christmas music blasted through your house

people were everywhere with mugs of eggnog and hot chocolate

his plan was perfect

and yet he couldn’t find you

“what are you doing man?” mark came up to johnny who was standing alone placing his left hand on johnny's shoulder, a mug in his other

“searching,” johnny answered immediately his eyes refusing to stop scanning the room to look at mark

mark hummed in response then took his hand away from johnny’s shoulder “wait, why?”

“i had a perfect plan and it’s getting ruined” johnny muttered frustrated watching another couple kiss under the mistletoe he had set up for you

finally he spotted you happily talking to some friends a small smile grew on his face now that he could go through with his plan

he watched you move around the room from friend to friend beautifully smiling and laughing making his heart skip a beat

“dad,” soojin whined, tugging on his sleeve to get his attention but he didn’t break his eyes away from you

“not now soojin, daddy is plotting” he said a mischievous smile on his face

“you’re so weird” she mumbled before walking away a wave of her hand over her shoulder

it took a few minutes for mark to catch on to what was happening

“you are aware she’s your wife, and this plan is stupid, right?” mark teased

“and your opinion is unwanted” johnny responded

just when he did, your head turned to him having felt eyes on you

you met his eyes and smiled softly, waving, making his knees feel weak, still not used to your charms after all these years

as soon as you stopped talking to the guests johnny walked over to you and tried to gesture you into directions were mistletoe hung but each time you turned and went the wrong way

he didn’t know what he did wrong

he thought he planned this perfectly

but nothing was working out

you noticed johnny’s plan after the first few small pushes in the direction of the mistletoe and from that point on you tried to tease him

you saw his frustration and pout growing as well as him trying to hide his disappointment at the same time

you made sure to avoid the mistletoe the entire time

by the end of the night johnny had given up and stuck to just holding your hand sadly

together you said goodbye to the guest as the all left

mark patting johnny on the back saying a “better luck next time buddy” before leaving

johnny sighed when everyone was gone and began to walk back into the house to clean up

“hey johnny” you spoke quickly before he could walk away gaining his attention

on your tip toes you attempted to hold mistletoe that you had stolen from the walls over his head

he smiled so brightly when he saw immediately falling into a kiss with you

you couldn’t have wished for a better christmas

・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ ・。.❆.・。❅.・。❉ . 。・

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neoyi · 4 years

Note

I hope your okay with another ask! “:D I hope this is a simple enough ask; Any general headcannons for all the knights? (or at least your favorites?)

Simple ask indeed, but general enough for me to fill a textbook. Admittedly a lot of my headcanon is centered on either Propeller or Specter Knight because I’m not nearly as invested in the rest as I am those two. But still, what headcanons do I have? Okay, I’ll try and write one headcanon for each knight so I don’t go overboard.

1.) King Knight: ...is smarter and cleverer than he looks and acts, but has a problem of not applying himself because he’s so delusional and one-tracked in his goals. King Knight is very determined and we see in spite of a doting mother, he doesn’t lack independence. Look in his room and you can get an idea of what he does. He works out, he draws, and he’s handy with tools. He cares for his rats! They may be his subjects, but if his pets aren’t kept in good condition, then they’d be dead weight to him, so he knows how to properly care for his animals. It’s possible he likes animals; he shows more affection to spinwulves than he does anyone else. And of course, if you should choose, he can Joustus, a game that generally requires strategy. King Knight is kind of like that guy who has a degree in like engineering or something/ It he could just utilize it properly, he could get him a very good job, and a cushy life, but he rampantly chooses not to because he’s that much of a BONEHEAD. He’s dumb in a different way and it’s holding him back.

2.) Plague Knight: ....and Mona does not want children. They knew right off the bat and decided then and there once they were officially dating. They aren’t the type of people to be parents and kids are...well, little things running around ruining science experiments and throwing shit around. Besides, Plague and Mona already throw shit around, why should those little bastards have all the fun?

The closest the two come to having “kids” is creating imperfect clones of themselves as they get older. Most of them were merely tasked to finish what they themselves started and keep mad science alive. As centuries pass, the clones would keep creating more clones to continue their work. Each clones were a little less perfect than the other, and in time, they’ve more or less reduced to Blorbs. Specter Knight, still around centuries later, occasionally would check on them (if not at first to keep them away from the public since they carried Plague and Mona’s chaotic desire to raise Hell), but soon decided they were now harmless enough to be left alone to their own device.

3.) Treasure Knight... and Propeller Knight are rivals and they both haaaaaaaaaate the other’s occupations in the pettiest of ways. They’re pirates, so they automatically have a rapport, but Treasure Knight finds it insulting that Sky Pirates are A Thing. Pirates belong in the SEA. They fight giant squids and bury treasures deep in the heart of lost lagoons and islands. SKY Pirates? What the heck is even a SKY pirate? What does a SKY Pirate even do? Where’s the big ocean with all the Mystery and Scary Ass Sea Creatures? They fly with birds???? There’s Mountains?????????? They don’t even have GIANT squids, just medium-sized Sky Squids. And Floating Islands? That’s just cheating.

Every single one of their meeting inevitability end with the two having a pirate match to secure the most gold or engage in a duel. Sometimes Treasure would win some, other times Propeller would. They would keep this fierce competition until they died.

But

That doesn’t mean neither one disrespected each other. From Treasure’s personal perspective, Propeller Knight is many things - frivolous, fancy, and shallow - but he is still a PIRATE. Sky Pirates are Dumb, but they’re still PIRATES. Propeller Knight goes by his own code that Treasure personally doesn’t get, but he respects the hell out of him because Propeller sticks by it and uses his piracy to achieve his goals. When push comes to shove, they can, have, and will shake hands through mutual kinship.

There is one thing both Treasure and Propeller can 100% agree on though: Subterranean Pirates are the WORST. Why is that even a THING?!

4.) Mole Knight: ...is not just digging in the Lost City because he “claimed it” as his own nor because it’s a good place to practice his superb digging skills, Mole legitimately and genuinely is curious about the history behind it. He’s an archeologist; a man thirsty for knowledge. He knows a lot about history in general, but his expertise lies in the Lost City.

Post-Shovel of Hope, he learns to share his findings with others. His obsessive need to keep the ruins for himself dissipates over time and he learns the value of teamwork. There are others like him who shares his love for knowledge and past civilizations; Mole is incredulous to know there are other working theories he never considered! In the end, it is not his pride that mattered most to him, but his passion to uncover and preserve this beautiful, ancient world. After all, he has ancestral ties to the Lost City and the best way to keep that alive is by sharing his knowledge with others.

6.) Tinker Knight: ...once invited his friend Propeller Knight over to show him something he invented. It would be handy because he needed a way to record his many inventions. He shows off a projectile that displays a moving image on a screen. He calls it...”Moving Pictures!” Propeller is amazed; this could, indeed, store information in ways the written word cannot.

Propeller asks him after, “Tinker, my good friend, have you considered using this Moving Picture for purposes other than recording?”

Tinker is puzzled, “What more could I use it for?”

Propeller chuckled, “Perhaps you can devise a story out of it. Like a stage play, only using these, er, what did you call them? “Celluloid”, to capture a story. We could have words written on the screen after a person speaks since it’s silent.”Tinker is flabbergasted. No, he only intended it to be used to archive his inventions and ideas. Why would anyone want to make a story through his Moving Pictures?Propeller, not listening (of course) sighs, “And you cannot call it Moving Picture, it’s too mouthful. Come on, Tinker, you who speak so pragmatically, would know to shorten it. Perhaps we can call it “Movers.” Or “Mov ‘ems.” Oh! I know, “movies.”

“That is a bad idea. I do not like it at all.” Tinker scoffed.

“Well, it was worth a shot, “Propeller shrugged, “How goes that rocket blueprint of yours? When will my dreams come true; that I shall one day reach the Moon?”

7.) Polar Knight: ...My headcanon is that he is too secretive to have a past that could be told... Also I haven’t really thought too much about this guy. Get back to me when I play his story mode in Showdown.

I do personally believe he is NOT related to Shield Knight though. He likely knew her, but only through proxy from Shovel and Black Knight.

8.) Propeller Knight: ...has always had a beautiful face. He takes great care to ensure it looks nothing less than perfect. But living a life as a pirate comes with drawbacks. One day, during a time of great grievance in his life, Propeller Knight comes face-to-face with a foe most personal. The battle is horribly one-sided for Propeller was at his lowest. He lost concentration and with it, an eye.

The first few days wearing that unsightly eye patch was too much to bare. He had to readjust to his newfound vision for one, but his face - no longer perfect. He questions so many things in his life; he’s made so many sacrifices, so many enemies, and lost a few good people in his life under various circumstances. Him losing an eye seemed paltry in comparison, but it symbolized the decisions he’s made and he has to live with it. Who is he? A Pirate? A Prince? Neither or Both? Does he fight against the corrupted nature of the Rich and Powerful even though he once lived among them?

He can’t answer them now. All he can do is slowly let the scars heal. He will not take for granted the friends, family, and love he has in his current life. They will be his rock and he will carry them to the winds. Propeller puts on his eye patch and stands up. He can still look at the setting sun.

9.) Shovel Knight: ...I don’t think he’s a fish person. But I’m boring and think all the knights are human.

10.) Shield Knight: ....spent some time suffering nightmares. She would wake up and remember that she hasn’t been trapped for a while. The Enchantress is a distant memory, but the events are still recent that she still endures these horrid flashbacks. Shield Knight imagines she’ll never really get over them, but her determination is strong and she knows little by little, the nightmares are becoming less and less of a occurrence.

Recently, she’s been taken to gardening. Shovel introduced it to her. They don’t really have a home since the two are always on the go, but that little farm house Shovel vanished off to years back still remain. So they often return and plant new crops. Shield found it patronizing and difficult at first, unsure what Shovel saw in it and how it could help her. Now she finds it therapeutic.

Nowadays she can go alone and pick out fresh carrots and potatoes without Shovel at her beck and call (so she lets him sleep in a bit.) It feels good. It feels peaceful. She could get used to this.

11.) Black Knight: ....I imagine he’d be the type to sacrifice himself so Shovel and Shield can be happy. Maybe one day he does exactly that. It also meant saving the world as well. Black Knight regrets a lot of things, but this he does not...

12.) Specter Knight: ...”You will not remember me centuries from now,” He proclaimed one day. For one who was always sure of their relationship, this was a particularly alarming moment of vulnerability from Propeller.

“What?” Specter Knight tilted his head in confusion.

“You once told me you shall always carry me in your heart; that way you will remember me long after I’ve passed on,” Propeller elaborated, “But be real. Undead immortal or not, you cannot think to remember who I am thousands of years from now. It will be so long and you will have done so much by then.”

“Propeller...” Specter was incredulous and frankly, kind of hurt. Why would Propeller assume this of him?

“It is alright, you are not obligated to do so. I want you very much to live a wonderful life long after I am gone,” Propeller smiles, “Make friends, have adventures, help people....fall in love again. It is alright if you forget me because you will have a life fulfilled.”

Specter is silent and for a while, it seemed believable what Propeller said would be true. He lowered his head, then remembered he was sick of it, sick of feeling sad when it took years to learn how to be happy. He stared intensely at Propeller and sternly told him, “No.”“ Excusez-Moi?”

“I will help people, I will make friends, I’ll go on grand adventures, and yes, maybe I will fall for another centuries down the line, but you are a damn fool if you think I will forget you,” Specter clutched his chest, “Thousands of years from now, if I am still wandering this strange planet, I will still remember you.”

Propeller looks at his lover, stunned. He is touched. This is the kind of grand romantic gesture he lives for, but he tears up not out of joy, but somberness, “...I appreciate the thought, Donovan, but it’s alright if you cannot keep this promise. I’m just saying.” Specter sighs and wraps an arm around his husband.

~*~

Ten thousand years, the sun is red and the planet drying. Very little life exists, and Death walks collecting the last remaining souls. He eyes the massive star, forever looking like a malicious red sunset (he loved the sunset...) Soon, it would go supernova and perhaps, perhaps he can finally rest for good. Then he can be with his loved ones.

Wind is rare nowadays, but whenever he feels a breeze his way, Death knows who is watching him.

He has not forgotten him...

#shovel knight #specter knight #propeller knight #order of no quarter #neoyi talks

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trashforeverythingdotcom · 4 years

Text

Wanderlust

A/n: I’ve been dead for a bit, but hey! How are y’all? In honour of Castlevania season three being released, I’m gonna finish posting these last two chapters (of season 2 Castlevania) up.

Word count: 2732

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

“Oh! This is… Trevor!” Sypha called from above him.

“What?” “I have something!”

“When I say ‘what’, that doesn’t mean I would like to ask even more questions.” Aurora rolled her eyes at his response from where she stood: two floors above Sypha.

“Would you please…? Oh, you are the most annoying– just stop.”

“I’m coming up.” He sighed, closing a box he’d had in his hands and made his way up the stairs to get to the especially giddy redhead.

“I think I’ve found a locking spell. Wait, listen. Your family has an entire literature here about the castle. They tried for centuries to eliminate its main advantage. It transports itself through magical means.”

“Right. So, you can’t just attack it if it jumps somewhere else.” Trevor added as he climbed up the stairs.

“Yes. So, some clever Belmont eventually formulated most of a locking spell. A method to catch the castle and lock it down to a single location so that it can be invaded.”

“Most of it,” Alucard repeated from the floor above them.

“I can finish the final clauses of it myself. It’s all bound on Adamical structures.”

“You keep saying that word,” he sighed before climbing down a ladder to join the two humans.

“Adamic is the original human language, the one spoken by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The one that was split into all other languages at the Tower of Babel by God to prevent human cooperation.”

“Is that how you understand that story?”

“Oh, yes. The speakers are the enemy of God. We live in cooperation and hide our stories inside ourselves so he cannot strike them down in jealousy.”

The hold started to rattle. Sypha was startled, but that didn’t stop her from making a crack at the current situation, “See? God hates me!”

“That’s probably not God.”

The hold continued to rumble and shake. “Can we get that magic mirror working?”

“I think so, but I can’t do two things at once here.” Sypha groaned, watching as Alucard carried the giant magic mirror they were referring to.

“I know some Chaldaic,” he set the mirror down gently, turning to face the two humans as he spoke. “I know how to operate a distance mirror. Which shall I do?” He looked at Sypha who immediately shifted her gaze toward the vampire hunter next to her.

“I can’t do either of those things.”

“Come on, Belmont. Time to choose,” Alucard smirked as he stalked over to the only other male in the place. “You’re either the last son of a warrior dynasty or a lucky drunk,” he became stern. “Which is it?”

The library continued to shake violently, cracking the cement and causing said cement to fall from the ceiling in the form of dust and pieces of rock. Aurora ran her hands rapidly over her head, dusting off the bits of ceiling that fell on her head.

“Okay. Get the mirror working, Alucard. Give me force numbers, species, and weapons count. Sypha stays on her job for now. Rory and I will fortify the point of entry.” Aurora was hoping she misunderstood what she heard the man say. Adrian was able to sense her discomfort and chuckled to himself at her reaction before getting back to what he was doing; carving extra markings onto the frame of the mirror with his retractable nail. “I’m sorry, did you just say I’m going to be fighting?” “How do you know about that?” “I’m not deaf, ya know. Now answer the question.” “Yes, I did. Now stop complaining and get off your lazy fat ass before we all die.” “Oh, you did not just call me fat, you fat piece o–” “If I let you borrow my sword, will you do what Trevor says?” Adrian interjected.

Aurora shrugged and placed her gaze on the ceiling, a breath ran from her mouth before she gave her answer; a devious, “maybe" was all she cared to say.

The dhampir sighed and unsheathed his sword. “Here.”

“Thanks, but I’m like, three floors above you.”

Alucard glared at her, “do you have to be a pain at this moment in time?”

“If this is any indicator of anything: we don’t have much time left, we might as well get weird with it.” Aurora flew down to snatch the sword from his hand.

“Thanks, baby.” She kissed Alucard on the cheek and immediately floated over to Trevor before she could see the small blush form on the young man’s cheeks. Adrian cleared his throat, quickly settling back into his more serious attitude. “I think we’re going to see the size and disposition of the attacking force fairly quickly with our own eyes.” “I’m forced to agree. Do you have a further suggestion?” Trevor sighed and sheathed his sword.

“Are you asking for my advice?”

“We’re working together, Alucard.” He moved in the man’s direction. “You’re still a bastard, but you’re the bastard I chose to fight alongside back in Gresit. Do you have a problem with any of that?” For once, the dhampir was actually friendly toward the sole surviving Belmont. ��None at all,” he said with a smile.

“So, what do you suggest?”

“Using this to find Dracula’s castle. Now. We’re trapped in a box down here,” the place continued to shake as more pieces of the structure tumbled down from above. “We will eventually be overwhelmed.” Books fell from their respective bookshelves. “Unless we change the nature of the battle.” “Agreed. Sypha,” the brunet called. “I’m close to getting it!” Sypha informed him. “I’ll protect you for as long as I can.” “I know.” Trevor used his whip to get to the top rather quickly whilst Aurora levitated. The quaking got so terrible that bigger pieces of the ceiling were beginning to fall, along with Trevor, who used his whip to stop his fall. He hung the same way a monkey would hang on a vine. Aurora successfully dodged one of the big chunks of cement that almost smacked her right on her face when she looked up. Everyone looked up to check the progress for the destruction of the hold; as it would happen to anyone, they felt more motivated to finish their tasks quickly. Aurora waited for Trevor to reach the top of the library and watched as he made moronic attempts at blocking the doorway. “It opens outward, genius.” The brunet’s eyebrows furrowed as he opened the door and proved that it did, indeed, open outward. “Er… Shit.” He muttered, running out through said door, the female dhampir followed suit with her borrowed sword in hand. They climbed up the stairs to find an even more unpleasant sight before them. The night creatures had managed to kick the magic door to the cellar.

Smoke was everywhere, chunks of debris flew around as the night creatures poured in one by one, eager to heighten their kill counts. The first one to appear to them was fairly big and muscular with horns coming out of either side of its head. “Holy mother of God, I forgot how hideous those things were,” said the dhampir, who felt so revolted by the looks and smells of those things that she momentarily forgot she had to kill them.

“Oh no, don’t worry about me, I’m just getting attacked by a giant,” he took shallow breaths as he climbed onto the beast. Fucking monster that wants to skin me alive and eat me for breakfast.“

"You seem like you’re doing fine,” the girl remarked as she continued to watch the hunter attempt to kill the thing.

Trevor’s face scrunched up, “thanks, but I’d greatly appreciate your help considering that’s kind of what you’re supposed to be doing. You are a vampire, you know–"

"Oh shit!"

Her eyes shifted in the direction in which her friend was tossed. Trevor groaned and just as the devil was about to bludgeon him to death, Rory sliced the back of its knee. It leaned back and roared, giving the male enough time to slide out of its line of impact, take back his sword and make another incision in the back of its ankle. Blood gushed onto the floor as the demon collapsed. "Damn, the carpet’s ruined.” The older man chuckled at the girl’s comment, taking a momentary break before he’d have to inevitably fight again.

Which wasn’t long. “Trev, behind you!” the brunette pointed and shouted before teleporting to the place she’d gestured to; killing the next creature to step into their line of sight.

The vampire hunter grunted in approval before getting back into a battle ready stance. “I’ll take the blind one, you can take care of the weird flying ones.”

Aurora obeyed his orders, jumping up to meet the three flying devils halfway as they embarked on their journey down the stairs. She went straight for the Firedrake, wanting nothing more than to get rid of that one first in hopes of avoiding any more unnecessary fires. However, fighting the damned creature made it want to do exactly that, shoot fire at them. She started to panic once she saw light coming out of its abdomen as it swelled up. “Firedrake, just what I need in an underground hold full of paper."

"Trevor, what do I do?” In her panicked state, she was unable to think for herself.

“How about pushing it out of here using a bit of your super strength?”

Rory would’ve slapped herself silly, had this been a more appropriate time to. However, it wasn’t, and without missing a beat, she pushed the enormous bird away. Unfortunately, it was still inside when it opened its beak and let loose the terrible fireball; fortunately for all of them, it was far enough not to cause more serious damage to the building.

The force of the explosion sent Trevor flying backwards through the closed door, landing on his bottom and Aurora downwards, landing flat on her back. “You take that bird thing, I’ll take the dog.” Trevor grunted when he stood back up.

Everything was nice and calm in Braila, until lightning cracked in the center of the city and a gigantic castle, Dracula’s castle, randomly popped onto the street. Within minutes, the castle was surrounded by, what was presumably, Camilla’s army, awaiting her next command. Marisol watched anxiously from her window as the undead priest tested the water and combusted into blue flames to prove his work was done correctly. She sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of her lover and quickly turned away from the glass. She knew letting him spend time with that vile woman was a mistake; the uncomfortable feeling in her gut had told her so long before this moment came. And yet, she still found herself with feelings of surprise and denial. She didn’t want to believe what she was seeing. Carmilla, a walking, talking cockroach, had managed to steal the man she loved and use him for his skills to move forward with her plan to dethrone another man she cared for deeply and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Marisol’s vision blurred as blood poured out of her eyes. She was going to cry. She was going to let herself feel this and let some of her hurt out before she would compose herself and step out of her room once again to meet all the generals, and Dracula himself, in the throne room. She hoped to God there’d be a chance for her to save them both.

Carmilla’s army charged at the castle, spear first, while Carmilla walked slowly behind them from a distance; grabbing Hector roughly by the arm as she passed him. “Move.” She commanded.

“What?”

“You’re coming with me.”

Hector yanked his arm back harshly. His eyebrows furrowed as he asked her why she thought he would, looking up at the taller woman.

“You’ve made your choice, Hector. You can’t go back to the castle now. You’ve betrayed the old man.”

“I–” he stopped himself, turning his head away from the vampire. He didn’t have much to say to counter that.

“My god,” she scoffed. “You’re still the baby who had his woodland animal corpses taken away, so desperately clinging onto anyone that shows you some sort of affection or appreciation.” She turned away from him, “Isaac is still the indigent boy getting beaten in the streets.” She turned back and walked toward him as she spoke, “and Dracula is destroying the world in a tantrum because someone killed his pet breeder. You’re all nothing but man-children.” She pointed to her left, the direction opposite to the castle, as she looked down at the lowly human. “And you have nothing left but me.”

“You’re wrong. I have Marisol.”

Carmilla guffawed, “do you think so? You’ve just betrayed Dracula.” She repeated venomously, “her adoptive daddy: Dracula. Do you honestly believe that she, of all people, will forgive you and take you back?

"Pfft, she’s going to hate you for the rest of her life. But don’t you worry, it won’t be long, anyway."

Hector growled, "you promised to keep her safe. You promised me that she would live."

The tall woman laughed in his face, "I said no such thing. I said that following Dracula was a death sentence for us all, but I never said I’d go out of my way to help your half-breed nuisance of a girlfriend. You should have seen this coming, but you didn’t because you’re not as intelligent as you may think. You’ve picked your shoes, now walk.” Carmilla pushed the man. He stumbled at first then regained his footing and started walking in the direction he was pushed in.

Thump, thump, thump.

Those who were inside the castle anxiously waited for Carmilla’s forces to enter. Soon enough, they, the members of her army, did manage to bust the door open and charge right in.

It was a bloodbath like no other. The two groups of vampires were, quite literally, ripping each other’s heads off. Marisol did some head ripping herself, trying her best to fight off any and every opponent that walked through the threshold. Which, in retrospect, wasn’t the best idea, having almost been killed by the holy water that came rushing into the place, thanks to the fact that the castle had been jumping around the city.

Marisol retreated and, upon seeing Dracula on the next floor up, quickly climbed the stairs to meet with the group. “Where’s Hector?” The vampire prince asked.

The girl swallowed the giant lump in her throat before she could bring herself to say the words, “he’s with Carmilla.”

Dracula nodded, he didn’t seem to be phased by her answer. He’d foreseen it. Out of everyone he placed his faith in, he knew Hector’s loyalty would be compromised. Hector had too much to risk. For one, the girl that stood before him right at this moment.

“What do you want us to do?"

"I want you to go upstairs."

"What? No. I’m gonna stay and fight. With you.”

“No, you won’t. You need to think about the–”

She didn’t want to hear him say it. She didn’t want him to make it real. And she didn’t want him to make that secret she’d been keeping from everyone known, so she agreed. “Fine. I’ll go. But should you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

Dracula smiled softly, “I won’t."

She quickly made her way back up to her room, and quietly closed the door. She felt nauseous and rushed to find the bucket she had set aside for this exact reason; the bucket she puked in multiple times a day for the past few months.

Sol, her pet bear, and Cezar, Hector’s dog, were pacing about the room when Marisol entered it. Both of the animals were feeling worried and unsafe, having sensed the tense atmosphere from around the entire castle. As she threw up, Cezar and Sol cuddled up to her in an attempt to comfort their owner whilst seeking comfort themselves in their moment of uncertainty.

Her door flew open and she dropped the bucket of sick onto the floor. On the other side of the doorway was someone who wore the same face she did, but slightly chubbier. Her little sister. "Hello, sis,” she greeted, snickering at the woman’s jumpiness and apparent illness. “Not looking too good.”

#Castlevania #alucard castlevania #alucard x oc #hector castlevania #dracula castlevania #adrian fahrenheit tepes #hector x oc #castlevania hector #castlevania alucard #sypha belnades #trevor belmont #carmilla

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yamyell · 4 years

Text

preview of some str stuff

====

During Garrosh's first few months in Azeroth he had accompanied Warchief Thrall on many a business trip, familiarizing himself with the planet, its inhabitants, and the faction Thrall reigned. He wanted to say the worlds were similar, but it was not within his experience to judge. Draenor had been in tatters as long as Garrosh could remember. Rocks, trees, earth; all were present on Draenor, as one would expect the Portal to lead somewhere inhabitable. The atmospheres and natural landscapes between the two worlds did not vary too drastically. That is, until he had met with the outriders in Warsong Gulch.

The Warsong were elated to see him, of course. "Hellscream lives!" they cried, cheering and saluting and bowing their heads. "Son of Grommash! Glory to the Horde!" His presence alone was emblematic of the enduring lineage of the Warsong, festooned in gleaming armor and atop a black Orgrimmar war wolf. Removing his helmet, however, to greet his people, appeared to make their stomachs turn. Warm Mag'har skin dabbled with sweat from the oppressive heat of the Barrens was a sight many at the gulch were not prepared to see. Some faces were contorted with confusion, disgust. Hellscream was welcome. But the son and his mocking skin were a sick joke. A Mag'hari Hellscream was a beggar with a full stomach.

He does not know our pain. He is not like us. He is saddled with no sin and therefore absolves us of none.

Their initial enthusiasm waned, focusing intently on the words of the Warchief.

"To my noble outriders, I bring you news from beyond the Dark Portal. Though I am sure the Warsong have already heard, the great Grommash Hellscream survives by his son, Garrosh, who stands before you!"

Many salute solemnly, more out of respect for Thrall than for his companion.

Tuning Thrall out, Garrosh focused on the forest in the distance. It was a sight unlike anything he had seen on Draenor, the closest comparison being the towering fungi of the Zangar marsh. The Gulch was bordered by colors unthinkable for foliage, as if gems and velvet grew out of the ground. So dense was the forest that it blackened on the horizon, the yellow dirt path from the Barrens engulfed in royal purples and glassine greens.

It was called Ashenvale, Thrall had said, and Garrosh yearned for its riches. He was drawn to it. Tempted by it. There was something in its dusky boughs that curled a finger toward him. Fanciful and fae, the forest set forth a cool breeze that swam through the Barrens air and kissed him.

"Garrosh."

He shook away the dreamy sensation and turned attention to the Warchief.

"You have agreed to join the Horde, have you not, Garrosh?"

"But of course. Your people have much to offer, and much to be proud of."

"It is true. And these outriders here have fought with great endurance to secure this area for the Horde, many of which are your own clan."

"Bloodshed is inevitable. The weak shall be crushed beneath us!" A few hollered out in excitement to hear the Mag'har hearkening to the old ways.

"The kaldorei may be stubborn, but they are not weak. I have drafted many treaties and agreements to open trade—lumber for our ore—but they refuse. It is a shame to see so many lives ended over the coveting of these resources."

'Shame'? There is no shame in protecting your people. "It is best they die. The weak cannot progress the Horde."

"Is that what you believe in?"

"Of course. I believe in strength. I believe in the strength of our people. And through the Horde, we will secure a future for the orcs."

"All orcs?"

"Yes. All who are strong enough."

"Our people have many strengths, Garrosh, many which are often overlooked. Consider if I had been the same."

"But Thrall, you are strong. And a great leader."

"Thank you," Thrall smiled. "But that is not what I mean."

"Then—"

"Your father was not only strong; he was my friend. The little family I had ever known. If I had shunned the whole village of Garadar for its 'weakness', I never would have discovered what remained of my family, my people, or my true namesake. And I never would have met you or brought you into the Horde, son of my brother. You are family, as the Horde itself is family."

"But I— I am a warrior, Thrall, and it is my strength, and the strength of my father, that makes me worthy of the Horde."

"You place such emphasis on this," the Warchief said, amused. "You are a great warrior indeed, but strong too of mind and heart. The Greatmother Geyah herself agreed."

Garrosh shifted uncomfortably at her mention.

"Even when you suffered physically and your body was weak, you were still worthy of the Horde, Garrosh. Even when you could not be a warrior."

Some of the Warsong exchanged glances among themselves.

"It is better that I am a warrior," Garrosh spat, feeling self-conscious. "Those in the Horde should earn their place."

"So long as the Horde is looking out for one another, we all belong within it. They have earned their place by right of belonging."

"I... know little of these other people," Garrosh admitted. "I have met with a few tauren in Nagrand. But no trolls, no elves, none of these walking dead you have come to ally yourself with. How can they be trusted? We struggled to trust outside our own clans, orcs all."

"Azeroth is our home. It is new to orcs, but together we share it with tauren, trolls—"

"But what do they offer? How can we trust them if they sit idly, watching our people starve? What home is this to have made?"

"—even the Forsaken of Lordaeron have come to be our allies. And the sin'dorei of Quel'thalas also sought refuge in our Horde—"

"You must listen to me, Thrall!" Garrosh spoke out of turn, voice overtaking the Warchief's. "Of all places on this planet, we call that desert our home? Orgrimmar is impressive, yes, but look where you chose to build it! It echoes the steps of the Portal itself!"

"The orcs are proud to call Durotar home."

"You make that land worthy of your father's name?" The Mag'har began to look exasperated. "Have we truly chosen to inhabit the one part of the world that closest resembles what we tried to escape from? Have we chosen to hide there in a corner like frightened dogs, whipping ourselves for falling to fel? Is it any different?"

Thrall rests a hand on Garrosh's shoulder. "It is not your burden."

"So long as I carry the name Hellscream, I shall carry this burden!"

"I have told you before, there is no such burden to this honorable name. What burdens you must be different, son of my brother, for Grom's noble sacrifice freed—"

"He is NOT your brother. He is MY father!" He wrenched himself from Thrall's gesture. "Yes, so you told me he had atoned, but I will not stand by your blind veneration of him when he brought me and my people so much shame!"

"Yet I knew him better than you ever could," Thrall said, grimly uncharacteristic of him. His demeanor remained placid but the scorn was palpable.

A voice arose in Garrosh's head, one that sounded just like Thrall's but was not spoken by the Thrall that stood before him. "How many of my brothers will you take from me, Garrosh?"

The brown orc stood speechless, dumbstruck by the phantom voice and publicly humiliated by the present one, harnessing all of his will to fight the red fury edging into his vision. He remembered the tauren, suddenly, yet did not know why.

"You are not your father," Thrall needled, his veneer of tenderness faltering. "You may be Hellscream, but you are Garrosh also. You must choose your own fate."

Recuperating, he only nodded.

Thrall sighs, regaining patience and a swirl of pity. "I tell you again that the Horde will ensure a fulfilling life for you, for all orcs, and for the rest of the Horde as well. They give their lives just as any orc would, and with strength to match. Through our allegiances, there is a future here on Azeroth. A chance for peace." The shaman subdues himself further. "Inner peace."

A green hand reached for him and Garrosh bat it away. "I shall not trust these allegiances until their promises are realized. Should we fail to secure these forests for our people, the orcs will find such peace only in their emaciated deaths. And death is where, I, too shall make my peace, glorious on the battlefield, as an honorable orc should. As my father did."

Some Warsong cheered. "Son of Grom! Truly, son of Hellscream!"

Garrosh looked pleased with himself, but inside his heart boiled and screamed with fear. Thoughts skittered frantically in his mind, some of them not his own, foreign and bleeding into his head. The cheers of the Warsong began to sound distorted, desperate, as if suppressing and edging into tortured shrieks.

I mean no dishonor to you, Thrall, please, let me not bring dishonor to another clan, to more orcs, to this new world, who knows how far, please, do not let me shatter this one too, please, do not tempt my black thumbs with ruin, please—

"Truly, son of Grom!"

—please, do not let me—

"Hellscream after all!"

Thrall, you brought me into this world—

The silver trees and dark moss taunted him, hearing their thousand-year murmurs strain over the din of the Warsong lumber mills. Louder and louder, the ancient static smothered all.

—you must be the one to take me out!

Deep in Ashenvale, whether on the wind or in demons' whispers, the spirit of Grom called to him. Dilated and wide, his pupils vibrated with surmounting madness, the voice of his father drowning out the Warsong. It was close. It lingered. Something, someone, some energy, channeled itself into him with claws and tendrils and thousands of eyes with lashes like daggers. Rivers of blood once spilled from Mannoroth pulsed in the soil beneath him, a grueling heartbeat under his feet, tasting the smoke and charred flesh of the demon's presence.

"Son of Grom! Son of Grom!"

"The demon's fire," Grommash croaked, "has burnt out in my veins..." His immortal words thundered in his son's head. The midnight soil spoke. "The fire... in my veins..."

As another set of eyes within his mind, a spirit, he saw Thrall, younger than now, knelt by the body of Grom. "No, old friend..."

"The fire... the fire..."

Booming and rattling, the pit lord's words resounded. "He didn't know what burns within your soul... when in your heart, you know we are the same."

This was not the reproduction Thrall had displayed in Garadar. This vision was the contribution of hundreds of the eyes and beating hearts of witnesses, and he still heard them beating, and he still heard the wet eyes rolling in their sockets. They lived, somehow, still, his mind trapped in their skulls.

Through jittery eyes and gritted teeth, Garrosh swallowed the spell, slamming his fist against his chest—instead of his head, curbing the impulse—as a forward salute. Perhaps the fel, latent in the other orcs' green skin, gave them an innate tolerance toward demonic energy. Perhaps, because it was no one's first visit to Ashenvale but Garrosh's, they had already grown accustomed to the environment. Perhaps, because they had no blood ties to the remains buried at the nearby monolith, they were not tormented by the memories of his spirit. But for him, this land was too old, too wise, too tainted with demon blood and privy memories to bear. The purple forest, at first so enchanting, now loomed past the lumber mill ominously, mocking him, concealing its terrifying secrets within its watching speaking trees and the labyrinthine bowels of its gnarled barrow dens.

Sweat dripped from his clenched salute. It was too much to bear.

I beg of you—

Thrall appeared oblivious to Garrosh's turmoil, heeding the rowdy Outriders with raised brows.

—send me home—

"Well, Garrosh..."

—to my balance—

"It seems you are truly..."

—to Geyah—

"...A man of your people."

—to my death—

He is wrong.

"The boy believed you could be saved."

I cannot go in there.

"The demon's fire has burnt out in my veins..."

It should be burnt to the ground.

"In your heart, you know we are the same."

This forest should be burnt to the ground.

Making a point in doing so, Thrall's hand returns to the distant Garrosh's shoulder. "And so long as you let the strength and spirit of your people guide you, the Horde will place its faith in your future."

How dare he feed me this syrup. I know where my fate lies.

"I mean no dishonor to you, Thrall," Garrosh finally verbalizes, nostrils flared. "But I know my fate, whether or not I have chosen it. It is the fate of my people I wish to change."

Cheers of "Hellscream!" echoed into the savannah and were swallowed by the sumptuous, hungering vale ahead. We have heard that name before, it smiled.

Maybe then I will be allowed to die.

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chalabrun · 6 years

Text

contra mundum, ch. 2

Word count: 3,731 Pairings: Ignoct, Nyxnoct, Ignyxnoct Rating: PG Warnings: N/A Summary: An exploratory story into what Final Fantasy Versus XIII may have been like, this story follows Noctis and his friends on his journey to not wed Luna, but to bring the war to Niflheim's door. Driven to be far darker than the source material, this tale seeks to give a dark, twisted tale based on reality.

The beginning is set in motion. Before everything fell apart, they were once close together.

( READ ON AO3 )

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

In caverns weathered by time, in a place forgotten by all but one, is a boy.

The boy was completely and utterly alone.

The room he is in is as high as a cathedral with a great dome in its center with mosaics of chipped heroes, valiant, charge into an endless race around the mosaic ring in pursuit of a demon, lost to the ravages of time and sits dejectedly among piles of rubble. The walls once held beautiful crystal sconces of unimaginable color are now dark with encroaching mold, their light stolen from them in ages past, like a speechless man. A rift in the ceiling is held steady by creeping roots with massive proportions, streams of light filtering through.

There is a massive wall of rounded stone, slate, and its base is an abyss that was once a contained well but the embankments of stone were lost lone ago and sits at the bottom of the shimmering, almost florescent abyss. The gluttonous roots have grown sporadic down the wall, creating a foothold on which the boy desperately clings to, like a feline to a tree.

Particles of dust dance the beams of light that manage to seep through, around fluted columns that bloom like lilies into the stone ceiling, in the wide center, and in the path of the hero of valor. The gnarly roots placidly hold the boy as he assiduously works, hair matted by sweat and brows creased in determination. He is perhaps in his eighth year, nearing the end of his boyhood, not yet ready to embrace the future.

His hands clench a stone with the fervor of one driven mad, soft skin torn and bleeding, but he is unaware. His long hair gleams like strands of metallic thread, halo moving in time with his rocking movements. His eyes like blood dart back and forth, studying this and righting that. Why is he working with such desperation?

This symbol is the key to your survival; remember it so that when the time comes, you will know. It shall protect you and lead you to greatness, an omniscient voice murmurs in that dream, that dream like a prophecy. The voice of a goddess, like a mother.

In that dream, he saw so many disconcerting things; ruined buildings corrugated by steal, shards of glass littering the streets. A horizon of complete and utter ruination plagues this familiar place, a restive moon donning a nauseating, bloody glow sickens the survivors of the mass destruction. The contemporary city would be lost to tragedy if it would not be stopped. But there is more to the dream; faces he's never seen, places he's never been, and a person familiar to him gazing at him with such reluctant antagonism.

There is a woman as well, who is very precious to him, whom he knows now and she is poised to fight, sad reluctance holding her back. And yet that brandished gold rapier goads his Engine Blade to action and they stand off.

No matter what, this cannot be avoided.

The boy weeps. It has yet to pass and already he is overwhelmed by emotion. He thinks of his friends, people so dear to him, and of that blonde girl, so precious to him. Must they be lost to an inevitable future?

He shakes away those thoughts and continues working, his carving and scraping making a dissonance in the abysmal place. This place is one filled with memories, of happiness and anguish, and yet he can see them as vividly as if it were happening now.

People strangely garbed flow in and out of the walls, luminous specters of the past. A time reel continuously flows and the boy is overwhelmed.

This is but a taste of what you will come to possess, the voice soothes, trying to quell his fears with company. You will find the strength to resolve the future. Why doesn’t he believe her?

Throwing down the worn, white stone, skittering into a dark place, the boy jumps from his perch. He furiously wipes his eyes, set with resolve, and gazes upon the symbol he has drawn.

A gyro of a language unknown to him swirls around a faded, curled wing. Many other symbols can be seen, but even the boy is unsur. In the pale light it takes on a celestial, fluorescent blue glow, but natural light shouldn't be able to do that. He gulps, unsure of what he has just scrawled upon the ancient wall.

Did I not tell you what it was?

The boy shakes his head, trembling. Dropping the stone, courage plummeting, the boy dashes from this grand room, down a narrow hall, charging deeper into the darkness more welcoming than an ominous future.

Hours later, Luna Parvulus, the Dukedom of Caliga, Galahd

"Prince Noctis! Oh bless my heart, I worried terribly about you! Where have you been? Come, come, let's get you all cleaned up."

Noctis, the boy, was trembling despite the warmth of the upper world. He had desperately bandaged his hands with old cloth in order to hide the wounds, but his keen-eyed guardian, Rosarum, had immediately caught on. She knew this boy from birth and she knew him well. At her side, his oldest and dearest friend, Ignis, waited with a pensive and worried look in his green eyes.

She was dressed in what looked to be a nun's habit, white and tan, although it was by no means for religious purposes. Her face was kindred with age, but her emerald eyes always had an intelligent gleam. She was fiercely protective of Noctis, who had become something of a son to her, and as thus she saw to it that he never stepped out of line. Rosarum glanced down at Ignis, placing a hand on the older boy’s shoulder. “And you worried dear Ignis, my dear.”

Noctis took Ignis’ hand, small fingers curled around like a lost child. He kept his gaze to the floor, eyes darting between the shoes that flicked out from under her long dress whenever she took a step and his own stumbling feet. “…Sorry for disappearing like that, Iggy.”

“It’s okay. As long as you’re safe, Noct.” He sounded so gentle.

The halls they walked through were high and narrow, rich white marble paving the floor and columns that blossomed into high domes were avoided. Between the recesses the columns made were large portraits of the rulers of old, people Noctis was related to, as well as entryways into similar halls, each containing a plethora of rooms. Clear windows overhead let in an azure sky while massive crystal chandeliers spiraled downwards like Turritella shells. Natural light made them sparkle every conceivable color of the spectrum, casting orbs of color on the floor and walls like playful faeries.

Caliga always had been a beautiful place. The seat of House Izunia, the precursor to the Lucis Caelums, its capital of Luna Parvulus was like something out of a fairytale and built exactly in style of Tenebrae, especially its own Fenestala Manor. A place founded a sort of wedding present to the first Oracle, Gentiana Fleuret, from Somnus Lucis Caelum, it had been the ancestral place of peaceful conventions between House Caelum and House Fleuret for generations.

At least, that’s what his grandmother, Aellai Izunia, had told him years ago before she’d passed away. Grandpa Mors had never really cared for history, she’d joked, but Noctis knew she missed him greatly.

“Hey, Noct?”

“Yeah, Iggy?” Noctis replied when the trio took pause, both training gazes on the older boy.

“Um…I’ll wait until you’re done, okay? I think Rosie wanted me to lay out some clothes for you, while you bathe and stuff.”

Noctis smiled at his friend and reached out to poke Ignis’ cheek. “Okay, Iggy! I’ll get done really fast, then!” He couldn’t help it; they were inseparable, after all.

“Oh, we hope you get done in time, little prince! I know how much you enjoy the bubbles!” Ignis gave a small laugh and Noctis made a face, embarrassed, but feeling happy.

Shoes echoing resoundingly, Rosarum briskly walked into a set of open, lacquered wood doors inlaid with curling iron designs with Noctis and Ignis in tow. Opening a secondary set the three of them entered the young prince's bedroom.

The room was circular in shape, domed like many others, hewn from warm beige marble. A cathedral ring of columns arched gracefully to touch the sky. There were recesses between each wall bound column that held in their depressions statues of the Archaean deep in thought and Shiva clothed in flowing robes in delicate pose, something out of the Genesis painting. The four poster canopy bed stood at the center, black curtains bound to their posts. The extravagant silk sheets were of muted cream and spared no expense of the young prince's comfort.

Ignis detached from them and began digging through the dresser and wardrobe for the prince’s clothing, leaving Rosarum and Noctis to the task of bathing.

Rosarum skirted around a large desk and wardrobe and flung open another set of elegant doors into a bathroom as large as the bedroom.

It, too, was circular in shape. A rounded, inlaid bath more like a fountain pool lay in the center, steaming and embanked by warm stone. A light fixture hanged from the zenith of the dome, metal and orbs of light twisting beautifully together and casting a warm glow on cordial marble. A ring of stained glass above was in the forms of inky fishes and rippling water of frosty blue glass, the sunlight casting scales of blue light below.

The marble in here was of a dull burgundy veined by white that seemed to grow warmer in light. A large mirror sat in one corner while a large sink, too large for normal use, sat in another. All was made from stone or marble, a trait overly common in what was supposed to be a modern utopia.

"Alright, m' prince, why don't you take off these ruddy clothes and get yourself bathed? I'll take them to the laundry quarters. If you don't take a bath, I'll know," she said, kneeling down to look Noctis at eye level. “Don’t keep Iggy waiting too long, hm?”

Complying, Noctis walked over to a hidden changing room and closed the door before removing all of the soiled clothes. He pulled on a long bathrobe and girdled it tight, then stepped out with the bundle of soiled garments in his arms. Rosarum gladly took them, smiling warmly at Noctis.

"I'll be back in a jiffy, alright?" she said before turning around, robes swishing as she closed the door softly behind her.

Glaring at the water, Noctis timidly stepped to its edge, frowning and testing the heat with his toe. Recoiling at the spike in temperature, Noctis frowned and his glare deepened.

"Why do I have to take a bath?" Noctis groused softly, swirling the glass-smooth water with his finger. Remembering the taunts of his immaturity from a close friend, Noctis puffed his chest exaggeratingly. He sat and submerged his legs up to his calves; he gritted his teeth in resolve. Slipping off the edge into the fairly deep water, Noctis splashed resoundingly, flailing his arms until they rested on a submerged ledge. Gasping for breath, hair limp and blocking his eyes (which he quickly moved aside), he took deep breaths, trying to calm his fluttering heart.

Finally calm, Noctis removed the heavy and wet robe, having accidently dragged it in with him. The water cleansed his skin well enough as well as his hair, though he still went through the whole routine. Clean of all dirt, blood, and grime, Noctis heaved himself from the tub and toweled himself as dry as possible, hair still a little damp. He found another robe to wrap around himself and proceeded to the mirror.

Availing himself before it, he could see that his hair was still hopelessly spiky, springing back into place. It was a strange metallic blue, unusual from the browns and blondes of other people. His face wasn't sharp and angular like his friend, or more…developed like Ignis’; instead it was soft and still rounded, but was beginning to lose that trait.

"Oh, good, you're done, m' prince!" came Rosarum's jovial and warm voice. Noctis whirled around, a smile alighting his face. He ran to her and clamped on to her arm, face colliding with her shoulder.

"You've become very handsome; I can't believe you're not that sweet little baby anymore. Ah, you're such a treasure." Noctis looked up to his beloved nanny. “I’m certain little Ignis agrees, hm?”

"Please call me Noct, like you used to," Noct said, smiling warmly. “Like Iggy does!”

She burst into laughter. "Oh, you little rascal! I'll get in trouble if I do."

Noct looked thoughtful for a moment. "Prince Noct?" he reasoned. “Iggy does that sometimes, too!”

"Alright, I'll call you 'Prince Noct.'" Noctis let go of her arm, beaming.

"Oh! I almost forgot! Lord Ravus and Lady Stella are here. Aren't you excited? Come; let's get you all polished up."

Noct froze; Stella was here. His heart began thumping loudly at the thought of seeing his best friend who he recently began having a crush on. She was twelve to his eight and positively radiant. He adored her kind smile and lively personality. There was something else, like they had a deeper connection, but he couldn't reason why. Though he’d always been so close with Ignis, Stella was different. And he was going to see her, again!

Urging himself to calm down, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

Older Stella brandishing a gold rapier.

Noct shook his head, pushing away that awful thought.

"Prince Noct? Time to get dressed."

Noctis opened his eyes, and to his abject horror, Rosarum held a flowing, long emerald dress coat, stiff looking matching pants and a complicatedly designed shirt. He swallowed; he hated dressing formally almost as much as he hated taking bathes.

Ignis looked a little sheepish, having been the one to choose them in the first place. “Sorry, Noct, but your father wanted you to wear them.”

It was always his dad! Always so stuffy, even though he wore suits all the time! Why didn’t he have to wear the ceremonial robes?

Reluctantly taking the clothes into the changing area, closing the door, he removed the bathrobe and put on the appropriate undergarments before hauling up the suede pants, pulling over the long shirt and finally pulling on the ankle-length robe which wasn't supposed to be girdled. He tied on a pair of starchy black boots and laced them, toes being mashed together.

Exiting the room he groaned loudly, bemoaning the restrictive clothing.

Rosarum clapped her hands in delight and ushered Noct again to the mirror. The outfit made him look older, sure, but he wouldn't be able to do much. Ignis stood beside him and helped tug down this, tighten that, and brush away stray wisps of hair.

"You look even more handsome!" she squealed, soothing creases and invisible wrinkles with obsessive care.

Noct gave her a look of comic anguish, a shadow of despair hooding his eyes. Ignis looked paologetic, sincerely. Then again, he’d always had a superbly soft spot for his friend.

"You want to look nice for Stella, don't you?"

Noctis quickly changed his outlook, imagining Stella gushing over how cool he looks and immediately changed his outlook on the snazzy clothes. Well, almost immediately.

Rosarum laughed at his sudden change of heart, always seeming to know how to change Noctis's perspective on things. That, or the task fell on ignis. Barely keeping secrets from each other, Ignis almost always anticipated what was needed for Noctis. He was so, so reliable like that.

"Come along now; don't want to keep them waiting."

Noctis gladly acquiesced and flew from the room, Rosarum struggling to keep up.

“Oh, Noct?”

Noctis stopped dead in his tracks, skidding to a halt when his friend addressed him. He was always bound to listen where Ignis was involved. “Yeah, Iggy?”

“Uncle Jovian wanted to see me today. I’m sorry, but I can’t come with you to see Lord Ravus or Lady Stella.”

Ignis looked apologetic again, especially when he caught sight of the disappointment on his face.

“Oh, okay. I’ll tell them you said hi. It’s okay. Luna couldn’t come, either.”

Ignis looked grateful, if a little crestfallen. “Lady Lunafreya has her Oracle training to attend to. I’m pretty sure she’d love to be here with us, Noct.”

Rosarum smiled gently at the pair. “Don’t you either worry about anythin’. I’m certain today will lovely for all of you, regardless.”

“You’re right. Thank you, Rosie. And see you later, Iggy!”

The day was as beautiful as it looked through the windows.

The sky was a beautiful turquoise color, clouds floating aimlessly like leaves swept along a river. A massive lawn spanned before him, gardens of flowers of every variety planted and hedges trimmed with the utmost precision. Beyond the gardens was the border between lawn and forest, both kept immaculately in line. Cobblestone paths cut through the maze of flowers and small trees; the odd sculpture of some prominent figure of old standing in defiance to the sky.

The emerald leaves of the interminable number of trees chattered in the many warm breezes while dappled shadows rested on the forest floor below. The grand presence of the castle loomed before all, a sentinel of sentinels watching over wood and city. Luckily the sun's position in the heavens provided that the castle's shadow didn't overshadow the delightful gardens or the three young children who wished the gambol among the scenery.

Beyond even that, the Sea of Galahd scintillated on the horizon, reminding them they were still a ways from the Crown City of Insomnia.

Noctis descended the wide stone stairs, ignoring Rosarum's warnings to be safe. He practically ran down, eager to meet his friends below.

As soon as his foot touched green turf, the padding of feet over grass flew in his direction.

"NNNNoooooctiiiisssss!" came the stream of his name, sourcing from a pretty preteen girl, a mane of billowing gold in her wake as she ran. Launching herself to the young prince, Stella latched her arms around his neck, smiling childishly.

Noct, unable to speak coherently, gulped. He returned the embrace shyly.

"Oh, hey Stella,” he stuttered at last, patting Stella's back. Beaming, the older girl, already a bit taller, quickly released Noct so that he could regain his composure.

"I'm so glad to see you again, Prince Noctis! " she said, smiling genuinely. Her violet eyes caught the sunlight beautifully, entrancing the young prince for a moment. Today she wore an almost identical outfit to his, only it bore the colors of her kingdom, Tenebrae, and instead of pants she wore a skirt. “Luna says hello. She was sad she couldn’t be here, but she wishes you well.”

Aside from the fact that she was Luna’s fraternal twin sister, they looked almost exactly alike, save for her ash blonde hair and violet eyes that contrasted to Luna’s blonde hair and blue eyes.

Raucous laughter broke the silence, emanating from a a platinum blond youth. Ravus Nox Fleuret was prince from the kingdom of Tenebrae and Noctis's other best friend, and the girls’ older brother. His choppy, short hair was buzzed down, stormy grey eyes dancing in delight. He wore an outfit identical to Noctis's, again with the colors of his beloved forest kingdom.

He was the oldest of them at sixteen. Already his face was beginning to sharpen and become angular, voice not yet deep. He was a head taller than Noct and towered over Stella.

Yet that never deterred Stella from showing off her vivacious spirit.

"Ravus!" Stella cried, stamping her feet and crossing her arms. "Leave Noct alone!"

Noct waved his hands, as if trying to placate the fiery girl, only she proceeded to stomp over to Ravus and give him a piece of her mind.

"Sorry Stella, it's just that Noct—" he choked out between bouts of laughter "—he's really hilarious to me now for some reason!"

Stella scowled, hand reaching to grab a tuft of hair and yank it. Ravus yelped loudly, eyes locked with Stella's fierce ones.

"I'm sick of you bullying and teasing Noct! Go say you're sorry," she ordered, still clenching his short hair.

Awkwardly bent over, Ravus's grey eyes locked with Noctis's. "Stella, it's what friends do. We always—"A yank "—Okay! I'm sorry, Noct! You happy now?" his last words directed at Stella. She tossed him away, unsteadying Ravus, and smiled smugly.

Prancing over to Noct, she grabbed his hand. "Let's get away from him and this place," she whispered conspiratorially, glancing towards the forest.

"What are you doing?" Ravus.

"Now!"

Before Noctis could even blink, Stella was off him a shot, towing Noctis at breakneck speeds. They tore through the gardens and out to the border and into the darkening woods. Noctis could hear Ravus shouting after them to stop, but for once he was glad to be alone with Stella.

They ran quite a way until the castle receded and faded completely from view.

"Ah, alone at last." Stella ambled around a tree with great roots, humming delightfully to herself.

Noctis looked around nervously. The trees here were thick enough for several people to hug, hands touching. Long and wide branches thickened and split like a river delta, umbrage nearly blocking out the sun entirely. The canopy was thick with a ceiling of leaves that let in only fragments of sunlight, the rest of the ground cloaked in shadow. Massive roots spurt from the ground, interrupting the surface like coiling snakes, providing for unsteady walking ground. Noctis carefully picked his way around brambles and jutting roots, making way to Stella.

A deafening crunch suddenly filled the forest.

Stella clung to Noctis who put a hand to her back.

"I think we should leave, Stella." Her head pumped up and down in agreement.

A scuffling of weak roots heaved inwards, creating an abyssal drop. Noctis' arms flew around Stella and her's around him.

Both screamed with terrific might in the quiet forest as the ground gave away and they were swallowed by the black maw.

#noctis lucis caelum #Stella Nox Fleuret #ignis scientia #ravus nox fleuret #Final Fantasy Versus 13 #Final Fantasy Versus XIII #ffxv #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #my writing

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jmrsullivan-blog · 6 years

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SHE OF THE SEA

A short story about an otherwise land with no cat pirates, especially not female ones.

SHE OF THE SEA

For Aimee Charlotte Brown

On almost Christmas 2017

By J.M.R.Sullivan

Cats hate sailing. Most cats spend their entire lives avoiding the wretched wet and, generally, nobody wants to be a sailor. Sailing is regarded so poorly in the Purisian Confederacy that their navy is almost entirely made up of prisoners and convicted felons. The number is so large that there are entire fleets of penal ships, though state of the art they may be, few of them actively do anything. It was an inherently cultural problem. For the average Volunteer Pursian sailor’s status was so low, that he was likely only to be preened after a Binwhisker or Littersniff. The Purisian Navy was a prestige project, staffed by the unwilling, and in retrospect; what is truly shocking is the inevitability of the tale i am about to unfurl.

Sailing however, is not to be confused with the act of piracy, or rather, the occupation of being a Pirate. A cat who sails for the nation is a wet slave and a sad whiskers, but a cat who sails for himself braves the wretched wet for great reward. To him gravitates a most persuasive romance of daring avarisitc adventure and exotic encounter. Very few cats do become pirates, their natural loathing of the sea deterring but the most irregular, but those who have often become notoriously followed, and perversely admired. A person more regularly immersed in a life at sea might hogwash all these charming fantasies. Indeed, a more regularly immersed person may tell you that for the majority, a buccaneer’s lot is brutality from without and within, his poverty, and very often his death. Regardless to the truth of these perspectives, one thing is consistent, it is “he”.

There are no female cat pirates. Mathematics would dispute this, but cats haven't much time for mathematics. For a Prince* to harness his inner conflicts and unleash them on an unfair world in witticisms and well choreographed swordplay, was perfectly believable, even perversely covetable. But for a Princess to rush so headstrong after treasure, to risk her constitution and beauty, to pursue what could be so easily provided by an admirer, and worst of all, to do so in such proximity to vast amounts of water, was frankly, unthinkable.

But this was all about to change…

*Technically all cats are titled Prince and Princess. This stems from both a pragmatic need to prevent petty quarrelling, and a deep rooted obnoxious pride that instills in them the belief that all Cats are inherently royal creatures. This mixture of arrogance and etiquette created an insufferable, occasionally ridiculous, but sustainable society.

My story begins in my humble island parish. As a noble seeking a simpler life I had taken post on the small port refuge of Saltskerry. Here our island served as a way-station off the north coast of Purisia for the many trout and tuna miners, venturing out to barren northern iceflows. Once there, they would besiege the most gargantuan of icebergs, lay their charges and swing their pics, and liberate the silver trapped within. These ships would return to port bloated with their fishy fortune and after many weeks of labour their crews would disembark upon Saltskerry to trade their newfound silver for gold, and their newfound gold for flesh.

As a man of the creed I discouraged these more illicit activities, and the cohort of gangsters and thuggies that surrounded them. But, I would refuse none my spiritual stewardship, be they miner, cohort or even pirate. All, in time, became the same. and all would be returned to the hand of the keeper. life was hard enough for the people here, few grew to age and fewer saw bounty. It was not my place to judge the many names that would become etched on the beams of the parish.

The trouble began one dawn in August. A most terrible storm had raged the night before, howling and thrashing throughout the night. Vengeful, massive and reported as far as the Lapin coast, It had whipped at our little island all night and away in the distance i could hear the frantic scrabble of man against nature, as so many crews tried to secure their restless and invigorated ships. I, unconcerned with such matters, lay tucked in my Hutching until a great crash startled me from my housing. Unsure of my spectacles and composure I hurried half robed into the hall where I would meet her.

“Do you speak fer keeper, sir?”

Silhouetted in my splintered doorframe lent a soaking wretch. Her female form betrayed by sodden clothes that clung and ran with water. A face scarred with trials, And a most ruined long wig.

“Your long ears, do they work, Myaa?”

As my poor eyes awakened, I took in the distinct pragmatic attire of a buccaneer, complete with sword, belt and now surely ruined pistols. Her high slurred meow proof of breeding as the lowest variety of alleyscratch.

“Yes, madam, I am the father here…” blurted I. “But i assure you,we have no gold to plunder.” Composure finally bleeding back into my character. “Be … be about your way now and we shall forgive the vandalism as rot and strong wind.” I Completed, surprising myself.

A purse was slung into my chest, which i caught ungraciously.

“Oh no sir, Not gold i’m after. Gold will not solve this, Myaa.”

The knave in my nave lurched further, i could now begin to make out her expression. And i saw a desperate invigorating fear. Her eyes, wild and sharp. The fear of someone who had seen death, but was determined not to become acquainted.

“I don’t understand”

“I seek divine protections sir. Upon reception of ‘string of bad luck, I concede, finally, for some holy securities. An exercise in blessed protections. Big year ahead.”

She liberated another purse from her sodden coat.

“When so nearly ruined, when t‘sea tries ‘take it all, worth of things, worth of things aint the same after.” She weighed the pouch in her hand “Way I learn it, value of such varies like the tide, What a drowner wouldn’t wish for a desert, and what the richest thirsty sultan wouldn't wish for a sea.”

“You cant drink sea-water” I responded instinctively, before remembering my mortality in this company.

“Ha, Indeed!” she conceded, winking.“‘self a lesson for another time…”

“So, This big bag a’ gold for ‘tever ward or sacrament will keep keepers hand keen to me interest. Myaa?”

I eyed the jingling bulge for a moment, a moment not lost on my guest. My covetous peep prompting an expansive wet grin that saw my aspirations, of what good could be done with such a sum.

“Alas madam, I have no such trinkets. Nay, do i think any exist outside the stalls of shamsters and quacks.”

She deflated into a pew with a squelch.

“You certain?” she enquired, crestfallen. “You ain’t sat on some tellin’ of a long lost relic of Keepers kindness made manifest?”

“No miss.” My tone softening at her despondency “ if we’ve got any of those, they haven't told me. We could probably use one, out here.”

“Myoh.” She relented, mournfully.

“But, If you repent of your wickedness and that of your crew, then surely i can bless you? That's something?” I encouraged.

She stirred not.

“Do you repent of your wickednesses and that of your crew?”

“Their debts are now paid.”

“Paid..? By who’s account?”

“On account ‘them bein’ dead sir, wrecked upon the rocks yonder.”

This shook the fog from my head, as i realised the reason for her state.

“A wreck!? should we not send help? We can assemble a posse...”

She waved the notion away “No bother, all dead, to a man.”

She reached to doff her cap but it were missing. “A good crew they was too. Definitely a setback.”

I rummaged for a towel for the sopping criminal now in my hospitality. Which she rejected; “Got Wet bones sir, ain’t no bother for me.”

“Then Should we not at least perform some kind of service, for the perished?” I proposed.

Her haggard face turned to me and a light of appreciation glimmered “A kind gesture father…” expression hardening... “But I canne’ stay.”

“So you were a pirate captain?”

She straightened her back and lifted her chin “Captain? I’m Keepers-own pirate Queen! Myaa.”

“I didn't know pirates had queens?”

Her manner dropped conspiratorially,

“In my experience father, What a pirate can and can’t ‘ave is limited only by ability.”

“Well... Your Majesty... do you repent of your wickednesses and pledge yourself to Keepers hand?”

“Not on your life, I’m a careerist” she paused in thought. “And I don’t see how it squares wit’ hangman neither.”

“Maybe not square with this law, but that of the next.”

“Nah, you’ll bless me, just as you would any other wicked monarch.”

“I shan’t”

“You bloody shall, Myaa.” Her hand slipping from her lap to her hilt like magic.

I took a step back

“I shan’t bless you madam, I will admonish pirates, bury pirates, I think i’ve even officiated a pirate wedding once, But i cannot ask of the keeper to favour someone so unrepentant.”

“That So?” Her eyes narrowed defiantly, but her focus snapped off, and her brow furrowed.

I leaned in to the pause...

“Fair ‘nuff” She conceded, popping to her feet and surprising me into instinctive recoil. “A good captain don’t fight ‘tide! Thank You, Father.”

She strode out of my church, wringing out big strands of her wig as she went. I scurried in pursuit to the doorway.

“Who are you, madam?” I called to the retreating figure.

“She of the Sea, Queen of Pirates, and a pleasure it was to meet you, father…?”

“Von Hopp… err.. Your Majesty?”

“Ha! Very good! Myaa.” And she marched down the path, closing my little gate behind her.

As she fled into the growing daylight I gathered the wreckage of the door, mopped the flagstones of evidence of my visitor and, after having had breakfast, ventured down to the town to inform the constable. A militia rapidly formed (more for want of bounty on “pirate royalty” than civic duty) but despite their enthusiasm, no trace of She of the Sea could be found. She had slipped away like a serpent amongst the bustling sailors, Each too rough, disinterested or preoccupied to recollect her presence at the port. And each too intelligent to betray “pirate royalty” in their own line of work.

We then headed down to the rocks beneath the parish and sure enough, the fleeting remnants of a wreck were scattered amongst the shingle, but so savage must have been the the storm upon that ship that no bodies could be found, and any of the vessel present, nought but matchwood. I held a little service with whatever recognisable items i could find upon the beach and lit some candles as the sun began to set. The sea on the horizon became quite calm, and i retired early after a very long day.

Worried of a repeat visit, I had the constable stay with me for a week or so after the incident. He was a portly hamster, more interested in a smooth running island than adherence to the letter of the law. A good enough sort for a such a questionable refuge, to be sure, but he well understood the value of a blind eye, and the community prevailed on the understanding that most misdemeanors would sort themselves out amongst affected parties. Noone benefited from excessive pioty and the boat was best not rocked. When her patronage did not repeat, I returned to my routine as I had the ten or so years prior. I tended the faithful, Kindly proslatised the rutters and vagrants, and admonished the dead. In this way, life continued until about six months later, when I received an interesting Invitation.

Though I have become a humble clergyman in occupation, my heritage of royalty created certain obligations, both mine and otherwise, to the other nobles in the Kingdoms. As a result of this, I received an invitation to the Ceremony of Vantages, A Purisian royal affair acting as the culmination of a years politicking and intrigue. Officially, all Purisian royalty occupies the same rank, but some sit higher than others in the great room of pillars, and this positioning will dictate the influence for the coming year. All Cats are Princes, yes, but a formally informal King is certainly implied as a result of this meeting, and all Royals from within and without are invited to witness this, and assumedly admire the feline decadence displayed.

And so, Duty calling, I packed my Finarries and prepared for the three day voyage that would take me to the northern border of the Purisian Confederacy. From here i would travel down the river Mog to the the Purisian Capital, Clowder. Here the Oppulance and wealth of the Confederacy was in full display, and in keeping with the Purisian character, it’s citizens pretended not to notice. I had always had a degree of polite Contempt for the Purisian Confederacy. I found its overbearing deliberate indifference to it’s wealth and splendor progressively tiring. Indeed, a societal smugness to their success permeated the citizenry from the highest pride to the lowest bumsniff. and of course, the curious omittance and subversion of the source of this wealth, a shame of which i shall not speak of here, alienated many modern minds in the know, of the cost of all these feasts and banners.

As a Lapin royal I was allocated a seat with other Laputians on the lower circle. Our showing was meagre as Lapin was quite removed from Purisian influence. Clearly few of my brothers felt the need to endure the boredom. The Ceremony of Vantages is a very drawn out affair. Purisian royalty would mingle their way around the gantries and pillars subtly and seemingly obliviously, moving into their formally informally preordained positions. The results of months of backbiting, conspiracy and political intrigue. Occasionally there would be awkward pauses as cats, determined to perhaps climb another rung on the societal ladder, would at the last second jockey, sometimes even discretely scuffle for a slightly higher pillar. By the end, a new hierarchy would be determined, and a formally informal king (or queen) would sit highest amongst the court.

Or so it should have been. About two hours into the ceremony, as the lower pillars had reluctantly filled, and the remaining aristocracy politely fraternised to increasing altitude, my eyes finally closed. My head lolled starboard to the already sedate shoulder of Count Hessen von Burrow and everything should have been as it had been the last ten times before. But a very familiar crash provided a welcome intermission.

Striding beyond a broken door into the centre of the hall disrobed a familiar figure. A Purisian royal, slowly discarding her finaries, revealing a rogue beneath. With a long splendid wig and fabulous Bicorne stood She of the Sea, clapping defiantly amongst the discretely squabbling aristocracy. Her sarcastic applause echoed until it held monopoly on the acoustics.

“G’devenin, Sirs…. Madams….” She ventured into the bewildered silence. “Sorry for my questionable punctuality, Myaa.”

A butler type feline rushed forward from the stands to intercept but was swiftly deflected, spiralling behind as she paced the room.

“I did find myself without invitation, making me sneak in here like a draft, such lack of good manners unbefitting such noble nobles, such poor treatment of a fellow Queen.. ”

This statement peaked interest, and the slowly incircling guards held fast.

“Who the devil are you? Meow!” Questioned an anonymous voice.

“By what breeding do you back your claim, Mew?” called another.

“Plenty breeding ma’am...your Da for one, Myaa!”

This retort caused such an audible intake of breath some of candles went out. One or two more delicate minds feinted, and A ripple of delight spread amongst the foreign dignitaries, who had until this point been counting seconds to the feast.

“Queen...Queen of where? Madam, Myow”

“I am She of the Sea. Queen of Pirates!”

This broke the hall into thunderous laughter. Jeering enchoed around the walls as the lords and ladies defied the very notion of such a thing. The six court guards, halberds lowered, needed no further prompting to interject and sprung forth to cut down the vagrant. Alas, each of them came off neutered of their ears. She of the Sea’s cutlass carving each without effort, leaving five of six assailants yowling and bloodied grasping at their ruined heads. The sixth, recalculating his odds, turned and fled for help. Where he was met by two other guards arriving in a doorway, These reinforcements then blunty hacked him down. Indeed, Around the room guards appeared in every doorway, and though in splendid uniform of palace guards, their faces and races betrayed them as imposters, Imposters eagerly anticipating insubordination from the royals.

The Jeering and Yowling petered out at this display of force and intent. The hall fell silent but for the whimpering of the deafened guardsman.

“So, ‘eres t’scratch.” declared the pirate queen. “Things ‘ere are gonna change.”

At this statement all the cats began to look away. Their eyes wide, but staring into space. Not one face engaged with She of the Sea as she paced the room. It was if they were all desperately trying to pretend she wasn’t there.

“See, my title were earned, grafted, what have you tubbards done Myaa? all this sitting on high chairs and constant posturing. While i’ve been out, earnin’ crust, earnin’ respect.”

Silence, but for pacing boots upon the marble.

“Is that fair Sirs? Ladies? I’m doin’ all t’work, risking my tail, and I’m one storm away from t’grave, one shiv away from ‘grave, one dodgy boarding away from ‘grave.”

The audience shifted uncomfortably on their podiums.

“I feel you take your place for granted, Sirs, ladies. Powers made yuh lazy Myaa. I’d say you’re all so comfy you forget yourselves. You’d forget ‘world outsides not all feasts and fussing, Forget some old mog might strole in here and take it all. You’re all Stupid..

Their eyebrows raised.

“... fat…”

Eyebrows raised further, eyes staring furiously at nothing.

“.., and pretty.”

Some conciliatory nods.

“Nuts to that lads.”

The doormen jeered agreement. She of the Sea grinning victoriously at the assembly.

“So heres the deal, in one hundred and sevenee seven days, i’ll be back to marry ‘king Myaa.”

Confusion rippled throughout the hall as she took a conciliatory tone.

“Now Sirs ‘n Ladies, I dont care who it is, that’s your discression. But believe me, I’ll be back in six months, and you make no mistake chummers, I’ll be queen if i have to bugger whichever fairy twat you choose myself.”

Murmurs of outrage trickled around as the Aristocrats could no longer ignore such a proposition.

“Never, Meow!” came a voice

“Scruffer!, Myow” Came another.

As the discontent bubbled, she stood strong as it washed over her. She breathed it deep, like an invigorating lung of sea air, unperturbed.

“That’s t’spirit Myaa. Just remember, one hundred and sevenee seven days, to marry whichever of you fluffed ponces wants to be king.”

She turned, as if to leave, then paused.

“Oh! One more thing, Sirs, Ladies. Since i want you to know im serious, and committed to this... I think a Diet, is in order.”

Outrage. Yowling. Once dignified nobility arched their backs in hate, spitting fury at their unwelcome guest. She nodded like a pantomime villain as the gantries became a furious tantrum.

“Whole confed is gonna cut back on the silver. Now, don’t worry fatties, I’ll remove every scrap of temptation, the whole confed is gonna be trim as a tart for my wedding. Not a fish in the village, as they say, make you all lean ‘n sexy.”

One particular noble, a plump mustachioed cat, chest swollen with medals, lent foremost and put comprehension to the furore.

“This, Meow! Is an Outrage! Meow! What makes you think you can bloodywell come here, Meow! And threaten Diet! Meow! And not have us cut your scruffing head off the second you step out that door! Meow!”

Enjoying every moment of this rich theatre, she paused, and mocked contemplation.

“Well Sir, ‘cause you gone and built a bloody tunnel under yur’ chambers now, didn't ya?”

Tapping thrice upon the marble floor, a great cacophony of smoke erupted from the tiling. As masonry crumbled away into the darkness below, a merriment of cackling sung from the breech, Heinous perverse voices raucous in their miscreancy. The guards on the exits skipped and ran down to their escape, slapping and taunting the audience as they went. And as she stepped into the black below and bid farewell, I thought she a demon returning to hell.

The country was in uproar. Three heads of police became sans in both position and body. The Purisian Press, regarded by even the ruling classes as distinctly sycophantic, roused the proles into uproar. An interruption of the Vantage Ceremony! A declaration of intent to marry! A threat of mandatory Diet?! By a (hitherto impossible) Female Pirate Queen?!! Outrageous!

Impossible!

Revenge!

Murder!

Death!

A little green mouse may as well have floated down from the moon and shat on every cat's nose.

I shall admit, much like other foreign royals, I struggled to maintain discretion in finding the whole scenario deeply amusing. After the immediate threat had passed, of course. The Purisian Confederacy had a very maintained image, and it was fun to see their tree shaken. Not so however for the rulers. Most of whom took it in the height of seriousness. For after all, one of them would be force to wed the Seafairing Bint.

Reserves were mobilised. Prisoners who had until now, languished in warm dry misery, were shipped in their hundred to docks where they languished in cold wet misery. Admirals, Some of whom’s closest interaction with a boat was a vessel for gravy, were suited and booted and marched off to their fleets. The Navy’s orders were simple, blow that pirate out of the water, make her demise so unpleasant and humiliating that the only time the incident at the ceremony will be remembered would be as prelude to a foreboding parable of rue and gruesome woe.

Due to the massive scale of the reaction, the Confederacy became content that victory was inevitable and everything largely went back to normal. The Navy was massively mobilised, and patrolled the northern sea for pirates of all shapes and sizes, at one stage it was said that there were so many ships active in the northern sea, that one could travel in any direction for 300 miles and still be in view of a Confederate ensign.

As I travelled home, it nibbled at the back of my mind. The force of character it must have taken to survive a wreck in such a storm, to breach THE royal gathering, to dictate to some of the most powerful furs on earth, and to escape with no much as a nip was a truly incredible feat. But the game was over now surely, the element of surprise was lost, and the Confederate Navy now eager and mobile, scouring the ocean for anything resembling an upstart cat in a blonde wig.

For the first month or so nothing much happened. The Navy’s alertness gradually wayned at the lack of action and the atmosphere of outrage subsided. She of the Sea was an empty threat.

Until the mysterious disappearance of the the Trout Mining Ship Mr Snuggles.

Then, Princess did not return, Then Colin. Max, Tiger, Fluffy. Whiskers, Tyko. In the Month of June, thirteen ships of one hundred returned, or returned with haul.

Fish prices sored. The rivers and shores (as close to water as most Purisians hoped to get) were fished bare. Rationing was introduced, and then almost immediately subsided as there were no stocks to supplement ration cards. Worse yet, the hugely expanded Navy, mostly made of aforementioned prisoners and penal sailors, began to starve. Particularly vicious mutinies began as some of the ships turned to piracy themselves to survive. It was an absolute disaster for the Purisian Government and many citizens, too tired to riot, became uncharacteristically lean.

The Descriptions of the assailing ship were all alike. A black fog would manifest out of the blue and a giant metal bottle would emerge from the unholy mist. Along it’s spine protruded great lacerating fins, and at its prow, a crowned and ghastly Jolly Roger. The Metal vessel would circle the victim, and the crew would panic and man battle stations, those ships with armaments would fire them upon the predator and amazingly cause it to flee, apparently disappearing into its smog. Then the prey ship would contort with an unheavenly wooden rip. A splintery tear would echo off the iceflows as the keel was brutally dissected, rupturing the hold and its contents and splitting the ship in half like an egg. For most at this point, their fate was sealed. Certain death waited any who so much as dipped in the northern water, and most ships could not survive such terrible damage to their underlying structure. The only survivors who had made it back, were those who had somehow survived their first attack and ran for the hills, or had been picked up in patrolling Navy ships.

Navy ships had taken losses too, in much a similar fashion, though their losses were more sporadic as the assailants attention seemed focussed on the miners. The Navy, on paper the most powerful in the northern Biosphere, had completely collapsed, Those ships who hadn't deserted or been destroyed, retreated to large, escorts for individual miners, demoralised at the ineffectiveness of their conventional weapons on this new foe. Most Mining companies with any sense, had decided to wait out the wedding, and hope that the Pirates deadly blockade would be lifted after her point had been made.

Public pressure began to heavily harrow the aristocracy. Many were now welcoming their previously medically impossible pirate queen. The palace resisted, its official line being “The Purisian People would rather eat paint than perch under a Pirate, especially a lady pirate, especially a lady pirate in a terrible wig.” But these brave attempts at resistance were now becoming drowned out by the rumbling of hungry bellies.

Many speculated who the “lucky” prince would be. Before this crisis, the formally informal high prince was a well bred, charismatic and intelligent Feline by the name of Machiavelli. But lately, he had had a cough, and his presence at court had become much diminished. Many, in suspicious correlation with the fish famine and incoming deadline had come down with mysterious ailments. Count Thomas, one of the most affluent and influential patricians at court, had come down with a sore leg. Prince Sooty, a well bred intellectual and poetic genius had “the sneezes”.

This pseudo abdication of these movers and shakers had created something of an aristocratic goldrush amongst the high born B team. A new cream emerged from the cheese of the high sitting, and ahead of the pack, mainly by virtue of oblivious good health was Lord, Sir. Percy Fennimore of Tumbletum. Lord Percy had generally advanced up the ranks of vantage by being well bred, amiable and cooperative. Considered by some, too dumb to offend, now this opportunity of leadership had thrust itself upon him, and being a good cat, he had impaled himself upon it.

Many of the more devious felines had suggested an ambush during the wedding. Should she arrive, she would be seized and executed, and they could all go back to not being so horribly humiliated. However, as the date drew ever closer, the court received a letter in black envelope, with a seal of melted gold, delivered by hand, by a former captive of a thought-lost mining vessel. The poor fellow reportedly dressed in the rags of his uniform, and quite the worse for his capture. The letter contained, aside from a few fish bones, the names of over three thousand captured maritime crew, both navy and merchantile, who would be executed should she not return. The messenger confirmed these numbers, and spoke of the eagerness with which their captors enforced discipline upon them. Still, many of the high born dubbed this an “affordable loss”. But enough of the captured were related to the higher sat, that this course of action was ultimately suspended.

As the 8th approached, everyone in the confederacy and surrounding territories was on the edge of their seats. Could the confederacy turn into a pirate nation? Would She of the Sea even turn up? Was it all a ruse to plunder the treasury? I was about to discover that my proximity to the affair was to greatly decrease. For on the Monday morning, as i woke and opened my door to collect the milk and eggs of breakfast, A mute in jet black buccaneers garb awaited me. At my surprise and questioning he only offered a black envelope, and once given and in my hands. Turned and marched off down the path.

As i watched the figure retreat, in similar fashion i had so many months before, I took in the sigil on the golden seal. It was a horrid imprint of a skull upon what appeared to be a confederate guinea. With some effort i broke it, revealing the letter within.

“Dear Rupert Von Hopp

I hereby invite you to ordain my wedding between {this space was blank} and myself.

The wedding will occur on the 8th of August at the Palace of Vantages in Clowder.

Bring whatever religious officialdom you deem necessary.

Participation in mandatory.

Do not be late.

Regards - Her Royal Highness, Queen of Pirates, She of the Sea.”

+++

As the 8th of August dawned it did not dawn. A massive storm that raged throughout the day put the sun into hiding with oppressive black clouds that stretched in every direction. The entire country was buffeted by tree snapping winds and impossible seas. A most foreboding atmosphere as a poetic prelude to the events to come.

The hall of vantages had been refitted now to accommodate the ceremony. Half of the giant octagonal hall was flat as was before, but now a giant staircase that covered half the space stretched up to the ceiling, topped with a platform, where the royal ornaments of marriage were located. Two thrones awaited married bottoms. A podium with my prepared notes sat infront of this and by its side, the murine wand, a golden baton and, constrained by rope, gold mock rodent, to complete the service.

The attendees sat either side of the stairs, creating an aisle up the centre, and fine perfumes wafted about in abundance, presumedly in preemption for the odours that would shortly be joining them. Nobody looked happy.

The storm raged outside the palace, windows shaking in their frames against the blackened furious weather. The river Mog, frothing and spluttering forth great waves of froth and foam upon the undefended promenade. A great wind encircled the forlorn ceremony, a reminder of how the Confederacy had been (soon to be literally) brought to one knee by She of the Sea. As the Congregation waited, I went over my notes again and snuck a shot of brandy from a hidden flask to steel my nerves. A glance at Percy prompted my charity and i slipped him the bottle, which he chugged.

As we waited in silence, punctuated only by the woeful weather outside, the distant whine of strings could be detected. Indeed, it grew on the edge of our perception until it became a tune upon the wind. It grew louder and more distinct, with familiar melody, and as the main doors opened, we knew it had begun. The musicians led the parade, a trio of fiddling loons entered the hall playing the national anthem. As they hopped and skipped, whooping in glee, the congregation, unsure at whether this gesture was patronage or insult, awkwardly shifted between respect and disgust. Behind the fiddlers came the flower mice, plucking their flowers and discarding them, somewhat aggressively into the faces of the onlooking guests. The procession advancing up the steep stairs. A guard of honour six thugs wide and thirteen scoundrels deep paraded in their nonuniform uniform. Bristling with swords and sabers, guns varying in crudeness, every type of thuggish visage imaginable, and each, to a man, a giant.

But the worst was yet to come.

Behind this terrible vanguard strode She of the Sea, And in her crass humour, clad in a dress stitched of stolen ensigns from the multitude of Purisian Vessels lost prior. A train of colours that stretched several meters, carried in shackles by wretched visions of former officers, obviously captured as prizes for this disgraceful parade.

I cannot pretend that I had not, up unto this point, taken a certain degree of enjoyment from the suffering of the Confederate court. The Purisians had always been proud, and arrogant, and to see them laid so low had been a long time coming, to say nothing of the reckoning that would be for the great unnamed shame we shall not speak of here. But this depraved display of vulgarity so deeply disturbed me that it was as if the levity of the situation was sucked from me like a breech into vacuum, like a rude awakening from a dream.

She escalated the stairs to where Lord Percy and myself were waiting. Her distasteful dress aside, Her wig flowed all the way down to her thighs and her scars were painted with a variety of powders and chemicals to hide the disfigurements bestowed by her business. Percy had begun to sweat profusely, his previously cavalier attitude withered and sullen in the face of this new ascending reality. At the head of the stairs she joined us, and presented him with a most sarcastic curtsy.

“G’devenin Sirs.” she snarked “My arent you boys looking trim.”

She wasn't wrong. Many of the Cats in attendance were draped in their robes. Percy had lost so much weight his finaries looked like a tent.

She waited with a shark smile for a few moments, which dropped as she nodded for him to get on with it.

“Oh. Oh’m yes, meow!” Percy Stammered, grasping at pockets about his robes “Will, uh, you, Miss, She of the Sea… Marry me?”

“Why my lords!” she turned to the gathered congregation “What a surprise!”

Her faux humility suddenly shattered as a huge flash of lightning and accompanying thunder rang out about the palace.

“Yes, proceed.” she nodded, anxiously. Outwardly dominant but i could tell that this weather, through perhaps an instinctive fear of the storm, or something other, was pressing on her wits.

Rain, sheeted across the glass panel ceiling, the patter so loud that I had to raise my voice to be heard. As I read the opening statements of matrimony i noticed her face growing in anticipation, she became tense and would continuously glance at the windows and the storm. The Feline royalty did pick up on this, and craned to see her growing nervousness.

More thunder, more rain. The wind shook the paynes so hard that I thought at any moment they would fall lose from their fixtures. The thugs, so stern on entry began to shift in their formation, some subtlety reached for their arms, others sunk inside their posture, as if willing the storms eyre to pass over them.

By the point of the vows, the Pirate Queen had lost all pretense of levity. Her hand spun spurring me to rush the service, and Percy was scolded in hisses for fluffing his lines more than once. As i continued to rush through the vows i misplaced a prompt. As I hesitated and scrabbled amongst the notes of the podium I felt her gaze intensify upon me. But the absence of my voice against the storm left it dominant of sound in the acoustics of the hall. The wind began to strangely pattern, in, and out, the panes, vibrating like a death rattle with every rhythmic gust. Spotting my illusive note, i stooped to pick it up beneath the podium and here we all paused to hear the supernatural voice upon the wind. The winds wheezed words; a name, called over and over.

~Fell~Grass~

~FELL~GRASS~

The pirates began to mutter between eachother.

“Stand firm, you dogs!” she turned and bellowed to the troop.

“Father, look lively! Myaa!” leaning in and nodding, wild eyed.

~FELL~GRASS~

I was tempted to stall here, to probe at what was so frightening to this, herself, intimidating woman. But this weather, this voice was becoming a little rich for my blood. I galloped through the remaining statements, prompting Percy through his promises and I dos.

~FELL~GRASS~

“Speak now, or forever hold thy peace?” I ventured. The Pirate Queen reared up and stared down the congregation, mania in her eyes and hand on her hilt, should anyone dare to scupper the service. Her anxiety beginning to bleed into the crowd, all of whom began to huddle together.

“having witnessed your vows of love to one another, it is my joy to present you to all gathered here as…”

A loud patter of water stole everyones attention to the rear of the hall. There the ten foot palace doors, barred shut, dribbled water lazily into the atrium. A rush of water, like a tide, could be heard again to slosh against the wood, causing a heinous creeking and again a spill of water through the central seam.

~FELL~GRASS~

~creaaaaaaaaak~

~FELL~GRASS~

~CREAAAAAAAAAK~

The loons began to whoop and bounce, fiddling wildly. The flower mice had slipped away. She of the Sea turned and slammed the podium.

“COME ON!”

~CRASHHHHHHHHHHH~

A great tide of water broke open the doors and swept into the hall, lapping against the stairs. The vacuum of the hall pierced, a great wind swept up the congregation, and the voice upon it, given tone and character, and malicious intent.

The Pirate vanguard began to panic. “He’s here!” one cried. “Keeper save us!” another. The terror in the faces of such brutes deeply perturbed the plush royalty who began to cower and scrabble to the corners of the room.

“FELLGRASS, DID YOU THINK YOU COULD FLEE BEYOND MY REACH?”

She of the Sea drew her sword.

“DID YOU THINK YOU SAFE ON LAND?”

The sword leveled at my nose

“Err… Husband and wife… “ I stammered, turning to Percy. Percy had completely frozen in fear, as he stared past his beloved and into the churning water below. A form, A figure, ascended the rising spray.

“FELLGRASS, I SHALL HAVE MY JUSTICE.”

I shook him and he did not move. The Pirate Queen observing the coming nightmare gave me a motivating glance.

“FELLGRASS, I SHALL HAVE MY CROWN.”

“You may now, fuss the bride…”

She practically pulled Percy’s tongue out from his mouth and rubbed it against her cheek. His eyes still transfixed on the horror below, now approaching the stairs. She turned to face the furious guest.

The figure began to take more accurate form, a combination of sea animals, barnacles, and other living sea detritus, formed by commune, the stature of an Octopus. An octopus that now strode toward the stairs.

The Pirates drew their weapons and held them at arms length, each trying to get behind the other infront of the unholy creature. Its composed swarm stood at the foot of the stairs, and its monstrous collage face looked up at the paniced corsairs.

“I AM OCTAVIAN, KING OF PIRATES, KNEEL OR FLEE.”

In a shower of discarded arms the pirates fled up the stairs for the exits. Each avoiding the gaze of their furious queen.

“Get back here, Cowards! I’ll gut you an’ all yur mams! Myaa!”

As she glared after the retreating pirates she eyed the guards of the palace, each themselves overtook with terror at the apparent magic in their presence.

“Get down there and defend your Queen!” She snapped.

The guards steeled themselves and formed line at the head of the stairs, Lowering their halberds, they cautiously descended towards the figure.

“WAS THIS YOUR PLAN FELLGRASS?” water swelling now in the atrium, his boot ascending the first stair.

“CAN’T FLEE, CAN’T HIDE, YOU GET SLAVES OF NATION TO FIGHT ME OFF? A SPINELESS LEADING SPINELESS!”

The guards advanced down the stairs toward the frothing indoor sea. Octavian, atleast six foot five stared each in turn, getting the measure of them. His face a swarm of sea creatures and dark water. He let out a most wicked laugh, and with one sweep of his arm, swept the six aside in a conjured wave. The cats, scrabbling and frantic in the magic surf, were assailed by grasping hands and sorrowed faces, which pulled and bit them down beneath the water.

“ARMIES OF LAND SHALL NOT QUELL ME.”

Another step upon the stairway. The glass panes in the roof, under tremendous weight from storm of water, began to fail, creating pillars of rain within the hall. In these pillars too could be seen the wicked woeful faces of the lost, and horrid wet hands grasped out at any nearby. The horror of this bringing many present guests to tears. The loons were in full hilarity now, some swinging from the fittings and cackled nonsense.

She of the Sea pushed percy aside and stood atop the stairs, sword drawn.

“I am Pirate Queen, Octavian!”

“YOU ARE NOT QUEEN FELLGRASS, YOU CANNOT STEAL WHAT CANT BE STOLEN, THE ONLY RULE THAT CANT BE BROKEN”

Another step, and a rusted cutlass drawn from inside his form.

“A KNIFE IN MY BACK AND DEEP SEA GRAVE, DID YOU THINK NATURE WOULD ALLOW IT!”

“DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T CURSE YOU!”

“DO YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND YOU!”

“EVERY YEAR UNTIL I CATCH YOU!”

“EVERY YEAR UNTIL I STEAL THE CROWN YOU STOLE!”

The storm was now incredible, lighting striking the very palace, wind whipping around the hall tearing banners and candles free in a vortex of natures hate.

“PIRATE CODE IS SACRED, PIRATE KING IS SACRED, I CURSED YOU AS MY LUNGS FILLED, I CRIED OUT T’SEA TO GRANT ME VENGEANCE, AND NATURES GRACE LET ME HAVE MY VENGEACE.”

“I, She of the Sea, Queen of the Purisian Confederacy by law…” Glaring at me, I nodded.

“Do pardon you, Octavian, King of Pirates, of all crimes both maritime and otherwise.”

Octavian threw back his head and howled in laughter.

“HOW DESPERATE, HOW HUMILIATING.”

“WHAT FEAR OF LAW DOES NATURE HAVE? WHAT FEAR OF NOOSE DOES DEATH HAVE? PRAISE BE T’SEA, THAT LET ME HAVE SUCH SATISFYING A JUSTICE FOR KING AND CODE WRONGED!”

He continued his ascent, royals shrieked and cried in terror. I myself sheltered by the podium clutching the keepers hand around my neck. But She of the Sea, where before she had been so anxious, now stood defiant. She even sheathed her sword.

“King of whom?”

“OCTAVIAN, KING OF P…. KING OF PPIR…!”

“Yur a free man now Octavian, Ex-pirate, And your claims t’throne just expired.”

The face of the barnacled monster began to shift.

“Sea ain’t got no interest in ya now. Myaa.”

“NO!”

He staggared, his form deconstructing at its periphery. The creatures of his figure dropping back into the water.

“Sling yur hook ya dead bastard!”

“I AM KING!”

And atop the stairs she turned, grabbed the podium of my refuge, and above her head, slung it t’ward him. Exploding the jilted creature to scattered bilge and seaweed. As the storm fell away, and winds and waves retreated, all that remained of Octavian was Crabs and Cuttlefish.

Daylight shone through the ruined ceiling, clouds dissipated, birdsong began. She of the Sea looked about the place. The Royals still huddled and petrified, Percy stood motionless. and I stood unprotected at her mercy. She slung a purse once more at my chest. And without a word. Fled down the stairs and into the clearing weather.

It took about fifteen minutes for the assembly to regain composure. Percy, snapping out of his trance, Snatched my stash of brandy and ran. I, exhausted by excitement, took a seat upon the stairs and took in the gathering royals.

The Cats of court were all filled with newfound acceptance. Cuddling and rejoicing in their shared experience. Many openly forgave others with which they had quarrelled with for years. Many spoke of a brave new future in which they would all share and develop the nation, so that this kind of hideous witchcraft could never happen again. The conversation began to change to future plans, all voices excitedly talking over each other.

And as they did so the louder voices gained prominence. Machiavelli, who had been so quiet until this dialogue. Subtly ascended a stair to get better projection over the court. Count Thomas rose to counter his argument, slyly slipping another step on the staircase.

In one movement, all the cats of court surged to the top of the stairs, clambering and scrabbling over one another in lieu of the absent Percy. I took good measure to avoid the squabbling felines and watched them all try and reach heights above the rest on the flat platform, some making deals to boost each other in return for favour and gifts.

I left them to it.

That was many many years ago now. To this day i never saw her again, i still operate on Saltskell and the mining ships are largely unmolested by pirates. The Confederacy though shy at first, embraced the tale with gusto. She of the Sea is commemorated in doll and dish throughout the country. Percy didn't manage to retain power, as far as I know he is technically still king. Piracy is still with us, partly legacy to the large scale defection of the fish famine. But the vessel of the pirate queen has not been seen, though i do hear stories of it cropping up in raids on the southern biosphere.

But perhaps we shall meet one more time.

I write this memoir, as once more I have received black envelope with ghastly skull seal. A fleet of black ships sit on the horizon, each at half mast. I feel the final duty i must perform for her majesty, has already been ordained.

#short story #pirates #pirate #pirate fiction #fiction

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apocvlypsed · 6 years

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( snoop dogg vc ) greetings loved ones, let’s take a journey!

it’s linc comin’ atchu with my third, the one & only, the precious, the marshmellow cute fellow, casey bouchard ! below you shall find a brief backstory, an array of headcanons, & some general suggestions for all ur plotting needs .

tyler young — oh, have you met casey bouchard? he is a nineteen year old cis male that is feeling apprehensive about the planet’s imminent doom. a film student, this virgo is known around town as the raconteur, because he is introspective & altruistic, as well as escapist & frangible. hopefully, case will survive.

overview/backstory blurb thing :

he’s the son of hawley’s mayor, it’s casual?? he’s v supportive of both his mothers, but like... also really doesn’t enjoy small town living? he’s a city boi so... having his mother literally up and move them to this middle-of-nowhere place in pennsylvania for love... he supported it out of necessity but? would much rather be back in nyc with his boyz?

ya boy’s originally from brooklyn, nyc born and raised! his father was kinda... never in the picture? ( translation: as soon as raising an infant got difficult, he peaced tf out and refuses to pay child support. mainly bc like... he disappeared. yup. nice guy. ) anyway! in response to this, his mother joined an online support group for single mothers -- just a chatroom where they could all kind of talk and relate to one another about the aches & pains of raising children on their own? well. on this forum, sharon friedman happened to receive a direct message from anna bouchard, and so it all began...

after years of talking with anna on the phone and over skype, casey was finally like, “ma, you gotta just meet her.” so when he was 15, he practically forced his mom to rent a car and they made a road trip out to hawley, pa to meet this woman that had so clearly captured his mother’s heart. he was like: yes ok, good !! good! because casey believes in love and fate and red strings. what he wasn’t really counting on was... staying... in hawley... sharon couldn’t bring herself to leave hawley after their visit. casey couldn’t bring himself to deny his mother a chance at love and happiness after being so alone. who was he to say no to that? so he wasn’t the asshole he could have been -- he could have thrown a fit about their home, his school, his bae, his life back in nyc. but instead, he suggested that they move there, filled out the transfer papers for hawley high himself. and so he entered a new world as a sophomore, completely and utterly overwhelmed by the newfound quiet, slowness. he dealt. joined the photography club, became chief photographer and editor for the yearbook. to everyone else, he was thriving. and like... yes ok, maybe he was, but there was this part of him that still... longed for new york. the place that held his heart.

in his junior year of high school, anna announced her campaign for mayor !! so naturally, casey was RIGHT THERE supporting the love of his mother’s life. printing flyers, handing out cute buttons and cupcakes at school. bc he loves his mother and his mother loves anna, so it just... made sense. but he... at this point he really missed the city; he was looking at nyu and columbia as options for post-secondary school. that is, until anna won the election and moved on from board of education to freakin’ mayor !

but what no one told him was how being the mayor’s son would affect him. when anna and his mother married, he kindly chose to keep his mother’s surname, friedman. but with a mayor in the family? it would seem suspicious to have a child with a mismatched surname. anna’s pr people basically coerced him into taking on her surname, bouchard. and y’know, it was the right thing to do. but it felt a lot like a sell-out.

being the mayor’s son also meant being in photos instead of taking them. which was..... not his forte? still isn’t. he’ll go through it for his mom, but casey thrives behind the scenes. he enjoys letting other people shine, paying witness to that.

he’s a film student now! studying in hawley because.... he couldn’t bring himself to abandon his mother, or to even approach her with pamphlets of city schools. she was so happy here, and he knew that giving her a reason to think he wasn’t... it would make her feel guilty. so ( another sell-out! ) he agreed to go to community college here. in his free time, he makes short films much like what mikey murphy makes on youtube . they’re never longer than 10 minutes -- they don’t have to be. they’re poignant. true. he’s got a way with the camera, a way with voiceovers and words and angles. all the fluff and frills aren’t necessary.

alright so... here’s the kicker. casey is a truthful person. he wears his heart on his sleeve. but lately he’s been made aware of some... i n f o r m a t i o n ... that could ruin the entire town and their relationship to their mayor, and his family. here’s the rundown:

he’s not a snoop. nope. but being the son of the mayor’s wife the mayor’s son involves helping out every so often. fielding, phone calls, organizing files, pr meetings... deleting emails.

so he stumbled upon an email thread detailing arrangements and transfers of large funds. for a bunker. for food. blankets. supplies. underground. using taxpayer money.

in a panic, he forwarded the emails to his personal email before deleting them off of anna’s computer.

why did he save them? why... why does he need them? because... they’re safe with him? or maybe they’re collateral? not that he.... he doesn’t need collateral, right? because the bunker helps him. ensures his survival, too. but here he is... carrying around this lethal information, not knowing what to do about it. wanting to tell those he’s close to, but he can’t because his mother loves anna and if he hurts anna, he hurts her, and himself. it’s... a predicament.

an array of headcanons! :

raisinets are casey’s weakness. if you wanna win him over, grab him a box. he will fall in love.

demisexual as fuck !!! not the hookup type, but... let’s just say, it has happened before. takes a lot of alcohol. but he’s been there.

he adores old films. he SPRINTS to the little local theater when they have special features of anything vintage and cheesy. or even films like “back to the future” or “breakfast at tiffany’s”. he buys like 12 boxes of candy every time because he’s hella indecisive, swears he’ll decide when he sits down and then just... makes no decision and eats all of them. he unironically replaces his soda straw with a twizzler because.... it just Makes Sense, ok?

he’s got this wide-eyed attitude about the world. no way, you found half-priced avocados at rite aid? just... genuinely in this world because he adores it. the little things give him this breathless sense of joy. “i found a penny in the parking lot today!” he’ll chirp with pride to a room full of other film students that don’t give a shit. because... the unexpected tiny treasures are what make hawley worth staying. if he didn’t have those, he would have run back to nyc years ago.

casey wants so badly to believe there’s something greater about life. that it’s not some fragile wilting leaf to be tossed to the wind. he wants to fight for something and his way of doing that is easy smiles and a soft gaze.

he smells like cinnamon spice, vanilla, with subtle hints of amber, musk, and cedar. just like... how you might imagine a cool autumn day, with a gentle breeze. that’s really his disposition, too. that soft gust of wind that caresses your skin, ruffles your hair, makes you close your eyes and breathe in deeper.

he has a brooklyn accent and idk that’s just really important to me.

“one day” by kodaline is a Mood.

his personality/presence is a lot like “my favourite story” by jack in water? just... so lovely and quiet and soft.

he listens to vinyl bc his moms got him a player for hanukkah one year (lol they’re kinda in a great financial situation now that anna’s providing). so he’ll just lie down and stare at the ceiling and listen to the temptations and the beatles and belle & sebastien, lightly tapping his toes together, circling his feet. the simple things.

he gets quiet when he gets angry. as in, if you yell at him, he will lower his voice to a whisper so you have no choice but to lower yours and listen. he learned that from his mother and the countless arguments she got in with their landlord in brooklyn. it’s kind of a power move.

really allergic to cats and dogs! he gets the sniffles! but does he still always say hi and seek them out?? yes!!

he kind of... he kind of wants to make a film to put in the time capsule. he’s working on it, slowly. a film of hawley. of life before the asteroid. he’s absolutely the type to break out his camera or phone and film his friends without asking. highly sentimental. all the zooms, all the laughs and smiles and eye rolls before they inevitably cover the lens with their hands. he finds beauty in everything. or, rather, everything has the capacity to be beautiful, with some investment in time/angles. he films all those tiny moments, those pointless little dinner dates or hikes in the woods because... if he films his friends, if he films these moments... then they’ll never really die. they’ll exist on an sd card, or icloud, or... somewhere. and then his friends won’t die. his family won’t die. they’ll be there, immortalized on film. so film is... his craft. his passion. but also his way of avoiding the future, evading the bleak limitations of human existence. it’s his way of grappling with the asteroid, denying that big rock any of its power. because casey... he’s got a camera and he’s got time, and no boulder careening toward the planet can rip that away from him. ( it’s flawed logic. he knows. but it’s something. )

connection ideas :

step-brother/sister: they’re anna (the mayor)’s biological child. and i will probably send a wc in for this eventually, but basically they’re the second half of the reason why anna and sharon even met. i imagine things are kinda... interesting... between them and casey? being thrust into a new family, and now a family in the limelight... it’s complicated. they’re probably like, 20-24, a bit older.

friends: people from high school, people from college, etc. casey loves them dearly.

art squad: alright he... just really needs people to cry over great films with, honestly.

love interest: uhm he is so gentle and just... think about the gentle hand touches and linking of pinkies as they stand in the snack line at the theater and just... making fools of themselves ice skating & doing dumb shit? pls?

someone he wrongfully trusted: aight... this is some angst, y’all. someone who literally crushed him, or... spread a rumor, or something. just completely violated his trust. because casey does not know how to deal with that shit. he’s the type to smile sadly and talk to them, ignoring how his eyes are misting over a bit. “hey, how are you? oh yeah, i’m... good. good, really. you mentioned a while ago you were gonna be doing ___, how’s that?” and he’ll... keep himself in that conversation for as long as they’ll talk. because like... if he angles his perspective just right, he can almost blur out the tension and pretend it’s back to how things used to be.

brotp: okay i need it. taking polaroids and penning dates on them, getting giggly drunk on champagne and watching cheesy rom-coms. just... being dorks. pls & thanks

pictures of you: hear me out. someone who’s been in the background of his life. appears in photos for the hs yearbook, maybe shows up in his films he shoots around town. they’ve never really spoken but casey wants to. it’s just... the whole... introductions thing. “hey, you’re in a lot of my art! accidentally! what’s up?” doesn’t really fly.

people from nyc: idk if your muse was ever in nyc for an extended period of time let’s just.. let’s discuss ;)

neighbor(s): so since the bouchards are quite well off, casey’s got his own ~ luxury apartment ~ to himself, oo la la. but i imagine it’s part of a larger apartment complex, etc.

grocery store buds: “hello, how are you, wanna try to find ripe avocados with me?” becomes a saturday routine. they wait for their deli meat together too. so cute. #truelove. ya never know.

exes: i imagine casey wouldn’t have many of these, since he does have this really romanticized idea of love and carries with him high, virgo standards. but... these would’ve been special connections. and he probably mourns them a lot.

literally anything ever i love plots and we know this

#hawley:intro #҉ we'll find all our lost time ! casey.#҉ greetings & salutations ! intro.

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tsuraiwrites · 6 years

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Fic: rewriting the epilogue (1)

repost of fic from my old writing blog to my main.

Anders and Hawke have created a sanctuary for mages. Now they must protect what they've built.

Previously

Hawke no longer makes a habit of taking in strays. No, that’s all Anders’ purview these days, in the months when their flight from Kirkwall turned to a solid march on circle after circle. Starkhaven was the first after they fled the red-stained city. Then the letters start to come, Following their group in the claws of ravens and the occasional sharp-eyed songbird.

They all boil down to help us, too.

He follows Anders on to the next site, helping the mages who decide to stay with them – to give others what they’ve craved through all the years shut away. For once it’s not Hawke that’s looked on with fear and awe, that admiration that always irked him but seems to settle over Anders like a tailored cloak. It shows when Anders heals their wounds, treats malnutrition and old whipping scars and nary a soul flinches away anymore when Justice shines through the cracks in his skin. Anders lends a listening ear to the man who recounts his narrow escape from Tranquility when the Templars found out he would occasionally hear voices that weren’t there. Justice flies into a rage, vows of vengeance on his lips in the face of the barely-pubescent girl who flinches from the touch of grown men, crying when Justice kneels before her. “What was done to you was wrong. Not your fault, only their sickness and hate. We will protect you. Shield you from harm until you learn to protect yourself. This we swear: they will never touch you again.” Despite the tears and the sinister blue glow, the girl throws herself into Justice’s arms.

“Thank you thank you thank you.”

They stay. They fight, for the cause and for their new leader. The children follow Anders like ducklings and he teaches them to cast a steady barrier so no one and nothing can harm them.

Later, Hawke teaches them to cast fire over the barrier, superheating their hands – to go for the neck, the eyes and groin, any gaps armor may not cover. They take to it swimmingly and Anders sighs at him as the children soon come for burn salve less and less.

Merrill finds them after the second circle lies in ruins, bringing with her news of Templars on the march. Justice burns bright but does not rage, turning steely eyes on her. “You know much of magics not taught in circles – not the demon filth, but that which is practiced by the elven peoples?”

Her smile is bright in the falling dusk. “Yes of course! I would be happy to teach anyone who wants to learn!”

“Then stay.”

Their party soon grows too big to travel, ungainly and winding down the road – an easy target.

Anders sits beside him one night with a world-weary sigh. Hawke sets aside the nearly-finished staff he was working on setting a crystal into and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Tired?”

“Just worried. We’re not safe, we never will be on the run like this.”

Hawke hums, turning to look his lover in the eyes. “Then we need to stop running.”

Understanding and a flicker of blue lights Anders’ gaze, enough to acknowledge Justice’s agreement. His answering smile is enough to make Hawke’s heart flutter.

They debate the Planasene forest but no one wishes to settle that close to Kirkwall, most especially the former Gallows mages. Instead they head northwest between Wildervale and the Nevarran border, miles away from the closest town, and start to build. The children and apprentices practice their levitation spells, lifting trunks and great boulders in a joint effort to build a defensible wall between tall, still-rooted trees. Merrill teaches everyone the fireproofing runes used on elven aravels and several days are spent carving them into the walls. One human and one elven apprentice prove adept at Keeper magics, and they are tasked with weaving living roots throughout the border to serve as both an alarm system and defense should someone try to sneak by.

The elven apprentice uncovers a burrow in the meanwhile, running back to their interim camp with two tiny brown kittens in her arms. Hawke knows even before Anders lets out a delighted sound that it’s too late – more strays. At least Dog takes the presence of the kittens well, hopping around the nest Anders makes for them with typical mabari enthusiasm. Hawke can only sigh and make affirmative noises when presented with the tiny fluffballs. The smaller one mews plaintively until he gives in to scratching it under the chin and pretends not to notice Anders beaming at him. Nothing gets done for the next few hours.

Later, he directs the mages with specialties in water and earth magic to dig a well, deep enough to serve their little settlement as it grows. As a force mage, Hawke can’t do much other than help stabilize the rocks as they shift, but he learns by watching and talking with the older enchanters who’ve taught generations of apprentices. Others gather eventually, chipping in their ideas and asking questions until work grinds to a halt as everyone joins the discussion. He has the fleeting thought that this – the discussion, the ideas volleying back and forth between enchanter and apprentice alike – are what the Circles could and should have been: a place to learn so much more than a single apostate on the run could ever pick up, and safe to boot.

That night Anders brings the kittens to the tent they’ve claimed until shelters can be built. Hawke sighs and doesn’t argue, stripping off the armor that’s become a second skin over the years and laying his staff by the pile of furs that serves as their bed.

Anders is humming, forgoing the stack of parchment that is his continually-rewritten manifesto in lieu of stroking one sleeping kitten’s fur. There is a softness to his face that brings warmth to Hawke’s chest. He shuffles over to the man, lifting a hand to cup his face and kissing him with all the love he can muster. The skin under his hand cracks blue as he pulls away, Justice looking out through Anders’ eyes and both as close to content as he’s ever seen them.

“Love you,” he says, to both of them. They smile back, pulling him up to their face for another kiss.

“We love you, too.”

Feynriel comes to Hawke in a dream. No longer a boy but not quite a man in his eyes, the somniari has nonetheless become something of a friend to him, occasionally reaching all the way from Tevinter to give aid to their cause. The way he bends dreams to his will and walks the Fade from border to border in an instant has been instrumental to alerting the Circles as to what’s happening and planning breakouts for the rebel mages.

“Trouble,” Feynriel says, stirring apart the calm little corner of the Fade Hawke had been floating in. “You’ve got a legion of Templars heading your way now that they know you’re not moving.”

“A legion. How many?” He doesn’t bother asking why Feynriel didn’t go to Anders; they both know that while Justice is cut off from the Fade itself, the spirit still creates an impenetrable wall between it and anything that would seek to influence Anders.

“Thirty, at least. Maybe up to fifty. It’s…hard to tell with so many in one place.” He sounds apologetic. Hawke sighs but doesn’t allow dread to grow in his chest. He and a bare handful of battle-capable mages took on greater numbers in the Gallows. Nonetheless, they now have children and the few Tranquil who agreed to come under the protection of the rebels to think about. In addition, he and Anders had planned to head out soon.

“What about Ostwick?”

“There have been whispers of a pre-emptive Annulment. The Knight-Commander there guards his dreams, but Trevelyan has seen evidence of correspondence with the Chantry. He may be waiting on a writ from the Divine.”

His fists clench as Hawke bites his lip to keep from sighing again. “Thank you. I'll talk to my people and Anders, see what they want to do.”

Feynriel smiles wanly, the wisps of Fade-stuff already blurring his edges. “Keep in touch, Hawke.”

“You know I will.”

Even if the clank of armor didn’t give them away, the screams of approaching Templars getting caught, then torn apart by animated roots and tree branches certainly does. The noise is enough to wake the mages not already on watch.

“Hmm, seems like they’re having a little trouble,” Hawke muses, twirling his staff with a vicious grin. “Shall we be polite hosts and head out to meet them?”

Anders doesn’t laugh, Justice too far at the forefront to let the humor of the moment distract them, but he nods and leads the way to the gate. A web of impenetrable, thorny roots strung between two thick trees serves to bar any entrance or exit. Merrill is already there, bouncing down the roots from the top of the wall with feet so light she barely makes a sound.

“They’re here!” she sings, tone airy but with eyes full of vicious glee. Already, several Dalish clans have been caught in the backlash of the rebellion. Between Feynriel and ravens they’ve done what they can to warn the elves away from any great force, but bloodshed is inevitable and not every clan can swallow their pride long enough to accept aid from a group of flatears and shems, no matter how well-intentioned.

Justice sucks in a breath. “Where is Orsino? He volunteered for guard duty this night, did he not?”

“Oh! He’s so eager to get started, I already helped him up the wall,” she exclaims, pointing up to the side of the gate furthest from them. Hawke looks up just in time to see the former First Enchanter – now clad in far more practical light armor – square his shoulders. Mana crackles through the air and they watch as the man thrusts his staff forward – multiple fireballs shoot outwards, engulfing the area beyond in heat and light as the shouts of pain and anger redouble.

“That’s our cue, I think,” Hawke says, turning to Merrill. “Going to let us out?”

Merrill bounces on her feet again, turning to call out: “Paloma, Elan! Come open the gate!” Her apprentices emerge from amidst the tents, the young elven girl already making gestures at the shuddering plants.

Whistles pierce the air as flaming arrows start to appear. Before any of the mages on the ground can make a move, Orsino releases a great gust of wind that howls through the encampment like a pack of lonely wolves. It turns each shaft back where it came from.

“Take that!” he shouts, spitting past the stone and roots. The Templars are now close enough Hawke can hear their curses in return.

“Ready!” Elan calls, the boy gesturing toward the nearly-invisible gap at the gate as it slowly starts to widen.

“Let’s go!” Merrill grabs Justice by one arm and Hawke by the other, rushing through at a breakneck pace. The gate groans, closing swiftly behind them.

The Templars are legion, but also in chaos, their formation already broken as nature itself seems to rain her wrath down on them.

Hawke grins.

“Suck on a fireball!” Justice cries in Anders’ voice, gaining the closest warriors’ attention just in time for the explosion to catch them full in the face.

Merrill steps forward then, a dagger already out and pressed to her wrist. Red mist rises around her but neither man pays it any mind, too used to the blood settling and lifting off their skin as the woman’s power surges.

“Maleficar!” someone shouts, and that’s when the real battle begins.

The battle lasts long enough that he loses track of time, but when Hawke looks up from shoving his staff blade through the throat of a downed and dying Templar, dawn is already starting to lighten a strip of the sky Hawke can see through the trees. The armored man below him chokes, gurgles, dies.

He stands, wrenching the staff out and flicking away the blood before downing his last lyrium potion. They will have to bring more with them when they come back from Ostwick – even with only the older mages using them in desperate straits, supplies dwindle quickly and Hawke knows that they will have to make some sort of deal with the dwarves soon. Varric’s last letter discussed it in not so many words, making light of his growing connections within the Merchants’ Guild. Despite his conflicted feelings about Anders’ actions in Kirkwall, the dwarf has always come through for them. His friendship is one of the few treasures Hawke has left in the world.

Another of those treasures stands from their stoop, still burning Fade-blue underneath the blood and singed clothing. The air is clogged with the stench of death, burning flesh, and the sharp smell of too much lightning called down in too small a space. Justice leans on Anders’ staff as they look out over the field, trying to spot any flash of movement or even the twitch of a slow death in the clearing that surrounds the gate.

There’s another sharp cry and Hawke turns just in time to see Merrill smash in the head of a crouching hunter with her Stonefist. The Templar’s dagger drops from nerveless fingers even as the fresh corpse thuds dully to the ground.

“All done,” Merrill says, her usual cheer dimmed by weariness. Black streaks her arms, her blood clotting unnaturally quickly as she walks back their way.

“Have we finished them all?” Hawke asks warily, not quite willing to release the battle adrenaline unless the settlement’s safety is assured.

“I sense no hostile presences,” Justice rumbles, finally turning away from the scene of carnage to scan the wall behind them. “But where is Orsino?”

On cue, Hawke and Merrill whip around to view the stone above them. It’s deserted. “Shit.”

He and Justice both turn to Merrill, but before they can ask her to let them in the thorns rustle and part.

Elan runs straight through to them, not pausing to take in the field of death beyond the three. “We need a healer! C-come quick,” the boy pants, nearly falling over as he spins back around.

Justice bolts immediately, not pausing for even a moment as Hawke and Merrill quickly fall into line after him.

The scene is not good, though thankfully not as gruesome as Hawke imagined.

One of the apprentices lies propped against the wall, another pressing hard against a wound on the girl’s shoulder with a wad of cloth that looks to be part of a robe. Not ten feet away, two Templars in hunter armor lie crumpled as their blood seeps into the ground, a dagger still embedded in one’s neck.

And between them, a blank-faced woman stands with blood on her hands and the Chantry sun emblazoned on her forehead.

“Andraste’s tits,” Anders swears, the light in him dimming but not disappearing as he hurries to the stabbed apprentice’s side and starts tugging the cloth and her clothes away with one hand, the other glowing with healing magic. “What happened? Is anyone else hurt?”

“N-no, serah,” the boy who’d been putting pressure on the wound says. “Just Brigit, here. The-the Templars must have snuck past, got over the thorns somehow, because one appeared in front of us and just…just stabbed her. Didn’t even say anything. Thought we were all going to die, but…” he gestures to the Tranquil woman who looks back, still without expression. “Elise saved us. Ripped the knife right out of his hand and just…killed him. Then the other one, but no one even saw that one until he was lying on the ground, so.” He looks at the woman and offers her a wan smile. “Thank you, you saved our lives.”

Elise blinks, but otherwise does not move even to wipe the blood off her hands. “Thanks are unnecessary. You are my charges, I am responsible for your safety and continued existence,” she responds with eerie flatness.

Hawke turns to her, ready to take up the conversation with Anders and Justice occupied. “This is true? How did you know they were there?”

“Caywen speaks truth. I did not know anyone had come past the wall until Brigit was injured.”

“And you responded quickly enough to do this?” Hawke gestures, somewhat skeptical. He or Anders could have done it, yes, but they had decades of experience fighting Templars to lean on.

The woman blinks again, slowly. “I trained as a Templar for four and a half years before my magic manifested. I am familiar with their tactics and techniques.” Her response is not the least bit defensive, merely explanatory.

He can’t think of anything to say in response. Logically, there had to be some trainees who turned out to be mages when Templars started training orphans and volunteers so young, but he’d never met a mage – or Tranquil – who would ever admit to it. One would think they wouldn’t want those mages around at all, considering their inside knowledge. He pauses, another thought occurring to him. “Has anyone seen Orsino?” he asks the mages gathered between tents and the other interim structures.

“Here, Hawke,” the man himself answers, pushing through the crowd. One of the elf’s hands glows bright green where it’s wrapped over the nape of a vaguely-familiar middle-aged enchanter, pushing the man forward and then to his knees when they reach the space in front of Hawke and the others. Hawke blinks, taken aback by the roughness Orsino displays toward his fellow mage.

“Who’s this?” he asks before he can think better of it. Anders stands, wobbling a little on his feet before Hawke reaches out to steady him.

“Samuel Murray, of Starkhaven, if I remember correctly,” Anders rasps, his memory for names and faces always leagues beyond Hawke’s.

The man on his knees grimaces but it’s Orsino who replies, practically spitting in his anger.

“A spy!”

It takes a lot to convince Justice not to just end Murray right there when his crimes are laid bare for all to hear. Contacting Templars with one of their ravens, passing along the settlement’s location, defenses, and number of battle-ready mages all in the name of the Loyalists. Anders does nothing to stop Justice from reaching forward right in front of everyone and instead Hawke has to catch him by the arm.

“Justice, think,” he hisses. “If you kill him without arbitration, you become the one with all the power. That’s not the self-governance we’re fighting for.”

“He betrayed the cause, put everyone here in danger. He must die for his crimes,” Justice replies, not bothering to moderate his voice. The whole camp has assembled by this point, some already voicing their agreement, others muttering dissent but not openly shouting him down.

Hawke sighs, because he is just as angry, just as ready to strike the spy down where he stands for the harm he tried to bring down on those they swore to protect. But this is not the time, and playing sole judge and executioner in this situation would only hurt their cause in the long run.

It takes more whispered words and Hawke’s hand over the back of Justice’s neck in a soft parody of Orsino’s hand over Murray’s to get justice to calm enough to listen. The spirit subsides, lifting his chin as he and Anders gaze out over the gathered crowd.

“We will put it to a vote,” Anders says, angry and tired all in one. “Everyone past the age of majority gets a say.”

“Exile,” Justice finishes, “or execution.”

It comes so very close. Exile is not the ideal solution – all of them can see that, even the mages formerly of Starkhaven who were once Murray’s friends. They may drive him off, but the spy already carries so much information; their numbers, defenses, techniques, and location. The last is now a moot point – made apparent by the pile of fresh corpses settling by the gates – but it still settles uneasily with Hawke even as they escort the spy none-to-gently past the thorns.

Murray doesn’t curse them or attempt any magic. He merely glares, spitting at Anders’ feet then turning to walk away into the forest. If a thorny vine happens to lash out at his ankles as he passes, no one can be bothered to censure Merrill for it.

Life goes on – it has to. The older mages strip the Templar corpses of their weapons and armor, salvage cloth scraps and bits of leather while the younger ones are sent into the forest under supervision to gather wood for a pyre. As little respect as they have for their oppressors, no one would deny them the right to a sparse Andrastian funeral, if only to keep any spirits from resurrecting the corpses. The work is not quick; by the time all the armor is separated from weapons and clothing it is almost evening.

Orsino uses only one of his powerful fireballs to set the pyre alight. Hiding their location is a lost cause. Even if the nobles of Wildervale have yet to make a move for or against them, there is no doubt that they and everyone else will soon know where the free mages have taken shelter.

Hawke inspects the huge pile of scavenged metal then moves to join an exhausted Anders on a fallen log nearby. He doesn’t say anything as Anders leans into him with a ragged sigh. He can hear the clank and bustle of the evening meal being prepared beyond the wall, shouting as some of the children start to become lively again. There’s a low murmur of voices across the clearing where several men and women cluster together, watching the pyre with tight eyes and relaxed hands.

“I don’t want to leave them,” Anders mutters, turning his face into Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke doesn’t have to ask what he means.

“We have Ostwick to think about.”

“But what if the Templars attack again? Think what you will, Garrett, but you know the three of us can’t take on a circle alone.”

“So we take some of the better offensive mages with us, and leave the rest here. Merrill and her apprentices can defend the outside, the others can be safe behind the walls.” Hawke puts an arm over his shoulder, squeezing the thinner man against his side. “If all else fails, that Tranquil, what was her name-?”

“Elise.”

“Elise still has the skill to protect the young ones, Orsino can lead the rest. We’ll be gone three weeks at most, less if I can actually get my haste spell to work with yours. They’ll be fine.”

“You can’t know that.”

Hawke thinks for a long moment, silent as he looks over the churned earth and red pooling in what’s left of the battlefield. When Merrill regains her energy, she will take the earth mages into the clearing to turn over fresh dirt until every inch of blood and other viscera has disappeared.

“You could stay. I can take a handful of the enchanters with me, Ostwick is larger than Starkhaven, but I think we could-”

“No,” Anders almost yells, bolting upright, Justice writhing under his skin. “We will not see you parted from us, Garrett. You promised-”

Hawke grabs their hands and squeezes, trying to impart some comfort. “I know, love. But it’s either that or all three of us go. Unless you think we should leave Ostwick to its fate…?” It’s not a real question, but he has to ask.

Justice dies down, leaving Anders to shudder and close his eyes. “No. No, of course not.” A breath. “We’ll go, but…” he trails off, sighs, then gets to his feet, grabbing at Hawke as he goes. “I’m tired. Let’s sleep.”

Anders leads the way back through the gate to their tent, never once letting go of Hawke’s hand. The kittens are already curled up asleep, well-fed if the bulge of their tiny stomachs is anything to go by. Anders gives each a small stroke before he sits to take off his boots.

Hawke strips efficiently, neither of them speaking until they both lie under the covers, Anders tucked up against Hawke’s neck. He holds Anders close as tension slowly seeps out of the blond man’s body and his breath evens out.

They will leave the day after tomorrow, perhaps the day after that. There are more of their people out there, trapped and suffering – Hawke can only close his eyes and hope that the choice they make now is the best route to their lasting freedom.

Orsino hands them a letter. “They’ve called for the Rite in Ostwick. Thought you should know.” is scrawled across a piece of torn, dirty parchment.

“Fuck,” Hawke hisses.

“Raleigh Samson sent this?” Justice asks. Orsino’s correspondence with the man is well-known to them, one of the few ravens in their possession used almost exclusively for the Templar to pass information along. Hawke still doesn’t like it, but so far nothing the man’s sent has proven false.

Orsino nods, face twisting in anxiety. Hawke hands the parchment back to him before he destroys it with his clenching fists.

“We need to leave, now,” Anders says. “Tell those coming with to be ready within the hour. It’ll be a hard march, but we must hurry.”

Ostwick is a shitstorm from start to finish. After Starkhaven and Kirkwall itself, they should have anticipated the Templars’ preparation for their arrival.

The Rite is already under way.

They lose two of their own in the first hour. Another is gravely wounded and Hawke must stop their forward march to defend Anders as he heals the fallen man.

Templars come at them in waves, and when they eventually do reach the mages, one’s already given into temptation. Their form indistinguishable as human, rage demon lava eating through their skin as they attack anything that moves. It’s all a nightmare and honestly, Hawke could have gone his whole life without what they find in the apprentice quarters.

Row upon row of children, quietly stabbed or beheaded in their beds. A few managed to make it to the door before being cut down. Bile builds in his throat as Hawke uses magic to hook the nearest Templars closest to him and rip them apart at their necks. Behind him, Trevelyan begins retching over one of his students’ mangled bodies.

Of the Circle one-hundred and fifty mages strong, only sixty-four make it out alive. There are no children.

Not one Templar walks away.

The settlement welcomes them back with gates that bristle with thorns grown a deep red at the tips – and shining bands of steel laid into the rocks and trees that make up the walls. The walls themselves stand twice as high, now. Between that and the reinforcement of metal woven everywhere, it is easy to see that the free mages have not been idle in their absence. Hawke wonders for a moment where on Thedas they found all the metal such a work requires, but notices the piles of salvage from their battle are long-gone. Someone has figured out a use for all the discarded armor, it seems.

Elise meets them at the front, blank as ever but now with two daggers at her belt and, most surprising of all, decked out in armor instead of the typical robes worn by Tranquil. The armor bears no insignia – someone has beaten the sword of mercy out of the chestplate, leaving only slightly-dented metal behind. “You are back,” she observes when they get close enough, casting her eyes over their large party. “It is gratifying that you did not die, Keeper Merrill would be most upset.”

“Uh, thanks?” Hawke says, not really sure how to react to such a blunt remark.

“Have things been made ready for the new mages yet?” Anders cuts in, his voice tired. He’s not alone in that; the majority of the people behind them are dead on their feet, held up only by their staves or each other.

Elise nods. “Redthorne has been preparing for weeks. We have more than enough food and shelter for the moment.”

Hawke’s eyebrows go up, but it’s Anders who asks, anxiety leaking into his tone, “Redthorne? What is that? Something we need to know about?” Justice surfaces at the surge of emotion, but Elise only blinks back at them.

“It is the name of this settlement, as of thirteen days ago. After the Templar attack the week before, the gate’s color has shifted. Keeper Merrill suggested-”

“Wait, wait!” Hawke interrupts, alarm setting his hair on end. “Two weeks ago? We left the day after the Templars came, and that was three weeks ago!”

“There was another attack,” Elise responds, slowly, as if Hawke has suddenly lost the ability to comprehend Common. “They came in greater numbers, but the Keeper and First Enchanter Orsino led quite competently and no lives were lost on Redthorne’s side.”

There is a flash, Justice blazing so brightly that several of the Ostwick mages cry out in alarm, still unused to the spirit’s manifestations. “They dare,” he thunders. “After everything, how thoroughly we put them down, they dare to attack again so soon? Templars – we will end them all!” He is interrupted from his tirade by a rustle of the gates and Merrill’s clear, bell-like voice calling out.

“Hawke, Anders! Oh, Justice! I’m so glad to see you!” She flings herself at them, heedless of the danger an angry spirit represents as she hooks her arms around Justice and Hawke’s necks to pull them into a hug. Hawke can feel Justice go completely stiff beside him, but he neither protests nor lashes out against her, a testament to the control the spirit has gained over the years. “Feynriel visited my dreams to tell me what happened,” Merrill murmurs, voice low. “I’m so sorry. I hope we can make everyone feel welcome here.” She raises her voice, then. “Please everyone, come in! I’m Keeper Merrill. We’ve got hot food and bedding for anyone who needs it.”

Groans of happiness and relief echo through the clearing, and Hawke can only follow Merrill’s tugging as she leads everyone through the gates and into their new home.

It is, of course, Justice who notices Merrill is wounded. “You’re limping,” the spirit growls, stopping Merrill’s ongoing chatter about the settlement’s – Redthorne’s – growth over the past few weeks. Hawke is startled when the elf blushes to the tips of her ears.

“Ah, yes, you see, one of the Templars in the last attack landed a hit on my leg. Nothing to be concerned about, of course!” she says, waving her hand in a frantically dismissive fashion. “I'm afraid I’m just not as skilled at healing as Anders is, so I’ve been putting poultices on it. But there’s so much to do around here, I can’t possibly take the time to put it up.”

Justice is scowling fiercely now, looking at her legs as if he could make out the wound through her leggings. “What of your filthy blood magic, mortal? That is typically more than enough to keep enemies out of range.” It’s strange, to hear the spirit ask after blood magic – Hawke is treated to his disapproval of the art every time the topic is brought up, but over the years Merrill, Justice, and Anders have reached a tentative agreement wherein if blood magic utilizes only her own blood and that of their enemies and never for summoning demons or other nefarious deeds, the spirit and mage will accept her use of it. And now it appears to have failed her.

“One of the hunters had the Litany of…Adralla?” she bites her lip, looking away from them. “It stopped my blood magic before I could cast, then another caught me in a Silence. I don’t know what I would’ve done if Orsino weren’t there.”

Justice looks at her for a long moment, blaze-blue eyes unreadable. “We…are glad you are alright. Anders wishes to know if you will allow him to heal you?”

Merrill perks up immediately. “Oh, of course, if you’re not too tired? If you are, I can wait until you’ve rested, it’s really no problem-”

Hawke swears that the spirit rolls his eyes. “Come with us, I understand mortals have an aversion to taking off their lower clothing in public.”

Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, his mental fatigue in the face of what he witnessed at Ostwick, he can’t help but smile as two of his oldest friends walk away, becoming three when Anders comes to the forefront to chide Merrill for not taking care of herself properly.

Two people show up at Redthorne’s gate a week later – unarmed and unarmored, the man and woman wear homespun clothing and have naught but a nag carrying a few packs on its back between them.

“Please,” the woman says in a thick Northern brogue when Hawke and Anders step warily out to meet them. “We heard this was a refuge for mages from Kirkwall and Starkhaven. It’s just, is there any chance we could-” she tapers off, tears starting to stream down her travelworn face.

“It’s our son,” the man says, hugging the woman close to him. “He was taken when he was naught but eight. Do you…do you know if he’s with you? And if so, can we see him? Please, serah.”

Before Hawke or Anders can speak, a small, stuttering voice calls from behind the gate. “Mum? …Da?”

The woman’s head snaps up, her face breaking out in an expression of such pure joy that her tears may as well not be there. “Elan? Oh, it’s you!” Running footsteps sound behind them, and Hawke turns just in time to see Merrill’s male apprentice, barely a teenager, dart past him and throw himself into his parents’ arms. “Maker, oh Maker. My baby boy. I thought I’d never see you again, I’m so happy,” the woman says, before she begins to sob. It’s only when Elan turns to look at Anders, his eyes pleading, that Hawke realizes the crowd behind the gate is silent – as if holding their collective breaths.

“Please, Serah Anders. Can- can they stay?”

And what else can Anders do but smile and agree.

#fic #redthorne 'verse #dragon age #justhanders #anders/justice/m!hawke #bipolar anders #rape mention #child death cw

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sarkastically · 7 years

Text

Kiss for Luck

(This was inspired by listening to pop punk power ballads in my car before work. Light sexual situations. Passing mentions of battles. Not the best but hey drabbles are fun.)

“Kiss?” Chirrut asks, coming to a stop directly in front of Baze, planting his staff securely in the sand of the training yard, grinning like a fool. It's a grin that only gets wider, brighter, as he watches Baze blink rapidly, flush staining his cheeks, which he tries to hide by ducking his head, looking at the ground. Losing has never been something Chirrut takes gracefully, which he proves even more by using his finger to tip Baze’s face back up so he will look at him. “Just for luck, of course,” he adds with a wink that could easily make the declaration out to be a joke the way that everything he says can be a joke to those who don't know him well.

Baze knows him well. Better than anyone. But Baze is also in the habit of closing his eyes to things he thinks will hurt him. Pretending this is a joke will make it easier for both of them. “For luck,” he agrees, and Chirrut does not miss the fact that his voice is pinched and strange. Does not miss it but does not question it either because even though he can worry someone away to their wit’s end with inquiries when he wants to, he knows that chasing it will only distress Baze. Plus then he might change his mind, and Chirrut will have ruined this chance.

Chirrut kisses him quick, refuses to let himself linger the way he wants to, deepen it the way he wants to, lose himself in it the way he wants to. Maybe that will happen another day. For now, he will be satisfied with the brush of lips against lips, closed, fast. They have had more intimate hugs. Then he frees his staff from the sand and vaults over the wall to spar because he is not sure he can watch Baze’s face, see what settles there like a storm across the sky. He needs action, not contemplation.

He wins the match even though his mind is on the kiss.

Later, in the darkness of their room where they are so close but still too far apart even though he can, and often does, stretch his arm out to run his fingers across Baze’s skin, he claims that it was the kiss that allowed him to win. Baze just makes a noise in his throat that Chirrut has not heard before. They do not talk about the hundreds of matches Chirrut has won without a kiss; he would refuse to acknowledge them even if they did.

It becomes a routine, Chirrut stopping in front of Baze before a match, before a test, before prayers or meditation, anything. He will appear seemingly out of nowhere, sometimes breathless from running the span of the temple. “Kiss for luck,” he will say, and Baze obliges. No matter where he is or what he is doing or who he is with. He just stops and kisses Chirrut as though it is the same as breathing, the same as walking. Sometimes his face still flushes, but he kisses. Each and every time.

It quickly stops being just a routine. It just is. They don't talk about it or what it means or how sometimes, when he catches Baze alone, it is not just lips against lips in that hurried manner. Slowly it unfurls into something more like a rose blooming. Baze’s fingers on his cheek, along his jaw, brushing unruly hair from his face, tracing his ear. Lips that begin to part, linger, tongues that explore. The way one or the other of them will whimper or sigh, shift closer and more inextricably into the embrace. The hands that rove under robes; Chirrut is the first to explore that new ground and the noise that Baze makes when he does so is enough to send shockwaves through the Force itself he is sure. Or just through him. But the fine details of the thing don't matter much when he can draw that noise out of the other man anyway.

The day before their Guardian trails, Baze won't stop pacing, muttering to himself, talking through meditations and forms and theories. He is so nervous that it stains the entire room and makes Chirrut restless. When he passes close enough to touch, Chirrut catches the sleeve of his robe, pulls him to a stop, pulls him to him, in front of him, traps him between his legs as Baze practically twitches with anxiety. Chirrut fists a hand in Baze’s robe to pull him down so they are face to face and he can trace the arch of Baze’s teeth worn lips with his eyes.

“Kiss for luck,” he says, hoping to soothe him, hoping to calm him, something, anything to stop the pacing. And because he wants to kiss him, desperately always wants to kiss him, but has not figured out a way to do so yet without the words. They are a mantra, a magic spell, almost as sacred as any of the chants they use during meditation. Possibly more so since they only belong to them.

Baze is crowding him back onto the bed almost before he finishes speaking, and Chirrut hums out pleasure as the barest hint of teeth scrape over his bottom lip. Sometime later when scorching kisses have melted into softer ones but still on the inevitable road to something else, something more than they've done before, Baze pulls away for a moment, eyes askance and hands busy fixating on the front of Chirrut’s robes because it has always been hard for him to look at someone when he has something important to say, and Chirrut has never begrudged him this habit because it is Baze; there is nothing about Baze, even the annoying things, that is not dear to him.

He is tempted to ask “What, beloved?” but says nothing because Baze is sometimes easily startled away from words so Chirrut cherishes every one he manages to wring from his lovely lips and infinitely lovelier heart.

The words are quiet almost a sound more than speech, but Chirrut is an expert at listening to him by now, can understand anything he says no matter how low or gruff. “Kiss for love?” And Chirrut swears that the question mark at the end is as big as the universe itself.

It feels like his face will split from grinning, that the brightness in his chest will rend his body in two and burn their entire moon to ash, and he wouldn’t mind at all because of that question, which is a declaration as much as anything but cautious in the way that Baze is always cautious, checking the temperature of the water before he gets in. Chirrut normally rushes right off the sides of buildings without even checking how tall they are, but even he has been careful here because there was so much to lose. “Very much a kiss for love,” he says back, hands buried in Baze’s hair to keep him there, to make him look at him now because he wants him to see as much as he wants to see. How this had been his goal all along even though he couldn’t find the words to express it that way, didn’t want to push, didn’t want to rush. So he invented a childish game to do it for him.

A childish game that has more than paid off because Baze glows like kyber has been embedded inside of his skin. It makes him lovelier than normal, which is saying something because Baze is the sort of man that everyone stares at, who catches everyone’s eye even though he spends his time looking at the ground, face hidden in the mane of his hair, eyes averted, waiting for what he feels is inevitable criticism. But Baze is gorgeous and glorious and his. Maybe. Hopefully. It wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t lovely to anyone else. It wouldn’t matter if pilgrims to the temple didn’t sometimes stop in their prayers to just stare at the man with the deep eyes and the deeper voice and the broad shoulders. Chirrut would want him no matter what because his heart is a glimmering star inside a unfurled flower that keeps growing to try and surround and shelter all who come near it.

He has never known a heart like the heart Baze has. He imagines there will never be another in the whole universe.

He is greedy because he wants it so. Even if it will never stop spreading itself thin, he wants it to come home to him, to curl up with him, to let him mend it when it breaks, and it shall break. It has broken quite a few times already, but it never loses its light. If anything, it just gets brighter because the cracks let it shine through more.

“I would rest in your light forever,” he sighs, lips so close that they brush across Baze’s as he speaks.

Baze blushes and shakes his head, averts his eyes, never one to know what to do with compliments, never one to understand words like that directed his way, and this is why Chirrut keeps his affections playful. It is easier for Baze to acknowledge that, after all. “Just kiss me,” Baze says after a moment, face still hot when he presses in and then there is no more time for words at all.

They become each other’s that night fully.

The next day, Chirrut asks, like usual, “Kiss for luck?” and Baze arches a curious eyebrow at him as though confused until Chirrut pulls at his ear. “I want to win. Kiss for luck first. Kiss for love later.”

Baze chuckles, the sound of an underground river thrashing its way through rock, and kisses him, light and quick, the luck kiss, before they enter.

When everyone asks how they managed to pass the trial on the first try, something rarely achieved, Chirrut just grins and claims that it was Baze’s kiss. Baze, of course, recommends studying, though he flushes when Chirrut quirks an eyebrow at him and taps his neck with a finger, reminding Baze of a bruise sucked there during their studying the previous night. Everyone else is polite enough to pretend not to notice how quickly the pair makes excuses to head to bed as well as the fact that they leave with arms slung around each other, Chirrut’s hand grazing over Baze’s backside as they walk.

In the years that pass, the phrases become code, used when different things are needed because it is easier, especially for Baze, to parse things in that way. Although it is common for Chirrut to be asking after luck more than love. Chirrut is the one who loves the fight, after all. Chirrut is the one who prefers to throw himself into increasingly difficult activities.

When they attempt to guard the gate against Stormtroopers, Baze asks for the luck kiss, and Chirrut’s heart clenches, but he gives it.

When Chirrut loses his sight, it takes him sixteen tries before he can get the words to leave his lips, but he asks for the love kiss. (He thinks it hurts Baze more to hear it than it does for him to say it, which is why he tried to avoid it. Anything to keep mending that heart. It is so shattered these days, he thinks their moon will burn from under them in its blaze.)

When Baze returns from a stint with bounty hunters, scar across his face like a fissure across a mountain, all he can do is sign into Chirrut’s hands. He asks for love, and Chirrut gives it. Again and again. Until enough love has been given that Baze’s soul trickles home, follows his body, resurfaces from wherever he buried it in order to do what he has done. Chirrut doesn’t ask. It’s better that way. He knows it’s okay when Baze rumbles out laughter like an earthquake after he pulls at his beard and teases him, asking if he has become a bantha as a disguise.

It goes on like this for years, the back and forth of asking for things needed in the best way that they have figured out when nothing else can be said.

And then, one day, it is all that is left.

Before Scariff, Chirrut catches the sleeve of Baze’s flight suit, tugs him into a corner that he assumes is dark and away from prying eyes, which he has never cared about but sometimes Baze does. He assumes that Baze will make a wall of his body anyway. Few people bother a man with a cannon on their back.

He knows even though it has not necessarily been said in so many words that they are not coming back from this one. The end is near, and it will hopefully be a good end that will mean something, that will help people, but oh how he wishes it were not the end. Even though there is the Force, and everything is forever in the Force. Even though he trusts that he will not lose this, not lose Baze, he will lose this sense of Baze. He wants to touch every inch of him, make sure that he has forgotten none of it, but there is no time.

There is, however, time for one thing, but he doesn’t know which to ask for because the one seems too light, especially for Baze, and the other seems too final, and it has never been in Chirrut to give up, which is what it feels like even if it isn’t.

Baze is quiet because Chirrut is quiet, and neither of them is used to that. But Baze knows what it is to need time, and gives it willingly as he has always given so much of himself, willingly, freely, until there is almost nothing left.

“I will rest in your light forever,” Chirrut says, thinking about Baze’s heart, the light inside of him, the way he will look in the Force, the way he will overwhelm the Force completely.

He can hear the tears in Baze’s voice when he speaks; they are thick things he is trying to hide in the back of his throat, and the effort is threatening to choke him. “Chirrut, don’t.”

“Kiss for love?” Chirrut asks, and his voice wavers because Baze’s does. They have always been like this, the sun and the moon, taking turns as each, one reflecting the other.

Baze presses Chirrut’s free hand against his cheek so that he knows when he shakes his head. “Kiss for luck,” he says, and it’s a wonder that he manages the words at all.

When they kiss, it is both. Both the rush of battle, the reminder to come home quickly and safely, as well as the lingering stay, stay with me, you are always mine. It is not just both; it is everything. It is a lifetime spent together, falling in love with the universe together, falling in love with each other, all wrapped up into one thing. It is laughter and loss and a thousand small moments that flicker through his mind like the toys of shifting glass they sold in the Jedhan marketplace. It is the knowledge that the moon they called home is gone, and the only home that remains is the one they each made in the other.

Baze kisses with the hope that this will not be the last, that this will buoy them through, that they will win as they have always done. Chirrut kisses because he cannot go on without the reassurance that this is steady, that it will continue when nothing else does, that it will remain when the end comes.

As it turns out, neither of them are wrong.

#spiritassassin #sara writes #sara's fic #sara's drabbles #otp: i don't need luck #otp: i protected you #otp: i am one with the Force

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