#ifumi x dantes

[pinkafropuff]

Albeit glossy for someone whose flames burned everything around him, his white hair was still relatively heat damaged like one had passed through it with a frying pan in order to make it straight. Ifumi would know, of course. In the old days, she'd done it to her hair more times than she could count.

So she said, "Have you ever thought about heat protection?"

He paused in the midst of bringing his drink to his lips, the subtle wafting of steam rising from a dark espresso as he overlooked a yellowing newspaper- probably a recent borrow from the archives downstairs. "...for?"

"Your hair." In fact, if she inspected his curls further, they looked a lot like her own. Well, more defined, but still. "It has to get irritating, right?"

He turned his head ever so, one golden eye sliding to glance back at her from his place on the most comfortable chair in the lounge. She wondered if he was torn between telling her he was a Servant and simply ignoring her. Instead, he scoffed, "What do you suggest?" which surprised her so much she almost vibrated out of her skin.

It took all of eight minutes to grab her own supplies; a leave in conditioner (detangler), shampoo, regular conditioner (for color treated hair, as it was always better), and finally, a curl activator and oil, all cradled in her arms as she held a wide toothed comb in her hand, and a rat-tail comb in another. The first thing she did after that was thrust the shampoo and conditioner onto the desk beside him, at which point she said, "Wash your hair first."

A leveled gaze. And then, after carefully setting down his cup, he said, "Is it that important?"

"For us." She said, though the 'us' was not to be understated. "Yes."

A huff. Then, "Can't you do without? Or is this simply an excuse for you to have a hand in my appearance?"

"Nope! Can't put all of this on dirty hair." She crossed her arms over her chest, stuffing down how embarrassed the comment made her. "Either that or nothing."

Was that a smile under his hat? He turned his head too quickly for her to tell. "As you wish it," was what he said, but when he rose from his chair, he headed out the door, going who knows where. Ifumi simply looked on, one hand rubbing her own cheek.

It was fifteen minutes later when she turned down the hall in search of him that she caught a glimpse the air, a thin layer of smoke coming from her own room- and there he was, sitting on her bed, a towel draped across his shoulders- shoulders that were not bare, like she expected, and instead wore a short-sleeved, white shirt to cover himself. He also noticed her gaping at him almost immediately.

"Well? I trust gawking at me is not part of the process." A sly smile curled at one corner of his lips, enough to make Ifumi swallow to keep her mind on the matter at hand, which was to....run out of the room, grab her supplies again, and, (rather irate) address him brusquely;

"Why do you always make me work so hard! Stupid ass man," before getting to work.

*

She was right about his hair being coarse- though, notably, no more coarse than her own when she hadn't taken care of it for a few days or so. Her grade of hair was tightly coiled and slightly brittle; though great at keeping in moisture when applied to it, it was also naturally very dry. His was no different.

The ends were singed. It would be best to part it and start with detangler before she got to oiling his scalp and putting heat protector on the ends. Aloud, she asked, "Are you tender headed?"

Another scoff. He did that quite often; she remembered being put off by it before, but nowadays she simply thought of it as a verbal tick.

"I'm only asking because I am." She scoffed right back. "My nana used to braid my hair really tightly. I got headaches all the time."

"Hm." Was all he said. She waited for anything else, but heard nothing. Somehow, it was a comfort.

Parting his hair was the easiest bit; with one hand, she threaded her fingers through the grey-white strands, measuring how much- or how little- he may actually need per section, and tried to match the amounts.

Ends to roots. She hummed to herself as she did, carefully coating each part, testing the texture between her fingers before she was finally satisfied and combed another part out.

"...it's thick," she said aloud in surprise, as its fluffiness pricked up near the back of his head, towards the kitchen. "I was sure you'd burned it all off back here."

"Hah," less of a scoff, more of a pleased sound from his nose. "There are few things that survive my flames, so I'll let that one pass."

"You better," she murmured, "or I'll stop before I oil your scalp." An exhausted sigh answered her, though she did not know if it was good or bad. "Look! It's going to be a treat for you, I promise! It's one of my favorite things."

"You are aware that not everyone shares your sensibilities?"

Gentle tugs at his kitchen. "Watch it, mister. I've got your hair in my hands, now."

"Hmph!" But he did smile- or smirk, as he was so inclined to. She saw it this time for sure! She even thought about skipping the curl activator for now. Maybe some other time.

It was time for the oil. When her hands reached his scalp, there was a jolt of satisfaction- her fingers traveling across each of the parts and then near his ears, stopping only when she ran them through the hair at the nape of his neck.

He had a very nice neck, if she wanted to be honest; though she wasn't into that sort of thing, she could see the allure, even if it was difficult to describe, especially where the skin met his shoulders, the sticky white sheer against his still-wet back. It didn't help that the ends stretched enough to go just below those strong shoulders, darkness of healed-over gashes in his skin peeking out where her eyes rested behind him.

"Have you finished? Or have you simply lost interest?"

His eyes are on her. Had her hands strayed so far from his head? Instead of answering, she found herself saying, "I could go for a cup of coffee right now."

The oil has done its job, but wet still drips from his ends. She cupped her hand underneath it, mistakenly brushing past his collar and close enough to his left ear for him to catch her by the wrist, enough to breathe, "Dantes-"

"'Dantes'?" Its tone is almost mocking. "What happened to 'Edmond'?" His voice lowered, gaze sharp but not so cutting to draw blood. "Or have you lost your nerve, now?"

"What nerve?" She whispered, though the words were no more than air. "I just-" Wanted to be close to you.

"Just?" Still he did not let go of her hand.

"Just," she began again, "want to finish. And maybe then you can come back next week, and we can do it again."

The lingering grip on her wrist loosened, but her hand stayed here, suspended in air, as though it still expected to be held. When she finally dropped it to her side, she found it was harder to fumble across the table for her original purpose, a small bottle of lightweight oil to protect the Avenger's curls from heat.

It was impossible, truly. 'Do you like or hate me?' was a childish thing to ask, but so was anything else. Instead, as she passed her hands along his hair, its greying texture softer still as she coated it in oil.

He said nothing else as she fluffed his hair out, then clapped her hands to her thighs. "That should do it for, uhm, now." It sounded awkward, lame words on a lead tongue, but it was best to say something instead of nothing at all. "Thanks." And then, belatedly, "Edmond."

When he stood from his chair, the towel fell from his shoulders; at his full height without his coat, he seemed less imposing than she remembered- though maybe she was imagining it. Like ascribing feelings to roombas and treating Servants as people, Ifumi had a knack for seeing things that weren't always there, which she knew was her greatest weakness. Still, when he turned his gaze towards her, a downward look that might have been critical, she found that without his hat one might even think it was soft. Amicable. Unoffensive.

And then he grabbed his coat and hat from off the wall in a way that made her wonder why he didn't simply appear before with them on. Like an old fashioned baby doll, she didn't realize the clothes could come off.

...the clothes could come-

She was thinking too hard about it, because he was already out the door and partway down the hall. "Wait, where are you going?" Wild. She'd never seen him walk so many places before.

"To the commissary," he answered mildly, and his voice carried within it something like a laugh, though he gestured a bit with one hand. "It seems I suddenly have a taste for coffee."

#fgo #ifumi x dantes #mastersona #uhhhhhh black people. (audience applauds) #anyway. i haven't written something self indulgent in a while. #edmond dantes #avenger

[blacksophiehatter]

Entry: Void Space (????)

[Previous]

Today I talked to the abyss.

I’m writing this down so I don’t forget, but it was surreal. I’m also sure it talked to me. It was like one of those dreams I’ve had, or when I was travelling with Musashi. Extremely real but extremely unreal. Thick, even. There were huge blankets of darkness that I’m sure I could touch but gave way to nothing, and I was standing on something- a platform? A cliff? Either way, I knew if I stepped off, I would fall. I couldn’t see the bottom; I don’t think I wanted to. People say that thing about the abyss staring back, and I didn’t want to take the chance.

I don’t know what was holding me up, just that I wasn’t going to fall, so long as I didn’t take another step. I’m also not joking by saying I talked to that darkness- or maybe it talked to me? Does the action and the acted upon really matter in this circumstance?

(I think the answer is yes, but I’ll be flexible.)

The presence was definitely speaking in French- no, felt French to me. Warm, too, but mostly very French. I emptied my brain of a lot of French-speaking because I hate it- there’s a reason why my grandparents scolded my sister for calling us ‘French’ instead of ‘creole’ and I stick to it- but I think I caught all the words, or at least the sliding, biting sounds it left against my skin.

“Ne regarde pas en arrière.”

Something about being behind me. Wait. Now that I have them on paper, I think it’s like, “Don’t look back” or “Don’t look behind you”. 

Was there something there? Or maybe it was figurative? 

Either way, it was strange. Surreal, even. I don’t remember knowing any voids or anything, but I’ve forgotten so much since I’ve come here. I can’t say the voice wasn’t familiar, or even that I trusted it, but...I don’t think I thought to distrust it, either. 

“Do not look back”. 

It sounds important. Ominous, even. I’ll keep it here, for safe keeping.

[Next]

#Ifumi #Ifumi Rockwell #fgo #fate #mastersona #hmm. #also if you're thinking it: yes. #dantes #fic #ifumi x dantes

[pinkafropuff]

Chateau d’If part 3

[Previous]

On the final day, I awaken to the sound of silence. For once, the Count is not around to wake me, and instead I am alone in the square-framed cage I’ve been calling a ‘room’. ‘Mercedes’ is gone. I thought I recognized her from somewhere, but I can’t remember now. Instead I have a blistering headache. Instead, when I stand, I hear voices, voices of past, of present, of future. 

Why should I survive this?

I have heard this voice more times than I can count, and ignore it. There is no reason. There is a reason. Maybe it does not matter. Regardless, I walk to the cylinder door and reach for the knob. Before I turn it, it opens, and outside stands the Count, eyes blistering with rage and something indistinct that even I cannot begin to parse. 

“It is the final day.” He says. “Come. A final challenge awaits.”

I let him lead me again, as I have for the past six days, six months, six years. Time is relative, and so is this place; time is everything and nothing, and I won’t stand here like a fool to pull it apart to make sense.

Take things as they come. I must. I must to survive. But-

But I-

am so,

so,

tired.

We reach the end of the hall and stand in the center, where none but I and Dantes wait, wait for a new enemy, a new challenge, but we both know the truth of the matter, so I don’t blink. 

“All that is left is to walk out into the sunlight. But-”

But. There is always a ‘but’. Always another thing.

“There is only one person who has ever left the Chateau d’If.” 

I close my eyes. There is no humor in his words, though his eyes spark with a fire I’ve become begrudgingly fond of, fire that demolishes and smolders all in its path. I cannot look upon them now. It would weaken my resolve. 

“Only one person- and the other must stay behind here. For eternity.” A sound not unlike a laugh blows from his nose, bitter and angry, almost enough to make me think he is sorry. Almost. “...but you do not seem surprised at all!” This laugh rocked the prison with its cadence, its barking bouncing across iron-banded walls as he tossed his head back and let it loose in the air. “Tell me, my temporary Master, have you been betrayed before? Does it not sting against your skin? Smolder at your mouth, your lungs?”

I say nothing. The answer is irrelevant, and we both know it, the truth that lingers between us more concise and more abrupt than words could ever be. So I say, “Let’s get on with it, then,” and pull my hair free of its scrunchie and fluff my hair out.

We do.

Words were exchanged. I sometimes see the fight in my head- though I don’t know the woman who fights, who uses what Cu, what Scathach, what Lu Bu taught her with ease- and in the end, the outcome is always the same. A single blow that she missed. A single blow she could have landed. 

And then, the end.

Yes. The end. And that is why, when the smell of rot and disease pulls at her lungs, when cold bites at fingertips rubbed raw from fights she should have foregone, she can only stare at the ceiling with dread pulsing at the back of her head.

Somehow, it is the seventh day again. Even though I’ve already died.

*

I think a lot about the times I’ve died. In a metaphorical sense, not a physical sense. I think a part of me died when I came home from college, or maybe before that- three days before, when I showed up for my Finance final after missing too many days of class. My professor at the time took one look at me, at my hoodie, at the bags under my eyes, at the sickness clear across my throat, and for a while we shared an understanding. I hadn’t skipped the class to be funny or for partying, or lack of trying. I’d just lost a long battle that she couldn’t help with. 

I try not to think about that day. About how low I was, and how much I wanted- needed- to die. Maybe I’d outstayed my welcome. That was fine. I was always in places I wasn’t supposed to be, so it was best to leave. Disappear. 

So on that final day. That final day that came and went. I felt so sorry for myself, that I thought it was best to leave. I didn’t have a home to come back to that time, didn’t have parents that would accept me back and let me stay (at least for a while), and I certainly had a lot to lose.

But really. Really, do I have to do everything? Do I have to keep the weight of the world on my shoulders like this?

Why should it matter that humanity dies? That we all start over? There are plenty of us who want that, plenty of black and brown people who wish they or their ancestors had done differently, had found a way to repair what was lost. Why should I stand in the way of that?

I wouldn’t be here for it, anyway.

“Ifumi.”

The hell I felt, on that last day. The second last day. I thought it was a consequence of being trapped there. But then I saw Dantes. I saw Dantes. 

I saw Dantes.

Shit. Is this really fair?

The door opens. His eyes are crimson, this time. Absentmindedly, the woman on the other side says, “I thought your eyes were yellow.” He does not answer. Instead- 

Instead, he holds an object in his hand. Carelessly, even. And upon noticing, she-

I.

Remember something.

And aloud, I say, “Are you angry with me?”

His expression tells me all I need to know. Strange. But he lets me have my scrunchie, which I put in my pocket. There’s no use messing with my hair now, so I stick my hands in my hair and fluff it out as best I can without any moisture. When his words do come, they are scalding, so much that I almost turn away from them. Almost. “I do not need your pity.”

‘Pity’. Pity? The word makes me pause. Something shakes within me, and I lean back to look at him at my full height- which is not very tall, compared to him, but not very short, either. “You think I died because I pitied you?”

He clicks his tongue and turns away from me, hastily walking down the hall- stomping, moreso- as I stomp after him, suddenly spirited. Incensed, I cry, “I wouldn’t just give up if I pitied you!”

I play the scene over in my mind time and time and time again, and every time, the outcome is the same. This way, I clean up nicely. This way, everyone wins.

This way, I no longer have to play hero. 

“Then why give up after pushing so hard?” The words sound sharp as he stops abruptly, so much that I nearly collide with his back. “Is it not enough to wait? To hope?”

I have died and I will die again. I will continue to die in an endless cycle. I died a long time ago, three weeks ago, last night. “What am I hoping for?” 

Silence. To break it, I continue, “Tell me, Edmond. What do I have to look forward to?” 

He turns to look at me again, this time somewhat interested in what I want to say, but I have no more to give. Like an empty container, I am all used up- exploited for this, that, and the other. I am no one. Fearing the naked silence, I fold my hands and then cross my arms over my chest, eyes darting away from him- and then I take a deep breath and shake my head. “You said that only one person ever leaves the Chateau d’If, but you’ve forgotten something important. It wasn’t just ‘one person’. It was a specific person.” Closing my eyes to brace myself, I thrust out my chin and blink up at him, “Edmond Dantes is the only one who escapes this prison.”

For a moment, his eyes smolder, their color changing from red to gold- and then after a beat or two, he turns again, shaking his head. “How lucky for you then,” he waves a hand, “that I am not Edmond Dantes.”

#fgo #fate #fic #dantes #yeah so what whatever. whatever #every time i think abt the them. hm. #im just very Intrigued by all this #ifumi x dantes

[pinkafropuff]

A Subtle Invitation

[Previous]

Admittedly, it is more shameful to forget a friend than it is an enemy; I wish I knew which one Dantes was before I re-summoned him by saying his name- but I say that as though I had a choice in the matter. How had he gotten into Chaldea- no, Novum Chaldea- without me? Romani once said he wasn’t recorded in the database. That was more than a year ago. Now, Romani is gone and Dantes persists. Not that I....mind. If I’m being honest, I don’t mind? Since that last croissant, he’s showed up several times for battle (mainly when fighting Jeanne, but I won’t judge) and then he essentially...leaves?

Like a cat.

My fingers brush across the spine of the couch in the common room; somehow I feel, I know that the air feels Different and stop. Lingering there a moment, I say, “Dantes.”

As though he has been sitting there all along, the top of his hat crowns the back of that couch, one hand cradling a very small cup of coffee- maybe espresso, by the smell, as it wafts into my nose. Somewhat calmly- and after what felt like a very long sip of espresso, he answers, “There is no one here by that name.”

Petty. “Why don’t you ever stick around?”

A ‘hm!’ that might have been a laugh. “Is there someone who wants me to?”

Fuck you. “Would that seriously be the only reason you’d stay after battle?” I don’t look at him. I don’t know what it might do to me if I did. “You don’t want to stay for...I don’t know. The fun stuff?”

He shifts in his seat, and then glances back at me, golden irises daunting under florescent light. He holds my gaze there for a moment before his eyes dart away, face still partially turned towards me. “...do you find it funny to mock me?”

A pause. This is almost funny. Almost as though the shoe is on the other foot. I sort of get why he laughed at me when I called the coffee and croissant ‘torture’, because he’s doing the same thing- though I don’t think it’s intentional, on his part. “If I were going to mock you,” I said slowly, “it would be obvious. And I’m not a fool, you know. I know how strong you are.”

“Hm!” Now this is a laugh. I wonder if he’s recalling that time I beat his ass in prison. “An interesting choice of words from someone who bested me.” 

Damn. Like reading my mind. “That’s not what I meant- Look. I...” Oh boy. I’d better go about this carefully. “...I sometimes make. Cakes. Cookies. Breads and pies. Sometimes lunch or dinner. I was sort of...” Careful, careful, deep breaths, very slowly. “...all of that fighting has to make you hungry, right?”

“Servants don’t eat,” he answers curtly, lifting the cup to his lips again as his eyes close, “but you know this, and yet you still offer it.” 

Something about the way he says it makes me mad, but I stuff it down. “You’re drinking coffee, aren’t you?”

This time, he pauses. Then a laugh escapes him- softly, under his breath like a murmur- before it explodes from him like a sharp crackle of fireworks. “You beat me.” He shook his head, and now, standing from his seat on the couch, he turns to face me again, this time with no obstruction. “You beat me again! Fine! If you wish it, I will share lunch with you- but only once.” His voice drops low, eyes lowering, the pulsing of electricity thrumming against my nerves as a crooked grin pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Lest you forget what manner of man you speak to.” 

 “What manner of man am I speaking to?” I find myself asking, unable to take my eyes from him. “And how do I find out?”

“That is not for you to decide,” he replies, and then, “Keep your thoughts to yourself.”

I click my tongue at him, arms crossing as real fury builds in my chest, fury I cannot ignore. Because of it, I do not speak. Because of it, my nails grasp my inner arms enough to leave marks, an act that calms me after a moment or two, and I close my eyes. “...you’re awfully mean for someone who was just promised a free meal.”

The amusement in his eyes simmers into more of a glower; completely still before he leans back, he places the cup of espresso on the table next to him and closes his eyes. “There is nothing in this life or the next that is free.” Eyes cast to the far wall, away from me and our corner of the room, he only sighs, a sound easily missed by how it breezes past me. “You would do well to acknowledge that.”

He leaves the normal way this time. When he passes me, I say nothing, a twisted feeling of shame pulling at my gut. I have known for a long time now that we are alike, but this is one of those times that I wish I didn’t understand him so well. 

Maybe I should have kept quieter. But who would I be if I did? 

...

Maybe that is why he does not like being called Edmond Dantes. Because he believes it is a thing he lacks. But he accepts it from me, doesn’t he? If he accepts it from me, it might mean-

..

No. I won’t think about it now.

[Next]

#fgo #edmond dantes #fate #fic #ifumi #this one was an interesting one #writings #ifumi x dantes

[pinkafropuff]

Entry [NULL]: Date Unknown

[Previous]

I saw Roman today. He asked me what was wrong when I did, why I looked at him, “As though I’d seen a ghost”. 

It was hard to answer. I think I may exist outside of time now, or maybe I’ve developed some kind of clairvoyance like Merlin or Gilgamesh do. 

Either way, I know Roman is-

...

Roman was.

At least it helped me with something. I really have forgotten a huge thing, somewhere scattered across time. Something important. It is hidden between the walls again, sometimes in the ceiling vents when I sleep. It exists in the Shadow Border, where I’m sure I am now- or my body must be, even though I’m looking at Chaldea around me.

...I’m looking at Chaldea around me. A Chaldea that feels like a prison that is not real. A prison that is real, in a Chaldea that is not real. I think this stinks. I remember when I was young and yearned for adventure; now I know that magic is real, but it’s the fucked up sort, the kind that messes with time, with your own sanity, with your body in ways you don’t consent to, and I want no part in it. It may be why I don’t mind Merlin as much anymore, or Phantom, or Amakusa or Shuten. I feel as though I understand them all and it frightens me. The lines they cross mean nothing. What is consent when the self doesn’t exist? What is a human when all that is left is a wraith-

...wait.

No. Oh, no. What is left is a wraith with only rage. A wraith whose only purpose is to hate, or to love, or to be beyond it. It presses against my scalp as I realize it; I don’t want to relive it, but I know now. 

A long time ago. I met him in the dark. 

[Next]

#fgo #fate #ifumi x dantes #fic #these entries are....messing with me. #ifumi

[pinkafropuff]

Entry (?): May 10, 2015

I found a coffee by my bed. 

I don’t know who got it for me. I didn’t make it, either. In fact, I was just thinking of getting some, but the coffee machine was broken, and Romani has been fiddling with it for an hour (which I think may be because he’s so tired he wants to focus on something other than the lives at stake right now) and had to clean it twice already. 

But I really needed some coffee. I didn’t tell anyone, but I had a strange nightmare last night. Like a nightmare I can barely remember, but wasn’t as nightmarish as I’ve had in times past. 

I’ve been very tired lately. I know that I’m just a tired sort of person; don’t tell anyone, but I’ve always liked sleeping more than being awake, even though at Chaldea, I enjoy being awake more often than not. There’s always something interesting going on. But I try not to get too scared about my health. Maybe I’m dying already. Still, I think I can hold on a bit longer, like this, especially when there are Good Samaritans walking about in this place. 

It tasted strong and smooth, although it was a little bitter. I didn’t mind. When I was in college, I had to drink black coffee with only sugar in it, because I didn’t have a fridge, but needed to stay up for my papers. It was cheap coffee, though. This tasted...like fifteen-dollar coffee. Fifty? Maybe fifty. My dad used to drink a lot of it, before his accident, so now I know how to tell most apart. Maybe that part of me is a little uppity. 

I’ve never seen that cup before, though. I didn’t think about it before drinking it, but it could have been poisoned or something. Thanks to Mash, I don’t have to worry much about being poisoned nowadays, but still. 

...still.

Should I be worried? My intuition isn’t telling me I’m in a dangerous situation, but maybe I’m wrong. I can be wrong (I’m working on admitting it more frequently now). 

...I’m keeping this cup, though. It’s lined with golden trimming and the green ring around the middle is nice to rub my thumb against, and something about it comforts me, even though all of the coffee has been drained out. 

Maybe I’ll solve this mystery tomorrow.

[Next]

#fgo #fic #ifumi #mastersona #ifumi x dantes #yeah ok fine. im writing more for them #fate

[pinkafropuff]

Chateau d’If, Part 2

[Previous]

The hallway before us is long. I wonder very often how much time has actually passed, how many of these halls are simply mirrors of one another and not real. I think too often about America’s own systems, of places my cousins and uncles and aunts and former friends have ended up without committing any wrongs. Of how many have died because they refuse to be taken to a place like this. 

“Do not linger behind, or this prison will swallow you up,” says Avenger, and his brisk walk leads me to believe that he knows this place better than he says. No. Everything about him says he knows this place better than he says. He is a liar, but he is no fool, and my own trials make him obvious to me. 

This is his hell. My hell. Our hell.

“Don’t walk so fast, then,” I snap, my legs feeling like lead. By now, it’s clear that this place is so real it is not, that my body cannot be cured by a few golden apples, and that my soul itself has taken on armor unfamiliar to me. The trails are hard, but I am harder. 

But I won’t say this. Avenger seems pleased with it, anyway. 

He is an interesting sort. I’m familiar with terms about running hot and cold, but they do not describe him. If he were more like my own father, all hard edges and no soft center, I would be more brusque with him, less trusting. His words bruise and he has an inclination towards the dramatic, towards violence, but not towards me. 

Or maybe only towards me. But I always prepare for that. Always prepare for a man to turn on you, to raise his fists to you, to scream and yell and attempt to pummel you because he can. I regard him warily because of this; surely he is capable of it, but the barrier erected there- between us, between he and the outside world, between he and standards that change by the day, minute, hour- makes me feel almost safe. 

He will not turn on me. Not yet. 

“Your manner is like a woman with all the time in the world!” He cried, and though somewhat scornful and irritated, his own manner was amused. “Have you steeled yourself so heavily that you do not know when true danger is afoot? Have you lost the sense to discern true evil from a minor inconvenience?” 

I want to say so. I haven’t been at Chaldea very long now, but the times I’ve almost died has climbed higher than I can bear to count. Instead, I say, “All I said was not to walk so fast. Are you the type of man to make something out of nothing?”

The words bring him to a stop, irises now-gold as he turns to look at me with an almost befuddled expression. Once it passes, his expression grows hard. 

We share that look for a moment, his hard and disdainful and mine unyielding. When it passes, he huffs and turns away from me again, and we continue walking. In a better mood, I might have thought it was a laugh, but here I was convinced I’d simply won. 

Truthfully, I hate him. I keep this to myself, and hopefully out of my posture and mannerisms, but I hate this man, this Avenger, who has become a beacon of hope to me. He has seen me desperate and small without knowing my name; he has plucked me from the pit of my own despair, simply by asking if I wanted to leave. My dependence on him undoes me time and time again, and I wonder if he knows it. 

The Lord of Wrath is a Phantom of Jeanne D’arc. I did not doubt its validity; even after knowing Jeanne for only a few days before my descent into the madness, I knew what sort of person she was. But-

“Don’t you see? This man is the Count of Monte Cristo, the monster of vengeance that did not stop his bloody revenge until everything in his path was demolished!”

But-

“His True Name,” she said, pointing her banner at him, “is Edmond Dantes.”

Truthfully this was no surprise to me. I am a very learned woman; a college dropout, yes, but I have a background in literature and linguistics, and The Count of Monte Cristo- a book that most herald as the ‘greatest story of revenge of all time’ was not in any way unknown to me.

But.

“What on earth are you talking about?” 

The words surprised even me. Were it the lack of sunlight or my general irritability at being in such a stupid situation, something drove me to shout, “Did you even read the book?!”

Shock. Rarely had I seen Jeanne look like that, wide eyed and speechless in a way that was not at all gentle or graceful of her. I did not wait for her to regain her senses; instead, I went on, “You know all of those people deserved it, right? Like, how could you say that the men who made Dantes’ ill, aging father die and be buried in an unmarked grave, forced his fiancé into a marriage and trapped Dantes himself in prison for a crime he didn’t commit as people who didn’t deserve to be brought to justice?”

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just tired of this rhetoric. Time and time again, the idea of what it means to be a saint, to have faith, is to sit down and do nothing. “I believe in God and what He does for us, but I also know that sometimes He sends people specifically to enact his will. Can you say that Dantes was not enacting the will of God by bringing these people to their knees? By saving the Morrel’s business, and allowing those who have been wronged a chance to enact vengeance they were too weak to grasp in the first place?

“How can you say that when you brought peace to your country through war with your own hands? Are you a fool or just a hypocrite?”

It did not sound like my own voice, even as it echoed off the walls and whispered back to me, telling me I had no right to judge. Yes, that is the essence. Judgement belongs only to God- and that is why Jeanne cannot speak that way to my only ally, my only solace in this evil place.

I could feel eyes on me, eyes that burned more brightly than my own, than Jeanne’s, than the Saber behind her ready to carry out her every word. I did not dare look at him, even when he laughed, when heat began to build behind me, as though to affirm my wishes for this place, for myself, for him.

“...I see. So you’ve even turned Ifumi to your side.” The Ruler closed her eyes as she readied her banner, raising her hand in order to command what was essentially a small army to stand in our path. “I’ll just have to show you salvation by force!”

How foolish. There is no such thing as salvation by force. There is nothing genuine that is coerced, no purity in a defeat meant to prove a point. “Fine!” I shout, and Dantes, prepared to do battle, gleefully prepares himself to give his all to whale on her with all he’s got.

“Command me, temporary Master!” Steam and smoke crackles around him, a mass of grudges and curses latched to the form of a man that was once Edmond Dantes. “I’m going to enjoy ripping that bastard limb from limb!”

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#fgo #fate #fic #ifumi #ifumi and dantes #ifumi x dantes #there we go

[pinkafropuff]

Entry: Summer Before NeroFes

[Previous]

Today I found a croissant. 

It was freshly baked- or bought- and though I could depend on someone like Beni-Enma or Boudica to make something of similar quality, my personal dislike of them stirred more memories from the back of my mind.

So instead of being confused, I said, “Are you having fun torturing me?” And when familiar heat pricked at my back, I consciously stuffed down my feelings and crossed my arms. “Edmond.”

He is a head or two taller than me and looms over me from behind. Usually, having a man stand behind me inspires feelings of fear; I tried my hardest not to jump, and even then I held my breath before letting it out.

Before I could doubt my deduction, his voice, low and ghosting past me, is in my ear. “We both know that is not my name, mademoiselle.” 

Shivers rattled at my spine, but I did not budge. Arms still crossed, I only closed my eyes. “But you still answered to it, didn’t you?”

A breath indiscernible from a chuckle puffed against my neck. I can’t remember what I was thinking, but it all sounded like swears. Stupid. I felt stupid. I don’t want to write down what else I was thinking. I don’t want to think about it. 

“’Torture’, you said?” Changing the subject suited him even in Chateau d’If, so it didn’t surprise me. Still, it felt too obvious to say anything about, and once he leaned back, his presence no longer against the nape of my neck, I spun to face him, hoping to get better ground in this situation. 

I also remember it not working. In fact, I totally froze up. Like in high school. I froze up like the band geek I was on the inside, and it made me grimace. 

But was it really my fault? When he was so tall and his shining eyes started fucking smoldering at their corners as he smirked at me? Smirked! Like a stupid little white-haired anime boy! Freak! Loser! Idiot!

Fuck!

“Were it torture you would have known it,” the words rolled off his tongue so dryly I had to hold back a laugh. Yes, a baser Servant might have been trying to “torture” me by leaving me “gifts”, but this man was more like a black cat; silently moving through shadows to present you with dead birds and mice to be sure you eat well. A laugh curled at his lips again, this one clearly mocking me. “Had I left you rat poison would you be satisfied? Arsenic? Sulfur?” 

I am reminded now of the way he poisoned a good part of the Valentine family. I didn’t think about it at the time, but now I wish I’d gotten it then. I’m mostly just covering my face about it. 

“You’re being dramatic,” I’d definitely said, albeit through gritted teeth. 

“Am I?” Amusement. Muted, but clearly amusement. “The woman who braved Hell and returned in one piece, afraid of a renegade coffee? Un bout de pain?”

I’m not happy to say I pouted. I definitely did. Mostly because I understood him. Then, almost childishly, I told him, “Anyway, I hate croissants. Do better next time.”

“Hm!” Was his response, and when he turned, the smoke of his noble phantasm took place of his body, a shadow into mine. Only his words afterward remained;

“You are a hard woman to please.” 

FUCK him! I am not! And frankly, frankly, I was just telling the truth! Stupid man!

Hmph!

....

........hmph.

In the end, I did eat the croissant. Damn him. It was the best I’ve ever tasted. 

[Next]

#fgo #fic #fate #i love how Ifumi is just 'STUPID SEXY DANTES' #edmond dantes #writings #Ifumi #ifumi x dantes

[pinkafropuff]

Chateau d’If, part 1

[Previous]

In the dark, it’s hard to count time. 

I want so badly to say that I do not deserve to be here. And then that I do. Neither would suffice. 

“Is this hell?”

Never have I thought ‘hell’ would be hot. No, warmth is all that is good in this world. Warmth of the sun keeps the planet alive. The plants, the animals. Me. I miss it. I miss the sunlight on my skin, the kisses that make me even darker than I am, peppering my shoulders, my nose, my cheeks. I miss it. I yearn for it.

I loathe it.

There is a reason why this place is hell. It is cold. Illness is in the moisture in the air, anger prickling the rot against my feet. I do not deserve to be here. No. I do not. But it would feel better if I did. I wish to go home. To find home? Does hell inspire such loneliness? Such unkindness, such dread? It must. It must, and therefore this place must be hell.

“God,” I cry, my voice soft, “have you abandoned me? What have I done?”

It has been days. Weeks. Months, since I heard from Chaldea. I know that every day the stale bread and watered down soup is cruelty wrapped in kindness, to keep one alive just a day more, enough for more torture. 

This prison is hell. 

I repent more times than I can imagine. More times than deliveries of crumbling loaves of gravel and soup to count. More than I remember what I am sorry for. 

“God,” I pray, “if you love me, take me out. One way or another, deliver me from this evil.”

I think of my grandmother many times, my mother others. The women in their big hats at church, humming and rocking, begging for salvation for others but never themselves. Yes. Yes! Of course! Of course. I am them, and they are me. I am a martyr. 

...will I always be a martyr? Must I die for the cause? Of crimes that are not crimes, of wrongs that are right?

No. It is unfair. And God is Just. He is always Just. And with Justice, He will send something for me. Something. Someday.

“You are a just God.” The words are wet on a dry tongue, salt and ire fueling my pain but also my life, my will, my strength. Like Job, I repent of myself. I have done no wrong. 

I have done no wrong!

“You.”

The voice startles me out of my skin. No others have spoken to me for weeks, not even the guard; no, now that I mention it, that guard is no human at all. A shape of nothing. A form of darkness. I could not touch him, but I could feel the absence of something. 

I wait. If I have truly gone insane, the voice will not persist; it will not answer my questions, only become relevant when I wish it to be gone. Indeed, in the darkness, the voice says, “Have you given up?”

Lips chapped and cracking against one another, my knees drawn to my chest, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I am in pain- I am always in pain, even outside of this place- and I am tired. But I am always tired. Skin pulled from skin, bruise against bruise, I shamble to my feet and press flush to the wall that seems-

...that seems-

...as though a brick has been removed from it. 

I wet my lips as best I can. It is not excitement I feel, nor is it dread at the poor words that reach my tongue, though I admit I may be pressed upon them later. After what feels like an eternity and a minute, I answer, “No,” so weakly it could have been missed.

Silence. Again, I think I must have imagined the voice, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. My teeth chatter against one another as I breathe in, close to that hole with its loose brick, and I breathe, “I won’t be killed so easily.”

The brick finds its place again on the other side; as my breath catches in shock, I pull away from that place, suddenly startled by the sound behind me- the bolt in the door being loosed. It must be feeding time. Prepared for stale bread, I turn to-

to see the door open.

“Come, then,” says the voice from that door, and though it is clearer and bolder, its edge betrays something sinister, something horrible underneath.

A man is standing there. There is a manner about him that disarms me, though it is not his white hair and pale skin- nor how well dressed he looks, for a prisoner. For one stuck in prison without being a guard, he is unnaturally calm, though his eyes- red, red irises blazing like burned out stars- sear anything they look upon, including me. But I won’t be burned. 

I miss the sun, after all.

[Next]

#Ifumi #mastersona #fic #ifumi x dantes

[pinkafropuff]

Entry 10: May 15 2015

[Previous]

I fear there are things I don’t remember. Though if I’m being honest I get this feeling a lot- ADHD or OCD or whatever the hell I have has been fucking with my memory for as long as I can remember- I’m starting to wonder if it’s more important than forgetting what I came into a room for, or what day it is.

It feels like someone else is in my room. When I was young, I got used to the idea that I’d be sleeping in the same room as someone- my sisters, usually- and could tell by the sound of footsteps, of breathing, of rolling around (though the rolling bit is usually me), so when I say I feel someone there but they don’t have weight, I mean it.

Maybe it’s another Servant I have yet to know. Or an enemy. Stranger things have happened. I’m writing in this journal so that I don’t forget absolutely everything; there are days that feel like sinking into a haze, and though only five days have passed since that mysterious coffee, it feels like ten. I’ve eaten more Golden Apples than I can count: did you know that once you eat ten of them, you have enough stamina to move on, but your brain starts playing tricks on you? You lose count of how much you’ve done something, how tough it really is, and how much you care. I’ve reached the point where I don’t care if I die now, and it’s both exhilarating and frightening at once. But that’s good. I think feeling those things, conflicting feelings crashing against one another like fighting bulls, is what makes me know I’m alive. Makes me know I’m still human. That I deserve to be human.

I still wonder if that’s important. Maybe I would rather be something else, instead. Is being human that great a thing, when I must prove myself to it time and time again? Being human is a thing you do and are. It’s not a status you reach. 

...

I heard a laugh just now. It’s the same laugh I heard yesterday morning, when I admitted to Roman that I do what I have to, to get by. He has a habit of calling me optimistic and strong. I’m not. I do what I have to, to survive, but I’m not strong. Asking others for help might kill me. But I have to do it. Someday. 

Was the laugh scornful or mocking? Jolly? Understanding? It was hard to tell. The chuckle of someone who knows me, who thinks my very existence is funny; the ‘tee-hee’s and ‘kuhaha’s of someone who wants to make me angry because they can. 

It’s hard to admit it aloud. But I have a startling temper. Best believe I’ll find this asshole can chase its cacophany of laughter to its source to stamp it out. I am no joke. 

...or maybe I am. But that’s for me to decide, and no one else. 

...

I wonder. Am I really that funny? I’m clearly not imagining it shaking the walls and crackling at the furniture. Still, it passes about like a wraith gliding through doorways and brushing right past me-

...right past me. It brushed right past me, just now. Too warm for a ghost. Too cold for a person. 

Maybe, again, it is time to pray.

[Next]

#fgo #ifumi #fate #this is still her and dantes but. #im just letting her go on #fic #ifumi x dantes