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harpyloon · 3 years

Text

i’ll catch you

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x fem!Reader

Summary: "Up close, Y/N could see the familiar freckles splattered all over his nose and cheeks. He was towering over her like he always did. She used to be the little second year Hufflepuff always idling by the entrance to the Great Hall hoping to bump into the famous Charlie Weasley. Studying on the Quidditch pitch, watching him behind her textbook, captaining the Gryffindor team. Climbing the beech tree by the lake again and again, hoping Charlie Weasley would somehow walk by once more to offer her a hand..."

☞ Curse Breaker reader x Dragon-tamer Charlie Weasley

Warnings: Fluff, sprinkles of angst, dragons (duh), mentions of a dead animal, mentions of dragon eating dead animal (lol), post-war timeline (although not that important)

WC: 4.5k+ , Part 2 coming soon!

Read on AO3

Beautiful rays of golden sunlight were peaking through the blinders of Y/N's cabin. It was going to be a lovely day with the perfect weather to seek out a bit of adventure, and although she was sure she had countless other affairs to address before kicking off with her assignment the next day, a blathering Bill Weasley was not one of them.

"Are you even listening?" his tone was way beyond impatient. "You know what? Don't answer that. I know for a fact that you never pick up anything I say. Ever."

Y/N rolled her eyes as she busied herself with stuffing her socked feet inside a pair of brown chunky hiking boots. She didn't plan on going very far. Her colleagues were currently lounging in the dining hall about five cabins down, sipping piping hot ciorbă, munching on breakfast toast, and relishing their only foreseeable off day before the start of the big dig tomorrow. Some were even dozing off still, earning as much sleep as they could to compensate for the long nights to come.

It's true what they say about grumpy Curse Breakers. But nobody realized that they just spent too much time with their eyes wide open.

"You know, Bill," Y/N mused, "you always call me the drama queen. What does that make you then?"

The floating head over the fire scoffed, "A concerned superior."

"Well, there's nothing to be concerned about."

"Where are you headed?"

"I'm going for a walk."

"No walks," ordered Bill, his face stern.

"Everyone's out and about today!"

"No walks for you."

Y/N laughed. "Oh yeah?"

Bill sighed. He knew trying to be hard-nosed was futile. "No walks alone at least."

"Are you sure there's no bun in Fleur's oven yet?" Y/N teased. "You're sounding more like a papa bear with each passing day."

She heard a soft melodic laugh within the fire where Bill's head was when suddenly, another floating head appeared right beside his. This time, all blonde and very French

"There iz no bun yet, mon cher. But I think he az been practicing fatherhood with you." Fleur gave Y/N a wink. "I 'eard zer are many 'andsome men in Romania. With a leetle beet of exzploring yo—"

"There will be no exploring," barked Bill, sending his wife a warning glance, which she ignored.

"—you might find someone az adventurous az you are," Fleur beamed, "And very macho."

"Darling," Bill sighed, "is this necessary?"

With a flying kiss to Y/N, Fleur was gone.

Shrugging on a light parka, Y/N gave Bill a knowing look, "You see? Your wife said I could use a macho man."

"Oh please. You're in a Curse Breaker camp."

"Hey, there are loads of macho men here."

"Macho enough for you?"

Y/N wrinkled her nose but ignored the question.

"Well, William," she said, emphasizing Bill's full name, "I, am a Curse Breaker in the middle of the Southern Carpathians." Stuffing her wand through her belt loop, she looked at him with finality. "And I am not passing up this opportunity."

"Remember when they assigned you to Egypt with me and you went on exploring? Your exploring is bad luck, Y/N, and I did not assign you to Romania to bring bad luck."

"Excuse you, the Egypt Goblins loved me."

"Goblins don't love wizards," retorted Bill.

"I think they were particularly fond of me."

"You Reductored an entire bloody Pyramid!"

Y/N was losing her patience. She wanted to sift through the mountains in the morning sunlight. Discover hidden caves and wade through cold springs. She had her breakfast way earlier than everyone else for this sole purpose.

"I promise I'll be good."

"Take Weiss with you."

Y/N glared. "Absolutely not."

"Take someone."

"I'm walking out on you right now. Don't forget to put out my fire."

"Y/N."

"I'll see you later!"

"I have to tell you—"

Without looking back, she waved at Bill and stepped out into the crisp Romanian morning.

The skies were bright and cloudless, the sun slowly rising up east. The Curse Breaker camp in the middle of the Transylvanian Alps was in for a late morning. It was quiet, apart from the whispers of the forest beside them; chirping birds, singing crickets, and the distant sound of a nearby stream.

Trudging up the rough pavement towards the foot of the nearest hill, Y/N felt an ounce of guilt seep through as she marveled at the scenery before her. Bill was the reason she got the Romania assignment. She wasn't half bad a Curse Breaker. From an outsider's perspective, some would even call her brilliant. She's aced all her missions in her first year on the job—way ahead of all the others in her year, and was even able to crackdown a dark magic-infested tomb in an assignment she co-lead in Egypt. She was quick, smart, and as brave as the career entailed.

Only one thing stood between her and a good reputation in Gringotts. Her impulsiveness.

She couldn't help it. Y/N's successes partnered with tragedies—accidents; her brilliance came with sheer will and almost violent haste. The problem is you can't think twice Bill would always say. Not everything is done in a snap, Y/N.

Bill Weasley was the only senior Curse Breaker with enough patience to supervise her. It must have been fate or a miracle that had him in temporary assignment at the London Gringotts when she graduated Hogwarts. If she were received by anyone else, or if he were back in Egypt instead, she didn't think she'd ever make it out into the field. Or worse, last a few months.

"I'll be good," she mumbled to no one in particular. Or maybe she hoped that Bill would hear. She'd floo him again later.

Trekking up the slope with hands snuggled warm inside her faux-fur-lined pockets, Y/N inhaled the fresh earth surrounding her. This was her calling. Nature. Adventure. The unknown. She was fantastic with spells and jinxes and once thought of becoming an Auror—but Aurors spent too much time indoors, on desks, drowning in paperwork and tailing dark wizards. She knew in her heart she wasn't born to enforce the law.

On the opposite side of the hill was a deep gorge between two towering mountains and a long serpentine stream. Elated at the sight, she followed the gentle flow of water over the rocks. Without thinking (because when does she ever), she slipped off her boots and socks, and despite the chilly morning, prepared to wade the ice-cold water. She dipped one toe in for good measure—a pause.

That couldn't be right.

Submerging one whole foot into the water confirmed her confusion. Strange. Almost all waterways in Romania led to the Black Sea, if not the Adriatic. Why was it warm?

This isn't the bathing stream she thought. The senior Curse Breakers back at camp had instructed them of assigned fresher areas where warming charms would be cast. She didn't remember this gorge being part of last night's tour.

Ankles deep in the water, Y/N trailed the soft currents. It was deliciously warm. A deliberate contrast to the icy breeze left by the trail ends of winter. It was supposedly mid-spring, but the winds still gave her the chills.

She took no notice of how far she was going, the water neither rising nor falling. If she were to guess it must've almost been half an hour given by the direction of the sun. The warm water and small pebbles were therapeutic beneath her feet. The walk didn't tire her at all.

Finally, the chasm's end came to view. Heart beating with excitement, she hastened her pace, dampening the legs of her trousers that she attempted to roll up. But just as her feet crossed the lip between the two mountains flanking her, she felt the oddest sensation: it began at the top of her head, traveling down her arms to her toes—as if a big fat raindrop landed on her scalp and entered her body.

She glanced at the clear blue sky. There was no cloud in sight for miles.

And then, it was suddenly very humid.

"What the..." she glanced back through the gorge. Nothing was out of order and nobody was in sight. Looking down at her feet, her surroundings were now as warm as the water she stood on. Her parka felt too thick.

Again, strange.

Trying to shake away her curiousness, Y/N trudged on.

All is well she chanted inside her head. All is well and the wind just blows differently on this side of the alps.

But no matter what she told herself, ripples of unease still disturbed Y/N. She was beginning to sweat and it wasn't just her nerves. The wind didn't blow differently on this side of the mountains because there was no wind. It was dry, dank, and very very warm.

To rattle her nerves even further, the water she was wading on was getting hotter as she went on that she had to leap on land once again. But as soon as her bare soles made contact with the grass, she yelped in pain.

"Merlin—OW."

The earth was burning. As if it bathed in the sun for too long. As if she were in the middle of a dry desert. She knew the feeling, she's been to Egypt. But why the bloody hell would Romanian soil feel this hot? Moreso in the heart of the Southern Carpathians?

Locating a jutted-out slab of rock, Y/N hopped over to sit and gather her bearings, drying her damp feet and staring at her boots and socks. She didn't want to slip them back on. The heat was intense. But it was either the boots or the sizzling soil.

She shrugged off her parka after lacing up her boots and was grateful for her reckless choice of wardrobe this morning. She opted for a ribbed shirt under her jacket—instead of a sweater—in urgent intention to get away from a nagging Bill. Now it served her well. It wasn't as thin as she would have deemed appropriate for the current temperature, but at least her neck and arms could breathe.

Gazing over the expanse of the clearing she emerged in, she suddenly became aware of the lack of green in the area. The grass was almost a withering brown—crunchy and dry. Trees weren't scattered about like the thick oaks all over the Curse Breaker camp; instead, they were clumped, almost systematically, in relatively rectangular patch formations. As if deliberately rooted as such.

Muggles Y/N thought. It was only them who had the peculiar habit of reorganizing nature.

Tying her parka around her waist, she treaded the clearing, the grass crisp beneath her boots, and approached the nearest cluster of trees. She wondered if this were one of the areas they'd be digging up. Senior Curse Breaker Digby Youssif oriented them of specific crackdown areas to look forward to in the next few months. Although almost all wizarding families were well-accounted for in Romania, there were still trifling amounts of intel on hidden vaults under protective spells cast by untraceable ancient tribes.

Y/N loved digging assignments. She was particularly fond of discovery. And if Ancient Runes was Hogwarts' least-loved lesson, she rather enjoyed Professor Babbling's classes. Well, most of the time. It was her pride and joy to have snagged an 'Outstanding' for her O.W.Ls—

Crack!

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the trees ahead of her. On instinct, Y/N drew her wand from her belt loop. Nothing was so dangerous about the wind. But it felt so...

The sound came out of nowhere, she thought it was imagining it. A steady drumming beat. Powerful and humming. An engine? she thought. But that was impossible. They were told that the area was blocked off from muggles for the duration of their stay. She paused in front of a towering ashtree. The sound was growing louder and louder. Nearer. She didn't know why but she was compelled with the need to hide.

Climb.

She felt ridiculous, clambering up an ashtree and settling on its thickest branch. Her superiors back at camp were clear that the mountains were safe, its perimeters were secured for their dig. Curse Breakers always made sure missions wouldn't come across outside interference.

Then why was her heart beating so fast?

The drumming sound was growing nearer. Behind her—above.

Peering at the sky through the leaves, a massive dark figure swooped overhead and landed with an earth-shaking thud on the clearing right in front of her tree.

Y/N felt like she was going to choke on her own spit when a deafening, earsplitting roar echoed through the mountains.

Dragon.

Fully grown, enormous, and vicious-looking, the beast had emerald scales that glinted in the morning sun. Its body was bulky, way stockier compared to the common dragons in textbooks. It had a massive head that seemed even larger than its body, and on it sprouted two long glittering golden horns. Its claws had the same golden color, and it was rearing onto its hind legs, hunching over a figure... chewing...

All the breakfast Y/N had only hours before felt like rising up her throat. An enormous dragon only meters in front of her was chewing on a dead animal, clearly having his own meal. And there she was, perched on an ashtree, ready for dessert.

Don't panic she told herself, but feeling green. She's never faced a dragon on a mission before. They tackled them in her first year on the job—Curse Breakers didn't really need training, the task calling for hands-on work—but never in her life did she ever think she'd have to face a real dragon.

I don't have to face it Y/N thought, I just have to stay here until it flies away, and run back to camp.

Wiggling up to a squat, she eyed the neighboring branch a few feet to her right which was higher up and positioned behind a thicker cluster of leaves. It didn't require a jump, but more of a really careful split; hugging the trunk tightly, she stretched her right foot across, shifting her weight to her right leg, her arms choking the tree trunk in a death grip, legs spread wide midair—

"Scuzati-ma?"

Y/N didn't fall. Thank Merlin she didn't fall. But she lost her momentum in surprise and panic, her left foot sliding from the previous branch, making her push off the trunk in haste, throwing her weight across completely. She grabs a dangling thin branch above her at the last minute, her body tilted towards the forest floor.

A forest floor where a man now stood, peering up at her curiously.

She was breathing hard, her heart thumping erratically, both from the fear of falling and being heard by the dragon so close by.

"Er—esti bine?" the man asked. Y/N saw that he had his arms out as if braced to catch her if she fell. When she didn't answer, the man spoke again, "Ai nevoie de ajutor?"

She blinked down at him. "What?"

He chuckled. She hated it. It hurt her pride. "I said, do you need any help?"

He was loud. Too loud. She righted herself on the branch, pulling to lean back on the trunk behind her. Then risking a peek, she checked on the dragon who was still munching on the dead cow with gusto.

She looked back down to find the man with his eyebrows raised at her, his face painting amusement. It was impossible not to take note of his red mane pulled into a low bun. He looked awfully familiar... and he was going to get them killed.

"Could you," she whispered as loudly as she could, "keep your voice down?"

The man snickered once more, showing no effort of lowering his tone. "Why?"

"Are you blind?" she wanted to strangle him. "There's a bloody dragon!"

The redhead glanced at the scaly beast and heaved out a sigh. "Okay. Yeah, you're right. It's way past breakfast. He's missing nap time."

Y/N looked at him incredulously. He shrugged, "But what can I do? He slept in this morning. Lazy beast." Looking back up, he asked, "Want to meet him?"

He's mental she thought. That had to be it.

But the redhead only laughed. He keeps laughing. He must've noticed the stupefied expression on her face because he simmered. "Give him a minute and you can come down. It's already his fifth haul so he's bound to get dozy and fly back to the nest." He started walking towards the clearing when he paused and turned back, "Although, you can come down now. I promise he won't eat you."

Y/N watched as the man walked up to the feasting dragon—she was peering behind the thick tree trunk, using it as a shield. He's insane. Drawing a wand from a sheath attached to his calf, the man aimed a stunning spell right by the beast's tail.

"Alright, Darius, I think you've had enough," he called. He kept his distance, a good few meters away, but his gait was calm, almost lazy.

The dragon glanced at the man, its fangs bloody. Y/N wanted to grab the redhead and run. But it was a crazy thought, and she was rooted on her spot on the tree branch, frozen in fear.

The man gave a sharp whistle and the dragon grunted, smoke coming out of its nostrils. It ignored him and continued to munch on the cow.

Another stunning spell was aimed right by its claws and the dragon emitted a low growl. Y/N didn't know if she was imagining it but the creature seemed sluggish on its feet, swaying... almost drowsy.

"Off you go," said the man, "up." He sent one more stunning spell right in front of its snout. It was a clear miss, purely intentional.

The dragon heaved a loud angry roar. But instead of diving for the man like she expected, it started flapping its wings, gaining momentum. Y/N held onto the tree trunk tighter so as not to be swayed by the sudden rush of winds the creature was yielding. And then with a strong push off the ground, up it soared, growling low in its throat, and was out of sight.

Y/N's legs felt like jelly slugs, but her arms refused to let go of the tree trunk. What in Merlin's name just happened?

"Y/N."

She gave a short yelp, coughing on her next breath. "Excuse me?"

The man was back, now by the foot of the tree once again. "Come down."

"How do you know my name?" she demanded.

He had a really handsome smile. A really familiar, handsome smile...

"I should be offended," said the man. "Come down." There it was again, that smile. "I'll catch you."

I'll catch you.

I'll catch you....

"Come on, Y/N, I'll catch you!"

"No you won't!" said Y/N. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

She was perched on the beech tree by the Black lake, her legs dangling above the shallow water. She had attempted to retrieve her Spellman's Syllabry textbook that Cassian Loxias chucked up the branches for fun.

"Yes I will, I promise," consoled Charlie. "I'm a prefect, remember?" he gestured to his badge, "I'll make sure you're safe."

Sniffing up snot that was escaping her nose, she hiccuped softly against the back of her hand. "Our prefect doesn't do that very much."

Charlie chuckled. "I'll make sure to have a word with Professor Sprout about her Hufflepuff prefects."

When he saw the horror on her face, he held up his hands, "It didn't come from you of course. Will you come down now? I swear I'll catch you."

Y/N looked into Charlie Weasley's eyes and saw nothing but pure candor. Biting her lip, she said, "Do cross your heart, or hope to die?"

He traced a cross right above his chest. "Cross my heart, or hope to die."

"Y/N. Y/N?"

Y/N blinked.

Charlie Weasley. Charlie dragon-tamer Weasley. Charlie the hot brother Weasley—

"Are you still breathing? Do you need me up there?"

Trying to gather her bearings, Y/N extracted herself from her hold on the tree trunk, went down onto a squat, and leaped off, landing on the crunchy grass with a thump.

Charlie raised an eyebrow at her as she dusted her trousers, "I see you don't need catching anymore."

She took in the man before her. "Charlie Weasley."

His grin was dazzling."Caught on, have you?

From up close, Y/N could now see the familiar freckles splattered all over his nose and cheeks. He was towering over her like he always did. She used to be the little second year Hufflepuff always idling by the entrance to the Great Hall hoping to bump into the famous Charlie Weasley. Studying on the Quidditch pitch, watching him behind her textbook, captaining the Gryffindor team. Climbing the beech tree by the lake again and again, hoping Charlie Weasley would somehow walk by once more to offer her a hand...

There were so many things she could've done, seeing him again for the first time after all these years. He was gone as soon as he graduated Hogwarts, flying to Romania to study dragons. Everyone always thought Charlie would be going Quidditch pro, being captain and seeker. He had the build, the skills, and the charm. Hogwarts alone had fan clubs in his name and rumor had it that the Falmouth Falcons were just waiting for him to finish seventh year.

But others didn't see Charlie as Y/N did. They didn't see him hoarding books on care of magical creatures in the library. They didn't notice him sneaking off to Hagrid's on the weekends, taking Fang for walks or feeding the Blast Ended Skrewts in the garden. Nobody paid attention to the copy of Fantastic Beasts And Where to Find Them that Charlie practically glued to his side. Only Y/N did. And now that she thought about it, she didn't like that she knew so much. It made her feel like a creep.

So instead of hugging him in delight like she actually wanted, she took a swipe at his shoulder.

"You git," she hissed. "You scared me to death! How did you do that? I thought taming dragons was impossible."

"It is. Most of the time," Charlie shrugged. "Darius is a Romanian Longhorn. Mostly harmless compared to the others especially when he's full. Not that difficult to send him back to the nest when he can barely stand on his feet."

"Harmless? I could've been dessert!"

Charlie laughed. He was still always laughing. "You look delicious, yes, but I'm not letting Darius have you."

What the fu—Y/N inhaled slowly, cautiously. Then exhaled through her nose. She didn't know how to respond. Seeing him again after so long, without warning or preparation, was messing with her senses

"It's good to see you, Y/N," he said and walked closer. Close enough to tugged at her braid. She didn't know why he did it, but he looked like he just had to. "You look good."

Y/N's heart was beating rapidly once more, but this time, for all the wrong reasons. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Charlie gazed back into her eyes as if seeing her for the first time.

"Too long."

Again, she didn't know how long it took her to reply, but she cleared her throat, "How—did you know it was me? The first time?"

Charlie's eyes were still roaming all over her face. "No. Not until you spoke."

Y/N must've held a questioning look because he added, "I'll never forget that voice."

He was saying such strange things. Were they strange? Or was it just because he affected her so?

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Well, you wouldn't come down, would you? I see you still have a thing for trees."

Y/N rolled her eyes.

"I didn't know the dragon reservation was in the alps," she said. "Do you know we're camping nearby?"

"'Course I do. You lot are beside dragon territory for a reason."

Excitement and fear raised Y/N's nerves. "What are you talking about?"

Charlie bit his lip. "You'll see."

"Are we digging in the reservation?"

He was walking out into the clearing now, beelining back towards the opening of the gorge.

"Charlie!" Y/N jogged to keep up. "Are we?"

He only smiled, "Patience, darling."

Darling. He used to call her that all the time even when they were back in Hogwarts. She always tried to ignore the fluttering feeling her chest made when he used the endearment, reminding herself that he must've used it on everyone else, not just her.

"Why did no one back at camp tell us anything?"

"I probably should've kept my mouth shut," was his only reply. They were crossing the two mountains flanking the stream, and as soon as they cut through the border, Y/N felt the same sensation she did when she went through the clearing. But this time in reverse, it was as if the raindrop was sucked back up.

She glanced up at the mountains. "Did you feel that?"

"Shield spells," explained Charlie. "To keep the muggles out. Temperature charms as well to regulate the reservation climate. Although the dragons do enough of their warming on their own, it's for precaution."

They walked up the stream, tracing back Y/N's previous path.

"Are you bringing me back to camp?" she asked.

"That, and I have to see Digby. Iron out tomorrow's schedule."

"So we are digging inside the reservation," Y/N didn't know if she was more thrilled or afraid.

Charlie glanced at her, "You heard nothing from me."

Studying his features as they strolled, Y/N couldn't help but admire how much Charlie Weasley grew up to be. He's always been lean and strong, especially with being an athlete back at Hogwarts, but now he seemed so much larger than life. Red tendrils were escaping his low bun and framing his chiseled face, there were a few scars on his nose and one under his lip. She shouldn't have been able to see it but she couldn't stop staring. He was big. Stockier than she'd ever seen him; hands wrapped in gauze and rope slung over a hook on his hip.

Charlie Weasley, dragon-tamer.

And he was staring right back at her.

"You have to take me to see more dragons," Y/N breathed. She didn't know where her voice went. It was all airy and she didn't like it. She hoped he would assume it was because of their walk.

Charlie stopped, deep brown eyes boring into her own. He was panting slightly too. Maybe it was the walk.

"Okay," he exhaled. "Promise."

"Cross your heart?" she almost whispered. Almost.

Two fingers traced a cross over Charlie's chest, his gaze not leaving hers, "Cross my heart."

#by gabi #charlie weasley #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley fluff #hp post war #charlie weasley x fem!reader #i have no idea where this idea came from but here it is #there will be a part 2!#part 2 coming soon

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camdentown-library · 3 years

Text

You hurt me first || male!Eivor x fem!Reader

(GIF by eivorella )

𝕺𝖍, 𝖆 𝖇𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋𝖋 𝖆 𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖋, 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖙 𝖇𝖊?

Summary: You are a Hidden-One and Eivor is your travel companion. Things will change when Eivor forgets one of your important expeditions to spend a whole day with Randvi. What will happen? Requested? ANON: I love love LOVE your writing 😭 and I have a request that I hope you would accept 🥺 could you write a jealous reader x eivor awwww I love that kind of stuff about randvi’s crush on eivor and a cute confession at the end. 😚 Genre: Fluff, a bit angst (only 20%) Words: 2048

NOTE: siktir et = Fuck in turkish

"Eivor" your voice called the attention of the Viking who was returning to Ravensthorpe on a horse "But where have you been?" you asked impatiently putting your hands on your hips. You had been looking for him all day, today you would have had to leave for the porssimo kingdom to conquer, important peace negotiations were underway and he needed an alliance as much as you to find the rest of the order of the ancients. The blond friend with an agile leap jumped off his steed and only then did you notice that Randvi was with him, riding another horse. As your eyes met your stomach felt a sharp pang, as if your own hidden blade had pierced your organ, while a bitter aftertaste formed at the end of your tongue. "Y/N!" Eivor said in a joyful tone, awakening you from your hostile thoughts "Were you looking for me perhaps?" the hands on your hips tightened in a tenacious grip for the nervous. "Maybe I was looking for you?!" you asked with an ironic tone "siktir et Eivor, have you forgotten what we were supposed to do today?" you asked visibly annoyed, while your Viking friend (probably from the alcohol still running lightly in his veins) looked at you puzzled as he tilted his head to one side. You stared up in shock, was he really so overwhelmed by Randvi and his stupid crush that he forgot why they were there in Ravensthorpe?! "Oxenfordscire?! Your brother Sigurd?! We were supposed to leave this morning and I've been looking for you all day!" you said angry, while Eivor remained silent not knowing what to repeat "Your brother and my mentor had requested our presence, the negotiations seem to be more difficult than you thought, but apparently it is more important for you to go roaming around fields with Randvi!" your tone became more and more poisonous, and your anger and your jealousy took more and more possession of your body, leaving your calm and calculating Hidden-One mind on the corner "And tell me Eivor, did you drink together? fucked? Or maybe you did both, since you're back in the late afternoon" Randvi's gaze became dark with slight embarrassment, while getting off the horse she slowly walked towards the long house of Jarl Eivor on her side she seemed to have lost her patience, and as always she knew how to do, besides regaining consciousness of himself, he sharpened his sharpest weapon: his tongue and his words. "Stop being a child, Y/N! And above all do not disrespect Randvi, she is the Jarl's wife" replied the man approaching you, his tone was grim even though he tried to stay calm. "Jarl's wife? Seriously Eivor? Do you think ... Do you think I am blind or deaf by any chance?" you asked mimicking his words, while Eivor shook his head in disappointment. "I just took Randvi for a walk, you see she doesn't have the privilege like you of being able to roam far and wide, her duty is to stay locked up in that damn long house. I just let her breathe some air new and moreover..” Eivor took a few more steps towards you, but you did not retreat, as your faces left a few centimeters away “I have no obligation to inform you about my private life, you are not my Jarl , you are not my mother and you are not my wife” your eyes met for a moment, but nothing romantic passed through them, only disappointment and anger. Eivor had been clear with you, you were nobody to him, just a foreign girl who, together with her mentor and her partner, had entered the crow's clan. Pathetic, that's what you were, pathetic to have thought for just a moment that that rough, arrogant Viking cared about you. You took a deep breath, never looking down at those ocean-blue eyes and turning your back on Eivor you said in a cold tone: "I'm leaving now and alone" you said as you mounted the nearest horse. "Wait, the sun has almost gone down now, it's not safe to venture out" said the groom, emerging from the horse stable. "I've ridden alone for years in the desert and in far more hostile places than a couple of green hills" you said seriously and arrogantly, and then cast one last look at Eivor, who looked you in the eye almost...sorry. No! Nonsense...It was obvious he was anything but that or he wouldn't have said those heartless words to you. I beckoned to the horse to leave, and the horse pawing enthusiastically set off at a gallop towards the Oxenfordscire.

* * *

Night had fallen over the moors and forests of distant, cold England. You had camped near a river with your horse, while next to you there was a small fire lit in the hope of keeping you warm. You swore in your mother tongue that you were so reckless...you could at least have taken some fur or something to eat, and instead you were there, cold, alone and with nothing to eat. You looked out over the river, letting the water mirror the image of your face. Look at you, anything but feminine, foreign and definitely not Viking. What did you think was springing up in Eivor's heart? The burning fuse of love? The truth is that you were a fish out of water and neither you, nor Hytham, nor Basim would ever have been part of that extended family. A tear full of frustration, furrowed your face contracted in a grimace that tried in every way to suppress the desperate need to cry and in the impetus you chased a menacing growl by throwing a slap at that river, thus breaking your reflection. A strange rustle in the bushes caught your attention, making you whirl towards that threatening noise. Something was hiding in the dense bush! Slowly you let your hidden blade slip away from your wrist, approaching with extreme silence towards the source of your threat, and as soon as you noticed a dark shape hiding behind the trunk of a tree, you slid as quickly as a splinter, pushing the intruder to the ground . You overtook him immediately, sitting astride his chest and blocking his mighty arms with your legs, while the tip of your blade dangerously caressed his throat. "Give me a good reason not to kill you intruder or you will not see your precious Valhalla" you said threateningly, trying to see his identity in the dim light. "Well if you do, you'll have to explain to Sigurd the reason for his brother's demise" that voice ... Eivor? "You..." "Yeah ..." "YOU HAVE FOLLOWED ME" you said indignantly. "How could I have left you alone?" Eivor asked him indignantly this time. "Yes, sure, right ... spare your bullshit when you explain to Sigurd your delay in Oxenfordscire" you answered bitterly, shaking your head. Eivor was silent for a few moments, perhaps admitting defeat in that speech, and then cleared his throat. "As much as I'm finding, here ... very exciting having a woman straddling my chest, could you take your blade off my throat?" your face flushed with embarrassment and anger and after snorting annoyed you said: "I would really want to pierce your dick with this one, at least so you won't be fooled with that instead of your head" You got up nimbly from him, trying to ignore his amused laugh, how could he behave like this after your argument? Ugh...that man was absurd...

You both leaned back around the small fire you made while Eivor rummaged in his big bag. You tried hard not to stare and ignore it, but when you recognized the smell of dried meat, your throat twisted with hunger. "Have you eaten? I brought some food from Ravensthorpe" Eivor explained, as he brought two succulent strips of dried meat to you, but you shook your head. "I'm not hungry" but he didn't seem to believe it, in fact he raised an eyebrow along with the corner of his mouth. "As you want, then I'll eat it all" he said marking the last words...what a bastard, was he psychologically torturing you?! A cold gust of wind, however, shook you abruptly from your thoughts, making you shiver noisily...damn, what would you pay for a fur coat to cover you with, that cold was so different from the hot nights of Constantinople. Something heavy wrapped around our shoulders, and blinking in perplexity, you turned to Eivor, who had moved to your side, covering you too with his fur cloak. "I don't need you, stop it" you said arrogantly as he rolled his eyes. "Listen, I'm just trying to get you all to your destination, difficult days ahead and I need you and all your strength" the wheat-haired Viking explained seriously. "You wouldn't think you cared today" "Wha-? Listen Y/N ... I don't know what got into you today but I didn't want things to be like this" "Didn't you want? Eivor, you literally told me that my opinion doesn't count for you" the man bit his tongue at the thought of what he had said and shaking his head said: "I can prove to you it's not like that" "Go on" "Today, when Randvi and I were walking, she kissed me" you opened your eyes wide in shock, as you felt for the second time your heart crack into a thousand pieces "But! I rejected her...And not because she was the wife about my brother...as I initially thought. When I saw you go off on horseback, alone, the very thought of not being able to protect you made me feel like I was lost in the cold lands of Hel” he explained, it seemed really to be honest "And when I finally saw you camped here I was able to breathe again knowing that you were not in danger..." "This is not love, it's just a sense of guilt Eivor” you tried to reject it, still burned by your own jealousy. "No, no it's not guilt! I...I want you Y/N, I feel it when you climbed on me to attack me, I feel it now that we are close to warm up, I...for Odin sake I cannot be without you I'm sorry things had to go like this” he said, looking you in the eye. His expression seemed sincere, all of a sudden it no longer seemed I had a fierce and arrogant Viking beside me, but ... a wolf cub, a tender puppy, who just wanted to have his love reciprocated by him. Now it was your heart that was filled with guilt. "In truth...it is not because of the missed mission that I have taken it out on you, Eivor...seeing you with Randvi, has me-ugh what a shame in saying these things... I felt abandoned, I felt cornered, I felt I was worth nothing to you and I could touch the feeling that she was taking you away from me-” your speech was interrupted by the hand of the Viking who fleetingly grabbed your chin making it turn towards him, so as to be able to join your lips in a chaste first impact kiss, but which then poured out all your need to be united, to be able to touch you, to be able to merge your souls into one League.

"I'm here, forever Y/N" Eivor whispered as his mouth brushed yours "but only if you stop being an angry child and promise me you'll eat something, mh?" he said with a playful little smile, getting a light slap on the cheek from you. "Otherwise? Are you abandoning me?" you asked ironically, raising an eyebrow. "I know methods of torture that you cannot imagine, to make you smile with force" he said, returning the ironic tone, while his calloused hands caressed your soft hips. "I thought you were leaving these things to the Ragnarsson, Wolfkissed" you pretended to be surprised, as he pressed his lips to your ear and kissed the earlobe, while his frizzy beard tickled your sensitive skin, giving you a few snorts of laughter. "You don't know my evil side then" he replied with a chuckle and playfully biting your jaw.

#Assassin's Creed #assassin's creed imagine #assassin's creed imagines #assassins creed imagines #assassins creed imagine #assassin's creed valhalla #assassins creed valhalla #assassins creed valhalla imagine #ac valhalla #assassin's creed valhalla imagine #eivor #male!eivor #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed

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passivenovember · 3 years

Text

Sometimes I get really high and cry about how I don’t have anything from my childhood home. So here’s this.

WARNINGS FOR: mentions of suicide, Billy healing from the incident at Starcourt.

He’s never been fed by what is inherently sentimental. Even as a little boy, those precious creatures that lived on the highest shelf in his heart were easily destroyed or ripped away by the person he was becoming. Stuffed toys fell to pieces under the heat of his anger, the toxic potion that was brewing under the surface of his skin ate away at the rose-colored hue surrounding his childhood home to the point of absolute degradation.

Billy doesn't remember a time when he longed for the sanctity of his bedroom. For the pale yellow sunlight streaming past blood stained Thomas the Train curtains, or the box of broken toys that Neil had left alone. He doesn't remember when it happened, when the flip switched and his longing went from missing Saturday morning cartoons in his parents bed to simply missing his mother and all the things she had taken when she jumped off the roof.

It wasn't always like that. Billy remembers something else. He remembers a blanket that smelled like cinnamon toast crunch, adorned with microscopic holes he liked to such his thumb through. He remembers a set of roller blades the color of crushed mustard seeds; Neil taught him to skate. No one knows that, no one remembers, but Billy. Does, he. Remembers strong fingers laced with his own, holding tightly while Billy figured out how to maneuver the cracks in the sidewalk.

Billy is haunted by a time when his fathers hands were good for other things.

Before Hawkins. Before that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest, Billy had been giving things away. To lighten the load, he supposes, that which had become unbearable.

First it was his skateboard.

Max wanted it.

At the time he didn't think it was as simple as all that; his bitchy kid sister begging, day in and day out for access to the magic carpet that sat entombed in Billy's closet. He hadn't used it in years, ever a slave to the bright blue ocean, but it didn't matter. It was the principal of the thing, the skateboard to his kneecap.

Max took and took and took until Billy had nothing left to give. She said you don't even use it anymore and Billy said doesn't matter, you can't skate.

Neil told him it could be good for bonding.

Neil told him Max was a good kid, she deserved to have something of her own in their house on Willowbrook Avenue.

Neil told him to hand it over before I stick it up your ass, kid.

So Billy ground his teeth together and tried to push down the aching emptiness at tossing away the last thing his grandmama had given him before she passed away. It was the principal of the thing--if Ruthann were still around she'd tell him to let the kid have it. Let her have something of her own, so. He polished its bearings and left it outside her bedroom door, pretended to read until she came knocking an hour later with confusion twisting her freckled face to shit.

You're sure I can have it. She asked.

And.

Yeah. I'll teach you.

He wonders if Max remembers those afternoons in the driveway that morphed into weekends at the skatepark with Max scuffing up the wheels and Billy tapping into his thin line of patience. Wonders if she's plagued by the memory of hidden smiles and misplaced affection, because. Billy had thought it would hurt more, giving away a piece of his childhood like that, but. He had long since stopped attaching emotional worth to things that broke. Things that crumbled.

He wonders if Max remembers a time when his hands were good for other things.

Billy made a habit of throwing away the things that weighed him down.

The skateboard, the blanket that smelled like cereal milk, he thought all of it made him weak. The more shit he had that mattered to him the more he had to lose, so. Every Spring Billy would wrap his fingers around the mouth of a big black trash bag and lighten his load. Scoop armfuls of his childhood into the abyss that always, somehow, incredibly operated as a portal to Max's room.

Sometimes he wondered if she even had a personality or if everything she had, everything she was, came directly from Billy's dumpster.

One man's trash, and all that.

She wore his old shirts. Read his books, hung discarded posters of naked chick's on the insides of her closet doors for some fucking reason, and. In a weird way Billy felt like maybe he was being immortalized. Every phase of his life was shone back at him like the surface of a lake, or a shiny new penny on the dashboard of the Camaro, and he felt good. Useful, for his trash becoming someone's gold.

So Billy kept tossing things out.

Reorganizing and downsizing until his room looked like a generic movie set for a troubled teen. Every weekend Billy packed the little pieces of himself into neat trash bags, tying the lip closed and leaving them for max. Nestled at the foot of her door, like a bargain brand Christmas gift that was not at all what she had asked for. Gifts that came 52 times a year.

The bags always vanished. Billy felt heavy and light. Heavy and light. In the end he wasn't sad to see it go.

Maybe it was just a side effect of growing up in the big, empty house on the hill and fighting the incessant need to fill it with shit but Steve Harrington was a packrat. The kid never got rid of anything. Before Starcourt. Before that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest, Billy would tease him about it.

What, like you need five binders full of empty laminate pages?

Steve's tongue would poke out of the corner of his mouth while his fingertips brushed the offended plastic. I'm going to start scrapbooking.

And that was is usual way, to find an explanation, a inarguable reason for all the junk in his life, but.

Billy thought it was okay to have things around for comfort.

Wasn't really his style, but it was Steve's and Billy didn't stop the kid from collecting whatever he could get those slim fingers on. Old NATARI cartages, broken HAM radio antenna's, torn polaroid's, annual Moms of Loch Nora Bake sale t-shirts; he kept everything in case an old timey push mower could prove itself to be useful.

Before that night when the demon punched a hole in his chest, Billy would smirk. What sad sack wants a MILF's face on his chest?

Steve just shrugged his shoulders. Someone could need it.

And Billy just snorted, because.

Harrington's a weird guy.

Thoughtful and pretty and so, so fucking weird.

When they brought Billy home from the hospital he slept in a shirt with Karen Wheelers face on it, every night for a week.

Funny how it all comes back around.

He spends a lot of time in bed with the covers pulled up under his chin. Draped in Steve's ridiculous knit sweaters and thick woolen socks because everything is cold, now. As if winter has settled rough and desperate into the very marrow of his bones and even though the fabric rubs too harshly against the healing rise of his stitched skin, Billy can't shed even a single layer for fear of freezing to death.

That's what it had felt like Before Starcourt. Before the monster punched a hole through his chest, when it just had its fingers inside his skull.

Endless winter.

Steve buys every type of heated blanket on the market. Searches high and low for expensive down t-shirts that will help you feel more comfortable, but. Billy doesn't even remember what that's supposed to feel like.

Steve says comfort feels like sleeping in on Saturday mornings because you don't have anywhere to be. Home sounds like your mother fixing pancakes just before lunch time but--oh. Everyone always remembers half a second too late. Billy tries to smile, tries to accept the help Steve gives him--he wears the sweaters and keeps the socks on after his morning bath even though he's not really a sock person because Steve is so hopeful.

Bright.

Steve smiles over the mug of hot cocoa he fixes Billy every morning and hopes. If we start the day warm, who knows?

Billy doesn't have the heart to tell him.

Steve spends a lot of time in bed. Plastered to Billy's skin--chest to back because Billy needs to feel like he's protecting something, after Starcourt. After that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest.

Sometimes Billy feels like Maxine.

Stealing bits and pieces from someone's garbage can. Here he is, sleeping in Steve's bed wearing Steve's clothes taking up such a large part of Steve's life, and.

Pretty Boy just snuggles closer and lends his warmth in more ways than one.

Billy doesn't always know how to handle it when those milky brown eyes watch him roll around under the covers until his body finally feels at peace. Every night Billy closes his eyes says the same thing. "I can be out of here by next week, if you--" Afraid to look for fear that he'll see relief reflected back at him.

Every night Steve says the same thing in return. "You're my whole world now, Billy."

As if that's supposed to get the car back on track. As if Billy hasn't veered off the road and crashed into a tree every single day since--

"Maybe it would make you feel better if, you know." Steve shuffles impossibly closer, the hot line of him charring Billy's skin even through the layers of wool. "If you had something familiar."

"You're familiar."

Steve's flesh burns even hotter. Eyes shining even bright, at that. Something almost like love. "I meant something from your childhood."

Billy rolls onto his side.

Steve moves with him without even thinking about it--chest to back because Steve needs to feel useful, after Starcourt. After that night when Billy hit the floor and the light went out of his eyes. Billy's chest rises against the palm of Steve's hand, where it's pressed against him. Steve will never get tired of that motion.

"I don't have anything from my childhood."

Which. "Not even at home?"

"This is home now." Billy sounds like he doesn't want to talk about it, but.

Steve can't bring himself to care. Or maybe stop caring. "I meant at Neil's."

"Got rid of all that shit." He can hear the tremor in Steve's voice, when the boy finally finds it.

"Neil got rid of your--"

"No." Billy says simply. "I did."

He can hear the wheels turning in that beautiful head. Steve swallows, the movement palpable in the thick night air. "But. Don't you miss it?"

After a while Billy shakes his head in the darkness, curls catching on the plaid pillowcase. It takes Steve a moment to decipher what it means, how it makes him feel that Billy can so easily toss away the things that no longer serve him.

They're quiet for a while. So long that Billy's breathing goes deep and even, a clear indicator that he's fallen asleep. Steve knows it won't last long, knows the nightmares wake him up, and.

Steve always stays awake through the first three to give Billy something familiar to hold onto.

#harringrove #idk what this is lol

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abizarreyodelingincident · 4 years

Text

Our Nightly Confidant 5

Four steps in my shoes

Four feels strongly.

In general, as a rule, but also in this specific situation, where sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and the pegasus boots chaff from constant overuse. From the slight burn of his arm muscles that nonetheless keep swinging the Four Sword.

Amazingly, the emotion at the forefront of his mind cannot be easily and neatly assigned to one facet of him. Annoyance isn't exclusive to any one side of him, quite the contrary. And the 'you can go die!' disdain is a taaaaad too specific as well.

White paws sweep at him and barely miss the top of his head. Would have hit Ezlo, if this had been his first adventure. The pang of nostalgia doesn't help his focus much.

Small bursts of magic and swings of his boomerang sting enough to keep his enemy on the backfoot. Behind him, a few roots twist enough for an opening beneath the trunk. If he can just...

The paw slams inches away from where he was standing a second earlier.

Urgh. It had to happen after they marched all day in search of civilization, didn't it?

Well, nothing to it, Four adjusts his sword and glares back at the slitted eyes trailed on him.

Which is when the loudest, most thunderous bark he ever heard rips the air in half and hammers in his eardrums. The white monster (cat) yowls in fright, fur straight up in horror, back arched, and it sprints right up a tree.

Wolfie is a familiar sight, and a welcome one at that.

But some instinctive part of him that is more Minish than Hylian can't help grip the Four Sword tighter. From this perspective, Wolfie has more in common with Wild's divine beasts than a regular animal. His claws look about as tall as Four himself. And at the moment, the wolf is displaying a mouth full of fangs that promise a painful death.

He doesn't blame the cat for scampering. He's seen what those fangs can do to a throat. Or a wrist. Or an ankle. Not, really, he thinks the cat shows great wisdom in getting the hell out of Wolfie's range.

But, because he is a Hero of Courage, he flips the sword in his hands, sheathes it and waves his arms.

“Twilight!”

The shift is instantaneous, and a little amazing to witness. The ears perk up, the posture straightens from its crouch, the teeth all disappear behind the black lips. It's a flip of Pacci's cane, a turn on a rupee, and there's the big beast their group loves.

“You okay there, Smithy?” Twilight asked, sniffing him for signs of injuries.

It's strange, hearing Twilight's voice coming through the sort of mental-bond-language of the Minish. Useful though. He's not certain he currently possesses the patience for some games of charades with a wolf.

“No injuries.” He puts a hand on the damp nose even as a burst of hot air washes over him. “Just a bit out of breath.”

“Right.”

It's not a doubtful tone, but there's some Time-patented exasperation in there.

“I would have been fine, you know?” says the part of Four that is a bit younger. “I dealt with lots of monsters even at this size.”

(Not Wolfie size though, that he thinks might be beyond him when shrunk.)

The flat look he receives makes him want to squirm.

He's too controlled for that.

“Yes, yes, I know.” He waves off the implied question. “I thought the innkeeper's cat was still inside.”

“He was. But after he mewled a bit, his owner let him out. And when I didn't see you... I had a feeling.”

Four wants to hit his head against a tree. Animals always were more aware of the scent of Minish magic. Many eyed him curiously when he walked through town. He should have known the cat would want to stalk after him. Probably thinking he knew where a village was hidden. He's going to have internal arguments about this all night.

“Cats are all bastards.”

To Four's amazement, Twilight's tail curls between his legs, his ears drooping. He rather looks more the guilty dog part than the majestic beast he insists he is.

“... But they're so cuddly.”

“When you're bigger than them, maybe,” Four deadpans. “Sneaky little shits.”

Twilight's whine is absolutely ridiculous and enough to make him snicker.

“Fine, fine. I'm not deaf, I hear what they say. Not as bad as cuccos, though.” Twilight's gaze wanders off to a faraway place. “Nothing is as bad as those psychotic birds.”

They lose a moment reliving their trauma over the feathered fiends.

Twilight shakes it off first. He lies down, his body like a hill of dark fur before Four, and hints at his back. Any protest Four might have had before dies in the face of his aching legs. He can fight off monsters at this size, but it's unreasonably more complicated. And he is not in the mood to stab spiders in the face tonight.

The fur is silky under his fingers, which is comforting but also a bit of a pain. Climbing means parting the coat of dark hairs and finding grip against skin. Sometimes, the body under him flinches or trembles, like Twilight is fighting off the urge to roll over. Four imagines it's quite similar to tickling. So he hurries up and makes his way up to the top of Twilight's head. Between the ears and roughly around the markings on his forehead.

Satisfied, Twilight stands, and the whole world blurs like he's still using his pegasus boots. A few more steps are needed before Four's body adjusts to the speed, and then he can relax. Twilight's safe.

And, he notes, not heading straight for the inn.

“We noticed the looks, you know,” Twilight says, because he's one of those busybodies that can't help mother cucco everyone around him till they are 'right as rain over a spring'.

“So?” he replies, even, practiced.

(Zelda had questions, at first, then orders that were swiftly obeyed, when in her sight. He hasn't told her that yet.)

“... How many of them do that?”

Do what? He wants to ask. The inn's owner had been quite polite, very careful in avoiding certain words around Four. Indeed so careful that Four could feel their syllables get more and more defined by the innkeeper's silence.

“Whisper?” he settles for. “A few. I'm weird, I know. Shorter than some kids, but can lift a hammer to forge. Own my business outside Castle Town, only shows up for groceries, talks to myself sometimes and stares at empty spots on shelves. I don't know, I suppose they expected me to apprentice beforehand, but there was a kingdom to save and what did that matter then?”

He punches the ground next to him before remembering too late it is Twilight's head.

The growl doesn't last. But the first few words he says are a bit more bitten out than the tone implies.

“There's a kid in my village. Younger than you. Couldn't lose the baby fat in his face for the longest time.” Twilight snorts, and his tail wags a bit. “And he's smart, really smart, a lot more mature than his older brother too.”

Four has a feeling that's partially due to the older brother's personality, but holds his tongue.

“People whispered behind his back. 'That boy is so creepy.'”

“Fey-touched,” Four says before he can hold back the red in him.

That one hurt. He's picked up habits from the Minish, he's aware. Little things like leaving keystones lying around for other kids or tiptoeing minish rings in the grass. But for those differences to matter so much, he hadn't expected until the first time the words had been floating around him.

“Ah,” Twilight says, followed by a whole lot of nothing.

Crickets around them sing. He can almost see some Minish putting a collar on the bugs to bring them home for a concert. Moving from behind stalks of grass, praying to the moon and the goddesses.

Then, Twilight says: “That takes me back.”

Four stumbles through the fur, his hands grasping on some new strands, but he can't tell if his unbalance is due a jolt in their steps or to the enormity of the idea. Twilight, the stereotypical rancher, seen as an outsider?

He tries, but all his brain conjures up is a much shorter version of Twilight dragging goats by the horns. That and dancing (badly) to the melody of a grass whistle.

Even from his spot atop Twilight's head, the eye roll is obvious despite being out of sight. “The only Hylian in a village of Humans?” he drawls. “Found as a toddler lost in the woods? Hardly able to speak for a while?”

Oh, Four thinks, that'd do it.

“They don't have the right to say that to you,” Twilight growls. “You're their hero.”

He could bask in the warmth. Lets himself lie down on Twilight and forget all about the events of tonight.

Curiosity wins, or well, violet does. “What did you do?”

“Nothing special? Just stayed the same and let them talk.”

Four's eyes bug out. “That's it? Nothing? How does that change anything?”

“When you're you, Four... When you're a good person regardless of rumors and whispers... Idiots don't stop talking, but the ones that are worth it stop listening.” A wolfish grin breaks out on Twilight's face. “Besides, you should have seen their black eyes after Rusl heard them say it to my face. After that... well, they could have called me the King of Evil and it wouldn't have mattered. Knowing you got someone in your corner's better than hollow praise from idiots.”

Four blushes.

He forgot for a bit, and he'll apologize to Zelda when he sees her, but it's true. Whenever he recalls that moment, the guard's words aren't ever the same. The phrasing lost all its power, outshone by the impassioned defense and the sheer anger wielded by his friend.

His back straightens. And he allows himself some childish pride in having the Princess of Hyrule in his corner. What do they have to beat that?

Twilight rumbles a laugh. “So... yeah, ignore them. Put them in their place if you want, the goddesses know you have the strength to do it, but that won't change their minds about anything. If you want some peace of mind, discard the idiots.”

Companionable silence falls between them. Four doesn't feel the need to speak after that bit of reassurance. They circle the woods, avoiding Hylians late on the road and monsters alike. Twilight's seemingly content just taking him on a ride, and Four's loath to admit he wants the moment to last a little longer.

They're not too far back from their starting point when he decides to ask: “About that kid?”

“Malo?”

“Yeah, him, how does he deal with it?”

Twilight does not answer right away. He first jumps over some large, gnarled roots and growls at a fox that seemed a bit too curious about the smell of Minish magic. Four's grateful for the time to calm his pounding heart.

“Well, Malo just stares at them until they get uncomfortable. Then he asks them what they're looking for. It never seems to affect him too much.” – discomfort hits at that, and Four can't tell why – “But, well, it also happened in front of me, you know? And I take after my Pa. So I might have knocked a couple of heads together in Casle Town. Followed by a strong talking to. Not that Malo appreciated that I ran off some of his customers.” A sigh. “That kid, I swear.”

Four grimaces. That type of 'customers'. Will think they bless his forge with their presence, praise him to all ends, then turn around and whisper. “I'm sure he's grateful inside.”

“Eh, I hope so, but it's his call in the end. Can't live his life for him.” Some muscles roll, and Four gets the impression of a shrug. “Speaking of, what do you want to do, Smithy?”

The question takes him by surprise, and it's silly that he didn't expect it.

He knows that Twilight would spend the night outside with him if he asks. They're no strangers to outdoor camping and the woods of his era are less dangerous than most. Wolfie would intimidate most if not all the creatures that live inside it.

But it would be illogical to sleep in the woods when they have more than enough rupees to pay for some rooms in a local inn.

Four is reasonable. It's one of his trademarks as a Hero. Mature for his age. Calm. Collected. It's how he's taken seriously as an adventurer. Why would he shatter an illusion that useful? Over some mild ostracization?

'Serve it cold,' says one quarter of him.

Another sides with Twilight. Their big brother made a good point. They couldn't be bothered by every single ungrateful person out there. They'd always exist, so let them stew in jealousy and paranoia and fear. He has the favor of the Princess, his best friend. What does he need anger for against a countryside shop owner?

But, the blue in him counters with an hammer-like argument: 'No, the best revenge is both.'

The others would be a little mad, he thinks. A little.

He's usually mature enough not to get in trouble. He's due for some insanity and explosions. Wild would back him up here. And it might be his voice in his head that pushes the words out of his mouth.

“So, not that I haven't listened to a word you said, but, hypothetically, if I needed help knocking heads together...”

“How many heads? Wars mentioned an interesting technique he learned from his sparring with some Sheikah general the other night. Though, if you'd rather, I can say, without boasting, that a lot of grown men weep at this form. It's embarrassing for everyone, I tell you.”

Four snorts, struck by mischief. “We're going to need to find a stump. I might have a plan.”

Yes, Four contemplates, the glint of wolf fangs under the moonlight is just as terrifying as he figured it would be. He can't wait.

***

Legend is silently debating with Sky over the right to punch the innkeeper in the face. It's a fierce debate communicated entirely through raised eyebrows, scrunched up nose, muted snarls and meaningful looks.

The others' patience is steadily fraying at the edges. It's especially noticeable with their youngest. There are fireworks going off on Wind's face. The knife cutting his slab of meat to pieces steadily stabs into it every time the innkeeper's mouth opens.

“And where are you fine young men traveling to?” he says with a customer pleaser smile.

'Fine young men'. Ah! There's a thing he didn't say about Four. The fucking nerves of this man.

“Far,” Time replies, his tone even, but his expression thoroughly unimpressed.

“Ah, yes, of course...” the innkeeper says agreeably. “You, huh, you'll be going with the, ahem, with the boy, I imagine?”

How dare he sound hopeful? And 'boy'?! This man's livelihood is owed to the smithy! And he doesn't even have the excuse of mind control!

A hint of shame tickles the back of his mind, when he had first heard the innkeeper talking. He had sounded nothing like the ones from his era, who sometimes refused him entry outright on the basis of old and false accusations.

This current attitude was, technically speaking, a strict improvement over that.

But does the man have to come alive and become so at ease serving them food whilst the Hero of this land take a walk outside? Alone, at night?

Legend grunts into his mug. The rancher left after the smithy, so that ought to solve the 'feelings' question. A bit of a stick-in-the-mud he might be, but Twilight's one of the few he would trust to help navigate difficult feelings. He's got the patience for it, unlike a lot of them who tackle everything the way they do a dungeon, with reckless abandon.

Yet, in the cozy warmth of the fire in the hearth, over the hesitant plucking of the minstrel's chords, a howl suddenly calls to the moon.

They, alone, do not tense.

The howl echoes a second time, much louder. Closer.

The innkeeper shoots them a desperate look, but Legend suddenly realizes that he is blind, and possibly deaf. He has no reason to stand up, much less draw his sword. And, would Farore look at that, his condition is contagious!

The hinges creak as they inch open.

If Legend were not so experienced, he might have been nervous. But he's better than that. He leans back in his seat, places a hand on Hyrule's shoulder, and sips his ale.

There in the doorway, cut in shadows with the moon as backdrop, riding on a large grey wolf, Four raises both arms high in the air.

“Fear my unnatural power,” he says with as ominous a voice he can produce.

Warriors snorts, cheeks reddened by alcohol, and he gives a thumbs-up to their smith, despite the owner's pale complexion.

The mugs left on the table begin to shake. Oh, this is gonna be good.

It starts with a pair of squirrels and a owl, neither obeying their instincts in favor of swooping inside the inn. Followed by a handful of moles, fireflies and stray dogs.

In a flash of white, the inn's cat bolts inside the inn, meowing, till it reaches its owner's legs and climbs onto him. It perches itself on his bald head, seconds before the first deer bounces inside the building.

Epona breaks the first table.

But the three raccoons lunging after his cat are what make the owner scream.

Legend guffaws in his ale.

#Linkeduniverse #Linked Universe #LU Twilight #LU Four #LU Wolfie

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twitchesandstitches · 3 years

Text

Birth of a New City

(Commission for @alt-hammer of an AU we’ve worked on together, of a fantasy-themed Homestuck AU where the main characters are the descendants of noble families following a long and perpetual conflict. This comm concerns the establishing of a city by the Megidos as Kankri journeys to be with his lady-love Damara, prior to her accidentally getting ahold of an artifact that stuffs her with ghosts that make her super pregnant and her boobs absolutely massive!)

------

Into the furthest lands of the north, at the limits of the lands the trolls called home, there came a line of caravans bringing people. There wasn’t exactly a road for them to follow; they had to settle for a slightly deeper trail flattened beneath them, rolling onwards by the first arrivals, who had engineered a special tool to the rears of their own caravans, digging out the ground behind them so that in their wake, they left a trail to follow for the second wave of caravans.

These caravans were massive freight carriers, and designed for the environmental peculiarities of their destination. It was always cold in the north, and they had taken considerations for the weather. Up here, it was usually some variety of wet, and at best it made for a gloomy atmosphere. In the spring, it rained. In the summer, it rained more. Autumn and winter would come, and then it would snow. Now, it was snowing, despite it being summer, but unpredictable weather was unfortunately a consequence of heavy magical activity, and this land was drenched in it.

Snow spilled off the scalloped, upwards curved of the caravan’s tops, leaving little piles by the side of their road as they traveled onwards. And inside, the people who had come (mostly from the lakeside lands of the newborn Vantas dynasty, Inside, they were lined with thick blankets and massive furs donated from the hunting guilds of the Leijons to the eastern lands, so they were quite warm even as the threatening chill of this place made people very nervous.

It was a basic rule of exploring new lands; you got the hell where you were going before winter happened. That it should be snowing, even in summer, was making the experienced caravaneers edgy. Fortunately, they were simply following the steps that had been laid before them, bringing badly needed supplies to finish the job.

And at the front, in a caravan the same as any other, there was an opening to look out through. And peeking out of it was a troll. He was short for a troll, nearly human-sized (though not as much as his younger brother), swaddled in the pale greys that had once hidden their blood from prying eyes. Thick furs, pale white and spotted in random patterns, adorned most of his visible body beneath it: furs for the cold, and a cloak for the wind. It was how they would likely remain dressed here, for the foreseeable future.

And he had enough time to reflect. He thought that he looked very much like his father, wearing old grey robes and swaddled in the furs harvested by Leijon claws. It troubled him.

His name was Kankri Vantas. And as it turned out, he was not exactly small. He was not as large as an ordinary troll, who tended to be among the biggest of the known thinking species. He was… compressed, as if someone had taken a troll and squeezed him up, but maintained the usual proportions into a package that seemed to emanate a frenetic energy bottled up with great difficulty. His horns were short and nubby like the closed claws of the great crab guardians that protected the lakes of his homeland, and to trolls, this combined with his body shape to suggest someone who spent a lot of time in libraries. Really old libraries. Something of the dusty, academic dryness seemed to have settled in him.

Now he marked his spot on his book, put it down, and looked out onto the road. He gazed upon a landscape that would be someone’s home soon enough.

From here, as they crested a high hill crowned by a last outcropping of forests, Kankri could see the north spread out beyond them. Frosty mires bubbled faintly, kept warm by the mysterious organic processes of a bygone era still operating on automatic to make a somewhat unconventional hot spring, and there were about four or so of them visible from here. They made a warm mist, rising into the snowfall to make the snow melt just enough to fall as a strange rain into the snow.

As a consequence of that, they had been trudging through a kind of slush for the last few nights. Their caravan was designed for this sort of thing, and the weather had been anticipated even if things this far north were totally unknown to trollkind. Even humans, who had their reasons to try to live anywhere that didn’t instantly kill them, had avoided this landscape.

It was a place of death, old superstitions said. There were such places known to scholars of magical lore; Kankri had read their works well in preparation for his apparent task to observe the world and determine a way to repair the damage made by their forebears. He knew that any strong emotion or action could leave a mark in the world, influencing the flow of magic by shifting its aspect.

If a place saw a happy family, for many generations, that place would become kinder and happier; just look at the Hoard Keep of the Pyropes, that ancient fortress in the mountains. Their predecessors had always been brutal and vicious, but dragons were loyal to one another, and they cherished duty to their own above anything else. Serene feelings of safety and joy lived in the stone, and had a tendency to leak out everywhere else.

Kankri thought of the wars that had torn the land apart. Ages and ages of almost ceaseless conflict, and his fangs bared at the thought of such… stupid wastefulness. He amended the thought to ‘careless’ wastefulness. People dying, human and troll and other beings, over and over, and for what? The same ridiculous rhetoric; some purplebloods declaring themselves superior or declaring bloody war in the name of their capricious, serpentine gods. Or humans fighting back and becoming consumed with pride, hatred; declaring that this war of total destruction was justified by atrocities almost as bad as what they were going to do…

Blood had soaked the ground more thoroughly than the rain up here could possibly try to do. Troll, human, or something else: it didn’t matter. Blood was life energy, blood represented ties to other beings both positive and malicious, and blood shaped the world, as it shaped the bonds between others. Blood in every color of the troll rainbow and human red drenched the world, with its hate and sorrow and loss, and now, the land was scarred.

He wondered if this territory was one of those places. It didn’t feel like it had seen so much death and horror that it had become some sort of inverse holy place, sanctified to the worst in sapient life. He’d been to those places, and he didn’t like thinking about the things he’d seen even when he shut his eyes, his magical senses treacherously open to the horrors replaying themselves in the astral realms forever and ever.

Here, it just rained. The air was thick with magic, and it tasted of something… distinctive. It didn’t feel bad. It did not have any associations with the true cruelties that made their work so very difficult elsewhere, and it didn’t make him remember horrible memories that weren’t his own. (Being in tune with magic, and the living memories that shaped it, could really suck sometimes.)

It felt like death. That was the bit that Kankri was having some trouble figuring out, and apparently so were his companions.

“Figures Ara and her family decided to settle out there.” The voice had a curious buzzing quality, as if a multitude of voices were backing up the speaker’s words. Kankri turned aside and acknowledged the speaker.

“I hope you are not impugning the Megido family, Sollux,” Kankri said, rather stiffly.

The speaker snorted, hanging off a supporting rafter like some kind of morose spider; his limbs were long and gangly, and his claws were surprisingly suited to hanging onto things, given that they had apparently been carefully filed down to serve as pseudo-pens. Given that he did a lot of time inscribing things, that made some sense. The rest of his body was on the lean side, perhaps the powerful magic coursing in his body running him so hot that any excess mass just burned away into the aether.

This other troll replied, “The Megidos have never been pugned a day in their lives and you goddamn know it.”

The speaker was Sollux Captor, scion of an ancient house of mages who had endured the long ages in their hives to the west, and Kankri had read that the power of the goldbloods ran particularly vibrant in his family. He didn’t doubt it; Sollux had a nervous energy like his body was stuffed with lightning, constantly itching to find an avenue loose, and even his horns (two pairs of them; not uncommon in golds, but their length and size certainly was) radiated a faint glow.

Troll horns acted as a… release, as Kankri understood it. There were some machines that needed to continually vent off heat or magical energies to prevent breaking down or structural problems, and trolls were much the same. They generated magical energy in ways that humans or the other magical beings did not, and it fueled many of the instinctive abilities that came to them; the psionic powers of the hot-blooded lines, the immense physical power of the cooler-blooded, and the many variants thereof. Horns, Kankri supposed, bled off some of that excess energy.

Without him realizing it, Kankri self-consciously put a hand to his own stubby horns. He scratched at a velvety peel his last trip to the manicurist hadn't gotten. A faint crackle of magic moved, and though he honestly wasn't sure if the old power moved in him, he felt the presence of something familiar.

He looked out towards the trail again. His expression grew solemn. "We are almost there."

"Make it sound more ominous," Sollux grumbled. "You sound like a spooky assistant to a creepy necromancer dragging up victims to the master."

Kankri sniffed. “Pardon me, then. We are absolutely not any such thing.”

“It’s a joke, Kanker-sore.”

Kankri ignored the… insult? Nickname? Who even knew, with Sollux; he was notoriously abrasive, even by the standards of a species that regarded biting and clawing down to the bone as polite discourse. He simply continued speaking (which was just what Kankri always did, if you believed the people who disliked him personally). “We are spooky assistants who perform ethical tasks for our cinnamon-blood masterminds.”

There was a long pause as the caravans rattled across the land. Gradually, something new came into view upon the horizon; an irregularity, breaking apart from the distant view of mountains and ancient forests that dotted the land like the tombstones of randomized cemeteries. This new sight looked… made, though ancient all the same. It was too far for them to make it out clearly, but there was no doubt that the trail they followed was winding through the landscape directly to it.

Sollux recovered his faculties and said, partly disbelieving and partly in grudging admiration, “Did you just make a joke?”

“The important point,” Kankri said, with as much grave pomp and gravitas as he could manage, which was quite a lot, “Is that no matter who you tell, no one will ever believe you.”

“You total bastard,” Sollux said softly, the admiration a lot less grudging now. “Didn’t think you had a talent for… trolling.”

“Father may have passed on a few things.” Kankri shifted awkwardly. He didn’t actually talk much about his father. Their relationship was good, all things considered, but it was a terrible thing to live in the shadow of the Signless Sufferer, the paradox troll; a mutant with the powers of the color-line he originated from, a messiah of peace who had started the most bloody war in modern history, a kind man who had done terrible things to end coldblood supremacism, who had set the humans free by tearing his own people down.

Kankri was a pacifist. His father was not. There was more to their fundamental disagreements and conflicts than that, but the fact of it was that Kankri looked and acted so much like him, that it was like looking in a mirror at times. It bothered him, even as he readied himself to take his father’s position, should it prove necessary in future times, and when Kankri was bothered by something, the low-grade hostility radiated off him like heat from a rock someone left in a desert at high noon.

Sollux could take a hint. He could take a lot of hints, all of them couched in varying degrees of passive-aggressive sniping that served pretty much the same function as a friendly duel; swords were crossed, without any real intent to do injury. Kankri, on the other hand, was very honest. He said what he meant, when he understood how to say it properly, and where Sollux was from, this was something very hard to understand.

To the west of these lands, a relative stone’s throw if you didn’t account for the mountainous terrain, were the lands of the Captor Orders. The bitter cold of these death lands evened out towards the coast, growing… if not warmer, at least more hospitable, and in the past, many trolls and humans and other things had taken up residence there for the ample hunting, lumber; the massive animals living in the sea could feed many people for a long time, wood was useful for building homes and fueling the artistic interests of those inclined, and the magical bees native to the area proved amenable to being bred for being living engines to refine magic and calculate complex spell patterns or problems.

The ages had come and gone. The Captors had come early, and they had stayed ever since. They’d built their wizard’s towers and college-fortresses high, and left the other lands to their own devices; never conquering, not waging war, but ignoring it entirely. When coldblood supremacism had waged war across the land, the Captors stayed out of it; when slavers came searching for goldbloods to put to the yoke,the Captors usually sent them back to their employers as little more than a pile of ash.

Sometimes people came to learn, and the Captors taught them, and those people went home with power and influence. ‘Come to the lands of the Captors’, they said, ‘they will teach you the secret lore’.

The Captors did not recover or keep ancient lore; they made their own discoveries, over the ages. They made new things; new wonders, new understanding of the hidden rules of magic. This made them possibly unique on the continent, where the creations and knowledge of bygone civilizations were the foundation of entire regimes. Their lore was their own, and this same indifference to the past also applied to politics; they were barely aware of the influence and power they gathered, with magic so essential towards modern society, and the orders of mages the Captors had gathered all showing fealty to their teachers and colleges above all else.

As they came closer to their destination, Sollux reflected that his father would go down in history for sheer controversy; convincing the heads of the mystical orders and all the leaders of the colleges to engage in continental politics, and aiding the Pyropes in the war, wasn’t just a risky move. It was completely contrary to their established tradition of neutrality. Sollux supposed he’d either go down in history as an unconventional hero… or a heretic who kicked their traditions in the nook. One of those two. Hell, people were already calling him that, not that his dad seemed to care.

The moment of good humor had already passed. The caravan wagons moved upon the trail, and as it advanced them closer to what appeared to be a vast and ancient city (with many tents pitched around the front, and the distant impressions of what might have been scaffolding, cradling the old walls), Sollux and Kankri both reflected, in their own fashions, that they didn’t actually know each other.

Kankri glanced at Sollux. Sollux did the same in turn. They looked awkwardly away. The thought that they didn’t really have anything in common stuck with them, hanging there like a persistent thorn that hadn’t quite pierced the skin; it didn’t hurt, but it stuck there, so needling that the mind couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

It was, Kankri supposed, the sort of thing to be expected when building a better world than the one their parents had known. Dealing with people you normally would not. Making compromises, and so on.

‘This is weird,’ Sollux thought. ‘I’m friends with his brother. He’s friends with mine… I think. Are they lovers? Rivals? Got a mutual pining thing going on with Latula from when they were kids? No idea what happened there before she got hitched and he moved on. How the hell is it that we’ve never even really talked before today?’

Both of them tried to focus on the road. And it dawned on them that the only thing they really had in common was their mutual connection to the women of the Megido family.

The women they were… in all honesty, probably going to marry, in defiance of cultural norms but for different reasons. The only trolls who would actually like this cold land, soaked in death and forgotten memory.

That made them both feel better, funny enough. Thinking about the Megidos, that is.

Love, even for the terminally proper and persistently grouchy respectively, had a way of lightening moods. This lay on their minds, the tension beginning to evaporate as they drew closer.

Especially for Kankri. He visibly relaxed; not stiffening or trying to look impressive, but the tension that normally forced him into the uncomfortable posturing that he thought a lowblood mutant, raised to his position, had to look like, all drained away from him.

He felt her. Kankri had powers of his own, perhaps linked to his own magical studies, and there was a presence nearby, now, as they drew closer to their destination.

----------

Their destination was, in fact, a city. It was rather more than that, based on the ancient documents, translated journal entries, and map fragments they had pieced together from archives and collections from all over the kingdoms. It was a city of the dead, from an era before internment of the dead had become an alien notion for trollkind.

Jack Noir, a carapacian who had served as Karkat’s guardian for the complicated and dangerous years of their childhood, had suggested it held a major necropolis. Odd, Kankri considered, that the stab-happy bureaucrat should know a thing like that, but everyone knew weird things.

And of course, that said ‘Megido interests’ all over.

The walls were very tall, rising very high into the sky, and beyond the first one they saw was another set, even higher than that. The city was built on a steep incline, so the walls outlined the shape of the city beyond it. As they rode closer, Kankri could see pathways and high windows in regular intervals, and while the form was unfamiliar, the basic principles were similar to geomantic construction techniques common in the old troll empire, many ages ago.

The walls had not otherwise fared well through the ages. There were large gaps missing towards the tops, perhaps sheared off by siege weaponry; there were fewer signs of that near the bottom, which explained how they had remained stable enough to survive the ages. Nevertheless, there was still damage everywhere else. Ancient murals, enormously complex and surely the subject of much worthwhile study, were tragically heavily damaged; burned, half-melted, and worse. Perhaps the result of some ancient conflict that had seen this place becoming uninhabited to begin with.

Kankri approached them, as their group waited to be properly received. He was hardly an expert in the visual arts of a bygone era, but he did spend a lot of time reading. He was an expert in few fields, but reasonably knowledgeable in many of them. A deep fascination with history (or at least that which was recorded, and that which was worked out later, and he viewed both with polite suspicion) gave him a useful toolbox for this sort of thing.

Now he studied what could be seen of the murals, on this side of the outer wall. It was difficult to make any firm guesses on what they were meant to convey; the artistic style was consistent with the era prior to the collapse of the last known pan-continental troll civilization. Perhaps due to local preferences and cultures particular to this part of the continent (for the old empire was cosmopolitan, if only for trollkind), that style had shifted into something unique. It was chiseled into the stone, if the material was stone, but the style was something different.

Kankri ran a hand against the material, just to see what it was. His short claws, cut and dulled to minimize any possibility of injury to another, ran against something improbably smooth and cool. Even exposed to the elements for untold generations, left without any kind of maintenance in these winds and piercing snows, beneath deluge and mud, it was largely untouched.

It did not feel much like stone. It was cool; not as cold as one would assume, given the weather. Somehow, it was warming itself, and pulsed gently beneath his hands. It felt… wholesome, but it felt like something that made him nervous.

Magic has a resonance, in many different forms, from both the nature of it, the impact it had made, and from events going on around it. A sword might taste of craftsmanship and deliberation, but it was also soaked deep in the violence that defined a sword. And this, distantly, felt like endings.

Kankri kept his hand there, letting his magical senses journey far, and it felt colder still. There was an echo of many things ending, with a patient and steady pace, their memory marching backwards to him.

The murals beneath his claws, clear etching of a time so long removed that it had no real bearing on his sense of ancestry or country, were abstract. Squarish figures, all right angles and stylized depictions of that seemed to be trying to convey the very essence of a troll; each figure showed both horns but a face in profile, all limbs displayed at geometric angles. He didn’t know why, but it seemed relevant.

Other figures arrived, and they had no faces, and they had no horns. The firner was setting; the latter was horrifying. He rubbed his own horns, wincing at the idea of losing them. To many trolls, they were symbolic of identity, and most artistic work used them as such. Had the people of this land done something as cruel as removing the horns of criminals?!

He frowned, studying the mural longer. He supposed that if the faceless, shorn of horns, were supposed to be viewed negatively, they would look more gruesome. But they were chiseled the same as the others, but identified by their lack of horns and faces. And, as he followed the path of the mural onwards, he realized that the mural seemed focused around their progression.

First, they approached a city; it looked much like what he had seen in the distance, so perhaps it was this city, seen from afar in days when it had been in better condition. And then, they were laying down, in lines. This was a lot more complexly drawn, he had to admit, and it took him sometime to suggest that was what was meant.

He had to keep going, on and on, around one vast opening in the walls big enough for a group to have passed through, until he came to a particularly large mural. It was massive, nearly twice as tall as he was, and so wide that it could have formed a wall in some looter’s museum, if someone had simply torn it from the walls and stolen it. It displayed the faceless, the hornless, lying in many rows, lovingly chiseled in intricate detail.

The damage of ancient days lay strongly here; scorch marks had melted the stone in key areas, so it was hard to tell what it was supposed to show. He thought it showed many of the hornless laying down, and an unusual effect in the air above them, the stone apparently chipped away in very gradual sections and then glazed with some process he did not know, so that it shone in a way quite unlike the rest of the mural. The surface there shimmered, like the pulsing of particularly powerful magic.

Behind him, he heard footfalls against snow. Tarps were laid heavily over the walls in an attempt to keep it out, but they were not as efficient as whatever roofing had once crossed the sloping rise of the walls. He turned around, and standing behind him were several hooded figures, their cloaks of fine fur and bearing the marks of their homelands. The nearest of them drew near; behind them, one of the two taller figures behind them, exceedingly voluptuous even in form-obscuring cloak, tried to march ahead of them but were frantically waved off by one of the two in the front.

“No, no!” said one of the two at the front, and this speaker was taller than the other one. Both of them wore the gold-colored robes of the Captor Orders (though a bit frayed, now), and they had the distinctive multiplied horns of goldbloods. One of them, the speaker, crackled with even more raw magical energy than normal. “We gotta do this by the book! The book!”

A much taller woman, whom the goldblood spoke to, stamped a foot and crossed arms across what must have been a spectacular bustline, to press so outrageously against a fur cloak as thick as that. The horns extending out from her hood curled like a ram’s, smaller spikes rising along the curve, signifying her as one of the Megido family of necromancers. “I don’t see why!” She said archly. “We all know each other. We can be formal and boring when we actually have a settlement going!”

This speaker wore a cloak trimmed in dark red; the colors of a cinnamonblood. The eyes beneath the hood glowed a faint dark red; what had been called rust, by the purplebloods a few generations ago. Her cloak was buckled by a distinctive symbol, of a ram’s head with its horns locking the cloak together (and under some serious pressure, given the speaker’s apparent curves trying their best to force the cloak apart), a symbol marked on tombs all across the continent, on necropolises and places where the magic of death was studied, away from the sun in accordance to the magical principles surrounding such powers.

The necromancers of the Time Ram were infamous. None of them had as much authority, or as much magical power, as the Megido family.

Kankri stirred, paying more attention now, and less attention to a brief argument between the two. He looked about, for someone in particular. They liked to move together…

“Miss, we gotta have you introduced properly!” pleaded the cloaked goldblood.

“I mean, we don’t have to,” said his companion. She was shorter than him, and a lot wider. In some very select, specific places at least, in a fashion similar to the Megido who apparently didn’t want a formal introduction. Her cloak had a definite look, even with the thick fur making up most of it, of fabric stressed by the pushing of breasts nearly two and a half feet around, pushing out so much that her cloak hung off them in a big canopy downwards. Her buttocks were just as massive, so big she’d require at least two chairs per cheek to sit down normally, with a simply draping effect behind her. It was like she had a miniature tent around her body. “I mean, she’s the boss here. Right? So if she says no, that means we can’t do it.”

“But we have to!” he retorted, with an air of aghast horror. It was probably what you’d get with someone who had spent most of his short life idolizing the nobility and was outraged on principle that they didn’t want to be super fancy all the time.

“We really don’t,” said the other Megido, slightly taller than what had to be her sister. She had an attitude of stoicism that contrasted with the manic energy of the other, and she had the distinctive body shape; not exactly chubby, but certainly thickset, belly prominent, and breasts so big they had the same draping effect on her clothing as the short goldblood. Perhaps it was that she was tall, but her assets looked even more outrageously massive; each breast was over three feet across, their lower slopes dipping nearly to their waist, and slung nearly four feet out.

Her backside had a similar dramatic effect; perhaps as thick across as two of her standing back to back, taking up a sizable amount of her thighs and pushing out against the confines of her cloak.

Now, Kankri focused on her.

He knew her voice; heavily accented with the distinctive accent of someone who struggled with Purpleglot (the common language in most of the continent, for several hundred years now), thick with world-weary cynicism, ready to shift into a more hostile persona if required. Kankri began to approach, as the argument continued.

“We are NOT getting out the trumpets, or red carpet, or purple carpets!” The first Megido, whom Kankri determined was probably Aradia, said firmly. She had the same, hyper-curvaceous build as her sister, but since she was moving around so much, her sheer heft felt much more prominent. People tended to stand back from her, as if instinctively afraid she might ram them with her curves if they weren’t careful. “We don’t even have any of those!”

The first speaker gasped in horror. Kankri realized that this had to be one of the people that had come from Sollux’s land. He hadn’t familiarized himself with all of them, and so he’d overlooked the matter entirely. After a moment of thought, he recalled a brief encounter on the way up here, with a pair of wanderers on Sollux’s land that Sollux had taken a liking to on a whim, and had gotten to come along with them.

Kuprem; a powerful goldblood mage, though totally untutored, and his friend Folykl, the shortstacked goldblood whose tremendous figure was partially genetic but mostly the consequence of her unusual power to siphon away magical energies and absorb it into her own body (and store it as bigger curves). Kankri had noticed them get uncomfortably excited over being in the presence of genuine nobility, or at least Kuprum did, but he tended to put people into little folders marked ‘NOT OF INTEREST’ until they did something to get his attention, and he’d completely forgotten about them.

Even so, they were of very little interest now that he’d spotted the girl he had come across half a continent for.

Kankri strode onwards, towards the Megidos. “At least let me scream like a trumpet!” Kuprum begged, almost on his knees, teary-eyed.

“Okay, uh, wow!” Aradia said, giggling with a strange enthusiasm. “That sounds kind of fun. I don’t want any formality here, but maybe we could do a screaming contest!”

Folykl groaned, bowing her head. Four crooked horns, bending out forwards, jutted from her cloak like the jaws of some fierce beast, and thick hair spilled out onto her front. Her eyes, though, were the dead black of the outermost void, a reflection of her singular power; the air felt strange around her, energy slowly draining into her, feeding her own abilities or perhaps nourishing her. If one looked close, they would see her cloak slowly straining, filling out as her breasts very visibly grew at a slow, steady rate. Magic ebbed into her, and took physical form as a curvier form. “Please, don’t. Tired of screaming already!”

Kuprum, conversely, was a lot taller, so much so that Kankri had seen her riding on him like a scowling backpack. He was a pretty athletic guy, or so Kankri would assume; he was currently carrying a massive load of construction equipment on his back without any strain, despite the fact that when Sollux had picked him out, he and Folykl had apparently been living out in the wild, abandoned by any caretakers, half-starved and oblivious to current events. His horns, double-rowed and hooked upwards, were startlingly similar to the Captor horn style. Perhaps, Kankri had mused before, this was why Sollux had taken an interest besides the potent magical abilities the caravans had spotted at a distance. He might have been a scion of a lost branch of the Captors.

Now, though, Kankri didn’t have much interest in him, and he was an impediment. He walked past him, pushing him aside. Or he tried to. His hand pushed against Kuprum with some force, but his load made him far too heavy. Kankri just rebounded and plopped onto some stony stairs. “Ow.”

“Hey, don’t go pushing in line!” Kuprum said. “I’m supposed to announce them and stuff first!”

“Hey, none of that!” Aradia said firmly, putting her hands on her exceptionally bountiful hips, her arms making crooked shapes inside her cloak. If Folykl looked curvaceous, Aradia made her look slim; the front and back of her robes both stuck out a startling amount, given the slackness of the material, and it was a testament to just how ample she really was. She radiated a sort of maniacal, happy wildness, like a clock freewheeling it’s hands all over the place so hard the gears might bust loose at any second, and even turning about to face him, Aradia did it with so much energy that she did not step, but sprang from one foot to the other, flailing around so that she didn’t unbalance herself. There was a lot of bouncing. Kuprum averted his gaze and wailed that he did not deserve to witness the wiggle of the nobility. Folykl just went ‘ooh wow that’s a lot’.

The face peering at Kankri was smiling extremely widely, lips thick and dark red, and her hood framed that face in such a way that her expression was disconcertingly concentrated. Kankri felt the urge to shuffle back awkwardly, just having her look at him. She was… intense, to put it mildly. “Hello, Aradia,” he said meekly.

“Kankri!” Aradia came forward, and with a twist of her hand, generated a swell of force that pushed the snow back, in a great burst of magic that felt like a faint wind moving by, and could have smashed him to a pulp if she was so inclined. The power she held radiated from her, and Folykl hopped up and down excitedly, drinking down the magic that came her way. Aradia regarded this with deep interest, grinning and showing all her broad, heavy fangs. But she returned to Kankri again, as the other Megido started to impatiently stride forwards. “Where have you guys been!? Oh, Dam’s been waiting on knives and daggers for you!”

(Which was like ‘pins and needles, but adjusted for the subject’s decidedly morbid interests.)

“Have not,” said the other Megido, taller than Aradia. She was possibly not quite as overwhelmingly voluptuous as Aradia, but perhaps her cloak was just too big to really emphasize her figure; it draped over her like an ominous cloak of the sort that the really dedicated necromancers liked to wear.

“Have so.”

“Did not,” Damara Megido said, with an unspoken air of ‘keep this up and zombies will use your head as a kickball’. The scowling face under the hood tilted up slightly, with an expression that suggested that a smile would be in completely unfamiliar territory there. Dark red eyes, obscured very slightly by a few stray hairs falling from an obsessively prim hairstyle, flickered from the obstruction to Kankri.

For a moment, the stern expression softened. Thick lips, several shades notably darker than Kankri’s own mutant blood, shifted like breaking stone into something that would have been a smile if she hadn’t suddenly remembered she had a reputation to uphold.

Kankri sat up. Damara stepped forward. She stood nearly a head taller than her sister, her shoulders around roughly the same level as Aradia’s distinctive curling horns, just like a ram’s. Damara’s were much the same, but polished to a shine, and capped with bone and rings curling around it, all etched with symbols Kankri assumed were magical. Damara walked with a wide, swinging strut, her hips so massive that it was the easiest way for her enormous thighs to move. And yes, her thighs were huge, easily as wide across as Kankri’s body, and her cloak swayed magnificently as she advanced towards him. Soon, a bustline advanced over his personal horizon, so that he couldn’t see her face. It was a shame; anything obscuring Damara’s face was, in his opinion, a travesty.

(He’d told her that, once. Her face had gone very burgundy and she had to cover her face in a pillow and she’d wailed a little bit. It took about five minutes of his frantic apologizing for upsetting her before someone had to come along and tactfully inform him that she was blushing.)

Now, Damara gestured, as if to summon him to come to her side, and Kankri felt a gentle and very firm grip around his entire body. The air shimmered with a faint darkness, and that same power pulsed around Damara, her native powers calling upon the death energies in the region and focusing through her. Up Kankri went, lifted into the air by the telekinetic spell, and then he was gently let down. The pressure of Damara’s mind did not abate until he was firmly standing on his own two feet again.

It was no easy feet to pick up a full grown troll, nor to apply the strength required to do so evenly across his entire body, and certainly not to pick him up and then down at a respectable speed, and definitely not to do all that as casually as someone picking up a letter.

Kolykl was practically drooling. “Oh, wow, she is really strong… your magical energies are delicious.”

Damara tilted her head. “Thank you. I suppose? Never heard that before.”

Folykl only grinned ghoulishly. Kuprum gasped, in horror, and rushed over to her. “Please!” He cried. “Do not smite my beloved for her impudence, my lady!”

“I… wasn’t?” She said, looking bemused. “And we don’t use that term of address here.”

Kuprum looked vaguely disappointed that he wasn’t going to have to genuflect himself into the dirt for the sake of Folykl. He tried again. “Your highness?”

“No. No monarchy here.”

Once again, he tried, “Your most doomy slaughter-monster?”

“Like that. But no. Try again.”

He slumped over, his extremely vague archive of noble address exhausted. “What do I call you!?”

Damara shrugged, an interesting motion that affixed Kankri’s attention. He moved by her side, which was a natural place for him to be in most circumstances. “Whatever you like.”

Kuprem scowled. “That is a terrible precedent for royalty!”

“We’re not royal.”

“We’re the nobility of necromancers!” Aradia said cheerfully. “There’s a difference! We do spooky stuff! That our ancestors did not necessarily do.”

Folkyl raised a hand. “Um. Miss spooky lady? What DO necromancers do?”

Sensing that Damara and Kankri probably would have liked a moment alone, Aradia seized the moment, and swooped ahead, telekinetically picking up both of the goldbloods. “I’m SO glad you asked! Let’s go find Sollux and we can tell you ALL the little details about the spooky, icky things necromancers do! First warning, it involves ghosts! And dead things! Sometimes ghosts IN dead things! Or ghosts in BREAD things!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Kuprum said as Aradia bounced away, taking the goldbloods with her.

“Pastry minions are a thing!” Aradia said cheerfully. “Flatbread constructs straight from the Pyrope lands!” She continued on, turning a corner and going out the walls, into the complex of tents that was marginally warmer and certainly where Sollux would be orchestrating his fellow mages to working on the walls and making long term habitation a bit more sustainable.

Damara and Kankri watched her go.

They looked at each other, and they did what many young lovers, who were still somewhat unaccustomed to such powerful feelings and keenly aware that their respective training to continue their own family’s work into the future did not cover this particular topic, were wont to do:

They froze up and looked at the ground awkwardly.

Tension sang out between them. Not a harsh tension. Not something uncomfortable; it was the tension of a string plucked and about to sing, or of a wheel rolling steadily down a hillside. They saw the inevitable conclusion, had been building up to it for some time, and these were the first hesitant steps towards something… real, and lasting.

It scared them. Kankri dealt with fear by pretending it wasn’t a problem, and Damara dealt with it by snarling at it, but for both of them, the usual way they handled fear was not an option.

So, Damara tried not to look directly at him, or his handsome face, or the vibrant, unique scarlet of his eyes. No, instead she studied the same walls she had, pretending they held an unbearable fascination for her. Her gaze now slid across them as Kankri’s presence grew more accustomed to being with her again, and then it moved upwards. Towards the tarp-laced borders between the walls, and the remnants of the glass-like material that had once bordered the inner and outer walls. Snow fell from the gaps between them, and she stared at that spot there for a while, as if distracted by something. A shy glance her way from Kankri caught her eyes staring upwards.

“Is there something up there?” He asked, mostly to fill the silence.

And then, he regretted asking it. Because there might have actually been something there.

Kankri saw only empty space.

Damara did not.

She stared there for a while, her head tilted very slightly beneath her cloak. She began to speak, and perhaps it was going to be a comforting lie, and then she thought better of it. Instead, she said, “Are you certain you want that answered?”

He saw the look on her face and shuddered. “Perhaps not.” he muttered, giving the area above them a brief look. He could sense many things, but there were things that he could not sense.

The dead were not his domain. But it was Damara’s.

She patted his hand. “Come here,” she said, holding her own hand out, palm up, offering it. Kankri calmly took her hand, and their fingers laced warmly together. She began to walk, and Kankri came with her.

They began to walk aimlessly. Damara didn’t have a destination in mind, and her feet carried her to a completely random direction, and Kankri allowed her to carry him with her. Her hand was warm, no, it was hot, a pulsing heat nearly as warm as his own blood, and he half-thought that it was a wonder that her heat did not make the snow drifting on down instantly become steam upon her cloak.

There was a wind, curling down from the sky overhead, and it rustled her cloak. For a moment, both their furs smacked together. They adjusted their stance on pure automatic, awkwardly shuffling together so that their cloaks laid over one another, and their arms lay flat against the other. Their hands met near their hips, and swayed gently as they walked.

And as they walked, Kankri could feel the massive sway of Damara’s… endowments, wobbling up and down as she pressed onwards, moving against her cloak. That made a distinctive noise, and he couldn’t help but feel his heart beat faster at the awareness of her. Damara, in all her amplitude, here and now.

Goodness. It had been months since he’d held her hand like this, for the first time.

He swallowed, thinking of a few scattered moments in his homelands before the Megidos had journeyed north, to found their own homeland up here; a reward from the ruling council of the nobles of the unified kingdoms, and personally administered by his father and Redglare herself.

It had all been so sudden. They hadn’t even announced their intentions to court, to their families.

Kankri swallowed again. He tried to think of something besides the heart-wrenching goodbyes for even a few weeks, and his dread that the Megido’s journey to end their diaspora and reclaim what had been their old homelands would end with nothing. Just dead silence, and them vanishing forever into the north, lost and gone as so many others who had journeyed there.

But then, the Megidos walked with the dead. Perhaps the whispers and advice of those long gone had given them some help.

He blinked back tears. Damara stopped in front of the wall, the same one he had studied earlier, and moved slightly. A hand came up to his face, and gently wiped away the hot wetness on his cheek. “Is something wrong?” She asked, quietly.

“No,” Kankri said, wiping his face with his cloak. The cold stung his face, but it seemed less so with her there. And also, that it was warmer here than it ought to have been. Uncomfortable, yes, but as if in a warm home with the door open during winter. “I was… worried. All this time. For you and Aradia and those that came with you.”

She regarded him with the stoic detachment he was used to from her, and then her face softened. “You didn’t have to worry,” she said, calmly. “We knew what we were getting into.”

“I know. But I worry anyway.”

“I suppose someone must.” Damara shrugged. Now she turned to the wall. “I see you were looking at this earlier too?”

He rolled his thumb against her hand in an unthinking, instinctive way. “Yes.” something she said struck him. “‘Too’? You were studying this as well?”

“Yes.” With her free hand, she gestured at the murals, and she began to speak at length; not in Purpleglot, but in the language of her own people, and though Kankri was not the most fluent in it, he was versed enough to follow what she said. And he was pleased to see that his own assumptions were on broadly the right track, though Damara went into further detail then him, which was only fitting. The study of the cultures of the past, and the things they left behind, was something of an abiding interest for her.

(Damara did not tell Kankri of the whispers in the wind. Of words spoken in ancient tongues so old and its speakers so abruptly torn away from their earthly vessels that there were few connections to modern language.)

“You see here?” Damara said, gesturing at the wall and the large hole there, with the few remaining fragments suggesting a large crowd of the hornless laying down, attended by other trolls. “I believe this suggests burial rites.”

“You think so?” Kankri said.

Damara glanced up, just for a moment, before she replied.

(She would not tell Kankri what was roiling about them. She didn’t want to keep looking at the roiling masses of limbs and blurred horns and yowling, serpentine forms totally unfamiliar to her, and she didn’t want to admit to Kankri they were there. Some secrets ought to remain quiet.

But she could relay what few things she understood from them.)

“Yes,” Damara said, politely declining to remark that it was the best she had gleaned from the… entities around her.

She didn’t see a sky, or even a ceiling. They clustered too thickly to see such a thing.

She indicated, instead, the mural once more. “I believe the people of this town used geomantic magic. Architecture that shapes local magic, rearranges the flow of it for a specific purpose, yes?” Kankri nodded slowly. “And things that happen in a place can shape that magic, too. I think this wall is a big part of that magic, and the carvings aren’t decoration.”

“Oh?”

“I think they were… encoding? Runes that direct it? They’re part of the magical working.”

“Ah!” Kankri brightened. “So the depictions here are not merely artistic effects! And much of this damage looks like the wall was being targeted, despite there being no signs of there having been a gateway; this place was not meant to be defended, I would think. So whatever happened to make this city fall started with this wall?”

“Perhaps to disrupt whatever magic the city was producing. Though I don’t think it is a city, as such. I believe it was a place where dead were laid to rest, interred, and cared for as they neared the ends of their lives. A necropolis, yes.”

“What makes you say that?”

Damara did not look upwards at what she supposed had to be a mass of ghosts, so many of them and in such intensity that they were a silent cloud. “Observation.”

She gestured at the wall. “In the era this mural appears to have been made in, horns and faces often had a very specific meaning. Horns equated to identity, in the sense of being people, in the artwork of the time.”

Kankri’s face grew dark. “I have heard troubling things about the way humans and other such beings were treated. It was very akin to the way lowbloods and mutants were treated until the Pyropes attacked.”

Damara waved off the knowledge of injustice as though it were rain falling down on them; important, yes, but not strictly relevant to her point. “Yes, I know, but hornlessness in artwork was often used to indicate death.” She pointed at one part of the mural. “Look at these figures. They have horns and distinctive faces. Look at them continue onwards, until they lie down.” There, at a point where the mural’s unnatural shininess was on full display, and even pulsed faintly, new shapes appeared: wispy figures rose from the things who were now hornless and faceless, but the figures rising from them had those same horns and faces.

“I think this symbolizes those dying, and their souls departing, or perhaps stamping their identity onto magic to create death spirits,” Damara said. Again, she definitely made an effort to not look at the very obvious evidence of this, presently wheeling overhead.

Those spirits, from what she, Aradia and the other necromancers that had come with them had worked out, had been here for a very, very long time. So long that they had no real means to communicate with them. The best they could do was listen to their frantic whispers, begging to be understood, and try to find something that was just close enough to a language family still spoken in the modern day. They had learned a few things, but so terribly little.

“The horns, and the faces,” Kankri said. “If those symbolize identity, then these might mean the identity moving onwards? That DOES sound like the way another culture might have viewed death. Are you certain enough to call it a theory?”

“Yes; I suppose it will be disputed, but if anyone has alternatives, I will be happy to tell them they are objectively fools and are obviously wrong.”

Now she pointed at the center of the mural; overlooking it all, as if a beneficent giver of goods, there was something coiled far overhead. She wanted to say that it was a serpent, with a head very superficially similar to a skull. The shimmering quality of the mural, which she supposed was meant to convey magical energy, did not extend around it, and perhaps that meant that it was not strictly related to the workings of the mural.

The serpent, though, was important. She just didn’t know why it was given a position right at the top.

“I am still trying to work out what that implies there,” she said.

Kankri pointed to something above it. “And what of that?”

Damara gave it a long look. It looked something like a large gemstone, suspending like a crown above the serpent. The mural had been shaped around it, so that something like bright rays were descending from it, pointing right at what she had theorized to be spirits, who were rising towards it.

“It looks like a beacon,” Kankri said thoughtfully. “I don’t know what it could actually mean, though that is what it looks like to me. Have you any ideas?”

“Actually, I have thought the same.” Damara stared up at it, and she glanced back at a stairway leading further into the city, for some reason.

Her hand squeezed him tighter. Any obvious indication of emotion from Damara was extremely startling, and so Kankri glanced up, looking alarmed. He turned to her, and her expression was strange; a grimace of sorts, caught between delight and… some kind of worry.

“Are you… hungry or tired?” She asked. “We could go find one of the makeshift homes and rest for a while…?”

The question surprised him; she didn’t seem certain, and Damara always felt so adamantly, indignantly certain about everything, even the things she knew she was objectively wrong about. Kankri felt unsettled, as though the ground beneath him was about to give way, with the distinctive panic that implied. “Is something wrong? You don’t sound like yourself!”

Damara shook her head, stray lengths of hair flashing over her eyes. “Listen! Some time ago, I found… something. In a chamber, not far from here. Blocked off by rubble, and I think it’s very important, but…” She tensed. “You came at an opportune time. I’d hoped that you would be the first to study it with me. And there’s no one else I trust to be responsible with it.”

She took both his hands, propriety (never exactly a priority with Damara to begin with) forgotten in favor of the wonders of study and exploration. “Please, let me show you!”

Kankri took her hands, but he felt he had to make at least one reasonable objection. “You haven’t shown Aradia?”

Damara’s expression flickered, and she hesitated before she spoke. “I would not say anything about my sister, but she is… perhaps not the most cautious when it comes to research and investigation. And believe me, this requires delicacy.”

“And Aradia likes to do digging by throwing big rocks at things.” Kankri grimaced. “I see your point.” Then, he smiled. “And I’d much rather examine the wonders of bygone ages as soon as possible. I am with you, Damara!”

She smiled again and, tugging on one of his hands, walked them both up the stairway. Kankri observed that not only was it abnormally wide, but in the middle of it was a ramp, smooth and worn.

They traveled further into the city, past several additional walls also covered in murals (alas, most apparently too damaged to read legibly at this point) and this reinforced the theory that the walls were not meant as defense, but as part of a larger magical working. There were large gateways in them, without doors or a sign that there had ever been doorways. These were here to dictate the flow of power throughout the land, not bar entry, and Kankri (again, quite able to sense the flow of magical power around him) felt a heavy pressure as he moved through them.

It was not unpleasant. But it did taste of death, and old death at that. The weight of centuries was heavy here, and it was certainly unsettling.

The moment passed as they advanced further into the city, moving upwards: the stairway sloped upwards, and he thought for a moment that it felt like they were climbing into an old volcano caldera: they had walked up the outside of it, the considerable distance of the walls from one another outlining first the base of it and than a midpoint to it, and now they were approaching the top. And beyond, would be the inner part of the caldera.

He mentioned this theory to Damara, who nodded approvingly. “It’s not a caldera or a volcano of any kind,” she said, and went on to name a number of geographic curiosities that would be particular to such a place, and were not present here in any form. “The people who dwelled here were originally diggers, I think. They simply dug down into a hill and kept going as they needed more space.”

“A traditional thing for our people to do,” Kankri noted. “Though not so common in recent ages.”

Damara’s expression went strange, then. “I don’t think the people who built this city were trolls.”

Kankri frowned. “Really? Why not?”

Damara thought of old ghosts, their winged shapes so totally unlike any troll… or human. “Some of the things I’ve seen are inconsistent with the builders being trolls.” And he accepted that, at least.

By then, they reached the top of the staircase; it did not open out into another wall. As Damara had surmised, the walls were not fortifications, and further ones wouldn’t serve the purposes of the original city-builders. They stepped upwards onto a broad flatness, of quarried stone cut into shape, leading directly into the broad ramp at the very center of the stairs. It continued onwards, forming a ring around the entire lip of the hillside (broken and smashed in a few places, but reasonably intact), looking inwards towards the city itself below them.

Damara and Kankri admired it for a moment, their gaze following down the trail; below the stars and ramp going down, and there the sight of the stairs was lost, as buildings rose up in a complex weave below them. All the horizon in front of them was the city itself, all the way to the distant other sides of the ring far from them. Winding towers rose up beyond them, triangular points sticking up far, and even from here it was plain that the construction was much more varied than the stony construction elsewhere seen here. Wooden structures, treated to endure the climate, still endured, though in terrible disrepair, and as they began to descend, Kankri saw that there was further variety; stone, metal-shod walls, even the remnants of what must have been the quasi-organic substances some trolls literally grew into being, though the bodies of those homes had long since decayed so that only their skeletons remained.

Undead walked here; zombies carefully treated to hold off decay, skeletons held together with leather straps and metal bolts, and they were wandering mechanically from one building to another, patching up gaps in the buildings or towing bedding here and there. The Megidos, and those who shared their teachings, were well known for their use of undead servants, and Kankri supposed these had been brought with them.

It was a long way to go, past the bulk of zombie minions. The stairs descended downwards, and from here Kankri saw the inward curve of the city. Yes; he saw well-organized districts, incredibly complex and adhering to principles of architecture that seemed very alien to him, tilting slightly down as their foundations followed the curve of the hillside.

He and Damara followed them, and as they did, his view of it became clearer. He also saw that, where there had been totally destroyed buildings or empty spaces, Damara’s group had begun to build new buildings, doing their best to match the geomancy of the area and not disrupt it. They were far from complete, ragged foundations covered with high-mounted fabrics to shield themselves from the wind, but they were sufficient as temporary shelter, and at least this was not destructive and harmful to the old city.

As they passed a few other people, tending to their work or simply minding their own business, Kankri saw the very base of the city. He couldn’t make it out very clearly; it was quite distant from them, and it would be a long time to walk there on foot. He suspected the original inhabitants had not; he could see the long, narrow pathways of what could have been ancient trains, rigged to slide down by the pull of gravity and pulled up by powerful counterweights, to convey passengers straight to the center.

He made out some vaguely triangular shapes, or perhaps pyramids. Old homes and what might have been businesses, all the buildings strangely crooked and tending towards curving shapes quite unusual to his eyes, the product of architectural sensibilities totally foriegn to him, bore so much damage they were hollowed out husks. Whatever had damaged the city had made a beeline to the center of the city from here. “Are we headed there?” He asked.

“Yes,” Damara said solemnly. “To the center of the city; the necropolis proper. The thing I found is there.”

He tried not to look terribly enthusiastic about going to an ancient ritual graveyard. “It is a bit of a walk,” he said vaguely.

She squeezed his hand. “I can carry us both there.”

He tried not to flush at the notion of being lifted aloft by her. “Oh, if you must.”

“I must, indeed.” Her fingers wrapped firmly on his palm, blunt claws tapped on his wrist, and then she suddenly swung him up, catching him in a carry with her other arm, his legs fitting snugly into the crook of her elbow and forearm, sliding him against her monstrously huge breasts so suddenly that he let out a cry that was meant to be a protest but just came out as a mortified squeak, compounded by the rush of heat of being pressed so firmly against her incredibly heated body, and the cold suddenly seemed very distant.

Damara floated upwards, carrying Kanki with her. She flew high, over the highest of the buildings around them, so that the city stretched away beneath them. Kankri’s nerve gave out and he clutched into Damara’s front, face buried in hot softness. The sheer inappropriateness of it didn’t matter as much as his stomach dropping out into a pit and his head swimming at so much distance beneath them, and he thought with a sudden certainty that he absolutely could not look down. Not at all.

His stomach felt that it was plummeting again as they descended downwards. Damara judged them in the right spot, and their cloaks flapping together, she came down right in the center.

Eventually, they dropped down. For Kankri, it was an interminable time, suspended between Damara’s astonishingly big bustline (and the temptation to snuggle; oh, that was a cruel thing indeed), her strong arms, and nothing between falling hundreds of feet except more Damara.

There was a sound as Damara’s feet touched down, eventually. She remained holding him in a bridal carry, though, a faint smirk on her lips.

“Please let me go,” Kankri said, still clinging to her.

She let him down, and he honestly expected her to say something just a little sardonic. She didn’t need to; she radiated smugness at seeing him so vulnerable.

Kankri needed a long moment to recover, and when he did, he was again overwhelmed; not by fear of falling far and fast, but wonder. He had thought he had seen pyramids from afar, and so there were.

High and angled surfaces rose far, pocked and burned with the injuries of ancient years, but they still gleamed, in the same way as the walls outside did. Power coursed through them: weakened, faint, but it was magical power all the same, an ancient circuit of magical energy still moving. It took him a moment to realize that they were indeed pyramids after all, and he stood in the center of a podium between them. Four of them, a narrow crossroads between them just wide enough for perhaps four average-sized trolls to walk, side by side, rolling their mysterious burdens along.

“I’ll thank you for being less needlessly terrifying in the future,” Kankri said. “But what are these wonders? Burial grounds?”

“No, those would be below us,” Damara said. “These are not pyramids in the sense of being sites for beings that are buried. That is, we did find beings interred within them, but the pyramids were not built for them. There were many rooms, filled with tools; scalpels, old funerary kits, containers that were probably filled with fluids used to speed decomposition of bodies after burial, alters for religious rites… I think these pyramids were most likely used to prepare bodies for burial, and a lot of them at once.”

“So perhaps a site where many people were interred? Or a city built specifically for that purpose?” Kankri halted, and he realized that Damara was avoiding talking about something. “You said ‘beings’. Not trolls?”

“No,” Damara said, and despite her fascination, she still sounded troubled. “They were… strange. I don’t know what they were. No one had ever seen anything like them before.”

Kankri frowned. “Can you describe them for me?”

“They were skeletons; still preserved, so I suspect that was important somehow. Not trolls, or humans. Humanoid from the waist up, much larger than trolls. Skulls.. I would say they resemble a snake’s, but with broader jaws, larger eyes. Wings, I think, extending from the back. And below the waist, they don’t seem to have legs, but a large flexible trunk. Like a snake’s body, some of my people thought.”

Kankri racked his mind, and found nothing that sounded familiar. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“Nor has anyone else.”

Kankri stared up at the pyramid. “I would like to study them later, if that is permitted,” he said. Damara glanced at the roiling storm of ghosts, always a present sight even this far down. They were thicker around here, as if something around the pyramids made them stronger, gave them greater substance than they would have otherwise. And four strange ghosts, so totally unlike anything she’d ever seen, were studying him with interest.

They gave a sense of, if not exactly approval, at least a lack of antagonism. “I think that would be acceptable,” she said carefully.

Kankr peerd outwards into the darkness; it was quite dim down here, as Damara’s people were unwilling to keep it too brightly lit. “Do we go down there?” He asked, pointing at a stairwell. He sounded uncomfortable.

“No,” she said, and he visibly brightened. “That leads downwards into the necropolis proper, I think; we found many catacombs down there.”

“How far down do they go?”

Damara recalled a staircase that had just… kept going, on and on, its design suited for both bipeds and someone that might slither, and in her mind the image had formed of a spike’s outline, made by the staircase. “We sent people down there. They followed it for days. It just kept going.”

Kankri’s eyebrows rose. “Ah.”

“Suppose the people who built this necropolis just kept digging downwards and building more catacombs as they needed,” Damara said. “They just keep going on… like spider webs, or canals.” She moved to the very center of the area between the four pyramids. The ground was absolutely torn up by damage, very little of the original stonework still intact at all. She went to a large pile of rubble and made a gesture; the whole pile moved up and floated away, piled up to disguise a large hole right at the center. “What we’re going to look at is down there.”

Kankri felt something pulse up from there. “At the very center of the entire city?”

“Going up, and down,” Damara said, with something distressingly close to cheerful. She offered her hand to Kankri’s again. He took it, and they floated into the air, and down into the hole.

They descended down into a chamber that was not, relatively, all that big. It was not brightly lit, but it didn’t need to be; trolls had very good nocturnal vision, though not to the degree of being able to see in the dark like many humans believed, but there was sufficient light to see clearly enough. It was not long before they stepped down, and for some reason that seemed vaguely disappointing. He expected a longer fall; perhaps some kind of interminably long drop, as fit Damara’s description of how far down the necropolis went.

He looked around into a chamber that was, surprisingly, reasonably well lit. Illumination radiated from… lines of a sort, set into the walls, though they were so badly damaged that he initially thought they were dots and circles. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw the walls, rising up to meet the floor above them in a gradually widening circle, and those walls were in ruins.

Scorch marks did not dot the walls, but engulfed it. The marks of devastation, a terrible impact blow and hints of some massive blast had rendered the walls all but unrecognizable. Perhaps something had smashed the entire chamber open, flooding it with the destructive output of some ancient weapon, or a dragon had descended down here.

There had been murals on the walls. Tragically, there was very little left of them. Some part of him cursed the moment he recognized the damage; it was hard to tell that there even was decoration on the walls, with so much of it having been smashing away, or lying in pieces on the floor. So densely covered was the floor, that there was hardly a space to stand upon. He felt a great sense of loss, and tragedy; what had been here? What ancient secrets had been ruined, in some ancient conflict?

The lines he had seen were clearly magical in nature, still powered by some ambient force just barely present. He thought perhaps they were magical conduction lines; a geomantic pattern of conducting energies from one place to another, or from a power source. They were still operational, if perhaps not to fuel whatever spell they had once managed, but enough to give them light.

They connected to a podium, in the center of the chamber. The very heart of it; perhaps the heart of the entire city. Once, it must have been a grand thing; a marvel of magical engineering, every inch honed to precise mathematical precision, and here and there he saw the fragments of curving shapes that once would have cradled the podium like the petals of a large flower. The conduits connected to it in a spiraling shape, like a spirograph, flickering steadily even in front of his eyes.

However, his gaze was ultimately drawn not to the podium, intriguing as it was, beautiful as it might have been. Rather, pulled in much the same manner as iron was tugged by a magnet, his attention came to something laying behind the rubble, near the podium. From the rubble and its position, it might have been once set atop that podium before being knocked away.

It was a crystal; a little taller than he was, nearly three times wider than it was tall. It shimmered a dull red, brighter shades periodically flashing as the magical forces it embodied moved within. It didn’t appear shaped; large bulbous swellings defined its shape into something that looked surprisingly like a humanoid figure sitting down in a calm position, but these were so smooth and rounded that Kankri rather suspected that it had been grown, not carved into shape.

It was not just a crystal, though.

It radiated age, even more than the city above and below them. It felt old, and Kankri felt a sudden and terrible awareness of how many generations of trolls could have lived and died before this object. And it radiated power, so fiercely that it was nearly a physical pressure weighing against him.

He’d felt power like this; in the halls of the mighty, in the presence of weapons whose mere existence threatened the world, in places where artifacts had been shaped into entire structures. He’d felt it shaped into forms radiating such magical might that their substances alone were transmuted into something otherworldly, their very touch dangerous to many.

Kankri’s breath caught in his throat. His senses, so tuned to the magical and the invisible ties of emotion and feeling, blazed at the sight of this, and the immense power dormant within it. It did not blaze with power, as such. Blaze implied activity, and this felt quiet, passive; asleep.

But to look directly at it with magical senses alone might have wounded him. It shone like a quiet star, with so much power that he was honestly shaken. How had it stayed here without anyone even noticing? How could anyone not feel it; how had he not felt it as they approached?

“I know the feeling,” Damara said, reading his mood, sympathetically. “It’s a bit.. Intense, isn’t it?”

Kankri breathed in. “Damara. Is that what I think it is?”

She stared at it for a long time, her expression distant, and then she swallowed loudly. She played well at being calm, but Kankri read the excitement, and the fear, in her voice when she spoke. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know exactly what it might be but…” he hesitated to say it. It sounded foolish. “It’s old. And powerful. It’s something like… I don’t know if I want to really say this.”

“Then you thought the same thing as me, I suppose.”

“It’s like the castle of the Pyropes. Or the ships of the Amporas. This is something from the old era, isn’t it? That’s an artifact of power; one of those relics that entire kingdoms fought and died over.”

Damara looked nervous, even as she nodded. “Now the city’s layout makes even more sense, doesn’t it? An entire city, built around this artifact, conveying its power.”

“Power to do… what, exactly?” Kankri bent low. He felt extremely nervous in its presence, but also excited. This wasn’t just something for the history books, this would define the Megido sorcerers! They’d found an artifact, an actual artifact of the ancient world!

“I’m not sure.” Damara leaned down, not quite daring to touch it. “It reminds me of the magical power batteries people make by condensing magic into something that can be stored and tapped, but this is far stronger than any of that.” She reflected, once more, upon the vast storm of ghosts lurking around here. Still here, even after so long, with nothing tying them to the world. And perhaps, sustained by something. “It could be naturally occuring, but I think it’s more likely that this artifact once powered this city.”

“Perhaps this was made after eons of this city’s spells discharging excess into something?”

“Or it predates even the city, and they designed those spells after harnessing its power,” Damara countered. “To be honest, I was hoping you might have some insight.”

Kankri crouched down as well. Being in the presence of so much power made him feel intensely uncomfortable, and he would have liked nothing better than to be away from it, but the excitement of the moment was more potent by far. He winced in the fast of so much spiritual power pulsing from it, and he recalled something. “Do you remember the mural?”

“Yes! The crystal it showed; do you think it is the same thing?”

“Well, it would be a strange coincidence, yes?”

Damara, impulsively, clasped his hand. He clasped back, smiling widely, his eyes shining with wonder.

Without thinking, Kankri’s iron self control slackened. It was her influence on him; just as he made Damara feel gentler, let her guard down for once, she made him calm, and so the magical power he possessed, with its ties to emotion and feeling, came loose.

Normally, it wouldn’t have meant much. Perhaps people sensing his feelings and thoughts, or spells materializing to suit his feelings.

But this was not a normal situation.

(For so long, the spirits had called, and cried out for form again. And it could not answer.

The city lay dead and forgotten, and it could not fuel it.

It’s people were gone. The last priest of death and endings had died long ago, the sacred rites lost and with them, the knowledge to maintain it.

It’s power pulsed out, the need of the restless dead and enduring memories pulling at it. The two lives around it pulled it to greater function, and here, HERE was an ideal priestess.

From the other came a pulse of magic, colored in love and affection, and it was a gateway. A road, to giving the spirits peace once more.

It flowed to its new container.)

The crystal pulsed, so brightly that both Kankri and Damara had to shield their eyes, and power radiated from it so furiously at the magical conduits around them ignited in actintic brilliance.

Kankri shouted aloud, and power jumped to him, and his mind ached beneath the strain as unimaginable forces coursed through him, and into Damara, using himself as a living conduit. It only lasted a moment, but it burned so furiously he nearly passed out on the spot. He heard her shout, and he forced himself to stay conscious. He took hold of himself and demanded, No! Stay awake!’

“What?” Damara said, voice steady even with a faint waver.

The light faded, just enough for Kankri to see. “What is it!?” KAnkri yelled. “What’s it doing?”

“I, I don’t know…” Damara’s voice was faint, uncertain. “Yes? Hello?”

“Damara! Who are you talking to!?”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and it was too long; power coursed out, twisting and churning around them, and it felt so alive, and moving with the moment, time itself flowing into its depths and somehow melded with it. It was terrible to behold, it was awful. And this was meant in the old definitions of those words; it was full of awe. It was terrifying, but also somehow a good thing.

And she felt a question directed towards her.

Somehow, she understood what it actually meant.

The weight of ages, of countless generations piling up long before her ancestors had ever walked the continent, loomed before her. She felt as though she were paddling before a tidal wave ready to crash down on her, and the wave had noticed her. And asked something.

She felt sorrow, all the countless and soul-rending sorrows of thousands of souls, trapped in torment for so terribly long. The need to alleviate their pain, to give them form and to find a way to move on, and regain what had been lost, and here, the last remnant of the city that had once tended to their needs lay before her.

“Yes,” she said softly to it.

The crystal flashed, even more brightly than before… and then, it faded. And then it was Damara who glowed with radiant light.

-----

And above, the churning mass of spirits paused.

And then, they slowly descended downwards to the very center of the city, with something like wild relief.

-----

In the chamber below the city, power flashed out, like a fist blindly striking around.

Kankri tumbled as Damara shone so brightly she became impossible to look at directly, flashing a brighter red than his own blood, and so much magic made a physical force that knocked him away. He saw her begin to float upwards, suspended by the power that was funneling into her, merging with her and infusing her living body with its limitless energies.

“Damara!” he wailed. “Let me… hold on!” He tried to crawl, and the pressure shoved him face first against the ground. Even so, he kept crawling, claws against the dirt and pulling him onwards.

And he looked up as the ghosts appeared.

It was the first time he had seen them properly, and he realized what Damara had been coyly hinting at all that time; that this was a place of the unquiet dead, and it was from them she had learned so much of it. HE had little time to dwell on this, though, as the first of them descended upon her.

He stopped, horror halting him completely still, as Damara tilted her head upwards with enough presence of self that his fears faded a little. She flung her arms open wide, as if a mother greeting long lost children, and it was not entirely Damara there, for a moment; there was another presence meshed into her, staring out through her eyes. Not overriding her, but channeled through her.

The ghost, a troll so old that its features were almost totally nothing but faint memory, flew into Damara. And then it was gone, flashing red and sucked up into her. Her belly grew slightly larger, as if it had entered her womb in some strange inversion of sacred birth.

And then another ghost came down, shyly fluttering down. This one landed right across her heart, and vanished into her two. Another did the same, and another, and then another; and with each one, her belly began to swell more than before. Her cloak fluttered, and the robes she wore beneath them swelled outwards, as her body began to take on a more excessively curvaceous shape: magic flowed through her, and her body responded to it by converting it into size and attractive mass.

Four serpentine shapes descended downwards. Kankri stared in awe and a little bit of horror as they hovered downwards, a tornado of spiritual force pulling like a vacuum around Damara’s willing body. The four creatures looking nothing like anything he had ever seen; there were long trailing tails like the bodies of serpents, muscular and powerful forms even more massive than that of the most mighty troll, body-dwarfing bustlines equal to the most magically powerful of mages, and enshrouding Damara now were spectral wings, feathered and gently cradling her.

There were few other details. They were old. They were so old. So many countless ages must have scrubbed away their memories of themselves, perhaps their very identities, until nothing was left but this vague suggestion of what they had once looked like, and an overriding imperative. He felt it, as keenly as he felt any other emotion and mind, and though the minds he touched were so profoundly alien that it scared him, the desperation and hope from them felt familiar indeed.

One of them leaned forward. As far as he could tell, it was presumably a woman, and the only hint of color left was spiral-shaped eyes shining a lime green. The same color as his own blood would be, were he not a mutant. It stared into Damara’s face, making its own mysterious judgements, and then nodded it’s fearsome face once at her.

All four vanished, into her. Damara’s belly billowed out, writhing beneath the surface and flickering with magical force. Kankri stared at this, shocked and bewildered, and then he turned his face away in embarrassment as her top swelled out; her breasts expanded nearly as much as her belly, and even her backside seemed to swell outwards. She radiated an image of fertility, and it was a little mortifying to watch.

He looked back, compelled to do so. It felt wrong to look away. He felt, suddenly, that he was witnessing something sacred; holy.

Damara’s belly expanded outwards even more, the shimmering ghosts stabilizing, becoming part of her and growing docile within her. Her body sustained them, endowed them with serene energies that soothed the torment of their condition, and they fed her back, infusing her with magical energies that made her keep growing even bigger than she already was.

And, above them, the air changed, and the magic from Damara gave shaped to the storm of ghosts descending pleadingly towards her.

There were thousands of them. More. So many of them that he couldn’t possibly keep count, flying with such ferocity that they packed together, spectral forms blending into each other; Damara’s magic gave them greater substance, and he saw their faceless features resolve into more identifiable features, and he felt their minds suddenly bloom again, resolving into being after eons of unraveling and suffering. Complexity flowed from her, giving them not life… but perhaps a form of peace.

How many had died here? How many had been here, all this time, trapped and in such awful torment?

They were all here. All the ghosts of this place, drawn to Damara.

She opened her arms and embraced them, drawing them into herself as they filled her up, and he could not look directly at her as the necromancer’s light shone forth.

(Her power flowed into the ancient conduits, the veins running across the city; into ancient buildings of law and good order. Into the places where food had once been stored, the foundries where the sacred tools had been fashioned, and into the homes where it must be warm and comfortable; for those who lived there, and for those who came there to pass away.

This was largely a moot point, now. But the new residents, the people who had come with Damara, saw portions of the wall suddenly turn on, and the dark city was suddenly illuminated.

Machines turned on, and then off again as they were not needed, scaring the hell out of several humans who’d been investigating the area.

Glyphs, once serving as person-to-person communications, lit up, forming a physical shape; there was no one to speak through them now, so they simply turned off. And unfortunately, Aradia had been sitting there, mistaking it for a chair, and its activation had toppled her right off onto her face. Or onto Kuprum, who had wailed that he was not fit for nobility to boob-slam him. Folykl simply observed that he didn’t seem to be bothered when she did it to him, and realized that ‘bothered’ was not the feeling there.

The walls were damaged, broken. But there was still enough of them to maintain the most basic of the spells, and warmth swelled up, sizzling away the snow. Blessed heat pulsed through the city, filling its streets with a pleasant warmth. Those now looking to give this place life again felt a great sense of relief, before they felt bewildered; what was going on?

And those who used magic, or could at least perceive it, felt the massive surge of magic shooting straight up and drawing restless spirits to it, and they felt the old power of it, enough to make them alarmed. This was the power of ancient workings, lost to modern wonder-workers, and they dreaded to know what it might mean.)

And below the city, in the chamber that had once housed the heart of the city, the roar of such immense power slowly petered away, the weight of it fading so that Kankri was able to get up, and he heard a sound as something very heavy landed on the ground.

He looked up; all the ghosts were gone. He looked to his side, and there was the crystal artifact. It was still there, reasonably intact, though it had been severely drained. It’s surface was translucent, apparently hollowed out, the vast bulk of the power it carried now somewhere else. Or in someone else.

He looked up. His ability to sense magical energies almost quailed before the sheer quantity of it in front of him, nearly as much as the crystal had done before, and there was Damara.

Well. Certainly, it was Damara. A lot more of Damara than he’d imagined ever seeing.

Damara rocked back and forth on her feet, groaning faintly, with a faint hint of satisfaction. She was bigger, her cloak not destroyed but pushed back by the expanding force of her enlarged body, hanging back like a too-small cape. Her body was broader; her hips more than four and a half feet across, her arms wider across than before, and her thighs noticeably bigger than they had been, and that was saying quite a lot.

But her stomach had grown impossibly huge, even by the generous standards that magically-fueled expansion could change for a body. Damara leaned upon it; an enormous mass slung out in front of her, so big that it was longer across than she was tall, and rose up nearly as high as she was taller. Some part of him thought that it was even bigger still than he was, or at least looked that way; there was just so much mass, so much gray-red flesh swelling out. The sheer volume of it was a physical weight, drawing both magical focus towards it, and the eye.

She rocked forwards, standing on her tip-toes into her stomach. Two enormous swells, barely contained by a robe top that had generously grown to keep them within a minimum of modesty, wobbled on the steady shifting of her belly’s firm surface. It took Kankri a moment to realize those were her breasts, grown by the same process that had made her stomach so big. They were huge; as big as a massive chunk of her own body, at least five feet out and easily over ten feet across each, sprawling over the top and sides of her stomach in much the same way that Damara herself liked to lounge on couches.

For that matter, her stomach was increasingly beginning to resemble a couch, at least in terms of size.

Kankri began to draw close, so worried that he couldn’t stay back. Damara groaned, her eyes fluttered. There was a red glow there, which faded; whatever alien presence had spoken to her, or merged with her, faded away. The crystal on the ground pulsed more brightly, almost like a living thing.

She was changed, even so. Even apart from having breasts so massive Kankri could have slept comfortably on them, or a stomach as big as she was. He glanced nervously from the firm and distinctive shape that suggested pregnancy to him, and he almost jumped at the movement from within, of serpentine shapes and many horned shapes brushing against it, briefly.

Damara blinked again, and now she looked directly at him.

“Oh,” she said, voice soft and low. “That feels… nice.”

She gave him another look. Instincts more central to her character took hold. She smirked. “What’s with that look?”

Kankri became vaguely aware that he was blushing horrendously.

“I think you need to cover up,” he said, looking away and covering his eyes.

Damara looked at herself, and took stock of the situation. As in so many other things, she took refuge in audaciousness and teasing him:

“Perhaps you could spraw upon me, and warm me up that way?”

“Damara, we are in the north, romantic cuddling will not help and anyway I don’t think you’re appreciating the gravity of the situation!”

“Firstly, it’s… surprisingly warm, now. Secondly, don’t you mean… gravid-ity?”

“Puns don’t count as helping!

-------

Less than a week went by, after that momentous day.

This was not much time, from an objective view of things. It was little enough time for life to be established or for the memory of it to fade from the world. Certainly it wasn’t enough time for the trolls, humans and carapacians who had traveled across from their lands to do more than simply settle into the city, and make it a little more comfortable for them.

It definitely was not long enough for Damara to really adjust to her new body. Or for that matter, for everyone else to adjust to her.

“You’re looking more like your mother every day,” Sollux observed, sitting on a table they’d set up in a fairly large building close to the entrance of the city as a whole. From the outside, Damara had seen as they’d struggled to get her in there, it loomed over the neighborhood around it, topped by a fancy dome; an upper level had been converted into a bedroom for herself via the addition of many plush bag-seats that piled together to form a makeshift mattress suitable for her body.

Kankri had his own apartments in another improvised dwelling not far from there, but in practice he stayed at her place every night, pouring over plans with her: devising new schemes for infrastructure, working out the logistics of supply caravans due to be called for within a few months, working out nearby eras to start establishing crops (rice, for example, making use of the swampy region to make paddies), and on and on, until the nights grew long and they both grew weary, and they fell into each other’s arms.

Well. Rather, he fell between her breasts and on top of her stomach, the spirits within her writhing invisibly as he came down. Her arms weren’t quite enough to hold him for a proper embrace, but the rest of her body could manage it fine.

The doors of this building were exceptionally wide, and high; it threw off the sociological assumptions many of them had come with, given that it was far too wide to make sense for a normal troll sensibility, and perhaps suitable for industrial-grade carts to be rolled in. The ramped stairway and a smooth floor, suitable for slithering, suggested it had been made for an entirely different kind of body, far larger than a troll.

It also meant that Damara was able to get into this home without too much difficulty, which had been a major consideration in choosing it as her temporary residence until the city was restored enough to find more permanent lodgings. ‘Too much’ was not the same as saying ‘none at all’ though; Sollux had said this while glancing wryly at the doorway, which was presently a massive lump of belly flesh squeezing out around the doorframe, from the ceiling to about halfway up it, softness pushing out so thickly against the doorframe that it made a faint noise as she tried to force her way through.

“I promise you, Captor,” Damara said through gritted fangs, clicking them in a grimace with each word, “I will get in here and I will find a way to hit you!”

“Just don’t drop your big-ass belly on me,” he said, tonelessly. “That’s what’ll ruin my day.”

Damara’s belly inched slightly through Roughly over a hundred pounds of solid cinnamonblood gut was pushing through and the dark grey tinting into genuine shades of dark red where she was exerting herself, or even pulsing with the thick essence of raw magic currently fused into her physical body.

Aradia was floating in the air, for reasons she had declined to volunteer to anyone. She was watching Damara’s progress with great interest, and a lot of envy. “How’s it feel having all those ghosts inside you like that?” She asked, grinning a little too wide to be entirely approachable.

Damara grunted. She pushed forward with one leg, shoving herself with telekinetic might, so much that she managed to get a few feet of stomach through the wall. She shivered as her stomach now touched the cool floor, but the outslung mass of her apparently pregnant belly had a lot more to go. “You’ve asked me this before, Aradia! Kankri, I need you to push hard - now!”

“As you ask!” Kankri shoved against her back, pushing with all his surprisingly considerable might. They moved together as a single unit, sliding her at a reasonably consistent, but insufferably just steady pace.

Aradia watched them slide in. “Oh, hey, your boobs made it in now.”

“I noticed!” Damara retorted. Now that her stomach was about halfway through, her massive mammary mounds wobbled at a slight incline, the rise of her firm belly pushing between them. Combined with her disinterest in supportive undergarments and her fondness for loose fabric, her breasts sloped gently downwards.

And that, in turn, combined with her stomach being very bouncy and rippling at the slightest touch. The ground slapped up from below her, the doorframe pinched so hard her stomach wobbled even more fiercely from the force redirected throughout the whole thing, and it rose into her breasts, and they were almost constantly wobbling and shifting.

And very sensitive, as it transpired. Damara was having a hard time pretending to be stoic and contain the erogenous pleasure of so much movement, so she channeled it into sounding angry all the time.

“Push, now!” Damara ordered.

Kankri did so, wearing a cloak low over his head to cover his face and his extremely intense blush. There was just so much… Damara now, and everywhere his unrefined hands fell, it just sank in. He was having to be very careful where his hands went; her butt was so massive now that just putting his arm on her waist could risk an inappropriate patting, if he wasn’t careful.

(Granted, she didn’t actually seem to care, but he thought he ought to. It was gentlemanly.)

“Somewhere besides the small of my back,” Damara said tensely. Kankri was pushing, but it wasn’t going with the rest of her attempts to keep moving, and now she was being pushed upwards onto her own gut, her boobs rising up and pinched by the door overhead, and now they hung directly above her as her powers misfired, and lifted them upwards. “Move with me!”

Kankri obliged by ramming into her with his shoulder, making alarming noises when his hip slid between her robed butt.

“Close enough,” Damara said, both of them sliding through the door.

Over the noise of something that sounded distinctly like enough sloshing to contain a couple troll-sized communal pools, Damara and Kankri’s struggles to get her through continued. There was a crude kitchen set up in the room beyond; a table that was probably meant for many people but in practice worked fine for Sollux, Aradia, Kankri, a couple attendants, and Damara in all her vast scope. At the other side of the room, there were several makeshift stoves, attended by the frenetic figure of Kuprum and the more reserved movement of Folykl.

To be specific, Kuprum was doing all the work. Folykl sat back, periodically running like a quadruped (her massive butt stuck in the air like the tail of a beat, wobbling so much that it was amazing it didn’t affect her movement) to steal some food when Kuprum wasn’t looking, and sometimes when he was, and otherwise she sat back to do whatever errands her superiors demanded of her. Or dared her to do, as Aradia had spent the week discovering to her delight.

“Eat that bug, I dare you!” Aradia said, growing briefly bored with the sight of Damara’s growth hampering her daily life.

“Okay,” Folykl said. She pounced, and there was the distinctive noise of a very large bustline smacking into the ground. A small bug was caught between her cleavage, that Folykl swiftly extracted and promptly gulped down.

Aradia clapped. “What did I ever do without you!?”

Folykl tilted her head. “Be super bored, I guess.”

Sollux made a face. “That’s disgusting. ...Do it again.”

Folykl went to chase more bugs, pausing to glance adoringly at Damara’s… bigness, slowly making its way through the doorway. There was a look in her black eyes, light playing against the pitch-dark coloration from corner to corner, that suggested she dearly wanted something like that to herself. Or to lay in those boobs. Or both.

In the meantime, Sollux went to Kuprum. “So, some good news, bud.”

Kuprum saluted with one hand, and continued flipping a monstrously huge collection of pancakes, each with its own pan, all at the same time. “You’ve made a motion to fuse me and Folykl into a horrible monster to serve as a minion?”

Sollux paused. “You want that?”

“No sir! It sounds existentially terrifying, sir!”

“No, we absolutely are not doing that. Why are you so excited about it?”

“I’m just happy to be of service, sir!”

“We have GOT to get you a backbone.”

“Understood! Where do you want me to have it installed?”

Sollux groaned. “I’ve got the paperwork finished, so you and your little buddy there,” he indicated Folykl, currently scratching her hair with her hindfoot, as Aradia mimicked her in mid-air. “Are now officially employed as Damara’s attendants, given her…” he sought for proper words. “Condition.” He showed the paperwork to Kuprum, who being barely literate, stared at the legal fine print and complex wording with polite terror. “...That’s a good thing. Means you get paid and crap. And given that service for a noble gets attention from the magical orders, that’s practical a shoo-in for being accepted into the Captor universities of your choice.”

Kuprum nodded gratefully. “Thank you, sir! So very much, sir! What’s a university?”

Sollux paused. “What’s your level of schooling, again?”

“Is that something you eat? Is it poisoned? Should i be a food taster?”

“No, no. Guess we should, uh, find some schooling for you before we set all that up, too.”

“That’s good! I think?”

Sollux cuffed him on the back of the head, in a friendly way. “It is, yeah.”

Kuprum shrieked in delight. “My head has felt the impact of a noble! I may never wash it again!”

Aradia shouted, from above, “Wash your head as soon as you can, mister! That’s just nasty!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Kuprum said loyally, though with obvious disappointment.

“And go help Damara and Kankri!”

Folykl and Kuprum both saluted. Or at least, Kuprum did. Folykl, being rather newer at the whole concept, just smacked herself in the face. But at least it was respectful. They hurried over to Damara’s emerging body, like cleaner birds flocking around a whale trying to beach itself. (And hopefully grow legs or something, because you didn’t want whales actually beaching themselves.)

“Hey, what’s that there!?” Damara said sharply as she felt a telekinetic power grip the sides of her stomach and the bottom.

“Ha ha, wow, this is really heavy!” Kuprum said cheerfully from the other side, his magical power manifesting as telekinesis, and Damara’s stomach began to float under his power, and inch through as he pulled.

“Who’s there!?”

Folykl began to climb up the front of Damara’s stomach. “Oh my shit this is so damn squishy I love it.” Beneath her, Damara’s newfound power gave shape and substance to the spirits housed within her, and several of them moved against her, so that her skin surged with horns and handprints at Folykl’s passing. “That looks DISGUSTING, your booby-ness. I dig it.”

“What’s climbing on me!?” Damara said, genuinely alarmed.

“Just push please, your booby-ness!” Kuprum shouted from the outside, readying for a massive pull.

“Fine, whatever!” Damara said. “And stop calling me that! Kankri, push! On the count of one… two…”

She counted to three, and she, and Kankri, pushed with their respective capacity for might.

Kankri was very strong now. Kuprum pulled her, and Folykl jumped up and down with so much enthusiasm that it squashed her belly up and down, the rippling motion making her stomach slide through easier.

But Damara’s power echoed out, as a wave of force that blasted clear to the skies above; in its wake, ghosts and spirits that had been drawn to the reawakened power of the city took on a physical form for an alarming few seconds, and then more alien shapes appeared above: her power called to thoughts and memories, to stray ideas, to even the basic resonance left in the old stone and that growing anew as people accumulated new memories and life in the city, and she was so strong that even this little exertion of power gave all that form, for a few miraculous moments.

The sky above twisted with eldritch forms, which faded.

The exertion also shoved Damara and Kankri into the house, right on top of Kuprum and Folykl, which did not fade.

After the shaking stopped, Damara groaned. “Is anyone dead?” She said grumpily.

Kuprum and Folykl made noises beneath her, indicating they were okay.

“Fine. Good.” Damara leaned up, her stomach firmly propping her into the air by a good eight feet, at the very least. Her breasts flopped down, barely robed, nearly to the ground. This kind of dress might have been a very bad idea, given the weather, but the magical awakening of the city she had caused had also made the climate within the city significantly warmer, so she felt free to dress as she pleased.

She leaned up, squinting. It was far too early in the morning for all this, and she was sorely regretting ever leaving for a bit of managing the construction outside the city. “Kankri! Where are you!?”

“I promise you I did not mean to do this, I am not doing any inappropriate touching!” Kankri said desperately from behind her, and also atop her, his arms firmly plastered to his sides, but the rest of him sinking into her backside. His face was pressed firmly against the small of his back.

“Actually, that’s quite pleasant,” Damara replied, a sly tone in her words. “You may stay.”

“Damara, that’s indecent!”

Her breasts wiggled. Eventually, Folykl’s horns and then her face poked up between them, her compact body brimming with energies as she leeched off the ambient magical energies gushing off Damara. “Can I stay!?”

“...Sure. Why not.”

“You are gracious and crap, your booby-ness.”

“But not if you keep calling me that.”

Sollux watched the whole thing with a faint frown. “Will you move already!? You might have crushed your new attendant!”

Damara tilted her head. “My what now?”

Kuprum wiggled out, head eventually appearing from under her belly. “I have been crushed by the firm iron belly of authority!” He said, obscenely delighted. “It’s everything I ever wanted out of life! I LOVE this job!”

Damara blinked. “Oh.” She glanced back again. “Why do I need attendants?”

“You did just spend fifteen minutes wiggling your way through a door until they helped,” Aradia said delicately. “I’d say that’s why.”

“Ah.”

Damara rocked up, so Kuprum could extricate himself, and she allowed her new attendants to get down and push her belly, so she rocked back up to a standing position. And everywhere, she felt herself bouncing, and Kankri sliding (absolutely mortified, which was a plus) onto his own feet again.

She felt a keen sense of her own body, and how massive it was. The spirits within herself as well, feeding her power as she fed them back with a sort of mystical complexity that made them more active, more aware, thinking and feeling more. Perhaps soon, they would be able to move onto whatever awaited them, or for the ones that were just memories imprinted, to fade away or express a desire to be shaped into useful objects.

The idea of it, and feeling them inside her, making her so big (inconvenient as it might sometimes be) genuinely felt very good.

The power coursing through her, making her an equal to any country-killing weapon hoarded from the old days, though, was something she was actively trying not to think about.

But that would be a matter for another day.

#my writing #fics #commissions #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!kankri #twitchy!damara #twitchy!aradia #twitchy!sollux #twitchy kinks: breeding

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mulderist · 4 years

Text

Wicked Game

Historical AU | Multi-Chapter | read on Ao3

Washington, D.C - 1948. Fox Mulder is a detective on the top vice unit; scandal, corruption, and lies come with the territory. He is forced to investigate a fellow officer and finds the lies go much deeper than the truth.

@today-in-fic

CHAPTER 1

Spring 1948 Adams Morgan, Washington, DC 2:47 A.M.

My nose burned with each inhale of fumes from the stale booze marinating in the hardwood floor. The room was dim but through the glow of red and blue neon I could make out shapes of furniture; chair legs, a few overturned barstools. It was a step up from a dive but not by much. There was a ringing in my ear like a schoolbell. I forced myself upright and felt a white-hot wave of pain crash into my right shoulder. “Shit.” I exhaled through my teeth and pressed my palm against a sticky wound. For an instant, I was back in that bombed-out jungle in the South Pacific, where an overworked medic from our company feverishly repaired shrapnel damage to my arm.

My fingertips found the bullet hole that punctured the thread count of one of my better dress shirts. Can’t wait to explain this one to my dry cleaner. The round might have gone through cleanly but all I knew was it hurt like a son of a bitch. My holster felt light and I found my gun about three feet away under a table in a puddle of what I hoped was discarded beer. I leaned over to retrieve it then I attempted to stand. Once I got my feet under me I found I was not alone. The bartender had a .38 aimed at my chest and a shaky trigger hand.

“Don’t move!” he shouted.

“Easy now,” I began as I put away my weapon and held up my hand, “I’m just reaching for my badge.” As I flipped open the billfold he saw the flash of gold then lowered his gun.

“Jesus detective, I’m sorry I pointed that at you. I’m just a little jittery considering what happened tonight” I nodded and moved closer towards the bar. “Holy hell, looks like you took a hit,” he continued then splashed a bar rag with some water and handed it to me.

“Can I get a whiskey?” I asked as I slid on to an empty barstool, trying to clean off my hand. Wouldn’t be nice to get fresh blood on a glass, he’s had enough to deal with tonight. The bartender grabbed a dark bottle and a short glass then gave it a hearty pour. I raised it with my good hand and tipped it back, letting the liquid fire coat the back of my throat. The throb in my shoulder started to dull.

“I called the police as quick as I could,” the bartender told me, “it all happened so fast.” He poured me another and one for himself.

“Did you see if anyone else was injured?”

“No. Anyone who was here ran outside. I ducked behind the bar and grabbed my gun. I suppose I should be grateful it happened close to last call.” I sat there thinking for a moment, trying to remember what I was doing there in the first place. A pulsing pain returned to my shoulder. The bartender’s voice entered my ear.

“You should probably get to a hospital, that shoulder looks pretty bad.”

“I’ll manage,” I replied before I finished my second round. I turned to look over my shoulder at the row of small leather booths behind me. Something about it seemed familiar. I could feel my wound oozing again so I pressed the damp rag against it and excused myself to clean up. When I entered the bathroom I was met with an unpleasant discovery.

Detective Jeffrey Spender was dead.

Thick ribbons of burgundy and cherry red graced the wooden stall door like streamers from some morbid party. The edge of the sink had a similar splatter pattern staining the porcelain. His body was face down in a puddle that was spreading like the Red Sea, an arm akimbo on the floor, at least one fresh hole in his back. His weapon was kicked across the tile.

When Spender returned from the war with a couple of shiny new medals on his chest, nepotism resulted in his quick promotion to a detective position at the precinct. I knew Spender’s old man had connections with local law enforcement, not to mention his fellow representatives on The Hill. And now the golden boy was dead. Tragically killed in the line of duty; that’s how the papers would spin it.

I bent down to check his gun, one shot fired one in the chamber. It was quick. I moved the bar rag in my hand and gripped Spender’s shoulder, pulling him onto his side. I counted two shots, maybe a third. The acrid smell of iron was weaving its way into my nostrils as I crouched down and leaned closer. First round hit Spender in the right lower abdomen, appeared to be a close range shot based on the size. The gut shot wouldn’t have killed him instantly so the second ripped into the left upper chest to make sure he was taken care of. A third might have conveniently nicked an artery, causing more of the splatter. I craned my neck and saw deep red at Spender’s shirt collar.

It was very sloppy.

If I heard gunfire I would have gone to investigate and perhaps the assailant ran into me as he exited the bathroom. Did he use a silencer? Why can’t I remember his face? I shook my head and eased Spender’s body back down on the tile floor. Slowly I rose and caught my reflection in the small mirror over the sink. I looked like hell. As I reentered the main bar the front door gave way to three flatfoots and Captain Walter Skinner. He advanced and holstered his sidearm.

“Detective Mulder.”

“Sir,” I said wearily with a nod. He briefly noticed my injury then jumped right into the interrogation.

“What happened?”

“I’m a little foggy on the details but I remember following Detective Spender here.”

“And where exactly is Spender?” Skinner asked. I leaned against a booth and placed a hand on my neck.

“You’ll find him on the bathroom floor.” I saw the captain’s eyes narrow and he brushed past me. He nudged the door open with his elbow and surveyed the fresh crime scene, he then motioned for a uniform and gave instructions. The young cop hastily scratched everything down on a small notepad, tipped his cap, and left through the front door.

“Did he tell you to meet him?” Skinner asked as he moved in front of me.

“No.”

“How did you know he’d be here?”

I thought for a moment. Certain details were coming back to me.

“I believe Detective Spender was following up on a lead from a mutual informant. We agreed on a meeting to get info about one of Vincenti’s heroin drops. Spender was impatient and wanted to meet tonight. I wasn’t too keen on the idea.” I winced as I shifted my right arm. The whiskey I had was wearing off.

“The commissioner is going to demand answers when he finds out Spender was murdered,” Skinner said as he adjusted his glasses.

“Well I’m sure he’s more than eager to crucify me,” I said.

“Cut the melodrama.” Skinner responded. “I’ll finish up here. Go find Officer Pendrell outside and have him take you over to the hospital. Get patched up, get some sleep, then I want to see you back at the precinct.”

I held up my hands in acceptance and walked to the door, making sure to thank the bartender for the nightcap on my way out.

Officer Pendrell took a long drag off his cigarette then let it drop on the sidewalk, stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. I cleared my throat and said, “Captain said you could give me a ride.”

“Jesus Mulder--” he exclaimed with a plume of smoke into the night air.

“I just need some repairs.” I said with a nod to my right arm. “Skinner said you could give me a lift to Washington General.”

“Yeah sure,” Pendrell opened the passenger door for me and as I got situated he entered from the driver’s side. “What happened in there, Mulder?”

“Spender’s dead.” It was blunt but I was exhausted. “Not much else to say, though I’m sure the precinct will hear about it in a few hours.” I could feel Pendrell tense up as we drove. I flexed and opened the fingers on my right hand. The slight tingling sensation was reassuring that the nerve damage wasn’t permanent. At least that’s what I was telling myself.

Washington General Hospital

3:55am

Pendrell pulled the squad car up to the emergency department and practically shoved me out the door. Guess he didn’t want me bleeding on government upholstery. I made my way inside and squinted against the harsh lighting. I spied the petite nurse behind the desk.

“Ma’am,” I began as I fished out my badge and approached, “I’m Detective Fox Mulder and I could use some help.” She rose and quickly walked around then gave me the once over, her fingers delicately reached for my good arm.

“Let’s get you back, detective. My name is Dana,” she said as she ushered me down a short hallway and into an open room with several beds. I could feel my chest tighten at the sight of the drawn white curtains. Too many bad memories hidden behind those white curtains. A moan came from a shadow on one of the beds and thankfully she sat me down a few beds over.

“You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous?” Dana asked as she pulled out a notepad. I shook my head. “Detective Mulder can I get your date of birth?”

“October 13, 1914.”

I watched her write the numbers down with what I presumed was immaculate handwriting, unlike the doctors she worked under.

“What happened tonight, detective?”

“I took a hit to the right shoulder, not sure if it was a clean shot. The assailant got away.”

Two fingertips with red nail varnish touched the underside of my wrist and she glanced at a small watch fob, calculating my pulse. I saw her note the result on her notepad before pocketing it. She placed a hand on my shoulder as she reached for a nearby medical tray. It had an array of metal instruments, a basin, some bottles, and what looked like bandages. She slid it closer to the bedside and I straightened my posture. I could feel the fabric of my shirt sticking to the clotted blood on my shoulder. Dana turned to pick up a small stool and place it in front of me. She took a white cloth from the tray and splashed it with a liquid from a brown bottle.

“Can you remove your shirt?” she asked

“Yeah I can try,” I replied. My left fingers fumbled with the buttons and I forced my right hand to finish the job. I winced then exhaled sharply.

“Here, let me help.” She said as she placed the cloth down on the tray.

“Usually I’m offered a drink first,” I quiped weakly.

“Well from what I can tell, someone beat me to it.” the redhead said with a grin as she peeled open my shirt. I freed my left arm but hesitated with the right. It looked like I had a few too many and tried to get dressed; sitting there in my white sleeveless shirt with my dress shirt hanging on one arm. Dana reached for the damp cloth and held it on my shoulder, attempting to soften the skin. It was a nice gesture. Any other medic would have just ripped the damn thing off taking a layer of skin with it. I could feel her eyes sweep over my chest like a searchlight looking for damage. She gently stripped down the sleeve and placed the bloody shirt beside me on the bed. Dana leaned me slightly forward.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day Detective. The bullet passed right through.”

Her bedside manor had won me over. I felt the cool cloth on the back of my shoulder as she cleaned the exit wound.

“You can call me Mulder.”

She playfully inquired, “Why not Fox?” as she sat on the stool in front of me.

“Even though it’s my first name I rarely use it. The Marines made quick work of that.” I saw a hint of a smile as she readied her suture tools.

“And what’s your last name?” I asked in a feeble attempt at small talk. With a squint she quickly pierced the eye of the needle with a dark thread.

“Scully,” she said, humoring me. “This will sting a little,” she cautioned. I failed in containing a wince from the all too familiar sensation of thread pulling flesh. Battlefield to back alley, I have scars laid out like a roadmap of my career. She worked quickly, weaving the filament like she was darning socks. I felt a sharp tug as she finished her last stitch. She covered her handiwork with a white bandage.

“Halfway there,” she stated as she stood to fix the back of my shoulder. She might have said something to me but I couldn’t make it out. I hated to admit it but I was transfixed. Her presence was like an anesthetic and I was numb in the best possible way. The final pull for the final stitch. She recited care instructions to me the same way a professor would read from a textbook. I pretended to listen as I opened and closed my right hand once again. She slid the tray aside and I rose to my feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, holding up a hand in case I toppled over.

“I’m going back to the precinct.” I said as I folded my dress shirt over my arm.

“That’s against medical advice. Advice I just gave you. Will you please sit back down?”

“I can’t stay here tonight.”

She folded her arms.

“Is there someone I can call?” she asked. I thought if there was a favor I could collect but no one came to mind. It was probably best for me to sleep it off at my apartment.

“A cab. I’m going home.” Scully shook her head and led me back down the corridor towards the nurse’s desk. I readjusted my holster across my chest and stretched my left arm. She dialed the operator with one pull on the rotary.

“Hello, I’d like to request a taxi to Washington General for one of our discharged patients. Thank you.” She hung up the receiver and told me the cab would be here soon. “Be careful out there, Mulder.”

I smiled and slipped back into my shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.

“Thank you, Scully.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know if I’d ever get used to that.”

I watched her walk down the hall, graceful fingertips smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. She left me with the echo of heels on the hard floor.

I stepped outside the emergency room doors and inhaled an unexpected cloud of tobacco. As I coughed I looked for the source and saw a man, possibly a wino in a white jacket holding a cigarette. He gave me a puzzled look then said in a gravelly voice,

“Hey, are you a cop?”

“A detective actually.” I responded with an annoyed exhale.

“Oh. Well, you look like a cop.”

“Are you a doctor?” I countered. He took a drag.

“No. I found this jacket in the garbage out back.” Before I could respond the vagrant laughed loudly then took off down the alley. On any other night I would have given chase, but I was too tired for additional bullshit. Let the beat cops have him.

Finally my taxi arrived and I was on my way home.

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #historical au #mulder #scully #noir fiction #wip #it took A LOT of coaxing to post this

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jaimesam · 3 years

Text

Sawtooth

We woke up on the morning of our fourth day in the Sawtooth wilderness feeling spry. It can take a day, or two, or three before the rhythm of backpacking— wake up, wolf down some instant oatmeal, slurp up some instant coffee, shoulder a 35 pound pack and start the day’s climb—begins to feel right. This was our morning.

A miracle: the skies had truly cleared of wildfire smoke for the first time since setting off from Grandjean. Good timing, too: our day ahead would be perhaps the best of the trip — up and over Cramer Pass, beneath “The Temple,” down past the Cramer Lakes and up again to Alpine Lake, reputedly a gem. We hit the trail with bounce in our step.

Three, four, five miles into our hike we were still having fun, even as we began to wonder — was it possible that Hidden Lake was, in fact, so hidden that we wouldn’t see it from the trail? When would we hit the killer climb up to Cramer Pass? Slogging through overgrown brush and clambering over deadfall — all of which felt oddly familiar — we encountered a group of five friendly outdoorsmen from Seattle.

“Morning.”

“Afternoon.”

“Am I right that we’ve got a climb ahead?”

“Oh no, it’s all downhill from here.”

“Hmm.”

“Where are you trying to get to?”

“Well we were aiming for Cramer Lakes…”

“Oh you’re a long way from there. This trail goes down to Grandjean.”

“Oh my god.”

Jaime caught up.

“We took a wrong turn.”

“I thought so.”

“It’s a bad one.”

“How bad?”

“The good news is that we’ve been making great time. Covered a lot of miles.”

“And?”

“That lake was Elk Lake. This is the trail we hiked in on our first day.”

“How…”

“Five miles ago. Missed a turn.”

“God damn it.”

“Actually more like five and a half.”

Oh yes, there were signs. Including literal signs made of actual wood. Two of which we somehow blew blindly past, and a third: seen but egregiously misinterpreted. Also the creek we had crossed thrice, which, had we been paying close attention, we might have noticed was flowing in the wrong direction. Or beautiful Smith Falls, which we had passed two days before. Or the 2.4 miles of the South Fork of the Payette Trail we had hiked on day one — the most grueling and unattractive stretch of trail we had yet encountered — you would think we might have realized something was amiss. And yet.

“We could just hike out.”

“It would be eleven more miles.”

“So we backtrack.”

“Five and a half. Uphill.”

“We’re spending an extra night out here, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

“Do we have extra food?”

“We have enough food.”

“I hate this.”

So we backtracked. An eleven mile detour, all told, with 1500 feet of elevation lost and then gained agin, for no reason, on unremarkable, overgrown, valley trails with views of nothing but dense forest, overgrown with scrubby mountain brush. The last few miles, a steady and grueling climb, brought us back to where we had missed our first sign, six hours before. We collapsed at the intersection, refilled our bottles, and snacked on salami — the promise of which was all that had gotten us up the hill. Mosquitoes and black flies swarmed, and the sky, which had begun the day clear, turned a pinkish gray as wildfire smoke began to dim the sun again.

“Why do we do this?”

“Good question.”

Onward to Hidden Lake, not so hidden after all. After dragging ourselves over 14 miles — 3 miles of forward progress from our last camp — we collapsed on a grassy shoreline, and rinsed our scratched and bruised bodies in the glassy frigid water. The lake sat beneath two pointed cliffs, side by side — one of red stone, the other gray— and the sun set early in the narrow valley. Trout jumped, snatching flies from the water’s surface, and pair of mergansers jetted around the lake, snatching the fish in turn. Exhausted, we fell asleep listening to hermit thrushes whistling their fluting ethereal song over the quiet rush of cascades tumbling down the cliffs, filling the lake.

We woke up, wolfed down some instant oatmeal, slurped up some instant coffee, and began the day’s climb. Up and over Cramer Pass, beneath “The Temple,” a tower of red sandstone capped with a knobby monolith that might well have been the icon of some desert religion. We descended again to the three Cramer Lakes, each one cascading to the next, down further to cross a rushing stream of snowmelt and spring water. We dipped our hats and bandannas in the almost-freezing water to drip down our necks and backs in the hot afternoon. Then we’re climbing again, this time twice as high, twice as far, to Alpine Lake, a pristine tarn carved into the side of the slope, a fine place for a salami break. Then higher, sweating our way up to the day’s second pass. We looked down on the Baron Lakes, where we would camp for the night, and across the lakes to Warbonnet Peak and Monte Verita, grey and purple in the late afternoon shadows.

“This is why we do this.”

“Yeah.”

One reason, anyway. The most obvious reason. If you did a survey of the people who somehow ended up at the top of the pass above Baron Lakes, this would be the number one reason cited for braving the insects and the varmints, dealing with the aches and the rashes, and slogging up a mountain with a heavy pack: the views, the vistas, the landscapes, the panoramas. The drama of the mountains. It’s like cooking your own meal — it tastes better when you’ve worked for it, earned it, done it yourself. The view from the pass is more beautiful for the sweat and exertion dragging your body and your pack up the climb.

We got more the following day as we descended from the Baron Lakes, our final day on the trail. An oceanic valley opened up beneath us, ringed by steep cliffs and rockslides of red and grey and purple, Baron Creek turning into a 30 foot waterfall. You can’t find this outside the mountains, this sense of three-dimensional space. Of looking down a valley two miles wide as it falls away from your feet, three thousand feet down. Like standing in the greatest of civilization’s cathedrals, but one with enough open space to park a carrier group, with more room for a fleet of attack submarines below.

After five nights and six days, we have become the land. Smeared with the dust of an arid country, we blend in with the rock and dirt. And despite our daily dips in the alpine lakes of the Sawtooth, we smell like it too. That first shower will feel great. The first meal — Jaime’s been fantasizing about a tuna melt and French fries, Sam has been inexplicably craving pancakes — even better. This is also why we backpack. It feels awfully good to have done it.

More than just the relief and indulgence of returning to civilization, a week in the mountains offers a welcome reset on city life. I am a city person. I like living in a density of people, living within a stroll of most everything I need, nearby neighbors and friends. But I crave the balance offered by nature, by a week in the woods, a month in the mountains. We’ll return feeling refreshed, glad to be back, awed by the commonplace luxuries of modern urban living: a world’s worth of cuisines, at my doorstep in 20 minutes; humanity’s complete works of recorded music, in my pocket. We’ll be very glad to have done it, for all its ups and downs. And, more immediately, we’re glad to be done.

“I’m sore.”

“Me too.”

“My blister just popped.”

“Ew.”

“I feel great.”

“Me too.”

Leaning on the car, we ease off our boots. The horseflies are back at this lower elevation, and their buzzing takes us back to last week when we tightened our laces and adjusted the straps on our pack in preparation for starting our trip. We had arrived at Grandjean just a few hours behind the first wave of wildfire smoke. Hiking in July, we thought we’d beat the wildfires to the punch; no such luck. So we started our hike in a haze - literal and figurative - wondering if we’d be walking up mountains for 54 miles with the reward of smoggy vistas waiting at the passes and peaks.

The first day’s hike didn’t lift that haze. The trail was overgrown, not often used, with deadfall lying across our path requiring us to clamber over dead trunks or bushwhack through brush to get around. Horseflies dogged us, buzzing and biting. As we climbed, sweating, copses of trembling aspen yielded to a forest of ponderosa pine, white spruce, douglas fir, and horseflies yielded to mosquitoes. Six miles up the trail, we encountered two fellow hikers, who informed us that the first good campsite was another eight miles ahead, and that they were churning out 20 miles in a day to get out of this godforsaken wilderness pronto. Terrific.

Fortunately, they were wrong, and we soon found a very fine place to pitch a tent next to a small waterfall. The Payette River’s headwaters split and cascaded down on either side of a great red rock, and every few seconds, the waters surged and a shower of snowmelt would surge over the rock itself, spraying into the air.

A western tanager — electric yellow body, reddish head, and jet black wings — flitted through the campsite. So did chipmunks, rushing around frantically to spread the good news that a pair of slovenly campers had finally arrived, and the summer’s harvest was here at last.

“Look at the cheeks on that little guy.”

“He’s just dying to fill them up with our trail mix.”

Joke’s on us. His cheeks were already full. We turn around, and our bag of trail mix has been chewed open, our week’s supply of almonds, cashews, chocolate, and cranberries pawed through and looted.

“Oh no!”

“Tou thieving little bastard! You bandit! Son of a bitch!”

He was long gone, and presumably the life of the party in whatever chipmunk den he had retreated to. Not wanting to contract whatever rodent virus the chipmunks might have left on our nuts — and not wanting to reward their banditry — I fed our entire supply of trail mix to the fish, swearing profusely as each morsel washed downstream. We have enough food without it, I think.

Our second morning, we awoke to what appeared as a fine morning mist; the pines in the middle distance enveloped in a grey cloud; the ridgeline hazy. But central Idaho is a dry country, this time of year. There is no mist. The wildfire smoke has thickened, and an image of peace transforms to a vague and grim picture of threat and foreboding. We shoulder our packs and resume the climb; eleven more miles on the trail, plus half a mile vertically.

As we walk we get our first glimpses of sawtooth silhouette. Steep rocky cliffs capped with jagged ridgelines, hazy and dark in the smoke against the grey sky. We cross a cold stream, boots off, sandals on, almost knee deep in the rushing icy water. We stop to rest — our first salami break of the trip! — beside Smith Falls, a roaring cascade.

“Do you have the hand sanitizer?”

“I thought you had it.”

“Nope.”

“Where’s the soap?”

“Packed with the hand sanitizer.”

“We’re disgusting.”

The day has gotten hot, and our final mile is a savage climb, switchbacking up the rough talus slope of Mt. Everly. Closing in on 9000’ feet of elevation, we stop to catch our breath every few steps and soak in the panorama behind us: smoky and grey, but astounding nonetheless, with miles of views into wilderness valleys ringed by sawtooth ridges.

Finally, we climb high enough that a lake reveals itself as a sliver of blue, and then it’s at our feet. Everly Lake is a sapphire droplet, water clear to the bottom, the gently rippling surface sparkling azure in the late afternoon sun. It sits beneath the east face of Mt. Everly, a scree cliff dropping a thousand feet to the water’s edge, across from where we set up camp. We haven’t seen another soul all day, and we have this lake very much to ourselves.

Why do we do this? An interesting question because, in case it’s not obvious, backpacking trips involve a considerable quantity of suffering. We do it for the satisfaction and rejuvenation of completing a trip, certainly. And obviously the views — even when they’re gray and hazy. But this — this is really why we hump heavy packs up rocky cliffs, put up with clouds of insects and wildfire smoke, endure blisters and aches and altitude sickness. There is freedom in solitude (dual solitude, in our case), and real solitude is a hard thing to come by. Hot and sweaty and ragged from the climb, I splash into the glass-clear snowmelt of Everly Lake, naked as a wild animal.

When telling people about our big trip west, our route through Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, the most frequent first response was “ah, you’re doing the parks.” Meaning the National Parks, those natural American wonders with scenic byways leading drivers to the parks’ iconic sights, visitors’ centers full of gifts and amenities and fun facts, and influencers dangling their immaculate bodies over sheer cliffs to rack up the likes. Not so. We are, in fact, avoiding the Parks at all costs, instead seeking solitude in forests and wilderness — the likes of the Sawtooth.

In March, we took a trip to Great Smoky Mountain National Park, hoping to hike and revel in some of the finest scenery you’ll find east of the Mississippi. The joke was very much on us. Day one, we spent two hours in the car, inching toward a trailhead, in a miles-long snake of cars and trucks and RVs. In July and August, Yellowstone National Park transmutes from the largest national park in the lower 48 into the biggest parking lot on the North American continent. People sleep in their cars on the road to Zion, in the hopes of snagging a shot at a sunrise selfie.

It’s been fifty years since Edward Abbey wrote Desert Solitaire, which I’ve been reading on the trail. The book is an account of his summers as a ranger in the park that would eventually become Arches. He lamented road-building in National Parks, and proposed banning cars altogether, a fine idea. Many of our Parks did alright for decades, even with their roads and scenic byways; today’s plauge, clogging those roads and viewpoints and even some of the trails, is known as Instagram. The secret is out about the natural beauty of the American west, and the hoards have flocked.

Of course, not everyone out here in nature is seeking solitude. That’s fine. Certainly, every person has a right to see and experience earth’s great wonders. But even for the casual nature tourist, I would posit that the Grand Canyon would be better enjoyed with enough room to swing one’s arms. What to do about it? Who knows. The French are de-marketing their national parks, advertising the flaws and shortcomings of the country’s great natural sites; another fine idea, maybe there are others. At any rate, Abbey is lucky to be dead; the sight of hoards of selfie-snappers crowding for the perfect pic at Mesa Arch would kill him over again.

For those who do seek something approaching solitude, it’s harder and harder to find. We’ve avoided the National Parks, but even many of the forest campgrounds are full beyond the brim. We’ve spent evenings driving around the backwoods, trying in vain to find a good place to camp that isn’t already clogged with RVs. And I’m not here to tell anyone how to enjoy nature, but I am here to tell you that the RV is a blight upon American wilderness. Pulling into a campground in a forgotten corner of the Black Hills, and listening to a fleet of generators run for hours is, shall we say, irritating. If your idea of exploring America’s natural beauty involves parking a bus that costs as much as Lamborghini in the woods and running a generator 16 hours a day to keep your A/C running and your TV on, why not save yourself the trouble — and do the rest of us a favor — and stay home?

As one friend likes to say, gazing up at a spectacular mountain view and taking a contented sigh: “We mean nothing.” In the city, it’s hard to see yourself outside the contemporary, the immediate, the urgent. Put yourself in nature, in the shadow of a great peak or at the bottom of a colossal canyon, and it becomes possible to see your ego and your consciousness in a more accurate perspective: transient, insignificant. There’s freedom in that. And peace.

The chipmunks of Everly Lake share the thieving attitude of their cousins down the mountain. As we sat absorbing the last of the orange sun’s rays, we heard a rustling behind us, and caught one in the act trying to seize our sesame crisps. Rather than chewing through the bag and filling his fat cheeks with whatever they could carry, this greedy fellow had his tiny arms wrapped around the entire ziploc bag, attempting to make off with the whole kit and kaboodle. Not today, chipmunk. We learned our lesson. Our food bag didn’t leave our sight the rest of the trip.

We awoke the next morning to the smell of a campfire burning outside our tent. Poking my head out into the grey predawn light — no campfire, just a thick cloud of wildfire smoke. The far shore was shrouded in haze, and our sparkling blue lake had turned dull; a grim sense of foreboding gripped us as we wolfed down our instant oatmeal, slurped up our instant coffee, and shouldered our packs to descend from Everly.

We hop from lake to lake through the southern Sawtooth, and, mercifully, the cloud of smoke thins as we go. Not a soul on the trail, as we dip our toes in lakes with wonderful names — Ingeborg, Spangle, Ardeth— and some quotidian names — Rock Slide, Vernon, Benedict. I regret leaving my binoculars in the car, we try to ID our avian companions anyway. Most will end up in our books as LBBs (little brown birds), curious peepers and cheepers. We do grow fond of the white-capped sparrow, which looks like it’s wearing a bike helmet and sings a song that sounds like the opening refrain of Baby Shark. Funny little fellow.

We arrive at Lake Edna, our camp for the night, and the skies have cleared. We are treated to sunset over a glassy indigo surface. We watch the sun fall behind the same mountain that it has set behind for hundreds, thousands of summer evenings previous. It’s harder and harder to find pristine nature like this, unaltered by humanity. If some other person had felt compelled to make the same hike, climb the same hill 500 or 5000 Julys ago, they would have seen the same thing, heard the same birds, enjoyed the shade of the same trees. There is magic in that.

We woke up on the morning of our fourth day in the Sawtooth wilderness feeling spry.

This essay borrows liberally and consciously in structure and style from Messrs. Edward Abbey & John McPhee.

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riverdalesfangirl · 4 years

Text

Melody Andrews (FP Jones)

FP Jones x OC

Melody Andrews ~ Home Sweet Hell

~Drinks~

I slam my car door and peek at my surroundings. No one seems to be around. I cover my car and then walk in the tunnel leading to my hideaway. I unlock the door and step inside the small hidden home. I pull out my phone logging into my "fake" Instagram account and see what my brother has been up to lately. I smile as I see him sitting with a guitar. I smile and recall a memory of when I was at age 14. I had gotten my first professional guitar and mic stand. I would play and sing songs with 5 year old Archie when both mom and dad would fight. Jughead even joined us a couple of times wanting to contribute with two spoons clanking together.

The rustle of leaves catches my attention. I look out the window to see a pile of leather-clad misfits walking through the wooded area. Serpents. They laugh loudly and continue to make their way through the dark paths. I sigh unpacking all my clothes. I looked at the time and smiled as I saw it was time for bed. I cross the hall and open the door to the small bedroom still in perfect condition as I left it. Or as a trusted serpent left it for me. I whip out my phone and call the only contact on my phone.

The line rang until the three rings. "Well damn Princess. Didn't think I'd hear from you for another 3 years miss runaway." I roll my eyes kicking my shoes off. "What makes you think I'm in town? I could be calling you up from the other side of the country!" He laughed over the line. "Not when half of Riverdale said they've seen a Ghost and I'll give you a hint. It's not Jason." "News travels fast huh?" "Surely you didn't forget how this town works Mel." "I should just turn back now." "Come have a drink. I'll pick you up from the mole hole." "You realize I was just going to bed." Jackson laughs from the other side of the line. "And you realize I'm on my way. BYE!" Not 20 minutes go by and Jackson pulls up. He gets out of the car and gives his old friend a hug. "It's good to see you, Mel." "You too Jackson."

The ride to the Whyte Wyrm was short as Jackson was speeding down the roads. I laughed feeling free once again. This is what all started it back in the day. With some high school serpents and a good Andrews girl gone bad.

I looked at the doors and swung them open entering the bar with my two others behind me. It seemed to stop time. Everyone's eyes raked my figure as their mind played tricks on them. A new girl in town? Nope same old Mel back from vacation.

Jackson ordered drinks and passed them to all of us. Seeing as some younger serpents joined us. Drinks went by as fast as minutes and in no time I was pretty plastered. Music played from the jukebox and Toni and I danced laughing back and forth. "I think you've gained someones attention," Toni says motioning behind me. I avert my eyes behind me and see a pair of brown eyes looking at me. My drunken state making myself confident as hell. I stride over to the man leaning against the pool table he was about to make a shot at. "Hi." I giggle smiling at him. He smirks at me and places his hand next to my thigh. "Hey there darling." I smile and admire him in the leather jacket. Certainly a Serpent. "You know it's not very nice to stare," I smirk at him turning up another shot.

"Damn." The man groans in front of me. "Well, I do apologize. Not many faces waltz through here that catch my eye." I lean further into his space. "Well, what makes me so different?" He places his hand upon my thigh giving it a light squeeze. "For starters, that beautiful face, then there is your sexy body." He wastes no time bringing himself into my bubble. I breathe the man in, our noses almost touching.

The touch sent waves up her body. Everything has been non-stop for the young Andrews girl. "I haven't seen you around here. You new sweetheart?" I hum thinking of something to say. I shrug trailing my fingers up his arm. "Been a while since I passed through." He nods his head smirking.

He didn't much care for her backstory at the moment. He was rather pulled into her by an unknown force that wasn't starved for facts. He kept looking down at her lips. This woman seemed so mysterious to him and all he wanted to do was know her secrets. "A traveler? Hot." I smirked and brought my hands to his shoulders. "Yeah. France was my favorite. They just love to fuck." I was shocked at the words rolled out of my mouth, as was my new found friend. He raised his eyebrow smirking. He looked up to his friends around him and nodded his head. In no time we were alone in the bar. "You want another drink babydoll?" I smile and follow him to the bar. "Do you own this place?" "Something like that." He pours another shot for both of us. "So where are you coming from Frenchie?" I laugh at the use of the nickname. "Rosewood. Was going to get away for a while." "Problems at home? Need to run away?" He rolled his eyes. "More like trying to resolve them. I've been running for about 6 years now." "Impressive. You seem familiar." Not telling him now, but I knew this man. I had seen him before when I use to ride along on drug deals. Back when everything was wild in my life.

"Like I said... It's been a while since I passed through." Turning the shot up my mind clouded. "What's your name, Frenchie?" I tilted my head smiling. "You can call me Melody." He smiled and leaned over the bar smiling at me. "Nice to meet you, Melody. I'm FP Jones." I smirked looking at him feeling a strange urge to lean further over the counter. The song changes on the jukebox and I couldn't miss the opportunity. I stood on the bar and danced in front of FP. Just for his eyes only.

FP Jones leaned back watching with amazement. This young woman was taking him places he hadn't explored since he was young. His eyes scanning over her body badly wanting to place his hands everywhere upon it.

I slowly sit on the countertop in front of FP. I reach for his leather jacket pulling him closer. "I can read people really well," I say making him look confused. "Yeah? What do you have to say about me?" I smile and place my hand on his cheek toying with the small springs of hair. "I wish you would grow a pair and kiss me already because I know you want to." FP stared at me with everything ranging from lust to excitement in his eyes.

FP dragged my thighs to the edge of the counter so I was pushed up against him. Then he pulled me into a hard kiss. I grappled onto his jacket feeling electricity run through myself. I run my hands through his hair moaning at the contact and excitement.

The drunken pair made passionate intimate acts into the deep hours of the night only waking fully sober when the sun rose from the hills.

I roll over hitting an arm. The second I hit against it, it wraps itself over me and pulls me into the body attached. "Morning Melody." Lord the way he says my name.

I look over my shoulder to see him in all his glory. I smile at him. "Hey FP."

I stand gathering my clothes quickly. "Don't you want to stay?" I look up at this man feeling a tug at my heartstrings. "I actually have to go get some things sorted out. The place I'm crashing... it isn't... well... It's complicated, but I'll see you around." FP stands and grabs me softly. He places his hands on my waist planting a kiss on my lips. "I better." He smirks and slaps my bottom as I move towards the exit.

FP Jones... Oh lord.

#fp jones x reader #fp trash #fp x oc #fp jones imagine #fp jones #riverdale x reader #riverdale imagine #riverdale #jughead jones #archie andrews #ArchieComics #betty cooper #veronica lodge

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writing-the-end · 4 years

Text

LoL Chapter 7- Mineral Mage

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

The hermits are home on their hidden island of Eremita, welcomed by a friendly face...and a not so friendly friend. TFC is desperate to discover what the crystal is, even at the expense of his own wellbeing. But does he take it too far?

--------------------------------

At the tallest rise of the island, a glimmer is visible. Light shining off metal, and a small red tassel flowing free of the knight’s helmet. As stoic as he looks, standing heroically at the crest of the island, his face shows a childish glee. Jevin squeals, jumping from the sky turtle and rolling across the grass. “Wels! Long time no see, my man!”

Wels lets out a raucous laugh, features lighting up with joy to see his friends, his family. After what he’s been through in Alphasgard, he was afraid he’d never see them again. See the ragtag team of idiots he calls family. “Hear you guys got a big contract- and you didn’t invite me?”

“You stopped answering our letters, we thought you were too busy.” Stress giggles.

“Phoebe was so sad every time she returned with the letter unopened.” Zedaph pouts, patting the head of the massive turtle, fingers gently preening the green feathers of the beast, the whorls like clouds in the sky.

“What even happened?” Doc questions, sliding down the massive turtle shell with a lot less of his usual suave attitude. He may be a puppeteer mage, but animals are Zed’s thing. “We came as fast as we could.”

“Let’s just say some people were less than happy to find me snooping around their sewer lair.” Wels shrugs off his tunic’s sleeve, showing the scar running over his shoulder. Mumbo winces alongside Stress, but False steps up.

“Wicked scar, man.” She high fives him. “I’m sure you left me with a whole pile of things to fix, huh?”

“You bet. But first… what’s been going on with TFC? What is that crystal that he’s practically sleeping with?” The guild turns, looking down the hill, across the small forest and pond, over the training grounds to the inhabited side of the island. Among the odd collection of homes, he can see the crystal cave that TFC calls his own.

“Lets grab TFC, and we can go over everything at once. Including what he missed.” Xisuma nods the rest of the guild to their open hall, while he follows the footpath to the cave. Exactly as Wels warned him, TFC is hunched over his desk, picking and scraping at the crystal in his hand. “TFC?”

“What?” TFC looks up, blinking away the fatigue in his eyes. Dark rings and bags accentuate the sharp gaze he shoots at Xisuma. X steps back, before entering into the cave.

“We’re back, all of us are gathering in the guild hall to go over everything that happened. Haven’t you filled in Wels yet?” TFC isn’t acting like himself, he isn’t acting like the leader Xisuma knows he is. The father he is to every hermit. Strong and a good leader, calm and thoughtful. His words are short, cutting into Xisuma’s skin and lashing him with the tone in his voice.

“I’m busy, can’t you see?” TFC raises the piece of the crystal, light consumed by the darkness. Xisuma retreats from the magical item, feeling the evil magic within. He looks up, noticing the hungry, weak stare that TFC holds with the crystal. He’s obsessed with it, he doesn’t even notice his hunger or fatigue.

“TFC, please. Take a break, we have...a lot happened in Milliara. You’re our guildmaster, you need to be there.” Xisuma reaches out, but as soon as his fingers brush the draining crystal, TFC’s hand wraps around his wrist. It’s a firm grip, fingers constricting tighter and tighter until Xisuma’s knees buckle from the pain. Xisuma gasps, shaking. Sure, he’s been in duels with TFC more times than he can count, but TFC never intended to hurt him before. He never intends to hurt any of them. “T-TFC.”

TFC notices the fear crossing Xisuma’s eyes, the way he’s collapsing under the tight grip around his wrist. Fear...of him. Of his own guildmaster. TFC retracts his hand, cradling the crystal close to his chest. Why did he do that? Why did he hurt Xisuma? He just didn’t want him to touch the crystal. “Fine, I’ll go.”

The rest of the guild is listening to Wels regale them with his mission, pointing to aging wounds. “-and that’s when they captured me. They thought they had me beat? Ha! I took that sleep potion on purpose. I knew they’d take me right into their lair.”

“But you were tortured! Wounded!” Keralis whimpers.

“A little bit of pain wasn’t going to stop me from finishing my mission. These rogues were murdering people in cold blood- lucky for them mine was hot.” Wels’s lion tail flicks to the side, passing from one shoulder to the next like the tongue of a clock. Content to be with his friends- and very content to have some of Cleo’s amazing hard cider in his stomach.

Everyone looks up, seeing the last two members of the guild arriving. Wels turns, resting his arm on the black pants. He doesn’t feel like wearing his armor, not on a day off like this. “So… tell me, what took all of you guys off the island?”

“We got a huge contract. For all of us.” Grian grins, before remembering how that contract ended for them. They didn’t even get the gold, just a slap on the wrist. For what? Doing exactly what Magistrate Dolios wanted.

“We were asked by the magistrate himself to investigate a disturbance in a town. But when we arrived, everything was dead.” Xisuma adds, tucking himself in the shade of the tree. He pulls off his mask, safe from the blinding light of the sun, his eyes weak after years of stargazing.

“Okay… that’s not all that weird. Was it a plague? Or some banshee?” Wels shrugs, pulling his curly blonde hair away from his neck. He did not miss the warmth that the Ashioll sea brings, compared to Alphasgard’s cool mountain breeze.

“No, not dead like that. Not just a corpse on the ground.” Cleo mutters. “There was nothing. Not even a soul left for me to find. And not just people or animals. Crops withered to ash, wood rotted to charcoal, and water dried up. It wasn’t just the people- the entire land was dead. A black scar on the map.”

Wels’s face darkens, his eyes falling to the floor as he considers this news. “So what did you find?”

“We found a crystal within the well system. Large, imposing. Floating over the spring. Taking its power.” Zedaph leans over Tango and Impulse.

“And then it attacked us.” Tango hisses, playing with the tattered sash of Impulse’s. Pulling on the yellow threads and adding it to Zedaph’s golden locks. He’ll have an extra head of hair, if Impulse doesn’t notice. “These two creepy husk townsfolk came in, one attacked us, and then the crystal started spewing creepy mist stuff and nearly spiked us with it.”

“The same crystal that TFC has?” Wels looks at the black gem in his hand. It’s so small, how was it able to overcome them all?

“No, that’s just a mega tiny chunk.” Iskall responds, before pausing and squinting as he recounts his words. “No matter what we did, almost nothing could break it. Only my iskallium was strong enough to put it back into dormancy.”

“We narrowly escaped, but that’s when we rushed to Milliara. To tell the magistrate what we saw.” Xisuma leans against the massive oak tree at the center of the open guild hall.

“Wait...the magistrate, Magistrate Dolios- leader of the Council of Guilds, creator of that ridiculous law about licensing guilds? He asked us?” Wels looks around, waving at the island hidden among the mysterious, danger ridden sea. “He does know we aren’t a legal guild, right?”

“That was his whole point. His whole ploy.” Doc growled, his lips curling back. He wishes he could give that jackass a taste of his own medicine. Play with him like he did to them. “He tricked us into doing his dirty work, then made a fool of us all in Milliara.”

Now it’s TFC’s turn to be confused as well. “Wha- what do you mean? He tricked us?”

“Oh yeah, that’s the best part.” Etho growls. “He burned the contract, and kicked us out like we were idiots asking to be licensed. He played us.”

Anger flares hot in TFC’s veins, itching from his wrist where he holds onto the crystal. Like it’s feeding off his emotions. “So we did all this...for nothing!”

“No, not nothing.” Xisuma tries to calm TFC down. Try to get him to think like he normally does. Rational and calm. “This crystal, the one you have. I think there’s more going on. Joe, could I root around in your library, see what I can research? See what this magic could be from?”

Joe nods, and opens his mouth to welcome X to even search through his restricted books. But TFC cuts him off. “No! I’ve got this, I’m close to figuring it out. Learning the trick behind the crystal. You don’t need to get yourself tangled up in my work.”

“TFC...we always work together. That’s why we have a guild.” Mumbo whispers, standing up. “Listen mate… a lot of us are worried about you. I think that crystal is affecting you, dude. You’re- you’re scaring some of us.”

Mumbo opens his hand, quietly asking for the crystal. Not forever- he can’t do the magic that TFC can. If they hope to learn anything, they need his work. But it’s obviously affecting him. He’s changed.

But TFC recoils, gripping the crystal tight. “No! This is my work- I just have to test the gem and see it’s properties, and we’ll know exactly how to handle this. I don’t need you guys interfering!”

Xisuma’s eyes widen, realizing what TFC is saying. “T no!”

He reaches out, but he’s a second too slow. TFC’s magic circle has already been cast, surrounding the gem and sapping it’s powers. The blue arcane light stains black, circles and lines falling apart and struggling against the dark magic. Taking it over.

TFC falls to his knees, gripping his head. Black veins crawl up his skin, from the hand still holding the crystal. Unable to let it go. Like worms crawling through his bloodstream, infecting his body, sapping his strength. His skin turns pale, almost an ashen grey tone. The corrupted magic circle fades away, black mist replacing where magic hung desperate in the air, trying to stay activated. The mist retreats back to the crystal.

The hermits rush to TFC’s side. Grian’s hands are already glowing, trying to find a way to heal TFC from the pain, but none of it is external, or even wounded. He’s sick, not hurt. He’s in pain, not broken. Xisuma holds the guildmaster up, ignoring the painful glare of sun in his delicate eyes to focus on TFC. “The crystal! He must’ve activated it’s magic! It’s draining him like it did Gildara!”

“We have to get it out of his hand.” Iskall tries to pry the gloves open, but the older hermit won’t let go. It’s a vice grip, and when Iskall pulls his own fingers away, black mist trails behind. Trying to attach to even more power, the power surrounding it in two dozen different faces.

Wels draws up his magic circle. “Stress! You’re the strongest of us! Get it out of his hand!”

The azure circle is released, wrapping around the ice sorceress. Imbuing her with a strength buff. Iskall steps back, knowing not to get in her way. She digs her fingers between TFC’s. “Sorry, luv, but this really isn’t good fer yer health.”

Stress’s fingers pull apart the guildmaster’s, prying free his metal gloved hand and wincing through the mist that catches on her. Crawling on her like a cobweb, searching for magic to steal. She finally gets all the fingers to release, grinding her teeth as the crystal is exposed.

Jevin reaches out, encapsulating the dark gem in a mold of blue slime, hardening it into a thick casing. TFC collapses into the hermit’s warm embrace as soon as the crystal is punted away. “That thing needs to be destroyed now!”

“But what about TFC? We need to get him to the infirmary.” Grian needs to take care of him, or at least try to help. He’s the healer- he needs to heal their resident grandpa and guildmaster. Stress, still imbued with the strength buff, picks up the larger man bridal style, aided by Ren and Scar in giving her a gentle slope to the bottom of the hill. The hermits race off, leaving behind only a few to deal with the crystal.

Namely, Mumbo and Impulse. The two both watch the guild run to the infirmary room, but they know they will only add more bodies to the chaos. Impulse’s magic won’t do anything to help with that- but he is a master of destruction. And Mumbo, he knows he can’t help, and the last thing he needs to do is cause more issues.

The two look at each other. “Guess we’ve set ourselves up to deal with the crystal.”

#light of lairyon #lol #hermitcraft #hermitblr #hermitcraft fic #hermitcraft au #wizard hermits #wizard tfc #wizard wels #wizard xisuma #wizard grian #wizard jevin #wizard au #tinfoilchef #welsknight #xisuma #grianmc #ijevin

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mandala-lore · 3 years

Text

Ashitaka/San from Princess Mononoke for @snowflavored :3

A bit longer than I meant it to be but it took me a while to get in the groove with these characters. I wanted them to have a completely different conversation but they're not big talkers lol

Their spring time picnics have become his favorite ritual. Without his people and their own annual celebrations, it was hard at first for the exiled prince to find joy in marking specific dates and seasons. But each spring, on the first truly glorious day, villagers would report to Lady Eboshi that the strange, foreign man they've all come to love and look to for wisdom had disappeared into the mountains with Yakkul. Ashitaka can't always predict when San will call out to him, but as soon as the last of winter's snows vanish and the earliest spring blooms fill the hills with color, as soon as the sun feels hot on the back of his neck again, it's only a matter of guessing the hour. She doesn't sing like a maiden in love or howl like a wolf at the hunt - but Ashitaka hears her all the same. And so the end of winter has become his favorite time of year.

This time he's packed a feast for gods, with a hidden bottle he wants to savor only with her. He had to make many of the foods fresh each morning for a week in anticipation of San's appearance, or else risk delaying their meeting or arriving empty-handed. Ashitaka had never been a great chef but he thinks he's perfected some of these dishes over the last few days, if not through the years. His closest friends in Iron Town didn't mind his obsession this spring, since they often got to dive into the wasted meals. Ashitaka leaves mid-morning, finally, when he knows in the way he always knows that San is close by. It's a physical knowledge, but spiritual too.

He's grateful to whatever gods remain that he can chase the feeling of her presence in a time of peace with bees buzzing lazy and heavy in the warm spring wind. He feels a little like a wolf himself, though he knows better than to tell her that. "San?" He knows she's close enough to hear him but for some reason, she's hiding. This worries him and, not for the first time, he wonders what new danger threatens their delicate equilibrium. The cool shadows of the ancient forest make his spine quiver for a moment and the old curse tingles in his palm.

"San? Is anything wrong?"

Then she steps out and raises herself to her full height, spear clutched against her hip, mask pulled up to reveal her painted face. "Hello, Ashitaka," she greets him as she always does and he releases his tense shoulders.

"Why does she not run to him?" the smaller wolf asks the larger one. "When I have a mate, I will be too excited not to run!"

"San is shy," answers the elder wolf. "And maybe the prince does not like to be rushed, even by his mate. Humans are very odd."

They stretch legs one after the other, then bound away like glimmers of light into the heart of the forest. San is safe now with Ashitaka and the elder wolf has pups to look after.

San has learned a great lesson in patience watching Ashitaka prepare a meal. His movements are graceful and his hands, though strong, are careful and precise. He always thanks the gods and tidies up his cooking spot before dishing out the delights he's brought to share. This is San's favorite ritual. Despite her hunger, she's content to watch and wait for his signal. Every year, their lunch has grown more elaborate and San can hear her brothers chiding her already: "How many chickens must he bring you before you will mate?" "Why do humans wait entire seasons in between meetings?" "We will grow three tails and become blind with age before you two have a litter!"

San is tired of arguing and has her replies ready, like every year: "The food he brings is not courtship. It's friendly." "We don't always wait that long to visit each other, but he's busy!" "You have your own pups and leave me out of it."

Humans are funny, though. She can even admit now that some of them are gracious. Most don't have Ashitaka's noble heart and wise mind, but many, she's learned, are generous and silly and patient - traits the wolves taught her to love. Still, she cannot forgive them when so many make decisions out of fear or hatred or greed, that the whole lot of them smell like treachery. Except Ashitaka; he smells like all the good things of the forest, clean and warm and still, plus he has animal smell, from Yakkul and from himself. San knows Ashitaka's scent better than any other because it thrills her more than the smell of fresh meat or a clean river.

It was holding her eldest brother's new pups which made her realize how much she wanted the prince from far away to stay longer than a day and sleep near her longer than one night's need for healing. Her nieces and nephews loved their odd aunt on two legs but they were not her own. Someday, San feared, there would be wolves in this mountain who did not know her or love her... Perhaps she would be dead by then.

"San?" Ashitaka's voice is worried again, when he notices she hasn't touched a morsel. That's very unlike her. He's watched an entire bowl of stew vanish into her gullet in a matter of seconds, before she asked for more. "What's on your mind?"

He wonders if she also feels this closeness, as if they're connected by a thread of spider silk, or this warmth that gathers below his stomach and spreads up to his face, or the need he often feels, like the urge to run down a steep hillside or the pleasure of skipping a stone over the smooth surface of a lake, to stop whatever he's doing and find her. Does she feel these things too? Do they trouble her? Is she afraid? Angry?

"Ashitaka," she mumbles and quizzically tilts her head. "Is Iron Town rebuilt?"

"Hm? Well, yes, I'd say so. We've built it stronger and -" he pauses, apprehensive, "They've honored their word, haven't they, not to violate the forest?"

San simply nods. "Then, you're finished working there? You said you wanted to help the humans rebuild the town. You've done so, yes?"

"Yes..."

"Good." This appears to satisfy her and she turns to the food with renewed interest. San loves to hunt but even she can't deny the pleasure of human cooking. They have spices and broths and techniques she can only dream of, and Ashitaka must be a master of the craft.

For his part, he lets San believe the meager picnics he brings her are the height of human achievement...for now. Someday, he'd like to take her to a festival and show her the best foods, and the music and the artisans. It surprises him (and scares him a little) how easily he can imagine her strolling through a town like she belongs there.

She walks with the confidence of a general and the grace and dignity of a wolf; no one would mistake her for a princess, but strangers might call her a goddess. His goddess is licking the inside of her bowl. He laughs without meaning to. "Here, there's more."

This is how they spend their favorite day of each new year, though it can't be marked on a calendar. They live by the sense of each other and tell the passage of time by the phases of the moon and the changing seasons.

San stretches after a good meal like that and wiggles into the grass. Ashitaka lays down beside her and they sleep in the sun. After the hottest part of the day, San wakes and rolls closer to Ashitaka, breathing his scent in deeply. He will wake soon and politely take his leave. She will be curt but polite, always a little stung that he prefers to sleep behind a wall with hundreds of other humans in a city resembling a rat pit, than with her in a warm, quiet cave or out in the open under the stars. He will leave, as he always leaves, unless she can stop him.

Ashitaka sleeps longer than he means to and Yakkul finally nudges him awake. The man groans to taste elk-breath where he would prefer someone else's kiss to rouse him. He playfully swats the elk away, "Alright, I'm up."

"If you leave now, you will miss the sunset." San has packed all his things and tidied up their picnic spot. She's never done that before. "Come follow me and you'll see." She's never invited him to stay longer than the day either.

Suddenly, Ashitaka feels tongue-tied and clumsy. He chases after her a little too eagerly and San smirks. Yakul blinks, huffs a sigh, and climbs uphill after them carrying their goods.

Neither has much to say about the sunset. It's an explosion of pinks and purples and reds that promises an equally beautiful day come sunrise. Lovely. They're both too busy focused on not upsetting the other.

If San reaches out to lick and bite his ear, will Ashitaka know what it means? If he holds her hand any tighter, she might take it for a threat so he forces himself to relax... If he tries to kiss her, will she kill him? They're both paralyzed.

Something shiny at her neck catches his attention and Ashitaka silently prays in thanks for the relief that he found something to talk about. "You still have the crystal dagger I gave you..."

"Yes," she touches it, "it's beautiful and very strong."

Some bravery he doesn't feel guides his fingers toward it... Their fingertips brush together and Ashitaka's wind their way behind her neck. "More beautiful and strong because of who wears it."

Neither is sure who kissed who but Yakkul looks away and they don't make it all the way to her cave. Later, naked and tired and, yes, somehow hungry, San stretches and curls into her mate's side. "I'm glad you didn't leave again." It sounds like a silly thing to say, but she felt it deserved saying.

"Me too."

They sleep beneath the stars, unafraid and ready for the delights of spring.

#it aint much but its honest work #mine

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littleredwritinghoodxx · 4 years

Text

Views from the Loft

Original Publication Date: August 19th, 2019

Rating: T

Genre: Romance/Humor

Summary: Zelda, in that second, realized she wanted to remember that moment forever. A thought occurred to her, and she quickly took out the Sheikah Slate and snapped a photo from the loft. Link still didn't remember much from before the Great Calamity, but perhaps they could create new memories: memories of him, her, and their little Hateno home. A look into a year with Link and Zelda.

Word Count: 5,333

Summer

The grass was soft under her fingertips, the small flowerbed alive with insects and fauna. The sun was high above her in the sky, beating down on that little Hateno Village in East Necluda. Zelda relished in the way the sun felt upon her skin, how the breeze swayed in the afternoon, its tendrils tickling her face. It had been months since she and Link had defeated Calamity Ganon on that fateful day in the Hyrule Fields, and since then, Zelda took no small thing for granted.

She supposed she hadn’t known what to expect following one hundred years of constant battle against the Calamity. She had plenty of time to mull it over, plenty of time to imagine and dream of what she would do once the battle was over. Yet, she never did expect that Link would practically throw her onto Epona's back and whisk her away to one of the far corners of Hyrule, to a small little quiet village, with no agenda, and no expectations.

Zelda adored it.

She had no obligations, no commitments, no duty. She could argue that after one hundred years of sealing Calamity Ganon in the sanctum of Hyrule Castle that she was well due for a break: and so break she did. She found herself falling into a lazy sort of schedule: she would wake late by mid-morning to the smells of Link cooking breakfast in his – their – kitchen, and would quietly observe him from over the railing until he noticed her. He always got this big, goofy grin on his face every time he saw her for the first time in the morning. It was a look she wanted to permanently etch into her memory. After breakfast, she would change into a smock, and would go to the market for groceries, or make a trip up the hill to see Purah, or lay in the yard doing absolutely nothing, and she found the peacefulness and the slowness from Hateno Village to be absolutely delectable.

Some days, on days much like today, Link would join her in the yard, either tilling in the garden, fishing in the pond, or with her, rolling around with her in the grass like two idiots in love: for that they were. Despite their relationship prior to the Great Calamity, things between them came naturally – easily. It had started as a practicality: Link had not connected the dots that by bringing Zelda to his Hateno home, he would need to contract Bolson to bust out the wall under the loft to construct a second bedroom with furnishings. When he had admitted this to Zelda, he looked almost sheepish, claiming that with everything going on and storming Hyrule Castle, he just forgot. Of course, this was completely understandable to Zelda. She had always been a practical woman, and seeing as his bed was large enough for two, she merely suggested that they share his bed from the loft.

You should have seen how red the tips of his ears got at that.

But he agreed – and as the proper gentleman he was, he made sure to give her plenty of space in the bed, making sure not to touch her, as he slept on the very edge of the bed.

As you can imagine, that didn't last long.

The next morning had found him migrated towards the center of the bed, with a warm and very real Zelda tucked under his chin, her hands fisted in his tunic, their legs tangled together. His arms were wrapped around her, feeling her gentle inhalations in the dewy Hateno morning.

It was heavenly.

So began a nightly ritual between the two where, try as they might, they were both doomed to migrate towards each other in the night. After one hundred years separated from each other, it was surprising that they could even resist at all.

So then it should come as no surprise to you all to hear of the day Link, Farore's Champion, somehow mustered up his courage and kissed her.

They were walking back down the hill from the Hateno Ancient Tech Lab; Zelda made frequent visits up the hill to visit Purah and to let her tinker with the Sheikah Slate, and from time to time, Link would make that trip with her. This was one of those trips, and it was a trip that ended up bearing fruitful results: Purah had made a breakthrough with the runes, and she had learned of a way to upgrade the camera rune to include moving pictures, with sound qualities as well. She was still programming the Guidance Stone with the right information, so she gave the two of them explicit instructions to come back next week with the slate to download the camera rune update, which found them shoved outside the Hateno Ancient Tech Lab with a slammed door in their face, both trying hard to keep their cackling down lest Purah hear them.

A heavenly glow was cast upon Hyrule in the evening dusk, casting shades of magenta and orange and cerulean blues. Much of Hateno and Necluda was hidden in the shadow of the Dueling Peaks and Mount Lanayru, and thus most of Hyrule was hidden from view. It was their own little slice of heaven, a world without the constant reminders of their loss and struggles. Despite this, as she looked across Hyrule – her Hyrule – a blossom of pride and joy bubbled up from within her: this was what she was fighting for. This land of hers, glowing softly in the sunset, finally at rest, was what made one hundred years of fighting worth it.

That, and having the man next to her made it worth it, as well.

She had paused under an apple tree, gazing over the land, and only realized just then at some point in their trek down the hill, Link's hand had ended up placed in hers, their fingers intertwined: a perfect fit.

She sighed, gazing over the land, rubbing her thumb across Link's hand, "Beautiful, don't you think?"

"I do."

But Link wasn't looking out over Hyrule. He was looking at her, his eyes intense, yet soft, never wavering. Zelda looked towards him, realizing this. Gently, he cupped her face with his free hand, moving closer, his hand holding hers coming across the small of her back. She wasn't breathing, her lips slightly parted, as she looked into his eyes with the same sort of intensity, waiting for the next moment.

"Zelda," he breathed, "What would you say if I told you, right now, that I love you?"

He could be so oblivious sometimes.

"I would say that I love you, too," she nodded fiercely, fisting his tunic in her hands. He leaned down and pressed his lips firmly to hers, melting into her.

They shared that first kiss in the perfect sunset glow overlooking Hateno Village, hands soft and learning, tender and sensitive. They shared their second kiss with Zelda pressed up against the outside of their front door, Link fumbling with his key as Zelda's hands were frantic, stroking over every plane and crevice of his arms, his torso, his back. They shared their third kiss tangled in the sheets of their bed atop the loft, clothes being tossed and strong arms pining her down, their kisses messy and passionate, just the two of them in the moonlight.

That was a few weeks back, nearing the end of that spring and transitioning into summer. Zelda sighed, amidst the flowers and the wildlife, placing a hand on her lower stomach. She was in love with Link, and him to her. She couldn't think of a more blissful way to live her life. And thus their routine continued: Zelda found herself the next morning right where she always was, quietly observing Link from the loft, waiting until he noticed she was awake. He stood with his bare back to her, quietly cooking breakfast in the kitchen below, the smells making their way up to the loft and filling Zelda with a sense of home.

Zelda, in that second, realized she wanted to remember that moment forever. A thought occurred to her, and she quickly grabbed the Sheikah Slate from the desk nearby and snapped a photo from the loft. It was a simple picture, just their quaint little kitchen with Link standing over the stove, the profile of his face showing slightly, a small content smile adorning his features. Upon hearing the snap of the Sheikah Slate, Link perked up, turning around and facing her, with that goofy grin he always had on his face every morning when he saw her.

She snapped a photo of that too.

Link still didn't remember much from before the Great Calamity, not that it mattered much anymore, but perhaps they could create new memories; memories of him, her, and their little Hateno home.

Autumn

Link had, indeed, ended up contracting Bolson earlier that summer to bust out the wall beneath the loft to make a room for Zelda. Bolson had just finished construction on the room itself as the hot summer winds transitioned into the cool winds of autumn, the leaves around their Hateno home turning a vibrant mix of orange, red, and yellow. Although it was clear that Zelda would not have need of the room – she was quite content to share the loft with Link – it came not a moment too soon.

One autumn morning found the two of them tangled in each others arms, their kisses lazy – skin hot against each other in the cool Hateno morning – with Link gently caressing the small, but telling, swell of Zelda's stomach.

The new room downstairs would be made into a nursery for the little one on the way. Link had suggested that he gather some wood to build a crib for the baby. However, Zelda protested, asking if he had ever built anything in his life. Link said yes, and Zelda suggested he go to Bolson to construct them a new crib. Link then asked her if she thought he would do a poor job at building one.

Link was good at everything he did; of course she knew he would make a fine crib.

So the two of them compromised and Link left the home to go to Bolson to contract him on building a crib.

And thus began a new pattern of 'compromises', and more time for Zelda to have Link all to herself.

The days were getting colder and shorter, and Zelda was enjoying her afternoons spent under a tree, either reading a book, or cataloguing different species of plants, or testing the new 'video' rune on the Sheikah Slate that Purah had upgraded.

It was unlike anything she had ever seen. It was already incredible that the Sheikah Slate could create real to life still images that were more accurate than Hyrule's finest painter, but now, she could record moving pictures complete with sound. It was almost like she was really there, reliving that memory.

Her first video that she recorded with the Sheikah Slate was up at the Hateno Ancient Tech Lab, just moments after Purah had handed her the slate and asked her to test it out.

She had pressed a little red button on the screen of the slate, and then it flashed in red letters 'recording' on the screen of the slate.

What do I do now? She had asked, moving the slate around. The camera on the slate moved side-to-side, capturing views of the upper walls of the tech lab.

Point it towards Link, Purah said, off screen, Have him say something into the camera.

The camera moved towards Link, capturing him in its lens. Even from the camera, it was clear that Link's cheeks were red, and he was almost embarrassed.

Link, say something! She heard her own voice say off camera.

Well, I don't know what you want me to say, Link said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Say anything! Anything that comes to mind! She heard Purah's voice say off camera.

Link stared into the camera lens for a moment, a contemplative look in his eyes, before in a flash, he reached out, and the camera shook.

Hey, what are –! The camera stilled and it was facing Zelda, an appalled look on her face. Though the smock she was wearing did well to hide it, if you were looking for it, you could see the small baby bump rising from her dress. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. She was glowing.

I want to have it documented, recorded, transcribed, whatever it is that this does, Link's voice was off behind the camera now, though you could hear the smile in his voice, that this woman right here is the most beautiful, most stunning, most radiant, and the strongest person I know… and she's mine.

You are such the romantic, Zelda admonished, a smile on her face, as she reached forward to grab the slate back from him. The camera angle turned, and was now face down, showing an aerial shot.

Link was laughing. Hey, give that back! Zelda was jumping beneath the camera, trying to grab it from Link's outstretched hand.

Not unless you kiss me first, Link said, grabbing her around the waist with his other hand. Zelda's cheeks and ears went bright red.

Link, turn off the camera, that would be indecent, Zelda said, squirming.

You know what would be indecent? Link said, his voice dark and rough, a naughty look in his eyes, as he leaned down and whispered something into Zelda's ear. You wouldn't be able to hear in the video what he said, but she squeaked, turning the rest of the way red as she squirmed out of his grasp and grabbed the slate from his hand. The camera shook, the sounds of Link laughing maniacally in the background before the camera stilled completely, the end of the recording.

She found herself replaying that video over and over again; not for the things he whispered in her ear, she was still blushing over that, but for all of the things he said about her. He said she was beautiful, stunning, radiant… and the strongest person he knew.

And he called her 'mine'. It evoked a very possessive side of him, and she had come to realize that she didn't mind that so much.

Because she was just as possessive of him as he was of her. She found herself craving his touch, and wanting to be near him always; and he found, too, that he didn't mind that so much. They found themselves less just Zelda and less just Link: they were a pair, a couple, a team.

And that team had to somehow work together to make a cake for Link's birthday.

It was a cool autumn day, and though it was too cold to comfortably be outside, it wasn't yet cold enough to start a fire in the fireplace. Which meant Link and Zelda wore layers upon layers inside the little Hateno home. Link would have gone about his day as normal, had it not been for Zelda grinning like an idiot at him since they woke up.

"Zelda, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Well, because today is a very special day!"

"…why is today a special day?"

"It's the Autumnal Equinox, Link!"

"…Okay…?"

"And you know what that means, right?"

"We're halfway to winter?"

"Link, today is your birthday!"

Though Link couldn't remember when his birthday was, Zelda remembered.

Though Link couldn't remember how old he was turning, Zelda remembered.

So naturally, she was going to light the cake ablaze with one hundred and twenty candles.

She had asked Link what kind of cake he would want, knowing that one hundred years ago, his favorite cake was a vanilla cake. It came as a surprise to her, then, that he responded with a chocolate cake. A little part within her was hoping that he would respond with wanting a fruitcake, which was her favorite kind. It had been over one hundred years since she had last had the dessert, and she would have committed atrocities to have that sweet dessert grace her palate again.

So she went out to the market to gather the ingredients for the cake, only to walk in and stop frozen in her tracks.

She hadn't the faintest idea on how to bake a cake.

Thus, you can see how Link got dragged into baking his own birthday cake.

He went back down with her to the market, explaining all of the things she would need to bake a cake: Tabantha flour, milk, eggs, sugar, goat butter, and chocolate.

Zelda at least got the chocolate part right.

They headed back up the hill towards their little house, and laid out all of the ingredients onto the table. Link explained that first, they had to measure out the flour into a bowl and then mix the eggs and milk into it. She went ahead opening the flour while Link put the chocolate into a pot, placing it over the fireplace to melt.

She poured the flour into the bowl, a little too quickly at that, and as it landed, a cloud of flour puffed out from the bowl, coating her face in a thin white layer. She coughed, a small white puff emerging from her lips. She squinted her eyes, the flour coating her eyelashes.

"So once you get the flour into the bowl…" Link turned around from the fireplace, facing Zelda and noticing her face.

In his defense, he at least tried to hold himself together.

That lasted about two seconds until he was doubled over, laughing.

"Zelda," he managed between laughs, "How in Hylia's name did you manage to get flour everywhere?

In response, Zelda flicked a chunk of flour in his direction, landing on his neck and tunic.

"Like that," she responded.

Thus began the first of many 'food fights' in their little Hateno home, and soon, their little kitchen was covered in a fine dusty layer of flour, and it would be months before either one of them could truly admit that their kitchen was clean. There was flour on the floor, on the table, the counters, in their hair, their clothes, their faces.

And the two were laughing like idiots in love, holding each other up as they both doubled over on themselves.

Zelda stood up, wiping a tear from her eye, "Hold on, I want to take a picture of the mess you made."

"The mess I made?" Link started, dusting himself off, "You're the one that couldn't get the flour into the bowl."

Zelda was laughing as she was running up the stairs, two at a time, leaving dusty footprints in her wake. She grabbed the Sheikah Slate from off the desk and leaned over the railing with it, opening the camera, "Smile, Link!"

In response, Link placed his hands on his hips, staring at the camera, an exasperated, but amused look on his face. She snapped the photo of that, smiling softly as the picture generated in front of her.

She placed the Sheikah Slate down, and headed back down the stairs. Link was dusting himself off, and had a peculiar expression on his face, "Okay, what next?" Zelda asked, turning back towards the bowl of flour. Or perhaps what had once been flour: hardly any remained.

"Well," Link smirked, "We will need to get more flour, all of what we had is currently on the floor and in our hair. Speaking of which…" He leaned in close, a dark look now in his eyes, "We should probably get cleaned up."

Zelda met his gaze, and her cheeks flushed, "Well, what did you have in mind?"

He grinned, leaning close to her ear, "If I told you, you would think it was positively indecent."

Zelda squeaked as Link scooped her up in his arms, laughing as he carried her out into the cool Hateno air, his long strides taking them towards the bathroom around the corner of the house, practically tossing her in and joining her, closing it shut with a firm click.

Winter

Zelda never remembered winter being this cold. She sat, bundled as she may be in layers and blankets, next to their roaring fire in a rocking chair, shivering, as Link stoked the fire, willing the room to warm up. She had a cup of hot chocolate on the side table next to her, steaming and cooling down. They were lucky that they had gone to get firewood when they did, or they would have been stuck inside during the blizzard with no firewood, no heat, and scarcely any light.

A blizzard stormed outside their little Hateno home, the winds whistling and deafening against the windows and the walls. It felt like it had been storming for days, and Zelda briefly wondered just how much longer the storm could hold up for.

A few weeks prior had found the two of them in the bitter cold, one week until the winter solstice. The temperature was dreadful, biting to any exposed skin, and somehow between the two of them, they had failed to realize that they were out of firewood.

With that, Link had donned his Snowquill tunic, a woodcutter's axe strapped to his back, and was about to head out when:

"I'm coming with you."

Link did a double take, as Zelda was just finishing lacing her snow boots, a red ruby circlet tied around her head, and winter coat strapped around her growing belly.

"What? Zelda, no," Link protested, "You can't come with, not in your condition."

"Link, I'm pregnant, not dying of the influenza," Zelda rolled her eyes, "Besides, I can help you carry back firewood. We'll be able to bring back double what we could if you just went alone."

"Zelda, it's below freezing outside. I don't want for you to get sick."

"That's why I'm wearing this," Zelda pointed to her circlet, "and why I'm wearing a jacket and boots. Besides," she crossed over to the door, opening it, and a strong gust of wind burst into the Hateno home, "you know as well as I do that it's dangerous to go alone."

Zelda led the way outside, with Link following behind, grumbling under his breath. As she stepped outside, she very nearly regretted her decision, the bitter air penetrating through her layers, making it seem like the circlet was doing nothing.

She stepped behind and allowed Link to lead, following him across the bridge and into the center of town. The wind here was ruthless, billowing in from between buildings, coming from the north at Mount Lanayru. The wind took a slight turn, and suddenly, she saw little white flecks dancing across the air in front of her, landing on the ground and in her eyelashes.

It was the first snow of the season, and her first snow in one hundred years.

Zelda smiled.

They took a left and made their way down the hill towards the Ginner Woods, both of them visibly holding their hoods closer to their face. Looking back, Hateno Village glowed softly in the snowfall, its little houses on the hill glowing with small fires burning in each fireplace. A steady stream of smoke billowed from each chimney in soft, frothy waves.

You have to really see it to understand the splendor that is Hateno Village at dusk in the wintertime.

They reached the woods and Link took the axe from off his back, and without any preamble, he swung it at the nearest tree, powerful muscles moving as he downed the tree in one swing.

How he managed to do that was beyond Zelda's comprehension. She was constantly in awe of this man.

Very quickly, Link had created a substantial pile of firewood near the road. Clearly, he was creating a stockpile to last for all, if not most, of winter. There was something about the way that the air nipped at Zelda's red nose and cheeks that told her that this winter was going to be one of the coldest in the books.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Link sheathed the axe back onto his back, and bent down to grab a small pile of wood. Gingerly, he transferred that pile of wood back to Zelda, and he took the rest off the ground into his arms.

The snow was beginning to come down harder as they made their trek back up the hill into Hateno Village. The skies were dark, a promise of a heavy snowfall. Zelda noticed off handedly that the little houses glowing on the hill were harder to see in the snowfall, seemingly dimmer and softer.

It made Hateno Village all the more beautiful.

They made their way to the little bridge in front of their home, and Zelda got excited for warmth as she saw their house glowing from across the way. She couldn't wait to get inside to warm up, as she wiped at her nose running from the cold.

They took the wood and placed it under a small shed on the left hand side of the house, Link setting his down first and then grabbing Zelda's load from her, before setting that down as well. From there, it didn't seem that they could get inside the house fast enough. The snow was falling at an alarming rate, and there was already a pile of it formed at the front door. The two of them barreled inside, Link shutting the door behind them, the sounds from outside dulling at that.

Zelda practically threw her jacket and hood off, now wet from the melted snow, and chucked it into the storage room. She heard Link laugh softly at that, as she nearly ran to the fireplace, sitting directly in front of it, warming her red fingertips.

"I told you, you shouldn't have come with," Link laughed, grabbing her jacket and hood from the storage room and climbing up the stairs to the loft. He hung the wet garments from the railing upstairs.

"Aren't you freezing?" Zelda chose to reply, jaw clenched as she willed her shivering away.

"You forget," Link said, coming next to her now, placing a blanket over her shoulders, "that my Snowquill tunic comes from Rito Village, where their clothing can withstand temperatures that rival the Hebra Mountains. Your coat and snow boots from Sophie's down the street ain't got nothing on it."

"Well then, the two of us will just have to make a trip to Rito Village before next winter, won't we?"

"Not quite," Link said, a soft smile on his face, "This time next year, the two of us will be the three of us," he said, placing a hand gently on her stomach.

Zelda placed her hand over his, and slowly, Link leaned in, pressing his lips to hers.

She sat in the rocking chair, thinking back on that memory, one hand absentmindedly going to her belly where Link had placed his, the other to her lips. He stood up in front of her, the fire now roaring in the fireplace, and sat across from her, smiling at her.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked, a contemplative look on his face.

"You."

"Me too."

He grabbed his book from off the side table and donned his reading glasses; something about seeing him in glasses stirred something deep inside her. She smiled, curling up further in her blankets and reached out, grabbing her hot chocolate. Everything about this winter evening was perfect. It was pure bliss.

She set down her hot chocolate and grabbed her Sheikah Slate from the side table, opening up the camera rune and snapping a picture of Link sitting in his chair by the fire, his glasses slipping down his nose as he read his book, his brow slightly furrowed.

He looked up a quizzical look in his eyes, "Must you always take pictures of me when I'm not looking."

"Not always," Zelda said, and snapped again.

Spring

There was nothing more perfect, Zelda realized, than seeing Link holding their beautiful baby girl.

She was born on the first day that spring that the snow had completely melted, small flowers beginning to bud and animals coming out of hibernation. It seemed fitting that she was born in the spring. It was the beginning of a new generation, a generation that would never be born into a world where Calamity Ganon held its malicious reign.

Link sat at the little stool next to their bed, Zelda being propped up by pillows as he held his little girl. Time seemed to stand still for them.

It was crazy to think that this time last year, Link was still freeing the Divine Beasts, and she was still locked in her one hundred year battle with Calamity Ganon. So much had happened in a year. Their lives were so different now. All of Hyrule was at peace, seeing an era of wealth and prosperity that only the oldest generation remembered from prior to the events of the Calamity. And Link…

Zelda had never seen Link so gentle before.

The way he held their baby girl was seemingly not with the same hands that wielded the Master Sword, not with the same strength that destroyed enemies, not with the same command that she had seen enemies quiver under his gaze. He held her as though she were a delicate flower, with a tender adoration in his eyes that could only be described as unconditional love.

Zelda realized she loved him even more than she had before.

"She has your eyes," Link murmured softly, looking up at her with an almost boyish glee, "She's beautiful," He breathed, bringing his gaze back towards their daughter.

Nothing in her one hundred and seventeen years of life could have prepared her for this day. Nothing could have prepared her for how perfect this moment was. Her life was absolutely brimming with joy, she and Link finally getting the peace they deserved. All was right in her little land of Hyrule.

She looked down at her baby girl, the soft coos coming from her lips bringing bubbles up from Zelda's stomach. Her breath hitched; they did it, and in that moment, Zelda finally felt like she had won.

She didn't realize she had been crying until a rough hand cupped her face, a calloused thumb wiping the tears away. She looked up at Link and saw that he was crying too. Gently, he captured her lips with his, a chaste, tender kiss on a beautiful spring day.

She knew she would never forget this day, but found herself opening the Sheikah Slate to the camera rune, setting it to self-portrait mode. It was their first family portrait, and though both their faces were covered in tear streaks, the two had never looked happier.

She snapped a photo of them, and reflecting back was a beautiful portrait of Link, Zelda, and their beautiful daughter from the loft in their little Hateno home.

Zelda took their daughter back in her arms, smiling as their baby girl's face scrunched into a tiny yawn, her big green eyes gazing back up at her mother.

Not much could make this moment better.

Not much, except one thing.

"Zelda," Link breathed, a small sparkle in his eye. He almost looked nervous, but his eyes were bright. He licked his lips.

"Yes?" Zelda asked, turning her head towards him, only to have the breath taken from her lungs as she saw Link on one knee beside the bed, a small sapphire and diamond ring in his hand. He gently placed it over her left ring finger, shining softly in the cool Hateno sunlight.

"Marry me."

And as you can see, that moment did get better for our princess and our hero.

fin

#zelink #loz fanfic #legend of zelda #breath of the wild fanfiction #breath of the wild

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