#oh no I am a fleeting soul flickering in and out of existence but I love you so dearly you make me feel like I’m alive

[jemkha]

Tfw you are a small, ephemeral being who finds a purpose in living through your deep love for someone you wish to protect, but you are forced to watch your beloved get tormented and die violently via stabbing because you are a weak, useless creature that cannot protect anything…

Or is this too specific of a trope???

[And then later u get a human form and you meet back up with your beloved (who didn’t actually “die”), but they don’t recognize you at all until near the end of the story.]

#oh no I am a fleeting soul flickering in and out of existence but I love you so dearly you make me feel like I’m alive #so I tether myself to this world so I can always be by ur side #hua cheng #xie lian #alice baskerville #oz vessalius #b rabbit #b-rabbit #oz b rabbit #alice pandora hearts #hualian #ozlice #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven official’s blessing #heaven officials blessing #heaven official's blessing #pandora hearts #ph #jun mochizuki #mxtx tgcf #fanart #my art

[kubrick-kafkaboy]

dni

oh it seems aphorisms have dried up, like a witless epigram scrawled on a dusty tavern wall. The world, once a canvas upon which I painted bon mots and paradoxes, now resembles a faded mural, its colours bled by the relentless rain of disappointment

this world, once a stage upon which I pirouetted with wit as sharp as a bon mot, now feels like a never-ending, terribly dull farce. The mask of merriment I once wore, that glittering facade of flippancy, hangs heavy on my weary face. I am tired, terribly tired, of the endless performance.

Oh, for a quiet corner, a velvet-lined oubliette where I could simply… rest. Rest from the relentless pursuit of pleasure, from the hollowness that echoes within me despite all the champagne and witticisms. There's a darkness in my heart now, an inky stain where vibrant dreams once bloomed. they lie withered, choked by my own incompetence, my inability to grasp the fleeting butterfly of true happiness.

perhaps today is the fall, that terrible tumble from grace. Or perhaps it was the slow erosion of spirit, a sculptor with a chisel of cynicism, chipping away at the statue of who I once thought I was. Whatever the cause, I find myself a hollowed-out shell, a grotesque echo of the man who once reveled in the absurdity of existence.

love’s possessive yet intoxicating flutter, the righteous fire of wrath, the thrill of forbidden sin – all these, the very essence of living, seem like faded tapestries, their colours muted by a crushing ennui.

if you wish to remember me, please do, not as a villain of your own making, but perhaps as a beautiful nightmare, a waking dream that both terrified and enthralled. let me be a cautionary tale, or a fleeting escape, whichever serves you best. this final curtain falls not with a quipy nocturne but with a choked sob of shyam, the death rattle of a spirit that has forgotten how to breathe

perhaps a final, fleeting taste. One last drag on a cigarette, savouring the acrid tang as it fills my lungs – a fitting metaphor for the bitterness that has seeped into my soul.

oh how grand all of it felt, has been nothing exhausting game of life… i am weary of playing. oh my bones ache, not from the revelry, but from the hollowness within.

today, the will to continue this tiresome charade simply flickers out. It is with a heavy heart, devoid of even the spark of cynicism, that I bid adieu

[redrobin-detective]

give lilies with full hands

“Ghosts at the cemetery, why am I not surprised?” Valerie grumbled under her breath as she glanced at the glowing dots congregating near Heavenly Gates, Amity’s largest cemetery. It was just after 5pm on a Friday; Valerie should be at home getting ready for a fun and relaxing weekend. Instead, she was speeding forward in the dreary pre-rain mist about to tackle a hoard of the undead. Her life was so strange and unfair sometimes it just fueled her hatred for everything ghostly.

As she approached the cemetery, she slowed down and had her ectoweapon up and ready to shoot. Instead of a fire fight, she found an eerie, unsettling quiet that sunk deep into her bones and made her unable to move. She just hovered above the cemetery and took in the full scope of the scene. The Fentons were here, hard as they were to miss but like Valerie, they were also frozen with unease. Mrs. Fenton kept fiddling with her weapons but couldn’t manage to lift it in a meaningful way. 

The fog hung heavily around the cemetery, clinging like wet paint dripping down an unfinished picture. She could make out the unnatural glow of several ghosts, a few of which she recognized. That annoying child pirate ghost none of the adults could ever see was sobbing silently, curled up in a fetal position on the ground as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. The biker guy and girl were cuddled into each other, leaned up against a grave looked scared and worn, flickering dangerously like static on TV. Val spotted Ember looking frightened and quaking looking like she wanted to run but was unable to. Her soft glow alerted Val that there was another ghost she’d initially missed.

The ghost was more shadow than anything, the fog moving through and from them. They were a swirl of greys and blacks in the approximation of a long cloak covering their face entirely. Pinpricks of bright lights shone from underneath the cloak’s hood. They bore down on Ember as if it were seeing deep into her soul and found her lacking. 

Phantom was there too, he looked almost normal compared to everything else going on so it’s not surprising she’d missed him at first. The fog dampened some of his ghostly glow and he was standing properly instead of floating. Like Val and the Fentons, he seemed unable to move. The heavy drizzle in the air flattened his normally gravity defying hair. If she hadn’t known better, she’d say he was a normal person standing there, albeit one with weird fashion sense who went a little crazy with the bleach. And if Phantom looked human in comparison then just what was this new ghost?

“Amber Jablonski,” The ghost whispered quietly within the cemetery but Valerie could hear perfectly well, as if were being spoken into her ear. From the shivers she saw come from the Fentons, they were experiencing the same thing. Ember moaned, something deep and agonizing. She fell to her knees as more of her glow faded. “An eager musician just making a name for herself in her small town. A performance at a barn had faulty wiring. The building caught fire and Young Amber was trapped by debris and unable to escape.”

The flame in Ember’s hair burst into brilliant blue flames before painfully sputtering out like a candle on the verge of going out. A wisp like ghostly hand reached out and tenderly ran a finger down the side of Ember’s face like a mockery of the tears she could no longer shed. “Cause of death was severe burns across her whole body and smoke suffocation at the age of 22.”

“Enough,” Phantom announced suddenly, stepping forward through the ghostly arm putting himself squarely between Ember and the wisp ghost. The dead rockstar barely noticed, her whole form trembling as she looked down at the cold earth with absolute horror. Val wondered if she was feeling the cold of the cemetery or the burning heat of an out of control fire. “You’re killing her.”

“She is already dead,” the ghost answered, “as are they all. They are but echoes of lives come and gone.”

“That doesn’t mean you have the right to remind them,” Phantom said, looking more ghostly again. His aura flared suddenly and his eyes lit up like angry lightning bugs in a jar. “Death is sacred, it’s private and you’re using it to hurt them.”

“It is my duty, I am the Mortem Obire. I make the restless dead confront their own mortality, remind them of what they lost.” The ghost stared down Phantom who flinched but overwise stood his ground. “It is because of you, Danny Phantom, that I have been summoned to this realm. Your life essence has made these ghosts forget what they were. They flock to you, drawn to your vibrancy, seeking what they’d lost. The dead were straying from their existence, emboldened by your example, they were forging new purposes. I am merely correcting their assumptions to preserve the delicate balance that maintains the two worlds.”

“But death shouldn’t have to define them, I mean us,” Phantom pleaded. “They can grow if they want, experience new things. The end of life isn’t the end.”

“How very human of you,” the other ghost said breathily, an unnatural imitation of a chuckle. “Your death, if we can call it that,” the ghost said, “was born out of innocence and ignorance. Nature demanded the experiment fail but your naivety allowed for the flow of life and death to be disrupted. You looked at a machine you could neither understand or control and made the attempt anyway. Your hubris consumed you in the form of electricity, pain firing through your whole body as you screamed for a relief that never came. Your old body was obliterated and remade into the abomination you are now.”

Oh god, Phantom was electrocuted. He had lived his last moments as a human screaming and in pain. She knew he was vaguely around her age but it was one thing to know a kid her age had gone through that and another to hear it described. Without thinking, she lowered her weapons. 

“Yeah I know that,” Phantom said weakly. “I took out the power in the whole city for a few hours which I felt bad about afterwards. What’s your point?” His glow was completely gone, the wet humidity of the air clinging to him much like how it fogged up Valerie’s suit. The shadow of the sinking sun made his white hair look dark and the greens of his eyes had faded into a less unnatural blue/green. 

The only think remotely otherworldly about him was a faint pulsing glow coming from the center of his chest. It beat like a heart, a soft brightness that seemed to dispel the overwhelming feeling of death. Ember looked up from the ground, the pirate kid uncurled himself a little, biker guy and his girlfriend became a little more solid. They looked at Phantom with such awe and envy and grief it was almost painful to watch them stare at what they clearly lacked. 

“My words hold no domain over your heart now, child of two worlds,” the ghost wheezed, floating past Phantom. “But someday you will greet death properly, be made humble by it, and I will be there to remind you of how fickle and fleeting that precious life of yours is.” 

“I-” Phantom defended, glowing slightly with his eyes once more an ectoplasmic green. But now it was obvious to see how much more lively and present he was compared to the others. She still hates him, will probably still hunt him but while she knew Phantom was a ghost she knew, whatever he was, she couldn’t call him dead. Not with eyes so sympathetic and expressive and alive.   

“Be gone, all of you mortals, this is a place for the dead,” the ghost commanded. The ghost hovered over to the Box Ghost who had been shivering behind a tombstone the whole time and suddenly went still as stone. “Your compassion for them does them no favors. This is the price for their existence, the dead cannot and should not forget. That is their purpose and this is mine. This is not an end to their existence, merely a reminder.”

Valerie never thoughts she’d see the Fentons flee from a fight but still she watched as Jack and Maddie slowly backed up until they reached their garish assault vehicle. They fumbled for the handles, not willing to tear their eyes off the ghosts before climbing in and driving off. Phantom looked torn, grief stricken as he watched the mist ghost, the Mortem Obire, speak softly to the Box Ghost. He looked like he wanted to interfere, to place himself in-between again but his shoulders slumped as he realized the futility of the action. This was the nature of death and memory and the living were not to interfere.

He glanced up at her, wary and saddened before disappearing from view, going off to wherever it was he lived his life when he wasn’t causing her problems. Valerie swiftly turned her board around and sped quickly in the direction of home. This had left her a lot of things to think about, about Phantom, about ghosts, about what it meant to stick around once your number was up. 

But that was for later, for now she wanted to get out of chill before the rain started in earnest. She wanted to drink something warm, sit close with her father and feel their hearts beating in time. Valerie Grey wanted nothing more, in that moment, to simply breathe in and appreciate her life before it was taken and those happy memories used against her. She would not die full of regret for what she had missed.

#danny phantom #what the FUCK did I just write #I am a nurse and have seen people die and its clearly affected me #alt title was Robin goes crazy with the Latin and overemotional death metaphors #i swear this was going to be f u n n y #it started with the idea of ghosts being really affected hearing about their death wheras Danny was cracking jokes about it #but that got me thinking on the difference btw danny and the dead #bc no matter what fics claim danny isn't DEAD #he had a death he has ghostly powers but he lives not just in body but in soul #there are some aspects of being a ghost he has no place being involved #his inherent humanity seperates him from those who have lost theirs #And the dead feeling Dannys life energy and being drawn to him feeling more alive #that goes against the laws of nature of life and death #thus the mortem obire which literally means to face death #and its like this weird thing of like ghosts have feeling and memories and emotions but #they're also echoes of lives long past #that memory of their old lives is as terrifying as it is vital to their afterlife #it hurts them but they also have to have it #because they're not alive #to pretend to be so #to act beyond their agency it's uguhuuhu #idk this is too metaphysical for a sunday #wrote this listening to Taylor swifts 'right where you left me' bc for WHATEVER reason it had the right vibes

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

prussia x reader: silly squabbles

Hello, lovelies~ I was plagued by images of this dumbass and his general ridiculousness, so of course I had to write it all out. This fic is pointless, but I hope you enjoy anyway.

"You are really annoying."

"And yet, somehow, I'm not detecting any real annoyance. Wonder why?"

His words hung lightly in the air, gentle and playful, just shy of taunting.

You did your best to ignore them, trying to focus on your book. But his fingers were moving again, trailing over your back in an inconsistent pattern, heavy enough a presence to register, yet just light enough to torment.

You were sure, in some long-winded, ridiculous, roundabout way, he would blame you for this predicament- for not reading as fast as him, for not paying him enough attention during a lazy day in.

Regardless, you tried to focus on the passage at hand, rereading the same paragraph for the tenth time now as he teased a particularly sensitive spot near your ribs.

He wasn't quite tickling you- not yet- but the shifting tempo and pressure all played upon the obvious threat.

Only mildly irritated- really, you were too familiar with his shenanigans by now to ever be truly annoyed- your focus landed on the bookcase, the only immediate target for your long-suffering gaze. "Do you mind?"

There was a hint of pride in his voice as he answered, a cockiness at successfully distracting you. "Nope!"

His fingers- now having tasked themselves with massaging more than teasing- paused between your shoulder blades. "Why? Do you?"

Rather than allow him another victory, you huffed quietly, pointedly making an effort to lose yourself once more in your book. "No... Not at all."

If he was amused by your answer practically being ground between your teeth, he made no indication of it. Instead, he resumed his massage, keeping his palm mostly flat against your spine, adopting a steady rhythm that lulled you into some semblance of security.

You allowed yourself to relax, turning your attention fully to your tale, praying he would at least let you finish this chapter in relative peace.

It was a hope to be short-lived alas, his posture shifting, bringing him near enough to read over your shoulder.

You were far too invested to truly pay him any mind, but then he was hovering near your temple, fingers drifting ever closer to your neck, once more dancing in that maddeningly light way which he employed solely in effort to agitate you.

You knew what he was doing, and you'd be damned if you'd let him win; summoning every ounce of self-restraint within you, you purposely, blatantly, chose to ignore him.

It took only a few moments for him to acknowledge your determination towards defiance (a few torturous moments where he had started tracing his nails against your hairline and whispered some of the passage aloud), his huff of displeasure bring you a small taste of sweet, sweet victory.

You would have been naive to think he had given up, knew it would be foolish to assume, to dare to presume, that he didn't already have other strategies in mind.

What you couldn't guess, regretfully, was exactly which plan he would attempt next.

When he sat upright once more, leaving you to lounge peacefully on your stomach, you unwisely surmised that he was actually finished with the whole affair, that he'd grown bored, that he would actually leave you to your novel in peace.

Feeling him shift back to the head of the bed, hearing him tapping away at his phone- these factors allied with his distance away from you all allayed your worries, letting you escape once more to the realm belonging to the pages before you.

The temporary tranquility was somehow less than simply fleeting; it had scarcely existed at all.

Not even five minutes had passed, and you felt teasing fingers once more, now grazing ever-so-softly against the bare skin of your ankle.

A jolt of panic fueled your reflexive movement away from him, your legs kicking, book falling to the floor in your surprise.

You shot upright and fixed him with a glare, hoping to convey just how furious you were with him. "I swear to God-!"

The villainous grin on his face revealed vanity in its purest form, and it did nothing to reduce your resentment.

Scowling now, and forcing yourself into an upright position, you narrowed your eyes at him. "What do you want, asshole?"

He was quiet for a moment, by all appearances still savoring his triumph. But then his smile shifted, the self-satisfied smirk falling slowly into something softer, fonder.

It took you by surprise, sent a stutter through your pulse, all irritation rapidly transitioning into confusion. "What?"

He shifted forward, leg bending beneath him as he drew closer.

Suspicious, but not too concerned, you offered an unimpressed expression, relaying your distrust. "Gil?"

There was a flicker to his smile, but it was soon replaced by something far more serious, his eyes languidly studying your features.

Briefly, more a passing fancy, you considered teasing him for his sudden quiet, yet there was something too tremulous tormenting him, and you dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, instead offering your concern. “Teuton?”

Whatever spell that had held him within its grasp was finally dismissed, his head cocking to the side and a considering tone coating his next words. “You love me, right?”

It sounded innocent enough, and his behavior certainly suggested no ill-intent. But you knew him, and knew all-too-well not to fully believe in it. “Is that a trick question?”

You made sure to keep your words only just on the side of playful, but tempered with enough sincerity to assuage any possible self-doubts that may be afflicting him.

It was clearly the right approach, the left corner of his mouth only just hinting at a smile, a familiar spark almost tangible in the air. “It’s a simple question, Liebling. No need to sound so suspicious!”

You felt your eyes narrow as you studied him, his wording only heightening your wariness. “You know- The fact you feel you have to say so really isn’t winning you any points here.”

His grin was back at that, disorienting in its intensity, just enough that you nearly forgot his previous grimness. “I’m just asking if you love me, mein Schatz. ‘Snot like I’m asking you to sell me your immortal soul or something.”

You neglected to point out how those two things were near one and the same, instead choosing to offer a faux sincerity. “Oh no, you’re right. I hate you so much,” you quipped, each syllable oversaturated in sarcasm.

He scoffed, melodramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning down just long enough to rescue your book from the floor, marking your page and setting beside you on the comforter. “I’m sure your pride will be just fine."

“I dunno…” His words trailed off, and you could make out the distinct, irritating sound of him sucking on his teeth. “I think it may be mortal this time.”

You decided to play along, content to lose yourself in the absurdity. “Oh no,” came your reply, emotionless a tone as you could muster, in spite of the smile playing on your lips. “How could I possibly live with myself?”

He hummed, running a finger over his chin as if he were seriously considering it. “You’d probably take my fortune, settle somewhere warm.”

You fought a laugh, unsuccessfully. “Mm, definitely. Have sordid affairs with all the cabana boys and the waitresses.”

“Sing drunken renditions of Mamma Mia during karaoke night.”

“And I’ll adopt some ugly, exotic pet that I insist travels with me everywhere.”

“Only after your third husband disappears after mysterious circumstances, of course.”

He was only half-serious, and you couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow in mock offense. “Only three?”

Your question made him snicker, his eyes shining in amusement, but he didn’t continue the exchange.

Several moments passed, and with them the lingering ridiculousness of the “argument” faded away. There were many of these odd backs-and-forths, all somehow sillier than the last. The quiet was just as pleasant though, and you embraced the comfort it carried.

That was, until, he was biting his lip in thought, his amusement long abandoned.

Concerned, you shifted closer, studying his features carefully. "Gil?"

His eyes were glued to some distant place you couldn’t see, miles and centuries away from the here and now. “You do love me, right?”

“Of course,” you replied almost reflexively, still taken aback by the sudden shift back to solemnity.

“Really?” His eyes turned to yours once more, unguarded, open, a haunting fragility shining in them that made your heart clench inside your chest.

Wherever this insecurity came from, you wished you could rid him of it, tear all traces of it from his psyche, make it so he would never question his self-worth ever again.

As it was, you did what you could, lifting his hand to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to his ring, meeting his gaze as you lingered against the silver. “Would you be wearing this if I didn’t?”

There was a smile, the one you fell in love with: fond, slightly shy, just a little cocky. “Good point.”

You couldn’t help but feel as if something was still off about him however, something bothering him that you couldn’t even hope to guess. “Why do you ask, anyway?”

He took to studying your features again, his free hand rising to trace his fingers softly against your cheek. His eyes were warm and gentle, posture completely at ease. His words however-

“Sometimes I can’t believe this is real, or how lucky I am; some days I swear you’re just a figment of my imagination.”

His words carried an almost unbearable amount of loneliness, layered among disbelief and adoration. They triggered several different emotions within you, stirring them into a frenzied muss of affection and sadness, leaving you breathless.

Several potential reactions came to mind, but were all dismissed as you weighed his words, compared them to the relaxation of his shoulders, the familiarity as he languidly brushed his fingertips behind your ear, lightly teasing your scalp.

You could easily surrender to it, could already feel your own posture relaxing with each steady shift of his fingers. Still, you weren’t quite ready to abandon your prior playfulness, offering a haughty hum to prelude your reply.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m very real.” You felt a passing smirk flicker to life for a moment, blazing brightly before it was gone again, sober sincerity settling once more in its place. “You’re stuck with me, Beilschmidt. Forever…” you finished in an elongated stage whisper.

He breathed a laugh, the slightest hiss, his grin irrepressible now. His tone, however, mimicked nonchalance. “Eh. There are worse things, I guess.”

The tease was impossible to ignore, especially as that all-too-familiar deviousness was taunting in its own right.

You tried to keep your words accusatory, but they came out entirely too fond. “You’re a dick.”

He smirked, offering a half-hearted shrug.

“Guilty,” he sang, almost entirely too proud.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was cradling both of your cheeks, and before you could guess at his next move, he was shifting forward, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But I’m a dick who loves you very much.”

Thanks for reading!

#prussia x reader #readerfic #gilbert beilschmidt x reader #hello lovelies! #i'll add more tags later ugh #aph prussia #hws prussia #i hope y'all are well! #i've missed writing #i'm hoping i can get back to this one ancient artie request i received aeons ago #thanks for reading! #aph prussia x reader #hetalia prussia #hetalia prussia x reader #hws prussia x reader #gilbert beilschmidt

[wallgirl]

If I Were You

Azul Ashengrotto x Fem!Reader

Your heart is broken... perhaps you can return the favor?

In the VIP room, as always, you met him. But today your feet felt heavy, and your heartbeat rang loud in your ears. How could you say it? How could you tell him your decision? How could you tell him that you no longer wanted to see him, that everything he asked of you had stretched you past your breaking point-

And he wouldn’t even let you make your relationship public. Something something weak spots, he had said.

Oh, but perhaps it was useless to even try to end things. Surely he would just find some way like always to gaslight you into changing your mind.

But when your teary confession was over, he seemed…

Unmoved.

“Of course, you’ll still play this Friday at the lounge, won’t you?”

He looked completely unaffected by your ultimatum. Same slight smile, same sly eyes.

You stared at him for several long seconds. For a moment, you were confused. What?

So… The past year had meant nothing? This had all been that easy for him to just drop?

He had squeezed every last bit of use out of you, and now you both knew there was nothing left.

Cold, hard, destructive reality set in.

“Of course I will.” You had smiled.

His smile had widened. “Excellent. I’m in your debt.”

Oh, not yet, but you will be.

That Friday night, you sat at the grand piano before the lounge’s clientele, pieced together and looking sharp. Never mind that it had taken you an hour to finish your makeup with your shaking hands, and that you had, distracted and sleep-deprived, nearly broken your foot missing a step entering the lounge. After all, you had agreed to perform one last time, and tonight was such a special night.

You waited for the din of the crowd to die down before speaking into the microphone.

“I have a particularly special piece that I prepared just for tonight,” you began.

You could see him in the same spot as always when you played, perched on a couch in the back, legs folded, hands crossed, looking so rapt and proud. Every Friday you played the piano, often original pieces, to draw in business for the lounge. You thought it was the least you could do to help your beloved Azul. And you used to feel so giddy, knowing that he was watching you so intently.

Now you recognized his smug expression as one of victory. He thought he was still getting what he wanted.

You bit your tongue for a moment to ground yourself. Now wasn’t yet the moment to lose yourself to rage.

“This piece is for a special someone,” you continued, playing off the coos from the crowd with a coy wink. “I’d even go so far as to say it comes straight from my heart.”

Now you’d piqued his curiosity. One of his eyebrows rose in a delicate arch.

Oh, just you wait for the surprise.

You arranged yourself, sitting up a bit straighter and adjusting the mic.

A few delicate notes to open with.

The crowd of students trilled quietly, leaning forward to hear better.

You began to sing.

“So many evenings spent beside you,

Planning out a life including you,

So many words to say

So many ways that I could ask you to stay…”

You swallowed as the melody built up.

“And now, you have a place in my heart

I never thought existed before

A place that burns, here,

Deep in my heart

You’ve made an art

Of the ways to lose my love.”

Now the words were really starting to set in. The audience looked confused. And Azul…

That smug smile was completely gone.

You hummed along to the melody as you continued to play. It seemed like the smile that had left him was creeping up your own lips as you met his gaze across the room.

Why did he look so victimized? He was the one who’d played you like the cold keys beneath your fingertips. He only ever wanted to take, and take, and take…

“You thought this was a one-player game

And I let you play me out with your words.

But wrath, with a vengeance, has came

You should have known before you promised the world…”

You were sick of it. You were sick of him. You resented him and everything about him. Every memory in your head that you once held close was tainted by your hatred. The thought of his smile, a smile that once set your heart pounding and your eyes shining in reverence, made you sick now. Only now, looking back, could you see the condescension in the pull of his lips. And his eyes…

Those eyes that you’d once compared to the ocean on a cold day were now flickering with fury. You’d never seen him so enraged, brows furrowed, upper lip curled.

Yes, those eyes were like the ocean on a frigid day. Cold, unfeeling, and threatening to pull you in, to drown you in the void.

Your fingers continued to dance across the keys, unaffected by the agony in your chest.

“What happens to woman

When man is a monster

Waiting to eat her heart at any moment?

Those pretty eyes

Are all full of lies,

Full of the things you told me

Entwined in the dark…”

The truth was, Azul had made a grave misstep. He thought of you as beneath him. And in thinking of you as harmless and weak, he had made himself vulnerable to you. He’d never made a habit of disclosing all of his thoughts to you, but bit by bit and between the lines, you came to know more about the ‘real Azul’ then he would’ve thought.

The power-hungry, bitter, insecure Azul.

“I wish I had never met you

If I could go back in time, I tell you

I’d have stopped my own breath

To avoid your trap.

And I bet you think that you’re just the best

Oh, I know you think you’re above the rest

Such a spineless man,

Your bluster no longer fools me.”

Were those tears in his eyes? Good. You wanted him to cry. You wanted him to scream in agony and tear at his hair, just as you used to behind closed doors. Every sharp jab of pain you had felt you wanted him to experience ten-fold.

Maybe then your shattered heart could find some peace.

It was time to wrap this up, though. Wetness on your cheeks was threatening to run away the concealer you’d had the foresight to apply beforehand in an effort to hide the redness of your eyes.

“If I were you, I’d watch out,

I will be there

Waiting for you to trip up

I hope you hate me

And drown in your own rage

Strangled by your regrets

The way I am.

When I remember the day we met

I wish we’d never come together

If I’d only known the real you.”

The last note rang out. There was silence for a moment, then the crowd began to applaud. You didn’t look at them. Your gaze was still fixated on Azul, who had finally stood.

His face was a mess of tears and flushed rage. He gritted his teeth, clearly searching for words that couldn’t make it past his tight throat, before spinning on his heel and shoving through the crowd towards the exit.

And just like that, it was over. You’d gotten exactly what you came for. Yet the rush of satisfaction was fleeting. It did nothing to replace the burn in your chest, or the pounding in your head. There was a gaping hole now where your soul had been, and the brief satisfaction offered to you through revenge was simply tossing debris into a bottomless pit. The dampness trailing down your cheeks had finally made its way to your neck, warm and itchy.

You closed the fallboard quietly and turned back to the mic.

“Thank you for having me, and good night.”

#azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #fem!reader

[badger-writes]

Star Wars OC Ship Week 2021 - “for light and love”

3 - Angst/Drama

When Jedi found themselves troubled, they visited the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Throughout its history, this chamber of the Jedi Temple ziggurat had always been set aside as a meditative refuge, a sanctuary of verdant greenery and trickling waters. Assembled herein one could find a collection of flora both native and foreign, from blartree blossoms and chrysanthis shrubs to a bahnsgresk bush grove to trebala and assari trees, shading the walkways with their trunks and branches - a garden of a thousand worlds.

Though the caretakers of this special corner of the Temple had always strived to enforce a kind of olamic traditionalism to its furnishings, the spirit of the times sometimes encroached upon this timeless space; and so the High Republic crept into the Room of a Thousand Fountains by way of its masonry, which now favored heavy geometric influences, stylized decorative reliefs, and smooth, streamlined lines which swept their way around the room in a sheen of gold and marble. These elements existed alongside their landscaped counterpoints in a carefully cultivated balance; a chamber with one foot in the ageless past, and the next in the bold, brilliant future that the Republic promised to all.

Here, one could pause for a moment, immersed in the energy of the Living Force, and reflect upon themselves and their place in the universe.

It was not a place Sskeer visited often.

Though the paths were lined with benches to encourage thoughtful rest, he preferred to keep moving, pacing through the gardens at a stride just above his typical walking speed; his feet seemed to slap the stone walkways no matter how he tried to control himself, trying to beat out his frustrations through their soles. Not for the first time, he considered that the best place for him to ruminate on his disquiet was not the Room of a Thousand Fountains. In the sparring chambers, at least, he would be less… disruptive.

He rounded a corner, emerging from a grove of hedges, and stopped. At the end of the short path rolling out before him lay a plaza surrounding one of the chamber’s great sculpted fountain fixtures; a great bowl-shaped basin spread out from its center, and rising into the air within its circumference were several other, smaller basins, overflowing with hanging moss and vines and pakiphanto ear plants, each of them carrying a tiny stream of clear water which trickled from their highest point to their lowest and back again. A tiny column-shaped islet rose out of the center of the basin, only large enough to hold the holoprojector installed in its capital; out of the projector’s eye shimmered an image of one of the era’s eventual Great Works, the Starlight Beacon. The huge space station, when it was finished, would be an outpost of progress and charity to all the worlds of the Outer Rim, a promise of the prosperity of the Republic and the justice of the Jedi. It hovered above the surface of the waters, framed by the hanging gardens, spinning slowly on its axis. Even on this much, much smaller scale, Sskeer couldn’t help but be impressed.

Someone else was standing at the edge of the basin - a Rodian with pale skin and a rather distinctive topknot. Sskeer crossed the way over to his side.

“Healer Lem,” he rumbled, crossing his arms. “It’s good to see you.”

“Oh,” Kelto mumbled, glancing. “Hello, Sskeer.”

“You appear troubled.”

“Am I so obvious?”

“It is no sin. I find myself frustrated tonight as well.”

Kelto hummed. The sound of it was hollow - less inquisitive, more melancholy. “I don’t know if I can help with that, but, you know… let me know.”

Sskeer cocked his head. “Why would you think that?”

“I just - I’m not a Consular, that’s all. Cuts and bruises, I can handle. The talking thing, it’s… I don’t do that so well.”

“Perhaps. But even so, as long as you’re here... I would appreciate your company. And I sense you would benefit from mine.”

“I… maybe. I guess.”

The Trandosham crossed his arms and raised an brow. “Perhaps you would like to discuss what’s been troubling you?”, he suggested.

Kelto opened his mouth… and closed it. “No, no. That’s okay. Thank you, but... I’ll manage.”

“Are you sure?”

“I mean, it’s pretty late already. The last thing you must want is to stand here and listen to my problems.”

“Try me.”

A shrug.

Sskeer exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flicked back to the pool before them, where waterlilies floated tranquilly upon the rippling face of the waters.

“I think I should insist,” he said quietly. “As a friend.”

“... I don’t want to burden you.”

“It wouldn’t be a burden.” A pause. “Not from you.”

Sighing, Kelto fell silent. He, too, kept his eyes fixed on the pond’s mirrorlike surface. Then, slowly, his gaze turned upwards, towards the hologram suspended above them.

“That’s really something,” he said wonderingly. “Isn’t it? The Beacon, I mean. It’s just... incredible. That the Republic and the Jedi can build something like that? Imagine what it can do for people living on the frontier.”

Nodding, Sskeer studied the diagram as well. “A space station on the galactic fringe can do little by itself,” he commented. “It needs people, too. Diplomats, explorers…”

“Guardians,” Kelto said wryly.

“Yes. And healers.” Sskeer gave him a sympathetic glance. “It would be an honor to be stationed there, would it not?”

The Rodian pursed his lips. They flattened into a noncommittal line as he shrugged. “Not really my thing,” he mumbled.

“I find it hard to believe you’d refuse an assignment where you could do so much good so easily.”

“Yeah, well.” And then Kelto went silent, leaning against the rim of the fountain.

Sskeer let his arms fall to his sides, brow furrowing. “You’re serious.”

A sad little shrug.

“You’d really waste your talents hiding in the Temple, rather than using them for the good of others? Without even an explanation? Are you so callous?”

In truth, he almost regretted saying it. But it did, at least, provoke a reaction from Kelto, who turned away from the fountain at last. “I’m not callous.”

“Selfish, then. Hoarding your knowledge and abilities for one one’s benefit but your own. Or perhaps just cowardly?”

“W-what is this, Sskeer? An inquisition? I thought you were trying to help me!”

“I am,” he said firmly. “But I don’t know what’s wrong. Blast it, Lem, it’s as if you’ve just… given up!”

Irritation launched his voice an octave higher than he meant, transforming a sentence into a bark. The lilies bobbed on the water. For a moment, Starlight Beacon flickered.

For a moment, Kelto stared at him agape, and Sskeer noticed his eyes (the first thing he’d noticed about him had been his eyes, long months ago, and the shiny white spots lying just under their aqueous outer membrane, that peculiar Rodian quality of seeming to hold a sky’s worth of stars in their surface) seemed brittle, now, and dull. Where there had once been light there was now not dark, but … an absence. An open pit in the soul.

Sskeer’s heart panged with sorrow. What frustration still lingered on his face passed like a fleeting shadow. Silently, he waited.

At last, Kelto sighed, clasping his hands back behind his waist; his fingers continued to fidget and twiddle as he turned back to the pond. For a moment, Sskeer feared he had broken their friendship, perhaps irrepairably.

Then Kelto said, “So the thing is… I’m kind of a bad Jedi.”

“No,” the Trandoshan insisted in a whisper.

“I am, Sskeer. What you said is true. And what’s more, you’re right to call me out. I’m cowardly, and selfish, and I hide myself in the healing wards instead of really doing anything with the talent and opportunities that I’ve been given. I…” He snorted, shaking his head. “I’m at the point where I fear being in public more than I fear the dark side. How stupid is that?”

Sskeer swallowed, mouth dry. He wondered what he could possibly say.

“I just… I don’t know how it happened. I was fine in the creche, I think. I- I had friends, I got along with people. I could… Star’s End, I could hold one conversation with somebody else without falling all to pieces, like I do with you.”

“That’s not your fault,” Sskeer said quickly. “I - that is, we - there’s... extenuating circumstances. Passion is just - ”

“Yeah, HoloNet news flash: feelings are hard,” Kelto murmured darkly. “Believe me, big guy, I know.”

“I only wanted to--” Sskeer grunted, biting his tongue. If only Jora Malli were here to help him talk some sense into Kelto.

“But then I grew up,” Kelto continued. “And I was still, you know, okay! I could… work with my Master, and with others, and I helped people… and then I was knighted, and I just… there was all this shyness and anxiety inside of me, and it just kept growing and growing and growing until… until I just couldn’t take other people anymore, except when I had the energy for it.

“I think that’s the real reason I transferred back to the Temple. I just… couldn’t take it anymore, putting myself out there. At least in the medical bay, it’s just a job. You can find a niche and serve and go back to your quarters. You don’t have to… to be seen all the time.

“But who did I serve, huh? Younglings with scraped knees and bloody noses. Nobody who really needed it. Nobody who would’ve died if I hadn’t been there. Meanwhile, how many people on the frontier do you think need a healer right now? How many won’t last the night? Because right now, Sskeer, I’m letting down all of them. And believe me, I know it.”

Kelto paused, taking a gulp of air, and looked up at the brilliant blue hologram again. “And then I heard about Starlight Beacon. And I felt… I felt something, deep down. Like the Force was trying to give me a second chance. Like I could - like I could make up for all of it, if I could only just get over myself.

“And I tried to,” he said thickly, snout quivering. “Please, Sskeer - believe whatever you want about me, but please, please believe I tried to fix whatever’s wrong with me. But-- b-but I just--”

Sskeer took him by the elbow and turned him back towards himself, grasping his much smaller arms in his clawed fingers. “Don’t talk this way,” he murmured. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true.”

“W-well, maybe it is,” Kelto hiccupped, eyes wet. His face crumpled more and more the longer he spoke. “After everything with me, and then you, and the Code -- maybe I just can’t hack it as a Jedi. Maybe I was never supposed to, a-and I just got lucky, and now - and now I - ”

“What, Kelto?”

“And now I’m dragging you down with me.”

For a long moment, they stood there, staring at each other. Kelto sniffled horribly, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. Sskeer’s mouth hung slightly agape, but his mind seemed to be lost somewhere, thrown far away.

“Just let me go,” he whispered, blinking hard. “Please. I- I’ll go, okay? I can just… leave. The Jedi - they’ll all be better off, and - a-and so will you.”

“No,” Sskeer said suddenly. His grip tightened around Kelto’s arms like a vise.

“I-I’m serious, big guy. I think… I think I’m done. I tried, and-- and I failed.”

“You listen to me, little healer. You will not leave, and you will not give up on yourself, do you understand? I won’t allow it. I refuse to.”

 “Sskeer - Sskeer, please, come on. I’m not worth it--”

“Yes you are,” the Trandoshan hissed. “Even if you won’t see it.”

“Look here,” he continued, seizing one of the Rodian’s wrists. He pushed the palm of Kelto’s hand into his chest, letting his fingers splay out against his robes, over his heart. “Remember what you did here, for someone you barely knew. Remember how you used your gift for nothing else than to help a creature in need. Does that seem like failure to you?”

Kelto shrugged weakly, trembling.

“And then you confronted that fear and anxiety inside, that same day, and every day after that. All for the sake of me. Would a coward do that, Kelto?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe?” He swallowed. “I-it was hard, sometimes.”

“I know this now, Kelto. I wish I had before. Perhaps I could have… helped, somehow. Or found some way to help you reach out.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” the Rodian muttered, hanging his head. “This - this isn’t something you could have fixed, Sskeer. It was always my problem alone.”

Sskeer growled, deep in his throat. When he turned back to face the pond, he kept his arm around Kelto’s back, still clasping his arm - holding him gently against his side.

“You remind me of myself,” he said finally.

“Now that’s a joke,” Kelto said, sniffing. “I’m - I’m a hot mess, Sskeer. You, you’re just… you’re everything a Jedi Knight should be. You’re magnificent. How could you possibly compare yourself to somebody like me?”

“Did you think you were the only one who doubted his place in the Order?”

Kelto looked up at Sskeer, stunned. The Trandoshan, in turn, stared into the fountain. Starlight Beacon’s reflection glimmered in his eyes; slowly, as he let a sigh out through his nostrils, they fell shut.

“I have… often found myself uncertain about my place in the Jedi,” he said at length. “There are times when our teachings and precepts seem to be... fundamentally incompatible with - who I am. Or, what I am.”

He raised one three-fingered hand out before him, looking down at it, turning it this way and that. He examined the thick scales which lined his skin, the blunt claws that tipped each finger. Shame crept into the lines of his face.

“I am Trandoshan. I know this is no surprise to you - and I, myself, have had many years to acquaint myself with this truth. But for many in the galaxy, when they meet a Jedi Knight for the first time, it is a… surprising thing. For some, it’s even… repulsive. And for that, I cannot judge them.

“The T’doshok may be my race, but I could never call them my people. Not for their instincts for slaughter and cruelty, not for their hunters who trap animals and slaves for their sport, not their ‘Scorekeeper’ who tallies points to the scale of their butchery - the very thought of  It is anathema to life itself. A… disgusting perversion of the natural order of the universe. I can be party to none of it.

“And yet-- if not for the Seekers, I might have been. Had the course of my life taken one turn and not another, it would be I hunting the innocent and the weak, soaking my claws in the blood and the filth of that detestable culture. And I’m reminded of that whenever I meet those I’m oathsworn to protect - and the world I’ve left behind is all of myself that they can see.”

“W-well - well, that’s just - that’s just other people, Sskeer, they don’t know any better. And besides, you’ve - you’ve overcome that through your training, right? And your discipline. So.. so it’s not even a problem.”

“Were it so easy to believe,” Sskeer exhaled, clenching his fist.

“What do you mean?”

“There are… moments. When I speak, when I act. When I swing my lightsaber. There’s a - it’s like a beast, Kelto. Like a dragon, inside of me, coiled around my heart. My intensity, ferocity… my frustration… I think this is where they come from. For a long time I believed I was battling the Dark Side, the little bit of it within us all, as a Jedi should. But… perhaps it is deeper than that. Perhaps it is an instinct, a genetic memory. Something in the blood.

Perhaps, as you said, it’s something about myself that can’t be fixed.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected would happen - perhaps a weight would lift from his shoulders. Perhaps the shadow which clung to his heart and his mind would finally pass when he was able to find the words, and speak them. But something would happen, surely, when he finally let this secret shame pass his lips.

Instead, he felt exactly the same. Life was proceeding exactly as it had before. Nothing had changed.

He was still a Jedi. He was still a Trandoshan.

Kelto was still looking at him. He still seemed stricken, but no longer as badly rattled. Sskeer let his hand fall back to his side and turned his face back towards the hologram of Starlight Beacon.

“But perhaps that’s not the point,” he continued. “If we could all banish the flaws within ourselves for all time with only a little effort, we would all be totally perfect creations. Perhaps the point is not whether our feet will always keep to the path of the righteous, but that we walk it as best we can, because the promise of something better lies at its end. Perhaps how far we can walk it does not matter, so long as we remain willing to take another step.

“That is what I think, anyway. And that is why I stay. And as long as I believe that, I can beat back the darkness inside of me a little longer.”

Kelto stared up at him wonderingly. He turned to watch the hologram as well, and for a moment’s pause they watched it slowly turning on the surface of the water, surrounded by verdant, flowering life.

“Every life saved, every battle won, every choice made - every time we turn towards the light, is its own victory. All of it, so that we might bring a light as brilliant as this into the universe,” Sskeer observed. “But we must confront our fears and doubts, and conquer them, before they extinguish our own. How else can we make such things be?”

Kelto tried to swallow, and choked. He brought his fingers up to clasp the Trandoshan’s where they curled around his arm. They didn’t feel monstrous at all. They felt like a friend’s.

“You… you really think I can do it?”

“I know it.”

“I-- gods,” he whispered. “I just-- I’ve tried to go it alone for so long.”

“You shall do so no longer.” Gently, Sskeer turned the Rodian to face him, clasping his hands in his own. “On my oath as a Guardian, Kelto Lem, I vow to do all I can to help you conquer these inner demons. If I must, I will protect you from yourself, as I have tonight. From this moment forward, your pain shall be mine, too - until we banish it forever, no matter how long that takes.

“In turn, I must ask that you swear to join me in this effort with equal vigor and equal determination, until - by virtue of our own will and discipline - you are once more the Jedi that I believe you can be.

“For light and for life.”

“...For light and for life,” Kelto echoed.

Sskeer hummed, nodding. He touched his knuckle against the bottom of Kelto’s chin. “You’re on your oath, now,” he rumbled. “No more talk of leaving.”

“R-right.” The healer took a shaky breath, swallowing, then forced it out slowly through his lips. “I-- thank you, Sskeer. This - this was a dark night for me. The darkest in a while.”

“I shall ward them away,” he replied, a hand to his chest. “That they may torment you no longer. And,” he added, smiling, “you in turn, I think, shall do the same for me.”

Kelto smiled too, brittlely, lips trembling at their corners. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he threw himself into Sskeer’s arms, burying his face in his chest.

“Thank you,” he mumbled through happy sobs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…!”

Slowly, Sskeer returned the hug, wrapping his arms as securely around Kelto as he could without crushing him. The Rodian was stood on his toes, swaying, trying to make himself as tall as himself; he shushed into his ear softly, stroking the back of his head with the pads of his fingers.

“I love you so much, Sskeer,” Kelto confessed.

Sskeer shushed him again. The healer was already emotionally compromised enough for one night. There would be time enough to untangle those feelings later - time enough for them both.

Instead, Sskeer held Kelto against his chest and gazed up at the dream of Starlight Beacon, and hoped that one day, both of them would be worthy enough to reach it.

#StarWarsOCShipWeek2021 #star wars #high republic #sskeer #original character #oc x canon #fanfic

[botwstoriesandsuch]

Linktober Day 1 - Monster/Beast

2391 Words

Warning for a mention of blood

Huzzah! I did it, Linktober is here and I actually wrote something of decent quality! Please enjoy Urbosa being a badass...

- - - - - 

“I heard your screams the other night, when you tried to consume my people.”

A shrill cry pierced the air. The night a bruising purple, the moon bleeding blue.

She stepped closer, and the screech of the desert grew louder, the echoes fading into wisping sandy grains. “Quite difficult, wasn’t it? Trying to burrow through Gerudo walls?”

The moon slipped beneath a midnight cloud, the horizon fading to foggy haze. Despite this, her head piece glistened gold, embers that glowed amidst her fiery hair. The glint of jewels adorned on her ears, shield, and scabbard was only rivaled by her flickering emerald eyes. She gazed at the desert, daring it to tremble once more. 

“Resilience is etched in the history of my people, to even the first of our endeavouring ancestors. Their walls, their craft, their blades, their legends— all of unyielding strength.” 

Another step forward, a hand resting on her hip; the Chief’s face was calm, yet determined. She looked around, but nothing moved. All was still as stone. 

“Perhaps time has made you forget, little worm.” She raised her voice this time, trying to get a reaction from the void.

“I will be happy to give you new peace of mind, when I pry your skull upon my steel.”

The world shook, another scream was let loose somewhere beneath her. The warrior pivoted her step, the metal sound of her blade unsheathed rang through the air. A confident note to a familiar song…

There you are.

The good thing about the desert is that it’s easy to spot things out of place. Amidst the towering ruins of forgotten sandstone monuments, one would assume that a moving pile of sand was out of the ordinary. 

It slithered by the corner of her gaze, disappearing just as she fully turned around— but it was enough, she had it. 

It was a mass of sand creeping, the sound of each grain slowly falling like water, settling back down to even earth as the warrior felt the shudders from underneath the ruins. The faint clicking of a blind wretch was all the confirmation she needed. This was the same beast.

“It is tradition to prepare for your demise, before each battle. A will, a tomb, a final wish…” She strutted carefully towards where she last saw the sand shift. “Such is the way of each warrior before me. I can only trust you’ve made your own plans.” The wind suddenly sighed deeply, and the shadowed clouds parted for the silver of the night.

“But if you have forgotten, you need not worry…”

Urbosa raised an arm to the sky, moonlight revealing her newfound smirk.

“For I will carve your grave.”

Snap.

BOOM!

A crack of thunder, a flash of green. The hair on her neck rose as lightning struck. The spot of sand Urbosa had targeted suddenly exploded upwards in a wave of earth. 

It screamed in pain, escaping towards the sky. As stray thunder struck in the ruins around her, the moonlight was suddenly obstructed by a monstrous silhouette, the shadow painted her and the sands grey.

The Molduga arched back towards the earth.

It thrashed and wailed as it dived, the momentum of its sudden plunge through the air made a thunderous noise of its own. The beast connected to the earth with a loud thud, before it attempted to burrow back under the ruins.

Oh no you don’t!

Urbosa ran forth to strike a blow, the winds behind her are her black skirt fluttering over the shivering ground. She could already feel the sweat trickling against her metal armour. Good, she thought, perhaps this night will be more of an interesting challenge after all. 

Even in the haze of night, she could determine her proximity to the beast from smell alone. The stench was ripe of muck, sulfur, and blood. Urbosa let loose her momentum and jammed her blade into its underbelly, another howl escaping the beast.

Quickly dodging its swiping tail, she jumped back and wiped her brow. The Molduga burrowed with newfound speed, escaping to the darkness below. A trail of oozing blood across the land was the only evidence of its existence, before the beast was completely swallowed by the sand.

The warrior scoffed. “What’s wrong? No chomping today?” Urbosa crowed, “As cowardly as your tactics are, I’d expect you would at least try to nip me!” She turned in place, eyeing the East Barrens for some sign of her foe. 

It was weak, that was for sure. Two nights ago, it had rammed its mighty and witless face against the walls of Gerudo Town— presumably in order to get inside. But the stone did not budge, and a fleet of warriors led by Urbosa were able to send the monster fleeing towards these ruins. 

An itch in the back of her skull told her there was more to the story...after all, Molduga don't seek people unprompted. They’re an ambushing species, preferring to wait for prey to walk over it before striking. Why it was agitated enough to seek out a populated town...Urbosa didn’t know. But at the end of the day, her mission would be the same— the beast won’t live to see the setting stars.

She had come equipped with her trusty Daybreaker and scimitar, her heels swapped for sandboots that better moved across the sinking earth. Not that it was incredibly necessary. All it took was a direct blow of lightning, and the thing would be nothing more than a tale for the tavern. But Urbosa knew better than to underestimate her enemy. 

The Gerudo Chief crept through the night, keeping her footsteps quiet and unassuming. The pillars of the East Barren towered with consuming shadows. The chiseled peaks that separated her and the distant Gerudo Valley stabbed the blackening sky with bronze. 

Feeling a charge stirr in her soul, Urbosa called out again. She had to find it before it found her first. 

“Won’t you grace me with your soothing song again? I promise to give you a thunderous applause!” 

The clouds billowed against the moon, shadows from looming structures flickered in and out. The ground quivered in response.

And in the distance, the desert exploded. 

A mass of sand swam towards her with violent speed. A ruined column in its path collapsed in a mess of sandstone and broken brick, falling pathetically in the sand. A sickening whine could be heard all around her, resonating from the earth, but undoubtedly sourced from the approaching foe. 

Now that’s more like it…

Urbosa stepped to the side, moving away from where she had last taunted the beast. It may be able to detect the vibrations of her voice and running, but her careful footsteps, with aid from the sandboots, would be nothing more than a whisper to the Molduga. 

She summoned the electric charge that stirred within her, she could already feel the air crackle and tense. As the mass of sand beckoned closer, she snapped her fingers once more, this time directing it towards a broader area in front of her. 

Thunder cracked like a whip, lightning striking around her. However this time, the energy was dispersed, focusing on three areas— far left, far right, and far center. The disturbed sand in their respective locations erupted as a result, before crashing back down nearly as quick as her own snap. 

The desert mound hesitated, slowing cautiously. 

Urbosa laughed to herself. Where will you go, little worm? Where do you think I am…

The Moldaga’s hulking figure didn’t hesitate for longer than a minute. It regained it’s moment, quickly veering to the side. It seems to have made its choice, assuming Urbosa was near where the far left lightning had struck. 

Urbosa readied her free hand, while adjusting her grip of her sword in the other. The Molduga approached her trap, sinking deep into the sand, and freeing the view to the horizon. 

And for a moment, Urbosa could see a forgotten sunset, on the faintest edge of the desert’s endless expanse. It winked faintly against the canvas of stars. The gentle slopes, carved with the delicate brush of the cool night breeze— for a moment you could forget the lurking dangers of this world. 

Then, the sunset erupted with fury.

The Molduga rose like fire, opening its jaws wide for an unseen prey. The last silver of the sun was stolen away by the beast’s enormous frame, and the sky bruised purple once more.

As it hung, suspended in mid air, the world was silent except for cascading grains of sand, and the Molduga’s shrill and deafening scream.

Snap. 

The sky flashed green, to white, and back.

The air charged, ready to crack into a boom. 

But thunder never shook the earth.

The Molduga’s cry was muffled by the resonating rumble in its throat. 

Urbosa sprinted forth, a grin stretched wide across her face.

She had struck true. 

The Molduga collapsed onto the ground, another explosion of sand filled the surrounding air. Its mouth crackled with static, its body twitched and convulsed. The smell of blood and sulfur was now a thousand times worse, it was as if someone had burned a whole graveyard. The sensation nearly made her eyes tear, but Urbosa did not stop to weep.

There would be no pity for the lightning eater. 

Urbosa let out a cry, before stabbing her sword straight through the Molduga’s lower jaw, pinning it to the sand. Its wail and horrific breath swept directly in her face, but the warrior did not flinch.

“I hope you enjoyed the view up there,” Urbosa walked towards its beady, useless eyes, leaning in, “It’ll be the last good thing you’ll see.” 

Urbosa studied the creature's face. It’s eyes glowed an eerie blue, luminescent in the night. Peering back towards the Molduga’s mouth, Urbosa frowned in confusion. 

Blue…?

Well that’s new. She furrowed her brow. As far as she could remember, the beasts of sand were amber, or brown in color, or at the very least some sort of hue that resembled the sand. They definitely weren’t of a stark lapis or cerulean, unless this was some sort of icy...snowy variant?

Urbosa shook the thought out of her head. Such a thing was impossible, Moldugas thrived on the depths of the desert sand, and such a feat could never be replicated in the tundras of Gerudo Highlands. Still, the beast’s mouth and eyes glowed mysteriously...new questions brewing in the Gerudo Chief’s mind.

But now was not the time, any moment, this monster would regain its strength and attack. 

Urbosa suddenly turned towards the beast’s upper back, noticing a different hum in the air. A thing and long stick protruded from one of its fins, and she climbed up to investigate. 

Using it’s tiny head as a stool, Urbosa lifted herself up and walked upon its back. The stick she had heard humming was growing faintly louder as she approached. Grasping both hands and it’s end, she pulled with great strength.

A glowing blue spear head emerged from the fin, flickering hot like fire. It’s hue was the same of that of the Molduga’s eyes and inner mouth. Could this be why this creature glowed…?

She balanced the spear in each hand. She wasn’t much of a spearman, preferring the balance of shield and blade. But her Scimitar was busy pinning it’s mouth to the ground, so it would have to do. 

Urbosa walked back over the Moldugas back, before positioning herself above the beast’s head. It was time. She let out a breath of adrenaline, and she could swear the thing had sighed in response. 

“I am no monster,” Urbosa steadied her grip, grazing the blue tip of the strange spear just above it’s skull. 

“I promise this will be swift.”

- - - - - 

“Ahem! Lady Urbosa...”

The Hylian advisor spoke again, cutting through the chief’s thoughts.

“When you say you used this strange spear, how certain are you of its effect? Did it truly slice through this new monster like...how did you say it...butter?”

Urbosa sighed, she’d been in this political meeting for what felt like a century. At this point, the Yiga were better company. 

“New in nature and color, but I assure you, the Molduga is as equally dead as all other beasts I have faced. The threat is gone.”

The Hylian clicked her tongue. “Yes, I understand the blunt of it, but I need the details specifically, if I am to reveal this information from Her Majesty, the Queen.”

The mention of her childhood friend renewed her interest in the conversation. “You have thrown the Queen of Hyrule’s title around quite lazily this evening, so perhaps we should cut to the point and not have you return to her empty handed? Hmm?” Urbosa raised an eyebrow with a smile.

The woman stammered for a moment, readjusting the bun of her brown hair. The throne room was probably scorching to this stuffy Hylian. In different circumstances, Urbosa might have felt pity.

“Very well,” the Hylian finally responded. “But I just need you to be absolutely sure that the glow was of Sheikah origin.” She gestured for probably the fifteenth time that night at the set of Ancient weapons on the table.

The weapons flickered blue, hot as fire, and as lightweight as air— were they not relics, Urbosa would have liked to keep the one that was shaped like a giant axe.

“Yes, I am positive.” Urbosa said sternly.

“It is my, and Her Majesty’s, belief that you do not endure a fight, but a trial. A trial planned by an ancient civilization.” the advisor spoke carefully, acknowledging that her words caused confusion for some of the Gerudo guards standing by the door. “Similar events have happened in other sections of Hyrule, beasts and signs that direct at certain individuals.”

The Gerudo Chief rubbed her chin thoughtfully, before shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t fully understand…”

The Hylian advisor pulled out a scroll, Urbosa could recognize the cursive handwriting of her royal friend. The other guards murmured at the royal wax seal on its surface.

The advisor spoke again. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it consumed the people’s attention nonetheless.

“Chief Urbosa, a new prophecy has been revealed, and I think you would find its contents quite interesting.”

#please rb i am but a humble content creator #linktober #linktober 2020 #botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda botw #loz botw #urbosa #molduga #molduking #botw fanfiction #tw blood

[devnicolee]

The Chosen Ones (7)

A/N: Enjoy! There is one chapter left, which I am really excited about :)

Warnings: Slow burn, verbal abuse (and one mention of physical abuse), angst

Word Count: 6,000 words

Pairings: M’Baku x OC 

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

Asha groaned as she felt something nudging her shoulder, assuming it was M'Baku's feeble attempts to wake her up. "Five more minutes," she mumbled, her voice groggy and tired. She shifted on her side, burying her face deeper into his chest, her hand sliding across his midsection to hold onto him tighter. There was no response to her exhausted pleas for more sleep. In fact, she quickly realized that all she could hear were his loud, deep snores. Yet she still felt another more forceful nudge hit her back, forcing her eyes to pop open.

Her eyes trailed up his torso and landed on M’Baku’s face, eyes closed as he continued to sleep. Her lips curved into a content smile as she just stared at him… her boyfriend. It amazed her how far the pair had come in mere weeks… from only existing in quiet, hidden moments to being able to love each other loudly and freely. She decided to lean on his advice, not to dwell on those broader implications, the details they would have to sort out back home. She knew he already gained her sister and brother’s approval, which was all she truly cared about. But the jury was still out on the Council and her mother. Asha already had two strikes against her where the majority of them were concerned. 

It does not matter, she decided. She seceded 25 years to the will and opinion of the Council and her parents, she refused to cower or give them a day more. She worried about the other things and how to be in a successful relationship when she had no experience. But she and M'Baku loved each other and they both had the will and desire to be together. That meant they would climb any walls, weather whatever storm, and extinguish any fires this world threw at them. She finally had the person and love she prayed for every night; she would not let him go without a fight. Her thoughts were interrupted by something hitting her yet again. She frustratingly turned around to come face to face with the same black panther as last night. Inches away from her face, the panther used its nose to nudge her shoulder, a silent demand to start the day.

"Fuck!" she yelped, sitting up abruptly. She, of course, knew it meant her no harm but was also not expecting such a jarring wake up call. Her traveling companion, however, did not have this luxury. Her loud outburst immediately pushed M'Baku out of his restful sleep. Forever the warrior, he leaped out of the sleeping bag, robbing Asha of his warm body heat, and immediately raised his knobkerrie, ready to strike. He examined the cave terrain wildly, searching for an unknown threat.  

"Stand down soldier," Asha chuckled as she ran her hands through the soft, thick black fur of the now resting panther, laying down relaxed after doing their job to wake the couple up. Her heart still thumped loudly against her chest as it tried to return to its resting rate. "It woke me up and I was n-not expecting a Bast wake-up call. Sorry for screaming," she offered before standing up herself.

"Damn panthers," M'Baku mumbled angrily under his breath. But he shook off his annoyance rather quickly as Asha cleared up their makeshift camp. "What time is it?"

Asha fiddled with her beads, immediately distracted by two texts from her brother and sister. "U-u-uh just after 7. But we better get going. Brother called an emergency council meeting 2 hours before the King's Exhibition. We need to find the herbs and get back to the palace before then." The balls of light keeping them warm the night prior bounced around as the two moved about, getting ready to finish the last leg of their journey. Asha raised her hands, each instinctively moving back toward their owner as her skin absorbed them. 

"Why a council meeting?" M'Baku asked as he pulled bags of fruit out of his bag for both to munch on for breakfast and swung it back on his shoulders. 

"Well, we do not need to convince the whole country... just the Mining and Border Tribes. No need to wait for the King's Exhibition if we can avoid it. It is supposed to be a fun and joyous event, believe it or not."

The two emerged from the cave, the Panther waiting for them on the small cliff. They fell in step behind it as it led them back to their original trail. The morning air was crisp and cold, the sun peeked through the swaying tree tops giving them a sliver of light. It still didn’t look like morning on their path though, the thick forest blocked out most of the sun. The mountain had a new layer of fresh, undisturbed snow, which did not remain long as their footprints smashed through it.

"What is the King's Exhibition anyway?" Despite not following the Panther Goddess, all of Wakanda was invited to partake in the celebrations of the week-long Festival of Bast. This was to be the Jabari's first year and he planned on participating to show solidarity. However, M’Baku quickly realized he had no idea what was involved.

"Oh, it is just a show of our King's strength and prowess in battle. Really just a chance for my oh-so-humble brother to show off. He basically fights the Dora, members of the King's Guard and then any challenger from across Wakanda. But unlike Challenge Day, no one is fighting to the death. It is more of a public training session. Everyone loses to him, of course," she added. 

"What is the point of it?" he inquired, knocking some branches out of their path. 

"It shows the strength Bast gives her protector. Her power and by extension, his power to protect all of us. It is quite fun to watch, or so I have heard," she added as a caveat. Snow drifted down lightly around them from the branches and leaves above them, immediately melting to water as it connected with her clothes. 

"You have never been?" 

She chuckled, managing to keep at least some of the bitterness out of her voice. "You would be surprised at the amount of things I have never seen or done. I have not celebrated a Festival of Bast in 15 years. Though, I didn't much care to celebrate her in those later years to be honest." M'Baku glanced over at her and noticed a flicker of shame and regret passing behind her dark brown eyes. 

"Hey," he said gently, pulling on her arm to stop her. "You don't need to feel ashamed about that. You did the best you could. Bast forgives, clearly," he said, gesturing toward the panther that stopped a few feet ahead of them to wait. 

Asha nodded softly, looking up at him to find concern in his big brown eyes… concern and intense love and adoration for her. Love and adoration that made her legs grow weak and the butterflies in her stomach flutter. She couldn’t explain it but it felt like the farther they went on this journey, the easier it became to open her heart and share her soul with this gentle giant beside her. She immediately thought back to what Bast told her, how the journey of loving and accepting herself would make loving others that much easier. Bast is rarely wrong.

"Thank you. I needed to hear that... be reminded of that. T-there is just so much I would have done differently had I known what I know now… you know?" she responded as they broke their eye contact and continued uphill. Asha, being someone who did not train incredibly often, was beginning to feel the strain of this journey as the air grew thinner and the path steeper. M'Baku seemed perfectly capable and fine with the hike but she was starting to grow that uncomfortable stitch in her side that she usually got when she trained with T'Challa. 

"Yes, regrets are the price we pay for living. We all struggle with that… trust me. But it is not about how you lived before, but how you choose to live now. All those things you would do differently, you can do going forward. You have a bright future ahead, Asha. You have to just decide what you want to do with it."

Silence fell over the two; the only sounds were the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots, the random babble of animals moving through the trees around them as she contemplated his words. Asha went from having no real future at all to the one she always dreamed of. However, she now had to apply those dreams to her real life. She was no longer limited, chained in darkness with small fleeting glimpses of the sun. She was fully stepping in the light and she could finally bask in its warmth, serenity, and peace. Now that she was standing in the sun, she was not sure exactly what path she should forge. But she knew, a path without M'Baku was not a viable one. Where the light took her, she was determined to have him by her side loving and affirming her. 

The inner light now flooding Asha's life was only eclipsed by the darkness the forest plunged them in as they trekked farther up the mountainside. It was as ominous as the night before, possibly even more so since they both knew the sun was shining above the thick treetops. The rustles and chatter of the forest seemed to get louder as they went, M'Baku constantly raising his weapon and shielding Asha as if a monster was seconds away from emerging from the trees. Each step seemed to dial up the creepy meter of the whole journey, putting the two on edge. They were not deterred; at the top of this summit laid their destiny, their reason for being. They had no choice but to press forward, stomping out any anxiety or fear that tried to poke through their armor of confidence. 

"Do you like Jabariland?" M'Baku asked out of the blue.

Asha gave him a confused look from the corner of her eye, noting the way his hands fidgeted. Was he nervous? "It is gorgeous... the people were amazing. I felt more at home there... more at peace than I ever had in the Golden City. What is not to like?" 

"Yes, but could you see you-" he started to say before he cut himself off, raising his hand to stop her. The panther leading their way had stopped, halting in front of a break in the trees. Asha walked to stand behind it and saw them.

"Glory to Hanuman," M'Baku whispered, amazed that a childish dream and a hunch led them to this. The only two people in the world who could make it to this promised land. The herbs sat in the middle of the clearing, covered in thick clear ice. But nothing could diminish the distinct and almost magical purple glow of the heart-shaped herb. The purple glow reflected across the white snow as the bright sun shined down on the field, filled with more herbs than either could have dreamed of. 

"Bast... M'Baku, this is it. You were right!" Asha exclaimed, clutching his thick bicep. "W-we can save T’Challa, w-w-we can save the Black Panther." She hadn’t let herself get too attached to the idea that they were right, after all, it was a longshot. But here they were, staring their and Bast’s dreams in the face and it was glorious. 

The moment her foot connected with the hard Earth in the clearing, it started. It was soft initially, like faint distant whispers as several quiet voices invaded her ears. She pushed forward, ignoring them. Nothing would stop her now. With each inch forward, the voices grew louder and more unruly. Asha had no idea what they were saying, what they wanted. She knew it was all in her head but she understood why such a phenomenon would drive people away from this place. It was almost impossible to ignore and it was terrifying. A piercing pain started to spread through her skull as she tried to continue. Soon the pain, the symphony became too loud to ignore.  

"Ah!" she cried out as she fell to her knees, so close that a herb was within arm’s reach.

"Asha!” He had been watching from the tree with the panther and rushed forward when she hit the ground. He was at her side in record speed. He clutched her face, rotating her head in his hands as tears streamed from her eyes. He examined her head and body finding no obvious injury, realizing that the voices they were warned found their next victim. 

She whimpered slightly from the pain, unable to speak as it became too much to handle.  He felt his world crumbling at her pain and distress. He wondered if his hypothesis was wrong. Had he brought her all the way here, pumping her soul with false hope with every mile only to push her into a world of pain? 

"Asha... It's gonna be ok... Go back and I will get the herb. It is ok, you have done more than enough," he whispered, offering more encouraging words as he helped her to her feet. The pain had yet to subside, she was not sure if she had experienced agony such as this before. But as she started to walk back toward safety, the black panther, a casual and quiet guide up until this point, brandished its teeth at her and growled deeply. Its body blocked the way back toward the trees, forcing her to stay there. As if a cue, more panthers emerged from the trees surrounding them, pacing so neither could retreat. M'Baku, deciding that the sooner they had an herb in hand, the sooner they would be allowed to leave, reached to pull one out of the Earth. However, he pulled and pulled but its roots were unmovable. The ice casing around the herb was too thick to break and remove the herb from its flower and the ground was too hard to rip the flower from the soil. He tried everything he had in his arsenal while whatever magical properties inhabiting this mountain brought his all-powerful partner to her knees. 

Asha pushed through her pain and watched him struggle with the plant, a realization dawning on her. There was a reason it was the two of them and no one else. Further proof that their survival depended on each other, that their destinies were intertwined long before they knew of each other's existence. He got them here and now, she had to do her part.

"I-I h-have to melt th-th-the ice, M'Baku. W-we can’t t-take them frozen l-like… this. I c-can do it," she pushed out, her breathing labored as she tried to overcome the pain and channel her powers. 

M'Baku immediately shook his head, "Asha... you were on death's door not even a full 48 hours ago, you are not strong enough to use your powers like this yet." 

Asha shook her head, "I made it up this m-mountain. This is my purpose, I c-cannot.... I w-will not fail.” She crawled closer to the herb and sunk her warm hands into the thick snow around the herb closest to her. 

“Bast, give me strength," she whispered to herself. She closed her eyes and channeled all the fire, the heat in her being down into her palms and fingers. She imagined the field in her mind and pictured projecting that heat outward like a blanket. Her labored breathing grew as she fueled all the power in her body into the ground beneath her. the heat from her internal flame slowly melting the clear ice protecting each herb. 

Asha grew concerned, as she tried to melt all the herbs that she did not have enough energy for this task. She could feel her steam running out. Thankfully, the ice transitioned to water on the last herb just as her body grew cold, void of any flames. As soon as the last herb thawed, Asha's eyes fell closed slowly, her body slumping into the snow as her mind succumbed to the voices and tumbled into her past. 

T'Challa and Asha circled each other on a deep blue training map, the 10-year-old pushing her exhaustion aside to train with her older brother. She and T'Challa went blow for blow for a few minutes, trading hits as they danced across the training floor. She had gotten surprisingly better since they started training together, improving far more in their secret limited sessions than her actual training. She was small and quick, which helped her keep up with him even though he was clearly more skilled and stronger. 

A few minutes of skillful fighting and she found herself on her brother's back, arm around his neck holding him in a chokehold. "Yield!" she demanded playfully. 

"Never," he retorted as he flipped her over his head and forced her to the ground. He did it as slow as possible, as to not actually hurt her. She rolled on her back for a few minutes, catching her breath before standing again and starting the process over. 

Their second fight went similarly. However, Asha suddenly felt different. She felt like another energy source coursing through her veins. She figured it was merely a second wind to help her fight. It propelled her to fight harder than she usually did, forcing T'Challa to up his game. She and T'Challa circled each other before he lunged toward her again. She raised her hand to block his first attempt when he jumped back unexpectedly, dodging with grace toward the side. Bewilderment filled her eyes until she saw a line of fire separating the two siblings. 

"A- Asha... what is going on?" he asked tentatively as he pushed himself to stand.

Asha looked down at her hands to find them covered in flames. "Oh my bast!" She dropped to the ground and tried to stomp them out by banging her hands on the floor, but they wouldn't die. Her hand felt fine, she did not feel the agony of being on fire and yet she was. "T'Challa... what is happening to me??" she cried, panic setting in as she stared at this peculiarity.

"I do not know. But stay calm, I will get baba. It will be alright Asha."

Asha sunk to the ground, tears streaming down her face as she watched her hands and, unbeknownst to her at the time, her future burn right before her eyes. 

The training room dissolved, her father's office replacing it as Asha sat, hands back to normal, next to T'Challa as he tried to calm her down. He rubbed comforting circles into his young and extremely distraught sister's back as they waited for their father to speak. Her father paced by his desk, throwing agitated looks at his daughter every few minutes, making her feel as though she had done something wrong. 

"She is one of them. A mutant," he spat out with disgust. 

"So what do we do?" their mother asked quietly from the other side of the office, keeping a healthy distance from her now dangerous daughter. "You have campaigned against mutants in our borders for years. This will look like hypocrisy." 

"We do nothing," T'Chaka hissed. "We do nothing, we say nothing. No one can know about this." 

T'Challa stood, a look of disbelief painted on his face, "How do you expect to keep this a secret? She is a princess? It is not like you can just hide her away." 

"No, that is exactly what we are going to do. She almost killed you, T'Challa! Her powers are uncontrollable. We will find a way to suppress them until she is old enough to control them. Until then, she will not leave the palace," her father decided resolutely. It was not lost on Asha how they all spoke about her as if she were a mere object and not a person sitting right in front of them. 

She shared a scared look with her brother before the scene changed again. She was now sitting on her brother's bed as he prepared for his 18th birthday party. They had been laughing and joking around, until their father appeared in the doorway. 

"Yes baba?" he asked. 

"You look good, strong. Please finish quickly. It is not good to be late to a party in your honor." Asha wanted to shrink herself or have the floor dissolve her as her father's eyes scanned the room. In the last three years, she found the best way to survive in her home was to simply avoid her father at all cost. At least then, he could not verbally castigate her for merely existing. 

"Asha!" he barked, "What are you doing?" 

Asha hung her head, "I was just helping T'Challa get ready. I will go back to my room." 

He nodded, "Good. We cannot have anyone seeing you wandering around during the party. Go now." 

"Yes, baba." Asha climbed off T'Challa's bed and started to walk toward the door. "Happy Birthday, T." She gave him a tight hug and a wide smile, mainly for his benefit. She did not want him worrying about her on his big birthday and knew he was already concerned about leaving her without her only advocate when he went away for university. That smile carried her until she was out of the view of his door and down the hallway to her own room. 

 Her brother's room disappeared as an intense argument in the royal gardens formed, Asha face to face with Hasani.

“What is the issue? It is just a date outside this Bast forsaken palace?" 

An adult Asha tried to let him down easy, gave all the excuses her father outlined for her and he refused to accept any of them. It was almost as if he wanted to catch her in a lie. "I cannot leave. I would feel more comfortable if we just stayed in." 

"No! I want to go on a real date outside of this palace. Today!" he demanded rudely. Asha scoffed silently. She knew the courting dates were part of the royal deal, her dad's attempt to pawn her off on someone else. However, she did not need to put up with another verbally abusive man in her life, her father was more than enough. 

"Perhaps we should just chat another day? You seem upset, Hasani and I do not wish to upset you further. You know your way out, yes?" she said politely, deciding to deescalate the situation before it grew out of control. She turned away from him slightly, preparing to walk out of the gardens. 

"No!" A hand enclosed around her wrist and yanked her back. His grip was so tight that Asha knew a bruise would blossom on her wrist later. 

"Hasani, you are hurting me! Let me go!" she whispered, trying to avoid a scene as she failed to tug her hand out of his grip. She looked around for a passing Dora, cursing herself for telling Alexis that she did not need to watch over her during this date. She could feel the Panther beating against its cage, determined for release as someone attacked its owner. Even with the rings donning each of her fingers, she knew the flames were growing to uncontrollable levels. "Hasani, I do not want to hurt you, please let me go!" she begged, knowing that this was not headed in any good direction. 

He scoffed, "What could you do to hurt me?" 

As if on cue, sparks flew out of her hands, one hitting him right on his wrist causing him to jump back several feet. Fire shot out of her extended hand, drawing a line between them to protect her. 

"W-w-what the fuck? I-I knew you weren't sick!" he cried, outraged. 

Asha's hands clamped over her mouth in shock as she tried to approach him and make this right. "Hasani, please! I-it is not what it looks like!" But it was too late, he was off, Asha knew, to tell his mother who was meeting with her father in his office. She took off running after him, knowing that whatever happened next... she would certainly pay for this. 

She was back in her father's office, Asha arguing with her father who refused to listen. "But I do not love him, baba! And he doesn’t love me! H-he hates me! H-he treats me horribly. You cannot expect me to marry him!" 

"I don't particularly care if you love him or not. Sometimes arranged marriages are a necessary part of being royalty. You were the fool that showed your… disease to him. These are the consequences."  

Asha threw up her hands, anger causing tears to stream down her face as she defended herself for the 100th time for the incident that thrusted her into this mess. She shared an exasperated glance at her brother and sister, the only two people who were ever on her side. "It was an accident, baba! I swear." 

She knew she messed up, she regretted it everyday but she didn’t deserve this. She especially didn’t deserve the bloodied cut and bruise on her face, the reason her brother dragged her to her father’s office to demand the engagement be called off. It took Asha, Okoye and three other Dora to pull T’Challa off Hasani after he happened to walk in on an argument between the couple right as the back of Hasani’s hand connected with Asha’s cheek. It was the first time he had ever done such a thing and Asha knew it would be last since her brother made it clear he would not live to tell the tale if he touched her like that again. 

"Sometimes I think you are determined to destroy this family and everything I built," he said as he settled behind his desk. "It is like you do not care if this family survives."  

If he had slapped her in the face, that would have been less painful. "How could you say that?" she whispered, the hurt clear in her words. 

"Baba! Please!" T'Challa said, no longer a young boy now but a grown man who refused to let anyone, even his beloved baba, attack his sister. He pushed Asha behind him as if he could act as a physical barrier between her and their father's verbal abuse. He, of course, knew it was too little too late to protect her from him but he tried to mitigate where he could. "Asha is not trying to destroy us by refusing to marry an abusive man. You did not hear the way he spoke to her. Why would you want her to marry a man who cares so little for her? Who is blackmailing our family into it? He has already proven that he has no self-control or respect for her. If you think those bruises were a one-time incident, you are mistaken. These lies have gone far enough, it cannot be worth it anymore." 

"Enough!" King T'Chaka yelled, silencing his disobedient and reckless children. "T'Challa, you will stay out of it. You will be king one day but that is not today. And Asha, you will marry Hasani. You are lucky I was able to find this man for you. He is of royal blood, far better than you could have hoped for. Now, T'Challa and I will be leaving for Sokovia in a week's time. I suggest you take that time to accept this. I will not have this conversation with you again." 

Asha nodded softly, her "Yes baba" so despondent and quiet that it broke T'Challa's heart. She shrugged off his comforting hand from her shoulder and raced out of the room. Asha rarely left her dad's office without tears clouding her vision, today was no different. 

Asha woke among the dirt and swaying grass of the Ancestral Plane. Her second visit was far less confusing, almost as if she expected it. Bast did say she would see her again so she supposed this was that time. And this time, she knew she was not actually dead, which offered a small comfort. 

She stood up and dusted the dirt off the long white dress with gold trim now hanging over her shoulders. Her bare feet sunk into the soft dirt as she walked toward a tree overflowing with black panthers. She did not need prompting, did not need Bast to lead her way. The path, the course forward, who she needed to speak to was as clear as day. She did not get very close before one jumped down from a high branch and landed in front of her. 

Baba, she thought to herself. Sure enough, she watched as the panther quickly turned into a man... her father. 

The two simply stood there, feet apart and stared at each other. He looked smaller than he did in life. He was never a big person, but his presence made up for what he lacked in stature... strong and intimidating. She never got to see the gentle King everyone else adored and worshiped. She had always only gotten the worst of him. She could not deny the small part of her that was filled with the urge to rush forward and hug him, the part that was still desperate for his approval and his love. But the larger part forced her feet to stay planted like a tree firmly in the same spot. She expected there to be more resentment toward him. What once was a burning inferno seemed more like a small contained fire, still present and noticeable but not all consuming.

"Why are you here... again?" he asked. 

"That seems to be a question for Bast, not me... I found a new garden of the Heart-Shaped Herb and when I thawed it, I passed out. And I guess she brought me here." 

"You found a new garden?" He did not even try to hide the surprise in his voice. 

Asha scoffed, bowing her head slightly, turning away from him to study the horizon and the pale yellow and orange sky. "Always a tone of surprise. Apparently, Bast doesn't hate me or my kind as much as you did." 

"I never hated you Asha." 

"Really? You could have fooled me. 15 years... 15 years, you treated me like a prisoner, like I was nothing to you. If you did not hate me, you certainly didn't love me. It does not benefit either of us to pretend otherwise," she added coldly. If she was going to speak to him, it would be rooted in honesty, not historical fiction to sugar coat his actions simply because he died. 

"I did not know how to deal with a child who was more powerful than I. Bast told me you were destined for great things and I refused to believe it. I was so obsessed with the mantle of King that I lost sight of... well, everything. I have had much time to think since being here." 

"Yes, I would imagine death gives you all the time in the world to contemplate your failings," Asha responded, that small fire of resentment showing in her words, regardless of how she tried to contain it. The beautiful and serene terrain of the Planes did nothing to counter the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. She did not know what she expected from a conversation with her father but this was lacking. But she wondered if every conversation would; after all he could not come back from the dead and redo her childhood. His damage was set in stone and no words would fix it. 

"What will you do now?" 

"I will take the herb down the mountain and save your golden son and your tribe from being uprooted. That is all T'Challa and I seem to do lately, save our country from your failures. I will save your country, as Bast destined it. And then, I will find my place in that country, the place you selfishly denied me for decades," Asha responded. 

T'Chaka nodded sadly, "Can you forgive me? I was not perfect in life. I made so many mistakes that forced you and T'Challa down paths that almost led to Wakanda's destruction. If I could go back, if I could have a chance at life anew, I would do so much differently. I did not hate you, I hated your powers and what they represented. But for you, I am sure that distinction means little. I failed you as a father... I failed you as your King and unfortunately, my realizations came too late. I can't fix it; I can't make it up to you. But I can apologize… and I am so sorry. Truly." 

Asha did not hate her father, that was true. She did not know if she loved him either. But she had finally lost almost all the anchors of her past life, this was the final one. No amount of harbored resentment would fix his mistakes. Hating him until the end of her days, refusing to forgive until she was in a tree in the Planes next to him would not give her the life and childhood she desperately had wanted and deserved. She knew she needed to learn how to move on, to stop being weighed down by the past. She did not need to love her father to forgive him. She could not carry this pain, this resentment into her new life. She deserved to be light, not weighed down by someone else's failures and insecurities.

"A king who admits his faults? Quite the rarity." She refused to look at him, still studying the horizon, "You know I used to pray to Bast to take my powers, take my life, take everything so that you could love me. So that you could look at me as you looked at T'Challa and Shuri, with love, adoration, and hope. I wanted that so bad for so long that it almost killed me. Everyday felt like a festering wound that just would not heal. Your ego allowed me to wake up every day without hope, without light. Y-you caused that and, to be honest, I never thought I could forgive you for it. For planting seeds of hatred so deep in my heart that I started to believe them to be my own thoughts, my own insecurities." 

She turned to face him finally, "But I cannot live that way anymore. I have finally started to uproot those weeds and my soul is so light," Asha sighed as tears sprung to her eyes, "that sometimes it feels as though I could fly away. I will never again be weighed down by the hatred you sowed nor the hatred your actions sowed in me for you. I will never feel for you as your other children do, but I do not need to hate you. I appreciate your apology and I forgive you."

 "Thank you. I wish I could be there... to see the new garden," he whispered. "I wish I could be there to right so many wrongs." 

"You are right where you need to be, T'Chaka," an angelic voice interrupted. They both turned to find Bast behind them. T'Chaka bowed slightly, stepping aside so the Goddess could approach. Asha stood tall as Bast stood directly in front of her, her face beaming with pride and joy. 

"So, you solved my riddle?" Bast asked. 

"Yes, but you couldn't have made it easier?" 

"Well... There is just no fun in that. I am so proud of you, Asha. You fulfilled your destiny and Wakanda's future, that was once destroyed, is now like that garden: overflowing and teeming with life and hope. That is because of you and Lord M'Baku. Now I have a few final requests of you before you return to your life, if you do not mind?" 

Asha raised her eyebrow, knowing the only acceptable answer was yes. She just nodded and waited for Bast to proceed. 

"One, keep the Garden where it is. There will be a desire to move them to the Hall of Kings. But that mountain will serve as the bridge that connects the Jabari to Wakanda and the Black Panther. It must stay where it is to thrive. Two, you are learning about your powers, finally understanding and controlling them. Do not let another living soul limit them again. Three, love is overflowing in your life. It has not always felt like it, I know, but I hope you feel it now. Do not lose sight of the love you have, the family you have, as you settle into the mountains with your new one. There is space for it all." 

Asha wrinkled her nose, laughing lightly. "Family in the mountains? M'Baku and I certainly are not there yet. Besides, I still need to find my place here." 

"Of course... your place in Wakanda just may have a bit colder climate than you think, Asha Udaka," Bast mused. "It is time to go now. I expect I will not be seeing you again until your life has run its course, but worry not. You have a long and vibrant life ahead surrounded by those you love and who love you immeasurably." 

Bast wrapped Asha into a hug so loving, so tender that only a Goddess could conjure such a thing. So much waited for her on the other side, and for the first time, she could not wait to get back to them. 

***

Tag List: @destinio1 @muse-of-mbaku @jellybean531 @skysynclair19 @ashanti-notthesinger @gloriousgam3r @archivistofwakanda @leahnicole1219 @mygirlrenee @dramaqueeenamby

#black panther fandom #black panther #Black Writers #black panther fanfiction #black panther imagines #m'baku x reader #m'baku imagine #m'baku x oc

[silver-lily-louise]

Novelty

‘You come in here, with your brand-new magic and your flirting – what, like you care about me? Like I’m not just the blink of an eye, now that you’ve got your magic back? Now that you’ve got centuries again?’ Magnus risks letting out a tendril of magic, resisting the urge to groan at what he finds - because he’s a damned idiot, and this time, it might just get him killed. 

Set between 3x14 and 3x15. Magnus pays Alec a visit during a very bad day at the office.  (Slight non-con warning: see AO3 notes for details.)

Read it on AO3, or below!

~oOo~

The fire message from Alexander is unexpected, but welcome, and Magnus smiles as he puts down his book of Tennyson poetry. ‘Apologies, Chairman,’ he says, moving the cat off his lap and rolling his eyes at the complaining mroww he gets, as if Magnus has just dropped him fifty feet onto concrete instead of moving him a matter of inches onto the other couch cushion so that he can swing his legs around and stand up. ‘Yes, all right. Take it up with the one who summoned me.’

He twists his arm in his usual flourish – ignoring the brief throb of a headache, it’s fine, it’s an adjustment period is all – and steps through the portal, straight from Alec’s bedroom and into his office. ‘Well, this is a lovely surprise,’ he purrs, walking over and looping his arms around his boyfriend’s neck. ‘Did you need something? I wasn’t expecting to see you until dinner time.’

‘No, I’m on a coffee break and just wanted to see you – I wasn’t expecting you to portal over here so quickly,’ Alec says mildly. ‘Didn’t fancy the walk?’ ‘Says the man who sent a fire message from one side of the Institute to the other,’ Magnus teases. ‘Besides, what’s the point of having magic if you don’t use it?’ He steps forward, until the warmth of Alec’s chest against his can chase away the nagging anxiety in his lungs, can quell the rebellious spark that he knows has made him more magic-dependent in the last few days, after spending far too long feeling so weak without it. ‘And for another thing,’ he says, snapping his fingers with a smirk, the lock on the office door audibly clicking. ‘What was it you said the other day about enjoying every moment?’

‘Right,’ Alec says – and he looks a little distracted, but before Magnus can worry too much about that their lips are suddenly together, and he mentally shrugs, waving it off as telegraphed intention and closing his eyes, leaning into the kiss with a pleased hum. Alec walks them across the room, Magnus stepping backwards trustingly, assuming that they’re heading over to the small couch for a comfortable place to sit – And immediately being proved wrong as Alexander pulls away from the kiss, Magnus’ eyes flying open in confusion and displeasure. ‘Alexander, is something wrong?’ he asks, stepping forward –

And stumbling as he runs into an invisible wall.

He looks down at his feet, the outlines of a now-activated containment circle glowing a faint red, and his heart sinks even as he looks back up at Alec, a thread of anger pulling his expression taut and controlled. ‘Alec, what the fuck-‘ ‘Quiet,’ Alec growls – and Magnus obliges, because if he talks again it might move his adam’s apple further into the seraph blade that’s suddenly pointed at it. ‘You come in here, with your brand-new magic and your flirting – what, like you care about me?’ Alec huffs an unimpressed laugh, and Magnus’ stomach turns because something is horribly, horribly wrong. ‘Like I’m not just the blink of an eye, now that you’ve got your magic back? Now that you’ve got centuries again?’

He turns away, stalking around the circle – and Magnus risks letting out a tendril of magic, resisting the urge to groan at what he finds because he’s a damned idiot, and this time, it might just get him killed. Because this isn’t Alec, and if he’d walked in here with his own magic instead of the sorry, half-fitting replacement Lorenzo gave him, he’d likely have known it the second he walked in. Now that he’s actively looking for it, the brief trail of possession in the air is almost painfully obvious.

He swallows, trying to keep himself calm. Stall. ‘That’s not true,’ he insists, warily keeping to the opposite side of the circle from Alec, as far away as he can get in the limited space. ‘And if you were yourself right now, you’d know that. I love you, Alexander.’ ‘No!’ – and there’s the seraph blade at his throat again, flickering a little rosily with the demon’s influence, and Magnus has the bizarre thought that this is what comes of dating someone so tall because Alec doesn’t even have to step into the trap to reach him, can stay outside of the circle and remain invulnerable to Magnus’ magic. Alec’s expression crumples, and if the situation were different, it would twist Magnus’ heart to see. ‘Am I even gonna go in your box?’ Alec whispers. ‘Why would I? A Shadowhunter, a descendant of the Circle; someone who’s fucked up at every damn opportunity and cost you everything, more than once.’ He laughs, and it’s a broken, mangled thing, his blade shaking as he withdraws it once again. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before. This isn’t real, is it? That’s why you haven’t called it off – because it doesn’t matter, because it’s not a relationship. I’m just something for you to play with until the novelty wears off – in a decade or two, if I’m lucky.’ His eyes harden, his posture turning stiff and angry. ‘Well, you know what? I’m done with it. I’m done letting you use me like that.’

‘That’s not true,’ Magnus says again, well-aware that he sounds a little desperate now but fuck it, he’s losing him – and with a silenced, locked door between him and help, and Magnus’ new seed of magic still too weak to break out of this trap, talking’s the only that might, maybe, get them both out of this. ‘Alexander, please. Listen to me.’ He keeps his voice encouraging, gentle – he’s not afraid to be on the verge of begging, if that’s what it takes. ‘You’re not a novelty. You’re not just something to pass the time. Think about it for a moment; we’d only just had our first kiss, and when Valentine’s men descended, I surrendered, because I couldn’t bear to see you hurt. Or how about when your soul got lost in the parabatai bond, before we’d even had our first date?’ Alec’s looking at him again, now, and Magnus steps forward a little, encouraged. ‘You must remember me saying how Raj tried to stop me, tried to make me leave? I attacked him, Alexander. I might have killed him if I had to, because all I wanted was for you to be safe.’

He smiles, not fighting the tears that spring to his eyes, because gods, if he screws this up, he’s dead and Alec won’t be much better off, devastated by a guilt and a grief Magnus knows intimately and wouldn’t wish on anyone, let alone his Alexander. ‘Whatever that voice in your head is telling you, Alexander, it isn’t real,’ he implores. ‘This is real. We are real. I haven’t stood by you throughout our hardships because you’re temporary, I’ve done it because I love you.’ He lets out a long, shuddering breath, forcing himself to open his arms in a gesture of trust, of welcome. ‘Please, Alexander. Fight this. Come back to me.’

Something flickers across Alec’s expression, and Magnus’ heart skips a beat. But then Alec is shaking his head, drawing back the blade, and shifting his stance in a way Magnus has seen too many times not to recognize as going in for the kill. ‘No,’ Alec says – and there’s no hurt or doubt, now, just anger and determination. ‘I’m done being some fleeting amusement for you. And you’re gonna regret not taking me seriously.’

The blade flashes and Magnus somehow finds a smile, tries to find the words for I’m sorry and I love you and I forgive you – And then there’s a splintering sound behind him and a blur in front of him, a dagger sinking into Alec’s wrist and the seraph blade dropping from his grip as he howls in pain – and then there’s someone at Magnus’ side, ripping another blade through the containment circle and gods, Magnus never thought he’d be so happy to see Jace Herondale as he is right now. ‘Thank you, Blondie,’ he says – and then he’s pouring all of his fading adrenaline into his magic, forcing Alec down to his knees and holding him fast and safe.

His captive struggles for a moment; but then his face clears from fury into a smug smile, his eyes flooding with black as the demon drops the charade. ‘If I go, I’m taking him with me,’ it hisses. Magnus can practically feel Jace tense up beside him, but he pushes down his own instinctive thrill of fear in favor of an eye roll. ‘Nice try, but you’re nowhere near that powerful,’ he scoffs. ‘And I’ll be taking my boyfriend back now.’ He twists his hands, and grins as he feels the demon give way, its attempts to hold on inside Alec futile. ‘Buh-bye.’

Gray smoke billows into the room, blinking into existence around Alec – and with another lazy wave of Magnus’ hand it’s turned to ash a moment later.

He drops to his knees, taking the weight as he lets the magic go and Alec slumps forward, unconscious. ‘I’ve got you,’ he whispers; and he closes his eyes, allows himself just a moment of relief because it’s over. ‘I’ve got you. It’s all right.’ A quick magical scan reveals no injury – besides the wrist, of course, which he quickly heals – and so he takes a deep breath and stands the both of them up, glancing over when Jace silently slips under Alec’s other shoulder. ‘Excellent timing on your part,’ he comments, summoning a portal with his last scrap of energy and swiftly dismissing the swell of irritation at how easily his magic drains itself these days. ‘I’m guessing you felt the possession in some way?’ ‘Not exactly,’ Jace says, pausing for a moment as they step through into Alec’s room, and between them get him laid out on the bed. ‘I think I felt a bit of it, but mostly, what got my attention was his reaction – you know, underneath it, the real him that was trapped behind what the demon was doing.’ ‘Oh?’ Magnus asks, taking a seat up by the headboard and resting a hand in Alec’s curls, pleasantly grounded by the touch. ‘Yeah,’ Jace says, and when Magnus looks back up at him, he’s caught by a grave, intense gaze. ‘I haven’t felt fear like that from him since the day the Soul Sword went off.’ ‘…Oh.’ Magnus nods slowly, the weight of that not lost on him. ‘I see.’

Jace nods back in acknowledgement, gently clapping Alec’s shoulder as he gets up and heads for the door. ‘I should probably go tell Izzy what happened,’ he says. ‘Let us know when he wakes up, okay?’ ‘Of course,’ Magnus says, and then Jace is gone and he’s alone with Alec once more.

With no-one left to hide from, he closes his eyes, and waits for the ringing in his ears to go away.

Judging by the light in the room, it’s not long before there’s a shifting at his side, and Magnus opens his eyes again. ‘Alexander?’ he calls softly, leaning forward and twisting until he’s facing his boyfriend, one hand cradling his face as the other reaches out for one of Alec’s hands. ‘Are you with me?’ Alec’s face scrunches briefly – and then his eyes squint open, his mouth twitching up into a half-smile. ‘Hey,’ he mumbles. Magnus’ relief bolsters his exhaustion, but it’s welcome nevertheless. ‘Hey. How are you feeling?’ ‘Fine,’ Alec says; and Magnus lets him get away with the white lie, doesn’t even comment when Alec sits up and immediately winces, blood rushing away from an abused head and through muscles that must be aching. ‘What happened?’ ‘What do you remember?’ Magnus says, in lieu of an answer.

Alec frowns. ‘I was in my office?’ He looks back at Magnus – and that must be enough to trigger some kind of memory, because his face instantly falls, shock draining his color, worried hands reaching out and stopping just shy of touching. ‘Oh god, it – Are you okay? Did I hurt you?’ ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Magnus says, smiling as if to prove it, holding up a hand to forestall any other concern, the other briefly cupping Alec’s jaw in a gesture of reassurance. ‘Everything’s okay, I promise. I’m guessing you remember the possession, then?’ ‘Only – only bits and pieces,’ Alec says, reaching out and lightly skimming a hand over Magnus’ arm. ‘How did you…’ ‘Jace,’ Magnus supplies. ‘Thankfully, I hadn’t magically sealed the door, only locked it. He broke in just in time.’ ‘Just in time,’ Alec echoes, and he lets out a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘You don’t have to be,’ Magnus says firmly. ‘It wasn’t you.’ ‘I know,’ Alec says unconvincingly. ‘But still, what I almost did, what I must have said-‘ ‘-Was not you,’ Magnus insists. ‘It was a demon twisting perfectly natural, harmless insecurities. That’s all.’ And he believes that, honestly, knows how possession will drive the tiniest grievances to outlandish extremes. But he’s not infallible, either, and he can’t quite help reach for his own reassurance even as he silently chides himself for doing it. ‘After all, I’m fairly certain you know that I love you, that you’re not just some distraction,’ he says quietly, glad not to be making eye contact anymore as he hears the levity fall flat. ‘Obviously, you must know how important you are to me, after all we’ve been through.’

It’s not a good piece of acting on his part, of course, and Alec sighs. ‘That’s what I said?’ He shifts a little closer, wrapping an arm around Magnus’ waist. ‘I’m sorry.‘ ‘Alexander, you don’t have to be, you don’t have to explain-‘ ‘But I want to,’ Alec insists. ‘Please.’ And Magnus isn’t sure he wants this conversation today, if ever – but it’s never been easy for him to refuse any request from a loved one, and so he nods.

Alec’s quiet for a moment. ‘I know that you love me,’ he says eventually, and something inside Magnus eases to hear that. ‘And I know that our – situation, our lifespans, don’t change that. It’s just… hard, sometimes. But it’s not on you to change anything,’ he adds. ‘It’s just something I have to wrap my head around. And it’s a good thing in a lot of ways, because I’m happy that you’ve been happy, you know? But that doesn’t stop the more… unhelpful feelings turning up sometimes, the – the insecurities, or whatever. Even though I know that what they’re saying isn’t true.’

He reaches over with his free hand and taps on Magnus’ thigh, asking for his attention, and Magnus obliges, turning back to face him. ‘I love you, and I know that you love me,’ Alec says again, a small, sad smile crossing his face. ‘That’s what matters. The rest is just… something that might take me a while to work through.’

Magnus returns the smile as best he can. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry I tried to rush it, before, tried to – explain away your feelings. I suppose I was just… afraid.’ ‘Afraid?’ Alec prompts, gently. Magnus shrugs. ‘I owe more than a few goodbyes to this topic,’ he admits. ‘Not their fault, of course - it’s a lot for someone to deal with, whatever kind of relationship may have been between us. But that’s why I got – defensive. Because I was afraid that…’ He trails off – but thankfully, Alexander knows him well enough by now that he gets the idea. ‘You thought it would be ‘too much’ for me, too,’ he finishes. Magnus lets out a single breath of mirthless laughter, looking down at the light playing off of his rings. ‘I know that’s not a fair reaction, and I honestly wouldn’t blame you if that were the case. But – well. It’s no secret that the possibility of losing you doesn’t leave me at my best.’

‘Magnus,’ Alec says softly, and he doesn’t speak again until Magnus looks back up at him. ‘It’s completely fair for you to want someone to stick around, to accept all of you – and when it comes to this issue, I’m gonna be that person. You’re not losing me over this, I swear.’ His tone is even, his gaze sincere, and Magnus lets himself get lost in that certainty, just for a moment. ‘Whatever I need to sort out in my own head, I don’t want you to be afraid that I’m gonna leave you over it. Because I honestly don’t ever see that happening – for any reason.’

And it almost makes Magnus feel a little bad, because Alec’s the one who’s gone through something awful today, and yet he’s also the one supplying the comfort – but nonetheless, he nods, tries to take the much-needed assurance to heart. ‘Okay,’ he says quietly. ‘I’ll try and remember that.’ ‘Good.’ Alec smiles, wider and more genuine.

Magnus can’t quite return it, this time, he’s still too raw from the day they’ve had - so instead, he leans in for a kiss. It’s a better demonstration of how he’s feeling, in any case.

~oOo~

#malec #malec fic #shadowhunters #shadowhunters fanfiction #shtv #shs #alec lightwood #magnus bane #jace herondale (appearing briefly) #mine

[sharpen-jadescythe]

A Little Bit of Ly’vell In My Life

Lord Ly’vell Autumnspire has a real gift for making people fall in love again.

I know what love is. There is someone I have strong feelings for that you all already know about. But they say every time you fall in love, it’s different. Today, it feels like one ‘amour’ of mine, as he would call it, is as deep, as beautifully aqua-blue as her hair, and as all-encompassing, as mighty and unstoppable as the ocean beneath me—let’s say if I was stranded on the raft of life? A lone man orphaned with hardly anything to call his own, trapped on the water’s surface? Yes, she would give me respite from the boiling sun, tempt me to give into the waves, be a merman swimming alongside her beautifully together. Jiroki’s great gift is to let me get lost in that magnificent, stormy soul of hers and transform myself in that way. But this second love with Ly’vell, it’s like the vast sky up above, air flowing in from all over. Carrying birds, pollen and all the infinitesimal stuff of life, salt, or tears—who knows. But it’s all his potential, all the hope of a new love for life in his smile, that takes us high, way up there. The way Ly’vell loves, I could stand on that rocking raft alone, then lift up on my toes and reach, get snatched up and away forever. Actually fly. Far, far off. Perhaps one day, up into the stars. That world of Ly’vell’s love is always above my head and it is as pale and serene as his mane of white hair, snow waiting to fall soft, just for us.

So this is in case you were wondering about my love life right now, if you’ve noticed I was also spending time with a certain handsome someone. Sky and sea, green sea or white sky—however I can get you to understand how there are two people in my heart; and I hope that I’ve come close. Love above me and love beneath. I am delighted by two wonderful people at the moment. And now, it’s time I told you about Ly’vell.

I’m a crazy, hiking, nature-loving Night Elf guy that likes to impulsively get up at o’dark thirty (ask another SI:7 Seal what that means sometime). What was I up to so early in the morning? I have a strong instinct to go hunting some days, and I think I stepped out of the portal in Stormwind, you know the mage tower? Right about at sunrise, I’d say. No other fools like me should have been up, let alone exist in all of Elune’s creation. Or so I assumed. The morning light—like I’d dreamed it, white as snow. And the stained glass windows also in the hall were starting to paint pastels on the floor at our feet. Ours. His fine leather boots, and then my dusky ones. I knew he was a rogue before I even looked at him. You have to get good at these things in a fight, and a part of your mind is always ready when you’re a soldier. But this other Night Elf man’s cologne made me look up his legs in a different kind of way, you know what I mean, and enjoy taking a good long look at him. Tall him and all that gorgeous white hair swept behind his strong shoulders. I let out a breath. We were passing by each other for only a fleeting moment and I had no idea what to say. You know that voice in your head that tells you someone is far too attractive to even bother with because surely they’re already taken or have something better to do? Someone other than you? Well, I’m Sharpen Jadescythe as you know, so I did my typical himbo-fumble-through-anything-at-all.

“Nice blades.”

I meant his daggers. I instantly felt like a complete idiot though because I knew he was a rogue, I felt sure he was, but those were definitely spell-blades. I’m a blacksmith, I make all kinds of weapons but magical ones have always eluded me. You need enchantments, special reagents, an affinity for spells. These intricately patterned, reddish-purple blades hummed with subtle energy that I could now feel between us. The cross guard was somehow split in two. These elegant pieces were one with the blade, yet not. They spun apart, then revolved back in, tight, as if a child were pulling them on a yo-yo string. I must have ended up watching Ly’vell’s hips like a cat. His hand rested lightly over the perfectly matched spell-blade on is right side, where it was hitched into his belt.

I looked up. I think we finally got to swapping our names by then. But Ly’vell was grinning at me like he knew far better what was going on. At the same time, I got the sense that I wasn’t going to get off that easy. Not to make a dirty joke, but seriously--in this barely discernable language that was only starting to build between us two men, a dialect of looks exchanged, resting on a back foot and holding back, the flicker at the edge of a smile, a subtle purr escaping one’s throat, Ly’vell was already telling me that it wasn’t going to be easy and it wasn’t free.

What’s my typical Sharpen energy, what I naturally put out there, then? That I’m completely free and easier than tripping over a rock to fall face-first? Into love, I hope. All I know for sure is that I cleared my throat several times. I wish to goddess I could remember exactly what we said other than it was about a dagger, or who got clever first, then who finally made it about romance or whatever we both honestly wanted to get up to, and at that early in the morning ontop of everything else. Goddess, we both must have been very horny to start falling into steamy conversation in the Stormwind mage tower! I believe it went from a compliment, to my knees feeling weak, and him pressing his advantage fast, somehow standing almost ontop of me, with his height. He must have learned pretty quickly that I was more like prey, not the gruff, outdoorsy ‘you comin’ or what?’ macho man I appear to be at first. I think that enticed Ly’vell. Oh, the tiny hippo-puppy (hippogryph hatchling) perched on my shoulder, a very endearing little detail might have given that away too, that I’m… well, a sweet guy. So there was that grin again, his special grin for me. Now it said, ‘Alright, I’ll make this easy for you, poor thing.’ Little by little, Ly’vell was finding out that I was the one who wasn’t an easy catch, that I hardly ever did things like this. Ly’vell took his time and found a very sophisticated way to communicate that he liked my body, was very much affected by my open shirt and the big gun I had slung over my shoulder. Nice.

“I like big guns too.”

No. I mean, yes. I, Sharpen Jadescythe, actually said that. And if you need even more juicy gossip, I think it was me who pulled himself together and finally asked Ly’vell if he’d like to go get a drink. Though, I think we both knew Ly’vell had laid down a treat and then patiently waited for this sweet, stray himbo to wander in and get it, let himself get petted. A lot like that too, I very nervously attempted to keep a steady walk by Ly’vell’s side through the park, all the way round to the Slaughtered Lamb.

The place was mostly empty which means our getting right down to flirting over drinks was actually pretty shameless. And then I kissed Ly’vell right in front of a passing Stormwind guard on patrol who’d just entered the place to keep an eye on things. Well, what an eyeful he got! I suppose the barman was pretty unphased by his patrons’ shenanigans. I’d survived the scene in the mage tower, and at the bar I managed to hold my own and tempt him with sweet gestures until that big, blaring one. I’m not sure what won Ly’vell over in the end that I wasn’t mutton dressed as lamb, while we canoodled in the Slaughtered Lamb (don’t mind my jokes), but maybe that was it? I guess I really did grab the other man and let him have it. Ly’vell was unbelievably sexy, especially for someone who was simply going about his daily business when we crashed into each other, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

Then, just as fast, I chickened out of anything else and made an excuse to get on with my day soon after that first kiss. But Ly’vell gave me a damned classy black calling card, it was enchanted or something—yes, he was a Highborne spellblade he explained. The card recorded our messages, and he had his own so we could easily keep up in touch, wherever his stray himbo tried to scamper off to.

This man was, still is, the epitome of class. Honestly, I’ve been wanting to keep Ly’vell to myself all this time and not let any of my friends find out about him because Ly is that wonderful. And he’s easy-going, deeply romantic, plain fun. But, I soon made friends with Ly’s husband Nils anyway (I so adore Nils), and now I think we’ve all met each other’s friends, almost. So too late to keep the lovely Ly’vell, my lion, totally to myself. I don’t know if I care about that or anything, anymore. Ever since coming across Ly’vell casually in the tallest tower in the city, at the weirdest hour of the day, over the simplest little thing that could have gone like any half-spoke compliment I’ve shared with a stranger passing by, and that turning into a powerfully romantic encounter? I thought I’d slam into a wall for trying. But no, I feel like he and I have been flying all this time. Eagles. Truly free.

At first, I was wary of jumping into anything with someone. However, Ly chased me down and seduced me with his kindness and steadiness. And a few well-made leathern outfits—I think you guys saw a couple of those pieces? I’ve shared at least one picture of me in that harness. These days, I invite Ly to way too many parties, I even introduced him to Trixany who is one of my closest friends and a complete nut. Goddess, I’m sure he’ll be sick of this glitter-covered himbo who’s got like twelve-hundred pets, and is constantly changing his bright hair before long. But I hope not. Ly’vell is so easy to love, and I’ve also loved him chasing me around, that is, until he caught me.

Ly’vell and I could lay down in a field, hold hands, and see the bright sky wash above us for hours. Hours upon hours, just like that. And be at perfect peace, too.

I know we could.

((I can’t believe Sharpen met someone hot and totally nice in the Mage Tower in Stormwind? Really? That was COOL.))

#sharpen-stories

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 23

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-two

Title: Choice

Words: 8200

Summary: When one is hurt, comfort is imperative.

ST Rambles: Hello! It has been nearly a month, not quite, but I have missed you all so entirely too much to admit. This story is my heart, and sharing it means the world to me. I took my first exam of the semester this morning and wanted to finish this chapter so I could upload prior to going to my first maternal-newborn clinical rotation on Saturday.

During my time away I have had the opportunity to read many amazing works, whether they be one-shots on tumblr or ficlets right on A03. One that has evoked such a strong response in me has been Three Blind Tooke by ElmiDol. She is a beautiful soul with such a gift for storytelling. I have quickly fallen in love with this story and I hope to encourage many of you to do the same.

My plan for the semester and writing is to take one week writing and then take one week to read the stories that I want. I think this will provide the necessary balance needed for me to be successful in school while also creating and enjoying other creator's content.

[MASTERLIST]

Time has always had a funny way of making itself scarce when needed most. It seemed that you could barely remember the trial, like it had never happened and all that remained to prove that it had were the restraints locked tight around each of your wrists and your neck. Above you sounded the molten, fatal buzz of the plasma guillotine, though it was mere background noise to the riotous cacophony of the rabid crowd awaiting your final moment. As you knelt, trembling against the icy durasteel, face frozen under cold-stuck tears, you tried and failed to settle into acceptance that this would be your last act of life.

“Please,” you whimpered, unsure if anyone could hear you, “I… I saved that man’s life. I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t deserve to die for keeping my oath.” You tried to scream but the pleads were barely whispers.

Out of sight came a bellowed laugh, full and ragged just as it had been in the past. “That isn’t why you’re here, young officer.” Snoke could hardly contain his glee. “You’re forgetting, you may have saved one life, but you took another.”

Nausea waved through you and your head started pounding; Snoke’s presence was pain, magnified with each echo of his words as the arena shook against the surround sound. An uproar of cheers and chanting came from before you, the crowd booming with enthusiasm, hanging off of every word their Supreme Leader spoke.

Through the fog of terrified eyes you saw an image appear behind the audience, scaling the entire back wall and striking you with rage. A scrollbar read something you could only assume to be his First Order given name, your focus too centered on the enormous projection of Robbie’s face, smiling while he held his helmet tight against his chest. He looked too nice, just as he’d seemed when you gave him a name. He was being renowned as a hero, his death marking you as the villain.

“I… He! I was defending myself, he was going to kill me!”

“But instead you killed me.”

This voice was angelic, familiar and welcoming in the storm surrounding you. It was accompanied by the footsteps you’d become so fond of, coming closer with every panted breath that fell from your lips. Kylo crowded your view of the blinding screen, a cape trailing in his path. He stopped when he was centered in your view and crouched so he was eye level with you.

He wore no mask, nothing to conceal his beautiful visage as the sight of him constricted your heart. When was the last you’d seen him? It felt like it had been so long, yet you could barely grasp any concept of time. It was frustrating, like you were barred in your memory. Kylo’s face gave no indication into his emotions, yet for a fleeting moment you swore you saw a tear glint over his cheek.

“Yet another of your victims, yes?” Snoke remained hidden, his voice shifting between your ears, slithering like the snake he was.

“You made me! I had no-,”

“Choice.” It was a discordant wrath of voices; at first Kylo’s, then Snoke’s, trailing off with the whispers of Robbie’s and Mason’s.

Kylo brought one hand, bare and freezing, to your cheek. It hadn’t been there before, but his face was now split with the consequences of battle, a gash – open, pulsating, and weeping – ripping through his features. A shiver sank into you, you throat tightening.

The way in which he next breathed your name made you weep, his thumb catching the tear that burned into your skin. “You’ve always had a choice, remember? You just keep making-,”

“The wrong ones.” You finished his sentence, remembering the first time he’d said it. A futile attempt was made to reach for his hand, a sting coming as the restraint bit into your wrist.

The crowd was growing impatient, hordes of screams coming from behind Kylo’s shoulders. The screen behind him shifted to present the live cast of your suffering, the view suggesting that it was Kylo’s own eyes giving view to the onlookers, your face excruciatingly close, allowing every audience member to bask in the terror that plagued you.

You sniffled, nuzzling into his hand and looking between his eyes. He mimicked you, though his gaze was empty, just as it had been one of the last times you could remember seeing him. “I trusted you,” he said. “More than anything.”

Kylo began to leave you, his fingertips lingering just before he could take three steps backwards. The plasma blade above you began hissing louder with inevitability, your eyes squeezing shut as you awaited your sentence’s completion. Pain took root in your left upper thigh, a kind of burning as you continued to kneel. A string of agony tore through your throat as your eyes shot open to see Kylo’s hand shoot up.

“No, no! Please! Kylo, no!” You could see your face twist with desperation behind him now, tears willful in their presence as each one painted creaks of pain down to the durasteel.

Snoke let out another flood of evil-tinged amusement as Kylo turned his face toward the direction the sound came. “You still don’t understand, stupid girl.” Another bark of laughter. “You might have had a choice,” he said, “but your Master never did. Never will.”

And as they were spoken, you saw that crushing glimmer of humanity flicker in the face of Kylo Ren as he turned back to you. Snoke, infuriatingly, was right, of course. Hearing it out loud, accepting it as fact, calmed you down. Staring up at him, watching his fingers twitch, you spent your last remaining second pitying him for all the control he believed he had, knowing more than he did that it was a masterful mirage. Snoke had Kylo wrapped around his finger; you had only aided in tightening his grip.

More than anything. It was the last thought before you heard the overhead blade drawing near, its volume immense until it wasn’t. The next thing you were aware of was the overbearing smell of flatcakes wafting into your nostrils. Taking a few deep breaths, your attention went to the ache twisted into the back of your skull, the dryness sticking to your lips, and the warm weight present over your right leg.

Taking one more deep breath, you coughed, lungs feeling like they’d been stagnant for a while, rejecting the stretch of air. Light was obvious even as your eyes remained shut, its overwhelming presence leading you to blink a few times before adapting.

“Where am I?” you croaked out. Answering your question, you first saw the familiar polygon meal tray sitting atop a bedside table while your watch rested next to it, next catching view of the pulse oximeter resting over your left index finger. This was the medbay.

The first thing that came to mind was your dream, remembering Kylo’s wounded face. He was hurt. Where was he? Was he okay? The monitor to your left sounded louder as your heart rate accelerated. Warmth left your right leg as you saw something move in your periphery. A person.

Mason had been asleep, his hair stuck to his face when he first looked at you with shock and relief. “You scared me!” He sprung up from the chair he’d been sitting in and flung his arms around you. “The news about Starkiller came and I didn’t know where you were.” He hummed your name into your neck while rocking you back and forth. “I thought you were… I thought you had… I didn’t know…”

“Mason.” It was all you could think to say, your arms resting at your side as he kept his hold on you. Maybe you should’ve felt relief that he was here and that he was okay, but all you could feel was regret and an overwhelming sadness. Mason was none the wiser, but his very existence was a reminder of what you’d done, undeniable proof of the choice you’d made.

He finally leaned back, keeping his hand locked around yours and staring down at you with red-rimmed eyes. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his nerves settling more the longer he looked over your face. “I tried calling you—” a laugh accompanied the distant raise of his brows “—but I lost my commlink. I guess. I actually don’t know-,”

“What?” you interrupted his explanation, confused by his recall of events, wondering why Snoke wasn’t the focal point of his reasoning.

His face fell. “What? Did I say something? Are you hurt? Do you need water? Food? I actually ordered some flatcakes for me, but they’re all yours if you-,”

“You lost your commlink?”

His brow creased and his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Yeah? Yeah. I mean. I guess. It’s been crazy around here today and—” his face bloomed in horror “—oh, fuck! I didn’t mean that your day hasn’t been bad, I just. Yeah. I lost it.”

He didn’t seem like he knew anything about Snoke, or that he remembered ever enduring the pain you’d heard him scream through the communication device earlier – actually, how long had it been?

“So… There was nothing… I mean, you weren’t… Summoned? Or…?”

“Summoned?” Mason looked at you with amused confusion. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t give you any pain medicine, but you’re acting a little loopy.”

He didn’t know. He was blissfully ignorant to Snoke’s involvement in your or his life. Again, instead of relief you were met with that bleakness from before. “Maybe I was just dreaming,” you brushed it off.

Dreaming. Kylo. “I need to see him,” you mumbled, moving to stand and becoming extremely aware of your left leg once more. A hiss left you before Mason could pull your shoulders back against the bed, your hand reaching down to soothe the blanket-covered wounds.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Doctor Belkar wants to examine you before you start walking.”

“Belkar?” You couldn’t remember ever hearing that name, though your memory may not be the most reliable at the moment.

“I heard my name.” A man – shorter, skinny, and dark-skinned – peered into the door before knocking and stepping in. “Oh, good! Glad to see you’re awake. You had us worried there for a moment.” Belkar took a few more steps so he was on your left, clutching a datapad under his arm and smiling down at you. His presence was comfortable and professional. He seemed to possess a bedside manner not common of many physicians, and he’d barely even spoken.

Squinting towards his badge you found his first name. “Trace Belkar.” You sounded it out, feeling a faint sense of familiarity. Looking to his face, it finally struck you. “Oh! You’re, you are the one who… You helped me with my friend earlier.” Warmth set in your cheeks when you realized you knew him.

“Ah! My first surprise patient of the day. Funny how things seem to come full circle, isn’t it? Now-,”

Further realization hit. “You also helped me that night. I was the nurse who…” Maybe he didn’t remember who you were, and maybe he didn’t need to, given your actions that night were rather infamous currently.

“Yes! I knew you looked familiar seeing you yesterday. You are the nurse that saved my patient’s life. Great work that night, by the way. Fast-thinking, resourceful. Gives me hope for the next generation of medics.” A quick smile flashed across his face before he reached into his coat pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind following my finger with your eyes.”

It probably took too long for you to follow his request as you were taken aback by his praise for that night. The only emotions you’d ever attached to that it had been pain and fear, likely influenced by the way you were being reprimanded at the moment, thinking of that night as a crime rather than the miracle that it was for that man.

“Um, yes. Sorry.” You shook your head and followed the tip of his finger as he dragged it around – up and down, right to left, and finally in a diagonal cross.

“Any nausea, pain, weakness, dizziness, headaches?” His tone was absent while he traced his penlight in and out of sight to finish his PERRLA assessment.

“I’m really fine. This isn’t necessary at all.” You couldn’t stand being treated like a patient. Even when you were one. Knowing the inner workings of every check made it difficult not to see through their purpose. “I could probably leave now and I’d be fi-ah!” You’d tensed your wounded leg without thinking when shifting in the bed.

“How’s that leg treating you?” It seemed he was psychic in his assumptions, though you knew he’d probably had a nurse do a head-to-toe assessment while you were out.

Mason was puzzled when you looked over at him. “What’s wrong with her leg? She passed out. What’s wrong with her-,”

“Mason, will you go find me some water? And maybe a warm blanket? Please.” Your eyes were locked with Belkar’s as you quieted Mason, mindlessly squeezing his hand to encourage his leave. Mason did not need to see your brand. He wouldn’t understand, and you didn’t feel like having to explain to him, that you felt deserving of it and much worse.

There was a silent moment as you watched Belkar and felt Mason’s eyes before he squeezed your hand back and told you he’d be back soon. The door shut behind him and the quiet swallowed you.

“From what I read in your chart it seemed you’d given yourself a makeshift dressing. Your nurse was actually impressed at how well it was done. I do have some questions about the scars under it, though. If you don’t mind.” He seemed to know to tread lightly; his demeanor reminded you of the one you were instructed to use on abuse survivors.

You shook your head, but this only clued you into another pain. “Jeez! Ow!” Your hand fled to your forehead, finding a bandage sealed over a large bump. It was tender to touch, flinching as you remembered Robbie banging your head into the door.

Belkar took his datapad from under his arm and tapped away as you recovered. “There.” He pressed the screen once more before returning it to its original spot. “The nurse should be in here soon with some-,”

“I don’t want it.” You swallowed, dropping your hand and staring at your lap.

Belkar paused and shifted in his stance. He clicked his tongue, put his datapad down, and pulled up a chair. He called you by your last name, professional yet with a considerable amount of concern. “Will you tell me what caused your injuries?”

He was attempting therapeutic communication. And he was succeeding. An uncomfortable laugh left you. “What is there to tell? I’m hurt. In ways that aren’t physical. Ways that are.” Your lip began to quiver before you caught it with your teeth.

Another pause from Belkar. His hand twitched and your eyes jumped to it. He noticed this. “Can I hold your hand?”

The offer was tempting, but you declined by shaking your head and finally looking up at him. There were crinkles splayed outward from his eyes and gray hairs obvious in an overgrown stubble on his cheeks. He was a kind soul, you could tell; it was evident in his eyes, clear and green yet full of warmth. Soon after setting eyes on him you felt your throat thicken and your eyes water.

“You know,” you laughed, scraping at your eyes and sniffling, “I don’t even know what I’d say to any of the questions you mentioned before.”

A kind smile, no teeth, brought his cheeks up. “How about just one, then?”

“Yeah. One. I guess.”

He made sure your eyes were on his before he spoke again. “Do you want to report the person who did this to you?”

Another nervous laugh left. And then a sob before the heels of your hands met your face. “That’s not necessary,” you said through hiccuped words. Robbie’s face flashed into your mind’s eye, the pool of blood spreading below him before the door hissed shut. Your dream, the screen presenting his smiling face. “I… I don’t even know what to do anymore! I can’t… I have… I can’t fix this!”

Belkar squeezed your hand, bringing you back to reality. His face was blurry through your tears. “Slow down. Just breathe. Shh. Slow down.” He modeled how to do so, exaggerating when he took a deep breath through his nose.

After several breaths you closed your eyes and threw your head back on the pillow, keeping your hand in Belkar’s. “I’m sure you’ve seen the scars? Or read about them at the least, right? And then I know you were the one who caught me before I passed out so you obviously know who I work for.”

“Are those two things related?” He was trying not to assume anything.

“All that matters is that this—” you gestured to your head “—and this—” you placed a gentle hand over your wrapped thigh, petting a thumb over it “—are unrelated.” Belkar knew not to speak when you choked on your tears in search of words you weren’t even sure you wanted to say. “I was… Someone broke into my residence just before the explosion. And he.” You paused again, feeling Belkar’s grip tighten and relax over your trembling hand. You cleared your throat. “I was taken advantage of. He went down with the base. It would be pointless to report when the perpetrator is already dead.” Bloodied scissors flashed into your memory before you looked back up to Belkar.

He nodded, placing his second hand over yours. The warmth was welcome, and surprising. “Should I order an emergency contraceptive or a spermicide?” There wasn’t a fraction of discomfort when he asked the question. Complete care and professionalism. He felt safe.

“No, I don’t need that. I had a chip placed last year.” You ran your tongue over your teeth, swallowing before speaking again. “But, um. I was wondering if…”

“Yes?”

“Commander Ren,” you said, searching his eyes for judgment, “is he… How is he?” Your bottom lip would need to heal from chewing it so much.

Another warm, small smile lifted on Belkar’s face. “It’s admirable, your passion for his care. Even in your current state. Even with those wounds you only care about his wellbeing.” Fire bit at your face, your eyes falling back to the bed. “It’s the mark of a true healer. Setting aside your own pain to lessen someone else’s. Your patient’s.”

“Yeah, well,” you raised your eyebrows, “do you know how he’s doing?”

“Before I came in to examine you, I was actually on my way to see Commander Ren. Would you like to come with me?”

“I should probably…” You trailed off, finally feeling relief when thinking about seeing Kylo and avoiding Mason. “Do you think I can walk? How did the nurse say I was healing?”

Belkar scooted out from the chair and stood, offering you a hand for support. “I actually would prefer you start walking now to discourage clotting. It’s likely you can leave here tonight once its officially been twenty-four hours since your admission.”

He made sure to fix your gown so you weren’t exposed while standing before you could tie the lower fastener. He kept a hand lightly placed over your mid-back, the other now holding your hand. “How long has it been since I got here?”

He started you on a slow pace and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Robbie may have been the one to die, but death took residence in you; a bruise splotched out over your forehead, your hair flat and knotted, exhaustion shadowing your eyes. There were multiple bruises lining your arms, their origin a mystery, though you could only suspect a majority had come from the crowd of people you’d stormed through the stairwells with. The one injury you’d grown to cherish was masked by the ill-fitting white and grey patterned gown, the article most definitely shielding an additional multitude you were still unaware of.

“The Command Shuttle arrived soon after Starkiller exploded. Ren was transferred to medbay in less than a minute and began treatment within the next five upon arrival. You fainted before then.” He led you into the hall and began walking through the maze of bustling hallways. “You’ve been resting for nearly sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen. Stars.” The pain in your leg lessened the more you walked, seeing the faces of coworkers who last saw you that fateful night.

“We monitored your intracranial pressure for the first few hours, but it seems you were only severely exhausted and mildly dehydrated. Understandably, of course.” He took a familiar left turn and the entrance to the Elite medbay came into view. “I had entered orders to start you on oral antibiotic therapy as soon as you woke up, completely a prophylactic measure, but it won’t affect anything to hold off for now.”

Belkar swiped his badge across the scanner and the doors hissed open, your heart now thumping in your chest. The last time you’d seen Kylo, you’d assumed would be the last time. Even as you kept forward, nerves twisting your intestines, you couldn’t deny the need you felt to see him again. It scared you, though, imagining how he’d react to your presence.

“Um, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t think Commander Ren needs any more visitors than necessary.” You stopped Belkar just before he swiped to open the door to your Master’s exclusive medbay.

“It’s a good thing neither of us are visitors.” The door shot open. “We’re his providers.” Belkar stepped past the threshold. “He wouldn’t mind either way,” you followed in after him, hesitant while you stared down at the floor, “I placed him in a therapeutic coma to keep him from disturbing the stitching in his wounds.”

This news brought your eyes up as you entered the room and felt the door shut behind you. Kylo Ren, outfitted in the same gown as you, was supine on the bed, unconscious. Peaceful. His gown was left unsnapped at the shoulders, a blanket resting above his hips and tucked under his wrists. The assessment table had been replaced, an IV pole set up on his left side, a monitor reading off the contents and status of the three current running fluids: metronidazole, normal saline, and a third – separate – line running a bag of packed red blood cells. Kylo was breathing on his own, though there was an intubation kit ready on the bedside table, you noticed while routinely scanning the room for necessary emergency intervention equipment.

Belkar rid the distance between him and Ren, your own feet stopping just before the door. The physician looked at you with a creased brow but quickly dissolved his expression as he accepted your decision. After setting his datapad down he gently peeled back Kylo’s gown, resting it over the blanket and then gesturing towards him with his hands.

“The coma was a last resort,” he began. “Commander Ren was exhibiting signs of delirium when my team began his care. After nearly two hours of noncompliance I wrote a STAT order to initiate it.” Belkar sighed, this fact disappointing to him.

“When you say delirium…” Your hands strangled in and out of fists, nervous fingers smoothing over the fabric of your gown while you looked on at your sleeping patient.

The physician’s mouth had settled into somewhat of a pout, considering your question. “Ren’s health history was scattered and scant in the archives, virtually nothing resembling a family history. It was most likely the physical trauma that caused it, but…” Belkar turned his body to you while keeping his eyes on Kylo. “Whenever any of the nurses or techs would attempt to orient him during those first two hours he kept telling us he’s dead.”

A single step took you further from the door. “Was.. Did he ever say who he was talking about? A name?” This information confounded you, leaving you to wonder whose death could possibly matter so much to Kylo Ren that he’d recount while his mental defenses were weakened?

A deeper, more frustrated sigh left Belkar. “There’s been so little time and the staff is already so overworked with all the new admissions.” He uncovered one of Kylo’s legs and checked the placement and setting of the compression device wrapped around it. “I appointed a droid to sift through the archives to find anything, to see if there was any information on a Ben.”

“Ben?”

“That’s who we assume is dead, as he kept repeating.”

“You assume? What does that mean?” Another step and your eyes shot to the vitals monitor, seeing his heart rate was in the low fifties. Bradycardic, hence the fluids.

“The two phrases came sporadically. At times he would say the name, and whenever any of the care team would ask him who Ben was…”

“They’d suddenly be at a loss for words?”

Belkar’s mouth quirked for half a second, falling quickly when he shifted the blanket back to its original place. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He looked at you again, contemplating, narrowing his eyes. “I imagine you’ve endured such acts. I only assume given—” he gestured to your leg.

Heat flared in your cheeks and your pulse picked up. Swallowing, you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and crossed your arms. “Yes.” He didn’t seem to know why Kylo Ren had left his mark, only that he had. This brought you ease. “Yes, Commander Ren doesn’t have the best handle on his…anger. I suppose.”

Belkar swallowed, watching you. “Does he scare you?”

This caught you off guard, fingers biting into your arms when you took another step forward. “Does Kylo Ren scare me?” You took a few seconds to really think about it, feeling comfortable when you met Belkar’s eyes again, only a few paces from the bed now. “It would be counterintuitive to be afraid of my own patient.”

“Do you feel safe when you are working with him?” He was subtly attempting to screen you for abuse – well, further abuse – his face trying to hide the curiosity in his tone.

“Doctor Belkar, I do appreciate you’re worried for me. But it is misplaced. Now, would you tell me more about my patient, please?”

He was momentarily taken aback by your forward effort to change the subject. “I do apologize if my questions have made you uncomfortable. I noticed your hesitancy to be near him and thought-,”

“That’s unrelated, Doctor,” maybe in too harsh a manner, you bit his words off. You didn’t feel like telling the edited version of how you believed yourself to be the abuser when it came to Kylo, and you were sure Belkar, just as Mason, wouldn’t understand if you tried. “Will you please just tell me how he’s been doing?” A crack in your voice revealed how weak your defenses were.

The physician’s head nodded back slightly in understanding. Today was good for no one. Tensions were high. He knew you had just woken up after experiencing both known and unknown traumas. “Would you help me change his dressings while we discuss his care?” A truce, gentle and acknowledging.

Your shoulders fell with a breath you hadn’t realized was waiting to escape, your throat clearing when you walked to the drawers set up behind you. Activating one, you pulled out the necessary supplies and set them up as Belkar opened them. He walked you through the various monitors connected to Kylo – leeds stuck to his chest, a cuff around his upper right arm, the pumps over his legs, the IVs placed. He uncovered Ren’s pelvis and had you assess his catheter, mentioning the drainage bag below the bed. The antibiotics were prophylactic, just as yours would be; there had been too many unknowns around Ren’s injuries to not protect against potential sepsis.

When Belkar had completed his assessment – stopping to listen to breath and bowel sounds, motioning for you to do the same with the provided stethoscope to test your knowledge – you helped him fix the gown and sheets back over Kylo’s chest, your breath catching when your fingers brushed against his skin. The doctor tucked his datapad back under his arm and walked to the door, activating it before stepping out. However, you had remained at Kylo’s side, watching him as he slept.

“Doctor Belkar?” you called after him, not looking away from Kylo.

A sigh left him, this one fond. Kind. “A true healer.” He was thoughtful in tone. “Use the assistance indicator should you become faint. Should your friend inquire about your whereabouts-,”

“Tell him I’m okay—” you licked your lips as a tear slipped down your cheek “—tell Mason he can leave if he… Tell Mason he can leave.”

There was no response before the door hissed shut, allowing you to let free the whimper which had been stuck since you first set eyes on Kylo. You realized you’d never seen him asleep. The one night you’d shared his bed your focus just on that fact, not on observing him. That night had been the only time you’d seen his full heart, or at least more of it than you had. Now, standing beside him, still reluctant to get too close, you were crying just as he had. That night seemed like a separate lifetime, like a dream you’d only ever get to revisit in your memories now.

Tearing your eyes away from him, clearing your throat and thumbing away more tears, you ran your fingertips along the hanging fluids; the saline would need to be replaced soon, and the metronidazole was running at an accelerated rate. The blood, you checked the label, had been hung just prior to your arrival, the colloid causing you to stop and gently press into its plastic confines. A huff of weak amusement left you; it had never occurred to you that this blood would ever be used for its intended purpose, intended recipient. Seeing it running into Kylo’s veins, checking the transfusion sight for infiltration and redness, you felt a sort of sick irony settle into the room. This very fluid, more or less, would be your demise; it was capable of sustaining life, replenishing it, yet would be the very thing to end yours.

The monitor blinked in your periphery, catching your attention; his heart rate was improving, finally skimming the upper fifties, his respirations coming evenly. Steeling yourself, bunching your gown in your hands, you looked down at him. Kylo Ren, resting and vulnerable, lay below for your appraisal. Belkar had walked you through the proper routine to change his dressings, his abdominal wound and the one scraping across his shoulder healing well under the soaked gauze. The wound fixed along his face, however, had been created too awkwardly to be dressed as the others. A grafting patch had been placed along the length of the injury, a black stripe of the regenerative material precise in its placement.

There was so much pain etched into him, you wondered if his outward appearance now matched his inner, the thought choking you with a sob. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was silly to wait for a response, to look at him in anticipation, but you did.

It took several minutes of deliberation, but you eventually joined him in the bed, gently sitting on his right side as to not disturb anything. The tips of your right index and middle finger trailed along the ridges of the unbandaged wound, feeling his pulse in the raised flesh, landing on his forehead and brushing into his hair.

“Oh.” It startled you when your fingers got stuck in a mat at his ends. Rolling it between your fingers you found it to be dried, congealed blood. It wasn’t surprising; hair care was not the priority right now, the nurses already straining themselves without paying attention to trivial duties.

But you had time and he was here with no way of objecting, your hand cupping his face before you began gathering your supplies and setting them up. The silence was comforting for only a few minutes, soon leaving you to your thoughts, those which shuddered through you with images of Robbie and Snoke and Kylo.

“I don’t even know how we got here,” you mumbled while filling a basin with warm water. A bitter chuckle, a cough chasing it. “I do, actually. I know exactly how we got here.” Placing the full basin on the bedside table, carefully wheeling it to the head of his bed, you gazed over him. “Snoke. Mason. Rob-,” the name stuck in your throat. “The stormtrooper.”

Gentle thumbs tracked like feathers atop his cheekbones, your remaining fingers pushing into his thick locks and brushing it behind his ears. After admiring him for a moment longer you collected the necessary linen, grabbing three extra towels, four in total. Setting them up – one beneath him, another two rolled and resting atop his shoulders, and the last spread over your lap when you sat on a stool – you reached for the cup you’d earlier grabbed and filled it with water.

“I should’ve told you.” It seemed you would never stop crying; a tear struck his forehead as you poured the first cup over his head, ensuring to guard his eyes and ears. “I never… Snoke threatened Mason. He threatened him and all I could think was that I wouldn’t allow someone else to endure punishment meant for me.” Kylo’s hair darkened as it wet, the towel beneath him turning pink with diluted blood. “That wouldn’t be fair. Someone suffering because my own mistakes? No. No, that would be selfish. Selfish and, and… I don’t know.” A sigh and a swallow. “I don’t know.”

With a second cup you wet the rest of his locks and lathered shampoo between your hands. “I woke up yesterday hating you, wishing I was dead so I didn’t have to see you after that day. I fucking hate him so much!” Your chin trembled in anger, imagining Snoke knowing this was happening, wondering how much he really knew, if he could see while Kylo slept. “And it wasn’t even… That’s what I hate the most. You had so little say in it, so little choice and I spent a whole month, wasted so much time, hating the wrong person. Hating you.”

Rolling his ends between your fingers, you scrubbed at the mats until they became loose. “I wish you could know that everything I told you was a lie. You were right about it all. I don’t hate you.” Words came easier, tears still streaming with ease, yet your throat clearing with each admission. “Maybe in the beginning when I didn’t know so much, when I didn’t know you. Maybe then I had wanted to, but it’s an impossibility now. Today made me realize that.” A pause while you watched his chest tide, stopping to recount the apology you’d known to give him, remembering how it felt as he held you – broken, raw – in his arms. “Today made me realize a lot of things.”

The last mat had been the toughest, your fingers rolling and rubbing for nearly five minutes until it softened. “Can I… I mean, I know you can’t answer, but…” Your throat got thick again, burning as you tried to swallow a sob. Closing your eyes, you dropped the subject, not wanting to recount the event to even an absent mind yet.

Clearing your throat, you began again, instead recalling the various mentions of Kylo Ren’s history during the past day. “Maybe I don’t know as much about you as others do, though.” Water drenched the towel below his head as you massaged the soap out of his hair, your pulse quickening as you thought about your next question. “The old man. The one on Jakku… He mentioned something about a time before Kylo Ren, or something like that. How did he even know you? How did you know him?”

Working your way through his hair, you rinsed until there were no bubbles remaining. Questioning him felt foreign; if he were awake he would have surely stopped you from continuing. Or from starting at all. But you pressed on, wanting to distract yourself from the reality that lurked in the back of your mind.

“And then later, when I…” Warmth spread through you at the memory of his bed, him setting you there, holding onto him until he left. You tried to hide the pain in your throat, knowing if you allowed yourself to sob once you’d surely lose the ability to stop. “I heard you. When you were speaking to someone, talking to your grandfather. Was he in there with you? Or were you on a commlink?” You shrugged, knowing all of these inquiries were in vain. “My maternal grandfather passed away before I began university. I never met the other one. Something about family secrets and drama and blah blah blah.”

Another tear fell to Kylo’s face, remembering the pain you’d felt losing someone for the first time, remembering how helpless you were to change anything. A sigh of desperate defeat left you. “I must be cursed. A true healer? Maybe in another life. In this one it seems I can only save a life in turn for another, be it mine or someone I care about.”

After rinsing your hands in the basin, you gathered conditioner on the tips of your fingers and began working it into the now clean ends. A whimper came in place of the stuck sob, breathing becoming difficult as you denied it life. “You said that to me, remember? The night I had gone to Mason. Not exactly but, you said something along the lines of me only listening when the things I value are threatened. It seems the two things go hand in hand; I can’t help anyone without hurting someone else, I can’t make a decision without being forced into it, without being threatened should I make one wrong choice.”

A hand smoothed over the last remaining tendril of hair, soft with the new product, your chest heavy with regret and hindsight. “You wanted me to give my whole self to the First Order. I did, Kylo. And now… I have nothing. There’s nothing left and it’s my fault.” Mason’s worried expression flitted into your mind’s eye. “And if I do have anything left… It’s nothing I want.” Closing your eyes, you ran the pad of your thumb along the rim of the cup, clutching it to your chest. “I wish I could go back. Earlier when I… When I came home. I wish I had told you then. If I had, maybe neither of us would be pawns in Snoke’s game. If I’d told you, maybe I wouldn’t have been-,”

Pain speared you with daggers of rejection. There was no easy or gentle way to confront the truth. No matter if you’d briefly mentioned it with Belkar earlier; to verbalize it, to say out loud what had gone one, scared you. It made it real, gave it power and life. But this would be the only way you’d get to confess to it; soon you’d be alone, left to relive the act over and over until it would be all that remained. It would consume you if you let it.

“I was raped.” You said it before it got stuck again. Finally, after choking on it for so long, that sob broke free, cries grating against your sore throat. “It was the stormtrooper. The one you’d set out to protect me from. The one Snoke had told me you’d been thinking about.” A shaky hand collected another cup of water and let it rinse the conditioner away. “RB-6745. Robbie. Shit! I’m so, so stupid! I’m so dumb I wish I could fucking die! It would be so much easier if I could just stop…existing, if I could just stop breathing it would all be- none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t- damn it!” A roar tore through clenched teeth before you dragged the towel set across your lap and smothered it against your face.

Scream after scream after scream left you, each one more painful than the last, more broken than the last. The towel collected what tears had set on your cheeks, your voice diminishing before you had the sense to stop yourself from continuing. With the damp cloth draped over your hands, you rested your head in your palms, heaves and hiccups unbidden and unrelenting.

“I gave him a name, Kylo. I did. I gave him a name and I started all of this,” muffled, you finally confronted the truth you had been so unwilling to acknowledge. A bitter crack of laughter left. “You will only ever be the start and end of the issue,” you echoed Snoke, voice distant and decimated. “Yeah, well. I guess he was right. I did start it.” Pulling the towel from your face, staring down at the peace painted over your Master, a cold shiver stalled your lungs. “I started it. And I ended it.”

Silence once more met you with suffocation. Studying Kylo’s face – noticing his eyelashes, the cracked nature of his dry lips, finding a fondness in the angle of his nose – you took a deep breath and settled into your new reality, accepting it as it would be, allowing yourself to begin healing as he was before you. “I killed him. I left him to bleed out just before Starkiller exploded. He’s dead.”

The last phrase reminded you as you finished your task, patting the towel into his hair, lifting his head to fully dry him. “Whoever Ben is… and if he’s dead or not –” you rested the towel over your left thigh “—I wonder if I knew him.” Another thought of Kylo’s figurative family. “I wonder if he knew you.”

Once you left here your privileges as his provider would be revoked; when he would wake and sign the proper documents, notify the necessary people, every tie you had to him would be severed. So, to indulge in one last moment, you parted a triangle of hair from the center of his hairline, separated it into three equal sections, and began the simple pattern: left over middle, right over middle, adding hair with each repetition to create a continuous, tight braid. Aside from giving you more time with him, the style would discourage any new mats from forming.

Repeating this process two more times, one more on each side of his head, you made sure that the hair that couldn’t be contained was brushed and flat beneath him. You set a towel under his head to collect any remaining moisture and prevent knotting. The clean-up process was leisurely, your focus shifting to his monitor every now and then to see he was no longer bradycardic. The last time you checked the monitor, a normal sinus rhythm tracing along the display, you found his pulse had risen to sixty-seven beats per minute.

Finished clearing the last of your mess, you sat on the stool, still at the head of his bed. No matter the new addition setting into features – though, in a way, it suited him well – you admired him; here he was at peace. Resting. Healing. The sobs had died out but tears were still liberal in their formation, another falling to hit the inner corner of his right eye. You collected it, chewing your lip before leaning down and again tracing along the outer region of the wound.

Kylo’s breath warmed over your forehead in the proximity, your own catching as it all became too much. Placing your hands on either side of his face so the tips of your fingers held loosely over his jaw, you brought your lips to rest on his. Kylo couldn’t reciprocate it, you knew, but this would be your goodbye.

“I wish I could have given you more than this,” you whispered, lips brushing against his own. “More than anything, Kylo, I wanted to give you more than this.”

Trembling lips pressed into his, your tears reviving the dry flesh, a whimper leaving when he remained still. He would never kiss you back again, the thought piercing as warmth slipped from your cheeks and onto his. However long you stayed like this, your face on his, you tried to silence the reality looming over you. But you couldn’t stay here forever, and you’d probably been gone for far too long already.

Leaning up from him your nose drew a faint line up his bridge, feather-light lips setting against his forehead in a final show of unrequited adoration. With a breath your spine straightened, eyes strict in their effort to keep forward. There was no moment of hesitancy as you passed the threshold and left the Elite wing; if you had indulged in a final glance, you knew you’d have never left.

On the journey back to your room – head hung low, teeth rooted in an effort to stop the trembling of your bottom lip – you met a stiff wall of muscle as someone exited a room, your feet stumbling back before you completely fell backwards, landing on your tailbone. The room spun when you opened your eyes after hitting the floor, a gloved hand extending down and offering you assistance. Taking it, you looked up to find General Hux.

He looked as you did, exhaustion heavy in his features before he was struck by your identity. He didn’t recoil, though, pulling you up and even steadying you for a couple seconds. Hux’s eyes darted to the bandage on your forehead and quickly over your gown, narrowing only slightly when he appraised the red rims of your own. He remained silent, retracting his hand as he nodded once.

“Officer,” he acknowledged. “I heard about your fainting spell.” His tone lacked the animosity you had come to expect.

You took hold of the wall support, looking up at him, confused at his sudden civility. “Oh.” It was the best you could do right now.

Something about him seemed off. Even as he remained more guarded than most humans you knew, it appeared as though something had him worried. Maybe it was the fall out from Starkiller that had him acting out. He had just lost men.

“Is there an official count yet?” you asked, filling the silence.

Hux swallowed, the corners of his mouth dipping before he returned to his normal façade, his shoulder going up and back when his stance shifted. “Nice work during the transport.”

“Thank…you. Uh, thank you, General.”

Another nod and he turned away from you and walked out of sight. A crease bit at your brow. How strange. Or maybe it wasn’t. The last twenty-four hours had been less than favorable for the entire First Order. Nobody could be expected to be at their best right now. Or even at their normal.

Before you started down the hall, your periphery caught view of the room where Hux had come, your heart falling. Confusion was drowned by new concern. Talia was slumped into her shoulder, asleep while she sat upright, both arms resting at her sides to reveal bruises from multiple IV attempts. There was one line running from her left forearm which led up to a bag of fluids, the contents of which you couldn’t read from a distance.

Peaking around the hall, you ducked into her room and clicked the door shut with your back, keeping the volume to a minimum as to not wake her. It seemed like a week had passed since you saw her seize, Snoke’s men abducting you before you could aid in her care. It had been less than a full day.

Walking up to her right side you noted the oxygen secured over her ears, a nasal cannula delivering two liters per minute. Nothing excessive. That was good. But still curious. The fluid bag was filled with electrolyte replacement, another bag hanging empty behind it. Looking for more clues, you found the information board to be devoid of any recent updates, only indicating her nurse and the continuation of the current fluids. There was a check mark next to a note which read sterile urine specimen, CBC, CMP.

When you kicked your foot under her bed, swinging it mindlessly while holding onto the upper bed rail, something skidded beneath your sock. In a manner which didn’t stress your wounds, you knelt to the ground and picked up the item. It was a white square, shiny material which glinted under the harsh fluorescents. Holding one corner, it unfolded to reveal a second half. Turning it over, eyes blinking back to make sure you were reading the images correctly.

Everything was in the right spot, every label and measurement and identifier correct and official. Dropping completely to the floor, your legs splayed across each other, you peaked up at your friend and back to the printed picture multiple times, not knowing what to make of the situation.

Talia was pregnant.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #st kyp #ao3

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader {Kingdom AU}

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Why do birds deem it necessary to shout during such early hours?

The matutinal chirping was that which your mind vehemently claimed to hate, and yet you couldn’t get enough - you remained unsatiated, even as the chorus reached its most deafening. Your hunger for the oddly-mellisonant noises grew with each passing day.

It tells me that they're still alive. When did I begin longing for such an ensemble, so spirited…so within my grasp? Perhaps they hide the key to my cage…to this prison of self-spite and deceit? If only I could capture one. I would ask it all that I wish to know - its infinite knowledge of my future…if I am doomed to live. The birds here…they’re so, incredibly free. I yearn to have that same liberty.

With a drawn-out sigh, you added, That's but a mere fantasy, a childish day-dream. It is certain to disappear with time. These shackles are the curse of my birth. Freedom…true freedom…it will forever evade me.

Your untamed, maudlin delusions penetrated every crevice of your being, but as you rose from a half-slumber, you pushed them down. Shifting your focus to something real, something imminent, was the best course of action. So, exhaustion-glazed eyes ghosted over the makeshift bed to which you had confined yourself. Or, more accurately - to which the villagers had confined you. This was far from a gesture of concern for your health, although disease was often rife amongst the peasantry. No…this was the result of their refusal to so much as acknowledge your existence. Only work managed to rouse you. Work - the very warrant for your ostracization. In a way, you supposed that was valid. You never wanted such unsavoury jobs, but how else were you to make ends meet…especially now?

What if I simply abandoned my post? Would I be punished? Executed? Either way, I am deserving of it. If only death could cleanse me of my sins…Is food off the menu today, too? It is becoming nigh-impossible to find enough, even for a single day. No-one sells to me anymore. Not even that kindly old woman near the village outskirts…

"Is that my fate then, to die of starvation?" Despite the indifference lacing your tone, you prepared for an onslaught of tears.

This world, infinitely cruel and rotten as you perceived it, seemed to loath your very essence. It slowly whittled you to the bone, rejected your abject cries and those pitiful, helpless tears. Yet, not a soul threw you pity - not even an ounce. Nothing should have tethered you to this ground, this filthy house, where the faintest illumination of a flickering candle was all the hope you could afford. Though, lack of money was never truly the problem. No…the fault lay solely with the villagers. And the King. If only you hadn't been threatened to assume your mantle. If only this was the fantasy - this bloodthirsty kingdom, the ignorance to such plights as yours, the senseless slaughter of your parents…

By my own hands. I cannot masquerade as the victim forever. They already haunt me…the ghosts. All the ghosts…

"It would be a fitting end, I suppose." The breaths that tore apart your lungs failed to distract your wandering gaze.

It fell suspiciously upon an unopened scroll, donning a sickeningly-familiar wax seal. Had a member of the Royal Guard crept inside, under the cloak of night? It appeared that even the most highly-trained soldiers in the land would wretch at the thought of an encounter with you, awake and alert. How utterly ridiculous. A young, sullen-faced girl couldn’t exactly compete with the King's personal guards, even if you were able to wield an axe. Your defeat would be anticipated, underwhelming. You strolled over to examine the parchment, malnutrition forcing your slowed movements. It was a fresh order, you wagered, straight from the King himself.

I had hoped to be proven incorrect. No bother. Well…perchance with another few coins, I could convince a poor villager to sell me some bread? A nice loaf, maybe?

Your stomach grumbled its agreement. 'Kill or be killed' wasn’t simply an idle comment, after all - it encompassed the very nature of humanity.

"Brutish." A susurrant sound tumbled from your lips. "But I am no better."

If honesty must prevail in this world, then I shall attest to being so much worse.

The scroll's seal broke with ease, leaving you to unfurl the paper and trace the words, bile endeavouring all the while to scale the walls of your stomach. The name engraved in black ink was a recognisable one. He, alongside his unfledged son, worked as palace servants. The latter was especially flighty, always being reprimanded by his seniors. This, you had witnessed on occasion. A fleeting glance was all you ever allowed yourself, and that name never once caused your skin to crawl so horribly, as it did now.

"XXXXX Takami…a thief?"

Is there no justification? I wonder if he truly stole anything. The King is most likely in the mood to watch an execution today. If so, then this will not be the first instance of an innocent dying by my hand.

As guilt poured from your eyes, silent and crystalline, you muttered, "I cannot profess to be his champion. Nor even my own…Why must my resolve be so frail?"

Why must cruelty reign supreme?

Your reflections were quelled by the searing pain exuding from the mark that tainted your wrist. It was customary for executioners, but designs varied. You were unfortunate enough to be branded with something simple, yet imbued with the weight and meaning of an entire people. It was as though your words, however few, and your actions, spoke for all your kin. It was curious, as the symbol was the runic ᛒ, although Japan was far removed from any other civilisations. The deplorable truth of the matter, was that it solidified your societal status. It served as a reminder that you wouldn’t ever escape from the Burakumin - the lowest class. The peasants. The dirty, the untrustworthy, the sinners. You couldn’t cover it up. To do so might be counted as treason, fighting against the authority of the crown. You would be executed, just as your parents, and now…as this conceivably blameless man.

…This father.

You would so disturb the structure of a family?

Have I any other choice?

Life never presented you with choices, different paths to follow, to branch off from the main narrative. The door to your cage was securely chained. The key, presumably, rested within the bulging pocket of the King. Your sleight-of-hand skills weren't masterful enough to allow the evasion of every soldier at the King's command, so you couldn’t ever move to grasp self-sovereignty. That worthless tyrant had to understand this. He likely laughed at the image. You couldn’t simply neglect your responsibilities, for this one man, for his youthful son…

What use are sentiments, if only to distract from this morbid reality? Their family cannot be satisfied, if he would stoop to thievery. Criminals cannot proceed unpunished.

"Though they can, and often do." The glimmer of remorse reflecting in your eyes alluded to the ever-dwindling fire in your soul - you couldn’t comprehend your position…why you still lived, after everything - every rolling head, every spatter of blood, every jeer and taunt…

Between the burning of the brand on your wrist, and the nipping of the tears in your (e/c) irises, you decided that a moment of respite was needed. You perched on the unsteady floor, clutching both face and wrist. Why was this happening now? Morning-tide shouldn't be harder than any other time - least of all early afternoon, when families would gather around the execution grounds, blithely chatting away and gnawing on bread, or the rare sliver of cheese that almost compelled you to salivate. Honestly, it was a miracle you could still hold the axe aloft, in spite of your meagre diet. You sighed, rehearsing the time of this newest dispatch. Three hours…that was hardly fair. It required far longer to mentally prepare for such a killing. This man had a wife, surely, and a son! As you defended against the sick feeling nestling in your stomach, the repugnant sight of ebony in the corner of the room caught your attention. You wished so desperately to sacrifice that garb to the flames of Hell. You couldn’t bear to look at it, let alone adorn it.

Why do I bother to wear a mask, when they all recognise me?

Oh, of course…"It veils my tears."

And also, perhaps, my rugged appearance. I cannot even claim to resemble a respectable young woman. The villagers would sleep easier without beholding such an unsightly face. I should pay thanks the gods that the cloak disguises my figure, as well.

Broad shoulders and pancake-like breasts plagued your waking thoughts, but they were well-shielded underneath the dark, flowing robe you had just picked up. You utterly despised them. With less than three hours before the execution, you slipped on the cloak, but left the mask. It couldn’t be properly washed by hand - the blood of hundreds, innocents and sinners alike, had seemed to seep into the very essence of the fabric. It repulsed you, and yet an odd warmth accompanied it. Maybe…because it was the only constant in your life? The only thing providing purpose, whether you desired it or not? The fragrance was familiar, sometimes comforting on a particularly savage night. It nearly stung.

Just as a sorrowful breath escaped your lips, a series of frantic knocks alerted you to the door. Your entire being shuddered, nerves exploding. A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead. If you opened that door now, which now appeared more foreboding, who would you greet? The Captain of the Royal Guard? That once-lovely elderly woman, who used to sell you bread? A tax collector? A thief? Nobody in their right mind rapped on the door of an executioner…an outcast. They must have a certain degree of battle prowess, then. Shakily, you started towards that wooden entrance.

The knocking never ceased. In fact, was it intensifying? Whoever this was, they were desperate.

There would be nowhere for them to hide, in this small house.

The door swung open, revealing a dishevelled young man.

Is this…him?

The moment his words flooded your ears, the whole world collapsed around you. "Are you the executioner who is going to kill my father?"

You wanted to deny, to beg for forgiveness, but you couldn’t. Instead, with an averted gaze, you responded, "I am afraid so."

"You don't…you don't want to? You aren’t excited about this?" His tone indicated confusion, perhaps even sympathy.

To where did his formalities retreat? What a brazen boy…

You shuffled in discomfort. "I apologise for not taking pleasure in my work."

He looked unsure. "Please don't kill him. He is not thief - it's a lie!"

"That is quite a claim. Do you have any proof?" You didn’t wish to interrogate the poor soul - he was about to lose the greatest role-model he would ever know.

"No…" He stared at the ground briefly, before a fiery determination illuminated his eyes, and he looked back up. "…Would you…would you help me save him? Please?"

Does he assume me a hero? Or a vigilante?...Me?

The idea was half-baked, teeming with flaws. Wasn’t your capture, and subsequent execution, almost inevitable? Clearly, this had been a spontaneous decision, and the consequences floated just outside his mind. You swallowed down any further words. Something about him, something he exuded…pain? Fear? There wasn’t a single spark of confidence twinkling behind those golden eyes, and yet…you felt your heart pounding in compliance. In truth, did you not yearn for such an opportunity? Did you not wish to bellow to the universe, that you were capable of possessing a righteous nature, even at the expense of your life? If you couldn’t save one innocent from your own axe, you would never again begin to dream of redemption. It would set in stone your utter worthlessness.

Paranoid, (e/c) eyes skirted around the boy, searching for any characters of suspect. With a heaviness burrowing amid your heart, you ushered him inside your humble abode. Immediately, he spotted the scroll lying on the table. You made no effort to divert his attention.

After a few moments of tense silence, he spoke. "(L/n) (Y/n)…that your name?"

"Yes, though I rarely hear it anymore."

"Would he be in the dungeons right now? My father, I mean." He was deep in thought, incredibly serious.

Your gaze strayed - this boy was far too ethereal to be viewed by your peasant eyes. "Yes, along with the other prisoners."

"You believe me, don't you?" Shock was evident in his voice.

"Should I not?" You questioned, still refusing to glance his way.

A low chuckle tore from his lungs. "You should. How long do we have? We need a proper plan, right? Unless you're leaving me to do this alone. Something tells me you aren't willing to do that…"

"Alone, you would achieve nothing."

"Haha, well, behind every man there's a strong woman, right?" He displayed a closed-eye smile, blinding you for the few, sparing seconds you allowed yourself to witness it.

You couldn’t have realised the crimson hue worming its way on to your cheeks. "Absolutely not."

"Why're your replies so short? You not like talking to me, or something?"

Is he forgetting his reason for being here, so quickly?

"What of this plan? What of your father's fate?" You asked, hoping to remain on topic.

He chuckled again, sourly this time. "The plan…I was thinking, would it be possible to sneak him out of the dungeon? Or…replace him with someone else? I know it's horrible, and I feel awful about it, but…"

"The first one would never be possible. If we entered as two, and left as three, would you expect not to be questioned?" You bit your lip in contemplation. "On foot, journeying to the castle will take an hour. No matter our plan, we have to leave soon."

"You're right…of course you're right." He smiled, crookedly. "Is it bad to say I hate that?"

Shaking your head, you muttered, "Once in a while, the prisoners will wear masks, to shield from the jeering eyes of those in the crowd."

"So…if we had someone with a similar figure…" He trailed off.

Is this…a choice? Do I really have the option to save someone? To do a modicum of good, for once in my life? I…I have to...I cannot tear apart this family. I cannot accept that responsibility.

"Me."

The concerned expression painting his face was replaced with one of terror, of guilt. Clearly, this was an unexpected turn of events, and he opened his mouth, about to protest. He was likely to spew some nonsense regarding being young, throwing your life away…but you would remain resolute. You wouldn’t waver - not on such an important matter. As the years slowly trickled away, you had already reached a conclusion about your life, about your future. You reasoned that it wasn’t worth all the hassle, all the blood, sweat and tears. It wasn’t worth anything. So…why bother? Why bother living it, only to be thrashed around, ripped to shreds and then eventually killed, anyway? You adored nothing of yourself. You adored nothing of anyone. Without a meaning to your life, weren't you simply a husk? A broken shell of a once-pure, youthful girl?

"You?" His voice was quivering, as if he was infinitely opposed to your proposition.

A single, solemn nod confirmed his query.

"But…" He managed, trying to find a different solution. "…aren’t you the executioner? And…why does it have to be you? Can't we find someo-"

"It should be me." You cut him off, desperate to put this behind you. "I am not the only executioner. The other one…I have no doubt he will assist us, voluntarily."

All his dreadful emotions clogged his throat. The words wouldn’t exit seamlessly. "Why you? Tell me why…"

Your sigh was drawn-out, heavier than all the previous ones. "I can bear this world no longer, Takami. This job…even this house…everything is a cage, a prison. I cannot continue to live this way. I need you to understand, and respect my decision."

If not for the dire circumstances, a blush would have exploded on his face; you referred to him by name. Though…he couldn’t fathom the idea of you being separated so soon after meeting. For years, he had watched you, silently admiring all your adorable little quirks. All the features you despised, he loved with the passion of a thousand suns. To him, you weren't any less than human…no, in fact, you were a goddess, sent from the Heavens to bewitch him, to make him swoon, all while erecting an ignorant façade. He spent hours upon hours, mostly during nighttide, wondering, praying, that you had taken note of his presence…that you saw him, as you glided around the castle. He wished so desperately to be your swain, but despite being little more than a peasant boy himself, he still held the higher title. He knew of your job, but he witnessed your anguish. He observed the unrelenting tears that dripped down your face. He knew you were hurting.

Was he honestly now granting assent to your death?

"Keigo." He suddenly made a grab for your hands, feeling them callous and trembling slightly. "My name…it's Keigo."

You nodded, plunging into uncertain waters. "Keigo…"

"Please call me that, every time you address me, from now until…" His head fell; was this really happening?

Was he truly unable to stop you? Unable to change your mind? Even as this thought rocketed around his brain, he knew the truth. He couldn’t ever hope to stop you. It was clear - your decision was final.

He waited until you nodded again. "We should probably go now."

No response came, but none was necessary. The two of you ran, bounding towards the castle, side-by-side. You were determined - Keigo and his father would live. In this cold, cruel world, they would flourish…they would become something. And you would watch this, his adventure…from another plane. Perhaps it was Hell, perhaps Heaven, perhaps neither. Either way, you wouldn’t let this be the end. If you had the chance to keep walking by his side, even in death, then you would welcome it with open arms. You wouldn’t shy away from it, from providing him with security - you could ward off all the negative energy, all the malign spirits, threatening to cause him harm. You would be there.

Even in death.

The courtyard approached. Tugging on his sleeve, you directed him to a large, metal door, complete with padlocks and some ominous-looking scratch marks. So far, nobody seemed to have paid you any mind. You thrust the key into the lock, hoping that the sound of metal against metal wouldn’t attract too much unwanted attention. Keigo was fixated on the patrolling guards, who were thankfully more interested in showing off their swords to the noblewomen. You slipped inside, unnoticed. Awaiting you was Keigo's father, alongside a few others, mostly unconscious. From severe beatings, you presumed.

"(Y/n)! What is he doing here?"

You shushed him. "Shinya…I need to call in a favour."

"I have a bad feeling about this." He pointed to the two males, now attempting to comfort each other. "Does it involve them?"

He managed to unlock the shackles, so easily?

"Yes. You must listen to me - I am begging you."

He was hesitant, but replied, "Alright. What do you need?"

"I need you to execute the criminal in my steed. This, I cannot do." You answered, pouring your heart into the words.

"The criminal…" He paused. "…You are not speaking of Takami, are you?"

You shook your head. "I am afraid not."

"Then…" He sighed, as the truth dawned. "…You are speaking of yourself."

"Indeed."

A glint of sorrow lingered in his eyes. "Are you certain? You cannot recover from death."

"I am certain, beyond question." There was no hesitance in your voice, no doubt…not even a hint of anxiety.

You sounded free. At long last, you sounded free. Finally, you could dictate which path you took, and when it all ended. To object your wish now…Shinya couldn’t imagine the guilt. Forcing his heart to agree was no uncomplicated task, and he wasn’t likely to cease grieving for many moons, but…he couldn’t deny you. He couldn’t strip you of what little serenity you were able to feel, in this moment. He was already dressed in his executioner's garb, anyway. Nobody would recognise him…not until everything was over. The head probably wouldn’t be checked, either. Not for a while. By that time, Keigo and his father should be liberated, freed from the clutches of the evil King Enji Todoroki. Hopefully, they could settle within the boundaries of land of King Toshinori Yagi, or All Might, as most affectionately named him.

That loathsome, ebony robe slipped from your body, and Shinya presented you with some smaller, dirtier clothes. You didn’t mind. In fact, you relished in it. Finally, finally...something was happening on your terms. You would die, on your terms, not by the instruction of the King. And…even though it signalled the end, the extinguishing of your life…you couldn’t have been happier, in that moment.

"(Y/n)…" Your young accomplice whispered, half-adoring, half-fearful. "…Do you really intend to do this? Isn't there anything I can say, to stop you?"

What sort of…no, that would be giving himself false hope. Your intentions were crystal-clear. He couldn’t sway you. Before a single word fell from your lips, he took a chance, he grasped at straws. He did something for which he had waited a lifetime…something that ignited a passionate flame within both your hearts.

He kissed you.

Time, obligations, fate…everything ceased to exist. Your lips danced together, like they were created for that exact purpose. It felt natural…It felt right. When you parted, gazes burning into one another, everything clicked into place.

"I will always be with you, Keigo. I swear, not even death will do us part." The words you uttered…they weren't scripted, weren't rehearsed, but…maybe they had forever nestled on your tongue.

Maybe it was something I always longed to say?

A sad, little smile perched on his lips. "I know, and I will always look for you. I will see you in everyone…in everything. I will be yours, until the very end."

"I wish you would live…I wish you would marry." Your whispers caressed his ears, and he shivered.

"But you know I won't."

How things progressed so far, you knew not. A loud bell-toll, a harbinger of death, echoed across the castle. This was the end. You captured his lips again, swiftly, and then you pushed him away. He couldn’t be allowed to witness such a tragedy. He looked about to cry, about to compromise this entire plan. You placed a finger in front of your mouth, as a reminder. You wanted this. You had always wanted this. Shinya donned the mask, but you saw his strife, the melancholy swimming in his eyes. You smiled. You smiled at Shinya, at Keigo and his father, and at the glaring sun, as you were led out, into the courtyard. The mask obscured your vision, but it would have been difficult not to realise how brightly the sun was shining.

I am certain that it will shine brightest when the axe is at my neck.

In spite of the agonising loss, the newfound frigidity of his heart, Keigo ran, his father in tow. Nothing would tempt him to glance back. Nothing could. Your promise, your wish for him…all except the marriage, he would honour. To be caught now, imprisoned, killed…your bodies would never again find comfort in each other, for there was a separate, less well-kept burial space for people of the Burakumin. If he was captured, he wouldn’t be buried with you. And your spirit might wander eternally, never finding him, never achieving peace.

So, he continued to run, tears cascading from his eyes. It seemed merely a second, but the reality was hazy. He was panicking now, whispering, then screaming at the top of his lungs. He knew it was idiotic, he knew it was a death sentence, but he was lost...so, hopelessly lost.

"Father! Father, where are you? Answer me, please!"

That wasn’t the man with whom his body collided. His tears were incessant, stinging.

This…this was a Royal Guard.

In an instant, he shattered all your hopes…all your dreams. A crow, no…perhaps three crows, flew close, carried by the gentle wind. Keigo collapsed, exhaustion, shock and unadulterated grief stabbing at his heart. Your head had just rolled…hadn’t it?

[Word Count: 4128]

#bnha x reader #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagines #bnha hawks #hawks x reader #kingdom au #keigo takami x reader #bnha keigo takami #bnha edgeshot #shinya kamihara #bnha all might #toshinori yagi #bnha endeavor #enji todoroki

[mypassionfortrash]

Quarantine dream: day one.

It’s the Great Quarantine of 2020, and you and Roger find yourselves cooped up together. Will you get on each others’ nerves, or do you love each other enough to weather the storm? Warnings: Mentions of really weird sex stuff (as a joke), strictly 18+ Notes: New fic. It’s a bit on the nose, but if we don’t laugh, we’ll cry! I’m going to try and update this daily. Full disclaimer, it was written quickly and might be very disjointed.

Day one.

The missus is working from home now. We’re essentially going to be housebound for the foreseeable. She’s already forbidden me from revving the Porsche too loudly in the garage, coming into her ‘designated work space’ between the hours of nine and five, and trying to help her with the cooking and cleaning. Apparently I’m ‘getting in the way.’  I’ve been cast out to my ‘man cave’ during the daytime... and god help me if I leave to scavenge for snacks or even a cuppa!

Which one lives, which one dies, we’ll see! I have a feeling only one of us is getting out of here alive.

In other news, John sent me a video of him and Ronnie in Tesco. Trolley piled high with TP. Now I have the overwhelming urge to brave the dreaded Coronavirus and get the shopping in a couple of days early.

I’m clearly going to go mad, aren’t I?

One more hour of work. That’s what you told yourself as you settled back at your makeshift desk in the spare room. One more hour and then you could get the dinner on. 

Working from home was harder than you imagined. Not having the commute was lovely, but only having contact with Roger – as much as you loved him – was enough to drive anyone to the edge of sanity.

And it was only day one.

Hunching over your laptop, you scrolled through the emails that had piled up during your tea break, now wishing you could just have a meeting. Times had changed and you didn’t have time for 800 word emails about your company’s next rebrand.

Soon enough, something out in the garden caught your eye.

Roger emerged from the garage, his white t-shirt spattered in dirt and grime from a day of tinkering with his collection of four-wheeled loves. He moved swiftly, shaking his head as he looked down at his phone.

You heard the back door slam closed and his footsteps trudge upstairs. Silently praying he wasn’t coming to bother you, you counted his footsteps in your head, imagining every door that lined the hall.

“You’re never going to believe this, darling!” Roger called.

Your eyes burst open the second he entered the room.

Roger leaned over you and thrust his phone in your face, so close you could barely see what was on the screen. “Look at John!” He screeched. “Look at him!”

“What am I looking at?”

Roger’s voice kept going up an octave every sentence until it made you wince. “The bastard’s cleared out Tesco! Look at his bloody trolley!”

Huffing and rolling your eyes, you turned around, going nose to nose with him. “How many kids does he have?”

Roger quietened down. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “a lot?”

“Well, I don’t thi–”

“You’re not telling me that’s their weekly shop though. They’re stockpiling toilet roll! It doesn’t make you shit yourself! I’ve got a good mind to go down to Tesco and–”

“And what?”

Roger’s attitude came in peaks and troughs but now he looked utterly sheepish, sinking on to the edge of the bed and batting his lashes. “Maybe do the shopping a couple of days earlier? If you want.”

You sighed and leaned your head on the back of your chair, allowing your eyes to wander towards his. You couldn’t say no to him – he made it impossible for you. “One more hour of work and I’ll come with you to supervise.”

Roger’s eyes narrowed as a broad smile lifted his features. “Good.”

As Roger rose to his feet, you reached out to grab the hem of his shirt, pulling him into you. Your lips met with an audible sigh and a fleeting kiss. “And for the love of god, jump in the shower and change your clothes.”

“Why?” Roger smirked. “We’re only going out during the apocalypse.”

An hour and a clean shirt later, you and Roger bundled into the Range Rover to embark on the five-minute drive to Tesco, completely unsure of what you’d find when you arrived.

The radio droned on in the background, covering the latest developments from the Prime Minister’s daily press conferences. Roger listened on with disdain as he drove – he never had much time for politics at the best of times – but he still listened intently. The situation was getting serious enough to worry him. 

Boris bumbled through the airwaves but his message was clear: stay home.

“It’s what we should be doing,” you sighed, leaning forward to reach into your handbag.

“What?”

You took out a box of latex gloves. You, being the sensible and prepared one, always made sure you had some in the house. Blowing into one and slipping it on your hand, you mumbled your response. “Staying home.”

“What are those for?” Roger asked, glancing over at you snapping on the other glove.

“We’re being careful. But you can’t guarantee everyone else is.”

Roger’s hand found your thigh and gave it a reassuring squeeze as the car spun around the corner into Tesco’s car park.

Neither of you were sure of what you were expecting. 

Chaos? Crowds? Cars everywhere? 

You and Roger sat in silence as the car thudded to a halt right at the front door. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

“This is creepy,” Roger stated. “Bet we’ll be going in to empty shelves.”

“It’s going to be ok,” you said, jumping out and heading towards the door. “Remember the shopping bags in the boot!”

You could hear Roger groan as he retraced his steps. “This is why I hate going shopping with you,” he grumbled, fumbling through the boot for the almighty Bag of Bags. “We’re rich enough,” he wittered, slamming the boot. “We can get plastic carriers.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see him stomping back to you as you grabbed a trolley. A small one, so Roger wouldn’t succumb to temptation.

“…All because some little Swedish girl’s bloody whining about the planet getting warmer… not a bad thing if you ask me.”

“What are you droning on about?” you asked, grabbing the Bag of Bags from him. You hoped that putting them in the small trolley would lessen the amount of space available to him too.

“Greta’s probably having a fucking field day,” Roger mumbled. “Us using those bloody sacks for the shopping. No cars on the road.”

“It’s not a bad thing. We’ve been in London how many years? And when have we ever been able to get a proper breath until now? I quite like the lack of traffic.”

“Make the most of being able to breathe, darling. Corona’s a bitch, I’ve heard.” 

The sight of the baron wasteland in front of you stopped you in your tracks. No people, no food, just rows and rows of empty shelves. 

“I have a list,” you said meekly, taking a crumpled piece of paper out of your pocket.

Roger laughed. “Good luck with that.” He barged past you, peering over his shoulder. “I’ll take the cleaning stuff, fruit and veg, and toiletries. You check the rest.”

Empty supermarkets were strange places. Flickering lights and empty shelves, the only sound came from the creaking wheels of your trolley as you snaked the aisles for something – anything – from your shopping list. The only items  left were either expensive or things you’d never be able to cobble a meal out of. Bread and pasta were non-existent in this liminal space, as were eggs and flour, so you couldn’t even make those from scratch. All you managed to find were two sorry looking ready meals, a bottle of gin and a tin of chopped tomatoes – none of which were on your optimistic list.

Roger didn’t do much better, either. He seemed to spring out of nowhere with armfuls of Bayliss and Harding soap at a fiver a pop, a two-litre bottle of bleach and one measly aubergine.

“What are we going to do with that?” you asked.

“What, the aubergine?” he smirked, waggling his eyebrows.”That gin might loosen me up enough.”

“Oh, fuck off! When have we eaten aubergine, Roger!”

“Well,” Roger began, grabbing the trolley, “it’s like that nature man from the telly says. Adapt, overcome… and...”

You glared up at him, “and?”

“I don’t even remember.”

“This is dire.”

Having checked out your scant supermarket haul, you and Roger embarked on the drive home, trying to figure out what you could do with the food you had found.

“I’ve always wanted to shove an aubergine up my arse,” Roger huffed.

“Why’d you think I kept these gloves? I’ve seen the weird shit you’ve been watching,” You mused. “Oh! Moussaka! We still have mince!” you squeaked, bobbing up and down in your seat.

“Kill the mood, why don’t you,” Roger laughed. “But yeah, moussaka could work.”

“I think this apocalypse thing might just turn out ok after all.”

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader

[starspotted]

Short Story: Amnesia

The components of this universe are strange and varied, but I can confidently say that not many live their lives backwards, with death coming first. I may be the only one, existing separate from all else. Timeless.

If time exists in the context of life, then there is little left to measure when you’re dead. There is even less when you were never alive to begin with.

What am I, you ask?

I might be a soul. But what I know of souls is this: Souls are fickle, faded things, in various stages of frailty. Souls aren’t born, but made. I know that you can often tell the age of a soul by how easily you forget having last seen it, like searching for your eyeglasses after placing them on your head. I know that souls enjoy meandering to and fro, difficult to see even in their old age and impossible to hear. Then again, even if they could be heard, it would be of little use—bodiless souls have a nasty habit of not making much sense. And, considering all this, I also know that I was never born, so I can’t have made a soul. This is without mentioning that I can speak. Speaking is a very rare thing for a soul, you see, as it’s very difficult to do so without lips.

Which brings me rather conveniently to this moment, and the harrowing sobs ebbing under the massive doors to my welcome room with the viscosity of bitter honey, volume pulsating in the rhythm of the tides. I don’t often experience sound anymore. Hearing anything now feels like standing (sitting, kneeling, floating, existing) in a place you’ve only ever seen in photographs. I’m entranced by it, drifting in the waves of it, when it eventually peters away—sniffles and coughs dotted further apart with the ever-decreasing frequency of retreating thunder. Finally, they stop, and their creator evidently decides to explore the heavy-set doors because they open with a soundless push. Air doesn’t rush in, as there’s no air in this place, but if there was then it would have suddenly filled the room with the greed that water fills a sinking ship.

The overwhelming height of the doors—endless height to meet a nonexistent ceiling—dwarfs the figure standing between them. A soul, one so faded and fleeting, fickle and feeble that it only flickers, hardly giving off enough light to show its own features. I learn a soul by touch, or the fabrication of it, and this soul currently floats too far away for me to feel. It doesn’t come any closer.

“Hello,” I say kindly. Souls remember kindness, or so I believe.

This soul ignores it.

“Where am I?”

My face, if I had one, I’m sure would look very shocked.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the soul demands.

“Impressive,” I say, referring to its talking. I must offend it because it grows just a little brighter.

Speech is rare for souls as it is, but it’s downright impossible for souls so weak and young as this.

I’ve never had to tell a soul it was dead before, so I wait. It flutters about in anger, then:

“Are you Satan?”

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“You remember your doctor?”

“Remember my—yes, I remember my doctor! What do you think I am, stupid?”

“Souls who come here don’t remember much.”

“Souls—souls?”

I don’t nod, as I don’t have a head.

“I’m… really dead?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

I consider this, then concede its point. “Death is very possible, but you don’t seem to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How old are you?”

The flimsy blue halo representing the soul seems to gawk. “Are you telling me I look old?”

“No, you look very young.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.” A pause. “I’m turning 50 in just a few months.”

“Hm,” I say, honestly puzzled. “You’re old then. Not too old, though.”

“Well!” huffs the soul, affronted. “That’s just rude.”

“Will you come closer?”

“Why?”

“So I may know you as you know yourself.” This is certainly a puzzle I wish to solve. Although the body holds the memories of a world, it’s the soul that contains the memories of oneself.

“As if. You can’t possibly know me as I know myself.”

If only I had breath with which I could sigh. Before I can respond, the soul continues:

“You say I’m dead?”

“Yes.”

“Is this all death is? You and this room?”

“No. There are endless rooms and doors and other souls. You’ll meet them soon enough.” Outside, souls sway in breezes only they know and remember, none quite the same. They exist in all manner of colors, some multiple at once, some like they were in life and others more unusual. Blue grass whispers under foot and purple ferns crinkle in the unfelt wind and, where souls meet, they mix like watercolors.

“Are they nice?”

“There’s no reason to be mean, once you no longer have a body.”

“Do you know why I died?”

“Not until you come closer.”

“That’s alright. You don’t need to do all that voodoo stuff.”

Souls aren’t generally defiant. They don’t generally have an opinion one way or another about anything. “I insist.”

With the aura of a long-suffering grandmother, although I reckon this soul is somehow both too old and too young for such a thing, it bobs closer. I reach for the core of it—I want to find the crux of who it was—but there’s nothing. I falter, more bemused than ever. This soul is as tangible to me as the living. It might as well not be here at all.

“Are you finished?” the soul asks. 

I don’t know how to reply. It pulls away before I can figure that out.

“Unpleasant business, I know. You wouldn’t understand. I wasn’t expecting an afterlife, really, but this is actually rather nice. Now it is, anyway. Not while I was out there in the hall. And can you blame me? I wasn’t expecting to wake up and when I did it was just the most…  If I’m truly dead, then I had no reason to cry after all. I wish I had walked in here earlier. It’s rather inconvenient, you know, having doors.”

“The familiarity brings some souls comfort,” I say slowly. I must be feeling uncertainty for the first time.

“Not all, clearly. No, I think I’m good here.”

I want to ask what it means, but it’s growing so faint that it’s difficult to tell where it is. I wonder if it has already left.

“Do I just walk back out this way then? Yes? Well, there aren’t any other doors… Alright, I’ll be on my way now. See you later!”

They leave. I have the oddest urge to call them back to me. I dismiss it as curiosity, but then I feel more than an urge. I feel a tug.

An actually real, absolutely-not-metaphorical tug, and one I have felt before. It’s a soul being called back to its body, one that has not yet died—or had, but not for long enough. No wonder that soul can still speak—it’s still anchored to a pair of lips. But every other time this has happened has been while the soul is still in the room, distraught and confused. I am always still in the midst of learning it, learning them, who they were and might have been.

Rarely does it just rush out of the room like I was its mother-in-law critiquing its new haircut at a family reunion. Never have I not been able to reach into the center of it and pull out all its tendrils of self-identify.

I don’t know what happened to this soul, but I do know they can’t make it back to their body without me. The entire purpose of this nameless place, after all, is to ensure these souls don’t go wandering off. If they are the sheep, I’m the herder. And yet, I have a feeling this is one sheep who wouldn’t wander off even if I had begged it to. It’s an odd thing, meeting a soul that’s happy to be a soul, naked and intangible.

The doors open again.

In ambles another soul, a velvety ambrosia this time, so bright as to appear solid to the impressionable. It doesn’t say anything. It’s unlikely it can. It drifts cautiously closer.

The tug tugs harder.

“I haven’t done this before,” I tell the ambrosia, oddly convinced I should tell somebody or something at least. “But I can hardly leave a body without a soul.” I realize now I don’t know a great many things, and one of them is what would happen if I did. But I feel bad all of a sudden, asking a soul so glad to be here to kindly go back to where it came from. I also feel exhausted by the mere concept of tracking down a soul so transparent, one I can’t even feel. It would be not unlike catching mist.

This new soul, of course, doesn’t answer me.

“Most don’t get a second chance. I hope you feel thankful.” I consider this for a moment. The truth is, this ambrosia soul likely doesn’t feel much of anything beyond puzzled. Impressions of an identity that doesn’t have the words to piece itself together. I imagine a soul thinks in snapshot images, a reel of cut and scrambled film stills played in slow motion.

At least it will make this next part easier. I answer the tug. Before me, the ambrosia disappears like a light switched off, onto metaphysical roads meant for someone else.

A body without the right soul, a soul without the right body. What a peculiarity. The living will have to find a name for it, like they do for everything new in order to pretend it isn’t so unknown.

In the meantime, I believe I will call it amnesia.

#short story #writing #writing prompt #writing challenge #writer #death #writers on tumblr #my writing

[bluejayblueskies]

tendrillar

Part 21 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Basira Hussain, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Helen | The Distortion Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Unreality, Mild Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort

Read on Ao3

The Archivist sees himself in a warped and twisted mirror, just for a moment, before it shatters with a scream of agony. It ripples through corridors that twist right, and right, and right, and shards of silver-sharp litter a carpet that isn’t. Doors appear and disappear, red and black and hardwood and steel and all folding under the weight of a thousand eyes trying to understand that which is by nature unknowable and should remain a spiraling mix of uncertainty and distrust.

 He’s on the ground, if you could call it a ground. He retches up a shimmering cloud of static and curlicues that bore into his eyes in a desperate, furious plea to get out, Archivist. Get. Out!

 Pinpricks turn into slices of red-hot pain as knives that are fingers and fingers that are not his turn his mind upon its axis, and he’s falling up, through a series of reflections of versions of himself that are not quite, and he’s shattering.

 You do not belong here, Archivist. I. Did. Not. Invite. You.

 A yellow door flickers at the edge of his vision, and he focuses on it with every strength of Seeing and Knowing and Beholding he still retains in this place so removed from sanity, from anything within the realm of corporeality. It shudders and ripples and snaps into place for just a moment, its handle an irradiant glow of tremoring existence.

 The Archivist grips it tightly, feeling spiral scars scald themselves onto his skin and veins and mind, and pulls.

.

Georgie and Melanie spill out first, stumbling through a once-there-now-gone yellow doorway with eyes like stained glass and hands that grip the other’s white-knuckled and shaking. Basira’s there in an instant, gripping Melanie by the arm and asking, firmly, who she is. What’s her name? Yes, she has a name. She’s safe. She can’t see because she’s blind. No, it’s not from… from in there. Yes, Melanie. Her name is Melanie.

 Georgie just stares at Melanie, like she’s seeing her for the first time, and whispers, “It… it was supposed to be safe. She said it would be safe.”

 Then, the door shudders, in a way that doors should not be able to move. It twists, and implodes and explodes in equal measure, and becomes everything that it is not and everything that it has always been, and then, in a transition that Martin’s brain refuses to process, the door becomes not a door becomes Jon, slumped onto the hard-packed dirt of the in-between that exists in places that aren’t feared.

 “Shit, shit, Jon!” Martin cries, and then he’s kneeling at Jon’s side, and oh god, is he breathing? There are curling lines pulsing just beneath the surface of Jon’s skin, stained a color that it hurts Martin’s eyes to look at and shifting in impossibly intricate patterns that fold in on themselves in ways beyond the confines of dimensionality. Martin places a careful hand on Jon’s face, and then pulls it back with a bitten-out curse. It’s like touching an open flame. “Jon, can you hear me? I- I need you to wake up, Jon. You’re- you’re out of there, you’re safe. I- I think she’s gone. Helen. It. Whatever. So you- you can wake up.”

 Martin looks at Jon, at the stillness of his face, at the lack of rise-and-fall of his chest, and feels a nausea born of six months of waiting and grieving and loss rising within him once again. “Jon, please.”

 He hesitates, just a moment, before steeling himself and placing a hand on Jon’s face once again. The heat is instantaneous, and Martin feels a scream of agony well up within him; he bites his tongue around it and refuses to move. With fingers on fire and spiral lines beginning to wind their way up his wrist, Martin moves his hand over Jon’s eyes, and tries, very hard, to remember what it felt like when Jon had done the same, standing outside yet another domain of fear and staring at the Panopticon in the distance, and had said, in that gentle voice that Martin adores more than anything, “Can you see it?”

 “Yes,” Martin said, in a voice strangled by tears. “Yes, I- I can see it.” The cabin, where they had spent three weeks—three lovely, fleeting weeks—that might be the only weeks they would ever get, now dissolved into an eager host for those who wished for respite. And everything else, as he felt Beholding rush into him and through him, and he finally understood, if only a little, what it was to be an Archivist. Though he hadn’t told Jon that. And Jon, true to his word, had never looked.

 Martin Looks now, as he calls upon a connection he so desperately wishes were not there, but that has been hardened through curiosity and certainty and a love for that which the Eye holds dearest above all else, and hopes desperately that it’s enough. “Jon, I need you to look,” he says, voice strangled in agony as the spiraling lines begin to thread through his chest. “Can you see it? Can… can you see me?”

 The tears that drip from his nose sizzle into vapor against a hand that wishes nothing more than to let go. In a voice barely audible over the sobs threatening to rip their way from his throat, Martin says, “Can. You. See. Me?”

 The Spiral curls and pulses against his heart, and Jon opens his Eyes.

.

“For the last time,” Jon says stubbornly, “I am fine—”

 His words dissolve into a series of stuttered, distorted noises, not unlike that of a record skipping or a tape recorder rewinding, as the spirals still laced under his skin dance with quiet laughter and he glitches. Martin really, really tries not to laugh when Jon snaps back into himself with a sulking frown etched onto his face, but, well.

 “Sorry, sorry,” he says at the affronted look Jon gives him. “Look, I know you want to get back to our terribly journey into Mordor, to throw the ring into Mount Doom and all that, but it’s going to be really hard to travel when you’re still not recovered from- from the supernatural equivalent of a really bad infection. You almost died, Jon.”

 “It’s not—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated groan. “I just. I don’t like waiting.”

 “I know.” Martin places a hand on Jon’s arm and pulls him in for a gentle embrace. Jon folds into him, and Martin tries to ignore the way that the spirals still entangled with his veins and tendons pulse in quiet relief as they’re brought closer to that from which they came. Tries to ignore the way that Jon’s eyes, just for a moment, swirl with a thousand colors never seen. “But we have time. Basira’s still trying to hunt down that lead on Jonah’s weakness, whatever that means, and Melanie and Georgie are still recovering.” He lets out a sigh and holds Jon just a bit tighter. “Christ, they spent two years in there, Jon. Or, at- at least what counts as two years in that place. And Helen never told us. She smiled, and laughed, and told us she was here to help, and the entire time two of our friends were just- just lost inside her!”

 “I think she meant to,” Jon says quietly. His breath tickles the side of Martin’s neck as he pulls back, just enough to look Martin in the eyes, then away at the ground. “To help. The corridors, they- they were safer than what’s out there, at the start. She was safer at the start. But over time she just…” He sighs. “This world, it isn’t kind to those who cling to their humanity. And I suppose she just found it easier, in the end. To let go. After that…”

 “… Melanie and Georgie were just an unfinished meal,” Martin says, and Jon reluctantly nods. “Yeah, I get it. That doesn’t make it right. You’ve clung to your humanity well enough.”

 With a smile, Jon says, “Well, I certainly had help.”

 “Flatterer,” Martin says, and presses a light kiss to Jon’s lips. There’s a static that lingers after Martin pulls back, prickling his mouth with pins and needles; he wonders, absently, if that’s something he’ll have to get used to. The static, and the glitching, and the spirals inked upon their skin in mirrored concentricity. Perhaps it’s a part of them now, just as the eyes that gaze lovingly upon the Archivist stare within and through him and the swirling mist that longs to claim what once was its still lingers within Martin. Perhaps it’s just another mark: another story for the Archive.

 Jon flickers once more, the distortion sending shockwaves of staticky laughter and dizzying wrongness through Martin. This time, when he groans, it’s in resignation.

 “I… see your point,” he concedes, and he sounds so grumpy that Martin can’t quite fight back another smile. Jon pulls free from Martin’s embrace, though a hand lingers on Martin’s before he threads their fingers together and squeezes lightly. “But soon.”

 Martin squeezes Jon’s hand in return, and feels a bit of that unnatural heat return as he does so. “Soon.”

 Jon smiles softly, the lines that spiral through his face and cluster around his eyes smiling in kind, and Martin can’t help but feel that this is not a sickness that can be cured by time. Soon, he promises himself, as he guides Jon back to the cluster of blankets and sleeping bags they’ve been calling a bed, and hopes that the lies he tells himself will appease those that now make themselves home within their souls.

#whumptober2020 #no.21 #i don't feel so well #the magnus archives #fic #unreality cw

[kkintle]

Map: Collected and Last Poems by Wisława Szymborska; Quotes

Dreams flickered on white canvas.

The future—who can guess it. The past—who’s got it right.

Trite Rhymes     A great joy: flower upon flower, the branches stretch in pristine blue, but there’s a greater: today’s Tuesday, tomorrow will bring mail from you, and still greater: the letter trembles, strange reading it in spots of sun, and still greater: just a week now, now just four days, now it’s begun, and still greater: I kneel on top and make the suitcase lid shut tight, and still greater: the train at seven, just one ticket, thanks, that’s right, and still greater: rushing windows, with view on view on view on view, and still greater: dark and darker, by nighttime I will be with you, and still greater: the door opens, and still greater: past the door, and still greater: flower on flower. —Ohhh, who are all these roses for?

Do you open each human fate like a book, seeking feelings not in fonts or formats? Are you sure you decipher people completely?

Are people really so simple as far as people go?

Lovers     In this quiet we can still hear what they were singing yesterday about the high road and the low road . . . We hear—but we don’t believe it.   Our smile doesn’t mask our sorrow, and goodness needs no sacrifice. The pity we give to nonlovers is even more than they deserve.   We’re so astonished at ourselves, what’s left to astonish us? Not a rainbow in the night. Not a butterfly in snow.   And when we sleep we dream of parting. But it’s a good dream, it’s a good dream, since we wake up from it.

Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue mentions your name by accident: I feel as if a rose were flung into the room, all hue and scent.

Why do we treat the fleeting day with so much needless fear and sorrow? It’s in its nature not to stay: today is always gone tomorrow.   With smiles and kisses, we prefer to seek accord beneath our star, although we’re different (we concur) just as two drops of water are.

If we haven’t had enough of despair, grief, all that stuff, lofty words will kill us off.   Then we’ll stand up, take our bows: hope that you’ve enjoyed our show. Every patron with his spouse will applaud, get up, and go.   They’ll reenter their lives’ cages, where love’s tiger sometimes rages, but the beast’s too tame to bite.

I TEACH silence in all languages

FOR PROMISES made by my spouse, who’s tricked so many with his sweet colors and fragrances and sounds— dogs barking, guitars in the street— into believing that they still might conquer loneliness and fright, I cannot be responsible. Mr. Day’s widow, Mrs. Night.

We know ourselves only as far as we’ve been tested. I tell you this from my unknown heart

An Effort     Alack and woe, oh song: you’re mocking me; try as I may, I’ll never be your red, red rose. A rose is a rose is a rose. And you know it.   I worked to sprout leaves. I tried to take root. I held my breath to speed things up, and waited for the petals to enclose me.   Merciless song, you leave me with my lone, nonconvertible, unmetamorphic body: I’m one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.

Leave me, leave, but not by land. Swim off, swim, but not by sea. Fly off, fly away, my dear, but don’t go near the air.   Let’s see each other through closed eyes. Let’s talk together through closed mouths. Let’s hold each other through a thick wall.

Since eternity was out of stock, ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead.

Everything’s mine but just on loan, nothing for the memory to hold, though mine as long as I look.

One day the answer came before the question. Another night they guessed their eyes’ expression by the type of silence in the dark.   Gender fades, mysteries molder, distinctions meet in all-resemblance just as all colors coincide in white.

Sunny. Green. A forest close at hand, with wood to chew on, drops beneath the bark to drink— a view served round the clock, until you go blind.

Parable     Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. It held a piece of paper, with these words: “Somebody save me! I’m here. The ocean cast me on this desert island. I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry! I’m here!” “There’s no date. I bet it’s already too late anyway. It could have been floating for years,” the first fisherman said. “And he doesn’t say where. It’s not even clear which ocean,” the second fisherman said. “It’s not too late, or too far. The island Here is everywhere,” the third fisherman said. They all felt awkward. No one spoke. That’s how it goes with universal truths

Ballad     Hear the ballad “Murdered Woman Suddenly Gets Up from Chair.”   It’s an honest ballad, penned neither to shock nor to offend.   The thing happened fair and square, with curtains open, lamps all lit:   passersby could stop and stare.   When the door had shut behind him and the killer ran downstairs, she stood up, just like the living startled by the sudden silence.   She gets up, she moves her head, and she looks around with eyes harder than they were before.   No, she doesn’t float through air: she steps on the ordinary, wooden, slightly creaky floor.   In the oven she burns traces that the killer’s left behind: here a picture, there shoelaces, everything that she can find.   It’s obvious that she’s not strangled. It’s obvious that she’s not shot. She’s been killed invisibly.   She may still show signs of life, cry for sundry silly reasons, shriek in horror at the sight of a mouse.                      Ridiculous traits are so predictable that they aren’t hard to fake.   She got up like you and me.   She walks just as people do.   And she sings and combs her hair, which still grows.

I let myself be invented, modeled on my own reflection in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance in the stir of sudden wings.

Exiled by style. Only their ribs stood out. With birdlike feet and palms, they strove to take wing on their jutting shoulder blades.   The thirteenth century would have given them golden halos. The twentieth, silver screens. The seventeenth, alas, holds nothing for the unvoluptuous.   For even the sky bulges here with pudgy angels and a chubby god— thick-whiskered Phoebus, on a sweaty steed, riding straight into the seething bedchamber

He grew rozes with a “z.

(...) the rest of your life? Old age is a precipice, (...)

I am too close for him to dream of me.

Silence—this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that have sprouted from the word “woods.”

Funny little thing How could she know that even despair can work for you if you’re lucky enough to outlive it.

The Railroad Station     My nonarrival in the city of N. took place on the dot.   You’d been alerted in my unmailed letter.   You were able not to be there at the agreed-upon time.   The train pulled up at Platform 3. A lot of people got out.   My absence joined the throng as it made its way toward the exit.   Several women rushed to take my place in all that rush.   Somebody ran up to one of them. I didn’t know him, but she recognized him immediately.   While they kissed with not our lips, a suitcase disappeared, not mine.   The railroad station in the city of N. passed its exam in objective existence with flying colors.   The whole remained in place. Particulars scurried along the designated tracks.   Even a rendezvous took place as planned.   Beyond the reach of our presence.   In the paradise lost of probability.   Somewhere else. Somewhere else. How these little words ring. Alive     These days we just hold him

But this is ancient history. I can’t dwell on it forever or keep asking endlessly, what’s next, what’s next.   Day to day I trust in permanence, in history’s prospects. I can’t gnaw apples in a constant state of terror.

Arduous ease, watchful agility, and calculated inspiration.

Old Folks’ Home     Here comes Her Highness—well, you know who I mean, our Helen the snooty—now who made her queen! With her lipstick and wig on, as if we could care, like her three sons in heaven can see her from there!   “I wouldn’t be here if they’d lived through the war. I’d spend winter with one son, summer with another.” What makes her so sure? I’d be dead too now, with her for a mother.   And she keeps on asking (“I don’t mean to pry”) why from your sons and daughters there’s never a word even though they weren’t killed. “If my boys were alive, I’d spend all my holidays home with the third.”   Right, and in his gold carriage he’d come and get her, drawn by a swan or a lily-white dove, to show all of us that he’ll never forget her and how much he owes to her motherly love.   Even Jane herself, the nurse, can’t help but grin when our Helen starts singing this old song again— even though Jane’s job is commiseration Monday through Friday, with two weeks’ vacation.

Sell me your soul. There are no other takers.   There is no other devil anymore.

I’m bound to pass by all these poppies and pansies. What a loss when you think how much effort was spent perfecting this petal, this pistil, this scent for the one-time appearance, which is all they’re allowed, so aloofly precise and so fragilely proud.

The abyss doesn’t divide us. The abyss surrounds us.

In Praise of Dreams     In my dreams I paint like Vermeer van Delft.   I speak fluent Greek and not just with the living.   I drive a car that does what I want it to.   I am gifted and write mighty epics.   I hear voices as clearly as any venerable saint.   My brilliance as a pianist would stun you.   I fly the way we ought to, i.e., on my own.   Falling from the roof, I tumble gently to the grass.   I’ve got no problem breathing under water.   I can’t complain: I’ve been able to locate Atlantis.   It’s gratifying that I can always wake up before dying.   As soon as war breaks out, I roll over on my other side.   I’m a child of my age, but I don’t have to be.   A few years ago I saw two suns.   And the night before last a penguin, clear as day.

True love. Is it normal, is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own?

Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there’s no such thing.   Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.

And it so happened that I’m here with you. And I really see nothing usual in that. 

Under One Small Star     My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all. Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due. May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade. My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second. My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first. Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home. Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths. I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five A.M. Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time. Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water. And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, your gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed. My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs. My apologies to great questions for small answers. Truth, please don’t pay me much attention. Dignity, please be magnanimous. Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.   Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then. My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once. My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man. I know I won’t be justified as long as I live, since I myself stand in my own way. Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words, then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

Non omnis moriar—a premature worry.

Thank-You Note     I owe so much to those I don’t love.   The relief as I agree that someone else needs them more.   The happiness that I’m not the wolf to their sheep.   The peace I feel with them, the freedom— love can neither give nor take that.   I don’t wait for them, as in window-to-door-and-back. Almost as patient as a sundial, I understand what love can’t, and forgive as love never would.   From a rendezvous to a letter is just a few days or weeks, not an eternity.   Trips with them always go smoothly, concerts are heard, cathedrals visited, scenery is seen.   And when seven hills and rivers come between us, the hills and rivers can be found on any map.   They deserve the credit if I live in three dimensions, in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space with a genuine, shifting horizon.   They themselves don’t realize how much they hold in their empty hands.   “I don’t owe them a thing” would be love’s answer to this open question.

Dentistry turned to diplomatic skill promises us a Golden Age tomorrow. The going’s rough, and so we need the laugh of bright incisors, molars of goodwill. Our times are still not safe and sane enough for faces to show ordinary sorrow.

Our solitary existence exacerbates our sense of obligation, and raises the inevitable question, How are we to live et cetera? since “we can’t avoid the void.

No way out? But what about the door? No prospects? The window had other views.

You think at least the note must tell us something. But what if I say there was no note— and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.

(...) to linger longer, not to go home again. Since only prisoners want to go home.

In Praise of Feeling Bad about Yourself     The buzzard never says it is to blame. The panther wouldn’t know what scruples mean. When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame. If snakes had hands, they’d claim their hands were clean.   A jackal doesn’t understand remorse. Lions and lice don’t waver in their course. Why should they, when they know they’re right?   Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton, in every other way they’re light.   On this third planet of the sun among the signs of bestiality a clear conscience is number one.

I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it’s mine, I can’t exchange it.   I have to guess on the spot just what this play’s all about

The star is large and distant, so distant that it’s small, even smaller than others much smaller than it.

Small wonder, then, if we were struck with wonder; as we would be if only we had the time.

God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.

“How should we live?” someone asked me in a letter. I had meant to ask him the same question.   Again, and as ever, as may be seen above, the most pressing questions are naïve ones.

Whatever you say reverberates, whatever you don’t say speaks for itself. So either way you’re talking politics.

Who knows you matters more than whom you know. Trips only if taken abroad. Memberships in what but without why. Honors, but not how they were earned. (...) Price, not worth, and title, not what’s inside. His shoe size, not where he’s off to, that one you pass off as yourself.

Nothing’s sacred for those who think. Calling things brazenly by name, risqué analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects, discussion in heat—it’s music to their ears.

During these trysts of theirs, the only thing that’s steamy is the tea.

May delivery be easy, may our child grow and be well. Let him be happy from time to time and leap over abysses. Let his heart have strength to endure and his mind be awake and reach far.   But not so far that it sees into the future. Spare him that one gift, O heavenly powers.

For the sake of the children that we still are, fairy tales have happy endings. That’s the only finale that will do here, too. The rain will stop, the waves will subside, the clouds will part in the cleared-up sky, and they’ll be once more what clouds overhead ought to be: lofty and rather lighthearted in their likeness to things drying in the sun— isles of bliss, lambs, cauliflowers, diapers.

I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries that can be celebrated every day.

A miracle, just take a look around: the inescapable earth.   An extra miracle, extra and ordinary: the unthinkable can be thought.

When I see such things, I’m no longer sure that what’s important is more important than what’s not.

Hatred is a master of contrast— between explosions and dead quiet, red blood and white snow.

Perhaps all fields are battlefields, those we remember and those that are forgotten: (...)

Without us dreams couldn’t exist. The one on whom the real world depends is still unknown, and the products of his insomnia are available to anyone who wakes up.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

We agreed to death, but not to every kind. Love attracted us, of course, but only love that keeps its word.

We were besieged by doubts. Does knowing everything beforehand really mean knowing everything.   Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice.

We’re extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in.

I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.

They aren’t obliged to vanish when we’re gone. They don’t have to be seen while sailing on.

The Three Oddest Words     When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past.   When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.   When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no nonbeing can hold.

But how to answer unasked questions, while being furthermore a being so totally a nobody to you.

Talking with you is essential and impossible. Urgent in this hurried life and postponed to never.

Understanding came only later: not all misadventures fit within the world’s laws and even if they wanted to, they couldn’t happen.

And what can you say about one day of life, a minute, a second: darkness, a lightbulb’s flash, then dark again?   KOSMOS MAKROS CHRONOS PARADOKSOS Only stony Greek has words for that.

There must be an exit somewhere, that’s more than certain. But you don’t look for it, it looks for you, it’s been stalking you from the start, and this labyrinth is none other than than your, for the duration, your, until not your, flight, flight— (...)

Life on Earth is quite a bargain. Dreams, for one, don’t charge admission. Illusions are costly only when lost. The body has its own installment plan.   And as an extra, added feature, you spin on the planets’ carousel for free, and with it you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard, with times so dizzying that nothing here on Earth can even tremble.

At times I get fed up with her. I suggest a separation. From now to eternity. Then she smiles at me with pity, since she knows it would be the end of me too. 

Assassins     They think for days on end, how to kill so as to kill, and how many killed will be many. Apart from this they eat their meals with gusto, pray, wash their feet, feed the birds, make phone calls while scratching their armpits, stanch blood when they cut a finger, if they’re women they buy sanitary napkins, eye shadow, flowers for vases, they make jokes on their good days, drink citrus juice from the fridge, watch the moon and stars at night, place headphones with soft music on their ears and sleep sweetly till the crack of dawn —unless what they’re thinking needs doing at night.

It’s good you came. Sit here beside me. He really was supposed to get back Thursday. But we’ve got so many Thursdays left this year.

Page after page at a snail’s pace. But we’re still going in fifth gear and, knock on wood, never better.

We eat another life so as to live. A corpse of pork with departed cabbage. Every menu is an obituary.   Even the kindest of souls must consume, digest something killed so that their warm hearts won’t stop beating.

In the end I stopped knowing what I’d been looking for so long.   I woke up. Looked at my watch. The dream took not quite two and a half minutes.   Such are the tricks to which time resorts ever since it started stumbling on sleeping heads.

#poems #poetry #Wislawa Szymborska #literature #quotes