#prize = exhaustion + waking up sore tomorrow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubble-tea-bunny · 4 years

Text

in the wind

[mako x reader]

author’s note: i would like to thank fallin’ flower by svt for giving me inspo. this is totally different from the idea i had originally but i like this cuz it’s seasonally appropriate. just gonna tuck the other idea away for now and probably write it for bolin cuz it fits him more hehehe

word count: 5,068

Your side of the bed is empty when Mako wakes up this morning, but that comes as no surprise. Occasionally you’re up and out of the apartment before sunrise, the slightly sloppy arrangement of the blanket’s edge stuffed beneath your pillow lone evidence of having been there at all. Mako makes the bed properly now that he’s standing, and the finishing touch is the fluffy bunny toy he nearly steps on by accident. You must’ve knocked it off the bed and not noticed. With a small smile he picks it up and sets it between the pillows. He’d won that for you at the fair last year, the only prize he’d managed to get, and he’d complained with a huff about how the games are rigged and that’s why he was performing poorly but you just laughed and assured him you were perfectly happy with your bunny.

While he isn’t surprised to find you gone by the time he’s awake, especially because it’s been happening consistently all this week, what does surprise him is the harsh breeze that nips at his skin once he’s outside. He can’t help the scrunching of his nose and he considers turning around to grab his scarf, but decides against it. He had plans to show up to the department a little earlier today to catch up on paperwork. It would be fine. He’d be inside most of the day anyway.

Or, well, he expected to be. But he ends up being wrong. As luck would have it, Chief Beifong has him on the beat since the officer who would typically be patrolling the area is out sick. So he’s outside again, a sorry amount of progress made on the stack of folders on his desk, trying to fight back sniffles and hoping his nose isn’t as red as he thinks it is. A mother walks by with her son around whose neck she pulls a scarf, wrapped tight and tucked into place, a motion complimented by a light admonition to keep it on and not tug it off again, lest he get sick. And mostly to herself, as she straightens up, she speculates lowly where this sudden turn in the weather has come from. But Mako hears and lets out a light sigh, breath materializing in front of him, and wonders the same.

One consolation of being forced to deal with the brunt of the weather is that Mako’s patrol takes him through the park. Fewer people came here once summer began turning to fall, the cooler air less conducive to outdoor actives like picnics or simply laying out in the grass to enjoy the sun. Today the park is even emptier than usual with the chill in the air, and the icy gusts sweep through the trees which rustle loudly and let go of their leaves, too weak to hold on.

The grass is losing color and the leaves which have fallen are brown and crunch beneath his boots. What leaves are left on the trees are brilliant hues of red and yellow, the truest sign that autumn has arrived in Republic City. Though some may not favor the cooler weather, no one can deny the beauty of a shifting season. Mako certainly won’t try to, and besides, he can hardly feel the severity of the wind anymore, after being outside for some time. Or maybe his face is just numb now.

His patrol is quiet and uneventful, another day passing peacefully. The sun is disappearing behind the horizon, orange light almost blinding as it reflects off the windows of the skyscrapers. Chief Beifong passes by Mako’s desk on her way out and he pauses in his efforts to sort through the new files plopped down on his desk while he was away to listen as she informs him that the officer on sick leave should be back tomorrow. He nods. All right. Thanks, Chief.

She leaves with a curt nod and a sly aside that it’s a good thing too, because if Mako had to be out there again, his nose might fall off. Mako covers his nose with his hand, cheeks heating up. So it did turn red!

It’s dark by the time he’s packed up and left the department. He knows it isn’t late, but the shorter days make it feel that way, and serve to make him feel tired more quickly. However, his destination right now isn’t the apartment. Instead, halfway along the route there, he makes a turn down a different street, continuing until a familiar building comes into view.

Two women come out through the front doors and upon seeing him, smile and wave amicably. One of them says you’re inside, where you always are, and Mako grins back and says thank you. Sure enough, light is peaking through the crack beneath the third door on the left, and he turns the knob and pulls back, opening it and slipping through into the room.

You’re all alone in the dance room, and he knows you see him because of the mirrors covering three of the walls, from the ground up to the ceiling. But you never break your stride, humming to yourself and moving in time with the beat you have set. He stays close to the door, leaning against it in silence and watching you with adoration flittering in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

He knew you were a dancer before the two of you even talked for the first time. He’s nothing if not observant, something of a necessity give his job, and he could easily pick up on the way you held yourself, a sense of ease and litheness to your person he doesn’t often see. His urge to confirm whether his guess is correct is what leads to that first conversation, and your smile when you tell him he’s right is so beautiful and he is transfixed.

Perhaps this aura you exude is practiced for the stage, but Mako is inclined to reason that it’s natural. And he is serving witness to evidence of such, as you dance your way through your routine before finally, you lower yourself gracefully to the floor, right in the center, and he can’t say for sure if it was intentional, the last pose of your dance, or if your muscles are no longer able to support you after practicing for as long as you have. Your nimble descent is punctuated with silence, your chest heaving in deep but controlled breaths and this scene is begging for a spotlight. You aren’t made for the stage; the stage is made for you.

When you meet his gaze through the mirror, he claps, and through your exhaustion you muster a shy smile. You’ve performed before many people but still feel flustered around him, and if he’s being honest, he’s flattered. He’d said as much to you in the past, fond of teasing and fonder still of the blush dusting your cheeks at having heard that.

You’re slow to stand which gives away that you are indeed sore, but you don’t complain about it. You never do. With an inquiry as to how his day has been, you put on your thick coat, ideal for fending off the cold, and scoop up your bag.

He waves a hand. Oh, you know. Same old, same old. And it’s true. It’s been quiet lately and while he certainly wouldn’t mind some exciting stakeouts or chases, he appreciates these quiet days as well. The point is that there’s not much worth talking about and he’d much rather hear about your day instead.

Same old, same old. You say his words back to him playfully and he chuckles, grasping your hand in his. Just practice, practice, and more practice. The company you’re with had decided to hold the upcoming performance outdoors in the park, rather than in the theater they typically were in. It was a chance to take advantage of the weather—it wasn’t so hot as to leave the dancers uncomfortable and weary, and the vibrant colors were a backdrop that could hardly be beat. A performance outside also meant a bigger audience, due to accessibility. Anyone would be welcome to stop and watch for however long they wished.

This performance is also why you leave the apartment during the early hours of morning. While you maintain a disciplined routine even when there are no performances to be preparing for, you’re even stricter with yourself when there are, since you need to ensure everything is perfect. Every small tilt of the head, every angle of an outstretched arm, every expression on your face. You’re the first one in the building and the last one out of it more often than not. He admires your work ethic.

The two of you walk outside and momentarily you let go of his hand to lock the doors. Once you’ve done that, you turn around and catch him sniffling and rubbing at his nose. You frown slightly.

“You forgot to bring a scarf.” It’s not a question.

Mako glances at you and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, but it’s fine. Really.”

You’re not satisfied with that, but lucky for him, you come prepared. He holds his hand out for you to take but blinks in confusion when you proceed to ignore it and instead rifle through your bag. With a little noise of victory, you pull out your scarf: white, fluffy, and very warm.

Mako smiles, already feeling warmer from your thoughtfulness, but before he can take the scarf, you loop it around his neck for him. He crouches a little to make this easier, since you’re considerably shorter than he is, and you giggle as he does. His smile widens, and after you’re done, he stands straight and takes hold of your hand again. He brings it up to his mouth to lay a gentle kiss on the back of it.

“Thank you.”

You hum in a tone that means Of course. On the short trip home, Mako realizes there is something from his day he would like to share.

“I was out on patrol today and passed through the park,” he explains. “The trees were beautiful. I wished you’d been there to enjoy it with me.”

Your eyes sparkle with affection. “I wish I could’ve been there too. We’ll have to go when we find the time.”

When we find the time being the key phrase. You and Mako are busy with your separate obligations, and often don’t get to spend time together until the very end of the day. Mako meeting you at your dance company’s building and going home with you isn’t a common occurrence, only possible if he leaves work on time. And if he does, you usually tell him not to wait up for you and you’ll just see him when you get back to the apartment. At best, you have a couple of hours with each other, mostly spent in silence due to how tired you both are. But you make do with that. It’s better than nothing.

However, Mako doesn’t feel totally content with it. In fact, he feels rather guilty most days because his work prevents him from making it to your performances. You’ve never made known any disappointment or anger and take care to remind him that it’s okay, you aren’t bothered, but he knows deep down you’d like him to be there and your heart is just too kind to be upfront. It makes his own clench painfully with that growing guilt.

And so, upon the announcement of your company’s plan for the performance in the park, he promised you he would go. If it didn’t line up with his schedule, he would ask Chief Beifong to make changes to the shifts that would allow him to go and make up for it another day. You’d lit up when he told you this, and though you don’t explicitly say so, his promise motivates you to work even harder.

Mako sees it at the end of each day, whether when he meets you at the company building or when he sees you at home: late nights spent practicing, a sweat-laden brow, sore muscles, and a tired smile you gather the energy to grace him with whenever he turns your way and asks if there’s anything he can do to help you feel more comfortable. He’ll be sitting on the couch and wordlessly open his arms, already knowing what your answer would be, and you plop down next to him and cuddle close, body relaxing with a deep breath. Faintly you admit to him that he makes you feel like you could dance forever.

Me? he questions, partly just to tease and partly from curiosity. He wanted to know more about what you meant by that.

You hum, lowly and fatigued, and he thinks that’s all you’ll share in the ways of a response, and he wouldn’t mind because you need to rest, but after a few seconds you continue. Remember when you teased me about being flustered when I dance in front of you? It’s because I want to do my best to impress you. You’d dance forever if he asked.

When you admit this, he only hugs you tighter and kisses your head and thinks that you don’t have to do anything other than be who you are in order to impress him. He’d love you all the same.

Seeing your hard work behind the scenes only makes him more excited to see the finished product. He hasn’t seen the entire routine, not that you would let him. You stress to him that you want it to be a surprise. It’s simple for him to respect your wish and he waits patiently as the days pass, another X marked on the calendar. In a way, the long shifts at the department are a positive if only because time seems to move quicker while he’s there, so preoccupied with work as he is.

The current month is gone in the blink of an eye. Gingerly you take the calendar from where it hangs on the wall to flip to the next page and Mako sees it, near the top: a big circle, the words “the big day” scribbled inside, in capital letters and paired with three exclamation points.

If it were even possible, he sees even less of you in the final two weeks before the performance. Not only are you working on your own routine, you’d agreed to assist some of the other senior members of the company in reviewing choreography with the less experienced dancers. Originally it hadn’t been one of your obligations, but when the need for extra help arose, you were happy to volunteer. This certainly does nothing to aid your lack of sleep or weary body, but you somehow have the strength to endure it all, looking none the worse for wear and donning a big grin as you explain to Mako what task you’ve taken up.

Of course, the way you plop down into bed each night and fall asleep immediately gives it away, but Mako promises not to tell anyone.

On the day of the show—or, according to the calendar, THE BIG DAY!!!—he wonders as he gets ready for work if you’ll be able to find extra time to review your dance. You’d remarked last night that you hoped you’d be able to, but your new priority had been to help the other dancers run through their choreographies until they—and, well, you too to some extent, given the years of experience you have on them and the trained eye you’ve developed—feel satisfied.

But then you resolved that if you don’t get the chance, it’s okay, and maybe you’re saying it more to yourself than to Mako but he still made sure to remind you not to run yourself ragged. He knows you better than most and knows that you’d try to squeeze in even just a few minutes of last-minute practice if you saw a small opening in your schedule. The intense motivation is inspiring, truly, but it would be a shame if you were to crash on the day your work was to come to fruition.

Once he finishes his stern yet gentle reminder, he looks over at you, and while you nod, showing that you’ve listened and understood, he can detect your excitement for the next day flittering beneath the surface, coursing through your veins so forcefully he suspects you’re one second away from jumping around the room, like a wind-up toy. The corner of his lips lifts in an amused smile and he reaches to take your hand in his.

“Okay?” he asks.

And you know him better than most and know what he’s doing in this moment, softly taking hold of you and pulling you back down to the ground before you float too far away in your own flurried thoughts. The eagerness within you calms down, now a consistent and manageable simmer instead of the original intense exhilaration threatening to burst forth, settled by his touch.

You smile. “Okay.”

When the hour strikes to signify that Mako’s shift is over, he’s quick to clean up his desk and gather his belongings. Chief Beifong is still in her office, the door open, and he pokes his head through quickly to bid her goodbye but doesn’t linger to hear any response. But she doesn’t say anything anyway. She’s aware of what today is.

He doesn’t have time to return to the apartment to change, meaning he’ll have to remain in his uniform, but he doesn’t mind. What he does have adequate time for is a quick stop by the flower shop, and he gets to the park with several minutes to spare.

All the seats that have been put out are filled, but he’s fine with standing. He takes up his place towards the back, and observes the scene, the culmination of your company’s diligence and determination. There’s a stage with a staircase on either side, and the breeze rustles the trees which serve as the backdrop. While there are light rigs set up for when it got darker, for now they’re unnecessary, as the sunlight is soft from the arrival of golden hour.

The audio technicians are making final adjustments and Mako can see the first group of dancers waiting off to one side of the stage. He scans the rest of the area for you, expecting to find you among the others who are going up later, but he doesn’t spot you anywhere.

Worry festers in the pit of his stomach as he looks around the rest of the crowd, for perhaps you’ve found someone you know and have taken a few minutes to sit down and talk. His effort to find you is unsuccessful, and he’s hardly listening as the introduction to the show is made, a heartfelt thanks for being here and hopes that everyone enjoy what the dancers have worked so hard on. It’s when he hears the rustle of paper that he realizes he’s been squeezing the bouquet stems.

He stares down at his hand, has to manually instruct himself to stop clenching his fist, and one by one his fingers loosen, the wrapping paper crinkling, and he knows this is just to distract himself. The first group of dancers have taken their place on stage and now await the music. Where were you?

“We’re here!”

Mako hears your voice just before the song starts, and he turns to see you jogging lightly, one of the other dancers close behind you. Your steps are careful due to the costume you wear, and you hold some of the extra fabric in one hand to prevent it from blowing in the wind. You both slow to a stop before Xiaohui, your boss and creator of the dance company you’re with, and Mako can’t hear what it is you’re all discussing. But he just cares that you’re here, and as the last of his worry fades, he turns his attention to the stage.

You’d been standing close to Xiaohui to talk to her, but now that your conversation is over, you back up a few steps to a more reasonable distance and your movements in Mako’s peripherals prompt him to look back over at you. You’re not standing very far from him but don’t notice him, which he doesn’t mind. He’s content to watch you, in this short stretch of time before it’s your turn, and if you’re nervous, you do a good job at hiding it.

You start to check over your costume, smoothing out wrinkles you have may created from holding it bunched up while you ran. Then you touch your hair, wanting to be sure it hasn’t loosened from the elegant style you have it in. The other girl you’d arrived with (her name escapes Mako at the moment) sees what you’re doing and leans in to reassure you that you look perfect.

Well, at least, that’s what Mako assumes she says. Because you do look perfect, even in your relaxed state, not having yet taken up the air of the professional performer, that charm and fluidity with the practiced facial expressions to match, enough to mesmerize and captivate. For all your natural poise, when you’re off the stage, you’re goofy and playful and if one didn’t know better, they would hardly believe it was still you when you are on it.

It’s a talent not many have, and even if Mako is aware of your two sides, he’s not prepared when the moment comes, and you ascend the few steps up to the stage alone.

In the seconds of silence before the music plays, your eyes flicker over the audience, and he figures you might be trying to look for him, but you don’t keep at it for long before you look down again, and though he’s too far to see the details of your face, he knows you’re getting into the proper headspace. The melody begins to float from the speakers, and from the very first beat you’re moving, the sound seeming to carry you from one side to the other.

Your gaze is softer than the light from the setting sun and it steals Mako’s breath away. He’d never get used to it, to your presence on stage, lost in the music and the flow of your movements, a smoothness like water heading downstream. You make it all look so effortless, appearing lighter than air and he half expects you to be swept up by the breeze, just like the autumn leaves which surround you. You gain strength from the earth beneath your feet with every step, twist, and turn, and there’s a fire raging inside you which crashes against the walls of your heart, a stunning passion made evident with each agile gesture and dreamy sigh. You’re not a bender but you control the elements better than most.

The dress you wear reaches the floor and flutters freely in the wind now that it’s not being held down, and you appear to glide. And maybe the rest of the audience is thinking what Mako is thinking, that there’s no human on the stage, but something else, a creature from bedtime stories and whose home is the world one sees when glancing into the reflection of a lake on a still day. You’ve emerged from the most ideal parts of the soul, form and breath given to the good deep down in everyone.

Mako’s grip on the bouquet had been slack, his nerves having dissipated after seeing you come running earlier, but it tightens again though not from worry. It mirrors the tightening in the pit of his chest the longer he watches you and he really meant what he'd said before, that you don't have to do anything other than be yourself to impress him. The dance could be the exact same, the one difference being that someone else is up there on that stage, moving to this song in front of these trees and among the falling leaves, but it would never encompass the power you give it. The love he feels for you is profound and the art you live to share with the world only magnifies the reasons why.

As the music slows and fades to a close, and you lower yourself delicately to the ground, a fallen leaf in your own right, he sighs out a breath of admiration, mind hazy like he’s just woken up. You stand up as applause erupts and this time you spot him, your eyes meeting, and despite the space between you filled with an audience as captivated by you as he had been, it feels like you’re the only two people here.

You were scheduled towards the end of the show, so there isn’t long left before closing remarks are made, one more expression of gratitude shared, and then the crowd starts to disperse into a night that’s still young. You’re not able to meet Mako right away, doing what you can to help clean up and put away chairs, and he waits patiently to the side as you do. From where he stands, he can see Xiaohui approach you. Again, he can’t hear the conversation, but he has a suspicion of what it’s about when she motions for you to leave the chair you were about to pick up and points over your shoulder, in his direction.

You follow her finger, and upon spotting him, smile widely. He lifts a hand to give a short wave, and then you turn around, likely asking if Xiaohui is really fine with you leaving now, and she nods. So you begin to say your goodbyes to the other dancers, keeping it brief. And then you’re walking towards him, and he smiles as he presents the bouquet to you. The wrapping paper around the stems is crinkled from his hold but the stems themselves are fine and that's what matters.

“Thank you,” you say as you take the flowers, mindful of the fragile petals. Your voice is quiet, denoting your tiredness, and you’re no longer able to hide it, not that you want to. With the end of the big show, the climax after months of hard work, you can let the walls drop and entertain the idea of sleeping for a full night for once (and maybe a full day too).

“You were amazing.” The compliment’s lackluster and Mako’s not much of a poet but he hopes you understand the depth of his affection, able to be found by peeking between the lines at words not spoken.

A couple of seconds of silence pass as you stare up at him, your eyelashes kissing your cheeks with every blink (up close he can see the glitter dusted across them and across the bridge of your nose, and they glimmer under the light of the lamppost). Finally, when you smile, he knows you’ve understood, and you’re doing it again, what you do whenever he sees you dance: you blush and avert your eyes bashfully, shrinking beneath his fond gaze.

Mako chuckles warmly. While he would like to tease you because he enjoys seeing you get shy, his desire for food outweighs this and he’s sure you’re hungry too, so he takes your free hand in his to lead you out of the park.

“Where would you like eat?” he inquires. “My treat.”

Apparently you’ve been craving ramen, so he brings you to a nice ramen shop Bolin had mentioned stumbling upon randomly one day. It’s calm inside, the patrons talking in hushed voices. A few sit at the bar, drinks in hand and joking around with the chef. The two of you request a table so the host guides you past them, to a booth by the window. After you’ve looked over the menu and given your orders, Mako asks about what happened before the show.

It takes you a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, but once you do, you let out a small Oh! and you begin to explain. The other dancer you’d been with, Meilin, had a tear in her dress she didn’t notice until Xiaohui had pointed it out during rehearsal. You offered to help her patch it, but that involved a trip to a sewing store, still in your costumes, and that cut down on the time you actually had to do the stitching. Thankfully it had worked out just fine.

“Now I’m [Name] the dancer and, apparently, resident seamstress,” you state with a laugh.

Mako laughs too, and then as he settles down, remarks, “That was nice of you to do.”

You shrug like it’s no big deal and maybe to you it isn’t. Maybe there really is nothing for you to note in the way your love stretches and grows to reach anyone who needs it because for you, it’s just another day, and he feels so lucky to rest beneath the shade of something so magnificent.

Bolin was right: the ramen here is good. Neither of you talks for a while after the waiter brings the food, your appetites whetted from the aromas wafting from the bowls. As Mako eats, he finds his attention drifting to the sight past the windows, to the trees across the street lit by the tall street lamps. Soon, upon the arrival of winter, those trees would be bare. But for now the wind is blowing, and there are still leaves left to float to the ground. His heart feels like one of them, those falling leaves, and he can only hope its gentle descent is to someplace warmer.

He’s distracted, and the lack of clanking silverware from his side of the table prompts you to glance at him, Your head tilts curiously. You okay? you ask quietly. This successfully pulls him from his thoughts, and he turns to you. The light hanging above the table reflects off the glitter sitting pretty on your cheeks and his heart isn’t falling, it already has fallen, right into your welcoming embrace, a perfect shelter from the autumn chill.

The blank look previously on his face is replaced by a smile. Yeah, I’m okay. And how could he not be when he’s with you?

#mako x reader #mako imagine #legend of korra x reader #legend of korra imagine #lok x reader #lok imagine #mako #legend of korra #lok #bubble-tea-bunny

295 notes · View notes

dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

Text

Student Union S-Rank

As soon as word got around that he was on the mend, Sergey was shocked to find himself dealing exclusively with Student Union Members with the exception of a few of the nurses.

He was never served anything from the hospital kitchen. He was only served food from the kitchen of a Michelin starred chef and made to order and always came hot and fresh on a silver platter.

He was constantly accompanied by someone who would watch over him to make sure he took his medication as directed. A few members would come and change the water on the flowers.

And there were so many flowers. Yellow tulips, white lilies and red roses. There were so many cards wishing him a speedy recovery so he could return to the glorious duty of dragonslaying. Of course, they were all written in Russian but oddly in the same handwriting.

A knock on the door. He looked up. Three young ladies came in. “Sergey! We’re here to get you cleaned up and dressed!”

He couldn’t believe his ears. Their Russian was spoken with more of a Ukranian lilt. Their curly hair was divided into two pony tails that arched out from either side of their heads. They wore the traditional European black and white maid outfits.

“You are also in dire need of a hair cut!”

They surrounded him, organized with tubs of water and piles of warm folded towels.

Sergey’s face burned so much he thought he might go blind. He couldn’t even protest when they shoved him back down to the bed after deftly slipping a towel underneath him.

They were nothing if not professional, and they were very, very strong. One woman rolled up her sleeve to test the water temperature on her forearm and he could see the muscle. On her forearm!

He could only imagine a girl like that carting a dozen flagons of beer in a country mountain tavern!

She gave him a smile and a wink. “Don’t worry, we’ll be quick!”

Another slipped his head into a special tub to wash his hair, running her fingers through it and reaching for an assortment of beauty products next to her. “You’ll get used to it no problem! Especially after how good it makes you feel afterwards!”

“We will also be giving you a massage to make sure your blood flows and you heal faster and avoid bed sores.”

That voice came from farther down the bed than he cared for! But the hairdresser easily held him down when he tried to protest. “Oh no, don’t drip your hair on the mattress!”

The masseuse was busy wrapping the cast on his leg in plastic. Sergey suddenly felt exhausted. His week of unconsciousness had taken its toll. After such little movement, he’d spent all his energy.

He thought of himself as a great hunting dog. Yet, at this moment, he felt like he was trapped in a wash tub to be fancied up like a prized show poodle. They shaved his face, clipped his nails, exfoliated places on his body he didn’t know he had, and massaged him with at least three lotions -- skin conditioners they called it.

While he was being being dried off and his hair was being cut at the same time, one of the girls rolled in an assortment of outfits on a rack. An older twiggy woman looked him over, nodded and said words he couldn’t understand, only half of them sounded English.

The girl picked out a pair of trousers and two shirts. The woman glanced at the one on the right and the one on the left when back on the rack.

Sergey sank deeper into helplessness as the pants and shirt were pulled on him. the hair dresser pulled a mirror up to his face and he blinked at himself.

“Aaaah! You like how you look don’t you?” She cooed.

He turned his head to one side, surprised to see they had put an earring there, a glittering yellow blue jewel that matched his eyes.

“He’s so cute!” One of the girls sighed.

The girl with the mirror scowled. “Hey don’t admire your work too much!”

“Oh come on, why not! I take pride in my work like any other artist!”

The ladies packed up. “We’ll be back again tomorrow! But it won’t take as long, don’t worry!”

And they were gone walking away, chattering and giggling like a coven of witches, leaving the room smelling like a beauty salon.

Sergey lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. In his weakened state, he could fall asleep immediately and wake up hours later and this time was no different. In a moment, half the day disappeared. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

A card was on his stand in gold embossed card stock.

It was written in Russian but not the same handwriting.

“I was going to come see you, but you had fallen asleep already.

Call me when you get this.

- C. Gattuso.”

Next to the card was a brand new Iphone.

He powered it on. He was still new at technology but phone calls he could do.

It rang once before Caesar picked up. Sergey stammered. “H-hello...?”

“So good to hear your voice Sergey. You had us all worried.”

He laughed a little. “It was good hunting. Did you get a trophy?”

“No... actually, we didn’t. That’s what’s so concerning. While we’re sure Norton is dead, they never found the skeleton after the end of the fight.”

“Skeleton?”

“Dragon Skeletons are very powerful. They can be crafted into sage stones and used to kill other dragons. The more we have, the better.”

“I understand. That’s too bad.”

“You were underwater when the Storm Torpedo struck the dragon. Shrapnel was found in your body. You didn’t happen to see what happened?”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember anything after planting the bomb.”

A thought came to his mind without his wanting to. That the skeleton bones were scattered all over the sea floor in separate pieces. The head one way, the arms another way. The image in his mind was gruesome. He shook his head to clear it.

“Sergey?”

“I was just thinking that maybe storm torpedo scattered the remains. Crushed them.”

“...I was inviting you to dinner, Sergey.”

He hadn’t heard a word Caesar had been saying. “Ah... sorry. I think maybe I should rest a little longer.”

“Not to worry, another time.” Caesar’s voice softened. “After all, you did just come back from death. When we pulled you out of the water, your heart had stopped. Our B-rank is certified for CPR. She kept the blood running in your system until we could get to shore. It was quite inspirational.”

He glanced up at the painting on the wall. “Is she alright?”

“I left her phone number in the phone. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

#Dragon Raja #Fanfiction #Writing #Sergey

5 notes · View notes

iamfitzwilliamdarcy · 5 years

Text

Title: from dust, arisen Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne (also ft. Dick Grayson and Tim Drake) Summary: When Jason is fifteen, he almost dies. Now, he grapples with the life he still has. (Jason Lives AU) (ao3)

I...got tired of opening this periodically from my incomplete Google docs over the past two years so...here we go. Will (maybe, hopefully) turn into a series of vignettes. Timeline is intended to make as much sense as possible but...comics.

When Jason is fifteen, he almost dies. It takes half a year to recover fully, his breath rattling against broken ribs and raw throat. He was protected, mostly, from the blast and has only minor burns, but his right arm is broken and so is his left leg, his shoulder dislocated, he needs stitches in multiple places, and he’s covered in bruises. He has a concussion, too, but he’s alive, and he almost wasn’t.

He’s confined to his bed for weeks. Bruce and Alfred hover. Dick’s there sometimes too. He feels suffocated, near the end, but mostly he’s too exhausted to care.

When he starts getting bored and antsy, Dick brings over video games and movies and little 5lb weights.

“I can only use my one arm,” Jason tells him mournfully. “The right one is already smaller. I can feel it.”

Dick makes a face at him as he wiggles the fingers on his left hand. Says, “Well it’ll just have some catching up to do when you get that cast off.”

“And 5lbs are for babies,” Jason adds.

“Guess you’re a baby,” Dick says and sticks his tongue out him.

Neither mention he’s still sore enough that he can’t lift even the 5lb weight for very long.

But he can handle a control with his cast, so Dick tosses him one and they race cars and beat up bad guys and aliens and shoot terrorists. Dick even, Jason swears to God, brings him over some dumb as shit Harvest Moon game.

“For when I’m not here,” Dick tells him. Because when he’s not here Jason reads a lot, but there’s only so much you can read, and he alternates between being restless, bored beyond imagining, and, well, kind of depressed.

(Jason beats it and saves his damn stupid farm three times before his bed rest is over; his cows love him.)

Mostly Jason is just glad Dick isn’t looking at him like he might still drop dead at any minute, all furrowed eyebrows and blank faced like Bruce or downturned, concerned lips like Alfred. Dick laughs and jostles Jason’s shoulder, gentler than he would ordinarily, but at least he knows Jason isn’t going to fucking break.

Jason gathers that Dick is staying at the Manor again but he’s still fighting with Bruce. They rarely visit Jason at the same time, and when one comes in, the other gets all tight and excuses himself after a few minutes. Jason suspects they’re fighting about him.

He doesn’t ask. Dick doesn’t say anything.

They don’t talk about what happened.

********

Jason begs Bruce to let him back in the field for a month. He gives it some time, after he’s up and about, goes to his physical therapy when his casts come off, but Bruce still says no. No. Flat. That’s it.

Jason trains harder. He knows he’s not 100%. He knows he’s chubbier, slower, that he’s out of practice.

He knows Bruce doesn’t trust him anymore. Not after…

It only takes a month for him to get fed up with being left behind. He sits in the Cave as Batman leaves, pretending to look at the notes of the case Bruce has left him. A consolation prize, he rolls his eyes. Something shiny to distract him.

He waits a half an hour, and then gets ready. He realizes, quickly, that he doesn’t actually have a Robin suit anymore. He flinches, thinking about fabric being ripped from deep wounds, from its tattered remains Bruce didn’t know he’d seen.

He shakes his head and regroups. There’s always one of Dick’s old costumes. Jason’s…not sure he’ll fit in any. His weight has fluctuated so much over the past several months, as he weaned himself off pain meds, got his appetite back, sat around unable to do anything, threw himself back into his work-outs as soon as he could, got told off for working too hard when he was still in recovery.

Besides, Dick has always been slender. At fifteen, Jason isn’t done growing, but he’s already almost as tall as Dick and a little broader.

He could always go out in his civvies and a mask, but—

--the Joker can’t take Robin from him.

Batman actually falters when he sees Robin. Almost gets hit in the jaw for it, but recovers in time to duck. Jason jumps. They’re only some low level thugs. Small fry. He could have been helping all along.

He tells Batman so. Batman just looks at him for a long time. Long enough Jason wants to fidget, but he doesn’t. He holds his head up, clenches his jaw. Defiant. He can wait out Bruce.

Batman turns and walks away. But he doesn’t tell Jason to go home. Jason follows.

He guesses it’s a start.

********

“He’s stuck in that moment where he almost didn’t get to you in time,” Dick tells him seriously.

He’s come to Dick’s apartment because Batman is suffocating him. He swoops in when Robin doesn’t need him to, nearly breaks the jaws of thugs who so much as say the wrong thing to Robin, follows him too closely. Jason’s going to go insane.

He’s turning sixteen tomorrow. He almost didn’t make it.

Dick shakes his head. “You know how he doesn’t let go of things. I think part of him is going to live in that moment forever.”

Jason’s learned about watershed events. He wonders if Ethiopia is theirs. His and Bruce’s.

“Why are you packing?” he asks abruptly, because he’s interrupted Dick. “Are you moving back home?”

Dick looks guilty, fiddles with the shirt he’s holding bunched up in his hands. “Not exactly. I’m going back to New York.”

To the Titans.

“Why?”

Dick shrugs. “It’s time,” he says. “And I’m failing anyway. Waste of time to stick it out.”

“You’re smart,” Jason snaps. “Fuck, Dick, you’re a detective. How are you failing?”

Dick gives Jason a look. A little surprised at his venom. Jason is too. Finally, he says, “Not all of us our cut out for the college life, kid. Maybe I’m squandering an opportunity I’m lucky to have. But I can’t sit in class all day and not focus on a case I’m working. Or fall asleep because I was out late the night before and was only able to half-ass my homework in an all-nighter.”

Jason doesn’t say anything, but he won’t look at Dick either.

Dick adds, “Anyway, Bruce is driving me crazy, too. Need some space.”

“You didn’t have to come back,” Jason says hotly. His face feels hot, too, and tight.

Dick reaches out and touches his shoulder. “You know,” he says, thoughtfully, when Jason looks up at him. “It’s not really the Titans if there isn’t a Robin on the team.”

********

Jason turns sixteen and Alfred bakes a cake and Dick comes over because he hasn’t left yet (because he maybe kind of sort of hasn’t told Bruce he’s dropping out yet either) and Bruce is looking at Jason in a way that he never has before (at least not where Jason can see) and Jason feels warm for the first time since Ethiopia.

********

He has to repeat tenth grade. Alfred suggests, gently, homeschooling for the year, but Jason’s missed enough time.

******** “I didn’t die, Bruce!” They’re on opposite sides of the living room from each other and Jason is yelling, his fists clenched, his face splotchy red.

They’ve been going at it for a while, the room hot and Jason hot, when he finally says it.

Bruce draws up short, and the room chills, and Jason suddenly feels deflated. He clenches his fists, adds quieter, “Stop acting like it.”

Jason doesn’t give him a chance to walk away first. He storms up the stairs to his room. He packs a backpack and leaves through the window. He takes the motorcycle and makes it to New York before morning.

Dick doesn’t ask, but his mouth tightens. He feeds Jason leftover pizza and lets him sleep in his bed. Jason snags a few hours, but he wakes to Dick’s hushed, tense voice speaking into a phone.

“No I don’t—obviously—well, I--,”

He gets up and pads over to where Dick’s hunched over on the couch, throws himself on the ground, leans back on his hands and looks up. Laughs a little to himself at Bruce being the one to do enough talking that Dick can barely get a word in edgewise.

Dick looks up and gives him a stressed little half smile. Mouths Bruce, as if Jason doesn’t know. Jason rolls his eyes to tell him obviously. Dick holds out the phone questioningly, and Jason shakes his head. He doesn’t feel as angry and restless as he did earlier, but he’s not ready to talk to Bruce just yet.

“Sorry, B, he’s still asleep. Yeah, we’ll just hit the City some tomorrow. He’s fine, I promise,” Dick sounds a little annoyed. “Go to bed, I’ll call later.”

Jason kicks Dick’s ankle in thanks and feels a little bad about how exhausted he looks. No one else is here, not even Kory, and Jason wonders if he really interrupted Dick in anything important. A local case or something.

Dick just raises his eyebrows at him. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Fuck, no,” Jason says because he knows Dick won’t reprimand him for his language, like Alfred. And also because he really, really doesn’t.

Dick shrugs. “I’m going to bed then,” he says. He stands up and stretches. Adds, “You should get some more sleep. I’ll take Kory’s room.”

Dick’s as good as his word to Bruce, and he takes Jason sightseeing in New York. They do the standard tourist things—see the Rockerfeller, the Plaza Hotel, the Brooklyn Bridge. They rent bikes and ride around Central Park. They sit on a bench and eat ice cream and look out at across the water at the Statue of Liberty.

(Jason turns down going to Ellis Island. He’s had enough family history to last a lifetime.)

Dick buys him bagels and pizza and soda and presses cash into the hands of the homeless they pass. He stops and talks sometimes, and Jason watches him. Envies how charming he is, how easy it all seems to come to him. Jason’s sixteen, and he’s not uncool, but he’ll never be Dick Grayson.

They go out into the city that night, as Nightwing and Robin.

The New York skyline is different from Gotham. It’s not their city.

Jason goes back to the Tower early. “So,” Dick says, mid-morning Sunday, over breakfast. Jason’s actually a little impressed with his scrambled eggs; they’re not Alfred level, but they’re pretty decent. “So,” Jason says back because he feels like Dick is evaluating him. Searching him for something. “So,” Dick repeats, rolling his eyes. “You can stay here as long as you want, you know--,” “But,” Jason prompts. “But,” Dick agrees, “I think you should give Bruce a call.” “I’m gonna go back today,” Jason says. He pushes his empty plate away, runs a hand through his hair. “I just needed some space.” Dick smiles sympathetically. “I get it,” he says, Jason tries not to let himself get pissed off because he knows Dick does, knows he and Bruce have spent too many years fighting for Dick to not get it but- -but he didn’t almost die. Because he’s fucking perfect. He didn’t screw up like Jason did. He doesn’t have Bruce breathing down his neck because he can’t trust him. Jason doesn’t say any of that, but somehow, Dick reads it on his face. He leans forward and Jason resists the urge to lean back. “Remember what I said before?” he asks. “About letting go?” Jason nods. Dick’s not helping. “Sometimes, and I know I’m a hypocrite for saying this, but sometimes, you do too.” Jason gets home after Bruce has gone on patrol. He lets Alfred feed him dinner, does a few rounds with a punching bag, showers, and goes to sleep. He wakes up in the dark, red numbers on his clock flashing 4am, a hand brushing the hair out of his face. He almost flinches away, but some part of his brain recognizes that it’s just Bruce and he relaxes. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bruce says, his voice a rough whisper. “’Sokay,” Jason says. He shifts, sits up a little, blinks blearily at Bruce. The fight from Friday lays between them. Bruce doesn’t apologize, but he pulls Jason into a hug, holds him close. Jason doesn’t apologize, but he snakes his arms around Bruce and squeezes back.

********

He notices the Drake kid tailing Batman and Robin, snapping pictures of them, before Bruce does. He doesn’t see the kid every night, but when he does, he makes sure to do an extra special kick or flip just right or pause a little longer. It’s not posing exactly, but it’s nice to be appreciated. (And Jason won’t lie, he likes the attention.) Also he’s a little curious to see how long it’ll take Batman to notice. Wonders if he already does and is ignoring it for some reason. It’s not like the kid ever lingers for long or isn’t as sneaky as possible, but Batman is, well, Batman. Jason finally gets a chance to talk to him about a month after he first starts noticing him. Jason’s by himself because, after their fight, he and Bruce are trying this new thing where Bruce lets him go off solo. At least a little bit. Because Jason’s sixteen now and not a kid and he’s not going to— The kid is startled when Robin drops down in front of him. He stumbles and Jason has to reach out to keep him from falling. “So what?” Jason asks. “Journalism class? You the next photographer for the Gazette?” The kid flushes and says “Oh my God” and “I’m sorry” and “Do you think he’ll be mad?” He’s stuttering over his words, and Jason finally takes pity. Says, “Chill out, I don’t care.” He sits down, swings his legs over the edge of the building, leans back on his hands and looks up at the kid. “Your parents know you’re out here?” He hesitates, then admits, “They’re out of town.” “Oh,” Jason says. He gets it. “Just for work,” the kid adds defensively. “They’ll be back.” Jason digs around in his belt and offers the kid a granola bar. He hesitates then takes it. After another moment, he sits down too, away from the edge. Jason leans back on his hands and looks at him, appreciates his mask lets him study without coming off as creepy. Kid’s scrawny, shivering in an overpriced jacket, can’t be older than 13, a giant ass camera hanging around his neck. He breaks the granola bar in half and offers the bigger one to Jason, who takes it. “What’s your name?” Jason asks finally. “Tim,” he says back. Glances up quickly, then back down. Back up again and blurts, “I’m glad you’re back. I wasn’t sure you would be.” Jason doesn’t say me too or me neither, but he wants to. “You look familiar,” Jason says. “Have we saved you before or something? That why you president of the fan club?” “No,” Tim says absently. “But I’ve been to some galas at Wayne Manor.” There’s a pause where Tim’s eyes widen and Jason stiffens. Then Tim scrambles to his feet saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and Jason leaps up and grabs his arm, demanding, “Who are you and what do you know?” They both still and Tim draws in a deep breath. He lets it out and Jason notices he doesn’t look scared. Nervous, maybe, a little, but not scared. He says, “I figured it out. Who Batman is. A few years back. Well,” he backtracks, “I figured out who the first Robin was and then…everything fell into place.” Jason doesn’t admit he’s a little impressed. He lets go of Tim, sure he isn’t a threat and won’t run. Asks, still a little suspicious, “How’d you do that?” Tim gets this little half-smile on his face and he says, “The quadruple somersault.” “Yeah?” Jason asks. “How’d you make the connection?” “I watched two of the only three people who could do it die,” Tim says. Jason does some quick mental math and says, “No way in hell you remember that.” Tim huffs. “Well, I do,” he snaps. “It was one of the best days of my life. I was with my parents and they managed to let me meet up with the Flying Graysons before the show. They took a picture with me. I didn’t forget.” They’re quiet for a long moment. The moon is almost directly overhead, bright and full. “Are you going to tell him?” Tim asks finally. He slides a glance sideways at Jason, who doesn’t know if he means Bruce or Dick. Jason shakes his head. “Not yet, at least.” “I should go home,” Tim says, but he’s looking down, scuffing his toe across the roof, so Jason says, “Yeah, me too.” They start to part ways, but Tim turn again. “I really am glad you’re back,” he tells Jason. “He was…different without you. It was kinda scary. Batman needs Robin.”

******** Jason can’t get that out of his head. “He was different…it was kinda scary.” He turns the words around in his head over and over again, until he can’t sleep, thinking about it. He asks Alfred about it, after two days of thinking. Sidles up to him while he’s making sandwiches and soup for lunch. Bruce has to go in for a WE Board meeting (“On a Saturday?” Jason asked horrified and Bruce shrugged. “Guess it’s important. And I maybe missed it on Wednesday.” He winked and was gone.) He takes the knife without a word and starts to cut the sandwiches so Alfred can stir the soup. Tomato basil. “How was Bruce,” he asks abruptly, keeping his eyes focused on the sandwiches, “when I was hurt?” Jason hears the spoon stop stirring, can feel Alfred still next to him. A moment later, the spoon picks up again, slowly. It’s another moment before Alfred clears his throat and says, “He took it very hard. We all did.” “Oh,” Jason says. He keeps looking at the sandwiches even though he’s finished cutting them. He looks up when he feels Alfred’s hand on his shoulder. Alfred is looking at him with fondness and sadness and something else Jason doesn’t know what to call but it fills him up so much he feels tears pricking at his eyes. Alfred cups his face and his hands are warm and wrinkled and soft despite all the labor he’s put into this house over the decades. He says, his voice low with purpose, “You are very dear to him. To me. To Master Richard. I hope you know that.” Jason nods and Alfred lets his hand drop. Gives Jason’s shoulder a pat and says briskly, “Now let’s see about lunch.” He doesn’t ask Dick because he thinks Alfred has sugarcoated or lied to him. It’s only that, he has said very little and he loves Bruce differently than Jason does, the same way he loves Jason—they’re not blind spots, per se, but there’s some sense of duty, some sense of needing to protect. Dick is quiet for a long time when Jason asks over the phone. Jason starts to get antsy, wishing he had gone in person to see Dick, to ask. Finally, Dick answers, almost reluctantly, “He was furious. I’ve never seen him like that before. I thought—for sure, I thought he’d—you know.” Jason does know, but it makes him furious Dick won’t even say the Joker’s name, won’t say what Bruce wouldn’t do. “He would have deserved it,” Jason says savagely and is surprised out of his anger when Dick agrees, quietly, “Yeah. He would have.” There’s a long pause and then Dick adds, “But it wasn’t just him. B was…it was to everybody. A petty thief same as the Big Bads. It was like—it was like he really did. Lose you. And I didn’t—I wasn’t enough, then.” “Oh,” Jason says.

********

Jason doesn’t see Tim again for a while, worries he scared the kid off. He stays true to word, doesn’t tell Dick or Bruce, but he does keep an eye out for him.

When he doesn’t see him as Robin, Jason starts looking for Tim in school. He isn’t actually sure they go to the same one, it can’t hurt to keep an eye out. He doesn’t see him around the high school classes, and, remembering how tiny the kid is, Jason slips into Gotham Academy’s lower school during lunch and spots him right away.

Tim flushes when he notices Jason zero in on him, but he keeps walking with his nerd friend, determinedly ignoring Jason. Jason doesn’t like being ignored. He saunters over and slings an arm around the kid’s shoulder.

Tim’s flush deepens, but he says, almost valiantly, “Uh, hi?” He waves his friend off when he looks concerned and then shoves his hands in his pocket, like he’s trying to make his tiny self even smaller. “Can I help you?”

“Just haven’t seen ya around in a while,” Jason says. He tugs Tim outside with him and adds, “Let’s have lunch.”

********

“Why are you spending so much time with the Drake boy?” Bruce asks one night. They’re in the Cave, still in tuxes from some charity thing Bruce has thrown. Alfred will be mad if he knows, but he’s upstairs, cleaning.

Jason shrugs. “Just a friend. He goes to my school. ‘Sides, everyone else at those things is boring.”

“Not me,” Bruce says and Jason yawns extravagantly. “Especially you.”

********

He wants to tell Dick first about Tim because it’s Dick who helped Tim figure it all out. When he calls to see if he can come up for a weekend visit, though, Dick is distracted, sounds off.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jason finally demands and Dick sighs. Says, “I’m leaving the Titans. I guess I’m moving back to Gotham for a bit.”

It’s good timing, Jason thinks, and immediately feels guilty. He tries not to feel giddy about Dick being back. Tries not to worry about Nightwing, who’s lost teammates and just sounds tired lately.

“To the Manor?” he asks and Dick says, “God no. At least, not permanently. I just…need some time.”

“I have a secret to tell you,” Jason says. “When you get back.”

“I don’t know if I like the sounds of that,” Dick says and actually laughs.

******** Dick takes to Tim right away and Jason tries to squash down any jealousy boiling up in him. It’s not Tim’s fault they’ve come into Dick’s life at different places.

******** Bruce finds out with Dick and Jason both playing mediator, but he seems more impressed than angry, a concerned furrow etching into his brow.

“His parents aren’t home a lot,” Jason tells him, as if Bruce hasn’t noticed the kid sitting in his kitchen, doing homework and eating Alfred’s cookies on a near-daily basis.

******** He watches Tim spar and they way he pores over notes Bruce leaves for him when Batman and Robin go out, and he calls Dick the next day. Asks, “How did you know?” He’s woken Dick up and all he gets is a muffled, “Whu?” “How did you know?” He repeats, more insistently. “How did you know when it was time to move on?” “From what?” Dick asks and Jason lets out a frustrated sigh. “From Robin, asshole,” he snaps. “How did you know?” “Oh,” Dick is quiet for a minute. Then, he says, “I think if you’re asking, you already know.”

********

Jason was fifteen when he almost died. He was fifteen when he took back Robin, sixteen when he and Bruce started figuring each other out again.

Jason is seventeen today, poised on the edge of growing up. He’s seventeen and he is giving Robin away. Tim’s hands tremble when he takes the proffered uniform.

“But it’s your birthday,” he blurts, and then, “Are you sure?”

Jason glances at Bruce, suddenly glad he’s run it by him the night before instead of letting it be a surprise. Bruce doesn’t smile exactly, but there’s something encouraging in his eyes, reassuring, and Jason says, “Sure I’m sure. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. You’re ready.” I’m ready.

“What will you do next?” Tim asks, voice softer, almost reverent as he gathers the Robin uniform close to himself.

Jason shrugs, but he’s grinning. “I have a few ideas.”

He does, too, scribbled down, sketched in a notebook. Because he is seventeen and he did not die and the world is open before him and he is ready for the world.

#jason todd #bruce wayne #batfam #dick grayson #tim drake #batman #robin #fanfic tag #my fic #hi here is 13 type written pages i actually have more already in this series lmao #katie's adventures in writing #tumblr formatting sucks lmao

53 notes · View notes

dragonshost · 6 years

Text

Back To The Start

Chapter 1: Resolution

Pairing: Acnologia x Lucy

On FFN:

On AO3:

Summary: Lucy has lost everything she ever cared for, all thanks to the black dragon of the apocalypse. So, with the help of two old journals belonging to her ancestor Anna and a dragon slayer 400 years dead, she will find out the secret to Acnologia's defeat. No matter the personal cost.

Dedicated to @tammyscythe - I hope you enjoy the first chapter of your giveaway prize. I’m sorry that it took me a full year to get this posted.

This fic is going to be chock full of headcanons, and largely ignore whatever is in Dragon Cry.

Enjoy.

Heaving a sigh, Lucy pushed back from her desk, chair wheels squeaking on the plastic floor cover. Rubbing her eyes, she let out a yawn. "That's it!" she stated. "I'm done for the day! No more!"

Behind her, at his own desk, her supervisor laughed. "Calling it a night?"

"Yeah. Couldn't write another word if I tried." Lucy stretched, her joints creaking as if she were eighty instead of eighteen. For good measure, she flexed her hands and wrists. Soreness had long since set into them, and it was a relief to put down her pen at last.

Without looking up from his own work, Jason passed her a ceramic mug. "Mind filling this up before you head out?"

"Sure thing." Plucking the mug from Jason's fingers, Lucy grabbed her own mug and stood up. A short walk, and she was at the break room in Sorcerer Weekly's headquarters. After she placed her mug in the dishwasher, she eyed the brown sludge that remained in the coffee pot. Long since cold, the grounds had congealed and were starting to smell funny. The liquid didn't seem much better.

"Getting you tea instead!" she called out across the empty bullpen, sticking her head around the corner of the breakroom door. "The coffee's no good!"

A thumbs up was raised above the partition in acknowledgement.

Lucy gave the cup a quick rinse, then dropped a tea bag in, and poured hot water from the water dispenser on top of it. While it steeped on the counter, she popped lid off the coffeepot, removing the filter and grounds and tossing them in the trash. Thankfully the building cleaners hadn't arrived yet. One quick scrub later and it was back where it belonged.

Removing the tea bag, she dumped two packets of sugar in. Jason would need the extra boost, and after two weeks of working with him, Lucy had come to notice that he had a sweet tooth that could almost put Erza's to shame.

The thought of her redheaded friend sent a pang of loneliness through her chest.

But Lucy ignored it, grabbing the mug and walking back to her desk.

"Thanks, you're the coolest." Jason finally looked up from his article-in-progress, and watched as Lucy gathered her coat and keys. "Finally getting used to the odd hours?"

Lucy smiled wearily at him. "I always kinda kept weird hours, so the adjustment was pretty easy."

"That's good! When do you think you'll have the research ready for that report on Boscan mage guilds ready for me?"

"Hmm... tomorrow afternoon, if I really crack down on it."

Jason beamed. "Cool! That'll be perfect. See you tomorrow, and take care on your way home!"

"I will. Bye, Jason."

Leaving the office, Lucy stopped at looked at the sky overhead. It was almost completely dark out, and Crocus's streetlights blazed against the night sky - too bright for her to see any stars.

Her footsteps dragged as she made her way to the train station. It wasn't too far from the office, which was nice, she mused. So were the bento lunches sold in the kiosk by the platforms. Lucy purchased one, before hopping on her train to Magnolia. She ate it silently as the train pulled away from the platform.

The scenery began to flow into the night, a formless blur as the train picked up speed. If she were being honest, the food tasted much the same. Lucy couldn't remember the last time food had excited her. She patted her stomach. She'd lost some weight recently, with her appetite mostly gone.

Three weeks ago, that thought would have made her happy. But for some reason, she couldn't seem to stir herself to the emotion.

She threw away her bento box, only half eaten.

Lucy stared out the window, her gaze unfocused and unseeing, even if there was some way she could see the world outside the train. She yawned widely - the steady thrum of the moving vehicle lulling her into drowsiness. With a shake of her head, Lucy held back another yawn. She wished Crocus wasn't so far from Magnolia - the three hour-long commute each way was brutal.

Maybe it was time for her to look for an apartment close to the office.

Maybe it was time to accept the fact that there was no one she loved still in Magnolia.

Maybe it was time she stopped waiting for people who weren't coming back.

"Now pulling into Magnolia Station."

Lucy jolted in her seat at the announcement, having dozed off despite her best efforts at staying awake. She gathered her things in a hurry, just barely ready to go by the time the train doors opened with a hiss.

Magnolia was quiet this time of night, and the streets were mostly empty. Light and sound still spilled out of the taverns, but they were the only source of life along Lucy's route home. Her feet thudded on the pavement, carrying her swiftly past the pools on light that spilled out the doorways. The sounds grated on her, and her head spun. Focusing on the ground, Lucy picked up her pace a little more, nausea swimming inside her. Soon the sounds of the taverns were behind her, as she entered the residential district and turned onto her street.

Once in front of her apartment, she reached for her key. Her fingertips brushed against the cool metal of her keyring, and Lucy found herself fighting against another wave of nausea. She gagged, and furiously fumbled keys in her hands, hands shaking as she found her apartment key and tried to get it into the lock. Missing twice, she got it into the keyhole on the third try. Pushing the door open, she rushed into her apartment, and to the toilet where she vomited what little she'd managed to eat.

She knelt on the cool tile, hands clutching the porcelain and breathing heavily.

“Princess,” a soft voice called behind her.

Lucy squeezed her eyes shut, steadfastly ignored her concerned spirit.

“Princess. I have prepared a fresh change of clothes for you, along with a hot towel and a glass of water to cleanse your mouth.”

“Virgo,” Lucy whispered hoarsely, unable to raise her voice any higher. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. However, I believe you are suffering from acute exhaustion, and that you should take the day off tomorrow to recuperate.”

“I can’t. I have a report to hand in.” Gratefully, Lucy took the water from her spirit. She held the water in her mouth without swallowing, swirling it around and then spitting it out into the toilet. Then she took the towel, wiping her face as she flushed the vomit away. “I promised. I can’t… I can’t break anymore promises, Virgo.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t!”

The spirit sat down beside her, and held her while she cried. “You didn’t, Lucy,” she consoled, gently rubbing Lucy’s back. “You didn’t break any promises to Aquarius.”

“I did! She was my spirit! I… I sacrificed her, Virgo! What kind of…” She hiccupped. “What kind of celestial wizard does that?”

“You had no choice; Aquarius made the decision. You didn’t betray anyone. Not us. Not her. Letting your friends die would have been the betrayal, and thanks to you it didn’t happen.”

A wail warbled out of Lucy’s throat, as broken as her heart. “Then why are they still gone?!”

Virgo had no answer for that. She continued to hold Lucy, until she cried herself out and fell asleep in the spirit’s arms. Once she had, she changed her clothes, then picked her up and tucked her into bed.

Lucy watched herself struggle against the demons. She shouted, and sobbed as Aquarius vanished in a shower of golden light. Pounded at the walls of the invisible bubble from which she observed, screaming for Aquarius to come back, to rewind time, for anything that could return here friend to her.

But just as before the spirit was gone, and there was nothing Lucy could do about it.

Her eyes streamed with tears, as she watched her friends fight for their lives against Tartaros. Trembled, when she felt the boneshaking roar echoing in the dark sky. Wings of darkness filled the sky, and suddenly she was no longer watching him combat the red dragon, but staring down its maw as it consumed Tenrou. She was paralyzed with fear, her legs unable to move and the bubble that prevented her from helping her friends no detriment to the dragon’s wrath.

Then the red dragon fell from the sky, a gaping hole in its midsection.

Lucy screamed and cried for Igneel, but mostly for Natsu. His father falling, dying.

Nothing Lucy could do to stop it.

Her arms were covered in blood, as a man laughed over her death. Palace tile merging with the rubble left in Tartaros’s wake, her own corpse lying broken on top of it.

When Lucy was jolted violently from sleep, she promptly turned over and grabbed a bowl lying on the floor beside her bed, then vomited into it.

It wasn’t long before Virgo appeared. She gently wiped Lucy’s face with another hot towel, and removed the bowl for cleaning. “I will let your work know that you’re not coming in today,” the spirit told her softly. To which Lucy could only nod weakly in agreement.

Everything was gone. Everything she loved, vanished like water droplets thrown at a fire, evaporated to nothing.

Her mother, her father, Aquarius, the guild, her friends. Gone.

Natsu.

It was as if the black dragon had blasted a hole through her, as well. A void through which her friends had fallen.

Everything was that dragon’s fault. It had prevented her from having a relationship with her father, from being there when he died. It had led to Future Rogue destroying the future with his own hands, and trying to eliminate any chance of hers. It had brought down Igneel, whom Natsu had searched for, for so long.

“Princess,” Virgo announced, returning to Lucy’s side. “Your boss said to take all the time you need – he’d make do with what you left behind.”

Left behind.

Lucy was rubble.

And it was all the fault of that dragon.

“Virgo.” The spirit nodded in acknowledgement. “I think… I think Erza mentioned… a library. Where is it?”

“I presume you mean the Sorcery Library,” she intoned. “It’s not far from Magnolia. Half a day’s walk. But you can’t mean to go when you’re in this condition, Princess.”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t think I can stomach travel today.” Her smile at Virgo was wobbly. “But I’m taking tomorrow off as well. Maybe… maybe more than just tomorrow.”

The pink haired spirit stared long and hard at her key holder, her friend that was pushing herself too hard. “Is it too much to hope for that you’ll take the time to rest?”

“I can’t afford to,” Lucy informed her. “That dragon is still out there, Virgo. He took everything away from me. He’s terrorized this world for too long. But he must have a weakness. Somewhere. I’m going to find it, and help my friends and stop him from hurting anyone ever again.”

She took a deep breath.

“I’m going to find a way to kill the black dragon, Acnologia.”

#ftfanfics #acnolu #acnologia #lucy heartfilia #fairy tail #fanfiction

30 notes · View notes

crysta-cub · 6 years

Text

Crysta-Cub Lamia Experience: New Years

AO3

I wake up groggily at 11:30, too much to do before work to try to gain any extra sleep. I look down in arms to find the lamia’s curled up snugly in a ball.I smile down at them as I watch them sleep. Alpha was wrapped protectively around the entire bundle with butterscotch resting against his chest. Both Moonstone and Guardian where holding hands pressing as close to each other as possible. I give both the babies soft strokes to their heads as they slept.

Noticing that I was spending a little too much time watching them, I decide to get up to begin my day and to take a shower. Doing my best not to wake them, I slide out of bed and check on the ferrets, taking out their raw food bowl and cleaning up potty pads. I grab my towel and exiting as quietly as I can.

Upon returning, I find the lamias awake. Moonstone cradled by Butterscotch while Guardian tries to take a look at the ferrets while Alpha supervies. Moonstone notices me and cries out, reaching out towards me. I lean over the bed to check on Moonstone. “How you doing baby? Feeling better?” I ask, stroking his cheek bone with my finger.

Moonstone whimpers at me and raises his hands to be picked up. Sitting on the bed, I gently scoop Moonstone and Butterscotch up. Still a little warm but he seemed to be improving. Butterscotch seems to be invested in trying to comfort the younger Lamia. I gave Moonstone a kiss on his head, of which he chirps at, before placing them back on the bed to get dressed and open the ferret cage door.

“Alright, let’s get the little ones some food, have the ferrets run around a bit, I need to eat…” I list off to myself as I gathered the Lamias to carry them past the threshold of the room. I walked to kitchen, closing off the entrance so the ferrets didn’t cross. I open the fridge, pulling out the chicken broth and raw pieces and setting them on the counter. I pour some of the broth in a small tea cup to heat in the microwave for a few seconds.

I can feel the lamia’s watching, Butterscotch and Moonstone in my arms, while Alpha and Guardian took up each of my shoulders. I then go to the pantry and fish out a box of mac-and-cheese for myself. I dig up a pot, fill it with water and began to prep my own food.

Once I was sure the chicken broth was cool enough to drink, I set the Lamia’s down onto the table in the dining area with the cup. Alpha went over to the cup, testing it to see if it was too hot for the youngins. Seeming satisfied he motioned for Moonstone to come over, tilting it so he can have a drink. “Alright you two” I motion to both Guardian and Moonstone, “This should help warm you up and make you feel better. I’ll bring the chicken over in just a moment.”

Moonstone drank thirstily for a bit before tugging at Guardian to have some. Guardian tries to deny it but Moonstone is insistent. Both of them take turns drinking from the cup. Alpha seemed to have been offering them both words of encouragement and perhaps motivation, if the arm flexing was any indication.

I set down the plate of chicken after a moment. Butterscotch picks up a slice and brings it over to Moonstone, speaking to him as he offered the piece of meat. Moonstone gladly accepts the piece and begins to eat. Butterscotch returns to the plate and does the same to Guardian.

Once my plate of food is done, I return to the table, watching as Butterscotch mothers the two baby lamias. I can hear the ferrets scratching at the gate, but feel it is too soon to introduce the baby lamias to them just yet. I open my can of soda and began eating. It’s nice to see Alpha and Butterscotch work together to take care of the new babies. I enjoyed my meal watching them interact.

I hear a clatter in the living room, recognizing it as cans falling off of the coffee table. I sigh and call out as I get up, “Damn it Papyrus, You serious have a problem with those cans.” I hear Moonstone calling out to me as I begin to leave, I turn back to smile at him, telling him I’ll be back. I step over the gate to save the Papyrus from his addiction to soda cans, playing with him so he is distracted enough to forget his earlier goals. I then clean off the collection of cans and plates on the coffee table, I may not be cleanliest but I’ll get around to it.

I look to the clock and notice that Its getting closer to 2, time really has a habit of escaping me. I return to the kitchen, putting dishes into the sink and cans in the recycling. I hear Moonstone squeaking at me again, I look over to see tears in his eyes. “Oh Moony, It’s ok.” I walk over, scooping him up for a cuddle. I look at the few pieces of chicken left on the plate.

“You guys need access to the chicken, while I am at work… How would… Oh wait, i know” I exclaim to myself, before putting Moonstone down on the table. “Be right back” I say before heading downstairs. Soon enough I’m huffing and grunting back up the stairs with a mini fridge. “I forgot i still have this thing, should come in handy. I carefully step over the baby-gate and make my way up the stairs, going into the lamia’s room, and setting it down next next to the closet. I plug it in, hearing it come to life. I get up, gathering Xena who decided to sneak into the room behind me and close the door. Placing Xena into the room, closing them in for the day.

I open the baby gate, as I don’t want to keep having to step over it and gather the lamias, a the container of chicken from the fridge, as well as the previously used plate. I bring them to their room and place the food in the already cooling fridge. I close the door then turn to Alpha. “Do you think you can open that.”

Alpha flicks his tongue out in thought before flexing his arms and slithering off of me. Taking a deep breath, Alpha begins to struggle with the door. For a moment I began to worry that he wasn’t going to be able to, but soon there was a pop as the door opened. “Hey, you did it, that’s my strong boy” I praised, Alpha beaming with a grin.

I bring the rest of the lamias over the one of the heated beds. I place them within, Butterscotch trying to hold Moonstone down to rest. “I’m sorry I really got to get ready for work. Its New Years Eve and everyone is needed today.” I plea before removing myself from the room. I can hear Moonstone squeaking out to me, breaking my heart. But I have to get ready and go. I Switch from my normal attire to my work clothes as fast as I can.

Making sure I have everything, I go back into the lamia room. Moon is by my feet, grabbing at my pant leg crying. I pick him up and carry him over. “It’s ok, Moonstone. I’ll be back later tonight. Alpha and Butterscotch will protect you and you have Guardian here too.” Moon shakes his head at me, clutching onto me closely.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. I got to work if I want to keep taking care of you guys and keep this house. I have tomorrow off so I’ll be able to spend more time with you then. You really need to rest so you can feel better.” I gently peel Moonstone off of me and grab a small blanket to swaddle him in. I make it just tight enough for so he can’t get out immediately. Giving Moon another farewell kiss, I place him back on the heated bed next to Guardian and Butterscotch.

I notice Moon’s eyes begin to droop as he begins to get tired again. I also give a kiss to both Guardian and Butterscotch before getting up. Alpha is sitting on the fridge, looking at me expectantly. I bend over to plant a small kiss on his head before exiting the door and putting on my jacket and gathering up my knife bag and purse to leave. I know I’m already running late as I go to my car and drive off to work.

I can’t help worrying about the baby Lamias while at work, my first few hours slower than I had expected. Once it begins to pick up, most thoughts of the lamias are pushed to the back of my mind as I concentrate at taking order after order. I secretly hope I am able to leave on time, but as the crowd get, I fear I may not be home before Midnight strikes.

“3...2...1 HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Everyone in the casino shouts. I wasn’t out on time and it seemed my team still needed me. I celebrate with my team, seeming joyful. There is a sound akin to fireworks coming from the main floor and as I venture to peak out, it seems that the noise was coming from attendants popping balloons, rumor of prizes began to be mentioned. I go back to my register, knowing that I’d be stuck for a little while longer.

I park my car outside my house, my car claiming it to be close to 3am. I’m exhausted after the nearly 11 hours of work. I move my legs out of the car, feeling the soreness in my legs. I slowly make my way to the house, fishing my house key out and going to unlock the door. Stepping inside and closing the door, things were quiet. Flipping the switch I am surprised by some popping sounds, confetti flying through the air. On both sides of the entryway a pair of Lamias grinned at me, holding little poppers that I forgot that I even had. Tiredly I chuckled, swooping them up and giving them all a hug.

“You guys are totally worth all of this. Thank you.” I beam at them. I check on Moonstone, happy to feel his temperature getting back to normal. Leaving the mess on the floor to make the ferrets’ raw food. I get the ferrets set for the night, Locking them up again and placing the Lamias on the bed. I exit for a moment to brush my teeth before coming back to strip down and crawl into bed.

The Lamias all curl up next to me, Moonstone tucked against my chest, Guardian curling up next to him. Both Alpha and Butterscotch curl up next to my belly, taking in by the warmth. I sleep peacefully, glad for a chance to sleep in and to catch up on sleep.

#vex-bittys #vex bittys #lamia bitty #Crysta-cub's lamina experience #Alpha #Butterscotch #Guardian #Moonstone #Slice of life #New Years #Sorry if this is boring #took me forever to type #No sleep #Literally spent new years at work #Will make up more fun adventures

3 notes · View notes

nerdanel01 · 7 years

Text

Val Royeaux, Across the Sea

Everyone—Solas included—had been surprised at how quickly her mood had lifted when they left Haven and took to the road.

They shouldn’t have been. This, at last, was something she understood: a road underfoot, a journey underway, her nights spent under the glittering sky instead of beneath the roof of a cabin. This was a movement, a migration, a rhythm she fell into with ease and relief. She had not realized how eager she had been to leave Haven until she was past its gates, but then she could feel the weight of it lift off of her: gone were the eyes and expectations of Haven’s soldiers, clerics, pilgrims. She was on the road, and she was free.

And in the lowlands of southern Ferelden, everything was new. She couldn’t help but delight in it, despite herself. They were right in the middle of spring, and the whole world seemed fit to burst with it, as if in defiance of the Breach and all the chaos it had created. Their purpose was serious, the situation dire, but traveling east, the Breach was at their backs; it was out of sight as she discovered each new species of tree or type of ore. They were so far south of the woods and fields through which Clan Lavellan roamed that at night, even the constellations were different, their view of the stars shifted enough that she had to re-learn how to orient herself by them.

Solas taught her how. Sitting away from the light of the camp fire, he would point to each star, trace the paths between them that gave the constellations their shape. All the way to the Hinterlands and back, she kept close to him. Each time she caught sight of an unfamiliar herb or flower, he would give her their name, instructing her on their medicinal and practical use. At every turn she was staggered a little more at the breadth of his knowledge. His willingness to share with her, to converse with her like an equal, eased the burden of what they were facing. Even if it was only slight, it was enough. This movement, this migration; it didn’t change anything that had happened to her, the dungeon or the mark or the impossible count of the dead. Nor did it allow her forget it. But it made it a little easier to live with, to begin to make her peace with. She was on this path, now, wherever it led.

It had been nearly a month since they had left Haven for the Hinterlands, but now, they were deep in the heartlands of Orlais, and it was early August. Soon, summer would be upon them, though for her part, Thanduwen could not say whether that would make the traveling more or less difficult. She had no idea what summer would feel like, on this part of the continent. Still, she could feel it like a promise in the rapid warmth of morning, and the relief when the sun set at night, and the world cooled.

It was like that on the night before they reached Val Royeaux. It had been a hard day’s worth of riding, the whole day under the heat of the sun. Cassandra had determined that they were a long day’s ride from the lakeshore, where they would take a ferry across the Waking Sea to the port of the city. With the city so near, she was eager not to waste another day. So, at her insistence, they had rode from sunrise to sunset, taking breaks only to accommodate the horses..

Even so, the steeds were spent from the day’s effort. The horses were unaccustomed to such journeys; they were farm horses, not bred for long distances and weeks of travel. Thanduwen didn’t know the first thing about horses—no more than the practical maintenance and care that Cassandra had taught her during the time they had spent traveling—but she was thankful that tomorrow, the horses would be allowed to rest. After how hard they had been driven today, she did not like the idea of pushing them further.

The others were already making camp. She could hear their voices some distance away, building a fire, pitching tents. But she lingered with her mare, murmuring soft words of praise as she brushed her coat. She was sorely in need of it. The pace at which they’d forced the horses had left her coat thick with sweat and dirt, kicked up in dust clouds with each stride. The horse was nothing like the halla her clan had kept, but even in her exhaustion, the creature seemed to possess a personality and a grace. It was difficult not to become fond of her. It felt like the mare had carrier her halfway across Thedas by now, though by all estimations she knew it to be far less than that.

Not that you would know it, looking at the two of them. Thanduwen matched her horse: uneasy on her feet, her hips and her legs aching from the soreness of spending so long in the saddle. It had been much worse when they had first set out for the Hinterlands. By now, she could get through most days without any discomfort, but the last stretch to the lakeshore had done her in, the soreness returning with a vengeance. But her mind was far from that—from the soreness within her, the horse in front of her, the motions of her hand as she brushed out her coat merely a gesture, a repetition.

None of it was enough to distract her from the sight of Val Royeaux in the distance.

The shape of its towers and walls was plainly visible, even in the pitch dark of evening. The light of the city was so bright she could barely make out the stars beyond it. All of Val Royeaux’s architecture was outlined by the golden light of the city itself, and the glow from the moon, reflecting off the water surrounding it and casting a pale, silver glow on the buildings by the seashore. There before her were buildings that she had only heard of, towers she could match names to simply by their reputation, even though she had never seen them before. Even from this distance, she could make out the tower of what she could only presume was the White Spire, gleaming, even in the night. Without knowing she was doing it, her face transformed into a scowl. Back in Haven, the few who had visited the city before spoke of it as a place of beauty: within its walls stood the might of the Imperial Palace, the Grand Cathedral, the University of Orlais. But to her, these were places of cruelty, places she had never hoped to visit herself.

It was inconceivably large. If she had not see it herself, she might not have believe that such a place existed. A part of her was surprised she could not hear the Chanting from the Grand Cathedral even here, across the sea. She was at a loss to understand it, how so many people could live so close to one another without living in a constant state of conflict, of violence. Perhaps, in their own way, in their grand game, they did. But as she marveled at it, the pace of her heart quickened, her pulse pounding in her ears (or was that the pulsing of the anchor again?) as her throat suddenly went dry.

She dreaded every step that took her closer to that place.

The reality of what she was about to do was unavoidable, now. It was entirely possible that they were walking into a trap, and one that she was being walked into against her own will. She had not wanted to come here. But whatever danger lay within the city walls, it was too late to escape it, too late to turn back now.

The horse whickered softly at her, and she blinked for a moment in confusion, before realizing she’d been so lost in her thoughts, her mind across the water, that she’d stopped brushing. The horses craned its head around to look at her, nudging her shoulder with her soft nose.

“Oh, alright,” Thanduwen conceded. She dug around in the pockets of her traveling cloak. Then, finding her prize, she extended her open palm, a piece of dried fruit sitting in the middle. Eagerly, the horse took it from her. She gave the mare a fond pat on its shoulder, then left it to graze with the other horses for the night.

She should have joined the others for dinner, but at the sight of the Orlesian capital across the water, she was feeling decidedly less than hungry. Instead, she meandered over to an attractive looking tree (an ash tree, Solas had told her) and dropped herself in front of it, with her back to the camp, her face to the city, and her knees pulled up to her chest.

Behind her, faintly, she could hear Cassandra and Varric arguing again. By now she would have sworn that Varric provoked her on purpose, to engage her in what (at least for him) seemed little more than an exercise in witticisms. It had become so commonplace it no longer distracted her. But soon, rousing her out of her reveries, a voice she could not ignore:

“May I join you?”

He had snuck up behind her, soundlessly approaching to stand just to the side and behind her. She could barely make him out in the darkness, silhouetted as he was against the light of the campfire, a vague golden glow around his edges, but there was no mistaking his voice.

“Please,” she said, giving him a faint and unconvincing smile that was no doubt lost in the dark anyway.

Solas crouched down and took a seat, his back against the trunk. She was immediately aware of his presence beside her, the proximity of their bodies, even if they did not touch. Though they had been traveling with Cassandra and Varric for the past month, for the most part, she had been spending her time with him. In between their spontaneous botany lessons (“Silver Birch?” she had repeated after he’d said it, somewhere near the cross roads in the Hinterlands, laughing in delight as her fingers felt the papery smooth texture of its white bark) they had spoken of so many things; their shared interests seemed to be inexhaustible. They spoke at length on matters of the arcane. Often, Solas told her stories of his journeys into the Fade. At first it had alarmed her, the idea of him sleeping in such dangerous places and going so deep into the Beyond, but that alarm had quickly transformed into a fascination and a fierce curiosity.

But, of more interest to her than all else, was when he spoke of what he knew—or claimed to know—of Elvhenan.

For her part, she couldn’t rightly say whether she believed everything he said; but in short time, the question of whether or not she believed him no long mattered. At first he his talk had been hesitant, distant, scholarly; it was as if, despite all her insistence to the contrary, he did not really trust her not to interrupt him or correct him, accuse him of foolishness or blasphemy the way others had. But after some time had passed, when his tales and descriptions were met only with her curiosity, something changed. When he spoke about Elvhenan he did so with a poetry and a longing in his voice that she identified with all too keenly. For someone who so vehemently insisted he was nothing like the Dalish, he certainly spoke about Elvhenan in the same way they did. He had the same tone of voice— the same wistfulness.

His version of history, however accurate, was so alluring, seductive; she could not get enough of it. It was enough, to help her endure what had already happened, what was to come. And it was always far better to be talking with him instead of sitting, silently, in one another’s company. When he wasn’t talking, she found herself far too frequently thinking of his hands on hers in the dim of his Haven cabin.

Which was most likely unwise, and probably unproductive. It was likely nothing would ever come of it. There was an understanding between them, and a kinship (they remained, after all, accomplices) but the heat of the moment that had passed between them in his cabin had not resurfaced. If she didn’t know any better, she might have though she’d made the whole thing up. Despite the time they shared together their remained a distance with which he always seemed to carry himself. His guarded nature made even Cassandra seem like an open book, especially combined with his overbearing seriousness. Even though he always made himself available to her, any attempt to get him to open himself up to her only made him feel farther away.

It was… complicated. But then again, given her circumstances and her own particular history with these sort of things, she really shouldn’t’ve allowed such dalliances to weigh on her so heavily. Or, really, at all.

She heard him stirring beside her, accompanied by the sound of the cracking of bread. She turned her head, and he had half a loaf of their waybread in his hand, extending it to her. She looked at it, uncertain.

“You will need both energy and focus tomorrow,” he said, by way of explanation, and his tone was both gentle and firm.

She looked at it for a moment. The truth was, she still wasn’t very hungry, her trepidation about the city across the water enough to turn her stomach. But the gesture touched her: he must have noticed she had not eaten since they’d camped for the night. She took the half-loaf from him, breaking off a small piece in her hands and bringing it to her mouth. She did not want to appear ungrateful.

“What was it that you were thinking about?” he asked her. “You seemed deep in thought, out here by yourself.”

She hesitated a moment, then leaned a little closer to him, close enough to point out an object in the cityscape across the water. “Do you know which building that one is, there?” It was so imposing that to call it a building was almost an insult; it was practically a palace, a complex of bell towers and spires and buttresses that dominated the city, all enclosed by a wall of imposing colonnades.

He paused for a moment, first following the line of her arm, then passing an inquisitive glance at her before responding. “I suspect that is the Grand Cathedral.”

“I thought so too,” she said, her voice quiet, almost resigned. She was transfixed by the sight of it, her eyes fixed to it. “Do you know what Cassandra asked me, before we left Haven? She asked me why I could not make room among my Gods for her own, for their Maker.”

She said it in a casual tone, as if it were merely another offhanded comment, although it was anything but. It was a confession she had not made to anyone. Frankly, as much as it had shocked her, that shock was not so bad as the feeling of degradation and isolation that had sunk in afterwards. It was an impossible subject to bring up with Varric, or Josephine, or anyone else who she suspected was Andrastian. What if, when she told them, they agreed with Casandra? What if they too thought that Cassandra’s request was perfectly reasonable? It was a betrayal of trust she was not eager to experience again. Solas was the only one she could tell, but before now, they had so much more to talk about, topics of a more pleasant nature. But now, with the Grand Cathedral—that seat of so much power, and all the abuses that usual followed such authority—in plain sight, just across the sea, she could no longer hold it back. And once she had started, she couldn’t stop, the whole of her disgust and discomfort spilling out of her in a torrent.

“It was as if she were accusing me of something, as if excluding her God from my own was a personal offense. Which was ironic, and quite frankly astounding, her taking offense, given her flagrant disregard for that my people and people like me have been imprisoned, murdered, and chased from their homeland in the name of her god. But that matters little, doesn’t it, since everyone is so firmly convinced that Andraste saved me? As if that is an irrefutable truth, as if I should fall to my knees and weep that their Maker took it upon himself to spare a knife-eared apostate such as myself, in all his infinite wisdom.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm, the quiet rage she’d carried with her mounting into something relentless. “And now they expect me to… to go to the Grand Cathedral, to fall to my knees in front of these Clerics—many of whom would surely rather see me dead before giving me any semblance of respect—and beg for their permission to do what they themselves are incapable of doing. I am expected to go among them, to treat them with deference, as if they are all such reasonable, kind people. While I myself can hardly get through a day without being disrespected in some way for being who I am, instead of whatever idea they have formed of what I should be, what they want me to be. Their Herald,” she spat, practically sneered. “Which, despite my insistence to the contrary, the Inquisition will not officially denounce the title, because it is too politically convenient to maintain the illusion that I am, or could be, divinely appointed to this task. It makes me ill. And as if that were not bad enough I am… I am wasting my time, we will waste weeks coming back and forth from that city when there are people in the Hinterlands who actually needed our help. If I were really any sort of Herald at all, I think that is where I would be. And all of this just to reach out to the mages, as though they would not even grant us an audience until we have some kind of sanction. Which is unfathomable to me, really, considering they are in open rebellion of the Chantry to begin with, having dissolved the circles, so you would think they would not take the opinion of the Chantry too seriously. And yet here I am.”

And then she was quiet; and as soon as she’d run out of things to say she realized she was fuming. Her chest was heaving to catch up with the force and speed of her words, her face twisted into something ugly. Solas was silent for a long time, the sound of her catching her breath the only one left to compete with the sounds of Varric and Cassandra’s latest argument, still in full force behind them. She thought perhaps Solas was still digesting everything she’d said—she had said quite a lot—but then she caught him looking at her.

It occurred to her, with sudden awareness, that he was waiting to speak until he was sure she was finished. That she had said her piece.

She wasn’t sure what to do with the wave of thankfulness that overcame her, then. So she tore her eyes away from him and returned to the bread in her lap, tearing halfheartedly at it. After a long time, he responded, slowly, as if he were being very careful with his words.

“It frustrates you that they do not realize the weight of what they ask of you. That pain is understandable. But it does not mean that ceding to the authority of the Chantry is any less necessary.”

Her face was twisted into one of anguish at that, something twisting inside of her, the voices of her Clan mates raised in chorus, never again shall we submit; and yet here she was. About to do just that. No matter how small a concession it may have seemed to everyone else, to her it felt like the deepest of betrayals she could have committed against her people. What would they think of her, when all of this was done?

“Da’len,” he said, and it grounded her, dragging her back to him, pulling her out of the well of distress and despair she was spiraling into. “The Inquisition was founded by a decree from the Divine. Her authority, and the Chantry by extension, is the only thing that lends the organization legitimacy. Were it not for that, you would face even worse accusations than you already do: usurpers, dictators, opportunists.”

“I’d much rather be a usurper,” she said, her tone dry.

It was difficult to say for sure, in the dark, but she would have sworn that had him fighting back a smile.

“If that is truly what you want, there is very little to stop you.”

Her expression was stony. She hardly believed him, but then again, Solas was not really one to make jokes.

“You can’t be serious.”

“If you close the Breach, what will they be able to do to stop you, then?” he asked, a smile playing about his lips as he turned his eyes back to the city. “You will be a power in your own right: the Herald of Andraste, whether you yourself accept the title or not. The Chantry defies the Inquisition because the Chantry is weak, mired in its own power struggles and collapsing under the weight of policies that are as absurd as they are abhorrent and self-serving. I do not know where this path leads, what this fledgling Inquisition will come to stand for in time, but I do know that if we do what we have set out to do, it is very likely that you will have a hand in shaping what comes after.”

It didn’t matter, really, whether she believed him or not; she did not want to believe him. She had hardly wanted anything to do with this Inquisition, and even if she had agreed to join of her own free will, it had been made abundantly clear to her that leaving was not really much of a choice. She did not like to contemplate the possibility that she might remain a part of it, even after the Breach was closed.

“Why do you say that?”

In response, he leaned closer to her. She was exquisitely aware of the space shrinking between them as he extended his own arm, pointing out across the water, this time not at the Great Cathedral, but at the white tower, dominating the city, shining like silver in the moonlight. She had noticed it before, when she had been sitting on her own.

“Do you see that building? The tower, gleaming, as if illuminated by magic?”

“The White Spire,” she answered. Her tone made quite clear how she felt about that, thick with revulsion.

He lowered his arm, and turned to look at her. “You spoke about working with the mages. If seek their help, there will be consequences. They will be safer, for one, under the protection of the Inquisition. You can keep them sheltered from the templars who have made it their duty to annihilate them. That is no small thing.”

When he said it, she was reminded of the crossroads, the Hinterlands, torn apart by the fighting. The war had left its indelible mark on the landscape. The corpses of dead mages and templars strewn about the path, burned alive or run through with blades, had been such a common occurrence that even in their few short days there, Thanduwen had ceased to be surprised by it. Trees that must have stood for hundreds of years were scorched with the marks of magic gone astray, if not cracked, split, and toppled. From the forward camp, they were close enough to the source of the fighting at the crossroads that, when they were quiet, they could hear the cacophony of it: war cries and clashing swords and the screams of the injured and the dying. Smoke rose in thick columns from homes, looted and burning, throughout the day and the night.

It had resulted in another explosive argument with Cassandra: Thanduwen had not wanted to leave, not while it was still like that. But here they were, while the Hinterlands burned.

Solas continued. “If they help close the Breach, it will only give them more clout when it is needed. If you allow them some degree of autonomy to self-govern within the Inquisition, it will prove they are capable of doing so. When this is over, something will have to replace the Circles of Magi. The more leverage they have when that time comes, the better. You can give that to them.”

He turned to her; she could feel his eyes on her, even as she turned her gaze back to the bread in her lap. His voice had softened. “It is not easy, what they are asking of you: to stand before the Chantry, to be humble instead of indignant. But is it perhaps an acceptable cost, when so much might be gained by it? Earn their confidence, and then use it to thwart them later. Force their hand. This is the Orlesian Chantry—and that is their Game, is it not? Deception, and subterfuge. I have faith you might prove just as good at it as the rest of them, if you truly believe that so much is at stake.”

They were quiet for a long time, after that. It was another one of his strengths: the quiet never made Solas uncomfortable. She imagined that, perhaps, he had spent so much time alone that it did not make him anxious the way it did with others. He seemed content to let her mull over what he had said. It was probably true that he had meant to comfort her, with his words, but she wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. Perhaps he was right, and for all the unjustifiable nonsense and the pain, she might somehow salvage some good out of it all. But she was not keen on the way he’d talked about it, as though she was in possession of so much power if she would only see it, as if she were capable of changing the world as simply as tugging a string. She did not want that power. She didn’t feel in the least like she would use it wisely.

Behind them, the sounds of their camp had quieted. Varric and Cassandra had either ceased their arguing or retired to their tents for the evening. It was quiet enough that they could hear the faint crackling of the fire behind them, the rush of the wind through the leaves of the ash tree when the breeze kicked up off the sea. Thanduwen kept her eyes to the ground, occasionally tearing at the bread in her lap, chewing thoughtfully.

“Do you find any beauty in it?” Solas asked her thoughtfully, breaking the silence, gazing across the water. “Everyone spoke of it so… breathlessly.”

She scoffed. “I’ll reserve my aesthetic judgements until we make it in and out of there. If I am very lucky, I won’t have spend enough time inside of it to form any sort of opinion at all.” She was quiet for a moment, then added, a bit hesitantly, “Actually, I’ve never been inside a city before.”

He did not seem surprised by the admission, but still he turned to her, inquiring in a tone more conversational than curious. “Never?”

“I’ve been through some smaller human settlements, mostly farmlands and small trading posts. My clan tended to stay on the borders of the city-states; it was easier to avoid danger, there. Occasionally, our warriors were permitted to enter Wycome, if there was particularly rare commodity they needed to barter for, but I was never allowed inside. As a matter of caution, mages were never permitted to go. No one wanted us to be… provoked. I suppose there was always the possibility that a templar might just seize us and carry us off on sight.”

He turned to her, surveyed her for a moment, trying to make out her features in the dark. “Are you nervous?” His voice, softened.

“Yes,” she confessed, easily, surprised at how quickly it had come—how easily she always found it to confide in him. She could hardly imagine speaking to anyone else in the Inquisition so frankly. “I cannot begin to imagine how to navigate such a place. If it comes to blows—should I need to defend myself, or find a way out—“

“I do not think it will come to that,” Solas said. “If we are careful, and you are, and we conduct ourselves with tact and some degree of diplomacy, I see no reason why weapons would need to be drawn at all.” Raising an eyebrow, a trace of a smile, the glint of teeth in the moonlight, so she knew he was joking (provoking, just like Varric): “The Dalish did teach you about diplomacy, correct?”

She rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t keep a hint of a smile off of her face in spite of it. “As you yourself have said, Solas, my clan was one of the few to have enough of an interest in human affairs and send a spy—your words—to the Conclave. So yes, I know about diplomacy, as it was our attempts at keeping an eye on what passes for diplomacy among the humans that got me into this whole mess to begin with.”

“Then we should be fine,” he responded, the grin still playing about his lips. Then, more seriously, he added, “In any case, regardless of your personal feelings for her, Cassandra won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Cassandra? What about you? Are you not my accomplice?” she asked, faux-aghast, joking to mask the hurt his words had caused her. “If Cassandra fails, you’ll just let them drag me off or cut me down, will you?”

“Of course not,” he responded, softly. “But I am as much an apostate as you, and I do not bear a divine mark which makes my survival imperative. I would hesitate to draw a weapon myself unless I had no other choice. But if it was a question, if you had any doubts, yes, of course, I would defend you. You are, after all, not merely my accomplice,” he said the word with a warmth that pulled her mouth into a smile, “but also our best and only hope.”

That had her face scrunched, (had he but called her his only or best—) “Are you going to call me the Maker’s envoy as well?”

“Not unless that would help lighten your mood, though by now you know it would not be sincere.”

She smiled, pushing a piece of hair out of her face before staring back across the lake, curling tighter around herself. His presence was consoling, and his words were kind, but still they did little to reassure her. As knowledgeable as he was, Solas was not prescient. None of them really knew what awaited them inside Val Royeaux.

She shifted her weight, leaning backwards until she could feel him beside her, the backs of their arms kissed against one another. Even his simple gesture, this faint contact, a tremendous comfort. She could feel his body tense, but he did not pull away.

“Tell me about cities, Solas.”

“Cities?” he mused aloud. “Which would you like to know about? Though I have not visited them myself, I could tell you about Minrathous, or Denerim—”

“No,” she said, her words soft. “Not places that I can visit. Places you’ve seen, in your journeys.” She hesitated, lips parted, before adding, “Tell me about the cities of our people.”

(Though she could not see it, she was never aware of it, [not until now, because now is, in fact, later, or a second time, and strange, because she is both within and outside her self, she now observes the way] he looked at her with such fondness, then: the first time she has said ‘our people,’ and he does not fight her. And she knows, now, [later] that he can only do so because she [then] is not looking, incapable of seeing how much that question moves him, pulls him through himself and into this moment, with her. Affection. Moving through time or the Fade to see him, here, under this ash tree: and whereas before he had stiffened at her touch, he now moves closer. Even then an unspoken warmth, even if neither of them were yet aware of it.)

“Close your eyes.”

She obeys.

“I have seen a city not unlike the nomadic homes your people keep in the paths amongst the trees: here, in this city, there are no castles or fortresses of unforgiving stone. Instead, the city is green and alive. The architecture is stepped, each temple and home a series of variously pitched levels, and on the roof and sides of each building—on every space available—something grows. Here has been collected every variety of flower and fruit and shrub and tree that can be found in all of Elvhenan, and many which can be found no longer: flowers whose names we have forgotten. There are flowers which shimmer, their color changing with each warm breeze. Some of them have grown so well, so strong and fat, that by the time their season ends their stems can barely support their heads, which turn downwards; they favor the passer-bys below with their faces as if they are saying farewell.”

“The gardens have each been carefully planned, so that each building only casts a shadow on an appointed area for an allotted amount of time, and the flora are planted between them so that each plant receives precisely the correct amount of sunlight to reach the pinnacle of its growth. The pervasive nature of magic in that time helps make it so that for every season, the city appears lush and bursting with life—here, it is always summer. Vertical gardens scale the walls: vines, healing herbs, and spices. Walking across the city is like walking across the continent, with each new block home to a different kind of fascinating growth, some new teeming life. And the air is always fragrant—if you were observant, if you knew which way the wind was blowing, you could navigate the city by the scents alone. It is called Elarladahlen, “our home of the forest,” and it was a paradise among our people in its time.”

“But put that place of beauty out of your mind, da’len—because our travels take us elsewhere, to a city which has been planned so exquisitely, it makes Elarladahlen look haphazard by comparison. Here, every brick and cobble has been laid precisely and with distinct purpose, for the city is not merely a city, but an observatory. The buildings, both slender and stout in turn, sometimes curved, sometimes tapering or expanding at sharp angles, have been designed to not only mark specific coordinates on the horizon, but to track the movements of the Heavens, the arc of each star as it crosses the night sky. Its inhabitants must be vigilant, for the city moves with the seasons: the quarters of the city shift and the paths rearrange so that the great, magnificent and twinned temples of the City (which in themselves never move) are capable, each year, season after season, of a spectacular phenomenon. The temples take their names from the solstices of the winter and the summer, for at each event, these buildings cup the light of the rising sun and amplify it. The illumination on these sacred days is sent streaming down the main avenue, which bursts with it, gleams; the light shimmering on reflective pools, and on delicate, wind-tickled instruments with shards of colored glass. It glitters and shines, radiant in this colorful dance of light. The entire avenue must shift by inches every day to accommodate this alignment. The temples have dictated the rules of movement of everything else in the city, and the spires and statues of the buildings trace the movements, even in their gradual shifting, of every constellation; every movement is measured, tracked and certain. And so to live there is to live in perpetual wonder and harmony with the celestial bodies, the stars making their mark on every day, every life, every path walked.”

“And yet none of these marvels compares to the beauty of Arlathan! It diminishes every other city that ever was or will be by the mere sight of it, for the purpose of the architecture of this city is simply to evoke beauty. Such emotion it inspires that it rouses a bitter homesickness in all who must leave it, and they are doomed to long for it til the end of their days. Spires of iridescent crystal, towers of the most exquisitely veined marble, capped in ores that shine like jewels in the sun. And the city is entirely bound up in magic, decorations filling the streets and which could only have been possible when such magic was still in the world: fountains where the water does not splash down but floats calmly upwards, a fire which glows and heats but does not burn, an elegance and a majesty to every moment and every gesture. And though Arlathan takes its name from the word for “love,” it was as much a place of love was it was a place of learning. For in Arlathan was the greatest library of the Empire: the link between all other libraries, the home of the magic which connects all the knowledge created and shared across all elvendom. For our people, you must understand, knowledge was both esteemed and sacred, and the towers of the library soar above the city, touching all with the awe of them. There are more records than you can dream, more tomes than you could ever read in a mortal lifetime, and an entire host of librarians, benevolent and waiting to assist, maintaining the library’s architecture and its beauty. And it held everything that had come, and some things that had not come to pass; in volumes with gilded pages, bound in soft leathers of every color, an answer to every question.”

She did not interrupt him, she did not question him like she normally did; she let the fondness and longing in his words carry her far and away, and for a long time after he was finished speaking they sat in silence, contemplating these visions of long gone places.

---------------------

This is Chapter Three of a much larger work I am hoping to complete. Part One and Part Two are on Ao3. Part Three is also available there in all of its glorious, correct html formatting, italics and all. (I always struggle with rich text/html on here... apologies.)

#lavellan #solas #solavellan #fanfic #dragon age #da:i #val royeaux #fen harel #inquisition #chantry critical I guess?

1 note · View note