#something about the uncanniness of blood loosed from the body - already out of bounds. already breaking the rules of it's nature

[mycannibalromance]

blood and milk is such an underused motif like. you take two substances who's entire raison d'être is to sustain life and corrupt them through the simple allowance of touch. contact between the two turns the stomach with it's primitive wrongness. idk where i'm going with this but blood and milk.... yeah

#something about the uncanniness of blood loosed from the body - already out of bounds. already breaking the rules of it's nature #mixing with milk meant to nourish... milk with its connotations of purity.... made inedible with violence/tainted by that which does not #and has never belonged #made ghastly and useless for their original purposes #lyle.txt

[clockworkgraystairs]

KEEP IT DOWN || Jurdan - Hogwarts AU

Written super super late for Jurdan Week 2020 by @jurdannet​ Sorry for the delay!!

Crossover Day || Harry Potter  

Prompt submited by @mysweetvilllain​

Rating: M

Summary: Quidditch day was no normal day at Hogwarts. And Ravenclaw’s head boy, Cardan Greenbriar, knew it very well. 

Tags: @slightlyrebelliouswriter23​ @demydreamer-otaku-and-book-lover​ @aesthetics-11​ @thesirenwashere​ @hizqueen4life​ @duarteegreenbriar​ @judexcardanxgreenbriar​ @nite0wl29​ @althekingshorses​ @thewickedkings​ @b00kworm​ (if you wish to be tagged or untagged [or if my dumb brain forgot to tag u] just let me know!)

My masterlist

Hogwarts was always a battlefield on a quidditch day, and today was not the exception. Not in the final game of their Championship. So far, Cardan had broke up two discussions and dissolved a duel challenge between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin.

To be honest, he would have prefered to stay back in his dorms. His book about Asian Myths and History was way more interesting than keeping the students safe. Specially from themselves. But as Head Boy, there was little he could do against it. 

That evening Slytherin had won the match, and boy had it been a hot-blooded one. Brooms had flown through the rain at unimaginable speed. The seekers, entwined in a fierce battle for the golden snitch, almost crashing with each other on several occasions. If his memory was correct, at least three players had fell from their brooms either from crashing or bludgers. The crowd’s roar almost left him deaf when Slytherin’s seeker finally closed her fingers around the snitch. When she’d flown down and paraded it around, the noise became even worse. Her chestnut hair had come loose at some point of the match, and mixed with her smudged eyeliner she gave a feral image that send tickles down his spine.

Back in the castle, he could see silver and green flags everywhere. People ran and cheered. Only Gryffindors and some others walked back to their dorms in silence, or anger, he couldn’t say. Ten points from the Hufflepuff boy who tried to hide the bottle of alcohol in his robe. With a sigh, he pulled out his wand and vanished the whiskey back to the kitchen’s shelves.

After another two hours of prowling around, he decided to call it for the day.

Cardan had almost made it to the stairs when a loud commotion snapped his attention back to the Great Hall. He peered inside, more than ready to continue with the points slaughter. That’s when he saw her again.

Jude Duarte. Slytherin’s captain and seeker. Crowned a legend after today’s victory. Her strategy abilities had made her team practically invincible. She sat on top of one of the tables, surrounded by the rest of the team and a few more students. Her damp her already starting to curl again. Apparently the party wasn’t over for everyone just yet.

Cackles died gradually as he approached them. All eyes turning to him. 

“Hello there, Ravenclaw. Are you lost?” He could practically feel her purr on his stomach, her gaze trailing down his body. A girl named Lilliver snickered from her seat.

“Oh, not at all.” He shrugged. “But you’re being quite loud, and I must ask you to keep it down.”

Jude slid down the table and stood in front of him, a cheeky smirk playing on the corner of her lips. “That’s a little rude, Head Boy, why don’t you join us and forget about noise rules for a while? We’re celebrating.”

“I can see that, and I appreciate the offer.” He conceded. “But as it is my duty, I insist, unless you’re looking to make your house lose some points. I suggest you go back to your dorms. Have a pleasant night.”

That said, he flashed her a polite smile, turned back to the Hall’s entrance and left, vaguely hearing several scoffs dancing along the group.

~

When Jude Duarte left the Slytherin dorm it was already past midnight. At last, the rest of the team had fallen asleep along the living room. She didn’t feel tired though, with the rush from the game still in her veins keeping her wide awake. 

Some nights, she enjoyed going out after curfew to take a stroll. There was something uncanny relaxing about it. No one rushing between classes, no one she needed to talk about quidditch or the usual nonsense people usually asked. Just silence. 

By the end of the corridor, she stopped in front of the now familiar room. Jude glanced around her once, making sure there weren’t any curious eyes and went in.

Jude suspected the chamber was an old meetings office that no one used anymore. Since the first time she’d found it, the same squared table rested in the middle, surrounded by three or four chairs. An old settee, and a mostly empty bookcase filled the rest of the small space. Nothing seemed different tonight. 

The dim moonlight coming from outside was the only thing that allow her to see around. 

She’d almost reached the settee, when something slither behind her. She spun around, reaching for her wand with all the agility she’d learned from duel trainings. 

Jude knew it was too late when she heard a husky voice whispering. “Incarcerous.”

She gasped as her arms folded behind her back. A scratchy rope securing them.  

In less than a second, she was pressed back against his hard body. One of his arms snaked around her waist, the other one buried on her hair and arching her neck, granting him access.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Cardan mumbled, spreading hot kisses down her throat. When he reached the base he sucked a little, sending hot streams down her veins. 

“Well you’ll find out that it’s quite difficult to get rid of a bunch of people who are high on adrenaline.” She pointed out, leaning her head back to his shoulder. “I might have slipped a few sleeping pills in their juice.” 

“You tricky witch.” He pressed harder against her backside. Letting her feel the effect she had on his body. Without being able to stop it, a breathy whimper left her lips. “Seems to me that I’ll have to take some of Slytherin’s points after all.”

“Don’t you dare.” She hissed, struggling inefficiently against the ropes. 

He just chuckled. His wicked hands now roamed under her Slytherin green hoodie, leaving goosebumps on her bare skin. “You might be captain on the field love, but you should realize you’re not the one in control here.”

In a swift movement, he turned her around and pulled the hoodie over Jude’s head, leaving it hanging from her tied arms. The fresh air made her shudder, she could feel her nipples hardening under her crop top. Before she could say anything else, Cardan crashed their lips together, his kiss fierce, tugging at her lower lip in a clear message. Mine. 

Jude didn’t realize he’d been moving them backwards until she bumped with the table. He helped her sat on top of it, settling between her thighs, grinding their bodies together.

She broke the kiss for a moment, breathing against his mouth. “You’re going to be in so much trouble when I’m off this ropes.” 

“Am I?” With no so gentle hands, he pushed her back against the table, his mouth curled in a predatory grin. “But you’re not now, are you?” 

Without her arms to help her up, Jude just glared at him. She realized how ragged her heartbeat was. The way he looked at her send a pulse through her core. Her bound arms twisted again, looking for a way out, but the rope didn’t waver. She could do nothing but lay there, at his mercy while he peeled her pants from her. 

No answer from her was expected, Cardan’s low chuckle floated in the room. “I thought so.”

He leaned and barely grazed her lips, pulling back when she tried to capture them and slid down her body. Leaving trails with his lips on her jaw, the base of her throat, the swell of her breasts. He lingered a moment on her nipples, circling them over her top with his tongue. Jude’s breath came out in shuddering whimpers, her body writhed below him trying to get some friction. Cardan took his lips lower, along her well toned torso. Her hips twitched as he found a sensitive spot next to her dagger tattoo, and sucked on it. 

At some point her knickers came off too. She swore at the feeling of Cardan’s teeth nibbling her inner thighs. He made a disapproving sound with his tongue. “From this moment Jude, for every sound leaving your lips, I’m going to take a point from your house. Am I clear?” 

Jude stared at him wide eyed, angrily biting her lip to avoid spilling all the curses that danced in her mind. He knew how seriously Slytherins took winning. Everything. The House Cup one of the most desired prizes. Fuck he knew how to play her. 

Without breaking eye contact he leaned down again, positioning himself barely centimeters away from her center. Something between dark and amused tainted his features.

“Congratulations on winning your game baby.” At that he closed the distance to her aching folds, tasting them with a long, ravening lick.

The last coherent thought on her mind was how lucky they were that she’d cast a silencing charm on the room when she arrived.

The House Cup could very well rot in hell.

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I was really really excited to do this since it’s the first crossover i’ve ever written. 

I’m not planning any particular story with this, buuut I’m not against writing more of this AU if I ever see (or any of you send) prompts that could fit *wink*

I hope you like it!! 

As a little extra, and since I’m becoming obsessed with doing this things, here are a couple of aesthetics for Slytherin!Jude and Ravenclaw!Cardan, just because I think they’re cute.

ciao!

#jurdan week #jurdan au #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #hogwarts au #crossover fanfic #jurdan hogwarts au #ravenclaw #slytherin #keep it down #tfota #holly black #tess writes #jurdan #jurdan week 2020

[obeymeluv]

Cupid’s Bow - Asmodeus

This is what I needed the love songs for :) The song lyrics are in bold/italic. I used “Something So Beautiful” by Yongzoo, and it’s super cute. I think you should listen to it at least once!

Have a sappy, magical confession!

I hope you like it! It’s my first major Asmo piece :o 

RAD was in an absolute uproar. This week was a literal once-a-year event and Asmo wouldn’t miss out. He couldn’t! That would just be heartbreaking to the general public, honestly. The fifth-born was up almost inconceivably early—earlier than his routine usually demanded! It pained him to be anything less than perfect but he could forgive himself this once (his skin was to die for on any day, makeup or not).

Rumor had it that Diavolo bought enough Cupid’s Bow for the entire academy but Asmodeus wouldn’t leave it to chance. These blossoms were one of the most finicky breeds in all of the Devildom, sought out for their magical properties and uncanny ability to detect soulmates. They were nurtured meticulously, religiously bred, and highly regarded for the enchanting aroma they emitted when they bloomed.

If they bloomed.

Though rare, some poor souls never got theirs to open and had to wait another year. That’s why Asmo never purchased one in his hundreds of years alive. Some small part of him, the part that worried he’d never find true love due to the burden and weakness of being the Avatar of Lust, was always afraid he’d end up with a lump of heart-shaped petals. He’d rather have fun in the moment, fill the desirous ache with teeth and tongues and Demonus.

Despite the ungodly hour and the fact that he flew over, there were easily forty people between him and the stacks of flowers. He couldn’t bring himself to admire the flowered vines crawling up the stand and supporting the sign, or how RAD seemed to be a bit greener as if to set the mood. Asmodeus’ lips twisted up in a grateful smile as he thanked whatever luck existed in the Devildom that no one felt like talking. Sure, there were murmurs of ‘perfect spots’ and who so-and-so planned to give the flower to, but he refused to hear any of it right now.

He couldn’t, really. His heart was in a giddy flutter, bouncing against his ribs and stirring up the warmth that made standing in the early morning chill of the Devildom more bearable.

The rose hit his hand and Asmo gripped it like his life depended on it. His first instinct was to jet back to the house but the sheer delicacy of the bud was enough to stop him in his tracks. The realization of its frailness, the fact that he’d only get one, lanced across him like a celestial blade.

It made him flinch, and he was surprised to feel it. His hand shook around the thorn-studded stem. Asmodeus calmed his wildly beating heart with a single breath, charming his way out of the line. His red-yellow eyes could just make out the House of Lamentation in the distance.

Now, how to offer it to you?

Human world soil had long since lost the ability to grow Cupid’s Bow. He wasn’t sure if it was a lack of magical caretakers, the inability to enchant the soil, or the fact that the human world no longer supported magic. No one on earth seemed to know what the Cupid’s Bow was anymore. The idea of presenting flowers to loved ones—and the fact that flowers had meanings—was all that remained of the tradition (centuries of bad translations, destroyed books, and eroded pictograms didn’t help anything.)

This was something you’d see once in your life (unless the exchange program was renewed and you came back next year!) It had to be special. As the Avatar of Lust and leading expert on anything relationship related, Asmodeus would be doing you a disservice if he didn’t plan the perfect reveal!

But what if it didn’t open when he handed it to you? He couldn’t bear the thought! Asmodeus had been in absolute agony—nearly sick—about how to confess to you. Had been for a while. Part of him was worried he was reading into things, seeing what he wanted to see, but another part of him knew that you felt the same way.

He could prove it with a pact but didn’t want to cheat like that. Pacts allowed the bonded pair to share emotions; if he stayed on the bond plane long enough your emotions would become his own. Asmodeus would get an idea of your innermost feelings. As tempting as the idea was, he didn’t want to risk the gaping, cold nothingness he’d surely feel if you considered him anything but someone you loved romantically. Several of his brothers were surprised to hear he hadn’t made a pact with you yet, but he always gave the same excuse of Solomon being demanding.

Asmodeus had been alive for a long time, and his list of lovers was even longer. Being the Avatar of Lust meant he spent a fair time courting and every date he’d been on was unique. He’d never repeated a date (not every detail, at least). This would be no exception. He slipped into the House of Lamentation, Cupid’s Bow held out at arm’s length so it would be the first thing to enter the protections.

That wouldn’t protect it from one of his brothers but it was away from the outside and that’s what mattered. Silverware tinkled in the distance, Beelzebub and Lucifer setting the table for breakfast. Should he hand it to you at breakfast, when everyone was present and make them absolutely sick with jealousy?

Very, very tempting! Then he could brag about it to the school! Maybe even get picked up by Majolish! After all, it would be crazy rare to have one of the two exchange students as his fated betrothed. To know would set him free and give him bliss he hadn’t experienced since his first feeding as the Avatar of Lust, but was it really good enough?

Couples shared their Cupid’s Bow stories for centuries, passing it down like a family heirloom. An impatient breakfast proposal seemed very lackluster, given his reputation. He’d been torturing himself for months, what was one more day? Asmodeus hadn’t even realized he’d started up the stairs towards your room until Lucifer squeezed gently on his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re bleeding,” the eldest frowned. Something was clearly amiss if perfect Asmodeus was letting himself bleed. The prick of pain turned into a burrowing sting as he looked at the thorn embedded in his palm. Drops of blood ran along the lines of his soft hand and down his wrist. Lucifer didn’t have to ask what was wrong, the flower was enough of an answer. He was fairly certain it was the first time Asmodeus had bought one to give out but he dared not say it.

Lucifer could already see the ideas spinning in Asmodeus’ eyes. His little brother’s eyes grew pinker, an enchanting, luminous pink that was love itself. Their eyes tended to lose the gradient when swept up in the emotion of their sin. When it came to you, love and lust were the same for Asmodeus. The charm literally hummed in Asmodeus’ veins; Lucifer could feel it pulsing in his wrist.

It was a persistent, almost anxious feeling. One begging him to bound up the stairs and into your room. To throw himself at your feet or into your arms and all that you were. “Smaller ambitions are still noble,” Lucifer cautioned as he ran his thumb across the wound to lay a thin sheet of healing magic. Asmodeus could hardly remember when Lucifer last touched him without gloves, heart stuttering at the comforting but nervous squeeze.

Asmodeus was very much a ‘go big or go home’ type, and he knew Lucifer was afraid of him falling too far. They had fallen too far once, and it cost them dearly. Some of them had never really healed. He was afraid of that, himself.

The grand vision of you in a diaphanous dress of his own design, sitting pretty on a picnic blanket before a Devilgram-worthy spread of delicate treats as he presented the rose was dashed by cold dread. Suddenly the idea of waking you up from a dream wasn’t so bad. He wouldn’t be out a lot of money and he could wallow in shame from the comfort of his room if things went wrong.

It won’t go wrong, something soothed him. It swept throughout his body, a strangely familiar tide. Some omnipotent whisper…the remains of something he’d lost when he fell from the Celestial Realm. Emboldened, Asmodeus swept up the stairs and knocked on your door.

He felt like he was floating. Maybe he was just light-headed from holding his breath? Asmodeus heard your sleepy invitation, opening the door to see you twisted in the sheets and struggling to sit up. His heart broke free of the stranglehold, bumping up to his tongue and shaking the knot loose. Asmodeus poured his heart out.

A genuine, soft ramble. An honest soliloquy. It was like the first record of love itself, something that would leave Helen of Troy, Guinevere, and Cleopatra wanting. The sheer joy of your undivided attention almost caused him to bite his tongue. Somehow, he persisted. “People think that I cannot love, being the Avatar of Lust, and I spent centuries believing them. Living up to the expectation of flings and everything lust means…it wasn’t until I met you that I knew I was capable of love. Real love.”

You were so red you thought you’d pass out. Asmo gave you a dazzling smile and you were surprised to see he had dimples. “As a token of this love, I ask that you take this flower. It is a flower borne from the seeds of fate itself.” Asmodeus held the rose out to you, turning it slightly so you’d grab a thorn-free piece.

He didn’t know if he wanted to explode or puke.

All he really wanted was for you to grab the damn flower (and see it open).

“What is it?” your nail scraped the stem. You hesitated, not knowing if you could trust it. Was it really just a flower? Would it bite you? Asmodeus wanted to whine, to shove it into your hand. It wouldn’t react if you didn’t grab it for real!

At some point he’d dropped to one knee. Was it to stop the shaking or even out the height difference? “Cupid’s Bow,” Asmodeus fluffed his bangs and brushed them to the side, “Fate’s Flower. This flower blooms once a year, lasts for a week, and only opens when given to you by your soulmate.”

Could he love you so deeply? Flowers say a lot, but to think one like this existed!

“Take it,” he insisted with twinkling eyes, almost begging. “Take it and see that I love you.”

You grabbed the flower, fingers bumping and brushing Asmodeus’. His lips skated across your knuckle. A gasp escaped you as the flower unfurled into several rows of dainty, heart-shaped petals. The flower opened into a gradient of blood red, vibrant orange, and delicate peach. Asmodeus squealed with delight, scooping you up in a whirl of limbs and love.

He pressed you close, cradled your adoringly.

A warbling growl-screech followed. You could feel the sound bouncing in his chest but couldn’t quite hear it. It was something only a demon’s tongue could make, a sound meant for non-humans.

“Red for love and beauty,” Asmo’s kisses were hungry and sloppy. Your brain was so numbed by the onslaught you could barely hear him; you tasted the smile on his lips and it made your heart sing. “Orange for desire and fascination, because you are unlike any other my lips have touched.” your back hit the bed; Asmo knocked a shuddering breath out of you as he pressed kisses to your throat. “And peach for appreciation. Sealing the deal, if you will…” he said the last part with a purr.

Your body throbbed, the wash of euphoria dimming to an expectant pulse when he took his lips away. His tail flicked behind him excitedly, horns casting shadows on your face as the tips glowed a pinkish-red. He laced your fingers together, the flower trapped between them.

Darling, come on over and take my hand. I will show you that I'm you're man. Is that okay?

Never-ending, I'm extending both of my arms and my heart belongs to you

What a sight, what a view when I'm looking at you! Like I'm seeing the sky for the very first time, and I want you to know that I've never seen something so beautiful!

“Is that…music?”

“Cupid’s Bows are supposed to make for the perfect moment!” Asmo winked at you, his free hand slipping under your back to hold you close. “This is the song of your soul…the song that represents what you feel for your partner. The fragrance is something unique to each person, a smell that makes them happy. Some historians think it’s the original love chemical!” he gushed.

“That’s highly debated, of course.” Asmodeus looked over his shoulder to see Satan and the others standing in the doorway. Right…he used the ‘announcement’ noise. He hadn’t meant for them to crash this moment, he was just so excited when the flower opened that it slipped out!

Asmo rolled over in a slow, fluid motion and sat up with a smug smile. “The human is mine!” he cheered, absolutely glowing as you showed them the open flower. It was met with various reactions and he ate that up, too.

Lucifer smirked, fixing his cuff and glove with an interested look. “Lord Diavolo will enjoy this news, I’m sure.”

“A merger is a merger, however it happens. I doubt he intended to bond the realms this way.” Satan rubbed his chin.

“A merger? What are you—”

“Those flowers are like the Devildom version of a wedding ring. An eternal promise.” Satan explained. “It’s hard to find people who don’t get married after a Cupid’s Bow opens for them.”

“Married?!”

“Married!” Asmo breathed dreamily, taking a photo he would cherish for the rest of his life. The flower would wilt and turn black in a week but he would remember it forever. He shooed everyone out to help you get ready for school, holding your hands in his when all was said and done. Asmo gazed upon you reverently, kissing your forehead. “I love you always.”        

#Asmodeus x Reader #Obey Me! #Obey Me! x Reader #Asmo x Reader

[ithilwen-lionheart]

Love, lead me on - Legolas x Priestess!Reader/OC - Chapter 1 pt. 1/2

[ Notes: ]

- takes place during The Battle Of The Five Armies

- based on Hey Say JUMP's 'Ai yo boku wo, michibiite yuke'

[ Work Text: ]

A priestess should be one with her surroundings in order to be bound with even the tiniest sounds around her without the use of her senses- from the flutter of a butterfly's wings to the eruption of a volcano.

She is to hear every heart -beating or not- around her as well as the pleads for help and the cries of pain and anguish, tears of those who lost, and those of which who were forsaken. At the chance of being an audience to this, she is to act, for fate had not placed her in the situation she is in for a mere play at destiny's chessboard.

A priestess is there for more than a single reason: to lay gentle hands on the wounded, to aid the disabled, to protect the defenseless, to provide comfort and dreams to the haunted and to save as many souls as she could in behalf of the honor of both herself and the order that she represents by the crest that she wears.

-----

Amidst the roaring flames and clouds of smoke and sight of nothing but destruction, death and chaos, a tiny flicker of hope rises at the hearts of every single villager left alive and running in the floating city of Laketown.

Among them is a priestess, albeit a novice, of the Northern Order.

Dark hair as blue as the night, skin that glistens a milky white under both the sun and moon, and eyes that are the most fanciful shade of lilac. She is a wonder dressed in a dark brown garb over a short white dress and loose pants tucked underneath knee-length boots, darting around the docks hidden under a simple royal blue hood.

As much as she is still a trainee, she sees to it that she could be the best that she could ever be at every moment given and so here she is taking every villager she could into safety and out of the raging flames consuming the entirety of the village.

She is, like Lady Galadriel had said, here for a reason and even though some parts of the 'whyfor's' still isn't anywhere near clear for her at the moment, her heart had already found the most significant reason behind her rushing about just under the gargantuan dragon, Smaug: it was because a piece of her was here.

The piece of her that she so willingly gave to a person who never even asked much less needed it and doesn't even know he had it in the first place: Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of Elvenking, Thranduil.

All she had to do was pick up a thing or two about the elves from Mirkwood after miraculously gaining the King's approval through the Elf Lord Elrond, who seemed to have this uncanny fondness of her.

It started with tours around the villages and the castle; then lessons on their language and spells, books and healing; and then it got muddled up with archery and horseback riding because she was studying under Legolas after all and he seemed to develop a fascinating fixation on her Siberian Tiger, Luna- while herself -much to her dismay and disapproval- fell for the prince each day that had passed until she began to ardently wish she could learn shifting sometime soon within that mere month.

But that wasn't the problem, no.

"Celine? Celine!" A hand on her shoulder attempted to shake her back to reality.

This, this was the problem.

Although it took the girl a few moments to register the voice since she was still hearing the screams of a woman who just lost her beloved husband over the memories that smelled vividly of book pages, herbs and had the elf prince written all over it in shades of gold and late afternoon sunlight. She felt something clenching her heart at this and she doesn't know whether she's mourning for the woman's loss or her own.

The girl looks up and sees long ginger hair in braids and bright emerald eyes glistening with concern on the face of the beautiful elf warrior, "Tauriel..." she trails off and turns to look at the thick clouds of smoke that covers the light of the stars.

Tauriel furrows her brows a bit and lets go of the younger girl, "Are you alright?" She asks because there's something in the girl's eyes that goes beyond being a simple Old Soul and a novice priestess.

Celine just nods and shifts her attention to the elf approaching their group. The she-elf notes how the younger girl falters for a moment before schooling her features into that of her usually playful sheepishness around Legolas.

-----

*If I'm allowed to peep into your heart, I only want to make sure of one thing,

I wonder if I exist somewhere in the road leading to you...*

The blond prince approached both of them and it never escaped her how those icy blue eyes simply grazed over her before completely settling on Tauriel.

"Is everything alright, Tauriel?" He asked, his voice gentle and worried as he sheathed his sword and placed it back on its slot in his belt.

And it was just like as if it's just the two of them standing there on burnt planks over the debris-littered water. As if the captain of the guard didn't just leave him alone to chase after Azog during the preliminary ambush of the orcs back when Laketown still wasn't crumbling down in dragon flames, as she tended to the dwarf, Kili.

Tauriel nods, giving the girl beside her a glance that wasn't discreet enough for Legolas not to notice.

'But then again, it's not as if Legolas never noticed anything Tauriel does...' Celine ponders while trying her best not to sound bitter inside her own thoughts as she places that maybe she knows exactly why her chest feels all tight.

Then those piercing eyes were now on hers. He swipes an arrow from his back and aims at something behind her, then shoots.

It hits an orc straight in the face.

"You should know better than to space out at times like these, Celine." His tone was reprimanding but nevertheless, the concern was still in there.

And she adds it up to the reasons why she's still helplessly clinging to this hopeless attachment.

She settles on with a sigh, since mulling about it at present would just mess up with her performance.

Tossing the idea aside, she allowed her senses to fire up and quickly took a dagger from her waist to fling it on the beast that stood a few feet just behind the unsuspecting prince. Finding a remotely stable pole behind them, she ran for it and used it to propel herself forward to kick the thing square on the face for good measure- her body barely missing the prince's face and shoulder as she gracefully spun horizontally through the junction.

Hitting her mark, she then landed on both feet and made a dramatic flourish and a bow after seeing that she had both elve's attention: Tauriel had her face fixed with awe and a sense of profound pride and Legolas simply gawked, albeit effectively unapparent to those who haven't memorized his set of facial reactions.

Which sums up to everyone else who isn't Celine, "Same goes to you, Prince Legolas." She snickers and stood straight, the cape of her hood swishing behind her.

Legolas smirked, "I would not get too brazen now, dear priestess." And she pretends her heart didn't melt at the reply or the title, when he walked towards her and swung his sword at yet another orc behind her.

As much as they're both always at each other's throats and tempers, when it comes to times like these- when they're in the battlefield, running through blood and gore, it's almost as if a bonus instinct that they'd watch each other's back. Even if it's often Celine doing the job while Legolas is busy looking after his love, Tauriel.

Its not as if the novice priestess minds it anyways, she could do this forever so long as she could see his precious smiles safe and sound even if it's for someone else. 'Better see it than not at all, right?' She would all too often think during the times she'd begin to doubt the acceptability of the extents she'd be willing to take for the admiration she feels for the prince.

"If you could please bow, my dear prince?" She suddenly requests and it was so much of an overused 'there's some filth behind you that I am going to hit so please duck' that Legolas immediately complied with an equally mischievous smile as hers, knowing what it means by habit.

Celine swung her left arm back and with it brought water forth and turned them into icicles that she used to successfully impale the beast with, being extremely cautious so as to avoid hitting the exact person she was protecting.

By the moment Legolas had straightened back up to his full height, he shot him one of his grateful little smiles that -she grew to know- meant nothing more than appreciation, before his whole attention was back on some debris that nearly fell over Tauriel had he not pushed her away in time and would've hit both elves had Celine not whistled for Luna to tackle them both to the side.

Commanding the water to douse the flames threatening to begin spreading from their area, she throws them another one of her cheeky grins and places a hand just above her heart,

"At your service, my dearest Prince Legolas and Lady Tauriel."

The Great Tiger then gracefully strides back to her owner at her beckoning and affectionately rubs her huge furry head against the young novice's entire side, "you did great, Luna! Huh? What is it?" Celine's train of giggles was cut off by her familiar's observatory report. Her entire mien changing from the carefree one not too long ago to a deathly serious expression, "Bard? That's foolish! He wouldn't be able to take down Smaug using ordinary arrows. What? His son? Where is he? Oh dear goddess... Okay, take me there." The novice then swiftly climbs up as Luna crouched for her master to settle in.

Noticing the confused although hardened expressions on her companion's faces, she tried to smile even though it came out as a grimace, "If you could please fetch Bard's children from their home? The boy's not there, I'm going to find him." Celine offers as a cue that they should get back to their posts and save as many lives as they could.

And that was precisely when Tauriel made that face that spoke volumes of her concern through her features.

The younger girl could feel her heart break a little for Legolas but she still spoke nevertheless- the bit of information is necessary for all of them to function and know what they're doing and the people that concern them after all, "And yes, Tauriel, the dwarves are with them. Luna also notes that Kili had successfully recovered." The young priestess informs the she-elf who flushed in an embarrassed yet comfortable surprise, while Legolas rose a scrutizing brow with his eyes now fixed on hers.

This, of course, caused the priestess to reach behind and scratch her neck diffidently, a guilty upwards turn on her lips as she spoke, "And I may or may not have mixed in some very specific ingredients to hasten the healing process..." she then averts her gaze to the side and away from electrifying blues, fearing that her resolution to remain neutral would waver at the intensity of those eyes.

Before she knew it there was a hand that rested on her leg that wasn't Legolas' and Tauriel was looking up at her with great relief and gratitude, "Thank you." And those mere words and the thankful squeeze should not have given anything away aside from a profound sense of alleviation but there was a reason why novice's are sent to see the world before they could be considered priestesses.

It is to learn about every being in Middle-Earth, regardless of race and seeing nothing but the hearts underneath chests of either skin or fur, paying careful attention to the underlying emotions behind every breath, batter of eyelashes and those that swirl just around a creature's eyes before disappearing entirely and turning into something else.

And in those emerald green gems she saw love. A yearning so desperate yet aimless and confused just barely concealing the heart's desires with a thin sheen that's nearly transparent. Tauriel had fallen for the dwarf and she knew it ever since that night in Mirkwood's dungeons even though the she-elf was not consciously aware of it.

It was so apparent that it even began to concern Thranduil and Celine was there but she'll never say the words she had heard when the King had confronted his army's captain because it was a secret she'd be willing to bury with her heart once it finally dies from all the blows it had endured for and from the obliviousness of the prince.

"Legolas had grown very found of you."

"I assure you, he only looks at me as a captain and a guard. Nothing more."

"Perhaps once. But not anymore."

"Surely you would not let your son pledge himself to a lowly Silvan elf."

"Yes. You are right. But he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

"Shall we head off, Tauriel?" Lilac eyes were fixed on the blonde prince as he clasped a wary hand on Tauriel's shoulder, and she knows just how much he tries to push the inevitable aside.

Because she's doing the exact same thing.

Not trusting herself enough to meet his equally broken soul hidden underneath those pale blue eyes, Celine was quick to turn to the opposite direction heading to Bard's house without once turning back at the elves behind her.

"Appears not... we're on completely different roads and I exist nowhere in yours." A lone tear made its way down one flushed cheek and a brown gloved hand quickly went up to furiously rub it off. She then dons up a smile because it wouldn't help the villagers she'll come across if they'll see her like this, and pats the side of her lifetime companion, "Let's get going. Shall we, Luna?"

-----

*Within the fleeting dream, I wish this unexploited love to end,

Yet, I open my eyes to this red and flickering flame of love...*

Casualty had and will always be a given whenever dragons and war are involved.

No matter what a single or even a group of persons and races do, it could never be avoided and there would still be those who they failed to reach in time and those they never even knew of.

That would most likely explain the burnt and mangled bodies that were strewn across the shore from where they evacuated everyone else.

It was already in the middle of the night and everyone else was long asleep. Celine doesn't know why but out of all the people who had lost someone that's close to their hearts, she was the one who took everything the hardest. Sleep just couldn't find her and so she volunteered to keep the fires burning to keep the villagers from freezing since winter's already upon them.

Smaug's dead, Bard had successfully slain it and was reunited with his family, he was even given the title 'Dragon Slayer'; and the dwarves of Erebor, lead by Thorin Oakenshield, finally reclaimed their homeland.

Of course Kili left with them but it never stopped the dwarf from entertaining the frivolous idea of taking Tauriel with him and that split second of consideration in the she-elf's eyes didn't manage to get pass Celine's keen observation. The priestess then wondered that perhaps Legolas noticed it too because he quickly intervened and told his captain to take her leave of the dwarf who then in turn left a stone with engravings on it as a promise that he'll come back for her.

And that was when she saw the resolution on the prince's eyes deteriorate and through a chink, she was able to see the hurt and despairing vie as his entire figure slumped ever so slightly.

The bluenette visibly sighs now, white puffs of air slipping pass her open mouth. Everything just gets too ridiculously cold whenever Death walks by, and the fact that he leaves trails of emptiness and a path of irremediable loneliness only makes it worse.

A priestess, even those who are novices, could feel the presence of Death and is not exempted from it's dreadful aftertaste. She is consciously aware of the lives it took and the pleads of the souls who do not wish to depart from their loved ones and it tastes like bile stuck at the back of her throat.

The voices are there, yes. And it drags her down into the state of half-sleep, a void that is a mixture of both her conscious and unconscious thoughts. She succumbs to it, it's not as if her service is needed anytime soon and Legolas and Tauriel left earlier to ride north, so there's not really much left for her to do except to keep close watch of the bonfire.

Laying down, her back rested against patches of grass and dirt and she remained still, took a deep breath, watched the midnight skies clear for once to make way for starlight. It never failed to make her marvel at how surreal and distant the skies feel for mortals, like some unattainable dream forever for them to see but never to touch and everything goes back and all she could see was the elf prince the very instant she had closed her eyes.

It all come crashing down like some vivid recollection of the times she stood beside him. From the way he elegantly draws his arrows, aims with his long arms and shocking depths of intoxicating blue, and then shoots with deadly precision at whatever his target is; to the way he skillfully fights his enemies with practiced ease in using swords and daggers as well as quick wits; how he could be so much of an adept warrior yet a refined prince both at the same time; how he's so warm, so gentle and there's so much knowledge crammed into the little space in his eyes and even though his soul could be ages old, he'll remain eternally youthful and curious and the fact that his heart could be so achingly dedicated to both the wrong causes and the right ones in tragic equality, Celine finds, is the thought that hurts her the most.

Sometimes she couldn't keep herself from wishing that she never had these feelings in the first place. The fact that a critical part of her supposedly undivided attention as an aspiring priestess had been effortlessly snagged by one single person is trouble enough, but coupling it with the actuality that it is unrequited only makes it all the more unbearable for her. It partitions everything she does in two and as much as she doesn't want to shamelessly admit it, if there'll be some innocent human, elf, or dwarf hanging on the edge of a cliff with an incapacitated Legolas on the other and she could only save one of them she'd very much rush to the prince's aid without so much as a second thought.

"Argh," she groans in self-disappointment, "I should get my priorities set straight.. I am such a horrible disgrace to my house." she threw her hands up, still refusing to open her eyes.

"How could you say such a thing about yourself?" And that voice sounded so hauntingly beautiful and familiar that she wished she could just close her eyes forever and hear nothing but the sound of that voice saying her name in the tone it would use to address his beloved.

She tried to keep her eyes closed, feign sleep-talking or at least anything at all to keep her from seeing him as near her as the way his voice sounded because she doubts she'll be able to take this without breaking and like always, she fell a prisoner to his words as he leaned a bit closer and demanded that she appropriately face him whenever they're talking.

Lilac eyes fluttered open and all she could see was his face curtained by his silky long blonde locks on each side and she figures maybe he's the reason why the moon was missing that night.

Like some child in a trance, Celine slowly reaches upward with one hand to gingerly touch a few glistening strands in between her thumb and index fingers just to see if the Legolas crouching down beside her was real.

With the slightest curve on the side of one perfect mouth, the figure vanished into thin air, like silvery whisps of evergreen scented vapor. It didn't even take a second for the girl to realize that it was nothing more but a figure of her yearning that was immense enough for it to take concrete form through the unconscious use of her power.

Standing up with an emotionally spent expression strewn across her face for no one to see, she made her way towards the camp to replenish the fire threatening to die out.

The renewed pang her daydream left fueled the flickering embers in her heart even as it slowly turned into everything synonymous to despair as she stared at the crackling wood before her.

The illusion may have deserted her but the hole it left in her heart had stayed- and the apprentice thinks she'll harbor that for as long as her pitiful existence on earth would be.

-----

*I might not be the one who warms up your cold and numb hands, but

the one who can illuminate my future in this world is only you...*

The real Legolas is with Tauriel under the same stars she's seeing that night. It is relatively cold and Celine wonders if they're some place warm or are they sitting close enough to each other in front of an open fire outside.

It wouldn't matter if it gets cold. There are two of them afterall. Always had been and always will be. Because even though the elleth have some tendencies to go astray, the priestess knows that the prince would blindly follow her through the ends of the world.

And perhaps -Celine hopes- that the captain would at least return the favor by protecting him even if it'll be done out of mere courtesy. It would be hard for the priestess to intervene if they would be this far away from her and some time soon, she'll have to leave their sides and discover the rest of the world-

Alone. To further pursue her desire to be a legitimate priestess of great power to protect and help those who are in need the same way she'd dedicate herself to safeguard those whom she holds dear.

Tear-stained violets continued to stare on at the dancing flames as she curled up into a ball in a fetal sitting position. Allowing herself the luxury of weeping for all the wrong causes she'd be willing to take and the future she could never see without the prince in it.

Even so, she'll thrive for that future if she must, seeing as it is her only purpose for living. And the road she'd take towards that path would always be lit up by the purpose of being able to stand proudly beside the prince someday, even if it means that she'll have to stay as nothing more but a priestess in his service.

-----

*Even though I deliver this "I love you" to you one million times.

In the end, you won't give me a "YES", but

I will deliver this "I love you" to you one more million times again.

Oh love, please show me a way... *

They never went back that day. Or the day after that. Not even when the villagers of Laketown went on their journey towards the ruined city of Dale, not even after they have arrived.

The bluenette girl did her best to be of help to everyone. From tending to the wounded and handing out blankets and food rations to keeping watch at night and maintaining the flames, just to get her mind off of things.

She knows that even Bard himself had grown worried of her dedication to keeping the night watch but he never did directly voice his concern. He just asked her once if she's alright and suggested that he could give the task to someone else that night just so that she could have a well-deserved rest, to which she, of course, courteously declined.

The midnight chills are much better than the warmth of a blanket after all.

These past few days, sleep had been her enemy, everything that came close to it had conjured the same picturesque version of the prince. The one who'd openly smile for her and for her alone, the one she could actually tell her genuine feelings to without the fear of being looked down upon with distaste and being avoided altogether. She couldn't really recount how many times she told this prince how much she adores him and how many times he'd been so close to touch before her consciousness kicks back in and she realizes that everything was just the same tricks her mind was playing on her over and over again.

And so, over and over she fell and swore and spilled the same words to the same figure, hoping that it would at least make him realize how much she truly, desperately means it. Over and over she awakes to see herself in the same position: curled into a ball, tucked beside Luna in front of the blazing fire before her, her cheeks wet; over and over her thoughts would wander to Legolas and she'll say the same words again.

Some nights, she'll ride Luna at full speed and run up at hills to scream, at others she'll curl in with the tiger and just settle with a coveted whisper.

All those times, her words fell on deaf ears. All those nights, her voice shivered and cracked words of admiration and dedication for the prince. Over and over again.

Out of love, out of helpless passion that she knew would never be returned.

And she'll make the same decision because none of it was ever a mistake.

Nothing could be considered a mistake anymore, especially not a word said a million times before and again.

-----

*After giving me a smile with downcast eyes, you suddenly grew up

That was like a sharp knife split my chest apart...*

The desolation of Smaug was merely a part of something bigger. Compared to the bloody war that came next, the flames and corpses of human villagers was nothing compared to the aftermath that The Battle of The Five Armies had left.

Bloody, mangled remains of elves, dwarves, orcs, and humans had littered both the foot of Erebor and the repeatedly destroyed city of Dale along with discarded armors and deteriorated stone walls of once great cities.

No matter how you put it, there's no absolute victory even after the war had been won by the rallied forces of all races combined against the Gundabad orcs and the annihilation of Azog the Defiler and his right-hand, Borg.

Not even Celine -the young apprentice to Lady Galadriel- could feel remotely festive even if she was the key to every bit of success they had with this war.

She had stopped a very much unneeded war between the Sindarin Elves and the army of Thorin's cousin and had fought alongside the dwarves and elves as Durin's kin hid behind the walls of Erebor while the orcs attacked in astounding numbers. Standing firm with her usual garbs and nothing else but her courage and a sword and the skills she had learned from Legolas. Her great tiger, Luna, beside her.

Celine had fought and will fight, for everyone else's life if not for her prince's. That's why and how she manages to live, her own self-preservation completely going down in shambles every moment this unreciprocated charade of hers stretched on and she's not even remotely guilty to throw her life across the line far more times than she had kissed and will kiss the moon goodnight - and she aims to be a priestess of the moon someday.

[ To be continued in Chapter 1 pt. 2/2 ]

[ A/N: ] I wasn't aware of the word count limit here in Tumblr seeing as this is my first time putting one of my fics out here so here's the 1st part of the 1st chapter to an ongoing fanfiction book I'm writing over at Wattpad entitled 'Love lead me on'.

Am gonna try cross-posting some of my fanfics here so as to bring my blog some life so I hope y'all give them some love~!

#lotr #the hobbit #legolas #legolas imagines #legolas x reader #lotr fanfic #lotr fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #literature #middle earth #thranduil #battle of the five armies #tauriel x kili #unrequited love #angst #pining #thorin oakenshield #thorin x reader #Implied pairing #series #Love lead me on

[xyouseix]

Arialista | Blooming Resolve

The sun’s tangerine rays have barely touched the sand dunes outside the western walls of the city, but the streets of Hallardim are already coming to life. The early morning runners and delivery boys dash from one door to the next with messages, packages, and wares. Preparations for another day’s worth of purchases and sales. Coins are counted, stock is put out on shelves and racks, and doors are beginning to open to allow business in.

In the noble district it is quieter, except in the kitchens of the large estate houses. Lamps are on and elbows are greased, already deep into their work.

A smaller building, a Grecian styled tavern, the only one of it’s kind in the city, is still quiet, the widows dark except for one on the second story. A candle, burned down low, flame barely holding onto the wick, sputters as the melted wax tries to swallow it’s light. The sun will outshine it soon enough, but for now, the candle is the only light against the darkness inside.

Loose and softly curled midnight hair splays across a writing desk in the shadowy room. Even breaths pass between softly parted lips. It was not her intention to fall asleep here, but the russet skinned woman resting her head next to an ink drying letter did not have the energy to move the five feet to her bed.

The shadows under the desk curl inward and a pair of softly glowing, slitted red eyes gaze up at the sleeping form. A sound, not unlike a cat’s inquisitive mrrhp comes from somewhere within those shadows. A dark paw with smokey tendrils reaches out, testing the air to see if it can leap up into the woman’s lap without waking her. The eyes pull back, then it leaps.

Without any trouble the small pitch black form alights on the unsuspecting lap. The creature takes a moment, standing still to listen. The woman’s breathing still has the even beat of uninterrupted sleep. It starts to curl around itself but something tickles its senses. A dark nose sniffs at the unprotected skin around the neck and under chin. There. A scent it hasn’t smelt in many weeks. It turns a curious glance at the papers the woman rests her head next to and scans the words. The writing is Elvish, which means it is not to the regular recipient to whom his companion writes to. Those letters she writes in Infernal, a language it knows best. Not to say it can’t read other languages, but it has its preferences.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍, it read at the top of the first page.

Ah, yes. The bard, it thinks with disdain. It’s bright red eyes quickly scan the letter’s contents, it’s barely detectable face getting more disgruntled with each sentence. When it finishes reading the letter all thoughts of sleeping on warm laps have been banished from its mind. It turns back to look at the exposed skin of the defenseless neck. A dark paw, ebony black claws slightly extended, reaches up to rest where the scent is strongest. Then it slowly drags it’s paw across the woman’s skin leaving the barest of claw marks.

In her dream, Arialista holds the the envelope with her letter written inside out to Tassel. She is nervous. Is this the right thing to do? she thinks. She’s wanted to tell him for a long time. So why do her fingers shake? The cold is a fear that pricks at her hear and she’s about to pull her hand back, but she’s too late. The moment his hand touch the parchment it bursts into flames and Tassel’s warm ocean eyes turn ice cold.

“Did you honestly think I could love someone who’s very existence causes the death of those around her?” he spits, disdain dripping from his words.

Arialista recoils, his words stabbing into the vulnerable part of her heart that knew his return was too good to be true.

“N-No, that’s not- Tassel, I can explain-” she tries to reach for his hand, but he pulls away. She tries to move towards him but her feet won’t move. She looks down and sees they are covered in roots and vines holding her in place.

“I never want to see you again,” he says as backs away from her.

Arialista’s reaching hands fall to her sides. Her eyes search the face of the man she has grown to care for deeply, searching for any sign that this is some cruel joke. She finds nothing. It was too good to be true. The echo of his retreating steps a counterpoint her heartbeat as she stands there, trapped in stunned silence.

A constricting pain makes her double over, clutching her hands to her bosom. She tries to reach inside her chest to hold herself together but she can’t get past her own flesh. She feels it, a gaping hole where her heart should be. Opening her eyes, Arialista sees it on the ground in front of her bound feet. Vines and roots creep up from the ground, wrapping around the still beating and tender flesh. A soft, warm glow emanates from her heart as the earthen fingers brush against it. In her mind, Arialista thinks she should feel pain or sorrow, but she does not. She cannot anymore. Now that her heart is no longer a part of her the dread she felt is replaced by a hollow peacefulness.

As the vines creep, they become spotted with her blood from where it touches the delicate pink flesh. Their winding and curling lifts it up, the glow washing over her face, mesmerizing.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

The red spots on the vines shift, sprouting small buds that rapidly bloom into the most beautiful crimson roses Arialista has ever seen. She doesn’t understand why, but she finds herself smiling at the beauty before her.

Something sharp scrapes at her neck. Arialista starts to feel the vines twining their way up her body, wanting to cocoon her like they did her heart. She closes her eyes in acceptance, not entirely sure what she is giving herself over to, but knowing it is the only thing to do.

The scraping happens again, harder. She starts to realise it’s not the vines hurting her, it’s something else. What she thought were needles feel more like claws. Arialista struggles against the vines holding her, flying up into consciousness as she twitches and then bats away an inky black paw, claws extended to wreck havoc on her face next.

“ℌ����𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔭,” Arialista mumbles in Infernal, more of a command than a request. She blinks her bleary eyes a couple times and then rubs them as she sits up in her chair.

The shadow cat watches her with sardonic amusement. “𝔇𝔦𝔡 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔞 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪?” he mews, mocking her only a little.

Arialista finishes clearing the sleep from her eyes and gives Hyperion a hard stare. It stares back unblinking. She’s the first to look away. “ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡𝔫’𝔱 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱, 𝔫𝔬,” she mumbles still speaking in Infernal.

Hyperion’s eyes narrow very slightly. There is a moment where it deliberates on saying something, possibly words of comfort or concern, but then it shakes itself and stands up.

“ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰,” it says, using it’s nose to indicate the letter. Arialista sees it glance at her writing, the disgust shown by the lift of its feline nose. “𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔣 𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤?”

Arialista’s eyebrows knit together and she feels the echoes of her dream reverberate through her chest. “ℌ𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢, ℌ𝔶𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔢𝔰, ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔪. 𝔇𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲?” her Infernal taking on a harsher tone with each word.

“ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 𝔦𝔱’𝔰 𝔞 𝔟𝔦𝔱 𝔫𝔞𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫’𝔱 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰,” it says. “ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲’𝔡 𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 ℜ𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔞 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱. 𝔖𝔥𝔢’𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔣 𝔢𝔩𝔣.”

The shadow cat had a point. Reina, though younger than her, is still wise beyond her years. She would accept the knowledge of her past and would probably be happy to help in her search for answers. So why even tell someone her darkest secrets, someone who isn’t even able to come with her to Pir’emva?

“𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔰𝔫’𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱. ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 ℜ𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔞. 𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔙𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔯𝔞–”

“‘𝔖𝔥𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔭 𝔞𝔫𝔡 – 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱.’ 𝔓𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢.” It gives her a look. “𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔣 𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔬𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔪, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔢𝔵𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢. 𝔈𝔵𝔠𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔰.”

Heat rises to her cheeks. For a creature that likes to tell half truths more often than not, it certainly has an uncanny way of calling me out. Hypocrite. Arialista wasn’t about let the not-cat on her lap call her out like that. But it also had a point. Half truths to Tassel were one thing. Lying to herself was another.

“ℑ’𝔪 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔡. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔗𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔩 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔢’𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔭 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩, 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪.” Her breath is quick and shallow, matching the hummingbird flitting around inside her rib cage. “𝔅𝔲𝔱 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔞𝔫𝔶𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢... 𝔦𝔣 ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔪 𝔫𝔬𝔴, ℑ 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯.” She takes a steadying breath to calm the flighty bird inside and it’s wings ease up on it’s assault a bit. “ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 ℜ𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔞, 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔭𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔱, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔯𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔭 𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔣 ℑ 𝔤𝔬 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔠𝔥 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰.”

Hyperion’s head tilts slightly, intrigued at her honesty.

“ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱– 𝔑𝔬, ℑ 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴.”

“𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔬 𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔞?” the not-cat asked, it’s eyes glowing a little brighter.

“𝔄𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬. 𝔗𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔪𝔰 𝔦𝔣 ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔬,” she replies vehemently.

Hyperion keeps its eyes on hers for a moment longer. Then it blinks and starts licking its paw.

Arialista, not entirely sure what had just happened, picks up one of the pages of her letter to see if the ink was finally dried. She had not given much thought, let alone a voice, to why she hesitated telling her dragonborn friend about her past. But some part of her did know why she hesitated. As for Hyperion, what ever it really is, wherever it came from, she suspected it knows more about Kamen-Het and the story she discovered at the Great Kaath Museum. They had talked about the ancient tiefling warrior king only once, but there was something about how tight lipped the shadowcat was that made Arialista suspicious. Yet she found herself relying on its council in regards to these matters.

“𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔨 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔰, ℌ𝔶𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫. 𝔗𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪, ℑ 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔯,” He pauses his grooming. She sets down her letter and strokes the not-cat down it’s back. “ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔩𝔞𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔢. ℑ𝔱 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔫𝔰 𝔞 𝔩𝔬𝔱.”

“𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲’𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢?” it says, an impish curl around every word. Then it slips from her lap and disappears into the shadows under her desk.

⚔️

#Arialista #RAVN campaign #creative writing #Dungeons and Dragons #dungeons & dragons #tiefling #ranger #noble #noble tiefling #tiefling ranger #D&D #d&d 5e homebrew #homebrew #D&D 5e #text #writing #d&d character #cats #Hyperion

[donutpwns]

Journey to the Roots Part 4

Part 3 - Part 5

When he was twenty-five, he’d been forced to make a deal with a high ranked member of a drug cartel that had shared his cell in a Columbian prison. They’d helped break him out of the prison and set him up with a new false identity and all he had to do was be his schmoozing, showman self to get a few things on a plane and into America. Stan had done it; prison was hell no matter the country. He remembered vomiting from the stress and the fear in the tiny toilet of the air plane. He could still feel the cold metal of a gun pressed to his side as he handed off the package to his contact in the states.; could still feel the white hot blast of pain to his face that had led him to waking up bound in the sunbaked trunk of a car. The way his jaw had ached and his stomach had cramped as he swallowed hard plastic and his own blood but kept biting. That all too familiar moment where you’re pretty sure you’re going to die and all the romance of the idea has fled. Stan had defined that as his quintessential rock bottom, the worse always implied when he assured someone that he’d had it. The pinnacle of fear.

But shit if this didn’t feel a thousand times worse.

Ten years. It had been ten long, long years since he’d last seen his brother closing the curtains on him. How many times had he tried to call Ford only to lose his nerve? How many times had he punched in all but the last number before his shaking hands slammed the receiver back down? Too scared to reach out to his brother, even when he’d finally escaped that trunk and made it to a new town where no one knew any of his names. Too scared to even look at the photo that was now folded up in his wallet at times.

He believed what he’d told Mabel, about the other person needing to love you enough to forgive you, but that didn’t make him want it any less. He’d been a stupid teenager and while he regretted what had happened, felt bad for ruining Ford’s shot at something better, he refused to accept that he’d deserved what he’d got. Looking at Ford’s house, while more than a little hermit-esque, he was sure Ford had been enough of a success without his big fancy school. Their parents must be awfully proud; though Ford never really spoke with any of the family. At least, that’s what Shermie had said the one time Stan had seen him in the last ten years.

Speaking of Shermie…Mabel is staring wide eyed out the window, face pressing up against the glass. Once this was all done, Stan really needs to reach out to his older brother. Properly meet his nephew; let him know that he’s a good kid and gonna do great things. He likes his future great niece and will admit, only to himself, that he might actually miss the knucklehead when she’s gone back home. But hey, he only has to wait a couple of decades to see her again. Stan’s good at waiting. He’s been waiting ten years to see Ford again, what’s that a few times over for someone that was actually happy to see him?

He’s making his way around the car to help her force her door open over a snow bank when the door to the house opens. Stan freezes with his hand on the door handle; he feels like a deer in the headlights. Which is pretty accurate, given there’s his brother with a crossbow pointed at him.

“Good to see you too, Bro.” He calls over to him because what else is there to say? He resumes pulling open the door for Mabel and steps aside to let her out. He almost laughs at the yelp she lets out when she jumps into the snow, white going up nearly to the edge of her skirt. “Wouldn’t suppose you have a time traveling kid that matches mine?”

“Grunkle Stan?” a boy pokes his head around Ford’s legs. He’s a lot paler and more noodly looking than Mabel, but the resemblance is otherwise uncanny. He’s got this stupid smile on his face when he meets Stan’s eyes; once he spots Mabel though his whole face lights up. Ford tries to grab him as he shoves past him, fumbling that stupid crossbow, but he’s too slow. “Mabel!”

Mabel lets out another one of those god awful shrieking squeals and starts kicking her way through the snow towards her brother. “Dipper! Oh my gosh! I knew you’d be here!” once she’s close enough she practically leaps, tackling the boy so they both hit the ground, sending up a puff of loose snow. “I missed you so much you dork!”

“I missed you too, you dummy!” they’re still on the ground, collapsing into laughter though what’s funny who knows.

Stan watches them with a fond smile before looking awkwardly over at his own twin. To his surprise Ford is watching him and another guy with, wow, the world’s biggest nose standing beside him. Unable to stop himself, Stan lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave. So. What was he supposed to do now? Was Stan supposed to go or…?

The kids are still laughing in the snow. Stan shoves all of the confusing Ford Feelings to the back of his mind and makes his way over to them. “Hey, c’mon, you knuckleheads. Mabel’s already sick, let’s not—”

“HAHAHAHAHA!!!”

“STANLEY GET BACK!”

He hears Ford’s shout about half a second before he feels the pain. He jumps back on instinct; when he lands his left leg gives out from the stabbing pain and he lands flat on his ass. Sticking out of his calf is a long, silver knitting needle, with a spreading circle of red staining his jeans. He stares at it before looking up at Mabel. What the actual fuck?!

She’s staring at him with a grin so wide it looks painful, especially coupled with her cheeks appled by the cold. And her eyes—one eye, the right eye; it looks like a cat’s eye, pupil slitted, and almost seems to be glowing a sick infected yellow color. She’s got Dipper’s hand in her own and he’s wearing a matching grin, only it’s his left eye that’s wrong. They stand together, hands never unclasping.

Stan tries to scramble back away from them, laughing nervously, “Hey, sweetheart! What’s going on? C’mon, it’s me, your favorite Younkle Stan!”

They throw their heads back and let out another laugh in sync and, okay, Stan is over this creepy ass Shining shit already. “WOW, I FORGOT HOW DUMB YOU WERE BACK THEN. NOT THAT YOU’RE NOT AN IDIOT IN THE FUTURE TOO! HA!” their voices sound off, distorted and just…different.

A bolt fires into the snow between where the twins stand and where Stan is on the ground. They all look at where Ford is loading another bolt into the crossbow while stepping down from the porch. Stan realizes that if it wasn’t for the bags under his eyes and insane scientist hair, his brother might actually look cool. When the bow is reloaded he aims it at the kids and growls, “Bill!”

Thank Moses the other guy, who is still on the porch, looks as confused as Stan feels.

The twins tilt their heads in Ford’s direction, grins stretching impossibly further. “FORDSY! GOOD OL SIXER! OOH THIS IS DEFINITELY MY FAVORITE VERSION OF YOU! HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN FOR YOU? NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR YOU I’LL BET!” The twins laugh Bill’s laugh together. Mabel starts tugging on Dipper’s cheek with the hand not holding his while she continues, making the skin painfully red. Does he not feel that? Do neither of them feel the cold? “OOH, ARE YOU GOING TO SHOOT ME?! GO AHEAD! I AM DYING TO KNOW WHAT PAIN FEELS LIKE WITH TWO BODIES! WELL, I WON’T BE THE ONE THAT DIES, BUT SEMANTICS, EH, SIXER?”

That’s Stan’s name for Ford.

Ford hesitates a few feet from them, crossbow wavering. He meets Stan’s eyes briefly before scowling back at the two kids. Dipper has started tugging on Mabel’s hair while the two of them say ‘ow’ in laughing tones. “How—I did the ritual!”

“SEE, THAT’S THE PROBLEM WITH YOU, FORDSY. YOU SEE WHAT YOU WANNA SEE!” Dipper shakes his hand, long brown strands falling from his fist. Each of their non-fucked up eyes are streaming tears down their cheeks, Stan notices. “YOU WANNA BE THE SMARTEST ONE IN THE ROOM SO EVERYONE ELSE IS AN IDIOT. WHICH THEY ARE, SO GOLD STAR THERE, BUT SO ARE YOU. THAT’S WHY YOU’RE SO EASY TO TRICK. YOU’RE TOO SMART TO FALL FOR EASY LIES SO YOU FALL FOR ALL OF THEM! AIN’T THAT RIGHT, STAN? THIS GUY KNOWS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.”

Having both yellow eyes on him is very unsettling, but Stan still hears the words. Number one rule to big cons: always let the smart ones lie to themselves. You give them a seed of something they want and they’ll make it blossom with their own rationalizations and justifications. Stupid people needed a story, a show, smart people needed to think it was their idea all along. If they don’t want to ask questions, they won’t.

Stan knew a thing or two about half ass cons.

Mabel lifts the hand holding Dipper’s and reaches into the sleeve, pulling out the knitting needle to match the one sticking out of Stan’s leg. Stan swallows around the lump in his throat as she touches it to her own throat. That yellow eye is open so wide; whatever is going on has to make them numb to feeling. Ford had said the name Bill earlier; was this what Mabel had been warning him about? Was this what Bill had done to Ford? The thought of it boils his blood because his brother is an ass but no one messed with the Pines family, not if Stan had a say in it.

Stan shoves past the pain in his leg to stand; he wants to pull the needle out but he doesn’t know how deep in it went, there’s a good chance it’s staunching the blood loss. He reminds himself that he’s had worse, reminds himself of the trunk, and convinces himself that this is no big deal. Time traveling niece and nephew apparently possessed by a conman demon. Alright. Stan can deal with this.

“Hey, uh, Bill, right?” he gives his best show grin, shoving all the anxiety and fear and general ‘what the fuck is my life right now’ to the back of his mind. There will be time for that later, there’s always time for everything later. “While I agree that my brother can be a dumbass, why don’t we put the knitting needle down?”

This time it’s Dipper that speaks while Mabel moves the needle to his throat. “AND THEN THERE’S THIS DOOFUS. LISTEN HERE, STANIEL, YOU WANT NO PART OF THIS. ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO IS MAKE THINGS EVEN WORSE FOR EVERYONE, BUT HEY, WHAT’S NEW THERE?” Mabel twirls the needle between her fingers in a way that makes Stan think of when Ford and him would play board games as kids.

Stan’s jaw aches as he forces his grin to remain in place. He just needs time to think, just needs time. “Hey, you don’t know me.”

“OHOHO, I KNOW YOU MORE THAN YOU THINK. GIVE ME THIRTY YEARS AND I’LL KNOW YOU BETTER THAN YOU KNOW YOURSELF.” The twins wink their yellow eyes together. Did that count as a wink or a blink? The look back over to Ford again, “YOU STILL WITH US, SIXER? I’M SURE YOU’RE DYING TO TELL YOUR BROTHER TO GET LOST TOO. GET IN ON THIS!”

“Trust no one.” The look in Ford’s eyes is wild and he’s raising the crossbow again with no hesitation.

Stan swears and sticks a hand out towards his stupid idiot of a genius brother, “Shit, Ford, stop!”

----------

He’s not sure what he expected Stan to look like, if he ever saw his twin again. Sure, he expected the resemblance, identical twins and all, but…Stanley had always been the larger of the two of them. More muscle, more girth, more personality. Alpha Twin since the summer that he gained a fraction of an inch on Ford. Quick to make a fist or a joke, Stanley was larger than life, larger than their dead-end Glass Shard Beach, larger than a foolish dream to sail the world.

He didn’t seem so large climbing out of his run down old car, shoulders hunched as he moved to open the door. His clothes were filthy beneath a new looking jacket; his hair was long and probably as greasy as Ford’s had been that morning. He was still making jokes, though, which infuriated Ford beyond the surreal feeling of seeing him in the flesh. How could he be taking the situation so well? How long had he had the girl? Surely not the same amount of time Dipper had been with Ford; he refused to believe Stan could have accessed the situation and made his way here in such a short time.

He was so focused on puzzling out what to do with his own twin, he’d almost completely forgotten about the two kids that were rolling around in the snow. Hadn’t seen the flash of the needle, the glint of yellow eyes, with enough time to warn Stanley.

His brother certainly didn’t seem so large on the ground.

It shouldn’t be possible: he’d performed the ritual! Sure, there was traces of Bill but the boy said he’d been possessed once before so—but how was Bill possessing both children? Even Bill had his limits. He couldn’t possess without an agreement, and surely he couldn’t possess more than one person at a time. Bill was powerful, insane and conniving, but even he had limits and rules. It didn’t make sense! It was a trick! Another trick!

“SEE, THAT’S THE PROBLEM WITH YOU, FORDSY. YOU SEE WHAT YOU WANNA SEE!”

Was that the trick? He wanted to believe Dipper was his family? Someone so eager to help him; that respected his work on top of a mystery he could drown in. Could Bill have fooled his tests? He’d left the boy alone in his house for hours, what could he have done? Had he seen the portal? No, no, Ford would’ve noticed him going to the basement. Right? This was a trick, another trick. Bill had gotten Fiddleford back in his house and now Stanley here. It was a trick, to force Ford to do what he wanted.

They weren’t real. The kids weren’t real. They were part of the trick. It wasn’t real. None of this was real, it was a distraction, a trick. Stanley is talking with Bill because he doesn’t see, he’s being tricked too. His brother was stabbed and is talking to Bill and Ford has to stop it.

“YOU STILL WITH US, SIXER? I’M SURE YOU’RE DYING TO TELL YOUR BROTHER TO GET LOST TOO. GET IN ON THIS!”

Trust no one.

He levels the crossbow at the boy and pulls the trigger.

The bolt goes wide as he’s tackled from behind to face plant in the snow. He glares over his shoulder at Fiddleford who is currently trying to grab Ford’s wrists. Ford pulls away, stretching to try to grab the crossbow. “Damn it, get off, Fiddleford! You don’t understand! They’re not real! It’s a trick! I can’t let him get in!”

“Calm down, Stanford!” Fiddleford is a weedy man but, Ford remembers vaguely, spent his childhood wrestling hogs on his family’s farm, and puts up more of a fight than you’d expect. “I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re just children!” a knee digs into his back, Fiddleford’s hands pressing down hard on his shoulders.

“HAHA! YES! FIGHT FIGHT! BATTLE OF THE—HEY, BACK OFF, I’LL—HEY!” there’s an echoing scream followed by a sickening sound.

Ford gets his palms flat on the ground and tries to buck off Fiddleford. He has to stop Bill; he can’t let him hurt anyone else. This is all his fault. Stanley’s hurt and Bill is right there. He gets enough leverage to roll them, slamming his elbow against his former friend’s jaw in the process. He pins Fiddleford with a hand to the chest while he reaches for the crossbow and tries to avoid a punch aimed at his face.

“Hey, can you pause Nerd Death Match for a sec?” Ford looks up at the question; Stan has a limp child under each arm, leaning to put his weight on his uninjured leg. Both kids are covered in snow. Ford spots the glinting silver of the remaining knitting needle on the ground next to a pile of…oh, disgusting. There’s another puddle of sick not too far from the first. Stan is breathing heavy; oh that’s a lot of red staining his jeans and the snow. “They puked and passed out as soon as I pulled them apart. So that’s a thing. Big nose, help me get them inside? Or Ford, if you’re done trying to shoot our niece and nephew.”

Ford scowls as Fiddleford starts shoving at him, climbing off him. He brushes the snow off his front. “Stanley, you don’t understand the situation! They aren’t—”

“Yes they are, shut up. You can explain everything once we have them inside and I’ve had a chance to take care of my leg. I have a ton of questions about this Bill guy.” Stan’s tone is stern and exhausted. Ford notices for the first time the bags under his brother’s eyes. “Now will one of you please come and take one of these kids? I just drove sixteen hours straight and have been stabbed and they’re heavier than they look.”

Fiddleford moves around him to take the girl—Mabel?— from Stan, cradling her to his chest. Ford sees a trickle of red coming from her right eye and down her cheek. He sees the same on Dipper’s left cheek when Stan limps past him. Oh, right, his leg. Ford hurries on his heels into his house. “Stanley—”

“Shit, Ford, you live here?” Stan scoffs and Ford feels personally offended, as if Stan has any room to judge Ford’s living conditions wearing clothes that filthy. Stan turns and pushes Dipper’s limp form into Ford’s arms; Ford nearly drops him at the sudden weight. “Hold him for one second.” Then he’s behind the couch and kneeling.

A strangled noise escapes Ford when Stan lifts the back of the couch, dumping all the books onto the floor. He’s not entirely sure what books were on that couch but some could’ve been important. “Stanley, honestly, there’s no need—” Stan takes Dipper back; is Ford going to be able to get a full thought out at any point?

Stan and Fiddleford place the kids at opposite ends of the coach. Ford groans out a sigh before moving to grab his penlight from his study. When he comes back, Stan is seated on the coffee table and taking a small pocket knife to his jeans around the needle. He slits from the puncture down to the bottom of his pants then proceeds to roll the fabric up. The bleeding seems to have slowed a considerable amount and from what Ford can tell, the needle was in enough to stick back not too deep. His sock and shoe are soaked in blood.

He checks Dipper first, pulling both eyes open and shining his penlight in them. The pupils react normally and both are the usual brown if not bloodshot, though the sclera of the left is filled with blood from a burst vessel. He’s got smeared blood under his eye that Ford can’t help but wipe away with his sleeve. Mabel is much the same, only it’s her right eye that’s red and bloody. Both of their breathing is heavy but regular, same as their pulses. Ford thinks about what Stan said, about them collapsing when they’d been separated, and looks for something to use as a separator for them.

“Uhh, Stanley, was it? Are you sure about that?” Fiddleford speaks behind him and he turns to see Stan holding the flame of a lighter up to the blade of his pocket knife.

Ford blanches; Stanley cannot be serious! “Stanley, there’s a hospital in town, we can just—”

“Nah.” He interrupts him again; Ford is going to strangle him. “Hospitals are bills and, more importantly, questions. This is fine.” The blade is black by the time he sets the lighter down. Ford himself winces when Stan grabs the needle. Then, in a single fluid motion, the needle is out and the blade it against the small puncture wound, Stan echoing the hiss it makes against his skin. The smell of burning meat hits Ford’s nose and he nearly gets sick.

Fiddleford goes white and slumps to the floor. He pulls his knees up to his chest and holds his head in his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t a’come here. Two hours and already so much I want to forget…eyes, eyes watching…” he dissolves into mumbles, though Ford thinks he hears “beast with just one eye” mixed in there.

Ford clears his throat, eyes locked on where Stan is burning himself. The skin is an angry red when Stan pulls away the knife, a sealed but puffed out circle in the middle. It disturbs him that Stan even knows how to do that. “Uh…” he swallows, “Fiddleford, maybe you could, um, get my brother some bandages from my bathroom?”

“What? Oh. R-right.” Fiddleford nods and looks grateful for the excuse to get out of the room for a minute. “I’ll, uh, be right back. W-with bandages.”

He stares at Stan who is purposely not looking at him, staring instead at the children. Unable to find a suitable separator, Ford just sits himself on the middle cushion between then. That gets Stan to look at him briefly before putting his focus on Dipper. Ford’s not sure what to say at this point. He’d planned how to ask Stan to take the journal away but not how to tell him anything else. He’d never planned on Stan finding out about Bill; never planned on Stan finding out about anything. Bill was supposed to be his burden to bear alone. His sin to atone for. But now his brother did know, and Fiddleford, and the kids if they were in fact real. Which, now that he was given a chance to calm down from the mania, he was coming back around to the idea of. If not, he had a knife in his boot and a gun tucked under the cushion he was sitting on for emergencies, and Stan apparently had a knife too.

“So, uh. This Bill guy.” Stan is the first to speak, it turns out. He’s rubbing at the skin above his wound. “That’s what that was, right? Cause I understand very little about what’s going on but yesterday that kid appeared in my car and told me she was from the future and you were in danger from a guy named Bill.”

Ford fidgets, tapping his thumb to each of his fingers. “She told you about him?” he looks over at the girl; she’s shifted onto her side and curled up, one foot stuck out until it’s nearly touching Ford’s thigh. Her face is starting to return to a more normal color now that she’s out of the cold but she’s still shivering. “It’s…very complicated, Stanley. I’ve made a lot of mistakes and apparently you’ve been dragged into them.”

Stan reaches a hand out and, for a second, Ford thinks he’s going to squeeze his arm or something like that. But no, he touches Dipper’s forehead instead, pushing the boy’s hair out of his face. Ford’s not sure why he’s disappointed; he’s still very angry with his twin and if he’d had a choice Stan wouldn’t even be here. “Well, we better figure out how to clean up your damn mess, Stanford, before you get these kids killed.”

lsdlocke����b

#this is also on ao3 if anyone prefers to read it there #gravity falls #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanley pines #stanford pines #kainichivonwrites #kainichivonarts #journey to the roots

[dunmerofskyrim]

12

There are places in Old Ebonheart where the dead walk. At the time I didn’t know why. Nor did I question it.

In Bodram I’d seen weeds and stunted shrubs and loose masonry, and a disarrayed abandon of bones, and the bloodied bodies of the new-made dead, all made to move by ghosts. I’d seen corpses pull and claw and beat at the living til they were corpses too. I’d seen a starveling tree grow roots through a mer from below and crush the life from them with its branches. And I didn’t question it. Not out loud.

To find Old Ebonheart plagued with undead seemed no great surprise after that.

But first came the city’s outskirts. Lumberyards gone to worm-feasts, dank breeding fields for bruise-coloured fungi, banquets for foraging scribs. Saltrice terraces swallowed by silt. The lodges and huts of fishermer, collapsed now, their foundations gnawed through by rot.

Walking once, my half-ruined boots uncovered a glinting rigid something in the sucking mud. It was a Velothi windchime, hollowed from polished bone and preserved in the bog. I picked it up, blacking my already dirt-blacked hands. A long tether of braided twine spooled up from the ground dragging chime after chime from where they’d been hid. But decay and the sudden violence of my curiosity snapped the line. I gathered three of the chimes in a net bag, reckoning to wash them and polish them again.

“It wasn’t just Nords came to trade here, then,” I said to Tammunei as we carried on. “Velothi too, from off the plains. Leatherwares and bonecrafts. Nix and shalk shells..? Wasn’t aware the Vereansu were known for their crafts.”

Tammunei gestured for my attention. I followed their hand as they pointed to one of the Vereansu among us. A warrior, head shaved but for a long grey braid that hung from the back of his scalp. They led a saddle-guar, slow and careful by the reins through these fenlands, too cautious to ride.

“Herds?” I asked. “Guar and horses?”

Tammunei nodded.

But I looked at the warrior’s bow, unstrung and wrapped in resined soft-leather, against the damage of the damp.  The long-hafted axe at their belt, headed like a dagger on one side, like a hammer on the other. “Mercenaries too?”

Tammunei tilted their head, gave a small uncertain shift with their mouth, then nodded. A ‘sometimes yes.’ A ‘maybe yes.’

With time the land rose. As we dragged ourselves from the marsh, so did the lay of things, and the city-ruin itself.

We passed through a sunken mess of slums. Sagging once-huts of mud-brick with roofs long gone, opening their insides to the elements, like Nordic barrow-pits. There in the gutter-faced remains of the city’s poorest parts, something lingered on the air. Not a scent, nor quite a sound, but the sense that something was speaking, but couldn’t quite be heard. I wondered if this was how it began for Tammunei, hearing the voices of the dead? But it faded and didn’t come back. And in terraces shored up with stone, tier by tier, we clambered in switchback progress up into the long ridge of headland that crowned Old Ebonheart’s mainland half.

That was the best part of a day and the beginning, after, of its evening. Cold shade in the morning, as the east-rising steps of this east-rising city hid us from the sun, and the sun from us. Cold sunshine the colour of tin at noon, tricking our brows into beading with sweat.

Often the old paths were blocked. The upsloping streets were choked with refuse and rubble. We found unorthodox ways over wreckage and terrace-walls, and made our progress something more like the climbing of a mountainside than the navigation of a city. Our path began to wind through alleyways, up the tumbledown flanks of fallen homes, and then through the rooms of homes themselves, preserved somehow like grotto-caves, all but buried in all this destruction.

Tammunei was first to see the dead. Of course, of course, it was Tammunei. Stealing through a half-collapsed badger-set of rooms where families once had slept, we saw one that still remained.

A mother and child they’d been once, but death and time had diminished them. In the lightless one-room pit of what had been her home, she paced a figure-eight, holding a bundle of rags in her arms, and the creak and grind of her bones and tendons was all she sang as a lullaby. A faded age-thinned yellow dress hung from her. What flesh she’d worn had turned to leather, parched like the skin of a last-year’s apple, kept since in the dark and the dry. I might have expected skeletons – clattering bones and bleached hard lines – but this was worse. A person whose soul was too shocked or too stubborn to leave their body or quite let it rot.

We waited, watching, horrified-silent. But it seemed that we were as dead to her as she was dead to us. Trapped in our separate worlds, though we shared a space. She only carried on pacing, rocking her bundle of rags.

Tammunei urged us onward with gestures of their hands.

“And you?” I mouthed and motioned, silent by instinct, so as not to disturb this room.

“I’ll stay,” Tammunei’s lips shaped back. “If there’s something I can do…”

“Then I’ll stay with you.”

But Tammunei shook their head, firm, hair fretting free and into their face. “Alone. Please.”

I frowned, face shifting uneasy, then nodded. “You won’t be long?”

A shrug. “Perhaps.”

I never knew how much or how little they needed me, then. My protection or help. Mine was the violence that shielded them from violence. Perhaps I was little else besides. This wasn’t a situation to be solved with violence, or well-placed words, but that didn’t mean it was safe. Still I turned away, dour as pulling teeth, and led our long line onward.

That night we camped in the upper-city, in the dusty tile-strewn square of a tier-roofed townhouse. The shattered shell of a dome lay in the wide weed-choked boulevard outside — scraps of painted bronze and shards of painted purple. I huddled under a colonnade that leant now like a drunkard against an outer wall.

It was there that Tammunei found us again, and their presence came over us like a broken curse. Purpose and guidance in sight again.

There was a sweet scent in the air. The splintered pillars of the fallen veranda were of fragrant mauve-brown wood. Slow down the decades they had been bleeding all the while, like cracked bottles of perfume. A dark and oozing aroma, amber-coloured in my mind, and heady to breathe for too long.

A chill came down with the sunset, and deepened as night drew on. The walls around us blocked the worst of the wind and saved us from its keen cold teeth. Still we heard it, moaning round the severed trunks of fallen towers, adding salt sea to the courtyard’s scent.

We cooked what was left of our hunters’ meat over stones I called fire to heat. Kagouti is stew meat, unfit to roast save for two exceptions: when roasted a whole day and basted constantly, or when only the cheeks are eaten, for where those hard tusks grow the tenderest meat’s to be found. We had it roasted all the same. We had weathered worse things than chewing tough meat. Or meat burnt almost black…

I asked Tammunei what they had done below. Had they been able to help?

“I listened to her sing,” they mouthed to me. “Heard her. Said her child was sleeping. And she slept sound after that.”

Strange. Tammunei always spoke of the uncanny as if it were the most natural thing. As if anyone could do the same, and anyone in their right heart would.

After, we huddled round the stones, starving and greedy for what remained of their warmth. In bedrolls and bundles of clothing and rags, and in heapings of travel-tired limbs, we stockpiled the heat of our bodies.

This had all turned to habit by then. Every night, and every night, as the nights themselves grew colder. And every night that passed that way, I spent trying not to breathe, thinking of nothing but sleep. Useless — like praying so hard for a thing that you never get up off your knees to go out and get it.

That night, Tammunei’s shape furled over me. Some bone-rigid part nestled into me. Chin to chest, jaw to shoulder; a tangle of knees and elbows. Warmth worked between us, trapped in the folds of our clothes. I thought about breathing. Counted every conscious twitch of  my lungs.

Touch had never come easy to me. Ever a kind of invasion at worst, and at best it stuck like a burr in my mind so I could think of nothing else — like I’m bound up too tight in the skin that’s doing the feeling. And there was always guilt in that too.

With Tammunei it had stopped feeling like an affront, an assault. Hard to say when the change had come, or if it had always been there. But with them I suffered touch without suffering. And at the time that felt so precious it scared me. So sweet that to sleep through it would be a waste, some part of me almost felt. So it had felt for weeks maybe, and I’d gone the whole while without rest.

Our bodies were tangled. I felt their shivers through me, as if they were my own.

“You’re shivering,” I said, soft and stupid, unheard in the dark. But I was used to telling Tammunei what they felt. Telling the truths their nerves wouldn’t report. By now, that too was habit.

How could they be cold, I wondered? How, while my skin prickled so hot? While my breath and my blood both came so fevered?

The coarse grind of clothes on clothes. A sound like knots tied in rope, made fast, making mooring, tightening round me. Everything came world-resounding loud when the cold and the city-ruin had made everything else so silent. The closeness of it all trapped me, bound up in all this sharing. The terror of it and hunger of it, febrid-hot in my hungry hands, and tugging tight in my coward heart.

In my belly I felt the moment uncurl. A blossoming brute desire. I laid a hand on Tammunei’s hip. A question, but they had no voice to answer. In the silence, I hated that I’d asked at all.

The cold of the morning made that night feel distant as a dream. That was a mercy, but not a reprieve.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Tammunei Ereshkigal