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softpascalito · 6 months

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Pedro Pascal Kinktober Day Nineteen

Brushing Teeth - Joel Miller/F!Reader

Summary: Grief is cruel and just because you and Joel live in the safe haven that is the Jackson community it does not mean you're immune to it.

Possibly the saddest (but also kinda best) thing I have written so far.

Relationships: Joel Miller x F!Reader

WC: 2400

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Established Relationship, jackson era, No use of y/n, Crying, past trauma, Survivor Guilt, Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Tooth Brushing, This is like seriously sad pls beware, Author has already scheduled a therapist appointment

AO3 LINK

notes: a huge thank you to my beta babes maria and aura for reading this a month in advance. i love you both so much.

this is a really, really sad fic. it's likely not gonna go the way you think. please continue with caution <3

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Circles

He died just after sunrise.

It had been supposed to be a simple shift, guarding the perimeter from one of the high posts along the fence that stretched around Jackson. The wood had been icy, slippery. There had been a railing. But when his heart had failed and he had collapsed to the ground, slipping over it like an ice rink, it hadn't been able to stop his body from falling.

There was nothing that could have been done. He had been old, older than most. Even with modern medicine, his condition would have caught up to him sooner or later.

Fate had decided on sooner.

Word hadn't reached Joel before he had left for patrol and so he had spent the day clearing Infected and checking the lookouts, unaware of the tragedy that had, for once, struck within the very borders of home. It wasn't until he came back in the early evening, that he noticed something was off.

There were no children bustling around on the playground, no adults studying the notice boards to see which movie was on tonight or who offered guitar lessons. Curtains were drawn shut. It was quiet.

The somber look on Tommy's face, who was waiting for Joel at the stables, was enough to send him into a panic.

Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?

Tommy must have seen it coming because he had already raised his hands, as if surrendering to his brother, ”They're both fine.” Joel nodded solemnly as Tommy explained, repeating the events of the day in a few words.

He could live with that. As long as it wasn 't Ellie. Or you. Never you.

Ellie had spent the day with you, trying to look after you, doing the best she could. She was waiting in the large armchair in the living room, as close to the front door as she physically could.

Joel practically barges in, his gaze quickly checking the adjacent rooms. When he sees Ellie, he immediately relaxes a bit, knowing that at least someone has been here. Someone who kept watch.

“How is she?” He asks, disregarding any need for a greeting towards the teenager. She doesn't seem to mind, instead hopping up from the seat and walking with him, the pair quickly moving through the hallway.

“I gave her some food. I don't think she ate any of it. She wouldn't talk to me either. I'm sorry, Joel, I-'' He quickly shakes his head. He'll take care of Ellie, reassure her that she did a good job, which he undoubtedly knows she did. But Ellie is not the person in this house who needs him the most right now. Ellie is not the person who lost someone today.

“Later, okay?” Joel demands softly. His voice carries an underlying, stern tone that he rarely uses anymore. In other circumstances, Ellie would get mad at him, but she understands. He is in survival mode. He is making sure the people he loves are still there. He is scared.

Joel remembers your form that he had left behind this morning. Still in bed, sleepy, only reluctantly pressing a small kiss to his lips, the sweet promise of a few more minutes of sleep too tempting to ignore. He remembers the night before, the bubbly, talkative personality you usually have, that is a just little too much for him sometimes.

Your world had changed in just a few hours, a few minutes. And he hadn't been here.

Why had he not been here?

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks hesitantly and only then Joel realizes that he's stopped in the middle of the hallway. He continues his steps.

“Why wouldn't I be?” Ellie gives a shrug next to him but Joel barely notices, still too caught up in his thoughts.

He needs to see you. See that you are fine, just like Tommy had promised. Not truly fine, maybe, but alive. Breathing.

As they reach the old, wooden staircase, Ellie stops, taking in Joels gaze, that to her, still seems miles away, ”She wouldn't leave the bed. I barely recognized her.”

Joel just nods, his worry growing with every word. His grip on the banister tightens slightly, knuckles turning white.

“Go see her,” Ellie whispers and gently nudges him.

“Right.” That finally gets Joel to move again, his voice a little higher than usual and trembling slightly. Ellie knows he is close to crying. She presses her fist into his back a little harder and he nods again before he hurries up the stairs two steps at a time.

It's not until he reaches the end of the landing, until he is two steps away from the bedroom door that he slows down. Once again, uncertainty takes over his body. What does he say? Do? He's not equipped to handle this, he's not good with emotions, much less sad ones.

He's not sure what happens. An instinct takes over, steering his body steadily towards the door and pulling his fingers towards the brass handle. Maybe it's some old, parental instinct from before the outbreak, that he still carries buried in the back of his mind. Either way, he sends a silent, thankful prayer that it's there, that it allows him to continue putting one foot in front of the other despite having no idea how to.

The wooden door creaks slightly as he pushes it open. It's a familiar sound, more comforting than unnerving.

Joel is greeted by cold and darkness. He shivers as he steps into the room:'' Jesus Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He doesn't have to wait until his eyes adjust to the light. He can find his way in the darkness.

He quickly turns the radiator higher, another familiar noise flaring up. Familiar is good. Familiar is safe.

He doesn't want to turn on the big light but he finds the switch for the small lamp in the corner and finally, he can take in the scene before him. His gaze is immediately caught by the bed in the middle of the room.

Whenever he goes out on patrol and you get the bed to yourself, you make use of his absence by occupying the entire bed, sprawling yourself out in the middle of the worn-out mattress. More than once, he had to physically fight you if he wanted his side of the bed back.

Now, however, you aren't in your usual position. You are curled up, tucked into the far corner of the bed, blankets and pillows wrapped around what Joel can only assume to be your body, some of them resting against the headboard.

It almost looks like you are trying to protect yourself, shield yourself from the grief that is knocking on the door downstairs, that is coming the same way he just has, slipping into the dark, cold room. A nest, to fend off the grief. Joel knows it wont work. He has tried.

A few of your limbs poke out from holes in the fortress of pillows and blankets and Joel softens slightly as his gaze wanders over them. He suddenly wants to run again, but he is afraid it'll startle you so instead, he approaches slowly, softly, like one may approach a wounded animal.

The bed dips slightly beside you as he sits down, his strong arms immediately wandering under the covers, searching for you. He finds the fabric of a shirt first, and then there's skin. Soft, gentle skin and he wants to cry with the familiarity of it. Looking down, he isn't surprised to see the shirt he had discarded last night, his favorite green flannel, now wrapped around your trembling body.

The thoughts come back. A small body, wrapped in a flannel shirt. He has seen it often enough to fill several lifetimes. He doesn't mind it anymore.

He knows it's a lie. He does mind it.

They had wrapped Sarah in flannel.

He can still see her. Still see the shirt, stained with blood. There had been so much blood.

Joel thinks about his daughter, his everything, his whole world, taken from him, wrapped in a shirt and buried in a backyard under a tree somewhere in Texas.

Joel knows he can't have these thoughts right now. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs until they feel like they're bursting. He pushes the thoughts away. Later.

His right arm finds your hair and you finally make a noise, whimpering softly at finally, finally having him here with you.

The blanket is gently pulled to the side, allowing Joel to see your face. Your hair is messy, your cheeks tear-streaked, eyes red and puffy from crying. You look like you have just been through hell.

Joel reminds himself you probably have.

His insides clench as he pushes down his own tears. And then you open your mouth.

“It was supposed to be my shift.”

That's all it takes. He hates himself because he's supposed to be there for you, he's supposed to be strong. But the fear is stronger, the knowledge that he could've lost you today gripping him again and not letting him breathe.

He leans forward in an attempt to hide his tears, his face, his own sorrow and you break too, shamelessly sobbing into his chest. You stay entangled like this, bodies pressed tightly together, you crying loudly and him crying silently. It feels like a long time. Your voice becomes hoarse but the sobs wont stop. You're not sure they ever will.

Joel moves, eventually, kneeling down on the floor so that his face is level with yours and he can study your face. His hands remain on your skin, not once breaking contact. He rubs small circles into your skin, caressing every part of you he can reach.

Nothing can touch you as long as he does.

“Gonna help you a bit. That alright, darlin'?” He mumbles softly. Your answer comes automatically, the same one you've given Ellie throughout the day, ''I'm not hungry.”

“I know you ain't,” Joel mumbles. He lets it slide:” But we should clean you up. Just a bit.” He promises as he leans forward and kisses your cheek. You don't struggle as he picks you up more carefully than ever, hoisting you onto his hips and wrapping his arms around your legs to keep you upright against his chest. It's almost like being carried by a father.

Joel takes you into the bathroom, sitting you down on the counter. There is a bald patch on the wall where a mirror used to be until he gave it to Ellie. He always gives.

Patiently, he waits until the water is lukewarm and then begins wiping your face with a washcloth. You probably smell but you can't bring yourself to care and neither does Joel.

He moves on to your hair, untying the knot that once resembled some sort of hairstyle and brushing through it with his fingers for a moment before tying it back again. His movements are so gentle, so smooth. You watch as he grabs your toothbrush, gently wetting it and putting some toothpaste on, his left hand all the while remaining on your thigh.

Joel gently nudges the toothbrush against your mouth and you dutifully open up, allowing him to start brushing your teeth, still as gentle as he can.

He can feel the sadness again, threatening to overwhelm him. He brushes in small circles.

The last time he had done this was with Sarah. She was eight. She had been sick then, caught a stomach bug at soccer camp and thrown up for days. Joel had dragged his mattress to her room, sleeping beside her.

He moves on to the other side of your mouth. More circles.

Sarah had vomited on him, in the middle of the night, staining both the carpet and his pants. He hadn't batted an eye, just stripped the beds and taken her to the bathroom to clean her up. All he had needed was for her to feel better. And if him enduring it would lessen her suffering, he would have chosen it time and time again.

He doesn't say this. He thinks he may, some day. But not anytime soon.

Circles. Joel brushes in circles.

When he's done, he holds a cup to your lips and you lean sideward, spitting into the sink. He is still caressing your thigh, a constant, reassuring touch. He brings his other hand up to your face, using his thumb to wipe the last bit of toothpaste off the corner of your mouth.

“Let's get back to bed, hm?” You don't trust your voice again yet so you just nod and sniffle a bit. As he picks you up again, you feel another wave, a nauseous wave of grief coming down on you. You think he feels it too because he grips you a little tighter. You start crying again.

You return to the mess of pillows and blankets that still cover half the bed. But now he is there with you. His too large frame under the covers next to you, watching with sad, brown eyes as you curl up against him. He pats your hair, leans down and gently presses a kiss to your forehead. It has been ages.

The small streak of light that falls through a hole in the blankets reflects in his broken watch for a split moment. He looks down at it, the motion so familiar still. And he knows. He knows how you feel.

“Get some rest, babygirl,” he whispers. He'll do right by you. He won't let you go through the things he did. You close your eyes, taking in his smell, his warmth. It feels different now.

It could've been her. It could've been her. Thank god it wasn't her.

You're still in his arms, you're still here, still breathing, chest falling and rising in a semi-steady rhythm. He makes the choice in that moment. Or, he realizes it. He feels like he has made it a long time ago.

He will endure it. He will endure everything if it just takes away a little of your grief, of your pain.

He doesn't need to say it. It's an unspoken truth.

Joel Miller will be there.

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jayhashands · 6 months

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'talk to me' hurt very bad

gotta figure it out somehow

so have this comic

#talk to me #fanart #theodicy #survivors guilt #talk to me movie #talk to me 2023

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postmortemnivis · 9 days

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the ghosts of the past were the only thing that truly scared the ghost, the man who if someone'd seen him walking towards them from across the street at night, they would've started calling the first helpline number available and saying their prayers, even if they weren't believers .

in truth, ghost wasn't a troubled man, he barely was what was left of one, simon.

ghost wasn't a troubled man, but he was all that was left of one. every time the thick balaclava slipped on simons face, he'd turn off the few emotions that were still left in his body, mind running on autopilot as he coldly shut off his scarred heart. simon needed that, both a relief and a way to turn everything off, he needed to know it wasnt him killing people. it made his heart rest better to know it was ghost, not simon.

simon, who'd gone through hell and back, watching his friends, honourable soldiers, fall by the hand of a simple yet fatal mistake.

simon, whose family was slaughtered and he felt so helpless and unworthy, because why join the military and train to fight when he couldn't even protect his three years old nephew?

feeling so low he could barely keep his brown eyes open, he didn't think he was a man who deserved to live. why, when nobody was there to live with him? sure, johnny and kyle could try to cheer him up and distract him as much as they wanted, but they couldn't follow simon to his flat by the railways, in front of the man united stadium. price regularly called him: every other day to check up on him, ask him if he fancied a pint. simon rarely said yes, but he was grateful price didn't forget about him the moment they left base, it made him feel like he was, after all, someone. more than once even kyle booked a cheap hotel room near simon's place so he could spend time with him. forcing him to go outside and meet up with him and price. sometimes even johnny could make it, hopping on the first train from glasgow to see his lieutenant.

simon studied the pub. ironically, kyle always decided to drag him to the pub where simon spent his late teens with his mates from the time. that was, of course, before simon turned eighteen, and without speaking a word to anyone, left to join the military a week after his birthday. when he'd first come back, almost a year later, all his friends had either moved out of manchester or thought he'd moved out too, cutting off contacts. it was a shock for the few ones left to see his dog tags underneath his shirt when he first showed up again.

it was meaningless.

he was meaningless. flesh on bone, a heart pumping his veins full of life without him being able to stop it.

simons complete view of life was of suffocating suffering, a meaningless amount of time he had to spend on this earth for what he used to believe was for a greater good. there was not such a thing, simon was sure of it now, a bottle of beer in his left hand as his right one brought his cigarette to his chapped, pale lips. he looked down the river irwin, the city noise muffled out by the quiet and calm chatter of people walking past him. he felt almost envious. they had someone to talk to.

but he'd never been the loquacious type either, tommy always did the talking, simon usually dragging both of their arses out of the messes tommy brought them in. that's how it worked, their dynamic. his brother talked, too much sometimes, even for him, and he made sure nothing happened, as easy as that. simon was the one who stepped in when things got bad, in any situation: outside of the pub with a drunk man that tommy'd pissed off with his witty remarks, older boys at school when they were children, or at home, with their father. needless to say, simon got the most of the beatings, scars adorning the skin of his back even before stepping on the field. the cigarette burns on his arms and legs itched every time he'd think too much about it.

ever since finding his brothers corpse on the stairs of his own home, front door unlocked, his wife and son dead on the master bedroom's bed, he'd been craving what it felt like to love someone again. he craved loving someone, craved the feeling of something so strong it would change every fiber of his being, that would alter the chemistry of his brain. it was almost visceral, the need he had to satisfy. he despised everything good there was in life, anything that should bring happiness bothered him, but he was still a human being, and being human meant longing for someone else, another half.

throwing the cigarette butt in the river, he turned around, not ready to be home in less than fifteen minutes. the feeling of getting swallowed in the darkness and silence of his own home made him almost paranoid, he was driving himself crazy. simon would have chosen to throw himself in the river if given the choice to pick between that and going home, but the early rays of the dawn started blinding him, and the shadows under his eyes were becoming darker by the second. maybe he'd take a longer route.

simons restless nights became quickly part of his life, following him everywhere around the globe during the years. he found in the lack of sleep a way to control his life, he desperately needed control. when all was to shambles, control was all he needed. sleep, exercise, food, sex, attitude and performance were things he could control, and the less he let himself slip into, the more in control his tired body felt.

"five hours of bad sleep every two days won't keep you alive." price'd told him, and simon groaned.

"good then."

"we need you alive, simon."

"ya need a soldier, not me."

"we need you, simon." price insisted, shaking his head. "you're a good man, we need you."

"i'm not a good man."

until his seventh year of mourning, simon never thought he would find peace of mind, but he found it coming along with spring's sweet scented flowers and chilly breezes; you.

#troubled men association #simon riley #simon and ghost are two diff people #survivors guilt #simon ghost riley #give him a hug #postmortemnivis #simon riley x reader #troubled man #give him to me #simon riley x you #hug my man #i live for a man like that

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magnoliasandarson · 1 month

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wax wings- dick grayson

He couldn’t breathe. He was gasping and choking on nothing- struggling desperately to pull air into his lungs. He felt like a weight was collapsing his chest, forcing him to his knees. The cold wood under his knees felt sharp and jagged, it felt like blades were slicing into his skin.

Failure. A burning building- screams and blood.

He crumpled the rest of the way, landing on his ass and pushing back into the wall. He had to have been dosed with something, his fingers felt thick and clumsy as he struggled to pull a blood tester from his utility belt. The needle stabbed into the pad of his thumb- a beep confirming the test was running- another beep giving him the clear.

You could have saved them. The city of Bludhaven- floating away.

There’s no way he wasn’t dosed. The only time Dick had ever felt this way was when he was gassed with Fear Toxin. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears- could feel the armor of the Nightwing suit jamming into his back- he had to have been dosed.

You were supposed to save them. The great Nightwing- watching his city die.

He yanked the domino off his face- he didn’t need it- he was alone. He was always alone.

You failed them. The great Nightwing- powerless and helpless.

Dick pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, his torso heaving as he wheezed. Something was wrong. Everything hurt.

You failed your parents. His daj and dat crashing violently to the ground, hands stretched to reach him.

Acidic tears dripped out of his eyes, burning his face. Everything was wrong. Dick bit into his tongue until hot iron filled his mouth, the blood trickling out of his pursed lips. He needed someone- anyone.

You failed your brothers. A cold headstone- a bloody suit-

His fingers found his panic button on instinct alone, and the cold metal bit into his hand as his fist clenched. No one was coming- he was all alone. He was hunched over on the cold floor, sobbing acid, fighting for oxygen.

Why would anyone want to save you? No one should- he failed everyone.

He wasn’t breathing- he was going to pass out. No one is coming.

He needed to breathe- he needed air. You deserve this.

He needed help- he needed his family. No one is coming.

#dc comics #dc universe #batman #robin #batfam #dick grayson #richard grayson #nightwing #dc robin #robin dc #batfamily #panic attack #survivors guilt #the flying graysons #lets talk about panic attacks

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amnesiamilk · 9 months

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no one talking about how mineru lost her brother ? She didn’t just lose a battle . She was the sole survivor of an army , an army of her friends and family . Her sister in law murdered days prior . The survivors guilt must’ve been insane . Wait I forgot the sages so not sole survivor but still

#mineru totk #mineru #rauru #queen sonia #totk #tears of the kingdom spoilers #tloz tears of the kingdom #tloz #totk spoilers #zonai #survivors guilt #sage of spirit #imprisoning war #the legend of zelda tears of the kingdom #the legend of Zelda tears of the kingdom spoilers

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classycookiexo · 11 months

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My heart goes out to those who dealt with and are currently dealing with survivor’s guilt

#survivors guilt #coping with grief #its gonna be okay

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us-the-voices-and-more-voices-2 · 4 months

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sometimes, life is like the trolley problem.

Your only choices are shitty, there’s no good option and no matter what you do people die.

your in the middle of the hardest decision in your life, and everything except this one thing is out of your control.

a smaller sacrifice or a bigger sacrifice, both are sacrificial both you’ll never recover from.

but, it’s not your fault that it happened. It’s not the track changers fault that a serial killer tied a bunch of people to train tracks, it’s not their fault that there was no cameras to check there was no one on the tracks, it’s not their fault the trolley can’t break fast enough to stop this tragedy.

it’s just. A shitty thing.

we can Ooo and Ahh, at what we would pick. But both options are bad, they will always be both bad that’s the point.

we don’t think how we could stop these things before they happen because, we don’t ever think it will happen.

the trolley makers thought the trolleys breaks were fast enough, the people maintaining the train tracks thought no one would get tied on them so they never put cameras, the police thought they would catch the serial killer before the next victims died.

they all thought “well this situation would NEVER happen”

And so they never prepared for it, and now your switching the tracks.

you ran out to try and save anyone, it’s your job after all. And now you stammer and panic, you see the 6 people on the tracks the police are calling you on the phone and telling you who they are and what happened, the trolley is too fast if you don’t switch the tracks more than the 6 people will die, you have to pick you have to choose.

and you do, you did what you thought was best. And the trolley runs them over, you are wailing.

the police are shocked, the guy manning the trolley is inconsolable, the other track is crying.

it’s just.. shitty, and nothing could have stopped it.

Nothing you could have done.

that’s what I think survivors guilt is.

that’s my answer to the trolley problem.

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starlightshadowsworld · 5 months

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Makoto who thinks Kyoko was right down there in the rubbish pit.

His survival really wasn't that important, was it? He was just a means to an end and once they were free she and the rest wouldn't need him anymore.

His only strength was his optimism, like that was good enough to save anyone.

He still can't go in the bathroom without thinking of Sayaka.

Did she save him out of pity? Or was he just too dumb to see the fear in her eyes.

Could he have changed things of he'd talked to Leo more.

If he'd checked on Chihiro, if he wasn't weak enough to fight his attacker...so many things he'd change but it'd never be enough would it?

Not with his stupid luck.

He thinks of his he had to bury his friends and wants to scream, it makes sense though.

Might as well let them down one last time. The whole world had watched them fall but Makoto had watched it first hand.

The whole world knew he was a failure, how he'd made it out when their beloved idols did not.

A lowly boy who'd got in through sheer dumb luck.

He couldn't even defeat Junko, no matter how much people said he had, it wasn't true.

Makoto had seen it in her eyes, the smile on her face. The face of a victor even in her shallow grave.

He'd keep going, he'd promised afterall but he couldn't help but wonder and keep his true feelings to himself.

Just Makoto who sees his talent is a curse rather than a gift.

Because he survived, and the rest didn't.

#makoto naegi #angst #danganronpa #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #survivors guilt

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randodeadpool · 1 year

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GOTG3 and Survivor's Guilt

OMG

OMFG

I saw GOTG3 and I laughed and cried so much.

I have so much I want to say about this movie. As someone with PTSD, I wasn't triggered - I was drawn in and for once I felt understood. The movie captures: trauma, surviving, loss, violence, abuse, survivors guilt and so much more. It helped me feel things about what happened to me in the past - and not have a flashback or negative, but to think of it and just observe it and identify with rocket thru it. I was able to think that happened to me too - not with pain, fear, anger, but I felt connected to Rocket LIlla Teefs and Floor. I felt connected to my friends and fam that I lost. I understood what Rocket was feeling. I loved when he didn't kill his abuser when he had the chance - I felt connected to when I confronted my abuser/who killed my dad. I didn't want to be like her. I wanted to not become who she was and wanted me to be. I loved that the other guardians supported him when he made this decision, and I felt I wish I'd had that. I liked the reunion he had in the white space.

I love the rest of the movie, but these parts are what really spoke to me, and I recommend it for anyone who wants to see a great adventure with favorite characters - but to also be able to process some of their own trauma and feel better about themselves for surviving, healing and thriving.

#gotg3 #trigger warning - abuse #ptsd #complex ptsd #survivors guilt #rocket racoon and groot #survive #thrive #healing

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heatherolwen · 7 months

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#angst #original poem #survivors guilt #poem #poemblr #poetry #poetryblr #poets corner #poets on tumblr #angst poem #h.p.olwen #original writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing

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beemango5 · 1 year

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Survivor’s Guilt 🪷

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tabibitto · 2 years

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Queen of the Ashes | Dainsleif x Reader

characters: Dainsleif

type: TWO PART SERIES, part 2 here

TW: mentions of death (not the reader), survivors guilt, angst with comfort

Gender: feminine reader

Notes: Dainsleif was assigned queensgaurd to the Queen of Khaenri'ah, sworn to protect her. A deadpan, calm and collected man with a heart of unbreakable stone, one only the Queen managed to snuff out from it's stone walls. After the fall of their great kingdom, both people spend their days in depression and guilt. Wondering what they could have done to save the other, and most of all, their lost and destroyed home.

"I am a queen, Dainsleif. Not a butcher." You'd said as your bare and warm body laid pressed against his, fingers dancing across his bare chest, lips moving slowly and precisely as you spoke.

"All rulers are either butchers or meat."

If only you had been less..kind. Less cowardly and more ruthless how your lover and most trusted protector had told you to be. Perhaps if you listened then, you would not be where you were now.

You sat face up on a bed made of wolf and elk furs, deep inside a cave located in the depths of Dragonspine. Across the ocean from your pride and joy. Your realm which had been built without the help or protection of Gods.

Khaenri'ah

A word that brought bittersweet memories.

500 years ago, an Alchemist better known as Gold had pretty much perfected the Art of Khemia. A form of alchemy that focused on creation of life. And as the Queen of Khaenri'ah. You had been witness to her creations many times.

Perhaps if you had listened to your gut feeling and pressured her more to cease her experiments. Your great-something grandchildren could be sat on the throne your great-something grandparents sat on. Wearing a golden crown, the crown that men trembled to behold.

Instead, you let your fear get the best of you. After all, if she was capable of creating a powerful, undying and synthetic human. A fucking dragon of all things. What could she do to you if you told her to get rid of her creations and change alchemy practices.

She wasn't the only responsible. Many people were at fault for Celestia and the Gods to fucking obliterate an entire civilization. But the invasion her monsters caused and their destruction on the realm of Teyvat played a good part.

You failed in your ruling. You were not strict enough. Didn't carry the balls it takes to execute those in your way. And as a result. You lost everything.

According to Dainsleif. This wasn't your fault alone. Everyone in power played a part in it. The people whom you trusted in your council did things behind your back you could not have fathomed. Your close relatives. Brought horrors to Teyvat and Khaenri'ah alike, terrors you failed to imagine.

"Perhaps lack of imagination was my downfall.." You said that day, drinking in your balcony, gazing at the thundering storm of lighting wind and rock that grew closer and closer. A red flower that brought so much warmth it destroyed all it touched.

You let empty tears fall down your cheeks. Feeling a overwhelming fresh feeling on your cheeks as the bitingly cold wind dried your skin and cut where the tears fell.

You failed. And because of you they were all dead.

You could never forget the screams of those poor mothers are they cradled their dead children. Children whom dressed in armor with spears in their hands. Taller and bigger in size then them, yet in a mother's arms, they looked nothing more then small infants.

The panicked look of a child as he ran from the fire, feet and hands scorched before the flames swallowed his cries for his father.

The blood that spilled out of every soldier as they screamed their throat raw in the old tongue.

"Run"

The way it wavered and shook in fear and grief. As mere mortals could do nothing against the wrath of divine beings.

You hated them. You hated yourself.

They destroyed your people and you played your role in making it happen.

Upon all the horrors that replayed in your head every night when you could no longer fight sleep, the one you never forgot. Was that look on his face.

Pure fear and sadness. Not for himself, he never cared about himself like you loved him. It was pure grief, over the fact that he failed to protect you. His queen.

The longing gaze Dainsleif gave you as you both, bloodied and dirty with dust, hidden underneath the small shelter the ruins of your palace provided as you could hear the crackling of fire and faraway screams and cries. The sound that filled the air around you, nauseatingly began to quiet down and became faint.

He stared at you as tears poured down both your cheeks. There was no saving for anyone. This was it.

Two people who failed in their duty, staring at each other as they laid in each other's arms, gripping their torn clothes like it was the last time they would feel each other's warmth.

and it was.

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