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paleblood-skyler · 6 years

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Understanding Bloodborne, Option A: Moon Presence is Oedon.

During my exhaustive observation of Bloodborne’s fantastic community (seriously, the friendliest and cleverest I’ve ever seen), a surprisingly limited amount of Big Picture theories and variations have ever come to my attention. They often work off of the ideas or assumptions presented by the more prominent “lorehunters,” and subsequently become rather homogeneous. Now I’d like to explore for myself what seem to be the most important ideas from which all others might branch. In an attempt to cover the most ground with the simplest conclusions, I’ll be using the identity of the Moon Presence to explore two major trains of thought, starting with the one that is bafflingly entertained the least (due to a single adjective that, with Kos as my witness, I will work around).

Note: The Old Hunters will temporarily be considered “optional content” for these Oedon-centric theories. The Hunter’s Nightmare elucidates a LOT of Truth of course, but I’ll be reserving it for future theory extensions which I’m greatly looking forward to.

So, Option A. The Moon Presence is Oedon. This was the conclusion I naturally came to back in 2015, before exposure to the online community. Option A has a lot of what I think is really compelling evidence, but keep in mind that each train of thought will reveal very different themes and takeaways for the overall story. You may prefer one theory over another not due to facts but because of what you feel the story is about. Regardless, here’s the reasoning and consequences for Option A.

“Human or no, the oozing blood is a medium of the highest grade, and the essence of the formless Great One, Oedon. Both Oedon, and Oedon’s inadvertent worshippers, surreptitiously seek the precious blood.” - Oedon Writhe Rune

Alright, let’s tackle the big question first. If Oedon is consistently referred to as the Formless Great One, how could he possibly be the moon-dwelling physical thing we brutalize with a [brutal hunter weapon]? “Formless” is the one detail that sticks out to people about Oedon, and the immediate discounting of this possible identity of the Moon Presence means that people miss an entire way to interpret the story. It’s incredibly important to entertain a shift in perspective here, an embrace of the dream logic that this game clearly operates on. According to the description above, Oedon is a presence. A force. He may traditionally be described as formless, but he’s still a legitimate Great One that is so powerful that he is considered to be everywhere and nowhere, with blood as his essence. A literal god of blood.

Consider Oedon Tomb where we find Gascoigne. This is a fully-realized tomb featuring a statue of a physical idea of Oedon, surrounded by gravestones. This is a graveyard, and it’s difficult to imagine a graveyard dedicated to a figure that’s still considered among the living. When paired with the ideas that Mergo is formless after stillbirth, persisting in voice, and the Wet Nurse is likely the formless spirit of a dead Great One (given the ghostly effects and siderite weapons), it may be extrapolated that Oedon is persisting in spirit after death. Given the statue and the nature of other Great Ones, it’s conceivable that Oedon once had a physical form, and if we learned anything about the dream, it’s that dead things can survive in it. (See: Micolash, Laurence, and Maria.)

“In the age of the Great Ones, wedlock was a blood contract, only permitted to those slated to bear a special child.�� - Ring of Betrothal

“Every Great One loses its child, and then yearns for a surrogate, and Oedon, the formless Great One, is no different. To think, it was corrupted blood that began this eldritch liaison.” - One Third of Umbilical Cord (from Arianna’s celestial child)

Now if we have a god of blood, it’s important to know how exactly he has his power in the present age of Yharnam. Back in the Pthumerian days when eldritch contact was prevalent, Queen Yharnam was selected to bear a Child of Blood, a pairing with Oedon himself. This wasn’t just because she had a special ring, but because she would come to have compatible blood for bearing such a child. (See: Queen Annalise in the modern day attempting to bear a Child of Blood, imbibing countless blood dregs in an attempt to gain that compatible blood type.) However, every potential Great One child is lost, either due to death or separation, and Yharnam’s baby Mergo died in stillbirth, becoming formless like their father.

“Well, once a group of young Byrgenwerth scholars discovered a holy medium deep within the tomb. This led to the founding of the Healing Church, and the establishment of blood healing.” - Albert

And when Byrgenwerth eventually pillaged the ruins of Pthumeru like the fishing village before it, they found and bound the immortal remains of Yharnam, from whom they discovered and extracted Old Blood. The miraculous blood of Oedon which would lead to the founding of the Healing Church. Provost Willem foresaw the dangers of imbibing the blood of a dead god, turning his attention away from blood altogether and instead focusing on inner eyes, but this didn’t keep Laurence from leaving the college with Old Blood in tow.

“Runesmith Caryll, student of Byrgenwerth, transcribed the inhuman utterings of the Great Ones into what are now called Caryll Runes.” - Rune Workshop Tool

“The Great One Oedon, lacking form, exists only in voice...” - Formless Oedon Rune

So we have a Great One, a god of blood, who was at least at one time considered to be the greatest of the great (see: Oedon Chapel, the only place of worship dedicated to a single god), who now only exists in voice. His whispers echoing across the dreamlands, likely enhanced by the mass imbibing of his special medium, were heard the loudest by Caryll the Runesmith. This idea is strengthened by the fact that Oedon is the only Great One to have runes named after him, which only makes sense given that runes are “inhuman utterings” and Oedon is the most prominent vocal presence in the dream. In fact, with the power of that voice, it’s likely that many of Caryll’s runes were transcribed straight from Oedon’s own voice. These runes include the Hunter’s Mark itself, which a Great One used to brand us as hunters of the dream, as well as “several runes [that] relate to ‘Blood.’” This is important for what’s up ahead, a link between Oedon’s blood runes and the Moon.

“When the red moon hangs low, the line between man and beast is blurred. And when the Great Ones descend, a womb will be blessed with child.” - Note in Byrgenwerth

Okay, there’s a lot stemming from this one note. We have a few connections, including the first tangible connection between blood and the moon. This, paired with the fact that the Moon rune grants more blood echoes, gives the sense of some twisted relationship. And not only does this note reveal a causal relationship between the blood moon and outbreaks of the scourge of beasts, but also between the blood moon and invisible impregnation, made most obvious by Arianna’s fate. The nightmarish celestial child she gave birth to below Oedon Chapel was, in fact, one of many of Oedon’s attempts to create a surrogate child since losing Mergo (see: earlier Oedon-heavy description of the Third Cord from this child). And this came directly from the unveiling of the blood moon, a symbol we will see is synonymous with Oedon, and by extension, the Moon Presence. But first let’s unpack that earlier connection, between the blood moon and the scourge of beasts. This will involve the very origins of the dream, which will be much further explored in research on The Old Hunters.

“The nameless moon presence beckoned by Laurence and his associates. Paleblood.” - Note in the Lecture Building

First, about Paleblood. Now there are many dream-logic connections to be made between Oedon and Paleblood, but the clearest is a cause and effect seen at the very start and end of the game. “Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt.” If transcending the hunt means becoming an infant Great One and earning humanity a new childhood, then seeking Paleblood is defined by our encounter with and the slaying of the Moon Presence-- i.e. the creature that comes from the blood moon, well-established as the symbol of Oedon. Beyond this cause and effect, we also have, “Behold! A Paleblood sky!” This Yahar’gul note becomes relevant once the blood moon appears, unmasked by Rom’s death. In a rare moment of director Hidetaka Miyazaki speaking on the story, he mentions that the idea behind Paleblood was the pale color of the sky as if it’d been drained of blood. And what could have drained the sky of blood? The looming blood moon, a celestial sponge now exuding its highest cosmic strength. So in this respect, Paleblood represents the absence of Oedon’s blood power, the blood having been drained from the sky as a manifestation of his greed. Thus, seeking Paleblood entails the defeat of Oedon, the elimination of his blood power, which would end the scourge of the beast and afford humanity its freedom, a new childhood. And now if we play along with the idea that the Moon Presence is Oedon, a lot of interesting consequences for the story arise.

“The Third Umbilical Cord precipitated the encounter with the pale moon, which beckoned the hunters and conceived the Hunter’s Dream.” - Third Umbilical Cord (from the Abandoned Old Workshop)

Notice that the moon wasn’t always a thing that would turn blood-red, not at least until after the dream was conceived. It was a pale presence, distant yet, from Laurence’s perspective, something to be contacted. With the Moon rune granting more blood echoes, it’s possible that Laurence, drunk on the power that the Old Blood and the Healing Church gave him, wanted to strike a deal with whatever formless presence hid in the moon to amass more power. Little did he know that this nameless thing was in fact Oedon himself. So it was very likely that Oedon, searching for a surrogate child while forever yearning for his beloved Mergo adrift in the nightmare, saw an opportunity in this encounter.

The game can never state it enough. “Every Great One loses its child, and then yearns for a surrogate.” Every single Great One that attempts to bear children somehow loses it. This plays into larger themes of knowledge, survival, and the cost of power but I’ll keep the discussion on Oedon and Mergo for now. Mergo, a formless child lost in the dreamlands, eternally crying out for their parents, is all alone in a brutal world where all other children have died. The grieving Great Ones yearn for a surrogate, and Mergo is the most tempting in any reality. We see Mergo’s cries as a magnet, Amygdalae converging on Yahar’gul when Mergo’s cries ring out from the nightmare. (Note: those Amygdalae weren’t there before the ritual was revealed, since no amount of insight will show them. They gravitated in direct response to the blood moon and the wailing.) There’s just one problem for the usual Great One, keeping them separate from their ideal surrogate: Mergo is dead, formless.

“Hunters of hunters dress as crows to suggest sky burial.” - Crowfeather Attire

“This red-smudged rune means ‘Hunter,’ and was adopted by the hunter of hunters oath. These watchmen admonish those who have become intoxicated with blood. Be they men or beasts, anyone who has antagonized the pledgers of the ‘Hunter’ oath surely has an issue with blood.” - Hunter Rune

It only makes sense, then, that the Great One that manages to swoop in and imprison Mergo is the ironically named Wet Nurse. When struck, it reacts the same way as all the other spirits and dead things do, with an unearthly noise and a puff of smoke. It’s formless beneath its hood, like dead Oedon and Mergo. Its feathered cloak is reminiscent of a crow, suggesting sky burial. And its siderite blades are sister weapons to the Burial Blade and Blade of Mercy, weapons forged from a mineral that fell from the heavens and specialize in the dealing of death to hunters. Finally, the music that plays is Mergo’s Lullaby, a tune that became popular in contemporary Yharnam. This combination of elements is incredibly suggestive of a hunter of hunters, one who has an issue with blood and those intoxicated by it. Depending on where your head is at, it would be equally easy to imagine two things: She was a human hunter who’d transcended the hunt, took issue with Oedon’s blood-drunkenness, and was killed for her transgression; or, she was an already-existent Great One killed by Oedon and her human worshippers created a Hunter of Hunters clan in her honor, vowing to hunt the blood-drunk. In either case (or any possibility involving these traits of hunter-hunters), her spirit would be absolutely opposed to Oedon, the most blood-drunk of all, and would be more than happy to take Mergo as her surrogate child. It’s unclear whether the Wet Nurse succeeded in taking Mergo because of her deathly state or the power granted by her vendetta against Oedon and the blood-drunk, but there we have two potentially valid reasons for her success. As such, the way we end what would become our night of the hunt is by freeing Mergo and quelling Oedon’s wrath. The nightmare is slain once the Wet Nurse is gone and Mergo has a few moments to calm down and escape the awful dream.

“Loran is a tragic land that was devoured by the sands. The tragedy that struck this ailing land of Loran is said to have its roots in the scourge of the beast.” - Ailing Loran Chalice

“There are trace remains of medical procedures in parts of ailing Loran. Whether these were attempts to control the scourge of the beast, or the cause of the outbreak, is unknown.” - Lower Loran Chalice

So this heavenly conflict of interest between Oedon and every Great One who yearns for a child surrogate is what leads to the dream and the scourge. In communicating with power-hungry hunters, Oedon did two things to get his way. For one, he began to do to Yharnam and its mortal plane what he did to Loran in the old days when they’d attempted to imbibe his blood and become Great Ones which would threaten his child. Essentially, he spiked the collective drink. All who imbibed in his Old Blood would go into a frenzy and devolve into mindless beasts who stood no chance at ascension, starting with Laurence who’d likely taken the blood from Queen Yharnam himself and lusted for power. The other thing Oedon did was conceive the Hunter’s Dream and contract hunters who’d become undying by the scent of the moon and the guidance of the messengers. These hunters were to hunt and kill to their hearts’ content, amassing power through blood which Oedon would absorb for himself by the night’s end. Their mission was to “Hunt the Great Ones. Hunt the Great Ones.” But one particular night of the hunt was more important than any other, and calls for a brief dip into Old Hunters content. So why The One Reborn and the Wet Nurse and Mensis on tonight of all nights?

“In his final years, Master Willem was fond of the lookout, and the rocking chair that he kept there for meditation. In the end, it is said, he left his secret with the lake.” - Lunarium Key

“Great volumes of water serve as a bulwark guarding sleep, and an augur of the eldritch Truth. Overcome this hindrance, and seek what is yours.” - Lake Runes

When Kos washed up on the coast of the fishing village, she was dead. She’d also been pregnant, and her orphan was taken by the likes of Gehrman during the Byrgenwerth raid. Willem had ordered it, having given up on the prospects of blood and instead turned to the idea of internal eyes, for which the villagers were forcibly searched. When the child was taken back to Byrgenwerth, they were assuredly dissected and their parts studied, especially the umbilical cord from Kos. It’s not immediately clear what they did with this cord at first, but I’m of the belief that Willem’s actions weren’t swift. He held onto the possibility of ascension through the rest of his teaching years, and the formative years of the Healing Church. And then, the trigger became clear. Once the scourge of the beast surfaced in Yharnam thanks to Laurence, Willem enlisted his student Rom for the most important experiment. Having foreseen the dangers of the Old Blood, he watched, waited, and he knew that the moon was a sort of window that allowed a nameless presence to operate in reality through the blood. With his Third Cord, through the power of dead Kos, Willem granted Rom eyes and elected to become the host of the dream they would create. With the Moonside Lake, their own shard of the dream, Willem and Kos became a bulwark guarding reality from the nightmare in an attempt to suppress Oedon’s power over the blood. The ritual meant Willem would finally achieve enlightenment through Rom, but would be unable to share it. Evidently, the hosts of dreams are somewhat shackled to the Great One that created it, and Rom would appear vacuous in her perpetual state of keeping the window between worlds muddied.

“Ahh, Kos. Or some say Kosm... Do you hear our prayers? As you once did for the vacuous Rom, Grant us eyes, grant us eyes.” - Micolash, Host of the Nightmare

“The Mensis Ritual must be stopped, lest we all become beasts.” “Madmen toil surreptitiously in rituals to beckon the moon. Uncover their secrets.” - Notes in Yahar’gul

Nights of the hunt would pass, and the Healing Church would split into its sects. The Choir, having found Ebrietas in Great Isz, would look to the sky, where the Pthumerians departed, for their chance at enlightenment. But the School of Mensis would look back to the sea, the “source of all greatness,” which would require the study of the dead. Having learned of Rom’s ascension through the power of Kos, the goal of Mensis would be to study the nightmare where dead things persist, in order to contact Kos. Penetrating the veil between worlds en masse would require the power of the moon, that window to the nightmare, even if it meant inviting the scourge of the beast.

“This Cord granted Mensis audience with Mergo, but resulted in the stillbirth of their brains.” - One Third of Umbilical Cord (from Mergo’s Wet Nurse)

“Nightmarish rituals crave a newborn. Find one and silence its harrowing cry.” - Note in Yahar’gul

It’s unclear where all of the Third Cords came from, but it could be tied to a certain cut item description. Instead of debating its canon here, I’ll move on with the clear knowledge that Mensis had a Cord and intended to use it to contact Mergo. It seems they hoped that by contacting the spirit of the much-desired infant, it would draw in many other wandering Great One spirits like, they hoped, Kos. And while the walls between realities were sufficiently shattered and they were pulled into the nightmare, their brains were “stillborn” as a result of their close contact with the dead child. A Great One spirit known as the Wet Nurse coveted Mergo atop her newly manufactured cathedral-cradles of dead servants, ready for Oedon’s retaliation; and Micolash, the new host of this nightmare, relished in Mergo’s cries while awaiting the arrival of the one who would finally grant him eyes. Indeed, this entrapment of Mergo as gruesome bait would be known as the Mensis Ritual, and Oedon’s wrath through the scourge would only get stronger. Thus would begin the longest night yet, and the most important of Oedon’s contracted hunters. Rom would still suppress the greater effects of the nightmare, but even Willem in his helpless state knew that someone would have to come and unmask the Ritual in order to enter the nightmare and end it. As for The One Reborn...

“Great old bell discovered in the underground labyrinth. Its ring resonates across worlds...” - Beckoning Bell

“When all is melted in blood, all is reborn.” - Ritual Blood

With the Unseen Village vacant and the longest night of the hunt beginning, mad Pthumerians with sinister bells and sacks for kidnapping wandered to the surface, preparing their own ghastly ritual. The remaining Pthumerians from the Tomb of the Gods were left behind by their ascendant brethren, lingering in the immortal madness wrought by the eldritch Truth. Whatever conscious drive they had in surfacing in Yharnam, it must have been a visceral sort of reasoning based on Great One worship. They likely felt the waxing power of the moon and decided to capitalize on its coming surge to please their gods. For the Pthumerians, especially the bell-ringers, enjoyed something like necromancy. They used inter-world resonances to manipulate blood itself, and shaped it into whatever they pleased. In the Unseen Village they would indeed find immense power in Oedon’s blood moon. So ritual materials were required. Kidnappers took people from throughout Yharnam and locked them in cells or caskets. Once Rom died and the Mensis Ritual was properly revealed, it seems Oedon’s power was greater than they’d anticipated, reanimated beasts and other horrors lashing out at everything that lived.

Still the bell-ringers summoned protection through the blood. Perhaps they knew that guarding the site of the Ritual would ensure that their beloved Amygdalae would continue to bless their skies. Or maybe they saw this as their own opportunity for death-fueled ascension, because once our hunter arrives at the Advent Plaza, bell-ringers summon through the nightmare what may in fact be their own attempt at reaching Kos with the body parts of captured Yharnamites and Mensis scholars. (See: translated lyrics for “Hail the Nightmare” express a desire to use the power of blood to reach the dead mother of the sea. And is that a half-born Orphan jutting out the top?) After all, it would make sense to call Kos “The One,” of all Great Ones. Were it not for her death and promise of ascension, great many tragedies wouldn’t have befallen the people of Yharnam and the fishing village.

“Both Oedon, and Oedon’s inadvertent worshippers, surreptitiously seek the precious blood.” - Oedon Runes

“Queen Annalise partakes in these blood dreg offerings, so that she may one day bear the Child of Blood, the next Vileblood heir.” - Blood Dreg

This was supposed to just brush on the larger aspects of the story so I won’t go into too much more detail here, but there are a couple more tidbits that make Option A a worthy approach. First, the runes directly named after Oedon enhance our hunters’ Quicksilver, which is infused with their powerful god-enhanced blood. This medium can then be translated through many tools via the arcane, strongly tying Oedon’s “oozing” blood to the unseen forces that weave between worlds. Second, there’s the appearance of the Moon Presence itself. Unlike any other Great One we find, it’s absolutely drenched in blood and utilizes the most unique blood powers, as if it’d been manufactured straight from the blood moon itself like The One Reborn. Like the avatar for a thing without form, a dead thing only given life in a dream. And finally, there’s Annalise, trying to recreate that union with Oedon in ancient Pthumeru. How curious that the blood artifact she requires, as pointed out by the community on multiple occasions, “appear in the blood of echo fiends” when embracing a Blood Rune (Corruption), the very sort of blood echoes so ravenously desired by our own Moon Presence... So yes, Option A is the route of guises and greed. “If I can’t have it, then no one can.” Dead gods peering in from realms of eternal sleep.

Many of these ideas may carry over to my exploration of Option B since they may hold up regardless of the identity of the Moon Presence, but perhaps by the time I get there, everything I thought I knew will seem ridiculous. Just writing this out, as few details as possible and keeping it to the big picture, I’ve had to challenge what I took for granted over the last three years. Maybe by putting this out there I can get some input and challenge it some more! And I also look forward to tackling The Old Hunters in depth as well as the little things that may later inform the big picture. But for now, I need a few sedatives...

#bloodborne #oedon #moon presence #story #lore #entry

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valdomarx · 7 years

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All the times Steve nearly kissed Tony

More Avengers Assemble fluff, because AA really is the good verse <3 This can be read as a continuation to Touch if you like.

The first time Steve nearly kissed Tony was during a team movie night. Tony had, as usual, curled up on the sofa next to Steve and promptly fallen asleep on his shoulder. Any attempts to move or readjust him where met with the sort of whining growls one usually heard from a particularly grumpy cat, so Steve decided against antagonizing him further.

They and the rest of the team had been watching Some Like It Hot. The 20s setting had made Steve nostalgic, but the charming comedy of errors had made him laugh out loud. And that Marilyn Monroe - she really was something, he’d said to Clint, who had enthusiastically agreed.

After the movie had ended and the team had departed to go to bed, Steve gently nudged Tony. “Hey, sleepy,” he’d said softly. “You missed the movie.”

Tony looked up from Steve’s shoulder and opened one eye. “Worth it,” he said with a dozy smile. “You’re very comfy.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and Steve realized that he could lean forward a few inches, turn his head, and brush their lips together.

Just as Steve was wondering where that thought came from and what he should do about it, Tony snuggled his face back into Steve’s shoulder and promptly fell asleep.

Huh, thought Steve. That was odd.

The next time was on one of his and Tony’s Tuesday get-togethers. It wasn’t clear quite how it happened, but Tuesday night had become their hang out time, when every week they’d go explore the city or see a show or cook dinner together. It didn’t help Steve’s awkward feelings that Sam insisted on referring to it as their ‘date night’ with a cheeky grin.

This Tuesday, he and Tony had been eating snacks and having an involved conversation about who would win in a fight: the Hulk or Godzilla. Godzilla had been the subject of a previous movie night, and it was safe to say that Steve was a fan.

“I can’t believe you’d disrespect our team mate in that way,” Tony teased. “Didn’t you know that the Hulk is the strongest there is?”

“I’m just saying, no offense to the green guy, but Godzilla levelled an entire city. He’s the king of the monsters! And he’s big, even bigger than the Hulk… Hey, that’s the last strawberry!”

Tony had taken up the one solitary juicy strawberry that was sat on a plate between them and he eyed Steve mischievously. Tony knew that strawberries were Steve’s favourite.

“Yeah?” Tony said with a grin, bringing the strawberry up to his mouth and taking a cheeky bite. “And what are you going to do about it, old man?”

Steve was seized by a moment of pure insanity, wanting nothing more than to push Tony back against the sofa cushions and lick the taste off his lips. His pulse raced, his fingers twitched, wanting to pull Tony closer and taste the strawberry on his tongue.

He must have been staring, because before he could gather his thoughts into any kind of coherence, Tony laughed and stood up. “Don’t worry, Cap, there are plenty more strawberries in the fridge,” he said lightly.

“Oh good,” Steve said, trying not to sound too disappointed.

This was silly, Steve realized. He could try to ignore it or deny it to everyone else, but it was time to come clean to himself at least: he really, really wanted to kiss Tony.

That didn’t have to be so bad, did it? Maybe Tony would even… like it? Maybe he’d actually enjoy kissing Steve?

Except it wasn’t as if Steve had much to offer a guy like Tony. Steve thought, at his lowest moments, that he was nothing more than an outdated relic, and certainly not someone who Futura’s cover star would ever be interested in.

But then… sometimes, Steve would look up and Tony would quickly glance away, as if he’d been looking at him. Almost as if he might enjoy watching Steve.

Something needed to be done. And he was Steve Rogers, man of action, hero of the people and scourge of evildoers everywhere. No more excuses.

He’d walked out of his bedroom and down to Tony’s workshop. Tony was, as usual, half buried beneath a pile of complicated-looking electronics and armor components. He was working on a panel with his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth in concentration, brow furrowed as he tightened a loose nut with a spanner.

“Hey,” Steve called, trying to sound confident.

“Cap!” Tony sounded genuinely delighted. “Good to see you.”

Tony extricated himself from the electronics and ambled over to Steve. He was wearing loose track pants and an old and somewhat holey tank top, and he had engine oil streaked across his face. He took Steve’s breath away.

“What can I do for you today, Steve-o?” he asked cheerfully. “I’ve been working on this compressor, trying to up the efficiency cause it’s burning through too much power, I’ve changed the fuel intake three times already but it’s still not working so I thought I’d try adjusting the manifold-” And he was off, talking far too fast for Steve to follow but still captivating him with his usual charming enthusiasm.

Without thinking too much, Steve reached out to rub a smudge of dirt off Tony’s cheek. Tony snapped his mouth shut in the middle of his rambling and Steve had a momentary panic. But as he cupped Tony’s cheek, Tony surprised him by leaning into his hand. For a moment, they stood together, Tony’s eyes sliding closed and Steve vibrating with anticipation.

Steve hesitated. What if he was reading this all wrong? The last thing he wanted was to ruin his closest friendship. He paused, the seconds stretching out between them.

And then Tony had pulled away and was back to talking a million miles an hour about what he was working on, eyes barely meeting Steve’s as he bustled around the workshop.

He’d missed his moment again, darn it.

Then there was the gala debacle. It was a intimidatingly swanky benefit for the Maria Stark Foundation, the sort of event which Steve would normally have avoided at all costs. But Tony had invited him to come along, and he’d been so quiet about it, insisting that it was fine if Steve didn’t want to. Steve had never seen Tony sounding so shy, and he was powerless to resist.

So here he was, standing awkwardly by the buffet in a rented tux which didn’t quite fit across his broad shoulders. He’d been doing to best to make small talk with the donors in attendance and to tell them all about the wonderful philanthropic work that Tony did. At least that part was easy to talk about. Perhaps fortunately, a large percentage of the attendees were older women who apparently found Steve rather charming.

“Anthony!” the woman he was talking to called out to Tony when she spotted him across the room, gleaming in a perfectly fitted black tie ensemble. He smiled his best indulgent socialite smile and came over to join them.

“Ethel, dearest, you are as radiant as ever.”

“And you’re as much of a charmer as always, and I love it. Now tell me, Tony dear, where have you been keeping this little gem?” Steve’s new friend pinched his cheek. “He’s just scrumptious!”

Steve blushed and Tony grinned broadly. “That he is,” Tony said. “Steve here has been a wonderful asset to the team.”

Ethel’s raised eyebrow suggested that wasn’t quite what she had meant.

“And he’s been a gem for the Foundation too. You should see him with the kids from the schools program, they can’t get enough.”

“Mmm, I’m sure they’re not the only ones,” Ethel said with a gleam in her eye.

Tony appeared unruffled. “May I steal him from you for a dance?”

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you. Dance well for me, my darling boys!”

Tony took Steve’s hand and lead him to the dance floor. This was going to be a problem. Steve may have been the mostly highly trained of soldiers and a superhuman athlete, but dancing was quite beyond him.

“Umm, Tony, I’m not sure this is a good idea-” he began.

Tony waved him off. “It’ll be fine. We can’t disappoint Ethel, can we? Here, follow my lead.”

Tony put his other hand around Steve’s waist and stepped a little closer.

Oh.

That was nice.

Tony nodded at Steve’s shocked expression and swayed them back and forth.

“There you go,” he said lightly. Steve let himself be swayed, feeling the slow beat of the music, Tony holding him close as they moved back and forth.

“I knew you’d be good at this,” Tony said, and Steve thought he must have been joking except for the fond expression on his face. He carefully shuffled his feet and let Tony lead.

The warmth of Tony’s hand in his thrummed and the steady rhythm of the music washed over him. The swanky ballroom and the noisy guests all receded into the background, until it might as well have been just him and Tony in the whole world.

Tony gave him one of those soft smiles, the type that were so different from his dazzling press smiles, one of those real smiles that went all the way to his eyes and made his whole face light up. Steve couldn’t help thinking that he’d do just about anything to see Tony smile like that more, and he must have been beaming back at him, and they were holding each other ever so close-

Then, of course, Steve had stepped squarely on Tony’s foot, and Tony had jumped away from him with a yelp.

“Ohmygosh Tony I’m so sorry, are you ok?” Steve could feel the flush rushing across his cheeks.

“No worries,” Tony said with a wry grin, “my toes are still intact. We might need to work some more on your dancing though.”

Steve could have kicked himself. His experience with romance may have been limited, but he was aware that this was not exactly how it was supposed to go.

Steve didn’t like to think about the battlefield incident. It had started with the team taking on a small army of magical sewer monsters, because that was a typical Thursday in New York.

Clint and Natasha were tag teaming a large and angry but not very smart rhino-like monster that was oozing green slime across the sidewalk, while Sam and Thor swept up any of the beasts that were flying on sticky wings. The Hulk was corralling the smaller monsters towards Steve, who was methodically knocking out each one with a firm shield to the skull.

So just your standard Avengers mission.

Tony had zipped off to investigate the source of the beasts, and had called over comms that he’d found the sewer grate where they were spawning.

“Eww.” Tony’s disdain was clear even over the comm channel. “These creatures are definitely mystical in origin. Also, they’re gross and slimy.”

“We noticed that, thanks, Stark.” Natasha’s voice was flat but Steve knew her well enough to hear the fond teasing behind her tone.

“Hmm. There’s a machine here that seems to be powering the portal that’s letting these guys out. I’m going to take it out.”

“Wait a minute,” Steve said over the channel, watching as Tony flew up and hovered in position high above the device. “Don’t you think we ought to investigate before blowing anything up-”

But it was too late. Steve heard the whine of Tony’s repulsors and a beam hit the sewer grate below him. The monsters surrounding them squealed and fizzled into nothingness as the portal collapsed.

Just as they were starting to relax, a burst of green lightning shot out from the collapsing grate and up into the sky with a shuddering crack. There must have been some kind of booby trap on the device, Steve realized. The energy arced across the sky and slammed into Iron Man, and Steve only had time to hear Tony’s shocked “Oh.” before his comms went out.

Steve looked up in dismay as all the lights from Tony’s suit went dead and he plummeted to earth, landing on the sidewalk with a sickening crash.

Steve didn’t even register that he was moving until he was halfway across the battlefield, feet carrying him across the uneven ground towards Tony in huge strides.

“Iron Man!” he yelled. “Status report. Are you okay?”

Tony didn’t reply, and Steve felt his stomach roll with horror.

Steve skidded to a halt by Tony’s side, trying not to imagine the worst as he took in the twisted pieces of armor and the deep crater caused by his impact with the ground.

“Tony!” Steve pushed back a wave of nausea and terror at the sight on Tony unresponsive on the ground and shook him by the shoulders. “Tony, wake up. Tony. Please.”

For a long, hideous moment, nothing happened. Steve felt utter terror roiling within him and burning through it all was the ridiculous, inappropriate thought But I never got to tell him how I feel.

Then, miraculously, Tony stirred beneath him, his fingers twitching against the fractured concrete.

“Ughhh.” Tony sat up with a groan. He pulled off the now depowered helmet and tossed it to the side with a sigh. “That was unpleasant.” He looked grouchy and bruised but whole, and undamaged, and alive.

Steve threw his arms around him, even though he couldn’t quite reach all the way around the armor’s bulky shoulders, and pulled him into a desperate hug.

“Hey,” Tony sounded ever so gentle for someone who had just fallen through the air and smashed into concrete. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Steve tried not to cry. “I thought. God, Tony, I thought-” He clung to Tony tighter.

Tony stroked a gauntleted hand down his back in comforting circles. “I know. It’s okay.”

Steve realized that he was being ridiculous and tried to pull himself together. He loosened his death grip around Tony and leaned back to give him some air.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled, feeling guilty for making Tony’s injury all about him and his worries.

“Don’t be,” Tony said, and he was smiling at Steve with a kindness that made his heart hammer in his throat once again. “I’m lucky to have you looking out for me.”

And god, Tony was right here and he was alive and he was smiling and Steve had nearly lost him and now all he wanted was to take Tony’s face in his hands and kiss him and do everything he could to make sure that he was always safe and happy.

But they were in the middle of a battlefield, in front of all their teammates, and Tony was almost certainly suffering from at least some minor injuries that must have been causing him pain. So Steve wrapped him up in another big hug instead.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he murmured into Tony’s neck. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Tony wandered into the kitchen a few days later, hair mussed, pajama pants slung low around his hips, eyes crinkled sleepily, adorable as ever.

“Morning,” he mumbled as he passed Steve, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

“Good morning, beloved,” Steve said warmly. Then, realizing what he’d just said and that he’d admitted his feelings far more than he meant to, he snapped his mouth shut and tried to look casual. Tony probably hadn’t noticed. He was half asleep anyway, right?

Tony poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip, regarding Steve over the rim of his mug. Steve made an effort not to squirm as Tony eyed him. Even through the haze of morning fog, he had the uncanny feeling that Tony saw right through him.

Tony took another sip of coffee, narrowed his eyes, and placed the cup down on the sideboard with a firm clink.

He strolled over, casual as anything, and stood on the tips of his toes to press a quick kiss to Steve’s lips. Then he smiled at Steve’s stunned expression and went back to preparing breakfast.

Steve’s eyes widened and his heart raced. This was… Tony had…

“Wha?” he managed.

Tony rolled his eyes good naturedly. “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for months,” he said and gave a shrug. “I got bored of waiting.”

“You… you kissed me.” Steve was still struggling to wrap his head around what just happened.

“I did,” Tony said with a smile.

“Um. Well. Gosh.” Steve just knew that he was blushing all over. “Do you want to do that again?” he asked in a breathless rush.

Tony rounded on him, backing him up against the kitchen counter until there were only millimeters between them, and grinning like Steve was the most delightful thing in the world. “Very much so.”

And Steve would have panicked at that, would have been freaking out and overthinking everything and fretting about whether this was all just in his imagination - but Tony was right there, warm and soft and sleepy and just a breath away, and every thought other than kissing him flew right out of Steve’s head.

When Steve wrapped one hand around the base of Tony’s neck and hauled him in, their lips met and he could feel Tony smiling against his mouth. Kissing Tony turned out to be even better than he had imagined, all gentle and delicate but promising ever so much more.

Tony tasted like coffee and home, and for once Steve felt like he was right where he was supposed to be.

#stevetony #stony #avengers assemble #marvel #my writing #i love pining steve so much you guys

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jrazillashadowworks · 7 years

Text

Footsteps into Anarchy Chapter One

Warning: Blood. Gore. Dark themes.

Prologue Chapter: ONE

The skies were twisting clouds of black and red, leaving a nightmarish glow on the war torn city below. Towering skyscraper’s windows were blown out and destroyed, hailing fractals of glass below. The infinitely snaking streets were littered in overturned cars, buses, tanks and all manner of other vehicles. Never ending rivers of blood rushed down the slanted side of the street into the filling sewer grates. Countless corpses created organic carpets that near covered the remaining walkways and overpasses. Mixed in with the civilian population were hundreds of dead soldiers from two opposing sides, torn apart by bullets and blades, heads caved in. The State Watch, who were the government funded military of the entire country and the Anarchist organization, Xenolith.

The two sides fought a war that decimated all within the vast, sixteen-district country states, laying waste to all areas. There was not a place untouched by this madness. However, something about this war was different, unlike any before them. None knew which side created or released it but, a weaponized gas like substance had exploded at the very heart of the country and had spread to all sides of the globe rapidly, enveloping the ozone in a layer of black and red mist that never tapers. What this gas did was nothing short of horrifying. Among the innumerable battles, the dead begun to rise. All who were killed came back with an insatiable hunger for warm flesh. They soon outnumbered both sides, devouring all within their path. This sudden horrific change pushed the world and humanity to the brink of utter annihilation. Are there any survivors? Is humanity over, lost to the scourge of the dead? This is the tale of the fallen country that ruined the world.

MIDWAY (DISTRICT 7)

Broken lamps flickered in the darkness. Aided by the broken, crimson hues in the sky, the streets were awash in a dim, glowing haze. Rain pounded from above, slicking the bloodied streets. A staunch, putrid stench of death surrounded this place, sure to plug up anyone’s nose and cause them to lose whatever food was left in their stomachs. Of course, this was how it smelled everywhere.

Standing against an alley wall, a man adorned in a black leather jacket and helmet rested. His head was turned from the blackness towards the opened, hellish streets ahead. Cracked gurgling that had overcame the sound of the rain had caught his attention. Before long, his curiosity was rewarded, as a group of sodden and soaked zombies came shuffling into view. Their skin was faded and puss ridden, mortal wounds covered their bodies as thick intestines slurped out of their stomachs and eyes hung from their sockets. Their jaws clacked, teeth gnashing at the foul air.

The helmeted one’s grip tightened around something in the dark, a rush of morbid adrenaline pulsing in his veins. Breathing silently behind the helmet, he waited until he was assured of the numbers, scanning over each of them and behind. ‘Five. Just five.’

They continued onwards, finding no sign of the man, hidden in the dark. Though that was to be expected. The undead were utter morons. Once their backs were to him, he watched intently, tightening every muscle in his upper body, preparing to pounce. Feeling that same, powerful surge, he struck out from the corner, arms raised, weapon held high. With a heavy downward swing, one of the heads of the dead were crushed into a flattened mess of skull and grey matter, excreting from the hit in an explosion. The others had no time to react, slowly turning to look back only to be met with the same fate. With speed, the helmeted man took them each out with one blow to the head and neck, leaving them all a crumpled stain on the ground.

Hissing through gritted teeth, he chuckled, staring down at the mess that was his handiwork. Chest heaving, he leaned back, listening to the patter on his visor and rolling his broad shoulders. Trickles of rain had seeped into his jacket and clothing, cooling his burning body, calming him. Suddenly the ear cracking sound of gunfire startled him, stealing away the soothing after-glow of his kill. Ducking down, he scoured the area ahead, pressing a hidden button on the lower side of his helmet. His head turned slowly, looking this way and that at the cluster of sullen buildings and slums that made up the blocks around him. He pressed another, making another scan before shooting upwards.

With a knowing mind, he charged forwards, following the hovering echo of the blasts. Madly turning corners, and dodging random corpses towards the sound. Finally, skidding to a stop, he hugged the corner of a destroyed pharmacy, peeking out with a sinister grin. From the other side of the avenue, two people fumbled out, a spindly man, dressed in the shabby uniform of the Xenolith and behind him, a woman, he forcibly pulled by the hood of her jacket. She nearly tripped and he jerked her upright with a barrage of curses behind the bandanna that covered his mouth.

‘Nothing good in store for her,’ the helmeted man thought to himself. Although he tried to ignore it, he felt a twinge of pity that he immediately suppressed upon realizing. Focusing on the soldier, his eyes froze on the shotgun he carried. With a devilish, invisible smile, he whispered. “Bingo.”

The duo raced, sloppily taking out anything in their way. ‘Maybe he was trying to lure her to some hideout or something. He could have more than what was on him.’ The helmeted man decided to follow. Sticking to parallel paths, he pursued, killing every zombie that was in his path, which lucky enough, was less frequent than he had anticipated. As he went on, it became increasingly obvious that they were indeed headed to some specific location once he saw the anarchist insignia of a giant hand clenched upwards before an explosion, spray painted, in neon red on the corroded brick walls.

With a deft silence, he followed without neither being the wiser, until they entered a playground of tarp covered hovels, made out of tin and aluminum siding. Dead ones, some dressed in the same uniform, albeit ripped as the anarchist spotted the area, staked and chained to the ground, skulking around but powerless to the human’s movements. It was clear that he was the only remaining survivor in his unit.

Peeking out from a few hovels down, the helmeted man watched as the woman fell to her knees, sobbing through sharp inhales. She begged him not to do whatever he was planning to do and he struck her with the back of his hand, the sound echoing out. Clasping her face, she whimpered. “Get up,” he demanded with a booming voice, bucking at her. “You are going to repay me for saving you in any way I deem fit!”

This didn’t fly with the helmeted one, feeling the stinging rage creep up in the back of his mind. He tried to control it, to push it under like all the times before, but then he found himself sprinting forward. Rain whipping at his visor, he caught the man unaware, tackling him harshly to the ground. Sliding in the mud, the helmeted one used his free hand to sock the man in the face over and over, using his elbow at times to pommel him. Underneath, the anarchist screeched in pain, held down by the man’s knees. Blood sputtered through the fabric of the bandanna, red droplets splattering the visor before streaking down, mixing with the rain. He kept up the onslaught until the anarchist, in a burst of adrenaline, kicked him off.

Flipping over and back up, the helmeted one gave little time to the discombobulated soldier to regain his footing. Just as he was about to raise his shotgun, he was cracked against the head with a bat, sending him flailing onto his side. Without losing a moment, the other wrenched the strapped shotgun off of the soldier and looked this way and that as the man convulsed on the ground. Grabbing the soldier’s collar, he dragged the wailing man towards one of the staked zombies who reached out with bone white claws, leaning towards them with grotesque roars and clacking teeth, oozing spittle spewing between the gaps.

“P-pwease,” the anarchist begged, his voice slurred by the brain scrambling hit. “I dun w-want to die.”

Bending down, the helmeted one stood inches away from his face before letting out a soft chuckle. “Join your brothers in arms.”

Lifting up the soldier, he was tossed into the open embrace of his dead comrade. He tried to fight but let out a high pitched squeal as the zombie ripped a chunk of his neck out of him, tearing the stringy tendons away in one quick, clean, snap of the jaw. Gurgling, he cried out, eyes bulging as wide possible as another slab of meat was wrenched free. Finally breaking the hold, the soldier retched and coughed, falling onto his knees, crying. The helmeted one watched as he fell on his chest and crawled away, blood oozing out in thick pools underneath him. A deep appreciation of this man’s suffering was apparent in the helmeted man’s shuddering body as he laughed happily.

“Where are you going to go?” He teased. “Still that interested in getting some? Let me help.” Lifting the metal bat, he slammed down on the back of his knees, the bones shattering immediately from the immense blow, a sound that gave the attacker a slight chill. With a choking cry, the soldier dragged himself through the gritty muck before letting out his final blood curdling breath, rattling off into the wind.

Kneeling down beside him, the helmeted one spun the bat against the ground, grating the dirt. “All I wanted was to give you a little more motivation. Guess you didn’t want it enough, you sick son of a bitch.”

Looking to the zombie whose teeth were still munching on the gored flesh, he nodded. “You better be grateful for that little snack. Now let’s see what else this former paragon of humanity has for me.”

Walking back to the hovel, he ignored the woman who remained trembling on the spot, staring at him with streams of tears rolling down her face. He threw open the aluminum door and peeked inside. ‘Jackpot.’

It was a gold mine. Shoddy, half rotten shelves drilled into the siding held cans of all types of food and bottles of the closest thing to fresh water. A thick military backpack sat out next to a dirty, moth eaten sleeping bag, ridden with holes. Rifling through it, he found boxes of shells for his newly acquired shotgun and some rusted but sharp knives along with some clothes and condoms. Rolling his eyes, he tossed the clothes and prophylactic’s out and filled it with the food and water bottles. Zipping it up tight, he threw it over his free shoulder and took one last look around before exiting back into the dreary rain.

About to walk off, the soft exhale of the woman brought his attention to her. Tilting his head, she immediately threw up her arms, veiling her face defensively. Through her fingers, he could make out big, horrified, blue eyes. Her long, pink bangs clung to her attractive, wet face, marring it in vines across her complexion. Breathing loudly, she looked to be trying to speak but nothing came out but half whimpers. The pity again struck him and he sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said as gently as possible, though it ended up sounding rather emotionless instead.

His tone obviously confused her, but got his point across, for her expression faltered, hands lowering an inch. “Are…are you one with the State?”

Scoffing, the helmeted one shook his head. “I’m not a part of either side. I’m just an opportunist. A shadow of this new world. The names Raz, if you care.”

“My names, Gabbi,” the woman quickly replied, brushing the tresses from her face. She forced a smile. “T-Thank you for saving me.”

“Wasn’t my intention but, you’re welcome.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have any place to get back to? Friends? Family waiting for you?” He knew these questions were stupid after all that had happened and even hearing himself asking them made him regret them but, she answered.

“No. It’s just me. I was simply hiding out in an abandoned art store when that man forced his way in and found me. Looking for some more supplies I guess. He said he was going to take me somewhere safe but I could tell his true motive just by the hungry look in his eyes.”

Crossing his arms, Raz shifted his posture. “Do you want me to take you back? There doesn’t seem to be any more of his kind around here, just those staked dead ones.”

Gabbi fell silent, clearly lost in thought. The rain had let up, leaving a light drizzle behind before she spoke again. “W-where are you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular. Here and there, as it were. Guess you could consider it cross country wandering.”

Blinking, she fidgeted on the spot, her lips tightening into a straight line, hands hard pressed against each other. “I know what I’m about to ask is crazy and I probably shouldn’t but um…C-can I come with you?”

“You trust me that quickly?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she giggled half-heartedly, keeping a light tone to her voice. “But you d-definitely seem able to take care of yourself.”

“So its protection you want.”

“I’m clearly no fighter,” she said before pausing. “But I can cook for you and stuff like that in return?”

“Tsk, you really think we have the luxury of that?”

An awkward silence overcame them again, her gaze falling to the ground. Head dropping, Raz finally shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. You can come along. At least until we find a safe place you feel comfortable staying in. Don’t want you thinking this is permanent or anything like that.”

Gabbi launched to her feet, grinning from ear to ear, somehow brightening the dank area. It was rather adorable, he couldn’t deny. “Thank you so much, Raz!”

“Shhh,” Raz interrupted sharply, jerking his head towards the zombies she had agitated with her sudden outburst, their pale eyes fixated on them, groaning longingly.

Clasping her hands to her mouth, she apologized repeatedly. “Won’t happen again.”

“For the health of us both I’d suggest it doesn’t. Anyway, before we go on our journey, do you have anything you want to go back for? A bag, items, weapons of your own? You are practically walking naked.”

“Now that you mention it...Could we possibly go back to the art store? I didn’t get a chance to grab my things when I was abducted and I’m soaked to the bone, a change of clothes would be nice.”

“Fine. Lead on.”

Fixing her long brown hair over her right shoulder, she wringed it out. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Gabbi took point but kept very close to the helmeted stranger as they traveled back through the ruined city. At her flank, Raz kept his precious, new shotgun up, appreciating its heft and feel, more so than their surroundings. Secretly, he wanted to come across a zombie or two to test it out, maybe even another Anarchist. This however, was not meant to be. Each time they crossed paths with an undead, it was imprudent to shoot off the gun for it would alarm the many other’s that shuffled about. Would he have been alone, he may very well have gone through with it.

It was quite the miracle they had gotten all the way back to Gabbi’s hideout without being spotted. Raz was rather impressed with the way she handled herself as they snuck around. Though he could make out her trembling form, she kept quiet, and alert, making sure to look every which way before going further.

Reaching their destination, Gabbi pointed towards a cluster of buildings on the other side of the street. The aforementioned art store was small and bunched between two big department stores. Unlike its neighbors, that had their windows smashed in and innards picked clean, this particular shop was miraculously untouched, only a thin coating of grey ash layered over the front, veiling all inside it. Looking both ways, Gabbi hurried across, grasping the handle and pulling it open for them both to enter.

It was a very quaint shop, with rows of high, segmented shelves that held all sorts of art equipment from tubes of every paint imaginable to bundled pens and layered, sketch pads. It was lovingly preserved and perfectly coordinated. Very pleasing to the eyes. Even though the colors were muted, he could gather it was nothing short of a rainbow. That a place could have remained like this even at the end of the world as it were was astonishing to him. Walking by it all, he let his gloved hands glide over each item, remembering the normal days that though not long past, felt ages ago.

“It’s a very pretty isn’t it?” Gabbi asked, moving ahead of him, towards the back. Even in the dull, darkness, she easily found her way. It was clear how known this place was to her.

“Lovely,” he replied stalely. “Don’t figure what good art will do in this new world.”

Her soft laugh echoed from some back room. “Art has been around forever, no matter what horrible thing has happened to the world. I’m sure it will remain relevant even now, onto eternity.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be an artist would you?” He mocked.

“I’ve been found out. Oh no.”

Rolling his eyes, he leaned against one of the shelves. “Are you ready yet?”

As if on cue, Gabbi came out in a dry sweater, a skirt over leggings and a rather stuffed pack on her back. Catching a glimpse of the side pockets filled with brushes and pencils, Raz hunched over, exasperated. “Are you kidding me?”

“What,” she asked, innocently, walking up alongside him.

“Seriously? Is there anything other than art supplies in that bag? Do you have any weapons or anything like that?”

“I have everything I need. And regarding weapons,” she pulled an oblong shaped item seemingly out of nowhere. It took Raz a second to realize what it was.

“An old school Taser…?”

“Yep.” She flipped a switch and the crackling cackle of the electric weapon shot to life, bright, blue sparks lighting the area between them and the amused, silly expression on Gabbi’s face.

“You are astonishing…”

“Thank you!”

He couldn’t tell if she registered his sarcasm but he let it go. It was strangely remarkable how quickly relaxed she was around him. She must have been held up in this place even before the end of the world, he thought to himself. She seemed rather hopeless as a survivor, but he couldn’t ignore the subtle, warm sensation he felt within himself in her presence. Shrugging it off, he tapped his bat against his boot. “This is going to be interesting… Time to go. Unless you want to take the store with you too.”

“Would if I could,” Gabbi replied with a sassy but innocent smile.

Reaching for the handle, Raz waited for the woman to give her final goodbyes to her beloved store before opening the door, leading back into the hell that awaited.

#my writing #original works #zombies #horror

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jazzraft · 7 years

Note

omg even though I'm a diehard NoctLuna fan I LOVE your NoctNyx writing! You write them so well together! Okay, so ask time: could you write something NoctNyx along the lines of Ardyn holding Noctis against his will and Nyx is totally helpless to save him (but not in Oracle! AU just regular FFXV universe where Nyx survives Insomnia or something). Thanks and I can't wait to read what you write!

GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE ahead. Like, immediately under the cut, not even gonna leave a preview ‘cause it’s just right in your face. Please be cautious before proceeding!

(PS Welcome to the dark side, anon. Join us in glorious rarepair hell 8)

It was tearing him apart. Noctis was begging him to savehim, but no matter how hard he beat on the glass, Nyx couldn’t reach him.

The daemon hooked long, dripping black talons into theprince’s back, dragging him screaming back to the edge of the darkness.Everything was in monochrome, but the blood was still so bright; horrificallyred in the gloomy light. A dark banner of it was painted beneath Noctis as themonster pulled him back, running in thick veins down his arms and dotted acrosshis face.

There were bloody, fist-shaped breaks in the glass fromwhere Nyx had tried to punch through. The wall went on into infinity on eitherside. He couldn’t see where it ended or where it began. He couldn’t seeanything but the blackness and the blood. And he couldn’t hear anything butNoctis. He couldn’t hear his own voice, he had no idea if Noctis could hearhim, but his throat felt raw. He must have been screaming. Someone must havebeen able to hear him.

If he was calling for help, no one was coming. Not to helphim break the glass and not to help save Noctis from that thing. It used to be Ardyn,something told him. That twisted, black-eyed monster, weeping with scourge andcrawling from the shadows like a beast had once looked like a man. Its teethwere crooked and sharp, ribbons of black tar oozing from drawn back lips,grinning hungrily at its prey as it tried to escape.

Noctis scraped at the ground, an opaque plane of nothing,trying to pull himself out from under the thing’s claws, trying to reach Nyx throughhis own blood. His eyes were wild with panic, stark gray in the bleached light.His gaze pleaded desperately with Nyx, his hands twisting through empty airtowards him, shaking with pain. All tears and blood and screaming, thescreaming, please, please, stopscreaming…

The daemon growled and smiled, digging its horrible blackenedteeth into the juncture between the prince’s neck and shoulder. Noctis wailedin agony, the sound peeling against Nyx’s ears. Sobs gurgled in pink bubbles atthe corner of his lips. Claws raked down his sides, tearing his shirt, bloodeverywhere, practically black in his hair, so much red across his skin.

The noises were the worst, reduced to the choked mewling ofa trapped animal. It only made the daemon maul him more, relishing the soundslike it was music, lashing jagged scarlet lines across Noctis’s back to makehim scream louder and struggle less.

Nyx’s fist bled with shards of glass, pounding the samespot over and over and over again. He couldn’t stop. Even if it was doingnothing, his arm wouldn’t stop moving. His hand kept bleeding and Noctis keptcrying and the daemon kept laughing and nothing was changing. He couldn’t reachhim. He couldn’t save him. The thing was killing him, Noctis was begging him, “Nyx, please, Nyx…”

The daemon twisted him over, curling its claws insideNoctis’s mouth and pushing his head back to expose his throat, salivatingscourge across the white skin, making Noctis whine in terror. The daemon’s jawssunk slowly into his neck, pinpricks of yellow eyes grinning at the muffledcries ripping from the prince beneath it.

Noctis stared and stretched back for Nyx. Nyx pressed hishands to the glass, touched the fingers he couldn’t reach beyond it. The daemonjerked its head and snapped.

Nyx woke up feeling like he couldn’t breathe, boltingupright to fight air into his aching lungs. Sweat clung to his chest, a sicklyshine in the moonlight dancing through the sleeping carriage. The rhythm of thetrain bumping around him made him nauseous. It should have reminded him thatthere would be no one in his bed when he reached next to him, grasping forNoctis only to fist flat sheets.

Ardyn stole him from Nyx. Taunted all of them to come andrescue him. Was holding him in Niflheim, trying to prove some twisted point. Ithad been days spent on the empty train, crawling towards the Empire. Each nightwas filled with a new nightmare about what the chancellor was doing to Noctiswhile Nyx wasn’t there to protect him.

Ignis told him over and over again that he was imaging theworst. That Noctis could fight for himself if he had to and that Nyx’snightmares were far worse than whatever was being done to Noctis in reality.Gladio joked that he would probably be waiting right outside the Keep when theyarrived. There was a quaver to his chuckle though. And Prompto’s silencebeneath all of the assurances spoke louder than any words.

Nyx roared in fury and pelted the pillow at the wall,throwing off the sheets and pacing the car. The close air slowly started tocool his skin, but didn’t make his heart stop racing hot. They weren’t movingfast enough. They were wasting time, Ardyn was hurting him, Nyx knew this, no matter what the otherssaid, Noctis was hurt, he was screaming, they needed to move, why weren’t they moving?

Nyx threw on a shirt and marched to the door, just aboutready to charge down the length of the train to boot the engineers out of theirseats and drive the damn thing himself. He crashed into Prompto on his way out,nearly bowling the smaller man onto his ass. His knuckles had been curled,prepared to knock before Nyx appeared. He flinched back in fright, whether fromthe abrupt movement of the door or Nyx’s thunderous expression, he didn’treally care.

“What,” he said through his teeth.

“Just wanted to check on you,” Prompto said, having a hardtime holding Nyx’s glare. “I thought I heard, um…”

He glanced into the room and noticed the pillow thrown ontothe floor, the sweaty ball of sheets cast to the bottom of the mattress. Heglanced fleetingly at Nyx to notice the heavy rise and fall of his chest andthe strain of his neck, holding back a scream that Nyx hadn’t fully decided whohe was going to throw at yet.

“You good?” Prompto asked in a small voice.

“Oh, yeah, peachy, thanks for asking.”

Nyx pushed him out of the way and started down the hall,fully prepared to stuff the engineers into a supply closet and take thecontrols himself.

“Where are you going, man?”

“To drive this damn thing into the guts of Zegnautus.”

“Dude, come on…”

He felt Prompto’s fingers on his arm like pinpricks of iceand spun around to brush them off. He was too angry and too scared to rememberthat none of this was Prompto’s fault. He wasn’t the one Nyx was angry at. Hewas angry at himself and he was angry at Ardyn and the whole damn Empire, maybeeven the whole damn world. But that didn’t stop him from yelling at the gunmananyway.

“I’m sick of sitting on our hands while that bastard doesgods only know what to Noctis. I’m sick of this train, I’m sick of everyone actinglike everything’s fine, I’m sick of being told that I’m just making up theworst case scenario when we have no idea what the hell that son of a bitch hasin store for him. I can’t do nothing, I’m going crazy in here…”

He was rambling, he knew, but he couldn’t stop. He wasprowling up and down the aisle, socked feet punching the wooden floors, handsopening and closing because he didn’t know what to do with them. He was afraidif he formed them into fists, he might punch Prompto just because he was there.He was afraid of going back to bed and imagining something even worse than whathe already had. He’d never been this afraid of anything in his life, andnothing but saving Noctis, seeing that he was okay, wrapping him up in his armsand never letting him out of them again could stop him from being afraid.

“Everyone’s scared, Nyx,” Prompto said. “Gladio and Ignisare better at hiding it, but they’re going out of their minds right now. We’reall on edge. But, at least we know Noct’s alive, right? That’s something.”

Prompto called his gun from the Crystal’s power to assureNyx that the prince must still be alive. It did little to comfort him.

“We’re not gonna know what happened until we get there. Ifit’s bad, we’ll fix it, right? It’ll be hard if it is, yeah… No one wants tothink about Noct getting hurt. We just have to have faith that he’s not.”

Faith was for people who trusted the Six to hear theirprayers. Nyx had stopped having faith in them since Galahd. Prompto could tellthat his comfort was having no effect on the glaive. He bit his lip andattempted a pitiful assurance instead.

“We’re almost there.”

Nyx glared at him, but ran out of energy to keep it there.He looked out at the passing landscape beyond the train, waiting for it to turninto something that might resemble Niflheim. They still weren’t moving fastenough.

#noctis lucis caelum #nyx ulric #nyxnoct #myfic #anonprompts

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daetur · 7 years

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A person again (Dyrihm 4/?)

(1)(2)(3)

Familiar sights and sounds washed over Dyrihm as he followed the undead soldiers back to the farm. The stomp of heavy-booted feet on hard packed dirt, the bark of orders, the clatter of weapons. The glint of armor and blades, the flutter of tabards and flags, packs and bandages urgently trading hands. He hung back, keeping a careful pace behind, warily eying the undead forces around him.

They led him to a crowd gathered by what must have been an old barn. An elven woman stood beside a pile of black, charred debris- the corner of a Scourge banner the only thing to have escaped the flames. Her dark hood was thrown back to display fierce red eyes and cold, ashy skin. Dead, like the rest of them.

Light, Dyrihm thought, The elves fell too.

She spoke with a voice that radiated authority, spoke with the confidence of a thousand battles, spoke with a conviction Dyrihm had rarely seen. He knew with absolute certainty that this was the new Queen.

He drifted at the edges of the crowd, listening to her speak with passion about this army of the free undead. More were joining their ranks every day. They would drive the Scourge from the land, and reclaim what was theirs. Protect it. They could have a home once again. Dyrihm’s chest tightened at those words, as the crowd roared with cries of For the Forsaken! and For the Dark Lady!

“All right, now,” the gruff undead said, turning to him, breaking him out of his staring. “What do you think, boy? Drive the backstabbing murderers out of Lordaeron with an army at your side, instead of alone in the woods like a beast?”

Dyrihm scowled- or bared his teeth. He wasn’t certain which. “Last time, the backstabbers were the army,” he ground out. “Scourge had its fingers everywhere.”

“Well,” the man hedged, “The Lady’s not easy to fool. She knows a free man when she sees him. And those live Cultists can’t slip into dead ranks.”

Dyrihm considered, cautious. He looked back, away from the farm, towards the dark edge of the forest. A pang of deep, bone-chilling fear lanced through him as he thought of being alone out there again. No rest, no company. Nothing but death and Scourge. “I’ll stay,” he croaked.

“Good! Then let’s see if we can’t make you a little damn presentable.” He waved Dyrihm to follow him, and strode off towards what was, as far as Dyr could tell, a hastily-constructed barracks that looked more like a converted stable than human housing. “Name’s Colt,” he said as they walked. “That’s gonna be ‘sir,’ or ‘Colt, sir,’ to you, ‘course. You got a name, or do we have to give you one?”

Dyrihm checked his tags, for what seemed to him to thousandth time. “Dyrihm Ackerman, sir.”

Colt eyed him curiously. “Well, how about that, military boy, and you got a last name, too.” They entered the barracks, and Colt tossed him a small bag. “Essentials,” he offered by way of explanation. “Mostly to patch yourself up, since there ain’t much else we need.” He cast a critical eye over Dyrihm. “Little short, but you’re not like some of the skinny kids we’ve been finding. Here.” A pile of clothes followed the bag, and Colt shoved him towards an empty room. “Now go make yourself a person again.”

The door shut behind him. Dyrihm sighed.

He stared at himself in the tarnished mirror. A ghoulish creature looked back at him- yellow eyes glowing from bruised sockets under a split eyebrow, bone visible beneath, discolored patches of the beginning of rot across his cheekbones like knucklemarks from a punch. He choked, and the creature swallowed. Tattered rags clung to him, hanging off his frame- barely enough to be identifiable as once pants and a shirt. He peeled them free and kicked off the remains of his boots, inspecting filthy wounds with shaking hands. Few were serious, but all were ugly- short, jagged claw marks fresh from ghouls in the woods, long slashes, old and turning brown at the edges, from unfortunate soldiers. His knees were scraped and scarred, thick with dirt and grime. His feet were worse. Weeks of walking through the woods in rotted boots had left them brown and yellow, rubbed raw and oozing ichor from a multitude of scrapes and punctures.

He eyed the mirror despondently for a few more long moments, bile rising in his throat. He remembered a tan, green-eyed man, healthy and hale. Where the fuck has he gone? Dyr thought bitterly. Right. They killed him.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and turned away, towards a large washbasin. He slid one foot in, slowly, hissing at the heat. The other leg followed, and he sunk fully into the water. A quiet whimper escaped him as dirt and debris lifted from open sores. How long he stayed there in the water, carefully, painstakingly scraping months of filth from his skin, he wasn’t sure. When he finally heaved himself out of the tub to dump clean water over himself, the lantern was nearly out. He drew the wick up, and returned to the mirror.

The bath had done its work. His open wounds still glared at him, the next order of business. He fished through the small pack of supplies he’d been given; atop the fresh clothes he’d laid on a nearby chair. Dark blue thread and a sturdy needle surfaced, and he eyed the deep gash through his eyebrow critically. Might as well not keep showing folks my insides, he thought. And keep the dirt and bugs out. What a disgusting realization. Slowly, carefully, he stitched the skin back together over the bone with a few colorful curses. He worked his way down his body, each wound he could reach getting the same treatment.

When he was finished, he threw on the fresh clothes, and gave himself one last look in the mirror. A more familiar face looked back at him, skin still tan under the grime and gore, if gone pale with death. Dark hair clean and wet, and he could convince himself the stitching over his eye looked rakish. He tried a smile.

Not bad, for a dead man. Maybe I can do this.

(Part 5)

#Dyrihm #Discorpse

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sinsofaconfessor · 4 years

Text

Traegen part 3 (History Cont.)

Pandaria, On a distant plain from halfhill traversed a forsaken and a lich, animals and creatures quick to flee the smell of undeath. Traegen and Taknarian continued down a path with six men adorned in robes, necromancers packed and supplied with various potions and the like inside various satchels. Traegen and Taknarian conversing as they travelled. “ He Responds to the name Sid, he’s spent most of his current years as a mercenary, though records and reports date his scourge time of an elf with chains wrapped around his arms and torso, bound to a runeblade slaughtering innocents and warriors alike, breaking bodies and bones. The humans that escaped him heard whispers of undeath heralding him as ‘Barren the bloodless.’” The Lich was addressing Traegen, the echo of his voice calm and considerably interested. “ So he’s likely a hemomancer...A blood death knight, We’ll need to ensure we plan for beyond ordinary strength and other types of blood magic...You’ll be taking point this time while I find a vantage from behind him.” Traegens gloved hand went to his chin, contemplating the best plan of action. “Scared of a little damage?” Taknarian jabbed, almost mocking in tone. “Are you? With all that plated armor coating your enchanted bones and immortal phylactery protected body?” Traegen stared hard at the lich. There was a long pause as they continued to walk. Taknarain continued. “ Fine... I’ll keep him busy...If he doesn’t comply...I assume that’s when the necromancers come into play. I expect you to have my back.” “ I’ve no intention of deliberately letting one of the key come under unnessecary harm.” Another sharp look from Traegen to the lich. Cresting one hill, they spied the visage of what was likely their target, an elf clad in only legplates, a massive sword sheathed to his back on a scabbard clipped in place. He’d been patting a small sin’dorei girl with dark brown hair. Taknarian nodded to Traegen, melding into the shadows and traversing low across the grass of the plains. Taknarian grunted, looking back at the cultists following him. A slow stride brought the lich to approach the knight who simply smiled cheerily, wind sweeping across the land and causing all cloth to sway. Clouds slowly cresting the horizon of the mountains as if to make the evening overcast.The knight waved eagerly. “ Hoy lad! Yer a long way from home all big ‘n blue and boney!” Taknarian paused the the words, hesitant. Then he spoke again “ I’ve come to address the one that seeks to be called Sid. Are you he?” The elf grinned wider. “ Aye lad that’s me! Ol’ Sid! What’re y’doin’ out here lad? Looong way from Acherus!” Taknarian grunted. “ I’m not from Acherus.. “ The liches head turned to peer past the elf, watching the departing child head toward a house in the distance, a farm and home built from multiple stories, many lovely additions added. This was all the view the lich caught before Sid sidestepped in front of his view. “ Nothin’ but bad news back there....What’re ya lookin’ fer?” Traegen slipped behind Sid through the shadows, circling the elf and reviewing him for points of weakness. A blood death knight meant strength, if it came to a fight, he’d have to keep the elf from using his arms, his hands settled to the hilt of his swords. Taknarian responded. “ You....Elf, The Key has recognized your ability...they wish to offer you a chance at guiding all the mortal races to better lives, safer realms and the pursuit of advancement of all species...An elf with your abilities is wasted on mercenary work.” The lich seemed almost decent when it came to a diplomatic approach, it caused Traegen to hesitate. perhaps non-violent means could be ashewed? “Mercenary work? Naahhhh, I gave all that up years back.” The elf waved a dismissive hand. “ Now I found a bigger challenge..Watchin’ other peoples kids of various ages!” He gave to thumbs up, absolutely -beaming- Taknarian blinked, surprised by the response. “ The Key needs those like you, those with strength to earn themselves titles...One does not become called Barren the bloodless without considerable feats....do they?” The name uttered brought all that cheery demeanor to falter, a twitch and a hard -brutal- stare came from the elf. “....I’m going to give you an out, turn around and leave with your friends....” The clouds overcast grew thicker, ominous and yet....surely not caused by the elf. The Acolytes held ranks, keeping close to Taknarians flanks. The Lich began laughing, surveying the field. “ We -want- to recruit you, Barren. We will even overlook a few threats, but you alone won’t stop this. Take the right path and join us?” One of the cutltists stumbled, looking over the field, two of them looked over and began mumbling to one another. Traegen grunted. “ Are the cultists okay?” Taknarians response came through the comm. “ One of them tripped over a box in the field -are- you in position?..He’s not going for it we’re going to have to secure him. “ Taknarians blades readied, inching closer to Sid who had begun reaching for his runeblade. Traegen lunged! Ambushing the elf, both blades brandished and drawing cold steel, bearing down at the inside of Sids collarbone to pierce his body and keep his arms from moving, keeping tendons severed and hopefully keeping him from using his arms. Blood sprayed everywhere, the elfs body was pierced and ruptured like a balloon, a shocked look adorned the elfs face as blood leaked from his lips, a garbled desperate sounding cry before he fell backward, landing on the grass with the blades lodged deep inside him. His hand reached up before falling loose onto the grass. “ I got him! Let’s put him on ice and..” Traegen peered down at the elf, looking him over. He’d stopped moving....why did he stop moving? Taknarian stepped forward, massive metal plated boots moving as he approached. “ You killed him!?...WHY did you kill him! We can’t bring him back like he was before!” Traegen, panicked shouted back. “ He’s a death knight that shouldn’t kill him!” Taknarian growled again. “ He’s a second generation deathknight Traegen, they were turned into deathknights but most stayed alive!” “ WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT!!” “ It was in the report I thought you read it!” “ I didn’t get the report I just got the basics saying you had the details!” Somewhere was a mailman that was going to have his throat slit.

Traegen looked panicked over the body he reached down, crouching over the body to remove one of the blades. “ Fuck..Wasted all our time for no tradeoff.” As the blade slipped from the elfs still-bleeding body, the seemingly dead body twitched, one hand flopped up to settle onto Traegens arm.

He paused, was...that coincidence? The answer came moments later, the fingers gripped his shoulder. Tighter, then tighter, an instant became an eon, the elfs eyes turned to lock onto Traegen. His head shot up, fingers tightened entirely over his shoulder, pressure pulling on the tendons, fresh ligaments ripping from the forsakens form. Traegens death had been a clean one, when the instant came there was still flesh to be ripped off the bone, gore to be removed and coagulated blood still stagnant and oozing from the hole. ‘Sid’ had risen from his faux death, mumbling to the forsaken. “ Trade’ya.” The act was violent and without remorse, Most of Traegens body was hurled back over the grass, safe for one arm ripped from it’s socket and from his body. He struggled backward and grabbed at the gap. The instant in time faded back into normalcy as the shock struck him for the first time. “ Traegen! Get back!” “Gonna beat yer asses lad!” “ The box has a gun!”

.....Chaos had ensued.

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valkyrieofardyn · 5 years

Text

A Dream of Peace

A different universe where Ardyn was not rejected wholly by the Crystal and Gods, nor the people. He was not alone and imprisoned all those long two thousand years. (Originally written prior to ep Ardyn DLC/anime trailer releases)

My contribution to the, To Our Dear Ardyn Zine, headed by @ryuuza-art

WC: 1,986 Fluff with a little angst

Masterlist AO3

“Daemon!”

“Deceiver!”

“False King!”

Ardyn tries to outrun the curses. Pushing against people he once called friends, as they close in around him. Faces once familiar contorted in disgust and shame everywhere he looked.

He attempts to speak, to yell, that they were wrong. He isn’t all those terrible things. It was a mistake...but there is no air in his lungs. There is nothing but his heart pounding out of his chest. Scrambling away from the hands dragging him down, down to the light.

NO! He can’t go back to the light. They can’t see what is hiding inside. Again. They need to forget the black ichor churning beneath his skin. Oozing out of his mouth and eyes like the daemons he saved them from.

Damn the light.

Swiping wildly, Ardyn breaks free with a snarl, running for the looming darkness. In the shadows, they wouldn’t be able to see. It promises to hold his secret, saving him from the gallows.

“Ardyn—”

Embracing him into its numbing expanse, the dark whispers burrow into his soul. Here he was not forsaken, but a cherished vessel. Unlimited power available to seek vengeance. Bringing the world, it’s own dark peace. For what good is it now? Having let him down after all he has done? Just let go, accept, and it will all be his.

Eyes wide but unseeing in the black, Ardyn shakes his head. This isn’t the kind of peace he wants, but the darkness pulls him further down like an undertow. Swirling him around until he has no idea where to find the light. It may burn him, but it was better than the horrible future he saw. A world full of daemons that he alone resides in. For eternity…

“Shhh, I am here. Ardyn I’m here.”

Warmth tingles across Ardyn's forehead. Turning away from the cold shadows he searches for more—there! Like a mid-morning mist, the receding darkness reveals a fuzzy silhouette. Further warmth cups his cheeks, dispelling the remaining black tendrils hold. Mind and eyes clear of the daemons within, Ardyn releases a shaky breath.

That's right. The Scourge he houses isn’t in control, and not ALL forsook him. Hovering before his face is his savior. The only reason he didn’t give into darkness and despair after all these years. A guiding light that he never strays far from for sanity's sake.

“Are you back with me?”

The question is whispered with a brush of fingers across Ardyn’s cheek. Closing his eyes, Ardyn leans into the caress. No nightmares of years past surface behind his eyelids this time. For overshadowing all else is your unconditional love and support.

“I shall ever return at your beckoning dearest,” Ardyn mumbles, allowing the peace of your presence to sink all the way into his bones. “You never fail in pulling me out from the mire of daemons with that voice of yours.”

Moving to lay beside him, you wrapped Ardyn in an embrace. Holding him close to your chest as you run your fingers along his scalp. Soothing the tension that always lingers whenever the scourge made an effort to take control. “I wasn’t so sure this time. You didn't answer for so long and the darkness...it knows the end is coming soon, doesn’t it?” you ask, placing a kiss on top of Ardyn’s tousled maroon hair.

Even with a heavy heart, you smile. Noting the multiple wild strands that would be resistant to any sort of taming. An attempt you would have to make soon. Wouldn’t due for Ardyn to meet the last King of Lucis while looking like a vagabond.

Sighing, Ardyn nestles further into you, tugging you close with both an arm and leg. Wrapped around you like a pretzel, Ardyn grumbles, “Yes it does. Ever since the Crystal declared that boy as the next Chosen, their presence has been pushing. Trying harder than ever before to take control.” Inhaling deeply, your scent as familiar as his own purges the darkness further. “But it never will as long as you continue to suffer my presence,” Ardyn said teasingly with a dusting of kisses on the exposed skin beneath his lips.

“I have suffered it for so long now, I wouldn’t know what to do without it,” you chuckled. Nudging lightly with your shoulder, Ardyn obliges to lean back and look at you after a couple stolen kisses up your neck. “All the way to the end I’ll be by your side,” you said with sincerity, holding Ardyn’s gaze. A truth you both know, but one you know he appreciates hearing.

For long minutes you both lay entwined. Enjoying the simplicity of each others presence while the light penetrating through the blinds shifts from grey to gold. The still quite interrupted by only birds greeting the new day and the beat of your heart beneath Ardyn’s ear.

Out of all the moments he has shared with you in immortality, these are his favorite. Endless quiet mornings where it was easy to forget the rest of the world. To believe that he was already in paradise, his cursed duty complete and allowed to actually rest in peace.

With a silent prayer Ardyn thanks the divine for you, as he does every day. If the Astrals had left him to wander the world alone with his damned destiny (their mistake), he would not be as he is now. The bitter anger from being cast away like a mongrel by his brother and shunned by the people he saved would have consumed him. And then soon after the daemons would've had their fill...Instead, you, the one whose lifespan is connected to his, helped clear away that early hurt and resentment. Preventing any rotten roots forming in his heart. Leaving Ardyn content to wait for the next chosen who would free Eos from the Scourge he held in check as much as possible.

That wait is almost over now. An alarming but also relieving thought. You both had talked about the end many times through the centuries and made your peace long before Prince Noctis took his first breath. There was no fear, but anticipation for what awaited you both in the realm where immortality wouldn’t feel like a burden.

Hugging you closer, the call of peaceful dreams is too alluring for Ardyn to resist. Snuggling down, he decides to nap away the morning. Or tries to.

Just as a pleasant daydream begins, you shift out from underneath Ardyn. Leaving him in dazed confusion and a little miffed that your form was not beside him anymore. “Where are you going dear?” Ardyn asks in the low sultry tone he knows to be your weakness. It was his best chance to coax you back to his side. Nothing good comes from you getting out of bed before him.

“Well, I figure we might as well go for a jog since we’re up so early. Giving us time to feed the chocobos and have breakfast before leaving,” you said distractedly while, to Ardyn’s disappointment, cover up with clothes not suitable for relaxing. It was indeed worse than he expected, his siren call had no effect.

Dramatically Ardyn smashed his face into his pillow with a heartfelt moan. “Why do you subject me to such cruel humanity?”

Although muffled by down feathers, Ardyn’s whine was not lessened in the least. In all the years Ardyn has never gotten over his love for lazing away the morning in bed, and you just shake your head in amusement. Why would he stop now?

“Exercise is a good practice, and it’s what has kept you from becoming a stiff immortal,” you chided, making sure Ardyn had a clear view of your ornery expression. “Also, it will be good to be limber before meeting King Noctis. He may want to challenge your claim of being his relation.”

“Hmph,” Ardyn snorted but tossed away the covers and rolled out of bed. There was no way he was going to win this battle today. There was a chance Noctis would need proof of who he was since he has kept to the shadows from the time of his exile. Avoiding his family and the Crystal...but being forgotten has been quite helpful in hiding his immortality. “I can never argue with your sound logic,” Ardyn sighed in teasing defeat as he took the clothes you held out for him. “But I do hope Noctis challenges me. Would be boring otherwise.”

With an appealing smile, you pat Ardyn on the shoulder and deftly avoid his grabbing hands that would definitely slow down your morning momentum. “Oh Ardyn, no situation is ever boring when you're involved,” you chuckled over your shoulder. Leaving your immortal partner grumbling as he got dressed.

As predicted the meeting with King Noctis Lucis Caelum wasn’t boring at all, but that really had nothing to do with Ardyn. There was no magnificent show of magic or exposition of words to declare himself as the Accursed. Noctis greeted him as such. Of course not in any rude manner, but he made it clear that he not only knew who Ardyn was but had also been waiting for him, the man beneath the title. His “covert” continuation in removing the scourge and taming the daemons through the ages had not gone unnoticed...or it had, until the very inquisitive and smart advisor to the Chosen King decided to unearth just exactly what “darkness” was to be defeated.

After the initial disbelief, Ardyn couldn’t help but feel a little dissatisfied with the turn of events. His (and yours) grand entrance and exit, expected for thousands of years, was simplified to an intellectual discussion over tea. The King and his Oracle (Lady Lunafreya not so coincidentally being present in the Crown City) explaining how they found a way to purge the darkness without the cost of life. Fulfilling the asked for blood price in a metaphorical fashion. To say the least, this generation's ingenuity was impressive.

It didn’t take long for Ardyn to realize you had a hand in the setup. That coy smirk of yours telling him all he needed to know. Really, you never stopped looking out for him. Always hoping he would be recognized for his works and treated fairly. And it appears, at the supposed end, your wishes were being granted. The one who was meant to destroy Ardyn (the Scourges host) was not only offering a continuation of life but also freedom from divinity. Peace. Able to grow old and pass away as a natural creature of Eos.

Such warmth radiated throughout Ardyn’s body after leaving the Citadel. (The meeting ending with the agreement to meet the next day and discuss when to put the plan into motion. Noctis still needing to acquire covenants with the Astrals and Ascend) Hand in hand with you, Ardyn’s mind began to imagine things he hadn’t allowed himself to before. Staying in one place longer than ten years and setting down roots. Continuing to expand the black Chocobo sanctuary yourselves. Children...Oh yes. Ardyn’s heart felt ready to burst from his chest. The journey into the beyond would have to wait several more decades for you two. There was so much to be done and experience once time began again.

Seeing Ardyn in joyful bliss and sharing in it, you squeeze his hand. The curses burden already seeming to be lifted from his shoulders, the recent tightness around his eyes lessened. It took a while for the Chosen to arrive, but you would’ve waited a thousand years more to get the same ending. Returning his blinding smile with your own, you ask a question you know the answer to. “Are you happy with this ending?”

“More than you can ever know,” Ardyn answers earnestly, amber eyes twinkling in the sun. With a squeeze of your hand he adds, “but then again, I suppose you do.”

A/N: Thank you for reading and please check out many of the other great works in the Zine :) So happy and thankful I got to be a part of this zine and all the love it poured onto Ardyn.

To Our Dear Ardyn Zine Download

#ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn x reader #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #tried to keep reader's gender nonspecific #comfort and fluff #happy ending for ardyn #alternate universe #dear ardyn zine #love this poor angry man

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