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ammocharis · 3 years

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Avvar History Reconstruction, Part 2

In this part, I’d like to pose a couple of questions: where exactly did Tyrdda’s tribe live? Why did she decide to break away from the Alamarri? Where did her people go? The answers are not as straightforward as it may seem.

The Seven Magisters weren’t the first people who tried to get into the Golden City.

Read >Part 1<

The next major event in the timeline was the separation of the Avvar from the rest of the Alamarri tribes.

-1815 Ancient: The Alamarri living near Lake Calenhad break away, becoming known as the Avvar. The two groups war with each other for centuries.[1]

The reason why Tyrdda chose to break away from the Alamarri was a conflict with Thelm Gold-Handed, a chieftain who subjugated multiple lesser tribes.

(As a side note, Lake Calenhad obviously wasn’t known as such in the times before Calenhad, who lived during the Exalted Age - some 2300 years later. I’ll continue calling it Lake Calenhad so as not to cause too much confusion.)

“Thelm Gold-Handed, fingers greasy, jeweled rings with glitter shone,

Took in tribes in times of trouble, fed them fat to weaken bone.

Warriors great and great in number, sun-kissed swords to fight his wars

Drake-scaled shirts their bodies covered, heart-wine stained the salty shores.

Told his tribes a tale of treasure, over sea to north it gleamed,

Whispered words to drive the droves to golden city where he dreamed.

Counseled quick in dreams alone,

Voices wiser man ignores,

Pushed the tribes until they screamed,

Heed the dreams and cross the Waking.”[2]

As we can see, Thelm wished to cross the Waking Sea and collect a treasure within the golden city he had been promised by mysterious voices in his dreams. It appears that he controlled a large territory lying by the sea.

Personally, I subscribe to a theory that Kirkwall was the place where the Magister Sidereal breached the Veil to get to the Golden City. I won’t elaborate on the details here, but it’s a widely popular theory so I invite you to read about it on your own, if you haven’t come across it already. I mention it here because I believe that Thelm was one of the first people who were influenced by whatever is lurking inside the Golden City, and he was being prompted to follow the same steps as the Seven Magisters, which includes finding an entrance to the Fade - an it just so happens that a there’s a suitable location, atop the Primeval Thaig, near the place where the City of Chains would once be built. Kirkwall is located north of the Fertile Valley, across the Waking Sea. Perhaps Thelm was contacted in his dreams because the area he controlled was located in the vicinity of a possible Fade entrance.

I’d also like to point out that Tyrdda was aware that the gilded city was nothing but a lie, a trap for the greedy. She received a warning from the Lady of the Skies.

We’re told that prior to the separation movement, Tyrdda’s tribe lived near the Lake that is now known as Lake Calenhad, but that’s the extent of the information we’re given. I want to propose a somewhat counterintuitive idea and say that Tyrdda’s tribe inhabited an area to the east of the Lake, not west.

Figure 3. Green area - tribes led by Thelm Gold-Handed Blue area - tribes led by Tyrdda Bright-Axe (Disclaimer: All maps included in this write-up are meant to represent only rough estimations of areas that might’ve fallen under the influence of various tribes that belong to the Alamarri cultural group. These are not firm borders.)

Firstly, the Saga of Tyrdda mentions that:

“Tyrdda Bright-Axe, bold and bloodied, took her tribe from placid plains Tribes with blades by farming blunted chased and fought, their parting pains.”[3]

Which makes me think that her tribe lived in the Fertile Valley proper. West of the Lake is already a mountainous region, judging by the way it’s depicted on Thedosian maps.

Figure 4. Lake Calenhad and the surrounding area on the Inquisition map

Furthermore, it stands to reason that the region controlled by Tyrdda was adjacent to the lands under Thelm’s rule, which, as I explained before, appear to have been located in the northernmost part of the Fertile Valley. Thelm was aiming to gather a massive number of warriors in order to cross the Waking Sea and claim the riches of the Golden City for himself. Naturally, he would first look for “allies” in the neighbouring tribes.

And so Tyrdda abandoned the other Alamarri tribes and led her people away from the plains.

“To the mountains, shorn of shelter, snow-slicked peaks gave wind its bite”[4]

Here I’d also like to pose another theory - Tyrdda didn’t lead her tribe west, to the area that’s considered the Frostbacks in modern Thedas. Instead, she took them south, following the shores of the Lake, until they reached the place that is now known as the Hinterlands. Let me explain why.

In Dragon Age: Inquisition, we explore a mountainous region called the Hinterlands, specifically the part that surrounds the settlement of Redcliffe. A storyteller encountered in the village describes it as such “Even before the sky fell open, this was a land of spirits and demons. Magic grows wild in the hills of Redcliffe.” During the exploration, we can find landmarks that reveal the Saga of Tyrdda Bright-Axe. After discovering all stanzas, a war table mission becomes available, titled “Locate Weapon of Tyrdda Bright-Axe”. Sister Dorcas Guerrin, a Fereldan scholar, explains that:

“The rich oral tradition of the Avvar has been largely lost, leaving only these rune-marked fragments. [...] Based on marker runes left at each of these locations, I may be able to find the site where Tyrdda’s legendary axe is located.”[5]

So it appears that there are Avvar marker runes sprinkled around the Hinterlands, which point to a place where Tyrdda’s staff, along with her other earthly possessions, were stored. It leads me to believe that the Avvar had presence in the Hinterlands after they separated from the Alamarri, since the Saga of the Avvar-Mother describes events from Tyrdda’s life up until her death. When Tyrdda died, her tribesmen (perhaps with the help from dwarves, as Tyrdda had allied with prince Hendir) installed marker runes in the Hinterlands that if combined together would reveal a path to the site where Tyrdda’s relics had been safely put away. This vault was located in another part of the highlands, but it’s unclear where exactly. In my mind, it just makes sense that the marker runes would be left in the place where the Avvar tribe settled after they separated from the Alamarri.

(As a side note, the Avvar do cultivate their oral traditions. Tyrdda’s identity as a mage wasn’t a shock to them - “the Avvar were completely unsurprised by Tyrdda being a mage. While it was lost to Fereldan history, it was evidently taken as an unspoken truth among the Avvar.”[6])

Figure 5. The region where the Avvar might’ve settled after separating from the rest of the Alamarri

Another argument for why the Hinterlands were the place the Avvar relocated to is the tree dedicated to Tyrdda’s lover, which can be found on Dennet’s horse farm.

“The farmers remember the old ways and the old blood, and we’ll honor that [...] If the farmers want to leave that tree to honor Tyrdda’s leaf-eared lover, we’ll let it be, and whatever we lose from the land, we’ll gain in loyalty.”[7]

The age of the tree in question is unknown, I would assume it’s not from Tyrdda’s time since it’d have to be over 2500 years old (though it’s possible, the oldest known tree on Earth was almost 5000 years old) but it’s still a sign of the Avvar beliefs being present in the area for a substantial amount of time. Admittedly, the Alamarri also believed in the Lady of the Skies, though in this case, the importance seems to be attached to the deity being Tyrdda’s lover specifically, not the goddess of the skies.

In Jaws of Hakkon, Scout Lace Harding mentions that when she was a little girl “a lady in our village used to tell me Avvar tales” which is yet another hint of the Avvar influence on the Hinterlands, as Harding was born and raised in a settlement located near Redcliffe.

I imagine that for the Avvar lore to become so ingrained in the Hinterlands, the Avvar had to be present in the area for a long time, well after their separation from the Alamarri. I theorize they held it at least until the times of chieftain Morrighan’nan who lived around -355 Ancient (more on her and the area she might’ve controlled in Part 4).

To sum up - I think that “Frostback Mountains” used to refer to a much wider area. The highlands located west and south of the Lake were all included in its definition, while “Fertile Valley” was the name of the lowlands east and north of the Lake. When the Alamarri tribes first crossed the mountains, they settled in the Valley, and the Frostbacks remained largely uninhabited until the Avvar took them as their home.

Figure 6.

Redefining regions Blue area - Frostback Mountains Green area - Fertile Valley

Next up - did the Avvar completely disappear from the Fertile Valley?

Sources:

[1] Dragon Age: The World of Thedas, vol. 1, p. 13

[2][3][4] Codex entry: Saga of Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar-Mother

[5] War Table mission: Locate Weapon of Tyrdda Bright-Axe

[6] War Table mission: Send Relics of Tyrdda Bright-Axe

[7] Note: Tyrdda's Lover, written by Elaina to her husband, horsemaster Dennet

#dragon age #dragon age lore #avvar #alamarri #theory #theorycrafting #fictional history #tyrdda bright-axe #avvar history reconstruction #part 2

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fineosaur · 3 years

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first line game

thank you for the tags @littlerockerao3 and @salty-wench, i haven’t done one of these in a while and this one was super fun to compile (fair warning this IS quite long)

rules: list the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). see if there are any patterns. choose your favourite opening line. then tag 10 of your favourite authors.

pieces of you stuck on me (but i’m careless and i’m wicked) -- a rickon x lyanna fwb multichap

He’d woken up alone, something he was often used to, but in the last months, he had grown more accustomed to waking up beside just one particular person. More or less a year if he was being honest with himself. But he wasn’t completely alone either, he was just alone in her bed.

we both coincide (when the world’s wasting time) -- a rickon x lyanna story that shows their relationship spanning over a few years

The moon is already out when he still finds himself at her side. She’s solid and warm in his embrace, swaying lazily with him to the strumming harp and the melodic voice that sing the words that seem to weave their way in his head, taking root as he tries to focus on just being there with her.

in the highlands of our dreams -- a single dad!rickon x lyanna fic that’s a lot on the softer side than my usual work

Most of his life had felt like there was an errant thumb on the fast forward button. At times he knew it had much to do with the way his thoughts often ran too fast, and even with long enough legs to chase them, they just kept their brisk pace. Other times, he wasn’t so much to blame.

watch me wary -- a rickon x lyanna fic where rickon goes off the grid for a few years and has to come back to face his family (aka rickon’s apology tour)

“You’re late again, kid.”

He rolled his eyes despite the verity in the statement. Pulling off his helmet, he held a hand out to shake the shorter man’s hand.

watch me wary (prequel) [title in progress] -- set in the stormlands 2 years after rickon leaves home and involves him falling in love with steffon seaworth

There was a feeling between relief and guilt that followed leaving home. Often times thought of as ‘running away’ or ‘disappearing’, at least ‘leaving home’ sounded so much more tempered.

an empire for two -- a canon-divergent robb x theon & rickon x lyanna fic which involves established throbb and an arranged marriage for lyckon

It was warmer inside the castle. It always was; with the hot water from the springs running through its walls, the castle lived and breathed through each change of season, chilling winters and weeping summers, not buckling for any.

where the stars do not take sides -- a oneshot set in a canon-divergent setting where rickon x lyanna spend a few last hours of peace together before they return to war

The snow falls around them rather gracefully. There’s often peace in the Godswood, and the distant howls of the wolves do nothing to deter from that. Though nightfall has come and its chill alike, they stand stiffly facing one another.

be with you -- a rickon x steffon oneshot that shows their relationship as well as how they fell in love

The floor manages to feel warm despite the hour. If he thinks hard enough, he guesses that they’re one of the only two left there.

His father’s office is littered in papers, stacks of words that blur into one with his boredom. Really what keeps him going is the way the man in front of him continues to push his mop of brown hair back, no matter how many times it falls back into his face as he leans over the glass desk.

sight for sore eyes -- mixed pov which has tommen pining for rickon who is pining for lyanna — true heather style

There’s a moment of reprieve that comes once the moon has passed its apex. Its scattered light plays amongst the stars that pepper the sky and the hazy streetlights that guide them through the night.

to feel like gold -- a lyanna x myrcella oneshot where myrcella chooses to indulge in a little rebellion with the girl that’s been on her mind for months

The room is almost too bright for her liking. It hardly fits her resentment. The brisk night air streaming through her windows suits her well enough, rippling over her arms in goosebumps as she feels the frown between her eyebrows deepen.

forest fires -- an arya x gendry oneshot set with a lunar eclipse and a brief moment of repose for the couple

The night’s brisk breeze doesn’t unsettle him like it used to.

It’s still cold though. The wind makes the hair on his arms stand up and he wonders why he hadn’t thought to wear a jumper over his thin cotton t-shirt.

help! -- a stark family -smutty crack fic- that involves ned and cat accidentally stumbling into each one of their kids in precarious situations with their partners

It almost felt like nothing had changed like her children were all still children. Like they’d never flown the coup. But as she stood there, holding a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, she knew that a lot had changed, that every one of her kids had grown up, fallen in love and were seemingly happy. It flooded her with such relief to know so, though the still gentle tug at her heart was there, telling her that her babies would no longer run to her begging to be held after a nightmare.

it’s all hope -- canon compliant robb x theon oneshot that involves a love confession before theon sets off to pyke

Much like the fire within the hearth that beckoned him with its flickering warmth, he felt disquiet within himself.

The air felt thick, far more humid than that of the North’s. He could easily make out the Red Fork by where he stood, pulling at the laces of his tunic. It unsettled him, the rushing water, so fresh, unlike the brine of his home.

take one last look back-- a jon x satin drabble where the couple has a little spat in the car

The wind becomes distracting. With the way it whistles through his ears, blowing at those perfect curls of his, it even makes it abundantly clear how much his eyes sting.

When he leans back in his seat, his eyes meet the rearview mirror, where he can see his grey eyes, dark and stormy, the perfect juxtaposition to the gleaming sun that threatens a headache.

second nature -- a rickon x lyanna drabble that has a drunk rickon confessing his affections for his best friend, lyanna

She’s sitting in her car with one leg crossed when she sees him take a minute to check each side of the road before crossing. It’s 4 am, her car is really the only one on the road.

Her car is flanked on the side of the road and it’s completely unsurprising that his first instinct is to lower himself to her opened window and flash his stupidly white grin at her.

a troubled mind -- a robb x theon oneshot, after his parents’ deaths, robb overloads himself with responsibility and on the verge of falling apart he seeks comfort in the one person who’s always been there for him

He’s never gotten the opportunity to let it all get to him. There’s never been time for it. Not when there’s always been at least one other person that needs the safety his arms provide.

It’s part of being the oldest son, he tells himself far too often.

calmest wave -- an arya x gendry drabble, a post-show canon fix it where the couple are parents in the stormlands

The shattering waves could still be heard, breaking onto the rocky coast of Shipbreaker’s Bay, even from where they walked, with withered leaves crumbling underfoot.

There was tranquillity within the godswood, interspersed by the humidity carried across the Summer Sea and yet he still felt a breeze pick up, cooling him down as he gently held the small hand in his palm.

you were just dancing on your own -- an arya x gendry drabble where arya seeks comfort with gendry after a bad night

It’s still dark when Arya wakes up in her car; windshield covered in a think layer sleet. Her teeth chatter as she pulls her jumper tighter around herself, yellow haze in her eyes from the streetlights.

She’s in the passenger seat of her car, seat pushed back the most it can go. Her heater doesn’t work, no matter how much she bruises her knuckles against the vents.

high, high love -- an arya x gendry oneshot - set in the pieces of you stuck on me universe. after a few years away, arya returns to the man who she’s always loved

She had been back in Winterfell barely two weeks, in a way, things fell into place, though it was in the most disjointed way possible.

Arya found her footing, day by day, acclimating to the changes she had missed, she had to anyway; this was her family, and no matter how much they had changed, how many things she had missed, they made her feel like home, and she was back home now, for good.

stubborn-hearted blue -- an arya x gendry oneshot where arya moves into the same building as a man she had a fwb arrangement during her college days

She was still adjusting to life in the new city.

Arya hadn’t been in the Riverlands since university, and at this point, it felt like a lifetime ago, a distant memory, more like a dream. But now she had been back for almost a month and boxes still littered her living room, still waiting to be unpacked. between her new job and just trying not to pass out as soon as she was back home, there wasn’t much room for unpacking.

okay WOW i cant believe that managed to date back to over a year. this is pretty much a whole year of my writing summarised in opening lines.

if it isnt obvious, about half of these have yet to be posted, but this was still fun to give a little teaser for those ones.

i’ll be tagging @yanak324, @evax3, @selkiedams, @livhatesolives, @lightninginabottle0613, @watersandwolves, @estrangedandwayward, @jeynepoole, @sneetchstar, @treaddelicately, @bobafettsslut, @nalgenewhore

also, hi! enjoy!

ps, i hope everyone is taking care of themselves and keeping safe x

#i havent been active much in a long time #this is the most active ive been in the last 6 months and that's because im back in lockdown #i think i now have a lot more time for this stuff now that life isnt as fast paced as it has been for the last year #tag games #my writing #rickon x lyanna #robb x theon #jon x satin #rickon x tommen #arya x gendry #gendrya #lyckon #throbb #jonsatin #asoiaf fanfiction

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what-the--curtains · 3 years

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Alliance

Chapter 1 – The Bounty

Summary: The child has fallen into the arms of the infamous Black Sun crime organization. In order to get him back they offer the Mandalorian a trade, one life for another.

Authors notes/warning: Heres the first part hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you want to be tagged! Also there one weirdly large space inbetween two paragraphs I blame the app. TW: blood, swearing, humans being sold

Tagged list: @crazycookiecrumbles

Word count: 4.0K

Galactic Core, Coruscant

Mandos POV

The Mandalorian walks quickly along the pavement of the galaxy’s capital planet moving between the diverse cast of races skirting in and out the doors of the skyscrapers lining the streets. He’s in a hurry, he’s not here for business or pleasure. He is here for the only thing that matters, the child. He had been taken by the Black Sun crime syndicate. If he wasn’t so concerned for the child’s well-being, he’d be embarrassed at having lost him to a band of mercenaries and gangsters. He enters into the underground bunker pushing open the doors, knocking out a guard in the process.

“Where is he?” the modulated voice reverberates through the empty hall.

“Petulance will get you nowhere Mando.” A sharp voice fills the air as a woman appears from a nearby hallway, she’s tall, slender, green, almost reptilian in appearance . Her dark black hair was fashioned into a high ponytail. It was Savan, the niece of the recently deceased Prince Xizor and the leader of the Black Sun crime organization.

“Where is he” the Mandalorian asks again, this time hovering his hand over his blaster.

“Let’s try this again,” the voice says “keeping in mind you hold no cards here.”

“What do you want Savan?” He asks.

“ A simple favour really and knowing your reputation I believe an agreement between the two of us can be reached.” She walks down towards him, black nails gently dragging along his armour as she circles behind him. “In layman’s terms, you do something for me and I will do something for you.” Her hand stops on his chest plate.

“Armours not for sale” He states flatly. She tuts.

“I would never ask a Mandalorian to break his creed. No I speak of your ability as a bounty hunter. I know you do not work for free, but I believe you will make an exception for such precious cargo” she says summoning the egg, revealing the child “I assume we have a deal.”

“Let me speak with him then yes.”

“Any move out of line, even one step, the child dies. You understand?” He nods and heads over to the bassinette.

“Hey kid, I’ll be back for you soon, don’t give them too much trouble” he says, lovingly stroking the kids head ”What do you need?” he asks standing up.

“Money, unfortunately credits are far and few between since Xizor's death. I have heard whispers of an asset that I believe will sell for a high price on the black market, putting the Black Sun back on top. A witch of Vryssa. I am assuming you can link her location from the name. The planet is located in the outer rim territories, Dalicron sector, the coordinates are K-19. If you are not back within five days I will assume you have failed.”

“I won’t” he deadpans.

“Many have said the same thing yet here we are. Whoever this so called witch is, she is dangerous”

“Must be a valuable asset, to expend so many men.”

“You have no idea,” Savan says. “Now go, five days Mandalorian, or the child’s future will fall into my hands.”

He exits the Black Suns headquarters. If this witch was as dangerous as Savan was to have him believe then he’d be grateful for another set of hands.

Landing on Navarro, he makes his way over to the bar, hoping to find who he’s looking for. He enters into a crowd cheering on what appears to be a drinking contest, placing a gold bar on the counter and pushing it towards the two contestants, “Moneys on the soldier.” Slamming down an empty glass, Cara Dune wipes her mouth and exclaims “Mando! What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Looking for some help on a job.” He retorts.

“Well you came to the right place. How can I be of assistance.” He explains the situation and the two make their way to the Razor Crest. “You know the bounty hunter Fett, heard he went to Vryssa, took out a whole city to get someone. Heard him talk about buldobeasts, some kind of invisible creature that could rip you limb from limb” she says with a wicked smile.

“This your way of asking me how much the job pays?”

“Maybe” she says sitting down in the seat next to him.

“Nothing, not for me, got some credits with your name on them though, if we're successful.”

“Please Mando, when have we ever failed?” She laughs “You think it’s really a witch” she ponders.

“I don’t even know what a witch is.” he says, landing the ship.

Outer rim, Vryssa

“Well must be nice” Cara says, exiting the ship and looking around.

“What?” He asks, dropping down from the ship's belly.

“Not having the worst ship in the lot.” She laughs, the visor turns to her offering an undeniable look of annoyance. She’s right, but he’d never admit it. The ship stands out amongst the low brow technology of the planet. An outcrop, barely touched by the hand of the empire or the republic, nothing more than a refueling station. A good place to hide he thinks. They enter a run-down inn, Cara taps on the front desk getting the keeper's attention “We're looking for a girl.”

“Not that kind of establishment. Try down the road.” The Mandalorian grabs the guy by the collar, usually he’d be more diplomatic, but this was a time sensitive job.

“He doesn’t like to ask twice,” Cara says, “a woman, a so-called witch, ring any bells.”

“Ay she’s a myth nothing more than a rumour to scare children away from the woods. There’s no magic here.” Dropping the guy on his feet and brushing him off the Mandalorian exits the bar with Cara behind him in search of the woods.

“It’s a whole forested planet, you should have asked the guy which woods he meant.” Cara exclaims in frustration. Before the Mandalorian can respond a small figure belonging to a Gree woman appears.

“I know of whom you seek. My name’s Miwa and I'll tell ya where to find your witch, for a price.”

“The price is your life” He says, hand reaching to his blaster.

“Fair enough,” she says, slightly disappointed, but seemingly unsurprised, “Old woman landed, maybe 25 years ago, didn’t say a word. She had a baby, wandered off into the forest, never seen again. Some people claim to hear her in the woods messing with their heads, least they get too close. Others say she turned into a buldobeast preying on any who enter the woods without her permission. I’ve heard claims that she sacrificed the child in order to gain eternal youth, think that’s why we keep seeing you lot show up. They think her blood can elongate life.”

“Where’s the last place she was seen?” Mando asks, not interested in fables and myths. The Gree gesture for them to follow her, she leads them to a small pathway. “This is where they go in, she must be worth a fortune, for the trouble she’s worth.” Miwa says as Cara and Mando enter the woods. With each step the path seems to shrink and the trees seemingly get taller, the two moons offering little in ways of light.

“You believe in folk tales Mando?” Cara ask, he gives her a look of disbelief

“Hey don’t judge I didn’t until we got in here” she says. He pauses, pulling out his scope, in the distance he sees a small stone cabin, seemingly empty. The perimeters littered with armour, and what he can only assume are the remains of the bounty hunters it once belonged to. He offers it to Cara and she looks through it. “Shit” she mutters

“Hopefully, she won’t be expecting two of us” he replies.

Your POV

You stride through the forest weaving between the large conifers. They stretch high, blocking out the light emitted from the twin moons, they’re old, as old as the planet itself. You’re in pursuit of your next meal, a juvenile Acalay that you’ve been tracking for miles. The large crustaceans were introduced to the forests when an incompetent smuggler forgot to lock their gate while refueling in a time before the empire. They have roamed the forests ever since, but they have become far and few between in recent years, due in part to their popularity in gladiatorial battles. For an untrained hunter their size would be intimidating, but your grandmother had taught you the way long ago, so for you its size indicated months worth of food. Silence was key, one wrong move, one misstep, one branch cracking, and one of its six claws would snap you in half like the twig that gave you away. You had taken out larger ones at a younger age. Yes, your grandmother had taught you how to hunt, how to track, how to feel the earth around you

She had also taught you about your mother, who died saving you and your father executed for not revealing your whereabouts. As a child she would tell you that you were one of the galaxy's best kept secrets. Quickly, you realized you were not like the other children and as you continued to grow the puzzle of your past was slowly pieced together. She would tell you stories of the old war, and how it came to be. How your mother fought against a cult in order to maintain a balance in the universe. With each new revelation you became increasingly aware that your existence was to be kept hidden. On your eightieth birthday your grandmother explained how your mother was a jedi and that you shared her gift, an ability to use the force. That’s why you were here on this planet, for safekeeping. She told you she had been training you in the ways of the jedi, as she had trained your mother, and that she would continue to do so until her time came. So you lived alone, here amongst the trees. Well, not completely alone, a small vulptice kept you company. It was adapted to a forest environment with a body of roots, a belly covered in deep green moss and grass growing over top. Every spring it would bloom flowers of brilliant colours. You had named it Anya and it had been your companion, and closest friend over the years. The mysticism of your grandmother's arrival had sparked rumors, ones that stretched far and wide. The locals had labelled her a witch, and you had become a legend of sorts. These rumors brought outsiders, with their flashy weapons and armour hard as steel. Since your grandmother's passing it had only gotten worse. Fortunately, you were an able fighter, primed to win even when up against advanced weaponry. Those who had doubted your abilities now littered the path to your house. A warning to those who would come sooner or later. You remember her words as you spot your target, “Breath child, put your focus on the tip of the arrow, listen to the breeze and it will guide you.” you lift the arrow stretching the sinew chord back until your thumb brushes against your nose. You're about to loose the arrow when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Someone’s here. You rush back leaping through the branches, silently moving towards your home. You stop above the stone cottage, staring down you see a tall figure approaching. It moves towards the door, avoiding the helmets and bones of those who came before. Silently you float to the ground, taking aim you make your presence known “drop the blaster”. Your voice cuts through the silence and the figure turns around. A Mandalorian. Your grandmother had told you of the Mandalorian race, this would not be an easy task. Mandos POV Placing the blaster on the floor, he slowly turns around, where had she come from? He hadn’t heard anyone approaching, normally he was more in tune with his surroundings. He must be distracted. Slowly he turns around, prepared to face whatever awaits him, but as his gaze sets on you he’s taken aback. You weren't an old lady or a wicked creature, but a young woman. The light of the two moons revealed the features of your face unobscured by the brown cloak that was loosely wrapped around you. The light’s enough to make out a glimmer of purple in the eyes, a strand of white hair and faint purple markings etched along your cheek and brow bones. “Why are you here” you ask, voice level, emotionless. “Don’t even think about it.” you interject before he can answer your first question, or make a grab for a concealed weapon. “I see 15 points of entry for this arrow 4 of which will hit vital organs. The closest hospital worth any salt is a planet away. I don’t know what brought you here but you should leave. Now.” “I cant” he responds

“Then I’m sorry” you respond. Before you have time to loose the arrow, Cara appears from behind you knocking you in the back of the head with her blaster. You hit the floor, as you do Cara pulls back your hood revealing the rest of your face making sure you’re knocked out.

“Maybe she did sacrifice a kid for eternal life” Cara remarks, cuffing your hands and feet taking note of the ruin symbols tattooed on your wrists.

“ Probably the kid the old woman had with her when she landed.” He says lifting your body and throwing it over his shoulder with ease.

“Can probably get some credits for this, as well” she says, picking up the small fox-like creature that's appeared from behind a nearby bush. Placing it into a cage before heading back to the Razor Crest.

“She floated down from that tree, that’s how she snuck up on you. I’m not crazy Mando, it’s not the woods I know what I saw.” Cara says as he dials up the ship.

“Didn’t say anything.” he says as he jumps the ship into hyperspace.

“The look was enough. What do you think will happen to her if her blood isn’t actually life elongating?” she asks.

“Not our problem.” He says

Your POV

You open your eyes blinking slowly so as to adjust to the fluorescent lighting coming from what you can only assume is the ship belonging to the bounty hunters who had nabbed you. Your first thought goes to Anya, and when you see her asleep in a nearby cage you breathe a sigh of relief. You shake your head, unable to believe after years of dodging bounty hunters one had caught you. It was your own fault, should have expected two.

“Bastards” you mutter, using the force you slip your cuffs you reach over and hack open the restraints of your feet. You reach into the cage and pet Anya, best she stays asleep for now, until you could figure a way out of this mess. You open up the armoury, seeing that your weapons had also been taken in the ambush “Assholes” you say. You’re about to reach in when you feel a presence behind you. Turing around you clang into the Mandalorians heavily armoured chest.

“You’re making this harder than it has to be.” the modulated voice coming from the helmet says, as he somehow manages to re-bind your hands and close the armoury all at once. You offer him a swift kick to the shin, but end up hurting yourself instead.

“Fucking beskar” you murmur. “At least tell me who you're taking me to, it’d be nice to know who's putting this much effort into meeting me.” No response. He decides to bring you up to the cockpit to keep an eye on you.

”You must be the muscle that hit me on the head” you say to the statuesque woman sitting in the front seat shining a weapon.

“Sorry about that, just part of the job, Cara Dune.” She says offering you her hand and a smile. You lift up your arms motioning to the cuffs constraining you. Slowly she retracts her hands offering you a nod instead.

“How long do we have?” He asks.

“Just over two days, we'll have the kid back soon enough.” Cara says.

“Look please you don’t have to do this, I haven’t committed any crimes.” you say causing Cara to laugh

“What about the bodies in your yard.” She says.

“They were offered a choice to leave. Anything I did, I did to defend myself” You respond defensively.

Cara smiles, “Well I’m going to rest. Good luck with this.” She says gesturing to you before exiting the cockpit. You shuffle into her seat trying to get the guy in the armour to talk to you.

“Hey, ya Hi. What are they paying you? I'll double it. I’m good for it. Promise”

“Not paying me, it’s a trade.” He says

“For your kid, I can help you get him back”

“This isn’t a negotiation, now stop talking or I’ll bring you in cold.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” you say leaning back defeatedly into the chair. “At least tell me what I’m getting myself into who found out?” you ask, nervous that someone had figured out that you were force sensitive. This gets a reaction, the T of the helmet finally turning to face you.

“You don’t know do you?” you say relieved, maybe you’d be fine after all.

“Don’t know what.” Now it was your turn to be silent.

Core Galaxy, Coruscant

You arrive on Coruscant, the noise of the city, and metallic buildings have you completely out of your element, there’s no using the force here, not in such public domain. Under the circumstances you weren’t even sure if you could. You’re led into a building by the Mandalorian, with Cara walking behind holding Anya in her cage. They stop in front of an oblong table and a tall, elegant woman appears from a nearby hallway, the likes of which you’ve never seen. She smiles as she approaches you with a knife. “and with a few hours to spare, excellent job.” She says.

“ The child” he says, you can feel the stress coming off of him, you’re sure she can as well.

“All things come...” she pauses “to those who wait” she finishes, as she cuts into your arm with the knife catching the light purple liquid in a small vial before handing it over to a Klatooinian, dressed all in black.

“Who are you?” you ask

“I hear your blood extends life is that true” She says, blatantly ignoring your question.

“You’re a woman of high intelligence, why don’t you tell me yourself.”

She smiles, “I figured as much.” The Klatooinian re-enters with the blood shaking his head no before exiting the room again

“Unfortunate, I had hoped you would be of use to us.” The stress of the Mandalorian has now changed to panic. “Do not worry Mandalorian the child will be returned to you. You have completed your task”

“Am I free to go then?” you ask hopefully, she pauses for a while staring at you.

“No, just because we know the truth does not mean the rest of the galaxy needs to” she approaches you again taking your cheeks in her hand moving your head around “with a confirmation of authenticity from myself you could sell for thousands of credits. Maybe even more considering your appearance, I suggest the two of you stay for the auction once she is sold then I will return the child to you. As a gesture of good faith, I will not separate you from your pet.” She pauses.

“You waiting for a thank you or something?” you ask as the Klatooinian takes your restraints from the Mandalorian and leads you away.

Mandos POV

The next morning he and Cara make their way into a large auction room packed full of buyers and sellers from around the galaxy, looking to deal in illegal goods.

“Good to know the black market is still thriving” Cara mutters. They spot Savan and make their way towards her, stopping just below the stage she's standing on.

“Thank you all for joining us today, the doors are now closed and will remain as such until the auction is completed. As the hosts, we will have the last billed item. Thank you and good luck.” She steps down towards the duo, as the auctioneer begins the bidding. She opens up the egg returning the small green child to the Mandalorian. Upon seeing his adoptive parent the child begins to coo happily. The Mandalorian picks the kid up cradling him in his left arm as they watch the auction play out. After a few hours, the call for the last item arrives and Savan makes her way up onto the stage once again.

“On behalf of the Black Sun we bring to you a rare and beautiful specimen from the outer rim. Her blood is said to elongate life, a fact which we have found to be true. A strong fighter and a great beauty she would do well anywhere from the gladiator rings to the halls of any prestigious bath house. Her blood will sell for thousands a jar. She is a gift from us to you all. Shall we start the bidding at 5 thousand credits.” After a heated bidding war you sell for the count of 200 thousand credits, to a trainer from a gladiatorial sect. He takes the chains from Savan “you’re going to be good for business.” he says smiling at you, much to your disgust. He begins to lead you away when Anya makes her appearance out from behind your cloak. You try to coax her back into hiding, but she's too curious for her own good.

“I have no need for this.” he says, kicking at her, she dodges the foot and bites down on his shin. In retaliation the trainer pulls out his blasters and shoots her dead causing you to drop to your knees. The child who had been watching you intently lets out a cry looking up to the Mandalorian. He passes the child to Cara and begins to make his way towards you. “Get up” he hears the trainer say through gritted teeth. The crack of a whip echoes throughout the hall and he sees you fall to the ground before being forced back up, walking you over to the ship. He makes it to you managing to grab one of your wrists. Using all your remaining strength you turn around and spit in his face, what he saw in your eyes wasn’t fear, but rage. “Hey buddy, keep your hands off the merchandise” the trainer says and with one last tug he pulls you away. The bleeding wounds on your calves are the last thing he sees as you disappear into the hangar. He wipes the spit off his helmet as Cara catches up to him, placing the child back into his arms. “Well that went well”. She says

The child begins to fuss, “What?” He asks it gently. The child’s tiny green hand points over to the carcass of the vulptice on the floor. “No,” he says, wagging his finger, not wanting a dead carcass stinking up his ship. The child keeps fussing and unable to deny him he places him on the floor and the kid runs over to the thing. His eyes close “No, don’t” the Mandalorian starts, but it’s too late the child falls over batting his eyelids sleepily as the fox slowly stands up. It makes its way over to the child

“Get away from him” He shouts protectively, but to his surprise the fox licks the child's face, making it giggle. “Great, now they’ve bonded” He says knowing he’d never be able to get rid of it now.

“Congrats on your ever growing family Mando” Cara responds slapping him on the back.

#alliance #the mandolarian #star wars #mando x you #mando x reader #din dijarin x you #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x reader #din dijarin x reader #chapter 1 #the Bounty

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Text

Fallen From Grace Part 2. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

Click here for part one!

Luxury surrounds you at every turn, and tonight is so different.

The dish that’s sitting in front of you for tonight is bruschetta, a dish warm and inviting in contrast with its desolate surroundings. Bread grilled in a brick oven with fine, expensive cheese melted onto it, hints of garlic and olive oil mixing in to create a drool inducing image. On top lays a light garnish of parsley, bright green contrasting the deep reds of the tomato.

Every one of your meals is similar in this refined quality. It felt jarring at first, having every need of yours attended to with utmost care. Not only because it’s unusual to be treated with this regard, but because of those who carry the actions out themselves.

They scurry around you, gaze cowering to the ground and voice meeker than a mouse. On the scarce occasion they find it absolutely necessary to ask you a question related to your preferences, their eyes never dare to meet your own. A sudden interest in the top of their shoes develops, or fiddling with any objects in hand. Your premature conclusion was that they were too guilt ridden to even look at you.

Now, lips pressing against a glass and taking in sips of cool water, you know the lamentable truth.

It isn’t that the servants of this villa feel remorse for standing by and enabling your isolation, failing to assist at any opportunity. No, money can soothe any scathing concerns in that regard. It’s a different poison, far more venomous than all consuming guilt. It’s a primal fear of Italy’s most powerful don that drives their complacency, in sight of immoral actions.

Spineless cowards. Every single one of them.

You return the cup to its original place on the long, wooden table. The muted sound is the only one in the grand dining room, aside from occasional silverware hitting a plate across from you. Since the beginning of dinner, you’ve made it a point to ignore him. Too many troubles to count plague your mind, the man on the other side of the table being the source.

Uneasy silence does not last as long as you wish it would. He gently clears his throat, a signal that shouldn’t go ignored. Looking up now, you’re unsurprised to see Giorno’s ever watchful gaze meeting you back. Pale skin is illuminated by flickering candlelight, golden hair framing his mature face.

There’s a closed mouth smile on his face, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Unsettling.

“Do you still not feel hungry?”

Giorno’s voice startles you, fingers twitching by your side. Time is an elusive thing, minutes always seeming to blur together, creating an incoherent mess. How long have the two of you been sitting here? Ten or so minutes, is your guess. Judging from his plate being almost finished, you realize just how long your thoughts were holding you captive.

Swallowing back the bile that creeps into your throat, your eyelids flutter shut. “Ah… something like that. You don’t need to wait for me, I’m sure you’re busy.”

It’s Giorno’s turn now to take a sip from a wine glass, swirling the white liquid before raising it to his mouth. It’s rare that he drinks, a distaste for heavy alcohol consumption a moral code embedded in his person. Moscato d’Asti if you recall correctly, which you declined an offer for earlier. From the bottle alone you surmise it cost a fortune.

“You’ve hardly eaten anything today,” Giorno points out to you, voice leaving little room for argument. He looks at your untouched plate, frowning at the undesirable sight. “Should I have something else prepared for you…?”

Exhaling shakily, you accentuate your disinterest in the subject by avoiding eye contact. It’s been like this lately, always placed under a magnifying glass. A tense exchange between supposed lovers, neither cluing the other of their true agendas. In this twisted parody of a dance, Giorno claims a clear upper hand. He leads you according to his own tempo, never once stopping to let you regain your breath.

Even with him out of your vision, you still feel the crushing weight of his stare. You swallow despite the dryness of your mouth, reaching once more for the soothing glass of water. Panic has long since settled in, disrupting any logical way of thinking and successfully shaking you up. How long can you hide your secrets from him? At this rate, you won’t last much longer.

It all started four, excruciatingly long days ago.

Marco, a guard who you have grown fond of, seemingly vanished into thin air. Along with all the other workers. No explanation, no clues, nothing. The days that followed left you littered with doubts and soul crushing anxiety, taking your every thought hostage. Did something happen to him? If so, what? Did Giorno learn of your secret interactions with him? And if he did, how the hell is he remaining so composed?

“You’ve been zoning out often.”

It’s unfair how he can pick up on your behavior without even trying. Being picked apart and analyzed in real time has never been your favorite, yet it feels even more dreadful now. When you first arrived in this golden barred cage, you had nothing to hide. Now, the burdens of your sins against Giorno threaten to swallow you entirely.

Nails threaten to puncture the soft skin of your palm, hands balled into tight fists on your lap. Every little poke and prod of Giorno’s comments further torments you, sending you into a spiral of never ending despair. Controlling your outward reactions is the bare minimum you can offer at the moment, too skittish to do anything else. Even the sight of delicious food in front of you sends your stomach churning, the scent of it bringing nausea rooted in crippling anxiety.

He has to know, right? Everything would make so much more sense if he did. It would explain this surreal, benevolent streak that emerged from him seemingly unprompted. It’s not that Giorno was ever outright cruel to you, until this point, you were given your space. No longer is that a luxury you can experience.

The past few days he’s been practically glued to your side, giving you no time to get your bearings. An unrelenting attack from all angles. It’s an impossible feat to maintain a facade of cluelessness like you were able to before.

Giorno tilts his head, still awaiting a proper answer. Gathering what remnants of strength that remain, you hurriedly utter to half the truth. “I-I haven’t been feeling well.”

This disclosure earns you a worried glance. He looks at you a moment longer -- as if searching for something -- before pulling back his chair. It groans against the wooden floor in protest, steady footsteps approaching you. Now by your side, he bends down to inspect you further. A tentative hand is placed to your forehead, assessing your condition from a closer perspective.

“You don’t feel warm.” he murmurs while retracting his hand, the action giving you a chance to breathe normally again. Does that mean he thinks you’re lying? Not giving you any further hints at his inner thoughts, Giorno stands by your seated form in silence. In hopes of avoiding suspicion, you come up with a rushed explanation.

“I’m tired, that’s all,” you scratch your cheek, finding difficulty in maintaining your composure. “It’s really nothing to worry about, Giorno. A few restless nights won’t do me in.”

If a physical ailment was bothering you, Giorno’s ability could serve to aid you. There isn’t anything his Stand can do for exhaustion though, not to your knowledge. He blinks, long eyelashes fluttering in the process. Whether he believes you or not is in the air. The topic is left to the wayside for now, much to your inner relief.

You had gotten sick once in the past. Even more freedoms were stolen from you, health professionals sworn to Passione monitoring you around the clock. Privacy was nonexistent, a true nightmare of an experience. It was only a mild fever, nothing that could cause any true harm. Giorno took it seriously, acting in an abundance of over protection until you recovered.

It won’t be ideal for you if that happens again. For almost a week you were forced to the confines of your bed, taking bitter medicines and eating only bland, nutritious food. That period of time made you go borderline stir crazy, having nothing to do aside from entertaining your malicious thoughts. If he’s thinking about putting you through that again, you’re unable to tell.

Composed and serene as ever, he takes your hand up from your lap with tender affection.

“[First]...” your name rolls off his tongue in a low tone, his deep voice and close proximity causing your pulse to quicken. “If there’s anything on your mind, know that you can come to me.”

Your breath hitches, all hairs on the back of your neck standing. So he has noticed, or believes your anguish is related to something other than physical illness. It makes more sense why he’s insisted on having you in his presence, to keep you in his sight. To make sure you’re not misbehaving.

The coarse pad of his thumb rubs over your hand in slow, methodical circles. Involuntarily, your hand begins to tremble. There’s not an opportunity to state your case against his words before he speaks up again, words intent on placating you.

“There must be something I can do for you. I hate seeing you troubled like this.”

You need to think of a diversion. Fast. He’s eroding your defenses, goading you into spilling the hideous truth of your disobedience. A small voice in your head pleads with you, whispering that maybe he’ll forgive you if you confess now. For you to beg for amnesty, claiming the depths of loneliness you’ve felt all this time. Would that cause him to take pity on you?

Or would you suffer greater lengths than before for your misdeeds?

Pushing down the temptation, a hopeful idea comes to mind. Deft fingers wrap around his hand, a tired smile on your lips. “You’re very considerate. It really isn’t anything bad, I’ve just had a few rough nights. I’ll try sleeping earlier tonight and seeing if that helps.”

Giorno gives your hand a final squeeze before pulling away. “Ah, of course. Whatever you feel is best.”

It’s a small victory, holding purpose to you. You can’t make any moves under his scrutinizing presence, the threat of alerting him by acting suspicious constant. He can’t be around like this forever, Giorno’s position requires constant attention. Even a few days into him not leaving the premises, you’re having trouble adjusting. It has to be a temporary arrangement, he won’t always be able to monitor you. When the opportunity presents itself, you’ll learn the truth about Marco.

You swear this to yourself.

“I’ve read that relaxing before going to bed helps with sleeping problems. Let’s walk around the gardens together, and see if that helps.” he phrases it like a suggestion, but you know better. It looks like you won’t be escaping Giorno’s presence anytime soon, an oasis of sleep slipping through your fingers like sand. Offering a meek nod instead of utilizing your voice, you mimic his previous actions and get up from your seat.

Giorno extends an arm to you, which you accept. It’s not that you want to, per se, it’s that you need to maintain the charade from before. Marco suggested to you that if you act less combative to your husband, he might grant you more freedoms. Which you desperately want to attain. In light of his sudden disappearance, it would be suspicious to stop acting like this. Reverting to your former harsh behavior won’t do anything good.

The new disposition worked in your favor. Instead of ignoring Giorno or cursing him like before, you acted tamer. And, as Marco predicted, some embargoes on your freedoms were steadily lifted. Acting like a loving wife to a man you feel nothing about animosity for isn’t an easy task. It’s a survival tactic.

You catch a whiff of Giorno’s light cologne, the scent dotting your skin with goosebumps. He’s always been a man of fine taste, you must confess. Once at his side, he begins to walk in the familiar direction of his outdoor gardens. The spot is a grandiose one, awe-inspiring flowers from all over the world appearing in full bloom. Even out of season plants are capable of flourishing, which you suspect is due to Giorno’s Stand.

For such a reprehensible person, he sure has a beautiful ability.

He looks lost in his own thoughts for most of the walk, and finally speaks up often a prolonged silence. “I’ve noticed how you enjoy your time in the gardens.”

Struggling to keep up with his pace and balance your rapid thoughts, you take a moment before responding. “Gardening is something I always wanted to try. When I first looked into it, I never realized how expensive a hobby it is.”

He hums in response, offering a moment of reprieve from stressful conversation.

When the two of you walk outdoors, you’re greeted by the crisp evening air. The sun is just beginning to set in the sky, warm colors embracing the expansive greenery. A main path leads up to an outdoor fountain, which emits a noise of rushing water. On either side of you are a variety of shrubs, pink and blue hydrangeas in bloom. A cicada beats its wings in the distance, a telltale time of summer.

The openness the outdoors brings with it a false sense of solace. You prefer this to the confining walls of inside Giorno’s mansion, which bring with them melancholic memories. A single aspect of this area has earned your ire, the large window above that is attached to his office. You’ve looked up to see Giorno watching over you for a few seconds. Further cementing the idea that you’re never truly alone.

Silence settles in between the two of you, weaving through winding paths and mossy stone arches. This is a part of the garden you don’t come to as often, you notice. Rounding a final corner around some hedges, you spot a stunning collection of flowers that must be new. From a dark center, pointed petals emerge, jet black in color with hints of crimson on the edges.

Giorno pauses to observe the mesmerizing blossoms as well, reaching out to inspect a petal. As soon as he touches it, his lips curl into a frown, almost like he’s remembering something. “A few days ago, I decided I wanted this addition. I got what I needed to grow it this morning.”

You thought that Gold Experience could create life from anything, so it doesn’t make sense to you why he needed to wait for the arrival of something. Maybe even Stands have limits? Any desire to ask about it is stifled by the fact that you’re talking to Giorno, curiosity fizzling out as fast as it sparked.

He pulls a handkerchief out from a pocket within his suit, and wipes off his fingers that had touched the flower.

“Black dahlias. It isn’t a flower most people would associate with summer, but I found myself interested in them.” he offers a look into his inner thoughts, a rare occurrence. You wait patiently, sensing he has more to say.

“All plants have different meanings, some even having their own folklore. Tell me, [First], what do you believe black dahlias represent?”

A perplexing question. Not wanting to offer a halfhearted answer in fear of being reprimanded, you give it some thought. Darker colors typically symbolize negative feelings, at least in literature. It’s possible the same logic applies here. In the distant past, you’d read online about an unsolved murder case in America by the name of The Black Dahlia. It seems anything with the name can’t be a good omen.

Humming in thought, you offer the best guess you can concoct. “I’m not the best with stuff like this… if I had to guess, I’d say it means suffering. Or something to that effect.”

“Very close. Not quite,” Giorno’s eyes betray the calm delivery of his words, a hidden storm within. “What black dahlias symbolize… is betrayal.”

You’d swallow if you could.

In a single instance, it feels like all the air has been forcibly punched from your lungs, body going numb and blood running cold as ice. Every ounce of strength that hasn’t been sapped from you goes to keeping your knees from buckling, mouth dry and tongue like sandpaper. He doesn’t blink, waiting patiently to see what your next move will be.

He knows. You don’t know how, but he knows. Similar to how a predator toys with its prey before devouring it, he’s testing you. Gauging for a reaction, savouring the guilt that rolls off you in palpable waves. Options and time are limited, both a dry well as he expects a response.

Your resolve begins to wilt, perishing under the harsh conditions it's been placed. Roots crumbling and petals falling to the ground, it’s a competition within your mind to see what thought will win. Marco risked his own livelihood in order to give you companionship, to make you feel human again. Can you stay afloat under this immense pressure?

With unexpected speed, you decide. There’s no backing down now. You’ll see this treacherous charade through until the bitter end. It’s what you owe to him, what you owe to yourself. If it’s games that Giorno wants to play, then so be it.

“My guess was close then, wasn’t it?” you force a light laugh at the end of your sentence, straightening your posture and giving him your best smile. Within the depths of his countenance is an unidentifiable emotion, his jaw tight and eyes studying. All intensity melts away within an instant, the Giorno you’re used to seeing reappearing in front of you.

“Yes, yes it was.”

Without his prompting to do so, you wrap your arms around his arm once again. Letting out a soft exhale, you speak up, hoping to rid yourself of this tense atmosphere. “A walk was just the thing I needed. I feel better already, still a little tired though…”

It isn’t a regular occurrence that you touch Giorno of your own will. You can’t remember the last time you’d done it, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He subtly leans into your touch, welcoming the warmth it brings. Hope erupts within your chest, that you can still play innocent and get away with your grievances.

Now that you’ve been removed from the moment, your mind is clearer. Capable of reasoning with itself, instead of scrambling to react. It’s a possibility that Giorno has an inkling of suspicion, and nothing solid to grasp it. Giving yourself up and playing right into his hand is exactly what he wants, and you adamantly refuse to do it. It’s shameful that you even thought about giving up, even if it was only for a brief moment.

It could be the fried nerves, that you find yourself rambling more than you normally do. “I never asked, but how was your day? You always ask me about mine, so it seems right that I’d return the favor.”

“Busy, not much more than usual though. I regret not being able to join you for breakfast. I had... something to attend to.” Giorno reminisces back to this morning, tone lighter than before. It looks like your hunch of him not knowing anything concrete could be true. A passing breeze ruffles through your hair, cool air serving to calm you down more.

You can do this. You’ll make it through the storm, and find out the truth on your own terms.

“There’s always tomorrow,” you gently tug at his arm, back in the direction of the house. “Can we… can we head back? I still want to try and sleep, even if it’s early.”

Never one to deny you anything, he starts the walk back, and you follow suit. “I’ve never seen you this talkative before, [First].”

You’ve never felt the need to talk this much until now. Rambling about nonsensical topics gives your overwhelmed brain a much needed reprieve. If there’s anything good you have to say about Giorno, it’s that he’s an excellent listener. Never interrupting, always offering his full attention. He never offers his input more than he sees necessary.

The comment doesn’t feel like a pointed one, rather a truthful observation. You let out a sigh.

“I’ve always had a lot to say,” you start with a purse of your lips, mindful of yourself. But I hate you. “Once you get me talking, you’ll miss the days I was quiet.”

He doesn’t buy into the self derogatory statement, and shakes his head. “I could never tire of hearing your voice.”

You open your mouth, only to close it again. Warmth erupts onto your face, the genuine delivery of a line only Giorno could deliver properly. Displays of heartfelt fondness leave you taken aback, never allowing you to understand the man by your side. How can he say in good conscience that he loves you, while taking you from everything you’ve ever known?

Giorno Giovanna, who you’ve spent a little over a year with, is still an enigma to you.

When you spoke with Marco, rarely did either of you bring him up. Out of respect for your feelings, you guess. On the rare occasion you did ask a question about Giorno, there weren’t any clear answers. All he knows is that Giorno took over Passione at a young age, and issued wide reform of the gang that extends worldwide.

The fact is an intimidating one, since he’s so close to you.

Now back inside, evening has settled in. Long halls are deserted of any life, only you and Giorno occupying them. It’s off putting, you can’t think of the last time you’ve seen this home so empty. There must be someone here, if your meals were made. Other than that, the only human being you’ve seen is Giorno.

Your shared master bedroom is on the second floor, and after an uneventful trip, he holds the large doors open for you to enter first.

Lavish and not obnoxious in its designs, this room is where you spent all your time when you first arrived. Not of your own will, since you were antagonistic. Looking at the custom glass windows, it brings back memories of desperately trying to break them with different furniture. Then the noise of doing so getting you in even more trouble.

Next was an iron shackle against your ankle, metal cold against your skin and uncomfortable.

Compared to that, you should feel like your current condition is better. Now it’s mental strain instead of physical. There never is rest for the weary.

Hands of the grandfather clock in your room read 8:24 PM. Your guess is that Giorno will dismiss himself any moment now, heading to his office and giving you much needed space. It’s an unspoken routine that you’ve fallen into. Though you ultimately sleep in the same bed at night, Giorno doesn’t join you until much later, if at all. Being in charge of Passione is a full time commitment.

With a muted thud, the door closes behind you. Giorno draws the curtains over the windows shut, cutting off what little sunlight shone through. Fully mesmerized with his graceful actions, you find yourself staring. It’s when he starts unzipping the top of his royal blue suit that you realize he isn’t intending to leave anytime soon.

Looking for something to preoccupy yourself with, you get ready for bed yourself. The marble ground of the master bathroom feels cold against your bare feet, causing you to shiver and mutter a quiet curse. After brushing your teeth, you open the door to see Giorno still getting changed, bare back facing towards you. Why is he still here?

Reading your thoughts, he turns around, white pajama shirt in hand. “Is something wrong, [First]? You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

He can be teasing when he wants, much to your chagrin. Sucking in a deep breath, you give your honest thoughts in a strained voice. “It’s just, I thought you’d have work to do.”

“I’ve taken care of what I need to today,” he lifts the plain shirt over his head while he speaks, the material stretching against his defined muscles. “So, I’ll spend time with mi cara. It’s been a trying week.”

Well, that makes two of us.

His last comment makes you curious. Giorno isn’t the type to complain, if he sees a problem he dedicates himself to fixing it. What is it that managed to earn an admission like that? You’ll test your luck and press further, seeing if you learn anything. It could be related to Marco’s disappearance.

“Trying…?” you repeat back, testing the word on your tongue. Giorno pulls his braid over his shoulder, and you recognize what that means. Before he gets the opportunity to fiddle with the restraints himself, you walk over to his side and start on it. He allows you to do so, shoulders relaxing as you pull the hair tie out.

“I shouldn’t burden you unnecessarily.”

His golden hair is like silk between your fingers, having a light floral scent. You furrow your eyebrows while working through undoing the braid, combing through it. He subtly leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering close at your soothing maneuvers. Prying the truth from him will take more effort.

“It’s not a burden.” you reassure, pulse quickening at the anticipation his silence brings. Worst case scenario, he’ll deflect again and you’ll drop the subject. Feeling inquisitive leaves you unsatisfied, Giorno opting to leave you in the dark about most matters.

“There was a plot uncovered, relating to you.”

Your actions cease, body frozen on the spot.

“It was a threat on your life to weaken me. This morning, everything was taken care of, so you have nothing to worry about. That’s the reason I’ve been working from home the past few days,” he runs a hand through his hair, and turns to face your stunned form. “I’d never allow any harm to befall you. New staff will be replacing the previous one, there’s nothing to disprove that they weren’t all involved.”

“A few workers were going to get close to you, and draw out information about me. Then... ah, well. It doesn’t matter now.”

What he’s saying makes logical sense. You’re the wife of a powerful man, who has more enemies than you could ever hope to count. Your mind drifts to Marco, and the time that you had spent with him. A seed of doubt is planted within you, knowing that Giorno distrusted his former staff enough to get rid of all of them. Those men and women were tested vigorously, so for him to now distrust them...

That leaves a single, haunting question that you don’t want to entertain. Was Marco getting close to you, with the sole purpose of murdering you at the best opportunity? It… it can’t be like that. You spent hours by his side, laughing and reminiscing over snacks and games. He told you about his family, the misfortune that befell his sweet sister, his inner conflict of working for Giorno at your expense.

When Marco rarely spoke of Giorno, he did ask a few questions about his routine. You thought it was so the two of you could speak together with ease, and sneak around.

You had cared for him. In the deepest sentiment your broken heart could conjure, you really did. It was the highlight of your day, what you looked forward to every morning when you woke up. The reassurance he would offer, giving you that extra push to carry on your miserable parody of a life.

Mouth agape, no words can form on your dry tongue. Giorno must mistake your inner conflict for worry over the undone plot on your life, running his hands up and down your arms. He pulls you into a hug in hopes of comforting your shaking form, and you hate yourself for accepting it.

Nothing makes sense. This has to be a trick, a cruel misunderstanding. Why has the universe seen fit to toss and turn you at every chance, jostling your being to the core. Vacillating between two sides of yourself, the one that wants to believe him and the one that doesn’t.

Wetness drips down your cheeks, finally breaking down. You sniffle against his shoulder, even more upset with yourself for willingly accepting his embrace. It’s not that the thought of death bothered you, it’s what your trust was broken. Was everything Marco told you a ruse?

You don’t know. You suppose no one other than the aforementioned person knows, if he’s still alive. It’s embarrassing, truly humiliating to know you told him the secrets of yourself. All for it to amount to nothing, a dagger twisting into your side repeatedly.

Giorno hushes you, pulling you tighter against him. He coos sweet words into your ear, now rubbing the small of your back. You take all of him in, accepting him in a moment of profound weakness. There’s deep pain, first, then nothing. Emotions come to a halt, numbness settling in as you cease weeping.

What is there to feel now?

Soft lips press against your forehead, Giorno offering a chaste kiss. This amount of physical affection is the most he’s ever given you at once, now offering you all of himself. Too weak to protest, you close your eyes, wanting to sleep and never worry about anything again.

Why try anymore.

Giorno... did he speak the complete truth? That you can only trust him? He’s given you everything you could ask for, always turning the other cheek when you lashed out at him. He loves you, in his own twisted way. Even after all the rejection you spewed at him, he loves you still.

“Amore, oh amore,” he whispers into your ear, warm breath causing you to shudder. He pulls back from your amorous embrace, taking your face in his thumb and lifting it. “I’ll take care of everything. Come, let’s get you cleaned up for the night. You must be tired, hm?”

So, so tired. Of everything. Of this life you live.

Arms sneak around your shaking torso once more, and he places his head atop yours. Tears are gone for now, a well long dried up. Now, you stand and shake. Head devoid of coherent thoughts, limp against him. He holds you up, keeping you steady.

You close your eyes. Has Giorno always smelled this pleasant? It’s starting to grow on you. Your ear is against his chest, his skin pressed against your own. Listening carefully, you hear the steady thump of his heart. The one before that you thought to place a knife through, now bringing you solace.

What a joke this world is.

Giorno accepts you, always. Like he said time and time again, the words now settling in. You mutter something against his chest, voice seemingly inaudible. Even you are uncertain of what they are, yet he seems to understand nonetheless.

And he smiles, content.

#giorno #giorno giovanna x reader #yandere giorno #yandere giorno giovanna #yandere giorno giovanna x reader #yandere giorno x reader #Giorno Giovanna #giovanna giorno #giorno x reader #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #yandere jojo's bizzare adventure #yandere jojo x reader #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff #commissions

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slytherinbarnes · 4 years

Text

Sub Rosa [44]

xv.��perverse instantiation, pt 1

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 8.7k

Warnings: injuries, violence, fighting, language, mentions of nausea, a hanging (canon), mentions of blood.

Summary: your group heads back to Arkadia to regroup and plans are made to take down Alie, without the help of Luna.

a/n: THE SEASON THREE FINALE IS HERE OMG OMG OMG!!! the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

The collective agreement is to head back to Arkadia, where you can regroup, talk to your friends, and figure out what to do next.

You sleep for most of the ride, the drug that Luna’s clan gave you making you drowsy, but sometime in the afternoon, Bellamy wakes you up. “We have to charge the rover. You should get out and stretch your legs, and let Clarke check your shoulder.”

You nod and follow the others out into Azgeda territory, and you stop beside the rover to stretch your body and shake the heaviness from your bones. Jasper passes around some rations from his pack, and you happily accept the small bag of dried fruit that he offers you. Everyone eats and sits in silence, the failure of Luna’s rig leaving most of you grumpy.

Clarke eventually comes over to you, her face blank, jaw clenched, and you know she’s still upset, more so than everyone else. But she puts aside her anger and asks, “How’s your shoulder?”

You pull off your jacket and tug down the neckline of your shirt so she can peek beneath the bandage. “It’s fine. No pain.”

You wince as she pokes the skin around the cauterized wound, and she gives you a look that says, “Really?”

You give her the same look in return. “I mean, yeah, it hurts when you poke it, but it’s not that bad.”

She gives a little satisfied sound as she rewraps it and helps you back into your jacket. She takes a peek at the wounds on your wrist, from the cuffs Emerson put you in, removing the bandages completely when she sees that the only thing left behind are bruises. Bellamy checks the rover and yells, “Rover's almost charged. We need to pack up, we'll be home soon.”

Clarke steps away from you slightly, her worry for you now replaced by her earlier frustration. “Then what? Run away?

“We're not running away, Clarke. We need to regroup with the others and find another way to defeat-”

She cuts him off, “There is no other way! We need to find a Nightblood. We need to unlock the Flame. It's the only way to stop Alie.”

Jasper looks up from his perch on the hood of the rover and snorts. “What do you expect us to do, Clarke? Walk into random villages asking for their Nightbloods?”

“If that's what it takes.”

You give her a sharp look, and start, “Clarke-”

But Octavia cuts you off. “No, Clarke. If Alie can find us on Luna's rig, then she can find us anywhere. I won't help you destroy another innocent Grounder village.”

“If we don't find a Nightblood, there won't be any Grounder villages. Or a home for us to go back to.”

Bellamy glares at her, “That's all the more reason we go there and make sure our friends are okay.”

She looks at Bellamy, and then Octavia, then Jasper, seeing their disagreement with her. Then she turns to you, eyes almost pleading, but you shake your head, keeping the united front. She nods once, looking betrayed, before pushing past you and walking into the woods. You turn and look after her, watching as she disappears into the trees. You look at Bellamy and sigh, “She'll be fine. Just let her cool off.”

You turn and start helping the others pack up the rover, moving quickly and silently. As you’re lifting one of the bags of guns, you hear a grunt and you freeze, turning towards the woods, searching for the source of the sound. You see nothing, but the hairs on your neck are lifted, and you grab a gun and take off towards the forest. Bellamy calls your name, confused, but you ignore him and slip into the trees quietly. You pick your way through the woods, ears perking up at the sound of talking nearby. As you move that way, the voices grow loud enough for you to make out their conversation. “I need to find a Nightblood to put that in.”

“I already have a Nightblood to put it in.”

You step around a fallen log, glancing towards the man walking away from Clarke, immediately recognizing him as the guy that stabbed you in the leg when you found Clarke.

“Roan, please just stop!”

“Because of you, Ontari never ascended. So, no, I won't stop. Not until the Ice Nation has its Commander.”

You see them coming towards you, and you step around the tree, gun raised, head cocked to the side. “You were saying?”

Roan lifts his hands in surrender, and you glance at Clarke. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

You nod towards the rover, “Let's go.”

“He's coming with us.”

You give her a crazy look, and a voice behind you exclaims, “Like hell he is.”

You turn and see Bellamy walking your way, gun pointed at Roan, the latter turning to Clarke in disbelief. “Why would I do that?”

“Because we both want the same thing, to put the Flame in Ontari.”

Bellamy protests, “How do you know he's not chipped?”

“If he were, do you think he would've saved me?”

Bellamy muses, “Still, we need to be sure.”

You turn and look at Bellamy, and he nods towards Roan. Catching onto his line of thinking, you turn back to the man, aim for his shoulder, and pull the trigger. He lets out a cry of pain, and Bellamy steps forwards and hits him with his gun, knocking him out. The two of you share a look, teamwork coming through, and you shrug, “Now we're sure.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at both of you. “Great, but now you both get to carry him.”

She turns and walks back towards the rover before either of you can protest, and you look down at Roan, groaning. You grab his feet and Bellamy grabs his arms, and the two of you half walk, half shuffle back to the rover, the King’s body in between you. When you reach the rover, Jasper and Octavia seem unsurprised to see the man between you, and they help you pull him into the back.

Clarke binds and gags him and bandages his arm before giving Bellamy the go ahead, and you all jump into the rover and continue back to Arkadia. Roan wakes up along the way but gives no trouble, just sits silently between Octavia and Clarke, eyeing everyone. You reach Arkadia well after dark, and you radio ahead for Miller to get the hangar doors open so Bellamy can drive the rover right in. As soon as the rover is parked inside, your friends all materialize out of the surroundings, heading straight for the vehicle. You and Bellamy head to the back to escort Roan out, and the others gather around the exiting crowd.

“We were getting worried. Where's Luna?”

Octavia barely glances at Raven. “Luna said no.”

You and Bellamy help Roan from the back, leading him around the side of the rover, into the view of all the others. Everyone’s eyes fall onto him, and Raven is the first to voice their collective question. “Who the hell is this?”

Bryan practically spits with disgust, “He's Ice Nation.”

“King of the Ice Nation actually.” Clarke looks between the others, and adds, “And he's our way into Polis.”

Bellamy nods towards the door, voice dripping with sarcasm, “This way, Your Highness.”

You turn and look at Miller and Bryan. “You two, follow us. We'll take him to lockup.”

They nod and fall into step behind you as Bellamy leads you through the halls and towards lockup. You shudder as you step inside, remembering the last time you were in here, minutes away from your execution. You glance at Bellamy and see that he’s tense, his mind thinking the same thing. You reach out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and he gives you a tight smile before opening the door and pushing Roan inside. He closes it behind him, and turns to the dating guards. “Keep an eye on him, we’ll be back to talk to him soon.”

They nod and each of them take up a post on either side of the captive king, as Bellamy nods at your shoulder. “Let’s get you some proper first aid while we’re here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m fine.”

He gives you a serious look, one of the no nonsense ones that lets you know this is not up for debate, so you sigh, and let him lead you over to medbay. You’re unable to hide your look of surprise as you step inside the room, everything in chaos, a sign that Alie really has taken your mother over. You glance around at the mess, the tools scattered along the floor, a chair with restraints still attached to it sitting in the middle of the room, beside two pools of dried blood. You think of Raven and her wrists, used by Alie, and shudder. “She really is capable of anything.”

Bellamy turns to look at you, his eyes following yours to the blood, before he reaches out and pulls you away from it wordlessly. He leads you to one of the other beds and motions for you to sit while he turns to grab a few supplies. You shrug out of your jacket as he returns with a medkit, and he spreads out the contents of the bag beside you. He pauses, his eyes landing on your still clothed shoulder.

“Is it okay if I?” He reaches up, hands hovering near the neckline of your shirt, the rest of the question a silent one.

You nod and smile. “Of course.”

He pulls your shirt down just enough to reach the bandage, which he unwraps slowly, careful not to move or jostle you too much. You can’t help but smile at his gentle nature. He cleans the burn just as gently, and when his head is bent out of view, busy cleaning the wound on your back, he mutters, “You said something yesterday that I’ve been wondering about.”

“Yeah?”

“You told me that you need me to love you. But I do, and I thought I showed you that.”

You soften at the anxious tone of his voice. “I know you do, Bellamy, and normally you do show me. But your guilt has gotten into your head. You keep pulling away from me and stepping back from my affection because you think you don’t deserve it.”

He lifts his head in surprise, “How did you know that?”

You have to resist the urge to laugh. Not at him, but at the idea that he thinks you don't know him as well as you do, and you say as much. “Because I know you, Bellamy. When we went to that bunker looking for supplies, you tried to run because you thought you were a monster that kept ruining Octavia’s life. You have this idea of yourself in your head that’s not true.”

You lift your hand to caress his cheek, “I just wish you’d see the Bellamy that I see. The leader that rules with his heart and would do anything to protect those that he loves, especially his sister. The guy that snuck into Mount Weather with the world’s worst plan just to save his people. The very same guy that pulled the lever to save them after we were left with no other choice. You’ve prepared us for war against the Grounders when there was no one here to protect us. You sacrificed yourself to save me and Jasper when Murphy locked us up. You’ve gone all over the place to help me find and save my twin. You’ve saved my life, and our people’s lives, more times that I can count. And I’ll say it as many times as I need to, but you are not a monster. You made a mistake, and bad things came of it, but that does not make you a bad person. The Universe has dealt you a cruel hand, Bellamy, and sometimes it’s hard to play the cards right.”

He gives you a loving look before he leans forward, pulling you into a kiss. The gesture surprises you at first, his recent intimacy only happening during times of extreme stress or near death, but you welcome the surprise with a happy sigh. He pulls away after a moment, both of you instantly trying to catch your breath, dizzy from lack of oxygen and happiness, and he smiles at you. It’s one of those dazzling, one of a kind, enjoy it while you can smiles, and it warms your body from the top of your head down to your toes. He whispers, “I love you.”

And something about the way he says it is enough to let you know that things are going to get better. He may not be 100%, and he may always struggle with his guilt, but he’s healing and he’s coming back to you, tired of being lost. You smile back at him, trying to match his energy and whisper, “I love you more than the stars.”

Clarke comes to find you and Bellamy a few minutes after your soft moment, and she leads you both from the medbay straight back to lockup to talk to Roan, who has managed to get out of his restraints and take off his gag. The first thing Clarke does after stepping inside is turn to you with an expectant look, her eyes flashing back to glance at Roan’s bandages. You know what she’s waiting for so you sigh and look at the king. “Sorry about your arm.”

He gestures to your now healed leg. “Makes us even.”

With your apology out of the way, Clarke launches into leadership mode. “Like it or not, we need each other.”

“Cut to the chase, Clarke. You said we wanted the same thing. I want an Ice Nation Commander.”

“And I can give you one,” She lifts up the box with the Flame. “With this.”

“And why would you do that, when you know she's vowed to wipe you out?”

“We don't have a choice. This isn't just our war. The enemy we're up against is after everyone, including the Ice Nation. The only way to stop her is to get the information off the Flame. And the only way to do that is to put it in Ontari's head.”

Roan sneers, “The Ice Nation isn't afraid.”

You step closer to him, sneering back. “You should be. Alie doesn't care what clan you're from. She controls people, and she'll take over the Ice Nation, just like she took over our people.”

Clarke adds, “It already has Ontari.”

“I'm listening.”

“We need to disconnect her before she gets the Flame, or we'll be giving Alie exactly what she wants. To do that, we have to abduct her from the center of a city filled with thousands of people, whose minds are linked. All of them thinking as one. Whatever one sees, they all see. Whatever one hears, they all hear.”

Roan nods, “I get it. So when do we leave?”

With Roan’s agreement and the plan in place, everyone is on the move again.

Most of you are in the hanger bay, loading up the rover with nearly everything from the armory, preparing for a war. The energy in the room is tense and charged, everyone realizing that some of you might not make it back from Polis, or that things can go terribly wrong and you never save your people. Despite that worry, everyone does the task that Bellamy delegated to them, working together quickly to get the rover ready to go.

You bring the last bag from the armory over to Miller to load up, and he checks the contents inside, pulling out the small metal canisters. Bellamy looks over at him, eyeing the canister in his hand. Miller nods and shoves it back in the bag, explaining, “Knockout gas. Mount Weather's finest. As soon as they bring Ontari out, we put them to sleep.”

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder and turns to look at you. You mutter, “At least something good came out of Mount Weather.”

He smirks in agreement as Raven walks over to the two of you, handing you a device. “Because she's chipped, you'll have to EMP her like you did me, before you give her the Flame.”

You shake your head in confusion, looking down at the device. “I thought that Jaha destroyed all the wristbands.”

She smirks at you, “So did he, then I came home. There's only enough usable parts to rebuild one, so use it wisely. Made a few improvements, too.”

You turn and put the device in one of the backpacks, tucking a few med kits around it to cushion it and keep it safe. Then you put the backpack in the middle of the other bags, pinning it to the wall to keep it from sliding around in the back. With the last bag packed, you turn back to the others. Everyone watches each other quietly, no one wanting to possibly say goodbye for the last time. Octavia steps into the room with Roan at her side, and is oblivious to the tension,or just doesn’t care, because she looks around at all of you in confusion. “What are we waiting for?”

They walk towards the rover as the rest of you hug the others, whispering a quiet assortment of “may we meet agains”, “goodbyes”, and “good lucks”. Jasper is the last one to hug you, and as he does he whispers, “Sure you don't want to stay here? They could use the protection.”

You pull away, and let out a short laugh. “If I stay here, who will protect Bellamy and Clarke?”

He laughs too, nodding, “That’s true. Be safe.”

“You too.”

You turn and head to the rover, pulling yourself into the passenger seat beside Bellamy. You look around at the small group in the back, Octavia, Clarke, Miller, Bryan, and Roan, before glancing at those you’re leaving behind: Monty, Jasper, Harper, and Raven. And then you turn back to Bellamy, give him a smile, and nod. “Let’s go save our people.”

The ride to the city limits of Polis is short, and you spend much of it looking out at the window at the stars and moon, knowing that once the rover stops, you’ll spend the rest of the journey in the tunnel system. Before you know it, Clarke is leaning forward, between you and Bellamy, pointing to a small clearing. “There it is. Stop here.”

Bellamy parks the rover between a dense spot of bushes and trees, trying to keep it from view, but he leaves the lights on as you all grab the gear. Clarke bails out of the back and jogs towards a break in the trees and you run out after her, following her gaze to a tall tower in the distance, with smoke billowing out of the top. You eye it in disbelief, your first view of the Grounder capital, and you mutter, “Wow.”

Clarke turns to you, smiling. “Wait until you see the rest of it. I never imagined we’d come to the ground and find a place like this. Dad’s stories never prepared us for it.”

Bellamy and Roan walk up behind the two of you, and you both turn to face them. Roan glances back at the tower in the distance, before looking at Clarke with a nod. “Alright, this is where we split up. The entrance to the tunnel is right over there.”

Bellamy gives him an annoyed look, “We know where it is.”

You cut him a look, telling him to be nice, and he shrugs in response. Roan is unbothered by Bellamy’s attitude though, and he just watches Clarke. “I'm gonna need the Flame. Look, this only works if they send Ontari out to get it. If they don't see it, they won't do that. Not much of a trap without the bait.”

She glances at you, and you can see her hesitation, so you reach your hand out for hers and nod, letting her know that it’s the right thing to do. She takes in a shaky breath, steeling herself for her departure from Lexa, her short lived love. She reaches into her jacket and pulls out the container, holding it out to him. “Fine.”

When his hand closes around the other end, she doesn't let go. His eyes lock with hers, confused, and she adds, “But I'm coming with you.”

You and Bellamy immediately protest, but yours is louder, “Clarke, no way! That wasn't the plan.”

She lets go of the Flame, and turns to look at the two of you. “It is now. I'm not letting that out of my sight, and I'm the only one who knows the passphrase. So you can tell them that without me, Ontari can't ascend.”

Roan nods in agreement. “You'll need to look like my prisoner.”

“Okay.”

You turn to her, a look of bewilderment on your face. “Wait a second.”

Bellamy glances at Roan, as he reaches out for you and Clarke, pulling you both to the side. “Give us a minute.”

Roan steps away, giving the three of you some space, before Bellamy gives Clarke the same bewildered look that you’re giving her. “Come on, Clarke. You're really willing to trust that guy with your life?”

“No.” Her response is immediate, matter of fact. Then she shrugs. “But both of you will be covering us the entire time. And I trust you.”

She turns to you, her eyes pleading with you to understand. And because she's your sister, your twin, you do. As much as you hate the plan, the separation from each other, the distance between you that’ll make it harder to save her if things go wrong, you understand, and you agree. “Fine.”

When you relent, Bellamy relents, sighing as he looks between the two of you. “The second I don’t like something or things seem wrong, we bail out.”

She gives him a reassuring smile, “Of course.”

She turns away and heads to the rover, and you follow. She passes her weapons to you, leaving herself defenseless. You reach into your backpack and pull some of the cloth strips from a medkit, handing them to her. “For your gag and restraints.”

“Thanks.”

You strap a thigh holster on your leg that doesn't hold your knife and slide Clarke’s pistol into the holster. Then you grab the backpack with the EMP and a rifle and pull them both on, pausing to make sure you’re locked and loaded. Once you’re ready, you turn and look at the others, who are all waiting, ready to go. Clarke pulls you into a tight hug and whispers, “May we meet again, la lune.”

“May we meet again, shining star.” When she releases you, you give her a smile that you hope is reassuring. “Don't worry, we’ll have your back.”

“You always do.”

You start to follow the others in the direction of the tunnels, but you pause in front of Roan, giving him a serious look. “If anything happens to Clarke, I will burn Azgeda to the ground.”

He gives you a surprised look, and you can tell that he knows you mean it. “I’ll keep her safe.”

You nod and then jog after the others, trying to catch up. Bellamy is waiting at the entrance of the tunnels for you, and he gestures to the entrance when you reach him. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

As soon as you step into the tunnels, a chill runs through you, and you’re not sure if it’s from the chill of the space, or the impending sense of doom. Bellamy hands you a flashlight and you follow him through the darkness as he takes the lead and guides your group through the passageways.

It takes the rest of the night and into the next morning to reach your vantage point, though you can't tell until you’re in position and see the light streaming through the small windows. Bellamy stops in front of them and turns to the rest of you, “Alright, this is it. Get those grates open.”

You all quickly unscrew the grates to give you better access to the outside world, quietly setting them aside. You peer out the window in front of you, looking for any sign of Clarke, but finding none. In fact, there is no sign of anyone. When Clarke described Polis to you in the past, she always said that it was busy, full of people. But now, it lays barren in front of you, eerily quiet. Bellamy pulls you out of your thoughts as he says, “Let's get ready.”

You pull your backpack off and set it in a secure corner, away from any danger, and you check your gun to make sure it’s loaded. You also grab a few additional magazines, ready for any type of trouble. You and Bellamy both step into position beside each other, resting your guns on the ledge of the window, sliding them out into the open. As you both stand there, peering out into the streets, you overhear Bryan and Miller talking behind you. Bryan’s voice is soft and concerned as he asks, “Are we ever gonna be done fighting?”

“Hell yes. We're gonna build a house on a lake. You're gonna plant corn.”

Bryan adds, “And raise chickens.”

“Yeah. And grow old.”

You and Bellamy exchange a look, and you know he wants the same thing for the both of you. You reach out and give his hand a quick squeeze, letting him know you’re with him, before you turn back to the window. You let out a surprised sound at the sight of Clarke in front of you, bound and gagged, held in place beside Roan. “Hey, 11 o’clock!”

The others get into position at their respective windows, and Octavia comes to stand on your other side. She passes you a gas canister, which you set on the ledge beside you, within reach. You nod at her in thanks as Bellamy reminds you, “Roan will signal when he sees Ontari. We wait until she's standing in front of them and then we launch the gas.”

Bryan tosses Miller a gas mask, which he passes down the line, until it ends up with Bellamy. More gas masks follow until you all have one. “They're gonna be holding their breath, so we’ve gotta move fast.”

As you peer out the window again, you see that a few people are outside now, kneeling in a small patch of land nearby. Their eyes are all closed and they’re sitting so still, you start to wonder if any of them are even alive. Bellamy glances over at them, and then down the line at the rest of you. “Anyone who gets in our way, we use non-lethal force. These people are not the enemy, they're being controlled. The only thing we're here to kill is Alie. Is that clear?”

There’s a chorus of “clears” whispered, indicating that you all understand. Bellamy nods to you, giving you the signal, and you peer through your scope, looking for Clarke again. When you see her, you click the light on your rifle, on and off, signaling to her. You can tell she sees it because she tugs on her restraints enough to get Roan’s attention, and when he looks her way, she gives him a barely perceptible nod. You turn off your light and whisper, “Here we go.”

You watch as Roan pulls the Flame from his pocket and holds it up. He starts to yell, but from your place in the tunnels, it’s hard to make out. “I am Roan, King of Azgeda, and I have what the Commander seeks.”

All around him, the people that were kneeling start to stand and turn towards them. Guess they’re not dead. Roan adds, “I don't like what I'm sensing. So, if she wants it, she can come to me!”

You all watch with bated breath, waiting to see what’s going to happen. And much to your surprise, Jaha emerges from the shadows. You whisper, “It's Jaha!”

Octavia shifts beside you, trying to peer out the window. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Miller glances your way, “You see Ontari?”

“No. Hold.”

You can see Roan and Jaha talking to each other, but since neither of them are yelling like Roan was moments ago, it’s impossible to make out what they’re saying. All you can do is read their body language, and you can tell that both Roan and Clarke are on edge, distrustful of the situation. Bellamy mutters, “Something's wrong.”

Something that Jaha says puts Clarke further on edge, and she turns to you with a look of alarm. Something about the look she gives you, and the uneasy feeling about the whole situation tugs at a memory from Arkadia. You whisper, “They could use the protection.”

Bellamy turns to you, confused. “What?”

“When Jasper hugged me, he asked if I was sure I didn't want to stay behind because ‘they could use the protection’. He said they, not we.”

Octavia takes in a sharp breath, and then looks your way. “Jasper was in the room with Luna and the others, but they barely touched him. He said they tried and he didn't break, but-”

You turn to Bellamy in alarm, “It’s a trap!”

Bellamy turns to Miller and Bryan, yelling, “Do it. Do it now!”

Bryan turns to the window, and just as he is going to send in the gas canisters, he is yanked backwards. Someone yells, “On your knees! Drop your weapon!”

The rest of you are grabbed from behind, and you instantly fight back. Your gun is pulled from your grip, but you swing your elbow back and make contact with the man reaching for you. He doubles over, a natural instinct, and you hear someone yell, “Blake, against the wall. Turn around!”

When the man reaches for you again, you pull out your knife and plunge it into his shoulder, using the non lethal force that Bellamy reminded you of. The man doesn't react, because there’s no pain in the City of Light. Still, you pull the knife back out and turn to run when someone yells, “Griffin! Drop it, or he dies!”

You freeze in place, and turn slowly, coming face to face with a guard who has Bellamy in his arms and a gun pressed to his temple. You instantly drop your knife, the fight now gone from you, and two men grab you harshly from behind and shove you up against the walls, restraining you. You hear a gunshot outside, and your blood runs cold, thinking of Clarke. You turn and try to look at Bellamy, panicking, but the guards at your back have such a tight grip on you, you can't move.

Once they have you tied up, they pull you away from the wall and half lead, half drag you out of the little alcove and into the main hallway of the tunnel. Each of you are forced to your knees in rows. Octavia and Bryan in the front, then Miller and Bellamy, and you alone in the back. The guards surround you on all sides, armed, and you watch them closely, trying to form an escape. As you do, one of Pike’s men looks you all over. “Who’s gonna talk to us first?”

Everyone of you is silent and unmoving, not wanting to be the first one chosen. The guard takes his time teasing which one of you he’s going to pick, until finally, he settles on Miller. They pull him to his feet, and Bryan starts to protest, “Leave him alone!”

The guard nearest to Bryan uses his gun to hit Bryan across the face, effectively silencing him. The rest of you freeze in shock, and Miller turns to his boyfriend the best he can. “Don't say anything. No matter what.”

Bryan weakly nods and Miller is forced to his knees again. The guard smiles and tilts his head to the side. “We mostly have everything we need, except Jasper is struggling a little with the others.”

You see Bellamy freeze in front of you, confirming your earlier suspicions. You berate yourself for not catching it earlier. The guard continues, “So, how are you planning to access code that’s no longer on Earth?”

Miller says nothing, partially because Raven never told any of you her plan, but partially because he’s not one to give up secrets to the enemy. His silence is met with a slap across the face, the sound echoing through the small cave, and you see Bryan struggling to keep himself cool. It’s enough to make you decide to take one for the team. “Hey, do you do everything that Alie tells you to do? What if she told you to walk off the top of the tower, would you do it?”

The man glares at you, and then nods to the guard at your back. He leans down and whispers, “Alie says you took an arrow to the shoulder.”

You stiffen a little, knowing where this is going. “Could it be right…” He presses a finger into each wound, pushing against the healing skin, and you let out a scream of pain. “Here?”

Bellamy turns towards you, upset, and the man releases you. You glance at the other guard, standing too close to Miller, and decide to push them harder. Before you do, you glance at Bellamy and mouth, “Don’t.”

He gives a sharp shake of his head, repeating the word back to you. “We’re gonna wipe the code on your precious computer program, and delete her from existence. What are you gonna do then? Without Pike or Alie, who will you follow?”

The guard puts a boot on Miller’s chest and pushes him backwards before stalking over to you, angry. The guard at your back grabs your shoulder, holding you in place, so the other guard can punch you in the stomach. You feel the breath leave your body in a rush, and you fight back the nausea rolling through you. You gasp out, “That the best you got?”

You rear your head back and collide with the man at your back, your skull making contact with his nose. He doesn't react, other than stumbling back from the force of the hit, and the other guard swings a kick at you with so much force, it knocks you flat on your back. You cough against the force that was pushed against your chest, struggling to catch your breath, as the guard descends on you to continue his assault. He pulls his leg back to kick you again, but he freezes in place, his gaze lifting off into the distance. And then he looks out to the others. “Let's go. She wants the twin.”

Two guards pull you to your feet, and you start to fight against them. Both Blake siblings stand, yelling, “Where are you taking her?”

“Stop! Leave her alone!”

They are both met with a rifle hit to the gut, and you turn to look at them the best you can, reassuring them. “Hey, I’m gonna be okay, just find a way out of here!”

They only take you a few steps down the hallway when a voice yells from the darkness, “You know, if I were you, I'd hit the deck.”

Your head tilts to the side, recognizing the voice instantly. The guards at your side lift their flashlights, lighting up the man you suspected you heard. “Murphy.”

And then your brain processes his words, and you yell to the others, “Everyone hit the ground!”

You pull yourself out of your guards grip, clumsily, hitting your shoulder on the ground when you land, and you let out a groan. One that is muffled by the eruption of gunfire echoing in the space. When it stops, you look up in surprise, as Murphy moves closer to you and pulls you to your feet. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’ve never been this happy to see a cockroach before.” He gives you a mock offended look, and you smile at him. “Thank you, Murphy.”

He nods, looking uncomfortable, before stepping away to go help the others. Suddenly, the help he has materializes out of the darkness. Your eyes land on Indra first, who yells, “More will come, we have to hurry.”

And then they land on the one person you never expected to see again. Pike. He walks towards you, pulling out his knife, and you scramble backwards, putting space between you. He lifts his hands in surrender as Bellamy appears at your side, allowing Pike to cut off his restraints. He takes the knife from the man and frees your hands, all the while, your glare never leaves Pike. He looks between you and asks, “You okay?”

You balk, “Oh, now you care?”

Bellamy puts a comforting hand on your arm, and whispers, “Hey, it’s okay.”

You turn to him, incredulous. “No, it’s not. We may be fighting a different enemy, but don't you think for a second that I’ve forgotten what he’s done. All that guilt that you've been carrying for everything you've done the last few weeks? That’s because of him. That’s the same man that locked me up and was minutes away from killing me before the others saved us.”

Octavia materializes at your side, just as angry to see Pike still alive. Indra seems to sense the impending fight, because she moves over to her former second. “The only way we get out of here is together.”

Octavia turns her glare from Pike to Indra. “He killed Lincoln. Put him on his knees. Shot him in the head.”

The news seems to be new to Indra, because she looks over at Pike in shock. Bellamy can tell this is a losing battle, and attempts to stifle the fire of anger that’s starting to rise. “Indra's right, we need every fighter we can get.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Murphy cuts you off. “You guys missed the part where it's time to go?”

The words distract you from Pike long enough to turn towards Murphy and shake your head. “We're not leaving.”

“We just saved your lives. Why do I think I'm gonna regret that?”

Bellamy glances at you, then back to Murphy. “Clarke’s in trouble.”

“Clarke's always in trouble.

You lean down and pull the gun off of the man at your feet, and then stand to tell them, “They took her and the Flame to the tower. It's a safe bet Ontari's there, too. Everything we need to stop Alie is in the same place.”

Octavia remembers the mission, and gives you a serious look. “If we go up that tower, we won't be able to fight our way out again.”

Bellamy glances at her, “If we stop Alie, we won't have to.”

Murphy turns to look at Pike, who nods his agreement, and he sighs, “Up the tower, great. You know, after this, doing the right thing can kiss my ass.”

Bellamy turns and starts to run off, back where you were earlier, and you start to follow, until you see Miller, leaning against Bryan, bleeding from his nose. You stop in front of him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, thanks to you.” He eyes the blood dotting the shirt around your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

You wave him off, “It’s nothing.”

You turn and follow the path Bellamy took, stopping in the alcove to grab the backpack with the EMP and your abandoned knife. You pull the pack on and slide the knife in place, before catching up with the others. When you reach them, Bellamy is reminding everyone of the non-lethal force rule, waiting for you to catch up. Once he locks eyes with you, he starts to move again, and you run through the tunnels quietly for a few minutes, the sound of creaking gradually growing louder. Bellamy stops at a corner and puts an arm out to stop the rest of you. You peer around the corner with him, spotting two Grounder guards at the end of the hall, standing next to a large wheel that controls the elevator.

Bellamy gives the signal and you all start to sneak down the hall towards the guards, spread out in two lines, so they can't escape you. As you start to get close, the guards still oblivious to your presence, two shots ring out and the guards hit the ground, grunting as they do. You spin around and see Pike, his gun still lifted, and Bellamy yells, “Hey! I told you, that is not how we're doing this.”

“They were in our way.”

You give him an incredulous look. “These people are not our enemy. They're being controlled by Alie and we can save them.”

Miller glances down the halls, on edge. “There's gonna be a lot more of these people if we don't move. Let's do this.”

Indra looks over at the wheel. “I'll bring it down.”

Bellamy turns to look at the others, explaining the plan. “Once we're up, you blow the elevator and then climb. Destroy the ladder behind us.”

“On it.”

You, Bellamy, Octavia, and Murphy head towards the elevator, waiting for it to come down. As it does, Murphy eyes the closed doors. “You do realize we don't have a way down, right?”

Indra glances at him, unconcerned. “A problem for another day.”

“Let's go, our ride's here.” You, Bellamy, and Murphy step inside, but Octavia stands outside of it, looking in on all of you. Bellamy turns to look at her. “Coming, O?”

“If anything goes wrong down here, they'll need my help. We got this.”

You see her subtle glance at Pike, and you know that she doesn't want to let him out of her sight. You reach out and pull her into a hug, whispering in her ear so softly that no one else can hear, “The second he stops being useful, kill him.”

She gives you a small nod and you step away, back into the elevator, watching as Octavia slides the doors closed. A second later the elevator lurches, rising slowly, and you all stand in a line, silent, until Murphy asks, “You both get that we're screwed, right? Alie already knows that we're coming.”

“This plan will work.” You can't tell if Bellamy is trying to convince Murphy, or himself. Then a thought hits him, and Bellamy turns to look at Murphy. “Why are you here?”

“I'm just trying to survive.” When Bellamy gives him an unconvinced look, Murphy glances over at you, and then back to your boyfriend. “You're not the only one here doing something for someone you care about.”

Bellamy looks over at you, and you suddenly feel the weight of his survival on your head. The only reason he's here is because of you, which means anything that happens to him while he is here is because of you too. You feel the weight of the curse on you again, reminded of Raven’s words: Azazel, bringing destruction and corruption with your curse.

You don't get time to dwell on it further, because the elevator lurches and then suddenly stops. You all exchange a worried look, and Murphy mutters, “Well, that's not good.”

The elevator is only stopped for a couple of seconds before you all start to hear banging from the other side. “They're coming in.”

You and Bellamy run to the doors, and you try to hold them closed, but the Grounders on the other side are stronger and have a better grip, and they start to pry the door open. Bellamy turns to Murphy and yells, “Murphy, get that baton ready.”

You hear the shock baton crackle to life and the doors open wider. You yell, “Shock him, Murphy!”

Murphy squeezes in between you and shocks the first Grounder and he falls away. The second Grounder squeezes inside and grabs you, instantly dragging you towards the door. You scream, “Bellamy!”

You’re halfway inside the elevator and halfway out when Murphy hits him when the shock baton and the man drops you. Bellamy pulls you backwards, back inside the elevator, before rushing back to the doors and kicking the first Grounder away. Him and Murphy struggle to close the doors and they have it mostly closed when they force their way back in again. Murphy and Bellamy fight them off again, and as the doors start to close, a third man appears and dives through the crack in the door, just as the elevator starts to move again.

The man lands on Murphy and starts to choke him, and you dive towards him, knocking him away. He turns and starts to punch you in the face until he’s pulled off of you by Bellamy. The man starts fighting with Bellamy, and as soon as he gets the upper hand, Murphy jumps in. This continues for a few seconds, each of you taking over and passing the man around until he grows tired of it and turns and delivers a strong kick to Murphy’s chest, sending him flying towards the opposite wall. Then he turns and pulls the shock baton from Bellamy’s grip and shocks him, and you dive at him again, knocking him away.

The man turns to you and his hand instantly finds your neck and he squeezes and lifts you easily, pinning you against the wall and holding you in place. Your feet kick frantically, trying to find something to stand on, choking as the man holds you still. You glance at Bellamy, but he’s still doubled over, hazy from the shock, and you look away, trying to focus all of your energy on staying alive. You hear Murphy yell, “Bellamy, shoot him! He’s killing her, shoot him!”

Your eyes close, the spots dancing along your vision, and you try to focus on the last bit of oxygen left in your body. Just when you think you can take it anymore, a shot rings out and you fall to the ground, landing on all fours. You take in a desperate breath of air, gasping, and you feel Bellamy put a hand on your shoulder as he kneels beside you. “Are you okay?”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath, before you look at him, and see the sadness in his eyes. You know how badly he wanted to keep things non-lethal, and you reach up and put a hand over his own, comforting him. “Thank you.”

He nods, and helps you to your feet, and you glance at the door, uneasy. “Bellamy, they’re gonna storm in here as soon as we reach the top. We’ll never make it to the throne room.”

You all glance around, trying to figure out how you can make it out, when Bellamy looks up at the ceiling and lets out an excited sound. You look up and feel a rush of relief at the small vent in the ceiling, and he turns to Murphy. “Help me.”

Bellamy gives Murphy a knee to stand on and Murphy pushes the panel out of the way, and peeks up into the ceiling. “There’s room for all of us!”

He pulls himself up and leans down for your hand. You step onto Bellamy’s knee and take his hand, before grabbing onto the top with your other hand. You groan in pain when your weight pulls on your shoulder, but you try to ignore it as you pull yourself up with Murphy’s help. You both slide back as Bellamy jumps, his hands grabbing at the edge, and he pulls himself up easily, sliding into place behind you. Murphy puts the vent cover back on, and Bellamy turns to you. “Turn around.”

You do as he says and he unzips your backpack, pulling out a can of Mount Weather’s finest gas. You smile back at him as he pulls out three gas masks, passing one to each of you. You each pull them on, ride the last little bit to the top, before the elevator lurches, signaling your arrival. You all wait, still and silent, with the gas can in Bellamy’s hand and the edge of the vent in Murphy’s. You listen as the doors are pried open, and someone steps inside, asking, “Where’d they go?”

Bellamy nods at Murphy, who pulls back the vent, and Bellamy pulls the tab on the can and drops it, red smoke quickly filling the space. You hear the man cough and hit the ground, and seconds later you hear the thud of a second man following suit. Murphy pulls the vent back the rest of the way, and he drops down into the elevator, followed by you and Bellamy. You hit the ground, weapon raised, ready to shoot, but everyone nearby is on the ground, knocked out from the gas.

Murphy leads the way since he’s the most familiar with the layout, and you and Bellamy follow, your guns still up. “Throne room’s this way.”

You follow him down the hall, passing the knocked out bodies of the other guards, and when you reach the end of the hallway, in front of the throne room door, you pull your masks off and breathe in the clean air. This time, Bellamy leads the way, and he kicks the door open. Your eyes immediately fall on Clarke, who is chained to a pole, restrained, and she yells to Bellamy, “Bellamy, stop him!”

And as soon as Bellamy runs off, Clarke screams your name, and a single word. “Mom!”

You follow her gaze over to your right, where your mother is hanging from a noose, struggling for breath. “Oh my god.”

You run over to her, and you hear Murphy right behind you. A shot rings out behind you, but you ignore it, and as soon as you reach her, you grab her legs, pulling the tension of her weight off the noose. “Murphy, my knife!”

You shift towards him, so he can see the knife on your thigh, and he pulls it from the holster. He finds the box your mother used to stand on and puts it upright, climbing onto it quickly and cutting her down. As soon as she's cut free, she falls towards you, taking you both down, but you recover quickly and roll her over, loosening the noose. You press a finger to her neck, checking for her heartbeat, as Clarke frantically calls, “Is she alive? Is she breathing?”

You feel the slow, but steady thump of your mom’s heartbeat beneath your fingers, and you let out a sigh of relief, turning to look at your twin. “She’s okay.”

She sags with relief before directing Bellamy, “Jaha has the Flame. Get it.”

Bellamy mostly freed her from her restraints, and she finishes the job, running towards Ontari. “We can't let Ontari die. We have to stop the bleeding.”

She calls your name, and you look over your mother one last time, checking on her. Murphy mutters, “Go, I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you.”

You run over to your twin, pulling one of the med kits from your bag as you do. You hand it to her as she touches Ontari’s neck. “Her pulse is weak.”

Bellamy mutters, “At least she's alive.”

Clarke hands you a bandage, “Here, hold this to the wound.”

You press the cloth to the wound on the back of her head, black blood soaking through it instantly. “Clarke, she’s losing a lot of blood.”

Clarke digs around in the medkit and pulls out a small flashlight, before prying open Onatri’s eyelid and shining the light in her eyes. “Her pupils are unresponsive.”

Bellamy looks at her in alarm, “What? What does that mean?”

“She's brain dead. She can't give us the kill code. It's over.”

You all sag in disbelief, leaning away from Ontari’s dead body. You drop the cloth, looking down at the dark blood as it runs over your hands and down your arms, a terrible realization coming over you. “We're trapped here.”

To be continued….

next chapter

#bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader #the 100 #the 100 rewrite #the 100 fanfiction

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detectivecarlosreyes · 4 years

Text

Family Doesn’t End In Blood

Also on Ao3 | Word Count: 1.7k | Day: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Day 3: Buddie + “Is that blood?” “…..No?” + hurt

@buddieweek2020

It was a farmhouse fire that they were called to. He and Eddie were just supposed to do a sweep to make sure all the farmhands had made it out because not all of them were accounted for yet.

What they weren’t told was that there was an unsecured shotgun and shotgun shells in said burning building. Which just so happened to have been heated so much by the flames that they had started to ignite spontaneously, firing off just as he and Eddie passed by the room.

Luckily it was at that moment that Bobby was pulling them out, saying that the two unaccounted for farmhands had made it out at a different exit and there was no one else left.

Neither of them were hurt, at least that’s what he thought as they exited the house. It wasn’t until they moved back to the truck to exchange their equipment for hoses when Eddie stumbled, a hand pressed to his chest for a moment in discomfort before straightening up again with a small shake of his head.

Buck thought nothing of it until Eddie took his helmet off for a moment to swipe at the sweat on his brow, leaving a clear streak of blood as he does so.

“Uhh Eddie. Is that blood?” Buck asks, pointing to Eddie's forehead.

Eddie just looks at him confused before he wavers again, swaying on his feet, “… no?”

Buck steps in closer for a better look and he’s glad he did because at that moment Eddie fell forward, collapsing against him. “Hey, hey, hey, I’ve got you. Let’s lie you down, alright.” He helps to ease him to the ground.

“Buck.. my chest… it… it hurts?”

“Alright, I’ve got it okay, just don’t move.” He turns to the matter at hand and inspects Eddie’s turnout coat finding three small holes that had torn straight through.

Tearing it open, Buck finds what he’s looking for and feels his stomach drop at what he finds. There was a bloodstain right in the middle of Eddie’s torso and it was getting bigger.

Holding pressure to the wounds, Buck calls Hen and Chim on the radio, doing his best to sound calm and in control, even with the panic welling up inside him.

This is the second time that he’s had Eddie’s life literally in his hands and Buck all he can do is try to stop the bleeding as he waits, doing his best to keep Eddie conscious but he can tell that his partner was struggling and that made it all the more concerning.

Thankfully, he didn’t have long to wait before Hen and Chim were by his side asking questions that he does his best to answer. He doesn’t really pay attention to what they’re saying until Chim says “His blood pressure is dropping, probably bleeding somewhere internally. He doesn’t have a lot of time from the looks of these stats, we need to get moving now!”

As they give Cap a quick rundown of what was going on as they move him to the ambulance, Buck doesn’t move from his side, keeping his eyes firmly on Eddie’s now unconscious face. Buck knows that they were far away from the nearest hospital, and he knows that from where the pellets went in, that it’s highly likely that they hit the liver and he knows that Chim and Hen know that too from the way they looked at each other.

He knows how life-threatening they can be, which is why out of fear for Eddie’s life he blurts out, “a blood transfusion. We can do a field blood transfusion to buy him some time to get to the hospital.”

It’s enough to make the two paramedics pause for a moment to look at him and say that they didn’t have the supplies for something like that, “You can use me, Eddie and I have the same blood type and we have the equipment to do it.”

For a second he thinks they’ll refuse and say it was too risky, but then they exchange a look and then Hen was beckoning him inside as Chim steps out to take the driving seat. He takes a seat in the nearest care seat and Hen quickly sets up the transfusion line and just like that they were on their way.

Even though she makes him swear to her that he would to tell her when to stop the transfusion lest he faints from blood loss himself, Buck knows he won’t, not if it meant giving Eddie the precious time he needed. H knows that he will do anything, give anything, to make sure that Eddie made it back to Christopher no matter the cost, he loved them both too much.

Hen’s voice breaks through the silence that had fallen over the inside of the ambulance “His blood pressure looks like its stabilising. That was some good thinking, Buck.”

All he can do is nod, eyes fixated on Eddie’s face only half-listening.

“You love him, don’t you?” She goes on, fully snapping him out of whatever trance he was in, as she checks and adds more gauze packed against Eddie’s wounds.

“What? Hen, no-” he starts in a knee jerk reaction to the question, but he cuts himself off when he sees the knowing look she gives him and collapses against the back of his seat, “is it that obvious?”

She leans across and pats him on the knee, “I suspected, but I didn’t know for sure until you confirmed it just now.”

“Damn and here I thought I was doing so well at hiding it.” He says with a chuckle, feeling somewhat relieved over the confession.

“We’re 5 minutes out. How are you feeling back there, Buckaroo?” calls Chim from the front of the ambulance, effectively interrupting whatever Hen was about to say.

“All good back here Chim, never better.” He answers, doing his best to sound truthful even though he may or may not have just started to feel waves of dizziness and nausea was over him.

In no time they were pulling in at the Hospital and he had been disconnected from Eddie. He watched as the hospital team wheeled him through the doors and as he steps of the ambulance, he catches himself on the door, vision spotted with darkness.

The last thing he remembers is turning to Chim and saying, “I lied,” before blacking out.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Eddie wakes slowly to the sound of beeping, it’s the first thing he notices. It takes him longer to add sight into his functioning sense as he slowly blinks his eyes open only to see the typical muted white that could only be associated with a hospital room.

It takes him several moments, before his memory of what happened filters through the haze of the pain meds he seems to be getting. Looking around the room, his eyes eventually land on the curious form of one Evan Buckley who surprisingly was not sitting in a visitor’s chair but actually sitting up in a bed next to him scrolling through his phone, with a nearly empty saline bag hanging beside him.

“Buck?”

As soon as he makes a sound Buck had dropped his phone, relief clear on his face, “Eds! You’re awake!” and anticipating the next question that was on his lips he explains what happened, “When those shotgun shells went off, some of the spray got you in the chest just below your sternum, hitting your liver. You had surgery to get it fixed.”

It takes him a second to process the information before another question comes to mind, “And why are you here?”

A new voice joins them then, taking over in answering the question. “I’ll tell you why; your crazy partner of yours gave you a personal field blood transfusion because you had massive internal bleeding and he ended up giving you twice as much blood as he should of and passed out when we got to the hospital.” Hen says disapprovingly as she stands beside Eddie and reaches over to give his hand a squeeze, “Good to see you awake, I’m going to go find your aunt and Christopher and let them know you’re up.”

Her announcement had him raising his eyebrows at Buck, who just shrugs looking completely unapologetic, and all Eddie can do is shake his head at him, unsurprised that Buck would do something like that.

He can’t help but feel something akin to both awe and love for the man. It hasn’t escaped his notice that ever since the tsunami, Buck had time and again put his safety over his own, and given the circumstance its time that he addressed it.

“Buck…” he starts, getting the man’s attention but then finds that he has no plan on what to say next and yet somehow once again Buck reads him like a book.

“Eds, I know what you’re going to say, and I know it was reckless, but if me doing something reckless means that you get to make it home again to your family, to Christopher, then I would make those same choices in a heartbeat.”

Eddie opens his mouth to respond but Buck continues on, “He can’t lose another parent, Eds, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to make sure you make it home to him.”

Feeling exasperated by Buck’s lack of self-preservation, he frowns at him “You’re an idiot if you think we don’t see you as family Buck, you have been for a long time now, so don’t think for a second that Chris would be any less upset losing you as he would be losing me.”

“You’re his dad Eddie, it’s completely different.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true-” Before he can continue trying to convince Buck some more, the sound of Christopher’s crutches interrupts the conversation and his attention is taken up instead by his son.

He gets it, Buck’s reasoning, and he will forever be grateful for the man himself, so when Chris was situated on his bed, so he could give his dad a careful hug, Eddie looks over the top of his head at Buck and mouths ‘Thank you’ while considering the possibility that maybe there was more to their relationship and he should probably do something about it and properly make him part of the family.

Which he does.

5 days later.

#buddieweek2020 #Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #Christopher diaz #tw: blood #Hen wilson #Chimney Han #Bobby nash #my fic #jess writes #911 fox #userkourt #userkimmy

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iwritethat · 4 years

Text

Older Batsis: Wally West

A/N: A bit of fun in time for Valentine’s Day.

Warnings: Sexual implications (no smut or anything), mature language

>>>>—————————>

Entering the manor and slamming the door behind you was supposed to be like entering a world of welcoming warmth that you could melt into, not be only a degree or so lower than the frozen wasteland you'd just escaped from.

You glanced around the hallway, darkness filling the area leaving you with a frustrated sigh - power was out. Fortunately you'd mentally mapped out the floorplan over your years and navigated your way to a lounge and lit the fireplace with a content hum.

You'd shed your wet, snow covered, outer layers but with a sudden breeze you instantly regretted that decision and spun to meet the offender with a defeated huff.

"Hey beautiful, we're working on a case down in the Batcave but heard the door slam so your brothers sent me up to check on you since 'super speed' and they didn't want to move away from the heaters." The alias under the Flash crossed his arms once quoting 'super speed', offering a flirty wink which even now still doubled your heart rate.

"They s-stole all the he-heaters... Shitbags. I - I'm free-freezing Wally." You barely managed through chattering teeth, understanding that though the Manor was powerless the Batcave ran off of a different source meaning they were toasty down there.

"I could steal you one, plus you've already armed yourself with your fluffy blanket." He gestured to the item splayed in front of the fireplace to warm it up before you had the opportunity to utilise it, instead choosing to welcome you into his arms for a warm hug.

"Wa- Are you vibrating?" You disregarded his last comment in favour of your query, tilting your head at his minuscule shifting stature unsure as to whether you were just shivering.

"Yeah, keeps me warm."

"Can you do me?"

"I, yes - any day of the week - but lemme get this straight, are you asking me to be your vibrator (Y/n)?" His reply was full of smugness, you pulled back to catch his playful smirk.

"I didn't mean it like that! I meant for warmth!"

"I know, couldn't resist~" He chuckles to himself, meeting your frustrated gaze with a kind smile as it remained comfortably silent for a few seconds before you spoke.

"But - but can you, y'know, vibrate?" Your hands settled on his chest out of your sudden curiosity, tables now flipping as he became the flustered one partly due to your insinuating words which caught him off guard in its supposed innocence.

"I mean, almost all of my past partners haven't known about the speed thing so..." This was killing him, you knew exactly what you were doing and had very little shame about it either. While you seemed untroubled by his presence - ever since you’d arrived he'd been muting all vividly romantic thoughts, holding his tongue with pick up lines and resisted the urge to hold you like he'd so desperately wanted. Like he did at your house, like you did at his apartment... The Manor was dangerous territory and acting on those lustful instincts were supposedly best avoided.

Though you had alternative ideas.

"I know about your speed, and I really need warming up Wally." Your voice was seductively enticing, your lips choosing sensitive placement on his neck and he released a shaky breath reflecting the wavering if his willpower. Damn you.

"(Y/n)... your brothers w-" It came after a satisfied moan, Wally biting his lip and gently parting from yours before attempting a weak justification he had absolutely no belief in.

"Won't miss you too much." You finished for him, kissing his jaw and awaiting his response.

"And you?"

"I'll show you how much I missed you~"

In the next instance you felt soft silky fur of your blanket against your back, Wally hovering above you with the fire dancing in his irises and illuminating his skin in a brilliant golden glow - you swore he never looked more attractive. It was rather ironic, who'd have thought losing clothes would make your temperature skyrocket?

Back in the Batcave, Dick barely caught the dash of his friend, now shirtless and rooting through his belongings for a spare apparently.

"Woah what happened?!"

Wally flinched at the sudden brief contact with his back and the painful sting that came with it causing him to speed a metre or so away now in a fresh sweatshirt. His healing would kick in soon.

Your beautiful, stunning, incredibly persuasive sister happened.

Dick gave him a quizzical glance, the claw marks on his best friends back obviously quite fresh and the afflicter was unknown.

"Ah - Alfred - the cat one, he kinda caught me off guard when I was with (Y/n)?" He didn't sound at all convincing but they assumed it was down to sheer embarrassment at being bested by a feline.

"Perfect, his training has paid off." Damian now fully invested in the conversation added, indicating he had an ulterior motive which was unsurprising considering the protectiveness he held over his eldest sister.

"What training?" Dick cautiously questioned, now concerned with his own safety as well as overtaken by sheer curiosity.

"Whenever West makes a move toward our sister, Alfred will attack. Clearly my training methods are effective."

"Hold up, did you make a move on our sister?!" Dick incredulously shot to his best friend, Damian now narrowing his gaze at the sighing red head.

God yes, multiple pleasurable moves.

"I hugged her." Not a lie, but not a full truth either, those was better left private but Damian wasn't fully convinced and made a step toward the stairway.

"Hmm, how about we ask (L/n) then?"

"No don't! Uh - she's asleep in front of the fire and looks really peaceful." He began protectively, speeding over to block the Robins exit before becoming flustered when explaining his reasoning.

"That why you were gone so long?" Grayson raised a brow, noting the odd behaviours and body language but ultimately didn’t dwell on it.

No, things got way hotter than originally planned.

"Yeah, I helped her find some blankets and start the fire. Then we caught up a bit, we haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks."

They displayed disinterested at this point, content in knowing they’re worst fears hadn’t been realised.

It was late evening when you stirred from your peaceful hour long nap, instinctively your fingers reached across the array of soft blankets finding only empty warmth. With a soft smile you’d concluded Wally had waited until you’d fallen asleep in his arms before heading back down to the Batcave, knowing him he’d probably remained a little longer simply enjoying the afterglow and warmth that followed such intimacy with you.

A pleased sigh escaped your lips when you moved to stand, the aching of your leg muscles a rather welcomed one in your opinion - regardless, as you already donned Wallys hoodie you dressed yourself fully before heading down to the cave.

"Why are you wearing Wallys hoodie?" Stephanie inquired somewhat suggestively the moment you entered, eyebrows wriggling as an indicator.

"Hmm, oh well after having sex by the fire it was the closest thing to me so logically I was too lazy to get anything else." You boredly sighed, Wally paling at your sheer lack of secrecy whereas Spoiler wasn't expecting such an open answer leaving her speechless.

Despite hating how brutally honest you were, the way you worded it so unbelievably paid off and consecutively too.

"No seriously though." Dick tried again, dismissing your last answer like usual whenever you’d given such brash replies regarding your activities.

It was rather ingenious actually, if they ever found out about Wally then they couldn't blame either of you for not telling them because, in fact, you consistently did - it's not your fault they didn’t believe you.

"Seriously. I genuinely just made love to your best friend." There wasn't a hint of misleading this time, expression casual with a smug nod to Dick who only rolled his eyes.

"Hey babe, you know they'd murder me right?" The speedster indicated to Damian carefully sharpening his katana, though his overuse of pet names meant your family paid no mind to them any more.

"They'd have to get through me first." You wink at him, your brothers scoffing at the thought even if they knew you were being honest.

Even so, you linked your arm with the speedsters despite his hesitancy at displaying any form of contact in the presence of your family - but you were good friends, a fact your family knew all too well.

“Wanna have a rather late dinner at my place tonight?”

“Sounds perfect, would you like me to get takeout or should we attempt a recipe?” Wally relaxed at the casual tone of voice, one he found familiarity in as you both left wrapped up in conversation.

Not an unusual occurrence really, but still, that didn’t cease the racing minds of the young detectives that remained.

It was a few moments, Damian’s glare solely focused on the two of you happily retreating, before some spark of realisation surged through him.

"Wait... There were no claw marks on his hoodie..."

"Meaning when Alfred got to him, he wasn't wearing it so - WALLY!" Dick finished, shooting after his best friend who had probably already swept you off by now - Damian more than willing to take the war to your apartment.

"The cat was happily wrapped in Wallys hoodie so it couldn't have attacked him really... Ohmygod what if it wasn't Alfred at all! Ahhhhhh~!" Stephanie clasped her hands together out of both enthusiasm and shock, low-key fangirling about the possibility despite its implications.

“Uh - or maybe, the cat attacked Wally when he gave (Y/n) his hoodie to keep her warm.” Tim justified, one that supported the proficiency of Damian’s feline training and as such already semi convinced the youngest by praising his ego - the theory made sense. Dick and the youngest offered shrugs to each other before heading off to grab some files whereas Steph withheld a suspicious expression toward her partner.

“You... You‘re covering for them. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me Tim! Why would (Y/n) even consult you in the first place?” She knew it was likely due to his lack of interference, that and no doubt you outrightly told him if he happened to ask the right questions which Tim had a knack for doing.

“Because I’m the favourite.” He offered her a smug wink, once more typing away leaving a pouting Steph with Alfred the cat purring at her leg. The creature hadn’t taken in any of Robins orders or laid a claw on West and yet radiated waves of accomplishment.

“Traitor... Damian won’t be very pleased once he finds out you allowed Wally near (Y/n) kitty cat.”

#older batsis #older batsis imagine #wally west x reader #wally west imagine #wally west #dc #dc imagine #batfam imagine #batsis imagine

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carolyncaves · 4 years

Text

Hello again everyone, and welcome to Wei Wuxian goes to Gusu, Part Two. Also, the Untamed Spring Fest is long over, but this is my belated entry for Days 24-26: Gentle, Harmony, and Nest, which rounds out the complete set. 4913 words, golden core angst continued, copious tenderness also continued, vague mental illness plus thoughts of death/dying (it’s still wwx), wangxian vibes intensify (it’s still lwj), lxc is around too, minor caretaking, numerous rabbits

part one | also on ao3

Wei Wuxian awoke, and he had so little idea where he was or why that for a second it could have been before, and all of it – Lotus Pier and that mountain in Yiling and the Burial Mounds – could have all been a long, fading dream.

He was empty, though. He didn’t even have to reach for it – it was a conspicuous scoured ache. He was in Gusu, crumpled in failure. It was inescapably real.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t slept well in weeks, so he was both surprised and unsurprised he’d dropped off so early and still made it well past sunrise. And that Lan Zhan hadn’t awoken him, even though the day would have started long ago for the inhabitants of Cloud Recesses.

There was movement in the jingshi – Lan Zhan had been at his desk, reading something, but he’d noticed Wei Wuxian was awake and had risen to come over to him. Wei Wuxian rolled blearily out of the bed. He blinked in the sun-washed light of the dwelling.

They were alone – Lan Xichen wasn’t waiting for him too. Suibian was still in the sword stand, though Bichen was now at its master’s side. The table held one person’s breakfast, kept warm with a talisman.

He was a little dazed that Lan Zhan hadn't berated him or, he didn't know, the sky hadn’t fallen down around him now that he'd revealed the truth to someone. To be honest the shock might have been making him a little woozy. That was what he felt – light and otherwise empty.

He was very fortunate, then, that Lan Zhan had arranged this meal for him – generous and formal, as if he were a guest visiting with honor – and didn't seem to be asking anything of him in exchange for eating it.

Lan Zhan sat down at the table with Wei Wuxian, even though he had obviously eaten hours ago. Lan Zhan poured chili oil in his porridge and set it in front of him. Lan Zhan made him a second cup of tea when he finished his first. Lan Zhan did not speak – there was, of course, no talking during meals at Cloud Recesses. For once, Wei Wuxian was happy to keep that rule.

It was only when he was finished, and they had sat there in silence long enough that it was clearly ‘after breakfast’, that Lan Zhan spoke. “How?”

That was a short and nonspecific question, so Wei Wuxian answered it as shortly and nonspecifically as possible – after Jiang Cheng’s core was crushed by Wen Zhuliu, Wei Wuxian had discovered a way to give him his own, and he had fooled Jiang Cheng by going about it a roundabout way but was diverted by Wen Chao before he could rejoin him.

If he was lucky, he would never be forced to give more detail than that.

Wei Wuxian had not been lucky for a long, long while.

Still, for now, Lan Zhan only nodded. He’d probably spent half the night going over everything Jiang Cheng had said to him while they were searching for Wei Wuxian together. He’d just needed Wei Wuxian’s version of the story to fill in the gaps.

The silence stretched again. Wei Wuxian didn’t want to volunteer anything to fill it.

“Jiang Wanyin is a fool,” Lan Zhan said.

That was so far down on the list of things Wei Wuxian had expected to be confronted with that he hadn’t even managed to reach it yet. “What do you mean?”

"He knows his core was destroyed. He had it magically restored, though an opaque machination of yours, and when you reappeared afterward you were wielding demonic cultivation and refused to use your sword." Lan Zhan's cup hit the table hard, for him anyway. "Can Sandu Shengshou not add to two?"

Wei Wuxian let out a laugh despite himself, at Lan Zhan’s protective grouchiness, but he quickly sobered. "I told him something wholeheartedly and he believed his shixiong. Is that really his fault?"

Lan Zhan looked lost at him. "Very well. You are also ridiculous. Do you prefer that?"

"You're right. We deserve each other. I mean Jiang Cheng and me.” Wei Wuxian certainly didn’t deserve Lan Zhan. Something occurred to him, and he put forward a sudden burst of energy, leaning forward to argue his case. “Lan Zhan, my three month absence and the flute and the ghosts were very distracting! I think you should give me some credit! It’s only because I so convincingly threw up so much smoke – quite literally, I might add – that Jiang Cheng was fooled!”

Lan Zhan didn’t take the bait. He continued looking upset, and not riled at all.

Wei Wuxian did not have the appetite to play upbeat forever. “Lan Zhan,” he tried to wheedle, but it came out more morosely than he’d intended.

Lan Zhan winced as if struck. Wei Wuxian did not want to do that to Lan Zhan. Before he could think of a way to make it better, Lan Zhan had risen. “Come,” he ordered.

“Where are we going?”

“Come.” When Wei Wuxian still didn’t manage to move right away, Lan Zhan added, “Somewhere simple. Come.”

Wei Wuxian didn't like that he'd needed to be told that. But it did help for him to know. He went.

The paths of Cloud Recesses were not crowded. Most likely everyone was engaged in their daily study or tasks, and Wei Wuxian suddenly wondered what it had taken for Lan Zhan to be with him. He has sect duties to attend to, Lan Xichen had said to Jiang Cheng. He has been tasked with repairing the sect’s scriptures, he’d told Wei Wuxian. Lan Zhan hadn’t been permitted to come to Yunmeng, or otherwise Wei Wuxian was now quite certain he would have. But here he was now, leading Wei Wuxian up the back mountain in the middle of the day, apparently uncaring if anyone saw them or not.

He didn’t know how to ask that, though. He couldn’t say ‘Lan Zhan, are you making trouble for yourself by seeing to me?’ He didn’t know what he would do if the answer was yes.

He would have to insist on returning to Lotus Pier immediately. He would have to endure the sword flight back.

He was selfish. He didn’t ask so he wouldn’t have to do those things. Not yet.

Lan Zhan took him to the hidden clearing where the bunnies lived.

At the sight of the soft, white creatures, Lan Zhan’s secret flock, Wei Wuxian felt a thickness in his throat that completely eliminated any possibility of speaking. He merely looked at Lan Zhan with what felt like a pinched and desperate expression and hoped his question would be conveyed.

Lan Zhan guided him with small touches to sit down on a low stone. Then he bent down and carefully scooped one of the rabbits into his arms, and settled it in Wei Wuxian’s lap.

Wei Wuxian cupped it, warm body and soft fur, with both hands – the reflexive response to a small animal. “Lan Zhan?” he managed. He stroked his hand down its back, rubbed the downy spot behind its ears.

“I find them soothing,” Lan Zhan said, in a small voice. “I hoped …” He looked away, like he was ashamed.

A traitorous tear finally escaped Wei Wuxian’s eyes, which meant several more sympathizers followed. “They’re marvelous, Lan Zhan. Thank you very much.” He hugged the bunny close against him – gently, of course, but holding that living, beating thing to his cold, still center.

Lan Zhan immediately turned and started to collect more rabbits for Wei Wuxian.

He ferried them in ones and twos over to him, and when they began to overflow from Wei Wuxian’s lap – which didn’t take long – he coaxed Wei Wuxian down off the rock and into the grass and lay more bunnies alongside him. Once he’d apparently decided the supply at hand was adequate, he settled himself directly next to Wei Wuxian and put his arm once more around his back.

Wei Wuxian had no objection to this touch – it was more pleasing than any or even all of the rabbits, as lovely as they were. But it was uncommon – he hoarded his memories of Lan Zhan’s contact as preciously as any stones – and as he sat limply, three rabbits resting in the circle of his own arms, he couldn’t help but wonder at it. “Lan Zhan, why do you keep petting me like I’m one of these bunnies. Are you trying to soothe yourself?”

No sooner did the words leave Wei Wuxian’s mouth than he realized of course he was. Lan Zhan was plainly beside himself, to anyone who knew him at all.

“I’m okay, Lan Zhan. It’s only a little spilled milk.” He let his mind wander down a wistful trail. “It’s natural for you to be disappointed our epic rivalry in cultivation is ruined.”

“You are not. It is not.” Lan Zhan took an almost-unsteady breath. “I am not.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for the type to try to avoid competition, but I suppose I won’t hold it against you,” Wei Wuxian continued. He was parrying, saying bald and callous things so he could avoid thinking about the raw ones, but Lan Zhan was growing only palpably more distressed. Wei Wuxian had to stop.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before he could think about it. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

Lan Zhan’s arm squeezed him fervently, but he didn’t speak. He was waiting for him to elaborate. Maybe he meant 'about what?'. Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but think it would be more reasonable if he meant 'what were you not wrong about?'

“When I said it wasn’t your concern. When I called you ruthless, and accused you of not cherishing our relationship." When Wei Wuxian had spoken those words the first time, they’d felt true – he’d been an angry sort of terrified Lan Zhan would press further and intrude on the ways he was compensating for the things he now lacked. Repeating them now, in the gentle respite of Gusu’s hospitality and Lan Zhan’s literal embrace, they tasted like ash on his tongue. "I’m sorry I called you Hanguang Jun. I was trying to make you mad at me, saying hurtful things on purpose. I know … I know you …" Care seemed paltry, next to everything Lan Zhan did and was. Wei Wuxian couldn’t find anything better.

Lan Zhan’s free hand circled his bicep, slow and barely restrained. A silent I do.

“Me, too. Lan Zhan. I’m sorry.”

“There is no need,” Lan Zhan said, “so long as you stay.”

Wei Wuxian let himself absorb that for a moment. The benediction that Lan Zhan would forgive him. But … "I can't stay forever, can I? I will eventually have to go back to Lotus Pier, and attend cultivation conferences, and rejoin the world." Wei Wuxian made himself smile ruefully. "Tempting as it might be, I can't hide here in Cloud Recesses forever, kept like another of these rabbits."

Lan Zhan didn’t dispute his comment directly. That meant he knew Wei Wuxian was right and he didn't like it. "We have time."

Wei Wuxian didn’t know if there was enough time in the world. He didn’t know what difference time would make. He didn’t voice that, though. He was done arguing with Lan Zhan.

“Is there anything else I need to apologize for? My brain is a leaky sieve these days, Lan Zhan – have I done anything else cruel to you for which I need to repent?” It was hard to understand now how he’d been so sharp with Lan Zhan, who had taken it all from him and only returned stiff, anxious concern.

There was a hesitation. Lan Zhan asked quietly, “What was your intention?”

“Hm?”

“It was only by chance you were thrown into the Burial Mounds and forged your tool and the yin tiger amulet. You would not accept my help – you would not have sought it out. Did you intend to wield the raw yin iron from the start? When you came down from the mountain after the removal of your core, what was your intention?”

Wei Wuxian stared at Lan Zhan’s knee long enough that Lan Zhan shifted forward and captured Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Wei Wuxian sighed. He knew he would not like the answer. "I thought probably I would die quickly in battle, and then the secret would go to my grave.”

Wei Wuxian had been right. Lan Zhan's expression at that was ... agonized wasn't a wrong word. Considering how Lan Zhan had reacted to the revelation about his core, considering how he'd been treating him... he couldn't imagine how Lan Zhan would have received his death. How stricken he would have been.

"Fortunately, I met Wen Chao,” Wei Wuxian said, which was a truly bizarre sentiment considering what had followed.

“Your golden core is gone, and your body and temperament are being devoured by resentful energy,” Lan Zhan said mournfully. “It is not fortunate.”

“I’m here, Lan Zhan. That’s fortunate enough.” One of the rabbits reached its snout under his cupped hand, sniffing inquisitively. Wei Wuxian felt himself smile. He lay his hand over its eyes, blinding it momentarily, but then in payment he dutifully stroked its fur. “The wicked tricks aren’t really so bad, are they? Didn’t they save us from Wen Ruohan?”

“You saved us,” Lan Zhan agreed slowly, like he didn’t quite see the correlation. Wei Wuxian didn’t know that he understood his skepticism – Lan Zhan had been discussing the price, so Wei Wuxian was reminding him of what it purchased. Lan Zhan elaborated. “It’s not whether they are valuable, or right or wrong. Your use of them is harmful to your wellbeing.”

Wei Wuxian thought about the powerful tearing energy that flowed through him when he played Chenqing. He thought about all the blood he’d spit into the soil of the Burial Mounds when he’d made it. He thought about how he felt empty and tired all the time, and how even now he couldn’t be completely sure where the absence of his core ended and the disintegration of the black smoke began. He thought about how it didn’t matter – now they were one and the same – and how nothing mattered, and how everything mattered but he was powerless to change any of it. He thought about anger – at the Wens, at Lan Zhan, at Jiang Cheng, at the war council led by Nie Mingjie, at everything – and how even that now seemed distant and beyond his reach. He’d felt a burst of it when Lan Xichen tried to persuade him to pick up the sword. It had flagged quickly, and now numbness and an almost pathetic gratitude and affection for Lan Zhan were all that remained of him.

“You could play Clarity for me,” Wei Wuxian said. “Actually, Zewu Jun mentioned you’d been studying other scores. You can play whatever you think is suitable.”

Lan Zhan looked deep into Wei Wuxian’s face. Wei Wuxian didn’t know if he hadn’t been expecting that out of him, or if he thought it was rich for Wei Wuxian to be asking for it now, after refusing so many times – but at length, Wei Wuxian could swear he could see tears in his eyes. “Some of the scores are experimental,” Lan Zhan said. “I have tested them, but please note their effects.” Then he turned in place so he was angled away from Wei Wuxian and conjured his guqin.

In this way, his back to him, Lan Zhan managed to play without leaving the thin bubble of air heated by their mutual warmth. Their shoulders even touched. Wei Wuxian tried not to lean on him. He didn't want to add any more weight, push Lan Zhan more out of his regular alignment than he already was.

Then again, what was the point of him being here? How could he let Lan Zhan help him without letting himself impose?

He couldn't, then. He couldn’t be selfish any longer.

But Lan Zhan wanted him to.

It was a tangle in Wei Wuxian's head. He couldn’t parse it, didn’t have the will, so he just sat there and let the music wash over him, let Lan Zhan play until he was done, and then obeyed when Lan Zhan suggested they go back.

When they returned to the jingshi, Lan Xichen was waiting for them.

///

Lan Wangji observed the way Wei Ying’s demeanor closed in on itself again when he caught sight of Xichen. It was dismaying, but in a distant way – compared to all that had already dismayed him, it was nothing, and as long as Wei Ying remained here, it had no real significance.

Of course, that second thing relied on Xichen’s support.

“I’ve ordered tea to share, if there’s no problem, Wangji.”

He was giving Lan Wangji the option to defer if he still wished to, as he had last night. Lan Wangji could admit it was tempting – there was a part of him that wanted to wrap his hands around Wei Ying alone together in the jingshi and hold him until those tight shutters unfurled themselves again. But they would need to give some account to Xichen sooner or later, and Wei Ying was in a calm state. There would be nothing to gain by delaying.

They sat down at the table and were served. Wei Ying made a few frivolous comments, a thin but genuine attempt at normalcy, and Xichen responded with good nature, but the unignorable topic hung in the air. When the chatter lapsed, Lan Wangji tracked Xichen’s eyes around the jingshi. They stilled on the sword rack – on Suibian, set obviously to the side.

Xichen drew a breath.

“No more,” Lan Wangji said.

“Wangji?”

“We should talk no more about the sword. It's irrelevant.”

Lan Xichen looked concernedly at Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji stared steadily back.

“It’s a serious departure.”

“Xiongzhang, we must achieve harmony in the cultivation world over Wei Ying’s new style of cultivation." He didn't address Xichen's comment about the sword directly at all.

The crease deepened in Lan Xichen's brow. "That's a tall order.” He surely also had reservations about whether it was a correct course at all. “Are you certain this is the best way to proceed, Wangji? Is there no other solution that’s being abandoned too quickly?”

“No.” Lan Wangji understood now that Wei Ying had been shattered beyond repair, and any other solutions had been shattered with him. There was a narrow path before them, and danger lapped on either side. But if it were possible to see Wei Ying to the other side of it, to avoid suppression by the various sects on one hand and annihilation by his own cultivation on the other, Lan Wangji would see it done.

Xichen’s gaze slid over to Wei Ying – who watched his teacup firmly. “Well … if Wei-gongzi continues to be inflexible, I suppose it is the immediate remedy.”

He had the wrong ideas. Lan Wangji did not correct him.

///

Wei Wuxian did not contribute much to the conversation, but neither Lan Zhan nor Lan Xichen seemed to expect him to. They determined the main obstacle would be Jin Guangshan – and that tipping the scales away from him would be a matter of ten thousand small words instead of a few big, bold ones.

“Sect Leader Jin will not easily let the matter of Wei-gongzi’s amulet go,” Lan Xichen pointed out, mildly as anything.

He was right. That settled like a lead ball in Wei Wuxian’s stomach, but hard problems were not solved in a day.

They also determined – and got Wei Wuxian to agree – he would stay for now, and they would revisit the matter in two weeks and not before. This felt strangely as though Wei Wuxian had been about to go under the sword and he’d gotten a reprieve. It didn’t matter that it was temporary, and all together brief. It felt infinite in comparison to the smother of expectation, and suddenly he could breathe.

He spent the afternoon intermittently walking the circumference of the jingshi’s garden and being in nature, trying and mostly failing to read a few of the books Lan Zhan had brought from the library pavilion he thought might interest him (“Only if you are looking for something to occupy yourself,” Lan Zhan had stressed), listening to another round of Lan Zhan’s healing music, and working fixatedly but not very fruitfully on the design of a talisman. He ended up sitting with his knees in his chest in the circle of Lan Zhan's arms – limp with what he had finally accepted was exhaustion. When night fell, Lan Zhan opened the jingshi's doors and they sat close beside each other on the threshold of the porch, looking up at the stars.

In that beautiful, settled silence, Wei Wuxian eventually said, “I don't know what to say to Jiang Chang.”

“You will be here for at least two weeks,” Lan Zhan replied. “Perhaps much longer.”

“I know, but eventually I’m going to have to go back, and I don’t know what to say to Jiang Cheng.”

“We have time to consider it. That and other things.” Lan Zhan shifted his hand ever so slightly where it rested on his knee. Almost as if he wanted to do something with it. “You must be careful with your use of demonic cultivation. It would be best if you allow other people to act whenever possible, and only use the amulet when there is no alternative.”

“That’s a nice idea, Lan Zhan, but it’s hard when I can’t justify it. Not also using the sword, if it means I can’t do all the things I used to.”

He could only do it if he had someone beside him who knew, who could compensate and step in. But the only person who knew, and who could know, was Lan Zhan.

"I cannot leave Cloud Recesses,” Lan Zhan murmured. “Uncle has forbidden me." Then, he immediately countered with, "I will ask Xiongzhang to intercede with him. He has already been convinced to have you here and to allow me to spend time assisting you. We will tell him …”

"Lan Zhan, you don't have to do that."

"I would not be doing it because I have to.”

Wei Wuxian lay his hand over Lan Zhan’s. He curled his fingers around it, loosely. “I know. I just mean it would be hard for you, too. When you can’t justify it.” There should be no reason Wei Wuxian needed a guard and companion, so it would be impossible to explain to anyone – Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, Jiang Cheng and Shijie, the whole cultivation world – why Lan Zhan would remain at Wei Wuxian’s side.

It was a nice thought, just an impractical one.

Lan Zhan must’ve agreed with him, because he didn’t dispute this. Instead he finally asked, “Was it painful?”

Wei Wuxian often avoided thinking about it, but when pressed, one thing he remembered was the messy nest Wen Ning had made out of his outer robe to cushion Wei Wuxian’s head. Wei Wuxian had tried to refuse him, claiming it would get dirty. “Use mine,” he'd offered.

“You’ll be cold, Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning had replied. “From the ground.”

“Won't you then, from the air?” He'd given a thin laugh. “I don't think my being cold or warm is going to matter much.”

Wen Ning had just looked at him mournfully.

He also remembered screaming.

"It wasn't that bad,” was what Wei Wuxian said. “I was unconscious for the worst of it. Mostly just a little sore when I woke up.”

Lan Zhan gave him a long look. Maybe that was too unbelievable – that something so hard would be so easy. "I thought you were telling the truth."

"It doesn't matter now, does it?��

“It matters.”

“But Lan Zhan, don't you … Aren’t you upset enough? I don't want to torture you with the details."

“Wei Ying. It matters.” There was a lengthy pause. “Does it hurt still?” Lan Zhan asked, so quiet it was barely there. Having the core be gone, he surely meant.

Hurt was the wrong word.

When Wen Qing began the procedure in earnest, he’d felt his life leaving him. He’d known his heart would falter and stop by the end of it. He was feeling its last weak beats, drawing his last plaintive breaths, and his throat had tightened in mortal panic.

He lived on, of course, but afterwards he’d still known he was dying – could feel his body slowing down and drying up without the bright warm thing that powered it. He’d been prepared for that possibility from the beginning. He understood it, that his dying body was going to ache and shrivel around him. He’d just needed it to get him down the mountain, get him back to Jiang Cheng, ideally get him in front of an enemy sword so there wouldn’t be any questions about it. As the days passed, it seemed like it might.

The days had turned into weeks. Yiling Tea House had turned into the Burial Mounds. That empty, dead feeling never went away. Wei Wuxian just realized he wasn’t actually going to die from it.

That had been surprisingly hard to deal with.

Wei Wuxian slowly bent forward until he was crumpled against Lan Zhan's chest. Lan Zhan put his arms around him immediately – the embroidered fabric of his robes rich against Wei Wuxian’s cheek, the drape of his sleeve enshrouding him.

“No, it’s just gone now.” The words felt thick in his throat, so he repeated them. "Lan Zhan, it's gone."

Lan Zhan’s lips pressed against the crown of his head. “Wei Ying,” he said, in a tone of voice that sounded like ‘I am here’ and ‘that means nothing’ all at once. Wei Wuxian dug his fingers desperately into Lan Zhan’s robes. He could do nothing, certainly, but it didn’t mean nothing. For him to give up the past day for Wei Wuxian meant something. And the next two weeks, that meant something, too.

Wei Wuxian would try to absorb as much of that meaning as he could, funnel it into that empty space inside him. He would use it for fuel, when it was over. He could perhaps push himself very far on it. He slumped against Lan Zhan’s warm chest and willed it to seep into him.

Lan Zhan stroked his hair – slowly, lightly, the same quiet way he spoke. Lan Zhan wiped dry the intermittent tears that slid silently down one side of Wei Wuxian’s face – those on the other side just seeped into his robe. Lan Zhan hummed to him, a song he’d heard only once before, drifting in and out of consciousness in a dismal cave.

Wei Wuxian’s whole world was the expansion and contraction of his chest. They sat under the light of the scattered infinite stars.

Eventually, after the heavens had turned quite a ways above them, Lan Zhan gathered Wei Wuxian up and took him to bed – settled him down on the edge of it, removed his ribbon and combed down his hair, coaxed off his clothes and dressed him in one of his own sleeping robes. He lay him down and arranged the blanket over him, the way he’d done the previous night.

This time, though, once Lan Zhan had made himself ready for sleep, he got in and joined him. Lay right next to him in the bed, not even a hint of modesty or hesitation, tangling their knees and tucking Wei Wuxian’s head beneath his chin so every inch of them was close.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asked – and it meant Is this all right? Lan Zhan obviously expected it would be, since he’d gone on and done it first, but he was giving Wei Wuxian the opportunity to voice the contrary.

Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have known he wanted it, but it turned out Lan Zhan was quicker than him, at least when it came to these things, because he did. He pressed his cheek into the warm skin of Lan Zhan’s neck and snaked his arm around his waist. “Lan Zhan.”

That night sleep went back to eluding him, spent hours standing ruthlessly out of reach – but instead of being alone in the darkness with his sharpest thoughts, he had Lan Zhan’s precious weight for company.

///

“Xiongzhang,” Lan Wangji said, on the porch of the hanshi. “What about a marriage?”

Lan Wangji had appeared at his brother’s door so early Xichen was still in his sleeping attire, but he still invited Lan Wangji inside and gave the inquiry due consideration. “Certainly Jin Guangshan would be appeased, or at the very least distracted, if the Jiang sect would agree to form that alliance. But Jiang-guniang has already indicated no quite publicly, at the victory banquet, so it will be some time before the matter could be reopened. Besides, I thought we agreed it was unwise to let Sect Leader Jin consolidate power unilaterally.”

“Not a marriage for Jiang Yanli. Or the Jin sect.”

Wei Ying had gone far astray, nearly to the point of catastrophe, but Lan Wangji now realized he had also been in error. He had been overly fixated on getting Wei Wuxian to come to Gusu.

The best solution, the only lasting one, was for him to go to Lotus Pier.

part three

#cql #mdzs #the untamed #fanfiction #wangxian #it takes lan wangji just over twenty four hours to decide the logical course of action is to marry wei ying #if you look closely you can pinpoint the exact moment it occurs to him #and he never looks back lmao #so apparently some deep part of my subconscious is absolutely committed to getting lwj to marry into wwx’s family at lotus pier #I gave it a throwaway line in one of the spring fest fics and now here we are #I tried to decide if I was being objective here but other than sad/less fun endings #I felt like the only way to substantially change what comes next #is for lwj to feel like he's in a societally-recognized position to be able to back wwx up #instead of just watching from the sidelines feeling dismayed #and maybe some of the weight of the highly respectable lan clan can be thrown around #to support the powerful-but-vulnerable wwx and the new-and-insecure jc and jiang clan #against the very rude (and regrettably powerful) jgs #that’s my concept here #and in canon lwj spends this whole period going ‘what the heck is wwx’s problem’#alongside the obvious ‘oh no he’s going to get hurt’#and he still ends up trying to help him at nightless city and fighting god and the elders lmao #so now in this scenario he ~knows~ wwx’s problem #and gets frightened by wwx’s condition and his almost-death #he’s shoved off that precipitous love-wei-ying cliff even faster lmao #this a/n is just me trying to justify my sappy plot decisions okay #look at all these tags okay end TED talk #my fic #wwx #lwj #lxc

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sleepless-in-starbucks · 4 years

Text

Respectable

Logan was a respectable boyfriend. Really, he was. He had a tie, after all. And the fact that he was wearing his boyfriend’s jacket and shifting through the contents of its pockets? Well... he had a reason for that. Totally.

Pairing: Romantic losleep Content warnings: They kiss once, food mentions Author’s note: Shout-out to the ever-lovely and amazing @blinksinbewilderment who inspired all of this with one (1) headcanon/idea and accidentally threw my muse into overdrive

Logan was a respectable boyfriend. He tried to avoid being overly affectionate in public. He made dinners on the nights he was supposed to, and sometimes on others when Remy seemed particularly stressed. He massaged Remy’s back when it was hurting worse than usual (which was nearly every night, but Logan didn’t mind, because within ten minutes Remy always melted back onto Logan and remained aggressively cuddly for the rest of the night, something Logan considered to be a definite positive). He wore a tie. He was respectable.

His explanation for the fact that he was currently pulling Remy’s slightly too big leather jacket as close around himself as he could? Well… it was comfortable. And it looked nice on him. And it smelled of coffee and cinnamon and, maybe, just a little bit like… Remy.

…

It wasn’t like anyone could see him, for Einstein’s sake! Remy was out of the house! He was still respectable, damnit.

That’s what Logan told himself, anyways, as he sunk further into the couch and wrapped his arms around himself and pretended it was Remy hugging him and not just himself. He had been telling it to himself for a while, actually, but he was struggling with the ‘believing it’ part.

Logan sighed and let go of himself, already feeling much too silly as is, even if the only person around to judge him was himself. Instead, he tucked his hands into the jacket’s pockets. At least he could keep his hands warm-

Wait. Logan wiggling his fingers within the pockets, crinkling noises bringing a small smile to his face. He should’ve known Remy would have stuff in his pockets.

With a quick, guilty glance around- as if he might be caught- Logan grabbed at the various items, pulling them out and piling them in his lap. A few of them were just wrappers from some candies. With a frown, Logan pushed them off to the side. He’d really have to talk to Remy about his cleanliness later.

Next up was a crumpled ball of receipts. Logan unfurled them, unsurprised to find them all from Remy’s favorite coffee shop. He didn’t even need to read the order on them to know what it was- a mocha with one to three shots of espresso, depending on how tired Remy was. Logan smiled softly as he checked and found himself, as always, perfectly on-point. He moved the receipts to the trash pile. Remy would have an identical bunch of them within a week.

Logan’s smile widened as he picked up the next thing- it was a piece of paper, torn off of a notebook or something similar. It was folded over, but on the outside was written in Remy’s lazy scrawl, “reasons why I have the best boyfriend in the world- suck it everyone else you’re stuck with b-grade bois.” He unfolded it, still smiling as he read through the listed reasons:

Reason one: He’s Logan. Need I say more

Reason two: He’s super smart. Like, SUPER smart. Beat-a-super-computer smart

Reason three: He has THE most kissable face in the entire universe

Reason four: If I tell him I love him he says it back??? Insane???

Reason five: Gives quality massages, ten out of ten, would recommend, except I don’t, because he’s MINE and as such I am the only person allowed to get his massages, deal with it

Reason six: Soft warm cuddly warm VERY warm soft softie

Reason seven: He’s going to look even better when he’s my husband, which I almost didn’t think was possible but I just feel like… like it’ll be different when I’ve got his name or he’s got mine. Just a feeling. But a good one

Reason eight: Hands down the LOVELIEST blush

Reason nine: A somehow even BETTER smile

There were more reasons on the list, but Logan only got so much further before his brain ran into a metaphorical wall, his eyes scrambling back up to re-read reason seven. And then re-re-read it. And again and again and again for about two minutes before it finally, completely sunk in.

But it couldn’t- it didn’t really- no it- Remy couldn’t- it wasn’t-

Slowly, Logan folded the paper back up, slipping the list back into the jacket’s pocket. He could ask Remy about what it meant exactly later. He was already blushing enough right then and there.

Luckily, there was only one scrap of trash left- another receipt. Logan assumed it was for the coffee shop again, though he still unfolded it, surprised that it had fallen out of the ball from earlier. As he flattened out the creases in it, however, he realized the formatting of it was different from the cafe’s. It looked more… professional?

Frowning in confusion, Logan read it over.

Gentleman’s- Charms, rings, and classy things

Date: 01-21-XXXX

Cashier: Miranda

Transaction #: 552943

Item(s): Ring, model 9277 [special order]

-Size seven

-Titanium, black

-Star sapphire, blue, primary

-Silver flecking [custom done, see record 329943]

-Engraving [custom phrase, see record 329943]

Pricing: Fluctuates on customization. For exact cost, collect receipt upon actual purchase and pick-up of item(s) purchased.

Logan felt his breath catch in his throat. This was… this was a receipt. A jewelry store receipt. A jewelry store receipt for a… A jewelry store receipt for a…

For a ring. For a custom made, carefully designed, clearly tailored for him, ring.

And Logan knows in this economy, with how much Remy makes, there is only one reason he’d spend as much money as a ring like this must cost. And that reason paired very, very well with reason seven of “reasons why I have the best boyfriend in the world- suck it everyone else you’re stuck with b-grade bois.”

Logan… didn’t know what to do. How was he supposed to react to this? He knew, of course, how he’d react if (when) Remy told (asked) him about it, but how was he supposed to react now, with the receipt in hand, saying everything Remy was planning to in much more concise, and much less romantic, terms?

Apparently the correct answer to his question was simply not, since all Logan did after that was… sit. Sit there, staring almost unseeingly at the paper, taking in the words again and again. He felt slightly breathless, which may have come from the fact that he stopped breathing a minute ago.

He was shaken from his stupor by the need to breathe, his lungs forcing in a breath and startling Logan out of his state. He looked the receipt over once more before he stuffed it in his pocket- not the jacket pocket, but his own.

Logan wasn’t entirely sure what he would’ve done next were it not for his phone suddenly ringing. He jerked his head to look at it a little too fast, but that was alright, all things considered. He quickly scooped it up, checking the caller and, unsurprisingly, finding it to be Remy. He took a deep breath and took the call.

“Hello, this is Logan.”

“Hiya babes. How’s my boo?”

Logan glanced down at the jacket he was wearing, thinking about all the secrets within. “Oh… fine. A little tired.”

He could almost hear Remy frown. “Tired? Didn’t you have work off today?”

“I did, yes, I just… didn’t sleep great last night, I guess.”

“Aw, hun.” Remy tutted sympathetically. “You should have told me. I could’ve stayed home and aggressively cuddled you into napping.”

Logan quirked his lips into a small smile. “It’s perfectly alright. I got in a short nap after lunch.” He said, which wasn’t a lie. He had napped.

He had also been napping in Remy’s jacket but that wasn’t something he was going to mention.

“Yeah, but we could’ve napped together.” Remy whined, and Logan chuckled.

“We can nap together soon enough.” Logan pointed out, waiting half a beat before he added, likely sounding a touch whiny himself, “Speaking of, how soon will you be returning home?

Remy laughed, and Logan knew his neediness hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Awww, miss me much?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Logan said. Remy didn’t respond, however, and eventually Logan sighed and slumped further back against the couch. “Alright, perhaps I have missed you. Just a bit.”

“That’s my truth-telling nerd.” Remy said cheerily. Logan rolled his eyes, though he knew Remy couldn’t see him. “And pretty soon. I’mma stop and pick up some Chinese since it sounds like you’re not gonna want to make dinner, and I certainly don’t. And after we eat we can sleep the entire rest of the evening away, yeah?”

“I don’t know, love, that sounds horribly unproductive…” Logan trailed off, not even sounding convincing to himself.

“I promise to cuddle you the entire time.”

Logan let a moment pass before he answered, trying to downplay the fact that he had been ready to enthusiastically agree the second Remy said that. “I suppose that would be alright, yes.”

He didn’t need to see his boyfriend to know Remy was fistpumping in victory. “Yet another win for the gays!” He exclaimed. “I’m going to go get some quality fast food to celebrate this momentous occasion. See you in a few, alright?”

“Got it.” Logan confirmed. “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” Remy said, the pet-name sincere, before he hung up. Logan did after, putting his phone back down on the table. He didn’t move for another minute, still enjoying the warmth and familiarity of Remy’s jacket.

The minute ended soon enough, however, and Logan sighed as he reluctantly stood up and shed the garment. He put it back where he had found it- tossed over the back of the couch, clearly left there on accident by a Remy who had slept in a bit too late and had rushed to get out of the house and to work.

He then pulled himself towards the kitchen, pulling out plates and silverware to set the table. He knew they could just plop on the couch, attempting to use their equally poor chopstick skills to eat out of the containers, but the last time they did that they had stained the couch. Badly. And they could only use the ‘flip the couch cushion over’ trick once.

By the time everything was laid out, Logan heard the door opening. Remy was pushing it open with a greasy paper bag in one hand. He smiled brightly as he spotted Logan, quickly closing the door so he could hurry over. He more or less flung the bag onto the table before he latched onto Logan, wrapping his arms around Logan’s back and squeezing him close.

“Missed you!” Remy said energetically. “You and your warmth!”

Logan chuckled as he hugged Remy back. He was just in a t-shirt, and his exposed arms were cold. “Forgot your jacket?” He asked, tone lightly teasing.

“Only a little bit.” Remy responded. Logan didn’t respond outside of another quiet chuckle, running his hands up and down Remy’s back to help warm him up before he released his boyfriend.

“Come on, the food will go cold.” Logan said as Remy grabbed his wrist and refused to completely let him go.

“But can’t we eat and snuggle on the couch?”

“You know what happened the last time we did that.” Logan responded. Remy pouted, but he still let go of Logan, sadly sinking into his seat across the table from Logan. He kept the pout up the entire time they served themselves, it only going away when he finally started eating.

“I love when I’m cold and food is warm.” Remy said simply as he shoveled more rice into his mouth than Logan really thought was healthy. Logan ate slower, not in the mood to choke today, the conversation remaining nonexistent until Remy, finally, took a break from eating to prompt some small talk.

“So, how was today?” He asked casually as he wiped off the mess of grease around his mouth. He then smirked. “Aside from being so sad and empty without me in it?”

Logan scoffed and rolled his eyes, though the gestures were fond. “It was fine.” He returned simply. “I mostly just read. The silence was a nice change of pace from your constant rowdy clamour.”

Remy raised a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “I’m pained you describe my natural noise levels as such! I prefer the term wild. Rowdy’s too undignified.”

“Yes, and you have no dignity.” Logan pointed out.

“I am aware, but we can at least pretend I do.” Remy said, slumping down in his chair dramatically. “Gosh, it’s almost like you love having a chaotic mess as a boyfriend.”

“I do.” Logan said, voice quieting a bit as he added, impulsively, without a first thought and much less a second one, “I’d love it even more if I was married to one.”

Remy raised an eyebrow, tilting his sunglasses down so he could look at Logan better. “Whatcha’ say, darling?” He asked, sounding confused and maybe just a little bit hopeful.

Logan didn’t answer him at first, his thoughts and rationality finally catching up to him and demanding answers from him as to why he had done this. But they were still behind his mouth, which once more started moving without his permission, saying, “I said, I’d love it even more if I was married to one.”

Remy pulled his sunglasses off at that, dropping them on the table, allowing Logan to see now that his emotions had shifted into a mess of confusion, hope, and the tiniest bit of upset. “You gonna propose to me, babes?” He asked, words light though his tone was practically awed.

“No.” Logan answered, watching as Remy grew even more confused. His heart started to hammer in his chest as he reached into his pocket, fingers crumpling around the receipt he shouldn’t have seen but currently didn’t regret finding. He flattened it out before he pushed it towards Remy, watching as his boyfriend’s eyes grew as large as saucers as he recognized it. “I’m going to propose that you propose to me. Preferably sooner rather than later. Or right now. Right now works too.”

“I- you-” Remy pressed his lips together, stopping the stammered words from slipping out as he continued to stare at the receipt. Finally, he pressed his eyes shut too, letting out a shaky laugh. “Damnit Lo.”

“I-I beg your pardon?” Logan asked, feeling relatively shaky himself by now. He was relatively sure he hadn’t always been able to hear his pulse in his ears.

Remy laughed a bit louder, opening his eyes and lifting his gaze back to Logan. Logan gasped a little as he realized that tears had formed at the corners of Remy’s eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind, smiling as he said, “I had it all planned out. Meteor shower in two weeks. I was going to drag you out to the park for a midnight picnic to watch. It was going to be great. I was going to compliment you until you were so flustered you were refusing to look at me, get you distracted by some scientific ramblings long enough for me to get the box open and I- and then I was going to-”

Without even realizing it, Logan was suddenly standing, pushing his chair back so quick he was surprised it didn’t topple over as he moved around the table, Remy standing up just in time to catch him as he flung himself at Remy.

Remy caught him with ease, pulling him so close Logan could have sworn Remy could feel his heartbeat against Remy’s chest. Remy buried his face into Logan’s hair and Logan did the same into the side of Remy’s neck. Distantly, he realized that he had started crying too. Which was ridiculous, of course, given it wasn’t like Remy had even really proposed to him yet.

But he was, he was going to, in two weeks time, during a meteor shower, filling the time with compliments and space facts and ranting and everything all leading up to one thing-

“Yes.” Remy said, his voice only slightly muffled by Logan’s hair.

“Yes?” Logan repeated, torn out of his thoughts and confused. “Yes what?”

Remy laughed again, and it was a beautiful sound, even if it was a little congested sounding at the moment. “Yes, I agree to your proposal to propose to you.”

“Oh.” Logan said dumbly, before the words truly registered and he said, again, “Oh.” He pulled his head from where it had been slotted against Remy’s neck, looking up his face. “When?”

“Well, uh… you said now was good, right?”

Logan smiled. “I did, yes.”

Remy nodded at that, more to himself than Logan. A sheepish smile slipped onto his face as he gently pulled away from Logan. “One moment.” He said before he turned and rushed down the hallway, likely to their bedroom.

Logan made good use of the short time he had to collect himself by shoving his fist into his mouth and squealing into it. Not that he’d ever admit to ‘squealing’ per say. Just… a yell. That happened to be very excited and very high pitched.

He didn’t have much time to contemplate that he was quickly losing the title of ‘respectable’ before Remy was back, a grey box clasped in his hands. He was fiddling with it between his fingers, clearly nervous. He came to stand in front of Logan, fidgeting in place, looking between Logan and the ground.

“You know, I think you’re supposed to get down on one knee.” Logan suggested as Remy didn’t do anything, seemingly stuck in place, stuck in the moment. Logan didn’t blame him.

“I know, I know, I just…” Remy paused, hesitating for a second before he quickly moved forward, kissing Logan on the lips. Logan didn’t react immediately, startled, but he quickly wrapped his arms around the back of Remy’s neck, pulling him close and returning the affection. By the time Remy pulled away, Logan was breathless.

“Wh- What was that for?” He mumbled. Remy laughed, shifting the ring box to one hand as he cupped one of Logan’s cheeks with the other, bringing Logan to the realization that his cheeks were ‘suddenly’ startlingly warm.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re flustered. I don’t even remember why I was so nervous.” Remy murmured in response, making Logan only flush harder as Remy fully pulled away. He dropped to one knee, holding the ring box in front of him.

“Logan Dearest Darling Sanders,” Remy said, smirking just the slightest, though the majority of his smile was still caring, still adoring, still loving, “will you do me the highest honor and allow me to call you mine, legally?”

“And you say I’m the dork-” Logan started, though he didn’t get that far, considering Remy chose that moment to open the ring box. True to the receipt, it was jet black, and a midnight-blue star sapphire was set in the middle of it.

The custom silver job that the receipt had mentioned but not described was also there, however, and that’s what caught Logan- because on each side of the star stone, flecks of silver were placed extremely carefully, in patterns that were more than familiar to him.

“Ursula major and aquila.” Remy said, softly. “Your-”

“My first constellation and my favorite.” Logan finished for him, tone wonderstruck. “You remembered.”

“I’d wouldn’t dare forget.” Remy replied feverently. “There’s an engraving, too, but you don’t earn the right to know about that unless you say yes.”

“I wouldn’t dare say no.” Logan said, smiling and feeling more than a little silly at the echo, but not minding it much as Remy broke out in a grin and reached forward, grabbing Logan’s hand and pulling it closer. Logan knew he was probably going to slip the ring on, to make it official, but Logan let himself completely move with the motion instead, lightly falling to his knees so that he was on level with Remy. He reached forward and grabbed Remy’s wrists, pulling him closer so that he could lean his forehead against Remy’s, because it only felt right to be close in that moment, felt right to leave as little space as possible between them.

“What does the engraving say?” He asked, still sounding breathless, likely because he still was breathless for more reasons than he could be bothered to count.

Remy grinned, not removing his forehead from Logan’s as he pulled the ring out of its box, letting the box fall without a second care. He lifted it up so that Logan could see it, tilting it around so that the light caught on the engraved words. They were tiny, just barely able to fit on, but they did.

I bet you could sometimes find all the secrets of the universe in someone’s hand.

“And I know I can.” Remy said softly as Logan looked away from the engraving, Remy taking the moment to slip the ring onto Logan’s finger. It fit perfectly. “Because I found all of them and more in yours.”

Logan let out a little laugh, breathy and airy and light and not humorous at all but happy, oh so very happy. “Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.”

“The engravement, yes.” Remy admitted. “The second part? That’s just me being a sap.”

“I think that’s generally allowed in moments like this.” Logan replied, and he laughed, laughed even as more tears fell down his face. “Oh- I- I’m crying again.”

“Y’know what?” Remy said as he lifted up Logan’s newly adorned hand, entwining their fingers, the ring shining like the night sky against his hand. He tilted his head up just the tiniest bit, enough to meet Logan’s eyes more directly, his own shining with joy like Logan had never seen before and he was almost certain he would never see again (except perhaps one more time, one more time in a future that was far away and yet so close, one more time with more joy and love and each other). “I think that’s generally allowed in moments like this.”

Logan was a respectable boyfriend fiancé. It was not very respectable to topple into your fiancé’s arms, crying, and insistently pull them closer to you while they hold you as tightly as they possibly could, also crying as they press kisses into your hair.

But then again, it also wasn’t very respectable to steal your fiancé’s jacket to sleep in, or to rummage through its pockets, or to spoil his proposal surprise to propose that he propose to you because you’re too impatient to wait.

So, yeah. Maybe Logan wasn’t exactly a ‘respectable’ fiancé. But he was a very happy one. And, really, that’s all he cared about.

#don't y'all love what my muse will and will not do for me sdbcshjbcsd #anyways #have this #and btw #there's a lot more going on in this story than the summary says ;)))#losleep #ts remy #ts sleep #ts logan #fanfic #fanfiction #ts sides #sanders sides #the cryptid speaks #blink

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loruleanheart · 3 years

Text

Desired Fate, Chapter 5

Read on ff.net

Read on AO3

“Kill her...”

Zelda’s heart plummeted as the full weight of his words hit her, her world falling and crashing into a million pieces.

No! Wait...! She moved her mouth to protest, but no words came forth.

Zelda tried to take a step back only to find her legs were like lead. She tripped backward, falling into the shallow water.

The Champion imposters crowded her with swift precision, following their master’s order without hesitation. The dark Urbosa raised her scimitar. Zelda braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut. There was no one to save her. But even worse, she felt too numb to care.

And just as she resigned herself to this harsh fate, a blinding flash engulfed the forest, and the expected killing blow never came.

Zelda shielded her eyes, peeking out from between her fingers to see the Hollows writhing as they faded away.

Was that.... the spirit that lives within the sword....?

She shakily breathed out and looked around, the hooded man was looking at her with a shocked expression.

He turned to look at the sword, startled, “What?!”

Zelda was only vaguely aware as Link and the little Guardian came to her side, her knight having tracked her down with the little one in tow.

“Link?”

The knight offered her a hand.

“I’m… alright.” Zelda got to her feet on her own. The back of her pants was soaked from falling into the water. She grimaced in discomfort.

As Zelda stood, Link drew his sword and rushed at the hooded man, giving a shout.

“Link! Wait!”

“I won’t allow you to take that sword, boy.” The wizard threatened. Link cast a glance at the sword on the pedestal, still glowing as if beckoning for him to claim it. He tried to make his way to it, but it was clear the hooded man was intent on stopping him.

Zelda stood back, stunned. Link is... the hero?

The hooded wizard levitated the orb between his hands, summoning malice to rain down on the knight. Link ran to dodge it. The mysterious man countered, levitating himself as if being raised by some invisible force. He brought his knees to his chest, becoming one with the orb. The ball of energy rushed at the knight. Link flew through the air, landing hard on the dais. As the boy stirred he turned his head to see his standard-issue knight’s sword had been broken in two. Wasting no time, he got to his feet and pulled the sacred blade from its pedestal.

The hooded man sneered at the knight, backpedaling a few steps in hesitation before jumping back into the orb and flying at Link once again, in a rage. This time Link swung the sacred blade at the right moment, shattering the illusion. The wizard fell to the ground. The orb went back to its original size and shape and landed some feet away. The hooded man reached for it, but Link quickly kicked it further away and held him at sword point.

“You can’t kill me. I am fated to revive Calamity Ganon. My purpose isn’t complete.” There was a slight waver in his voice, that stirred something in Zelda.

She rushed to the Link’s side who was standing over the strange man.

“Who are you?” The Princess demanded.

“Well if you must know... Your Highness,” the man said coldly, “I am Astor, prophet of the Calamity. Lord Ganon selected me to bring this world to its knees,” he said defiantly.

Astor… His name is Astor… Zelda’s eyes met with his. His sharp yellow eyes were looking at her with disdain, but there was something else she saw. There was true terror in the man’s gaze, despite the coldness his voice projected.

Link held the edge of the sacred blade to Astor’s throat, threatening to apply dangerous pressure.

“Link, wait! No more... Please…” Zelda searched for an excuse not wanting to see a beheading right before her eyes. “H-he could be a valuable source of information on the Calamity if we take him alive.”

Link looked at her as if studying her expression. Her knight was unreadable to her and he said nothing in return. Zelda prayed she had come off as convincing enough. As the princess, she did have a sort of authority over him, and he was obligated to follow her orders, after all. So he didn’t protest.

As the knight was distracted, the prophet bolted upright and shoved past him, grabbing his fallen orb. Link moved to guard Zelda. The dome went up again, this time a hollow version of the hero emerged.

Astor glanced at Zelda, who was looking back at him over the boy’s shoulder. The two shared another long gaze. A conflicted expression crossed his pallid features. He hesitated and then pointed to the small Guardian which was some distance from Link and Zelda. “Destroy the Guardian!”

Zelda gave a small gasp, but before she could act, the manifestation of Link made fast work of the little Guardian, leaving it in pieces. Link moved to take down his copy, skillfully dispatching the Hollow with little effort, mercifully bringing an end to his doppleganger’s empty existence. The Hollow disappeared in a puff of red malice.

When Zelda looked back, Astor was gone. Zelda collected herself and breathed out in frustration as she approached the broken down Guardian, surveying the damage. Sure, It may have technically been a piece of artificial intelligence, but she’d begun to see it almost like a friend, having ascertained it had come from the future to protect her. It truly was her guardian. But what would become of her now? Without her sealing power did she still have a chance to stop the Calamity? She hung her head and shed a single tear.

There was a long moment of silence between the princess and the knight. She couldn’t read his expression, leaving her wondering what he was thinking - or worse what he thought of her. She held everything back, trying to project the same unreadable expression. It was the lowest she’d ever felt.

The silence was broken when the Champions found them.

“Zelda?” Urbosa came forward, seeing the broken Guardian at her feet. “Why would you wander away from the group? Are you hurt?”

“No, Urbosa. I’m… alright…” Said Zelda, still numb.

Urbosa looked down at the Guardian. “Oh my...” Urbosa sighed. “What should we do about this?”

Zelda thought for a moment. “.... Perhaps Robbie can repair it.”

“Ok Champions. You heard your Princess. Everyone help carry as many pieces as you can.” Urbosa said as a way to lighten the somber mood.

Everyone complied and no one complained. Not even Revali.

Zelda collected a few small screws and gears, putting them in her pouch connected to her belt.

oOo

They were on their way back to Hyrule Castle. Zelda sighed as she shielded her eyes from the setting sun. A few paces ahead of her was Link, Master Sword at his back.

Already Link has gone from an ordinary knight to the one destined to wield the sword that seals the darkness. Yet, I’m still in the same rut I’ve been in all my life. And now… It’s like I’ve got a target on my back because of this cursed power I can’t even use.

In her mind’s eye, the moment replays again and again. “Kill her.” His voice had been so dark, so cold, and so full of hate.

I’m such a fool… His image must have appeared on the Sheikah Slate as a warning, and I...

She felt tears threatening to break forth. She raised her hand to her face. And then she felt everyone’s gaze on her.

She stopped in her tracks, and her voice wavered as she spoke. “How can I… If I am unable to awaken my inner power…”

Urbosa came to Zelda’s side with concern in her eyes. “Okay everyone, let’s take a break.”

Everyone broke off and began to congregate in small groups. Urbosa pulled Zelda aside.

Zelda took a deep breath. “Link… He’s become so much stronger.” That was just the beginning of her troubles. Urbosa didn’t need to know anything beyond the obvious.

Urbosa smiled knowingly, “And yet, I have not. I presume that’s what you were thinking, hm?”

Zelda nodded. “More and more monsters have been appearing lately. It is a sign that the Calamity draws near. So there isn’t much time. And still, no sign of my power awakening…”

“Yes, I understand your frustration, but perhaps it is self-defeating to compare your progress to Link’s.” Urbosa turned her attention to the young knight, who was some distance from them being showered with praise by Daruk and some Hylian soldiers. “He… is the same boy he was before acquiring that sword.”

One of the soldiers held a plate of rocks. Link took a rock in each hand and wolfed them down without a second thought.

Urbosa gave an unsurprised cluck of her tongue. “He will rise to... any challenge with no hesitation. That’s all there is to it.”

Daruk laughed. “Well done, Little guy. Eat up!”

Zelda grimaced, feeling queasy.

Urbosa smiled at Zelda. “But I know that you too are capable of rising to any challenge. Look how hard you’ve worked to get this far.”

“But I’ve been trying all these years, and nothings changed….”

Urbosa went quiet for a moment, looking more saddened. “I know, little bird. I was there… I haven’t forgotten all your struggles. But I have faith that you are where you need to be and everything will unfold as it is meant to. You must accept that too.”

“But it isn’t… It isn’t in the slightest...” Zelda was reeling. Everything felt out of sorts and very wrong. “Excuse me, Urbosa….”

Before Urbosa could protest, Zelda walked away as fast as she could. It was all too much to bear. Her head was spinning. She was about to lose control of all her anxieties and distress she’d been holding back. She broke into a run, and as soon as she was out of sight she vomited.

oOo

“Is that the Sacred Blade I see?” King Rhoam stood up from his throne on the second floor of the sanctum. “Link, I’m very pleased it was you. Now I have divine confirmation that I made the right decision in choosing you as Zelda’s knight.” The king looked so pleasantly surprised he mercifully didn’t seem to notice Zelda’s disheveled state.

But Impa did.

“Your Highness…” Impa rushed to the Princess. Urbosa held a comforting hand to Zelda’s shoulder as she gave a nod to Impa.

“I’m fine, Impa. I just got a bit ill on the way back.”

“Thank you, Champions. You have done your duty well, and as a result, Hyrule’s hero has been discovered… There is only one last thing required to oppose the Calamity.” Rhoam looked to his daughter. “Oh… Where is that little Guardian? It’s usually always at your side.” Rhoam asked, which threw Zelda. He really was in an exceptionally good mood.

“Broken… Regretfully...”

“Ah… That’s unfortunate...” King Rhoam offered. His voice was not unkind. He even sounded a little disappointed and she wondered why.

“I’ll take it to Robbie and Purah first thing tomorrow for repair,” Zelda said, numb. Impa gave her a much needed gentle push towards her chambers.

“Link, Champions, I’d like you to join us for a celebratory dinner.” King Rhoam continued.

Zelda headed to her bedchamber, taking care of her disheveled state. She washed her face, undid her braid, and brushed her hair, before changing into her royal gown, one of her waiting maids stepping in to assist her in tying and lacing up areas that required an extra set of hands. The dress was exquisite, but truth be told, it limited her range of movement.

Zelda took her seat in the dining hall at a long table opposite her father. Link was to her left and seemed to acclimate to the formal setting quite well despite eating rocks with reckless abandon just a short time before. Impa was seated to her right. The Champions were further down the table, closer to Rhoam who exchanged pleasantries with the Champions. Daruk, Revali, and Urbosa dominated much of the conversation. Mipha was more reserved.

“You know, Mipha was just tellin’ me the other day how she believed Link would be the one who could wield the sword,” Daruk mused out loud to the whole table.

Mipha looked flustered, but then the Zora princess composed herself and said sweetly, “Daruk, I told you that in confidence.”

Daruk laughed. “Oh… Sorry. And yet, you were right. You should own it!”

“Is it my understanding that you and Link have been friends since childhood?” Rhoam asked, trying to make polite conversation.

Mipha stiffened at the King’s question. “Yes, that’s correct.” She smiled serenely at Link. The boy looked up from his meal, acknowledging the zora princess.

“It has been such a pleasure to have you join us for another meal after all these years, Chief Urbosa. It is deeply unfortunate that the queen could not be here to see this day.”

“Indeed… I think of her every day,” Urbosa replied. “Zelda looks so much like her. Now more than ever. The queen was about the same age Zelda is now when we first became friends.” Urbosa glanced across the table at Zelda, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Zelda, that’s your favorite cake and you’ve barely touched it,” said Impa, the royal aide showing concern in her voice.

It was true, she’d been kind of picking over it with her fork. “I’m quite full already…”

“It’s just unlike you to turn down fruit cake.”

“I can’t take another bite. I might get sick again…”

“Okay. Okay. Say no more.”

The dinner was winding down, and King Rhoam spoke in an official tone. “ We will hold a ceremony to honor the Champions in three days. Zelda, it will be your duty to handcraft the sacred blue garments for each of the Champions, including a tunic for Link.

Zelda closed her eyes, holding back a sigh. She replied dutifully. “Yes, Father. I’ll get started on them right away.”

#Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity #Age of Calamity #Astor #HWAOC #Zelast #fanfiction

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ofgoodmenarchive · 3 years

Link

The third in a series of drabbles exploring my Blood Mage!Dorian.

Seasonal/Festive edition with gift-giving and psuedo-ice-skating.

Deathly Courtship

Another restless night spent in a grimy hovel- an especially restless one this time. Dorian was at least thankful his cave was uncharacteristically dry for Ferelden. It would have made the hours of tossing around in his bedding even more insufferable.

He couldn't sleep- painfully alert. Every subtle sound from the wilderness scratched at his insides and the darkness felt not dark enough- agitated by the mildest light.

Whenever he did lose consciousness- or something close- he caught glimpses of the Inquisition camp, as if projected upon his eyelids. He surveyed from above but also lurked its fringes- much closer than he'd dare approach.

The culprit was obvious.

Daylight slivered into his den and Dorian strode outside, unsurprised by what he witnessed.

His shadow was slumped along a rock, boneless-seeming, staring at the Inquisition camp.

“You've been here all night.” Dorian admonished, flopping to tend the fire. “It kept me awake, you know! And what are you doing lurking around camp? He has his own Spirit, remember?! It might see you!”

It grunted passively, not looking at him.

He rolled his eyes, sparked kindling.

“You need to learn some patience, is what you need to do.” Leaning back from the flames, Dorian rooted around in his bag. He didn't have anything to really appease his demon but there was salted meat. Not a fantastic breakfast- he was probably still better fed than the refugees.

This time his shadow didn't offer so much as a grunt, intent on watching

Dorian sighed and craned his neck around- below, Lavellan also prepared for the day.

“There's a way we have to do this, you realise that?” He lectured, cutting meat into chunks. “That's the Southern Chantry down there, or have you forgotten?”

Huffing, Dorian chewed raw flesh and inspected his companion- never moving from it's spot.

“...If it was up to you,” He considered, shaking his head. “We'd just skulk into his camp one night, sneak into his tent and...”

Trailing off, he furrowed his brow at the creature.

“Stop that. Stop putting thoughts in my head. We're not doing that.”

His shadow seethed as if in agony, somehow becoming more limp.

“You're so stupid.” He grumbled, standing. “You saw how he reacted to us. He'll say yes in the moment then be terrified later- as they all are! Because you, my friend...”

He leaned sideways upon the same rock as his demon, frowning at Lavellan and gnashing bloody meat.

“...come on far too strong.”

It exhaled in dramatic anguish, one with it's perch.

Dorian rolled his eyes again.

"If I didn't know any better...I'd almost say you're lovesick."

The demon had no comment but it's offense was palpable through their bond. Dorian snickered, continuing to mull over;

“What we need...is to provide something- a gift, something useful! That's how everyone else slinks into his good graces, no?”

It harrumphed, unconvinced. Dorian ignored this, retrieving his staff.

“Well we're not doing things your way! You forget we're also betraying the Venatori. They're not going to be happy about that, are they? We're going to need a place in the Inquisition to survive- which we won't get if you can't pace yourself!”

Muttering to himself, Dorian sauntered down the slope, knowing his demon would have no choice but to follow.

“You're going to have to get used to looking in my mind, too. I can't be talking to myself so bloody much! The Venatori don't care, they just think I'm mad. The Inquisition however, might have something to say about-”

Interrupted by an abrupt crash of bristling fur- a wild wolf. Dorian was tackled and with a snarl, kicked the beast over his head. Positively annoyed, he spun around and crushed its skull with the one upon his staff, spitting-

“Wolves! Bloody wolves everywhere- I can't even finish a blasted sentence!” He licked red from his weapon without thought. “...Don't the Dalish have some superstitions about wolves? Sort of a whole...guardians of the Beyond, sentinels of death- that sort of thing?”

He blinked towards his shadow- observing neutrally. It shrugged.

“You know- the Dread Wolf and all that! Fenharel, or whatever!”

It's head tilted, clueless.

“This is why I make the decisions around here, you know...” Dorian scoffed, peering down at the fallen creature. “In fact...I think I have an idea.”

Crisp, morning air welcomed Evallan when he opened his eyes. His room in Haven was warm- intolerably so, for someone acclimatised to sleeping in the cold outdoors. Therefore a window near his bed was always ajar, mountain chill guiding him awake before anyone else.

They'd returned to restock supplies, rest and exchange personnel. Already he craved wilderness- while they traipsed over hills and through caves, it was easy to distract himself.

Suffocating in luxurious sheets, Evallan was acutely aware of how far from home he lay.

He wondered if his brothers were rising for the day- or if they'd become slothful without him to direct. After all, he was the 'Eldest' Lavellan- a title that meant nothing here but that appointed him some vague authority among his people.

Perhaps Villyen- being younger and less focused- would whine to Amrallan for them to sleep in. They might finally climb from their aravel bunks for lunch, then perhaps Amrallan would suggest they adventure somewhere, rather than attend chores...

By this description it was easy to forget Amrallan was actually older than him- Evallan had always been more responsible. He thought of how his brother might handle this 'Herald' predicament, laughing at the idea.

I will write them again- soon.

For now, he needed to stave off homesickness.

It was too early for serving hands- breakfast wouldn't be prepared yet. That was fine by Evallan- he could only be himself in solitude, and food would do nothing to satiate his cravings.

He craved the freedom of home. Of travelling with his clan, camping in lands too untamed for the shem. Answering to the Creators, and to the wilderness, and nothing else.

This need brought him to the frozen lake, staring wistfully from its edge.

An uncanny sense bothered him- of being observed. This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling- it occurred erratically throughout their time in the Hinterlands. Easily attributed to the Maleficar they'd encountered, he'd become accustomed to dismissing it.

Though he saw no sign of him now- and they were quite a ways from the Hinterlands. Evallan couldn't imagine a purpose in stalking him so far.

A trick of the mind this time, I think...

He had to confess, a part of him wished otherwise. Evallan found little point of relation between himself and the humans. Therefore, couldn't help but admire a shem mage who lived so wilfully as an outcast. Perhaps he would find common ground with such a man?

On the other hand, Evallan had no guess as to his thoughts. He should be more suspicious. Yet it was difficult not to be sympathetic towards someone who constantly skirted shadows, clearly not wishing to be seen.

Additionally, he tended to discern threats through his Spirit-bond. Lightbringer had voiced no concerns towards the shem's intent, so it was likely not malicious. Evallan trusted her to caution him if that happened to change.

I see no real sign of him now, in any case...

Indeed the grounds were entirely unpopulated, sky still more dark than light. Glancing around himself to make certain, he then gazed over the ice and considered...

Before hopping from the brittle harbour, skidding upon a smooth surface. He'd been provided heavy, polished boots suitable for a Herald- definitely not meant for this. Evallan wondered if someone would scold him, then reflected how ludicrous it would be if he arrived for breakfast half-drowned.

Deciding to risk these consequences, he slid, kicking feet to gain momentum then straightening, propelled onwards with a giddy laugh. Cool winds lashed at him and he grinned at the wintery invitation, remembering such escapades with his brothers.

Spinning around, he repeated the motion, running until he could simply careen forwards. This time he intended to leap and catch himself- but it had been some time since he'd partaken in something so juvenile. Instead of landing on his feet he met frost on elbows and knees, snorting at his own foolishness. He was lucky the ice held- merely creaking.

Evallan stood and dusted himself off, preparing for another attempt...

Hasty scratches echoed along the ice, gaining his attention. Half-turning, he was assaulted by a pair of large paws and what looked like- veilfire?

His instinct would have been to attack- except the creature wasn't really attacking him. It bounced off and ran a mad circle, panting.

Or at least- it made a sound akin to panting.

Closer examination told him this thing- a wolf- was headless, its neck stitched shut. In place of a skull was a puff of veilfire and it was this that 'panted', billowing with the same cadence as an excited dogs breath.

From what he knew of canine behaviour- which was quite a bit, he was Ferelden- it displayed no aggression. If anything, it was pleased to see him.

“...Hello, strange friend.” He greeted respectfully, bending to its level. “And where is your master? I do not suppose something as elaborate as you are, comes to be through happy accident.”

The minions 'head' formed a comically large tongue, lolling stupidly.

Evallan rang with mirth.

“Yes, you are very charming.” He flattered, petting its shoulders. “But that is not what I asked.”

“Oh, good- he found you!”

A somewhat familiar voice- mostly by the accent. There were not exactly a wealth of Tevinter men among the Inquisition.

Turning, he spied the Maleficar- Dorian Pavus- stood where snow met ice, beaming unreservedly.

Evallan hesitated, voice lost.

Perusing the frozen lake, Dorian inched forward, testing each step. Once confident enough he pushed towards Evallan, in such a way to suggest he'd observed some of the elf's frolicking. There was no time to be embarrassed- the man lost his balance and Evallan instinctively reached out, offering support.

The shem slumped into him with an 'oof', slinging an arm around. Evallan stiffened but allowed it- Dorian was warm, and had a scent like earth and blood. Neither of which he found displeasing.

He grinned upwards, exposing several pairs of sharp teeth;

“My dear Herald,” Said with exaggerated familiarity. “You left the Hinterlands without saying goodbye- I was absolutely beside myself.”

Evallan blinked at this, not comprehending, awkwardly blushing. He had observed humans to have an odd sense of humour, so attempted to respond in kind.

“I was...to leave a note on a tree?” He chuckled, tense. “You do not exactly make yourself known.”

“I do apologise,” Dorian sighed, balancing enough to cling less. “It's not because of you, my Herald- just the company you keep.”

“They would be suspicious of you, that is true.” He tentatively released the man, seeing him secure on his feet. “But as long as you mean no harm, I would allow none on you.”

The Maleficar roared with laughter, leaving Evallan confused.

“How awfully noble of you, Herald!”

Slumping to meet his gaze, Evallan still couldn't understand what had amused him.

“I would assume this is your minion?” He inquired, looking towards the undead wolf- it had been watching in dutiful silence but was quick to roll onto its back, panting again. Chuckling, Evallan crouched to deliver belly-rubs.

“Do you like it?” Dorian asked, something hopeful in his tone.

Glancing his way, Evallan flashed a smile.

“Some of the humans would call it unseemly,” He shrugged, continued patting. “But I can tell he is a sweet creature.”

“He's yours- if you want him.”

Evallan perked a brow, curious.

“Another method of tracking me, I assume?”

Surprising him- Dorian grinned shamelessly, answering the same way-

“But of course, my darling Herald, whatever else for?” A laugh rumbled in his chest- it was a pleasing sound. “And to protect you, of course! A loyal companion, who will follow only your order, and be compelled to protect you against any threat.”

Evallan smirked mostly to himself, unfurling but not to his full height- stooping around Dorian's. The creature sat by his heels, leaning into him.

“Does he have a name?”

“Fenharel.”

Compelled to splutter in laughter- unable to restrain it- Evallan shook his head.

“Maker, no! I will not curse the poor beast in such a way.”

Dorian paused, smiling in slow disbelief.

“So you're going to take him? Did you entirely understand what I just said?”

“I understood.” He shuffled, somewhat defensive. “But you have saved my people and myself at least once. Therefore, I seem to benefit.”

“How...pragmatic.” Dorian bore his teeth in another sly grin and Evallan felt incredibly awkward.

Appearing to sense this, the Blood Mage redirected their conversation;

“So what will you call him, if not Fenharel?”

Evallan regarded the beast for a moment, lowered to stroke its back.

“Lunis, I think.”

“Lunis...” Dorian stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That's some...minor Elven god? Something to do with the moon?”

“Mhm.”

“Huh...” He tilted his head, feigned a scoff. “Hardly more imposing than 'Fenharel', is it?”

“If I call him Fenharel-” Evallan choked through mirth. “Any Dalish we encounter will shoot the poor thing on sight!”

“Well, maybe- but they'll regret it!” Dorian quipped, earning more laughter.

“Other than to track me...” He questioned- once restraining himself. “Is there a reason you are offering such a generous gift?”

“Why not?” Dorian shrugged. “From where I'm standing, the Inquisition is the winning horse. I'm just trying to ensure I'm not trampled in the race.”

“Pragmatic.” He echoed the previous sentiment- then faltered on what to say.

Again catching to his social ineptitude, Dorian bantered;

“I can't help but notice that sliding around a frozen lake isn't very Herald-like.”

Perhaps he hadn't expected this to fluster him so intensely. Colour burnt his cheeks and a nervous cough erupted from him. Dorian simply observed, smiling in bemusement while Evallan struggled for composure.

“I, well...” He spewed helplessly for a moment. “I...miss my home, that is all. We tended towards such climates, and would entertain ourselves in foolish ways...”

Dorian nodded, attentive.

“I have to confess to you, my Herald...it was quite entertaining.” He chortled, teasing and warm. “But I do think I understand.”

“Yes, of course-” Evallan tried to speak over his unease. “You also find yourself far from home.”

He nodded again but seemed averse to that topic- eyes shifting from Evallan's for the first time.

“Well, everything always works out...” He said vaguely. “But I should be heading off, I think- I see your fellows beginning to stir...”

It was unfortunate he couldn't invite the Blood Mage to stay, Evallan thought. He might be able to guarantee the man's safety but judging by his skittishness, Dorian wouldn't trust that enough to be comfortable.

“I do hope you enjoy the gift,” He said in a chipper tone. “Who knows...perhaps you'll give me something in return someday.”

Dragged from his pondering, Evallan lofted a brow, not really thinking of his response;

“Gifts are not typically given with an expectation.”

“Aren't they?” Dorian mused, chortling as if to himself. “Well...some of them are in a way, no? Dowries, for example.”

“I...” He struggled to process what had been said. “...Pardon?”

Which inspired a chuckle from the Tevinter, shaking his head.

“Just thinking out loud, my darling Herald.” He bowed lowly, with a mock-level of respect. “I must be off- you will take care of our Lunis, I trust.”

“I will- of course.” He stumbled verbally, not comprehending the exchange.

Dorian just smiled and sauntered back into the shadows, leaving Evallan's heart in his throat.

“I do not know if you should be accepting such...'gifts' from...renegade Blood Mages.” The Seeker admonished, watching as Lunis sped around the Chantry hall- chasing a moth.

“I sense no ill intent from the man.” Evallan assured, fighting to keep a straight face. “And it is a fine creature.”

“Does it have a name?” Solas asked from behind his tea-cup, observing warily.

“The Blood Mage addressed him as 'Fenharel'.”

Solas instantly began choking, spittle flying everywhere. Unable to maintain his facade any longer, Evallan burst into laughter.

“I know, I know! Do not worry, I told him I would not curse him with such a name. I have called him Lunis.”

“Yes, far...that is a far more appropriate name, Herald.” The other elf muttered, dabbing tea from his face.

“I truly cannot fathom...” Cassandra grumbled, leering. “...How you survived the wilderness as a mage child.”

Evallan snorted, genuinely tickled.

“I had my clan to protect me- and now I have all of you!”

“A task that will increase in complexity as the days progress, I am certain.” She sighed, not matching his cheer.

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today-only-happens-once · 4 years

Text

Insomnium

Title: Imsomnium

Word Count: 2228

Summary: Callum and Soren have a discussion late one night that neither of them expect. Spoilers for up through the end of Season 3. Follows the final episode of Season 3, taking place a few weeks after. Romantic Rayllum elements. Gen.

Warnings: nightmares involving falling and implied death, vague discussions of trauma from the last episode of Season 3, angst but some comfort/hopeful elements, some exploration of Viren and Soren’s relationship but doesn’t go into much depth on that.

A/N: A fic that has been in my head since finishing season 3 of the Dragon Prince but only now got around to finishing it. First time writing this particular fandom, which is always daunting, so I’d love to hear thoughts! Barely edited, and only by yours truly. All mistakes and typos are mine.

…

Callum wakes up in a cold sweat, with the taste of his screams still in on his tongue. His hands are trembling against the sheets of his bed. Bed? It takes him a second to realize where he is—back in his room in the castle. Home. Moonlight streams in through his windows and casts the space around him in a soft blue glow. It reminds him, perhaps oddly, of Zym. The reminder is brief, and leaves an odd ache in his chest.

He loosely curls his hands into fists. He remembers the dream this time. He doesn’t always. Rayla’s face getting further and further away from him as he repeats manus, pluma, volantus over and over with increasing desperation but the wings never come. He’s falling. Rayla is falling faster, getting farther and he can’t—

Callum’s eyes sting.

He scrubs a hand down his face and swings his legs over the edge of his bed. He takes in a deep breath that trembles a bit in his lungs before he sets his feet on the hardwood floors and stands up.

It isn’t always Rayla. Sometimes it’s Zym. Or Ezran. Or their mother. Their father. Or the countless faces that were below him on the battlefield. The war cries and screams of pain still reverberate in his skull and Callum is too exhausted to contain the wince that follows. He thinks again of his little brother and reminds himself that Ezran saw much of the same things he did. He is glad that Ezran, at the very least, doesn’t have nightmares.

Callum pads his way to the door and peeks it open into the dark corridor. He’s unsurprised by the three guards that stand outside. After all, Aunt Amaya had insisted, especially with Viren’s body still unrecovered. Callum had tried to explain to her that there was no way he could’ve survived that fall; a statement that Amaya had, in no uncertain terms, told him wasn’t good enough. We don’t want to take any chances, she’d told them.

Callum sighs, opens the door further, and steps out.

The three guards snap to attention. “Prince Callum,” the one in the middle says in greeting.

Callum waves a tired hand in his direction. “Hey,” he replies. “I’m… hungry. I’m going to get a bite to eat from the kitchen.”

“We will accompany you.”

Callum holds up his hands. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” He can see the conflicted look in the guards’ eyes and Callum draws a glowing sigil in the air in an effort to remind them that he is not without the ability to protect himself. He waves a hand to dispel the sigil without saying the trigger word, and releases a breath of relief at the guards’ reluctant but affirming nod.

Callum pinches the bridge of his nose as he makes his way through the network of corridors to the kitchen. It feels… weird, to be home right now. Last time Callum had been home had been a lifetime ago, in a rush and under attack. Still believing that his father was alive. Being back in this space without his dad is a constant reminder of his absence. Callum remembers, not for the first time, that Ezran had been here somewhere around a week ago by himself. He wonders if it was hard for Ezran too.

The surrounding silence that seems to cling to the stone walls like moss doesn’t help either. Lots of people had survived the battle at the Storm Spire, but not everybody, and much of the army and soldiers that had occupied the castle had fallen under the direction of Viren. The walls echo with the weight of everyone that was lost, and it leaves Callum feeling a little bit lost too.

The kitchen, mercifully, isn’t a far walk. Callum finds himself turning the corner and pressing through the door to find a platter of jelly tarts awaiting him on the counter. Despite himself, he smiles, and reminds himself that he really ought to thank Barius. Callum quietly makes his way over and snatches one, readying himself to turn back to head towards his room when the sound of footsteps making their way towards him perks his ears.

On instinct more than actual fear, Callum ducks behind the counter.

He realizes as soon as he does it that it’s probably silly to be hiding. But he’d gotten so used to running and hiding that a part of him isn’t sure he knows what to do differently now. So he crouches down and even though he knows it can’t possibly be Viren, the thought flickers through his mind anyway. It’s immediately followed by Rayla’s distant face getting further and further away from him. Callum holds his breath at the footsteps get closer.

But then he hears soft humming, and he realizes that he knows that voice. Callum shakes the nightmares clinging to the edges of his thoughts and stands up. “Soren?”

Soren freezes, his hand still out-stretched towards the platter of jelly tarts beside him. “Uh,” he says, “Hey.” He glances at his hand as if it is somehow apart from the rest of himself before he drops it to his side.

Callum steps from around the corner he’d been hiding behind. “You’re up late.”

Soren arches an eyebrow. “So are you.” He’s in plain tunic and trousers—startlingly casual and comfortable, and Callum realizes in the back of his mind that he’s almost never seen Soren in anything but full armor.

Callum ducks his head sheepishly at the comment. “Uh, yeah. Hungry, I guess,.” He brandishes the jelly tart that is still in his hand.

“Right,” Soren says with a quick shake of his head. “No, yeah. Me too.” He quickly snatches one of the pastries off the platter. He makes no move to eat it.

Between them is an awkward silence. The kitchen is cold without a fire in the stove, and the moonlight is barely enough to make out the edges of the counter and the silhouetted shape of Soren in the dark. Callum’s eyes are beginning to adjust to the lighting but he still can’t really see Soren’s expression. It’s just something about the way he’s standing—one hand covering another, face turned away, shoulders curling in—that makes the question tumble past Callum’s lips before he’s even really thought about it.

“You okay?”

Soren’s startled gaze flashes up to meet Callum’s in the dark. “Why are you asking?”

Callum lifts a shoulder. “It just seems like something is bothering you.”

Soren huffs a humorless laugh. “It’s… nothing, your Highness.” He turned towards the door.

“Ezran told me, you know,” Callum says suddenly. Soren freezes again. “About what you did. To protect him.”

Soren doesn’t say anything for a moment. When he does, the words sound stilted and clumsy. “I—I’m a member of the Captain’s Guard. I’m sworn to protect the king.”

“That didn’t make it easy.”

Callum doesn’t miss the way Soren won’t look him in the eyes.

“I was just fulfilling my duy.”

“He was your father—”

“It was an illusion—”

“But you didn’t know that,” Callum insists. “Did you?”

Soren shakes his head quickly. Dismissively. “Callum—”

“Soren, I—” Callum stops, then sighs.

He doesn’t understand why he’s so adamant that it was nothing. Callum had never known Soren that well—he’d describe their relationship was strained even when it was at its best—but he knew enough to know that Soren basically had worshipped the ground Viren walked on. He still remembers vividly the earnestness with which Soren had described his father when they were making a plan in the Storm Spire. He makes you think that as long as you do what he says, you must be doing the right thing.

Ezran had told him what had happened between Soren and Viren with eyes aged more than Callum was prepared to see in his little brother. And Callum hadn’t quite believed it at first.

“Thank you,” Callum says, despite all the other things he wants to say. “I don’t… have much family left. And if I’d lost Ezran too…” Callum swallows hard against the idea. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Soren glances up and meets Callum’s solemn gaze for a fleeting moment. “Gotta protect the family that we have left, huh?”

Callum realizes with a sudden clarity that Soren has none left. “Friends, too.”

Soren stares at him but Callum can’t read his expression in the dark. He gives a singular nod. Callum looks at the jelly tart in his hand, then holds it out towards Soren across from him. “Here,” he says. “Take it. I’m… not actually hungry.”

Soren seems to consider it for a moment before he accepts it. “Thanks.” He makes no move to eat that one either, and after a pause, drops both of them back on the platter. “I’m not that hungry either.”

Callum glances at the abandoned jelly tarts. “Something wrong?” he asks again.

There’s a flicker of something—rare and honest—through his eyes even in the dark. He shrugs. “You know,” he says, as if it’s a real answer.

Callum sighs—again—and nods. “Yeah.”

There’s another beat of silence. Heavy, measured footsteps echo down the corridor outside the kitchen door. Callum tenses—more out of habit than concern—and wonders idly when (or if) he was ever going to unlearn some of the behaviors he’d adopted in taking Zym aback to Xadia. The footsteps pass without pause.

“So,” Soren says, startling Callum out of his thoughts. “You and the elf girl?”

Callum blinks, the mention of Rayla causing his face to warm. He is suddenly grateful for the dark. “Er, yeah?”

Soren holds up a hand as if to signal he means no harm. “What’s that like?”

Callum isn’t sure why Soren is asking, but he sees no reason to not be honest with him. “She’s… great. She’s brave, and smart, and strong—“Callum cuts off as his nightmare crashes into the forefront of his mind again. Her tear-stained face, his name tearing from her throat, Rayla getting further and further away, his wings never forming, him never being able to catch her…

“You okay?” Soren asks, echoing Callum’s question from a moment ago. His brows are scrunched together in something like concern.

Callum scrubs a hand across his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Soren looks taken aback, and Callum wonders if emotional honesty was a completely foreign concept to him. “What’s wrong?” Soren asks.

“I—” Callum suddenly falters. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Soren rubs the back of his neck and averts his gaze. “Yeah,” he says, in a more subdued voice. “I’ve been having nightmares too.”

Callum looks up. Perhaps Soren was more intuitive than he’d given him credit for. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The question is met with a conflicted silence before Soren rakes his fingers back through his blonde hair and sighs. “It’s… They’re… usually about dad,” he says, the words coming slowly and carefully as if he’s testing them as the leave his lips.

Callum nods. “That’s gotta be hard,” he says, as gently as he can.

He sees the brief clench of Soren’s fist. “Yeah,” Soren says, his gaze distancing for a moment as if lost in thought—or memories—before he shakes himself. “But they’ll go away eventually, right?” he says, and the dismissive tone is suddenly back as if it’s a shield he can throw up in the middle of some kind of battle he’s fighting on his own.

“I don’t know,” Callum says honestly. “I hope so.”

Soren seems to sag. He looks suddenly so much smaller than Callum can ever remember seeing him. “Me too.”

Callum opens his mouth to say something—anything to reassure him, to let him know that he’s not alone, and that he doesn’t have to make himself small like that—but the footsteps are back and this time the door cracks open. A soldier that Callum recognizes but cannot name pokes his head in. “Soren,” he says. “It’s your turn for rotation on the watch.”

Soren stands up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. “Thank you, Peter. I’m coming.” The other soldier nods, sees Callum and murmurs apologies for intruding before he backs out the door.

Soren moves to follow him, but Callum reaches a hand out. “Soren?”

Soren stops and looks over. “Hm?”

“If they don’t stop, you can talk about it, you know. With me or with someone else. It’s okay to talk about stuff like that. Good, even. It can help it seem less… scary.”

Soren hesitates, then gives Callum a quick nod before he pushes through the door and Callum listens to his hastened footsteps down the hall. Silence returns to the chill in the kitchen around him but Callum figures this is at least a step in the right direction. Soren had started taking steps to getting better, to talking about things he used to be told he shouldn’t, and that was a good thing.

Rayla’s face—terrified and falling—presses against his mind again and Callum groans, scrubbing at his eyes as if it will erase the image from his mind. Echoing the image is Soren’s voice.

They’ll go away eventually, right?

Callum repeats his answer to the dark, cold kitchen.

“I hope so.”

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anhed-nia · 4 years

Text

BLOGTOBER PRE-GAME 9/30/2020: 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE/CONFESSIONAL (2019)

Spoiler alert. Or whatever. It’s not going to matter, you don’t care.

So, I've been away for a minute. Just about any reason to be away from Tumblr is probably a good reason, but I have an especially good one. I'm finally working on a "real" writing project, which demands, and deserves, all of my attention. My social media abstinence isn't just a matter of time management, though. Once I had a long term obligation on my plate, I became very aware of how the short term satisfaction I get from posting mindless rants was eating away at the fuel I have available for sustained efforts. When I wind myself up with a 500-1000 word blog post, it generates a lot of electricity, but I blow it all as soon as I experience the catharsis of posting it, and I'm further pacified by ego-stroking likes and reblogs. Not to sound like a sanctimonious luddite--I mean, I'm still here, after all!--but it turns out that the staying focused on the long haul has been surprisingly revivifying. In fact, I haven't been talking about my big fancy project for the same reason; I don't want to lose any of the juice I've been storing up by wasting it on the shallow pleasure of describing it. Also such things should probably be somewhat confidential until they're approaching the publishing stage, but I digress! There is an actual reason I'm saying all this, that has more to do with this blog.

(Don’t get all excited, I’m not doing EVIL ED right now, I just need a relatable image.)

As I got deeper into my experience of "real" film writing, I started to reflect on the meaning of my personal writing. Like, the point of it. I tend to write in a sweaty, compulsive, sadomasochistic haze, in which I'm sometimes hyperbolically generous, and sometimes--perhaps more often, unfortunately--as nasty as humanly possible. Sometimes the movies deserve it, when they're lazy, pretentious, or otherwise demonstrate an open contempt for the audience aka ME. Often, though, I'm just creating an opportunity to vent my generalized rage and frustration. That can be very entertaining for myself and (hopefully) my teensy-but-devoted readership, but lately I've asked myself whether there isn't some negative tradeoff for all this amusement. In this phase of my life, it's reasonable to assume I'll make more and more friends and acquaintances who create things I don't always care for, but I don't necessarily think they deserve to be abused for it. As much as I have a right to say whatever I want, technically, I'd be embarrassed if I were caught just jacking myself off by making fun of their work in public. And more to the point, I don't necessarily want to contribute to the growing atmosphere in which people feel more afraid to try and fail, because the public so commonly misidentifies sarcasm and mean-spiritedness as intelligence and superiority, and that form of petty darkness spreads across the internet a lot faster than a movie can reach a wider audience. After all, I'm in the process of potentially turning myself into one of those well-meaning failures right now. I could stand to be a little more deliberate about how I speak, and about what, in general.

My father is an art critic, and once in an extra petulant moment, teenage-me asked him in an accusative tone what he thought the point of his profession was. He replied calmly that he wouldn't publish any comment that he didn't think the artist could make use of somehow. I don't know if he always stuck to that policy, but the thought sure stuck with me.

So anyway, over the last few months I've been giving myself a bit of an attitude adjustment, through a combination of personal reflection, and hard work on something meaningful/not for the internet. I've been feeling all proud of myself and shit, but today reminded me that any path to enlightenment is always marked by setbacks, doubt, and temptation. For today, in complete innocence (or at least a melange of innocence and ignorance, as I very much invite this type of problem), I managed to watch TWO (2) movies about an academic film-cum-psychology project, focused on a gang of college buddies who inevitably reveal what bad people they are under the unique conditions of the project, and then the project turns out to be run NOT by its presumed-dead originator, but by the originator's even-crazier lover. It's amazing how particular something can be, and still be utterly obvious and cliche. In my defense, I really tried to turn the second movie off, because it was...just instantly terrible, but the seed of suspicion had taken root--is this randomly selected movie ACTUALLY EXACTLY THE SAME AS THE PREVIOUS MOVIE?--and I just had to find out if this could be true. I suffered, deliberately, for another hour and a half, to confirm my awful hunch. I don't know how I would have felt if I had turned out to be wrong (better? worse?), but I don't have to worry about that now. Now I just have to worry about my overpowering impulse to be as ugly as possible about what I have personally subjected myself to.

(The completely deceptive poster for our not at all witchy or eerie opening feature.)

In need of a passable time-waster this afternoon, I put on 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE. Released in March of 2019, Caitlin Koller's claustrophobic black comedy feels oddly like a product of 2020. A group of estranged, middle-aged college pals of the BIG CHILL ilk--which one of the characters calls out, out loud, just so ya know--come together for a fallen comrade's funeral, only to find themselves trapped in his widow's increasingly creepy cabin in the woods. Said comrade was driven to suicide by the failure of a psychological experiment he conducted that plunged its subject into madness, and if you don't realize right away that the obnoxious and unstable cast are the new subjects of their not-quite-dead friend's renewed project, then you're firing a lot slower than 24 frames per second. The dialog is often decent, aiding a handful of funny, natural performances...but it's hard to forget that you're just waiting for the conspicuously crazy widow to reveal that the "unexplained events" in and around the cabin are part of a controlled attempt to get the guests to devolve into their worst selves, which isn't such a difficult task considering the undesirable state they all arrive in.

It just made me ask myself, what was the point of this? Why do people make movies that are entirely predicated on the shock of the twist, knowing that if the twist isn't so shocking--or is baldly obvious from the start--then the whole experience just falls apart? Why not hedge your bets with a little more depth, or purpose, or style, or really anything more reliable than a smug attempt to prove that your script is smarter than your audience? Even if you do manage to pull off this dubious accomplishment, it reduces your movie to something like the experience of having somebody jump out of a closet and scream in your ear to "get" you. I've always felt concerned that if somebody ever tries to "get" me like that, I might just automatically punch them in the face. But anyway, whatever shred of good will this movie could have accrued with its plucky performances is blown away by the final insult, when the cops arrive to clean up the inevitable bloody mess. The responding officers are hilariously unimpressed and unsurprised by the byzantine scheme that has resulted in a shocking act of violence, because the cabin's "guest book", which our heroes all filled out, was actually the signatory page of a complicated waiver form granting full permission to the hosts to, like, do whatever the hell they want to everybody. Presumably this shit just goes on all the time, leading the local law to shrug off anything that happens to or because of the dumbassed lab rats who frequent the cabin? I dunno. I mean, what can I say? ACAB, I guess!

At the time, I managed to resist the urge to take to the internet and decry the crimes of this lame-o party joke. I really don't like the sensation that a movie is just trying to trick me into thinking something that isn't true. But, this isn't, like, an affront to cinema. People make annoying, below average movies all the time, and maybe you kinda have to, if you eventually want to make better movies. I imagine myself in the shoes of the people who actually put some elbow grease into this production, having to wade through the rantings of internet ghouls like myself while they're trying to see how their efforts are paying off. Making a movie is probably a lot harder than I think it is.

But that's part of the point I'm heading toward. I'm always amazed by people's willingness to pour huge amounts of energy and capital into something to which there is ultimately very little point. I mean, I have bad, unoriginal, boring ideas every single day of my life. But I almost never DO any of them. I have a hard enough time convincing myself to just get out of bed in the morning, let alone devote blood, sweat, and money to deliver unto the world material evidence of my personal mediocrity. I can't imagine thinking it would be worth it, for myself or the unfortunate people who are subjected to my project, to actually execute on my bad ideas. I'm being judgmental, but honestly, I don't even know if my attitude makes me better or worse than someone who accomplishes the task of completing and selling a movie that's mainly a waste of time. Movies are so complicated, and realizing them requires the consensus of so many people, that it's sort of incredible that there are people capable of making one that doesn't have a powerfully compelling motivation behind it. People who are able to do such a thing obviously have something that I don't, and it isn't just "consideration for the audience."

So, I could probably stand to be more forgiving--or just, less eager to absolutely flay someone alive on my dumb little blog because they so opened themselves up to my arsenal of elaborate insults. But like...not all the time. Sometimes, a movie really fucking asks for it, and in revealing itself to me, it has effectively signed a waiver giving me patent freedom to do whatever I want to it. CONFESSIONAL is the latest movie to give me such a gift. After the final credit rolled in 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE, I looked for a little palate cleanser. As little as I like movies that put their single egg in the motheaten basket of a "shocking twist", I also have a problem with what I identify as canned theater. Not that I think all movies have to be lavish productions, but I think they should try to do something that is natively cinematic. It's very rare that I'm impressed by anything that is literally all talk. So, I went in search of some more familiar form of trash to help me recallibrate, and trash is definitely what I got.

(Me crying over my own bad decisions.)

To be fair, I kind of should have known that I was in for a challenging experience. The 2019 found footage thriller CONFESSIONAL is more or less based on the "confessional" part of sleazy reality TV shows, isolating each cast member in a soundproof stall so they can spill the rotten contents of their guts. Unfortunately, I spotted a review suggesting that the movie succeeded, against all odds, at remaining visually dynamic despite the unchanging scenery, and I was intrigued. The reviewer was correct, impressively; the monotony of the coffin-like environment with its dark foam walls was the least of my concerns. Other problems superseded that threat, immediately. The plot concerns a group of college pals who come together to remember a recently deceased friend--a filmmaker who expired mysteriously while completing a psychology-tinged project in which she recorded all of her friends' most shameful personal secrets. Now, somebody else has taken over the project...someone who "has never been identified", according to an early title card in this movie-within-a-movie (EVEN THOUGH THIS PERSON WILL BE EXPLICITLY IDENTIFIED AT THE END OF THE MOVIE SO LIKE WHY), but who seems likely to be the decedent's ex-lover...who continues to expose their subjects' most shameful secrets on film. I mean, what the fuck? Did I somehow manage to pick a second movie with almost the exact same plot??? I couldn't believe it. I didn't know if I could take it. My prospects only got worse when the cast showed up and started talking. I tried to turn the movie off. I backed out and walked away from it, twice. But I couldn't leave it alone. I had to know if it was really the same movie.

CONFESSIONAL concerns characters who are contemporaneously in college, which actually goes a long way to making everything worse. Each of these walking cliches is connected in some way to Amelia, a film student whose mysterious death has created a campus scandal, leaving shattered hearts and lives in its wake. The living have each received a blackmail-flavored invitation to speak about the deceased in a tiny "confessional booth" somewhere on campus, where, predictably, they find themselves locked in until they confess whatever they know about Amelia, and their classmates. I don't know why practically every single movie about young people has to be so miserable, but this is one of those. I assume that it has something to do with the fact that youth is simultaneously so desired and so ignored. People in their teens and early 20s are so sexually coveted, yet so easily dismissed as individuals, that we wind up with all this media that panders to them relentlessly (or at least, panders to the legions of ticket-buying perverts who enjoy watching them prance around), without almost any consideration of how they actually think and act, and look. Movies like FAT GIRL and WELCOME TO THE DOLL HOUSE may be accused of their own form of pandering, a venal form of voyeuristic schadenfreude, but at least they reflect something of the awkwardness, isolation, and incompleteness of adolescence; something more than the dissociated, pornographic fantasies of adults who have long since forgotten what it was like to be powerless and ignored, or desired by people who don't even like you.

Not that CONFESSIONAL is supposed to be a work of grim realism, but it is most definitely rooted in a fantasy about college life that makes its contrived, message-y plot a lot harder to take. With almost the sole exception of "the nerdy one", every single character looks like a Bratz doll, oozing an exaggerated indecency that belies the movie's pretentious insistence on addressing the sex & gender Issues of the Day. What you get is a really good example of what happens when millennial characters are modeled, not on any actual millennials, but on other forms of marketing that are aimed at millennials, which are themselves just based on other preexisting youth-targeted commercials, et al ad nauseam. Even setting aside the deliriously slutty wardrobe choices, makeup appears to have been laid on with a trowel, coating each actor in a thick creamy layer of spackle that only makes any scars, pits, or other evidence of individuality look utterly bizarre. Accordingly, everybody preens, pouts, and generally behaves as if they're about to take off their clothes, which might be a huge relief given the profusion of chafing, cheapo mesh and straps they're laboring under.

So, ok, not every movie can have a great costume department, but the dialog here is a perfect match for the disastrous aesthetic decisions. Actually, this is the real reason I almost walked out on CONFESSIONAL. If I may ramble briefly, without substantiating any of my broad-ranging claims: Sometime in the late 90s/early 00s, horror cinema seemed to suffer a degenerative slide away from genuine thrills and chills, and into a version of the genre that is best characterized as the Slutty Halloween Costume approach. Any sense of existential dread, revulsion, or bodily vulnerability was widely replaced by a cutesy, Hot Topic-y preference for fast fashion and sex appeal, in which bloodshed more facilitated an informal wet teeshirt contest than any real fear induction. Horror's new mall goth look came with an equally shallow, boring verbal affectation: a sullen, sleazy, tooth-sucking sarcasm, that ushered in a new era in which, instead of making fun of the scummy coked-out dialog in porno movies, we now expect everybody to just talk like that, because it's hot. There's probably a line to be drawn between this unfortunate development, and the boneheaded real-world trend of identifying "sarcasm" as an important personal selling point on dating sites, but I won't try to prove that here. For now, I will just say that as soon as I heard the CONFESSIONAL characters start to speak, with their sneering, insinuating tones, with the vocal fry, with the head wagging, the jutting jaws, the smoldering gazes, the juvenile dragging-out of horny grownup words like de-bauch-er-y...I almost lost my nerve. Listening to these little creeps hissing and spitting for 84 minutes is a lot like being hit on by some barfly who continues to bludgeon you with his hot breath and corny lines without ever noticing that you've thrown up into your pint.

Uh, anyway. So what actually happens in the movie. Why would anyone ever allow someone to record video of them revealing the ugliest, most embarrassing parts of themselves? Especially a kid, for whom popularity and reputation are often a matter of life or death--literally and specifically, in the case of this story. The flimsy reason is that the late filmmaker, Amelia, was the most awesomest girl ever. Everybody loved her, because she was so sweet, and so smart, and so cool, and so nice, and so deep, and so original, and so talented, and so sexy, and just like, the bestest most perfectest girl in the whole wide world. N.B. "The greatest of all time" is, perhaps counter-intuitively, a really bad quality that makes for really shitty, boring characters. For better or worse, Amelia is rarely on screen (and when she is, she's no Laura Palmer, frankly), so it's up to the viewer to just sort of imagine a type of person who could make you act against your best interests on account of you just like them so much. After all, so many of the characters were obsessed with her in some way, that it's like they're here to help you clap your hands and believe in this seductive, compelling part of the movie, that just isn't actually there on the screen. The anonymous antihero behind the confessional booth scheme slowly extracts from each character the selfish, destructive behavior that in some way contributed to the tragic loss of the most amazing person of all time--and part of the result is, if not a very interesting excuse for Amelia's death, then a story so wacky that I really wish they had centered the movie on it, instead of on the tawdry soap opera we're locked into. Even if that imaginary movie had been really bad, and it probably would have been, at it would at least have been entertaining.

Part of what leads up to the death of Amelia is the existence of a secret school fight club, led by a stereotypically sleazy gender studies major, named Major, who is out to prove men's inherent superiority. The club is called CFB, or Cock Fights Back, which is somehow a garbled pun relating to cock fights, and Trump's famous line of "locker room talk": "grab'em by the pussy" > "pussy grabs back" > "cock fights back". CFB is different from your ordinary fight club in that the fights are always between girls and boys, and the boys are always blindfolded, in order to prove that a fully-abled female is no match for even a handicapped male. To complicate things, a new designer amphetamine is gaining popularity on campus, called "odds-on", meaning that it makes you the odds-on favorite in your CFB fight. As awkward as that is, it also seems that men are never the guaranteed winners of these fights, which makes you wonder why Major insists on continuing to host them. As much as I would have preferred to watch a stupid movie about this stupid idea, I'm stuck instead with a movie in which Major is such an aggressive MRA because he's secretly gay, and he thinks that hating women is a great way to hide that...as if that isn't what we all openly suspect about aggro MRAs. Secret gayness is a big part of this movie, involving multiple characters, although it amounts to very little other than the perpetuation of some stale, harmful cliches about how unfulfilled homosexual urges lead to suicide, sexual abuse, and murder. CONFESSIONAL is just as reliant on this grim vision of gay life, as it is on its weirdly obtuse discussion of drug addiction, for the suffocating sense of self-importance that it uses to try to elevate itself above its porn-y trappings. None of the movie's hot button issues are given any real thought, but are only dragged through the mud to create the illusion that there's a point to all this, thus relieving the film of any sense of innocence that could have made its condescending sleaziness forgivable.

Admittedly, I can't really remember all the details of the film's tortured intrigue anymore, even though I basically just saw it. A lot of its meandering revelations just left me thinking, "Why did I need to know that? Why should I care?" I do know that about half way through this ordeal, I became really anxious about whether it would turn out that CONFESSIONAL did NOT have exactly the same plot as 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE after all, and I put myself through all this for nothing. But no, I was right to begin with. The wonderful Amelia's ethically dubious film project has been picked up by the unhinged lesbian character who loved her so much she wanted to become her, and killing Amelia and usurping her confessional project was apparently the best way of doing that. I guess exposing all the dark, violent secrets of all these tangentially involved characters was just an added bonus, or whatever. Ultimately, this ugly, ignorant PSA about something-or-other only deals itself further damage by relying so heavily on the potential of its clumsy twist to blow your mind, which it does not at all.

So that was it, that's how I burned a whole afternoon allowing my mind to implode-not-explode under the ponderous force of TWO (2) movies about exactly the same exhausted cliche that is still being peddled by certain pretentious assholes as fresh and exciting, and beyond the capacity of the audience to anticipate. There's probably a whole slew of other movies that employ this overly familiar "surprise", but I don't have it in me to dig them out of my long-suffering brain. Feel free to contribute in the comments. For now, I must prepare myself for the ordeal of Blogtober, during which I will *hopefully* choose my screening selections and words more thoughtfully than I have in previous years, when this blog was motivated by just as much abject misanthropy as these movies, which do nothing but willfully insult the audience's intelligence. Maybe today's detour into degradation will help me go forth toward more additive experiences, having purged several lungfuls of meaningless venom from my system, and this season will bring with it more interesting, provocative posts than the last. Or maybe not! In any case, I promise to keep trying my hardest to make it funny.

PS I actually love both FAT GIRL and WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE. I’m “just saying”.

#blogtober #2020 #confessional #2019 #30 miles from nowhere #horror #thriller #black comedy #found footage #brad t gottfred #jennifer wolfe #jennifer bosworth #caitlin koller

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ill-will-editions · 4 years

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SQUIRRELS ON THE LOOSE: ON THE CHILEAN STATE OF EXCEPTION Gerardo Muñoz

First published on the Swedish site Tillfällighetsskrivande [Occasional Writings].

The series of articles published by Giorgio Agamben in the wake of the COVID-19 have received an unsurprising reaction by the night watchmen of liberal democracy. The misunderstanding arises as a coping mechanism comprised of two distinct requests: first, the demand that we abandon the conditions informing Agamben’s archeological project (Homo sacer, 1995-2015); and, on the other hand, the desire to make an exception out of the current situation, as if, this time, “immunity” or a “democratic biopolitics” will effectively redeem Humanity [i] . The nature of this desperate reaction speaks to the fantasy of a grounded ‘good politics for the right time’, as if the business of resurrecting principles of legitimation were a credible enterprise during a time of civilizational decay for our species. By this point we are accustomed to the tone of the university discourse and its strategic deployment as a compensatory measure for its inferiority complex. In fact, it forms the spirit of our time.

It is not my intention to rehearse Agamben’s theses. These are well-known by all those who have encountered his work on “life”, the state of exception, and the consummation of the oikonomia at heart of Western politics. Rather, I would like to shift the discussion to the Chilean case, where I was surprised to see many intellectual voices tapping into Agamben’s premises, in particular in the aftermath of a recent letter by academics concerned with COVID-19 [ii]. For me it says a great deal about the Chilean experience and its current moment, which has been in a prolonged state of exception for over half a century. My thesis, then, is that the Chilean debate is in a better position to arrive at a mature understanding of the state of exception, not as an abstract formula, but as something latent within democracies. The dispensation of Western politics into security and exceptionality is not a conceptual horizon of what politics could be; it is what the ontology of the political represents once the internal limits of liberal principles crumble to pieces (and with it, any separation between consumers and citizens, state and market, jurisprudence and real subsumption).

Although President Sebastian Piñera has recently decreed a state of “exceptional catastrophe” in order to face the increasing threat of the COVID-19 in the country, his decision must be placed within the larger context of what we may call the long Chilean state of exception. There are at least three distinct historical segments of this exceptionalism. First, the criollo exceptionalism of the early republican period in which the relation between the state and the constituent power was unbalanced; second, the political dictatorial state of exception effectuated in the coup d'état against Salvador Allende’s Unidad Popular government in 1973; and finally, the so called “transition to democracy” of 1990, which served to juridically optimize what Tomás Moulian called the productivist-consumer matrix of society [iii]. One should not understand these temporal segments as a mere continuation of political instability or erratic juridical illegality, quite the contrary. The Chilean case brings to bear how the normalization of the state of exception could very well live under the veneer of effective legal borders of a subsidiary state that functions as the arbiter of accumulation and debt for societal dynamism. In a groundbreaking essay, “El golpe como consumación de la Vanguardia” (“The Coup as the consummation of the Avant-Garde”, 2003), the Chilean philosopher Willy Thayer argued that the Chilean coup of 1973 was the true avant-garde gesture, and thus, the ‘big-bang’ of globalization, since it blurred the inter-epochal passage from the dictatorship to that of the post-dictatorship. As Thayer argues in a decisive moment of his essay:

The repressed ground of the law – that is, what the law must repress in order to become itself – returns as a norm [in time of post-dictatorship]. The exception becomes the norm. The violence against the unlimited becomes violence against limitation. And if, before, the exception concerned the norms as exception from the norm; today, in the wake of globalization, what is understood as the exception has become the rule. The state of exception as factical proliferation of the norm is outside all generic norms: the market, the entrepreneurial freedom, the market’s anomie, or any specific norm, as well as any decision around what counts as a norm…Today, it is the Coup, more than artistic practices, that is outside of any frame and that destitutes not only the institution, the habits, and our presumptions about art; but that also alters the codes inherent to understanding. It is the Coup, and not the university, that brings about the reform of subjectivity and thought; it is the Coup that transforms art, the university, politics, and subjectivity itself. [iv]

The Coup introduces a new historical temporality, flattening its very nature as exceptional through the unlimited exchange of values between subjects and things. This takes place within a constitutional arrangement that blocks any ius reformandi and becomes preventively unwarranted. This was, after all, the ideal of legal theorist Jaime Guzmán, who tried to combine a Thomist conception of the state as “accident” with a hyper-personalism of the “persona” as a substance [v]. As if already prefiguring the demise of liberalism’s active social state, Guzmán incarnates the current drift of the nationalist right’s efforts to reconcile Aquinas with the market, corporativism with the U.S Constitution, and the ‘Common Good’ with the geopolitical battles against the rise of China [vi]. Of course, Guzmán was not a soothsayer, and he did not see this particular arrangement. However, he did see the normalization of the state of exception as a strategy to restrict any pull of ‘civil society’ against the structures of the subsidiary state. If Chile indicates one thing today, it is this: the problem of the political exception is not a problem of state form; it is a problem of the exhaustion of the boundaries between state and civil society, where autonomous social form is a zone of extraction for the exchange of value in the face of collective survival. The “tyranny of values” acquires a new meaning here: it is no longer a problem of moral discursivity, but rather an intensification of the war waged against life itself.

We know the discourse around the ‘withering of civil society’ has been around for quite some time [vii]. But this withering once meant that a “political subject” could emerge to organize a new transformation. One might ask: is this, then, what happened during the October uprisings? Not really, I would argue. Unlike the previous protests of 2003 and 2011, October of 2019 was driven by what has elsewhere been called an ‘experiential politics’, in which the de-articulation between people and representation no longer attempted to translate its discomfort into ‘demands’, as is typical in populist moments [viii]. The Chilean October was a “parabasis” on the social stage, a movement against representation and ideal types, a form of errancy that cannot be equated with the modern pursuit of “freedom”. If freedom has always been hermeneutically grounded in an analogical relation to action, then the call for “evasion” in the Chilean October demonstrated clearly that human praxis is irreducible to human activity, and that there exists a form of life beyond biopolitical security. This is why today, any attempt at a ‘spiritualist’ defense of ‘this life’ is already fallen to biopolitical machination, and to the reproduction of a subjective vitalism in which survival is guaranteed only as an abstract, non-existential ‘Good’. This is the other side of Thomism. However, as Agamben reminds us,

“Whoever has a character always has the same experience, because he can only re-live and never live. Etymologically, ēthos (’character’) and ethos (‘habit’, ‘way of life’) are the same word...and thus both mean ‘selfhood’. Selfhood, being-a-self, is expressed in a character or a habit. In each case, there lies an impossibility of living” [ix].

The new Chilean state of exception is an attempt to combat this truth through a full deployment of the police, the market, the university, the intelligentsia, and the rule of law itself.

The destituent moment against the Chilean exception is waged against the reduction of existence to “life”. As Ivan Illich knew well, “there is something apocalyptic in searching for Life under a microscope” [x]. Obviously, this resonates clearly with Agamben’s concern about the political strategies’ concern with the “living” and the security of “life”. It is no surprise, on the other hand, how the intelligentsia of the Chilean status quo have refracted this assault on the vital fabric of human existence by developing new strategies of “order” to counteract what they have called the “party of violence” that seeks to destitute its reduction to the vitalist apparatus [xi]. Other more refined attempts in the restructuring of the Chilean political right, such as Hugo Herrera’s programmatic Octubre en Chile (2019), calls for a popular republicanism, which renews the mediation between society and state through a Schmittian conception of the political as both telluric and contingent. Inverting the terms (politics having primacy over the economy) drags into the open the dual machine of governance, where bipolar forces of relative weakness and optimal strength are woven together into an interface for social conservation [xii]. This strategy confronts the epochal crisis by mobilizing a fear of fragmentation and the general contention of the species. The same goes for the modernist proposals based on the supremacy of constituent power, with its ideal engineering of the “social” that accords a force of transformation to “passive devices” such as deliberative assemblies and communicative action (of which Chile has a long tradition, under the form of cabildos) that could canvas the true colors of democratic separation of powers and cohesiveness of a new social contract. Unfortunately, endless gatherings and assemblies are powerless against the contemporary mechanisms of power, which today consist in the management of flows, infrastructure, and the general system of extraction [xiii]. We can talk amongst ourselves all we want, but it does not get us anywhere. The call for an implicit “communicative unity” of the body polity runs in a circle, with life, production and value remaining intact.

Agamben is correct to observe how unsurprising it is to see citizens today be willing to accept a reduction of their form of life to bare life in the name of security, since “crisis” is the way in which governance administers the internal strife of this acephalous polity [xiv]. In a recent column, Hugo Herrera provides an image that captures this movement: the protestors in the streets are like ‘squirrels on the loose’ [xv]. The squirrels’ movements are a combination of rhythm and caprice; it is not clear where they are going, whom they are going to meet, nor what their destiny will be. Like Pulcinella, half human and half chicken, the scampering squirrel is what remains when the singular body enters in contact with another without any aspiration to create a self-destiny superseding [xvi]. There is something to be said of the encounter between animal and human that can potentially deprogram the metropolitan topoi, turning the exception into the gleaming transfiguration of another world. In the mere act of seeking, new possibilities emerge. And if the point is to create a different relation to the world, one in which all the “potentialities of the entire species can finally develop”, then every exception is a tool of domestication, a form of political atrophy [xvii]. The destituent possibility is not a realization; it is a questioning of the very disjointed presence of the Social as an ‘autonomous space’ for action. Here too, the Chilean exception offers us a mirror by which to flee the obstinacy of the present.

***

Gerardo Muñoz teaches at the Modern Language and Literatures department at Lehigh University. His most recent publications are Por una política posthegemónica (DobleA editores 2020), and the forthcoming edited volume La rivoluzione in esilio: Scritti su Mario Tronti (Quodlibet, 2020).

Notes

[i] For positions against Giorgio Agamben’s thesis, see Panagiotis Sotiris, "Against Agamben: Is a democratic biopolitics possible?": https://criticallegalthinking.com/2020/03/14/against-agamben-is-a-democratic-biopolitics-possible/ , and Roberto Esposito, “Curati a oltranza”, https://antinomie.it/index.php/2020/02/28/curati-a-oltranza/

[ii]The document of the letters of the Chilean academics about the COVID-19 can be found here: https://bit.ly/2IW7npd

[iii] Tomás Moulian, Chile Actual: Anatomía de un mito (LOM, 2002), p.81-119.

[iv] Willy Thayer, “El Golpe como consumación de la vanguardia”, El fragmento repetido: escritos en estado de excepción (ediciones metales pesados, 2006), p.24-25.

[v] See, Renato Cristi, El pensamiento político de Jaime Guzmán (LOM, 2011).

[vi] See in the latest issue of American Affairs (Vol. IV, Spring 2020), the articles “Common Good Capitalism: An interview with Marco Rubio”, and “Corporativism for the Twenty-First Century”, by Gladden Pappin. Also, on the reactivation of an economic Thomism, see Mary L. Hirschfield, Aquinas and the Market: Toward a Humane Economy (Harvard University Press, 2018).

[vii] Michael Hardt, “The withering of civil society”, Social Text, N.45, 1995.

[viii] See Michalis Lianos, "Une politique expérientielle": https://lundi.am/Une-politique-experientielle-IV-Entretien-avec-Michalis-Lianoswell. Also, the dossier on the Chilean uprising, "Los estados generales de la emergencia", Ficción de la razón, october 2019: https://ficciondelarazon.org/2019/10/29/vvaa-los-estados-generales-de-emergencia-dossier-en-movimiento-sobre-revueltas-y-crisis-neoliberal/

[ix] Giorgio Agamben, Pulcinella or, Entertainment for Kids (New York, 2018), p.104.

[x] Ivan Illich, “The Institutional Construction of a new fetish: Human Life”, In the Mirror of the Past: Lectures and Addresses, 1978-1990 (Marion Boysars, 1992), p.223.

[xi] José Joaquin Brunner, “Violencia: el desquiciamiento de la sociedad”, November 2019, El Libero: https://ellibero.cl/opinion/jose-joaquin-brunner-violencia-el-desquiciamiento-de-la-sociedad/.

[xii] Schmitt taught as early as in the twenties this state-market duality. See, “Strong State and Free Economy", in Carl Schmitt and Authoritarian Liberalism (University of Wales Press, 1998), ed. Renato Cristi. p.215.

[xiii] For the thesis on the control of social flows, see “Julien Coupat et Mathieu Burnel interrogés par Mediapart", Lundi Matin, 66, 2016: https://bit.ly/3bdRAOs . For the new form of power as extraction, see Alberto Moreiras, "Notes on the illegal condition in the state of extraction", RIAS, Vol.11, N.2, 2018, p.21-35.

[xiv] Giorgio Agamben, “Chiarimenti", March 17, 2020, Quodlibet: https://www.quodlibet.it/giorgio-agamben-chiarimenti. Denna text finns också på svenska här.

[xv] Hugo Herrera, “Crisis sobre Crisis”, March 17, 2020, La Segunda: https://bit.ly/2Wvc0i0.

[xvi] Giorgio Agamben, Pulcinella or, Entertainment for Kids (New York, 2018), p.117.

[xvii] Jacques Camatte, “The Wandering of Humanity”, in This World We Must Leave and Other Essays (Autonomedia, 1995), p.71.

#COVID19 #Coronavirus #Chile #revolt #Agamben #destituent power #insurrection

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