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writingpaperghost · 10 months

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Without You (Chapter 12)

Chapter 12: The Time Has Arrived, Enter Julio!

Tamaki finally gets to be a Rider and Hana ponders a decision.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43371954/chapters/121686634

“Bye ‘Koto, I’m off to see Sakura!” Hana informed as she walked through the lobby of Happy Spa.

Makoto smiles, “You spend an awful lot of time with Sakura, huh?”

“Well, duh,” Hana responded, “she’s my girlfriend.”

He hummed, “I just think it’s…” he searched for the word he was looking for. “Hmm… cute. I think it’s cute.”

She rolled her eyes, “I mean, I think we’re pretty normal, as far as couples go. Not that I’d really know.”

Makoto wouldn’t really know himself, relationships weren’t exactly something he had experience with. Nor did Tamaki, though probably more because something about his appearance made him less popular among people – you would think people would like him more, given his canine like tendencies. In Makoto’s case, though, he had little desire to be particularly social, he’d always been that way. If only because growing up, for so long, he’d had a sparkling personality that attracted absolutely no one.

Regardless, he was happy Hana had such a relationship, and that she was so happy in it. It was easy to end up in terrible relationship, Makoto had seen that himself. So that Sakura was so good to Hana, that they were so happy, while it didn’t remove his fears, it certainly eased them.

“Alright, well, have fun, okay?”

As Hana nearly skipped out of the room, she grinned in response, “I will!”

Which left Makoto alone again, not that he minded. Better alone and in peaceful, if boring, Happy Spa, then stuck in the middle of a fight. Being a Rider was exhausting and he didn’t hold any particular fondness for it. Even now, it did little to really protect either of his siblings, since Hana was never near the fights and Tamaki would soon be a Rider himself. Though perhaps having even just one more Rider would lessen the odd that something bad would happen to Tamaki.

For not the first time in the past few years, though, Makoto found himself wondering if the situation he found himself in was perhaps some twist of fate, or if he had simply made some decision at some point that set him down this path without even realizing it. Five years before, the course of his life had changed once. Then three years ago it changed again. And now…

Now Makoto was playing hero, a role he was both entirely unsuited for, and one that felt he would inevitably make a mockery of. No hero has such selfish motivations. Even if Tamaki and those at Fenix hadn’t realized it yet, they’d see sooner or later. That was assuming he didn’t do something even worse before then.

He simply had no choice but to wait and see what would happen. See what road he’d find himself on after this. Makoto had long since given the thought of where he might end up much care. As a matter of fact, even this was more than he usually allowed himself.

So he walks out from behind the counter, broom in hand, and busies himself sweeping. Anything to keep his mind off of such thoughts. They wouldn’t do him any good, anyway. Just clutter his thoughts with things that held no importance.

---

Tamaki Igarashi was George’s first real pick for a candidate to use his Rider System. George had danced around the matter for a while, not particularly impressed with Fenix’s options and unwilling to accept the director’s push for Daiji to be chosen. That changed when he caught sight of Tamaki, though. Not for Tamaki’s skills, though there was no denying that he was a hard worker and that he’d learned a lot after meeting Hiromi. No, George knew Tamaki would be the one he chose because Tamaki wasn’t like any other member of Fenix.

The fur and tail he had, the ears he’d grown after joining, those were all proof enough. And Tamaki was a fascinating study, even if Tamaki didn’t much appreciate it. The DNA of a demon had been forced into his body and instead of dying, his body chose to integrate that DNA, making him something that may have been mostly human, but certainly not entirely.

That was the sort of person George knew could bring the most power out of the Drivers and the Vistamps at this stage in development, and would be able to better take the effects the Vistamps would have on their body. Less worry about holding back the amount of energy the Vistamps outputted – and really, the Drivers weren’t needed at all. Tamaki was able to fight perfectly well with just the Vistamp, but the power of a demon like that was too raw and unpredictable. The Drivers would at least force them into becoming something more refined, more usable and versatile.

Soon enough, Tamaki would be able to fight with Makoto as a Rider.

Though it would be a great benefit to Fenix and to the other Riders, George was very curious to try to feel out how Makoto felt about the matter. One could say that he perhaps was a little too keen to antagonize Makoto in such a manner, but could he be blamed for enjoying trying to rile up Makoto, when Makoto always did such a good job pretending. Those moments, when someone could get on Makoto’s nerves just enough, were the moments the act slipped most. It would be a lie to say there still weren’t some things that George was curious about.

Sure, some of that act was hiding his past, hiding the death of his father at his own hands. But what of the rest? What thoughts and feelings lay beneath Makoto’s mask of a quiet and helpful son? Those were the things that made George curious, made him poke and prod with his words, try to see how he could rile Makoto up and see what’s hidden. It maybe wasn’t the safest move, who was to say what might be found, but George was always the kind to let curiosity get the better of him. He was a scientist after.

Thus, he intended to keep a close eye on Makoto’s behavior, especially with Tamaki so close to becoming a Rider. Just a few last adjustments to ensure the strain of the power of the Vistamps were balanced out, put a little more restraint onto how much was let through – a newer change, made with new data from Makoto’s fights, and a change he’d have to make to Makoto’s Driver, sooner or later – and soon enough the Driver would be complete. As it was, it was perfectly usable, but the strain would likely be a little too much to make use of it as effective as would be needed.

And besides, George was always improving his inventions. And with this Driver almost done, he’d soon be able to start working on a new one, one that would hopefully be both more effective and also different from the ones that Makoto, Tamaki, and Aguilera had.

Speaking of improvements, he’d need to go through the data he’d been getting from the Demons Driver again and see if he could make adjustments. Some of it was a bit concerning, and some was just downright strange. Either was not something he wanted to see and it would surely be a pain to tear out whatever the hell his father put in the Driver to make it have such issues.

He knows it was made using his father’s original designs for a Driver, the closest thing to the original and all, but truthfully, from the dives he’s taken into some of its workings, there were times when it was an absolute mess. Not to mention the code in it that occasionally just turned to absolute gibberish. Or that there are times when it seems almost as though it’s casing and inner workings were held together by some mysterious force and resisted attempts to be opened.

Years before, when George had first begun his work to create a Driver, the beginning of his work to create the Driver that currently sat in a case on a table in the lab, George had tried to see if he could reverse engineer the Demons Driver. He didn’t make it very far, though what he had managed to gather was certainly a helpful starting point. Yet all those strange aspects of the Driver was why even George hesitated to give it to anyone until he’d practically been forced to. George had enough scruples that he didn’t want the blood of whatever poor soldier ended up using it on his hands.

It was particularly unfortunate, then, that it was Hiromi Kadota who was using the Demons Driver. He was, of course, a good soldier, hard working and determined, perfectly content listening to his orders with little question. Really, since giving him the Demons Driver was a push from the director himself – a curious action that made George wonder just what he was up to – George had been mostly content to wipe his hands of the matter. He wouldn’t have a guilty conscience when it wasn’t his decision. The issue, though, laid in the director’s son. Daiji Akaishi, a man who had gotten his position through nepotism and pushed himself to make up for that by proving himself worthy and working himself to near death on a regular basis to do so. A man who seemed to have attached himself to what appeared to be the first person to be nice to him.

Daiji, a man who held Hiromi very close to his heart and would surely riot if something bad were to happen to him.

Therein lay the problem and the sole reason George was all that concerned about the Demons Driver and the effects it might have on Hiromi. Daiji, like Makoto, wore a mask, and from what George has seen slip through the cracks told him enough. Beneath that mask was a ticking time bomb, held at bay primarily by the existence of Hiromi. If something were to happen to Hiromi, then there would be nothing to stop that countdown, and in the event of that happening, George knew it would be his head that ends up on a platter first.

George had a very good reason to want to avoid anything bad happening to Hiromi Kadota.

But all that would be a problem for a different time, as, on cue, back from his lunch break is Tamaki. It must be twelve forty-five, give or take a minute or two. Tamaki sits in a spare chair, fixing George with a curious look, before sighing and asking, “Have you eaten lunch?”

“Come on, Igarashi, that’s not your business,” This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, at this point it was a near daily occurrence. Tamaki was too nice, really, it’s something George is certain he’s learned from his parents.

“Well, given how often you skip lunch…”

George rolled his eyes, “I am more and more convinced your family is made of aliens – don’t tell your mother I said that.” He had come to the conclusion that Yukimi Igarashi is the last person he wants to upset in any manner.

Tamaki reels back at the comment, “Aliens?”

“I mean, you’re not what most call normal,” George shrugged, “anyway, I’m going to finish this up, so you can finally have a Driver, then I’ll go eat. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Sighing, Tamaki leaned back and closed his eyes, then took in a deep breath. He wasn’t as fun to rile up as Makoto, Tamaki wore much more of his emotions on his sleeve – or on his tail and ears. Even when he was trying to hide how he felt. Though Tamaki’s ears twitched, clearly listening closely to the noise of the room, he otherwise just sat there.

George went back to work, typing away to add the last few adjustments to the Driver’s code. As much as Tamaki always pestered him about skipping lunch, he could feel the effects of skipping it combined with his rather small dinner the night before and his arguably small breakfast. Usually it didn’t bother him much, but it was harder to ignore once Tamaki called attention to it. Well, going to eat something after he finished here would get Tamaki to leave him alone about it for the day.

Within a few more minutes, the last of it was done, then he only had to wait. In the meantime, he’ll go hunt down lunch and leave Tamaki here to keep an eye on things.

---

Hana can tell that Sakura’s pushing her harder than usual during their spar, even if she can’t place why. Despite that, she’s doing her best to keep up, an effort she’d been finding a lot easier the past few times. Perhaps that was why Sakura had increased the difficulty. It’s hard to say at the moment, given she’s focused on the spar and can’t really spare the breath to say much at all, let alone ask a question.

As usual, it ends with Hana on the ground and Sakura on top of her, an almost devious smile on her face, if it were pointed towards anyone other than Hana. Hana groaned a little, though out of breath, both from the near predictable outcome and from the fall to the ground.

Yet Sakura only assured, “You did wonderful, my bee. You’ve already grown so much stronger.” Gently and carefully, she reached for Hana’s face, brushing a stray hair that had come loose to the side.

It was hard to measure her own improvement when Sakura could always outdo her anyway, even if it wasn’t an unfamiliar thing. The same happened with Tamaki, Hana had never been able to win against him in a spar, any improvement she made he always seemed to match. Then he went off to work for Fenix and she’s barely gotten any spar out of him – but now it feels like she would never stand a chance. Maybe Sakura was right, maybe she’d gotten stronger, but she herself certainly can’t tell.

“I don’t know,” Hana began, still a little breathless, “I still seem to end up under you a lot.”

Sakura laughed, seeming to contemplate for a moment before moving and letting Hana free, “But you look so good like that,”

Hana can’t help her blush – Sakura seemed to like the reaction she got when she said things like that. “Sakura…” She isn’t quite sure what else to say.

“I do mean it, though, that you’ve become stronger.” Sakura added, sincere. She reached over, taking Hana’s hands in her own. “As a matter of fact… if you think you’re ready, I think soon would be a good time to let your brothers know who Aguilera really is.”

“Let them know who she really is…” Hana echoed, uncertain. If her brothers learned she was Aguilera, there was no coming back from that. She wasn’t certain how they’d react, but it certainly wouldn’t be good. So much would change, permanently, after that.

It wasn’t as though she’d considered this far ahead, when she initially accepted Sakura’s offer. She’d just known that she couldn’t turn down the chance to become stronger, to show that to her brothers. If they wouldn’t let her become stronger, then she’d turn to whoever was willing to. Yet now… what good was becoming stronger if she didn’t show them? What good was showing them if it might change everything in some irreparable way?

“Take your time to think about it,” Sakura said, “it’s a big decision, and ultimately, things can stay just as they are right now, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

Hana sighed, “I’ll be sure to think about it.”

Helping her up, Sakura gave her a smile, “That’s all you need to do.”

The two clean up and Sakura leaves Hana for a bit, not something unusual, but it never gets any less boring. She wanders the base, into the parts that housed the other members. It’s something she does when she’s alone sometimes, wanting to get a feel for what the rest of the Deadmans were like. Most of the people she talked with seemed nice enough, and since she usually hid her antenna and fuzz, the best she could at least, they thought she was just a regular member.

As she walks through the halls, she can hear a group of children playing not far away and chose to follow, just to see what they were up to. There’s three, two girls and a boy. The boy is wearing a plastic mask of some kind of monster, while the girls stood side by side, one wearing a slightly too big scarf, the other with a blanket tied around her shoulders like a cape. They appeared to be playing some kind of game, the girls playing the heroes and the boy the villain.

Catching sight of Hana, the boy laughs, a sort of silly and dramatic laugh that a child would make while playing, before he runs over to her, grabbing ahold of the end of her skirt. “See! I’ve captured her!” It occurs to Hana that she may be getting dragged into a game. She doesn’t think she minds, much.

One of the girls, the one with the scarf, gasps, “Oh no! Spider, we have to save her from Mons-Leader!”

The other girl, the one with the makeshift cape, gasps with equal dramatics, “Cicada, you’re right!” Then she points at the boy, playing the character of Mons-Leader, apparently. “Mons-Leader, let go of her!”

Mons-Leader once again laughs dramatically, “I won’t let her go without a fight!”

The two girls take each other’s hands, enthusiastically declaring, “Through the power of friendship and cuteness, we’ll defeat you!” They’re a little out of sync in their delivery, but not to the point that it wasn’t impressive. “Super Spin Wave!” The two girls let go of each other, spinning, and then posed.

The boy lets out a dramatic cry, falling equally dramatically to the floor. “Ah! Defeated again by Cicada and Spider!”

Cheering, Cicada and Spider run over to Hana, “We’ve saved you!” Cicada declared. “I’m Tomiko.”

Spider nodded, “I’m Rumi,” She points to the boy, “That’s Ryoichi.”

Hana gives them a smile, “I’m Hana.”

Tomiko nods, “You’re the one who’s sometimes with Miss Jeanne – er, I mean, Miss Sakura.”

Impishly, Rumi smiles and adds, “You two are very cute together.”

Unable to help herself, Hana blushed. “Ah, t-thank you?”

“Miss Sakura seems so happy with you,” Ryoichi observes, standing up from the ground, taking his mask off. “my mom and dad smile like that, when they’re together.”

“Your parents are real lovey-dovey,” Tomiko pouted, “it’s gross.”

Hana wasn’t sure what to make of the implication of either of their statements. Should she be embarrassed these kids were telling her these things? Or take it as a compliment? They did say Sakura seemed happy with her… then again, they were children, so who knew how accurate their observations were.

She loved Sakura, that was without question, but to think that she might make her happier, to the point that these children could notice. It… made Hana feel… happy. Good. Sakura made her feel happier, too. Gave her somewhere that she felt she might… belong. Sakura wanted to help her get stronger, didn’t think that she would just put herself in danger.

Sakura loved Hana, and even if she would try to protect her, Hana knew it wasn’t like her brothers. Tamaki tried to protect her by keeping her far from any danger, by thinking she was weak and couldn’t get any stronger. That was why she accepted Sakura’s offer in the first place.

And wouldn’t it be great to show her brothers how much stronger she’d become – that she’d become stronger using the very things that they’d been so dead set she didn’t use? It certainly was an appealing thought.

Well, it’s something to keep considering, at least. She bids the children goodbye as they return to their game and she wanders back towards Sakura’s room.

---

It wasn’t exactly unusual for Fenix to arrive before Makoto, when a member of the Deadmans appeared. This time, though, it wouldn’t be a problem, Tamaki would make sure of it, now that he was armed with his own Driver. He’d be able to fight, and maybe Makoto’s aid wouldn’t even be necessary.

Revi is there, this time, holding the T-Rex Vistamp in his hand. When he spots the Driver in Tamaki’s hand, there’s a curious look in his eyes, even as his expression remained neutral. “So it’s time for you to finally become a Rider.” Quickly, he stamps himself, taking on his demon form. “Let’s see how you fare.”

Tamaki has the chance to place the Driver around his waist before he had to dodge out of the way of Revi’s attack. Rolling out of the way and back to his feet, Tamaki activated his Vistamp and stamped the Driver. His Rider armor appeared around him, covering him in the thumping of his own heartbeat. It was familiar, by this point, and it filled him with confidence.

He was a Kamen Rider, which meant he could fight far better than before, certainly.

Again, Revi attacks, swinging his tail at Tamaki. Tamaki jumps out of the way, landing in a crouched position, before springing forward and punching Revi. Like this, transformed using the Driver and Wolf Vistamp, Tamaki had noticed that he seemed a little more aware of everything. Normally, he already had “better” hearing than most, due to his second set of ears, but while transformed, there was something else. It was also present when using only the Vistamp, but at that point it was often near distracting. This was manageable without being all that distracting.

If anything, Tamaki thinks it may be more of a use than a hinderance. Being more aware meant he was less likely to be caught off guard, less likely for his opponent to get the better of him by surprise. Easier to see that Makoto had arrived, easily able to witness the fight that was occurring. He can spare just the barest thought to notice that Makoto watched with worry, but Tamaki brushes that off.

Makoto was, much like their mother, a worrywart. One who, unlike their mother, didn’t seem capable of trusting that Tamaki could protect himself. When Tamaki had announced that he wanted to join Fenix, Makoto had clearly been uneasy with the idea, had even expressed that he worried about Tamaki joining. There was an implication there, and in every interaction to do with Tamaki and his work at Fenix, that Makoto did not feel Tamaki would be safe.

This was Tamaki’s opportunity to prove Makoto wrong. To prove to him that he could protect himself. Even as he could see Makoto pull out his Driver and the Squid Vistamp, so visibly ready to join the fight and aid Tamaki. Tamaki didn’t want that, that would only add to Makoto’s idea that he had to protect Tamaki.

He fights harder, a change that Revi seemed to notice. Tamaki punched harder, kicked harder, and in kind, Revi began to dodge more, used his tail to keep Tamaki at a further distance. Swinging his tail at Tamaki again, Revi manages to catch Tamaki’s feet and knock him down.

Then he’s hit by Makoto’s weapon, Makoto having transformed while Tamaki was fighting. He takes over the fight, to Tamaki’s ire, as Tamaki pulled himself up off the ground. Makoto’s weapon, though providing some range, did not give enough to keep Makoto away from Revi’s tail, meaning he too had to contend with Revi’s tail.

The tail was proving to be a pain, probably more so than any other trait of Revi’s demon form. This fight would be so much easier if they had some form of properly ranged weapon, but Makoto’s wasn’t long enough and no gun Fenix had was really strong enough to counter a demon. Especially combined with Revi’s fighting skill, clearly having more experience than Tamaki.

Revi knocks Makoto back, not trip him to the ground like he had Tamaki, but still staggered him back. Tamaki takes it as an opportunity to rush at Revi, ready to trigger his finishing move. It wouldn’t be enough to properly defeat Revi, but it would hopefully be enough to convince Revi to end the fight.

Instead of him kicking Revi, though, as something came crashing against his side. A blur of white and red – Aguilera. It felt like she must have used her finisher instead, sending Tamaki to the ground, Vistamp clattering on the ground beside him as his armor disappeared.

“Tamaki!” Makoto is quick to place himself between Tamaki and Aguilera.

Seeming surprised, Revi asked, “Did Jeanne send you?”

Aguilera nodded, silent as ever.

“Did she think big brother needed protecting?” Revi didn’t seem quite so happy to see Aguilera. His demon form disappeared and it was clear he was frowning, tail lashing. “She didn’t need to send you.”

Appearing more or less unbothered, Aguilera shrugged, a sort of disinterested air about her. Obviously, she was only here because Jeanne sent her, for whatever reason. Vaguely, Tamaki thinks that it’s odd she seemed so bored. Or maybe, she was distracted.

Revi sighed, “Alright, let’s go. I’ve gotten an idea enough of Julio’s strength.”

Nodding, with what appeared to be more interest than before, Aguilera allowed Revi to take her hand, before the two disappeared.

---

Hana seemed distracted, Ikki couldn’t help but notice. And sure, she could be distracted at times, she had created a secret life and that couldn’t be easy on her, but this was different from that. She wasn’t even distracted by Sakura, as Sakura wasn’t even in the lounge. Hana wasn’t even entirely idle, slowly knitting with blue yarn.

“Hana?” He asked, watching as her hands continued to work, “Is everything alright, you seem distracted?” It wasn’t entirely his place, but Ikki could never help himself, he was often a busybody.

Finally, she stalls her movements, “Oh,” she’d been like this since they returned from the fight, probably before. “I’m fine.”

Somehow, Ikki didn’t really believe that, but at the same time, he didn’t want to push and risk Sakura finding out and getting upset with him for pushing where he shouldn’t. Ikki just hoped that he could treat Hana as he did his siblings, given how close she and Sakura seemed, and given she was an Igarashi. But at the same time, if she didn’t want it what good would it do? She had her brothers that she already viewed in the role of older brother more than she would view him.

“Alright,” He said, even if he didn’t want to drop the subject so easily. “but if something bugs you, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you should at least talk with Sakura about it.”

“Of course,” Hana nodded, returning her knitting to the previous pace, perhaps even faster as she put more focus on it.

The two of them fall into a strange and somewhat uneasy silence, one that Ikki felt all too familiar with from his years with his siblings. It would evaporate sooner or later, or someone would come along to break it. Ikki was alright with that, he’d spent so many years with his siblings, he had made himself become alright with it, kept telling himself that he just needed to be patient. It was what their mother would do, in his position, he’s certain of it.

Sure enough, just as Ikki predicted, Daiji soon entered, having not changed from his Fenix uniform, but he had taken the jacket off and tied it around his waist. The white of Fenix’s uniform stood out too much against the dark walls of the Deadmans’ base, to the point that it made Daiji uncomfortable standing out so much. Hana doesn’t pay him much mind, keeping her attention on her knitting. Ikki can see, though, that Daiji holds a device in his hands.

It's mostly a light blue, with pink details, and Ikki thinks it resembled the Drivers that Makoto, Tamaki, and Hana have, at least a little. “Daiji,” He greeted, though didn’t pull his eyes from the device, “what’s that you have there?”

The question seems to prompt Hana to look up, a flicker of recognition in her eyes when her gaze falls on the device. “Oh, that’s one of Karizaki’s belts,”

“It is,” Daiji nodded, then he held the Driver out towards Ikki, “the Revice Driver, father wanted you to have it.”

Tentatively, Ikki takes the Driver, passing it between his hands in a bid to hide his uncertainty. He didn’t like the idea that their father wanted him using the Driver, it felt too… suspicious. Their father rarely had what Ikki would consider good intentions. It made Kadota’s use of the Demons Driver just as worrisome.

“He wants me to use it…” Ikki really doesn’t want to use the Driver, but if it was their father’s orders, then he had little choice.

Vice hovers, hands ghosting over the Revice and Ikki’s own. “Wow, this will make us stronger, isn’t that great?” Ikki lets himself frown for only a moment, quick to hide it so Daiji can’t see, “Alright, well, I’ll keep that in mind.” He doesn’t look forward to seeing how the Driver would work.

#kamen rider revice #kamen rider #without you #my writing

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haddonfled · 3 years

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all the cracks you see on the walls of this place were carved by my eyes. i have been looking at them for years –– fifteen hourglasses shattered between clenched teeth. no use counting them.

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙱𝙻𝙴𝙼𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙴𝚇𝙸𝚂𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚃𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙳𝙰𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙾𝙲𝙸𝙴𝚃𝚈 ...

before there was evil, there was the criminalization of the mentally ill. before a proper trial could be held at the age of twenty-one, there was punishment. before the boogeyman, there was a boy sentenced to living death. smith’s grove: where patients are, first and foremost, prisoners.

michael was not treated; he was subjected to a regimen of psychiatric control meant to render him docile. his antisocial tendencies were not addressed as much as they were simply repressed. after all, loomis never intended for him to see the light of day. why socialize an animal who will forever be chained to a cage? would treatment have changed anything / could it have prevented a potentially inevitable outcome? who can say.

programming in smith’s grove was particularly dismal for michael, who was subjected only to the techniques of loomis. loomis, who studied him rather than treated him / loomis, who relied too heavily on the use of psychotropics to keep michael in a state of pseudo-zombification. so he adapted, learned, and resisted. loomis was not afraid of him, but the other staff were. pills went missing / syringes were returned to locked cabinets as full as when they left. who could tell? michael embraced his living catatonia over the years, patiently biding his time until the right moment to strike. he became comfortably numb, living an existence in which he was incapacitated –– by thorazine, by the tomb in his own mind, and sometimes by both. loomis wanted michael to lose himself in order to keep him docile … and lose himself he did. but in losing himself, he only grew closer to the evil lurking beneath the surface. prison does not make people better. PRISON MAKES PEOPLE WORSE.

... 𝙰𝚂 𝙰 𝙽𝙾𝚁𝙼𝙰𝙻, 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻𝚃𝙷𝚈, 𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻𝚈 𝙵𝚄𝙽𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙰𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶.

how can i see myself when i am always with me. how do i know myself. say no to mirrors; they can only enumerate me or make me one. i am not like that. i am not myself or the other. i am in no state at all.

#( i have so much to say about the criminalization of the mentally ill actually )#( but michael's a difficult case because he's also supernaturally aligned )#( and that. makes him an unsuitable case study )#( but all the same )#( there's a lot that should be acknowledged / is left unaddressed about how loomis and the psycho-carceral system handled michael )#[ 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵. eyes deep like blackness black like catastrophe catastrophic like silence. ]#[ 𝙳𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙿𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃. i was a child but now i am nothing. i am watching myself rot away. ]#( i reckon this'll be part of a series )#( like im gonna write metas n shit in clusters that all tie back to an overarching theme )#( and this round will be smith's grove )#needles /#mental illness /#long /#institutionalization /#psychiatry /#ask to tag

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kurowrites · 3 years

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Can I give you 2 prompts for wangxian fics? 1: meddling Xichen (to ship) + jealous lwj + oblivious wwx and 2: kissing practice + childhood friends + caught red handed by lan qiren. Thank you so much! I love your modern au fics.

I am relatively sure that this is NOT what you wanted, but you know, something something beggars something. ;) Once it had been planted in my mind, I had to do it.

---

Lan Wangji was aware that due to his distant nature and his courtesy name, some people falsely assumed that he was blind to all worldly concerns around him.

This was, however, a completely wrong conclusion. He was very much aware of what was happening around him. Just as much as he was aware that this supposed ‘conference’ that they were all attending was little more than a shoddily hidden marriage market.

Which would have been fine, it was not like Lan Wangji did not see the necessity to build stronger ties between the sects. It was not his place to judge such things, and, after all, marriage was a necessity to sustain a stable society. He might not approve of the vulgarity of some of the participants of this conference, but he did not deny the necessity of such an event, however impractical and distasteful it might be to him, personally.

However.

Why Lan Xichen, his own brother, seemed to have made a very strong connection with Wei Wuxian at this conference, was completely beyond him.

Out of all possible matches, Lan Xichen seemed to favour Wei Wuxian over anyone else!

Lan Wangji was unable to make sense of it, no matter how long he considered the case before him.

A marriage between them would not only be questionable in terms of inter-sect politics, he also doubted that their wildly different personalities would be a good foundation for a successful marriage. Lan Xichen should be perfectly aware of these things, and yet, he seemed to prefer Wei Wuxian’s company to that of anyone else.

And Wei Wuxian… Lan Wangji did not want to make unfounded assumptions, but aiming for a sect leader seemed to be reaching very high for someone in his position. Especially when there were other suitable matches to be made that were much closer to his own age and status. Such an attempt was sure to incur the displeasure of all other major sects, and several minor ones, too.

He considered bringing the evils of such an unsuitable match to his brother’s attention, but he did not want to hurt his brother’s feelings, and Lan Wangji knew that no matter how carefully he chose his words, they would end up sounding petty and biased.

His brother knew very well how he felt about Wei Wuxian. He had been a witness to more than one fight between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, and yet he seemed to have decided on Wei Wuxian without hesitation. None of Lan Wangji’s words would be able to change his choice now, he was sure.

It was just.

The thought of having someone like Wei Wuxian as his brother-in-law was unbearable. Loud and obnoxious and infuriating, how could his brother bear the presence of a person like that? And even worse, bring such a person to Cloud Recesses?

Perhaps, after the marriage, Lan Wangji would be allowed to go into seclusion for a while, in order to work on his cultivation in silence and contemplation. Once Wei Wuxian was installed at Cloud Recesses, there would be an end to all peace, that he was sure of.

He tried to make peace with that thought, and redoubled his own efforts to evade all the potential marriage partners and their families that seemed to have set their sight on him. As the second son of a prestigious sect, he had proven to be rather more popular on a marriage market like this than he had wished for, and by now, he sincerely regretted letting his brother convince him to accompany him to this sham of a conference.

He was determined not to accidentally fall into an engagement, and planned to leave the conference as the same staunch bachelor he had been before.

“Lan Zhan!” came the loud voice that Lan Wangji would have preferred not to hear right now, or ever again.

One moment later, Wei Wuxian bumped into his shoulder.

“Ayoo,” he said once he had glanced into Lan Wangji’s face. “Someone is grumpy today. Are you getting tired of being hounded by pretty girls? You should be happy! You can pick any girl you like, they’re basically throwing themselves at your feet!”

If Lan Wangji had less self-possession, he might have felt tempted to strangle Wei Wuxian right there and then. Alas, he was in control of his emotions, and so he only levelled Wei Wuxian with a disapproving glare.

He did not want anyone to throw themselves at your feet. He did not want to get married. He did not care for pretty girls.

Wei Wuxian seemed to take his quelling glare as encouragement, and laughed heartily.

“I see, Hanguang-jun does not approve!” he teased. “There is no one good enough for Lan Zhan, after all!”

Lan Wangji wondered about that particular remark, because Wei Wuxian obviously believed himself to be good enough for Lan Xichen, who arguably was above Lan Wangji in dignity and respect. Lan Wangji was only the second son.

But perhaps Wei Wuxian was teasing him, alluding to his taciturn and forbidding nature. That made more sense. After all, Lan Wangji’s brother was the more friendly and approachable one between the two of them, no competition at all.

It needed far more than a gentle smile to impress Lan Wangji.

Wei Wuxian rambled on about all the dramatic scenes he had witnessed during the conference, the little jealousies that had been happening among those that were looking for a marriage partner in order to secure the status of their sect.

Lan Wangji did not really care about these things, but he let Wei Wuxian talk nonetheless, content to listen as long as he was not required to speak.

“Seriously though, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian ended his excursion. “You don’t have your eye on anyone? Come on, tell me! I’m not going to tattle! I’ll help you!”

That was precisely not what Lan Wangji wanted, and the last thing he needed was ‘help’ from Wei Wuxian, of all people. So he tightly closed his lips, and walked faster. Unfortunately, Wei Wuxian was almost as tall as him, and so he easily kept pace with Lan Wangji easily.

“Lan Zhaaaaan, come on, don’t be so stubborn,” Wei Wuxian pouted, swishing his ponytail back and forth in disappointment. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

“Wei Ying had better mind his own business,” Lan Wangji said curtly.

“Wei Ying has no business to mind,” Wei Wuxian whined, his pout growing impossibly more pronounced.

“What were you discussing with my brother, then?” Lan Wangji asked impatiently.

He regretted his words as soon as they had left his mouth.

“Oh, you saw that?” Wei Wuxian replied, perking up immediately. “Xichen-ge has been trying to convince me to come to Cloud Recesses again, to study some more or something. I wonder why he’s so insistent on it, I wasn’t that bad of a student, was I? I shouldn’t need special education!”

Lan Wangji looked at Wei Wuxian in surprise, but there was no impish glint in his eye, and no mischievous smile on his lips. Wei Wuxian was entirely serious.

“Brother asked you to come study at Cloud Recesses again?” Lan Wangji asked.

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “Though I’m not sure why he would ask. I feel Lan Qiren will have a qi deviation if I visit a second time.”

Lan Wangji needed a moment to process this new information.

Apparently, Lan Xichen had invited Wei Wuxian to Gusu. But there seemed to have been made no promise of marriage, or Wei Wuxian was expertly deceiving him on that account.

But there was no real reason for Wei Wuxian to be deceptive. On the contrary, Wei Wuxian would probably enjoy to lord an engagement to his brother of Lan Wangji with gusto.

Which meant that his brother had never made an offer. And yet, he had invited Wei Wuxian to Gusu.

He had invited Wei Wuxian to Gusu.

Deliberately.

Without making an offer of marriage.

Lan Wangji froze for a moment and gripped Bichen, considering.

He looked at Wei Wuxian, who looked back at him with a half-smile on his face, evidently confused about Lan Wangji’s strange reaction to his words.

Oh, it was starting to make sense now.

It was all clear.

He was going to have to commit fratricide.

“But, you know,” Wei Wuxian said, now smiling fully, clearly unaware of Lan Wangji’s dark, dark thoughts.

“If Lan Zhan asks me, I will come.”

#kuro writes #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mdzs #prompt #mdzs prompt #anonymous

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shepherds-of-haven · 3 years

Note

So I follow MANY interactive fiction blogs and I just have to say that you're my favorite by a long shot because I just love answers that you give in response to hypothetical scenarios and AU's for your characters. Like you actually put in effort and give well-thought out answers, so I thank you for that. As for AU's I have one of my own if you don't mind please. What would be the RO's for a murder mystery a la Cluedo? Bonus points that they can't leave the mansion for extra chaos. Thank you!

Ah, thank you so much for your kind words! 💖 I'm lucky to be a part of such a great community of talented creatives and kind, genuinely awesome people! Interacting with readers is such a pleasure, even if I do fall behind on messages and such I'm so sorry

I'm in North America, so I was genuinely like "what on Earth is Cluedo" gkljglfdjgd only because it's called Clue where I'm from! But I, uh, never played it, so I'm just going to go off of my knowledge from Knives Out 😂

SETTING: a Southern Gothic mansion in an undisclosed location, owned by a woman only referred to in jest as The Autarch by her adopted children. It is a stately manor, richly furnished and glittering with wealth, though imposing and dark-windowed during storms.

CONTEXT: a powerful and wealthy tycoon referred to only as "The Autarch" or "The Iron Lady" was once feared across the country for her ruthless business dealings and formidable empire. In her middle age, a mysterious experience and the sudden death of her husband caused her to have a change of heart, abruptly abandoning her empire to her only son and devoting her life to adopting six orphan children. However, stopping her business dealings did not completely change her personality: she was a hard, unforgiving woman, and her relationships to her children (now all grown) can be described as "strained" at best.

In her declining age, the lonely Autarch in her high mansion somehow came to befriend a psychic by the name of Mimir of the Silver Eye. Only the servants were witness to what was said between them, and even then, they never had the full story. The most that anyone knew was that the Autarch began to express more interest in resuming her business activities again, to the disconcertion of her only biological son, Enik, who had helmed the empire on his own for the last twenty years. Meanwhile, Mimir moved into the mansion to keep her older friend company, and to help advise her on matters both business and personal.

One stormy night, the Autarch calls all 7 of her children back home in order to discuss matters of great importance, including her decisions about her will. Some came eagerly, and others with great reluctance--there were arguments had that were years in coming, and there were private talks between siblings who hadn't interacted in years. But the matter that the Autarch was keen to discuss was postponed: the storm knocked out the power in the mansion, and all turned into bed, sleeping fitfully in rooms they'd abandoned decades earlier.

They never discovered why the Autarch had called them to their old haunting grounds, either, for in the morning, she was found with a knife buried in her heart.

CHARACTERS:

- Riel Syndran. A world-famous private detective and consultant famed across the world for his ability to solve any mystery, no matter how old or tangled. He is known for being comfortable with ruthlessly manipulating interrogation subjects and suspects in order to extract the truth and solve his case no matter what; this obsession and willingness to massage the rules--although he claims the truth is his only goal, above all other things--is what makes him unsuitable for conventional police work, but his results speak for themselves. He arrives on the mansion's doorstep mere minutes after the Autarch is found murdered and is claimed to have been hired by an anonymous party, casting suspicion on his timing and the pre-planned nature of the death. His signature move is being recognized by various people as "the detective who solved the Apple Killer case" (or some other famous case of his) and replying in irritable tones that it was actually "the Orange Killer case, but you were close". He abhors smoking and has doctorates in body language analysis and psychology, as well as a law degree, and is gifted with a photographic memory. He picks invisible lint off of his sleeves while he thinks.

- Blade Bronwyn. An FBI agent (think Agent Cooper in Twin Peaks) who has been in the town of Old Haven investigating a string of serial killings across the country. He hears about the murder of the Autarch from the local police and arrives at the manor a mere hour after they were alerted, keen to investigate the murder as part of his ongoing case. He plays the straight man to Riel's more eccentric detection methods, and is seen more as a serious, by-the-books rule-follower determined to get answers. The suspects in the manor find him to be emotionally-insensitive, blunt, and grim-faced. He has a better sense of smell and sight than Riel does, as well as more combat experience, and is the only person in the manor acknowledged to be carrying a weapon. He takes his coffee black and very strong.

- Enik Goldenson. The Autarch's only biological child and the oldest. He was granted full control of her holdings and business empire when she retired in order to focus on raising her new family. He has made his disdain of his adopted siblings very clear, not least because he resents having to share his future inheritance with them. He has historically been a bully and cruel towards his mother. Rumor had it that he was once studying to become a priest. He has avoided returning to the mansion ever since Trouble knocked his lights out at fourteen years of age. He was once briefly engaged to fellow heiress Lavinet Naveen, who eventually spurned him, finding him "repulsive." He has the most bad blood among anyone in the family and is considered one of the prime suspects in the Autarch's murder, as it was possible that she may planned to cut him out of the will. Blade places his suspect status as RED while Riel believes he is at an ORANGE: Enik may be far too clever to kill his own mother under such suspicious and bloody circumstances.

- Trouble Alder. The first of the Autarch's adopted children, he was once an urchin running a street-fighting racket on the streets of New Haven. He was nicknamed Trouble for his surly temper and quick ability to get into fights and settle things with his fists, necessitating being sent off to a military boarding school in an effort to curb his violent tendencies as a teenager. He is extremely protective of his other adopted siblings, and while he resented the Autarch in his youth, he has begrudgingly come to respect her more for taking him in as an adult. He now works as a decorated sniper in the military and is working to earn his pilot's wings. The revelation that he kept military weapons in his room casts suspicion on him as a murder suspect, though Riel quickly dismisses him as not being a good enough liar to get away with it.

- Tallys Ironwood. The second of the Autarch's adopted children, she made her hatred of the old woman very well known, and had an even poorer relationship with her than Enik did. Tallys's parents were victims in an accident caused by one of the Autarch's manufacturing plants, and she has always felt that her subsequent adoption was mere lip service to atonement for the Autarch, while she would have rather stayed with her more impoverished aunts and uncles. She ran away multiple times in her youth and has not spoken to the Autarch since she was 18. Her overt hatred and reluctance in coming back to the mansion casts suspicion on her as a murder suspect. She has a degree in plant science and works as an environmental activist, particularly targeting products and campaigns by Enik's company, creating unspeakable friction between them.

- Ayla Aescar. The third of the Autarch's adopted children, nothing is known about her biological parents. She was adopted from a neighboring country and has since returned to it as an adult, making an effort to reconnect with her origins and culture. Her relationship with "the old woman," as she calls her, was more neutral, though it comes out that the Autarch frequently bailed her out in secret whenever Ayla ran into trouble, such as trespassing on Jalis government grounds. Nominally, she works as a photographer for a travel magazine, but secretly, she is an investigative photojournalist looking into various covert practices by the Jalis government. This brings up a question of whether the Autarch's killing was political, and whether it was actually meant for Ayla.

- Chase Trinaeste. The fourth of the Autarch's adopted children, it's joked that he was intended to replace Trouble when he was sent off to boarding school due to having a more charming personality and sweeter face. However, he ended up being the most troublesome one of the bunch, having multiple run-ins with the law from a young age and displaying various tendencies towards larceny, grand theft auto, and more. He had no shame about stealing and pawning off valuables from the mansion and was a well-known skirt-chaser, leading to constant stress in their household about what he was getting up to when he snuck out of the house at night. At eighteen, he disappeared from the mansion, and no one has heard from him in the intervening years since. He completely ducks any questions from Riel or Blade about what he does for a living, leading most to conclude that he has gotten himself deeper entrenched in the criminal underworld. This has cast obvious suspicion on him and his involvement in the murder, as he was known to steal from the Autarch herself. He seems to feel some measure of loyalty and possibly remorse towards his adopted siblings, but hides it well under a polished veneer of charm and casual swagger.

- Briony Stormbreaker. The fifth of the Autarch's adopted children In a dramatic fashion, she was discovered as a young child swept away in a huge flood caused by a storm, with no ability to communicate (or seemingly remember) anything about where she could have lived or who her family was. She was subsequently adopted by the Autarch and is one of the few who had a fairly good relationship with her, always expressing gratitude for giving her a home and family (though this brought her into conflict with siblings like Tallys, as she usually tried to defend the Autarch when she wasn't there to speak for herself). She was the sibling who always tried to unite the others, and their constant arguments and conflicts constantly broke her heart. She was an easily-upset child who tended to be babied by Trouble and Chase, but after constantly bullying from Croelle and Enik, she toughened up and began taking martial arts classes, abruptly displaying her own ferocious temper and violent streak as well as unusually powerful physical strength. She currently works as a passionate public prosecutor. She was heard conversing with the Autarch privately with raised voices, on the night of the murder, and is known to sleepwalk during violent storms. She even had a phase with an imaginary, sword-shaped friend as a child, as well as repeatedly claimed that she's seen ghosts in the manor. This perceived paranoia has led some to wonder whether she could have harmed the Autarch in her sleep. As Riel says, "It's always the nice ones." Blade: "Not in my experience." Riel: "Not in mine, either, but in some continuity, it must be true."

- Croelle. The last of the Autarch's adopted children. He was by far the most anti-social and troubled part of the family, refusing to speak to those he deemed beneath him and breaking Trouble's arm in a disturbing display of dominance as youths. Unlike Enik, his cruelty is more ruthless and matter-of-fact, the way an animal might treat another animal, rather than pointed and manipulative. Regardless, he was a terror to all of the other siblings, and he was eventually thrown in juvenile detention (and later prison) for killing members of a gang, seemingly in self-defense. However, he never cared to divulge the full details of the story, and has been serving his sentence ever since. No one besides the Autarch knew that he was coming until they arrived at the manor. Croelle claims that he and the Autarch had been exchanging letters for the last few years, and that he has begrudgingly allowed her back into his life, which was why she decided to invite him to this gathering upon his release from prison. However, there is currently no evidence that any such letters exist. As an adult, he is currently quieter and more mellow and has shown no particular proclivity towards violence, but there is always a sense of danger lurking in his eye regardless. His social skills have not improved by much. He is considered one of the absolute top suspects for the old woman's murder. His feelings on his adopted siblings or really anything are extremely unknown. He keeps asking everyone about free will, which annoys everyone except Riel.

- Shery Acquell. A longtime maid for the Autarch and one of her closest friends and confidantes. She alone has been caring for the Autarch in her declining health, ensuring that she has been receiving the proper medical care and dietary attentions, and even reading her books in the evenings. Their closeness has led some to speculate that the Autarch may have bequeathed a part of her inheritance to the maid, or that perhaps Shery was motivated to ingratiate herself to the Autarch to attain said inheritance. She was the last person to see the Autarch before her death, knows something about what transpired between her and Mimir, and ultimately reluctantly admits that she believes in the ghosts that Briony has seen, too.

- Halek Prince. The manor's live-in chef. He is one of the few non-family members staying in the mansion the night of the murder, and suspicion is cast on him when his cooking seemingly gives Ayla, Briony, and Red an allergy attack, leading some to posit attempts at poisoning. Mimir claims to have seen him in places where he shouldn't be or even couldn't be, and he is generally someone viewed as a good suspect for the murder. Riel thinks something else is going on here.

- Red Antiqua. Ayla's journalist partner who accompanied her to the mansion, partly to serve as a buffer for the family awkwardness and partly because he was curious to learn more about the reclusive Autarch. Nominally, he is a travel writer, but secretly, he is working as the same kind of investigative journalist that she is. His secret photographs of the manor prove to be a key piece of evidence in uncovering the murder suspect. He is forced to be confined to the manor, the same as everyone else, to prevent information leaks or runaways. He uncovers a secret doorway in his room and is too curious not to duck into it...

- Caine Tavadon. The son of the manor's groundskeeper, he is often seen with his dog, peeping into the windows of the manor because he's incorrigibly nosy. His witness statements lead Blade and Riel to key footprints on the grounds. He claims to have seen a strange figure staring down at him from the windows of the mansion before.

- Prihine Naveen. Enik's current fiancee, she accompanied him on this odious visit to his mother's manor and is a witness in the proceedings. Although they can barely tolerate each other, their shared ambitions for wealth and power keep them together as a polite though distant couple. A file in the Autarch's study reveals that she has been watching Prihine for some time and discovered that she was having a secret affair. The file indicates that she planned to tell Enik face-to-face, leading others to speculate that Prihine may have murdered the old woman in order to preserve her engagement. Enik remarks that there was a period of time where Prihine was not in bed.

- Lavinet Naveen. Prihine's older cousin, and Enik's ex-fiancee. They've technically known each other since they were children and were schoolmates at the same prestigious institution. The Autarch and Lavinet's father initially had designs to marry the two to forge a powerful alliance between their business empires. However, Lavinet quickly backed out of the engagement, finally admitting that she couldn't stand Enik and would never marry him. Although this has generally caused relations between the two families to become frosty, she has strangely remained on good terms with the Autarch herself, who always admired Lavinet's chutzpah and steely will. (This was just another reason for Enik to hate his own mother.) Lavinet was free to come and go to the manor as she pleased, and dropped in on the Autarch once every few months, as her family's manor is nearby. She only recently discovered that her own cousin, Prihine, is now engaged to her ex, and rushed over on the night of the murder in order to dissuade Prihine from the marriage or convince the Autarch to put a stop to it. This led to a four-way argument (between Lavinet, Prihine, Enik, and his mother) of epic proportions, meaning that Lavinet is not clear on suspicions of murder, either.

- Mimir. The psychic who somehow came into contact with the Autarch and began to convert her to the ways of the supernatural. She has been the Autarch's closest friend and confidant for months, even going so far as to move into the mansion. Many point out the obvious designs on the Autarch's inheritance and possible sinister intentions for taking advantage of the older woman, especially since no one but Shery knows what Mimir has actually advised the Autarch to do. However, Riel points out that there has been no traceable financial irregularities when it comes to Mimir; the Autarch doesn't seem to have paid her for her services, only providing Mimir with food and a roof over her head. The psychic speaks in extremely cryptic tones and lapses into trance-like states. Riel in particular scorns her for her supposedly psychic abilities, insisting that she is a fraud, until she comments on aspects of his past that no one could possibly know, shaking him. She is a prime suspect for the murder until it's discovered that Mimir insists on being locked into a windowless room, only being released by Shery in the morning, to protect herself from the ghosts that haunt the grounds...

#Shepherds of Haven #AU #cluedo #clue #murder mystery #murder mystery AU #knives out #knives out AU #long #long post #all characters #<3 #if anyone can actually guess who the killer is i'll send you a sticker #jk i'll reblog the answer sometime

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lxpinwrites · 3 years

Text

Excerpt from an AU from my partner’s story

(for @gingerly-writing‘s craving asdfasfadsf)

He should have died.

The thought rang clear in his otherwise fuzzy mind the moment he awoke in the cold cell, his entire body aching as if struck with a fever.

As if he had lost a crucial battle, one that he never meant to walk out of anyways.

He sat up slowly, stretching his weary muscles and growing worried when his prosthetic didn’t move, momentarily thinking that it was malfunctioning until he saw the mangled arm lying limply against his side, the product of yet another one of Dante’s monstrosities.

He removed the useless arm with a pang, trying to ignore how unnatural he always felt without it. The crystal once used to power it fell to the ground with a clatter, now glowing with a bright green magic that he remembered all too well. Dante had corrupted it, then, just to render him useless enough to be unable to work his crossbow.

Quentin had been right. He would have never won.

A heavy door screeched in protest from somewhere within the dungeon, casting the room in a strange light as boots clattered towards him slowly, confidently. Momentarily he considered ripping part of the prosthetic into a shard, to end his imprisonment before it could worsen, but all he could think of was Quentin, of Maria, of how he would never get to see them again.

“A fine prisoner you make, Flemming.”

The voice, once clear and smooth, scratched through a ripped out throat, harsh in Aleksander’s ears. He didn’t want to look up at the speaker. He didn’t want to see what his - what Dante had become. He didn’t want to know the lich who had changed his name to reflect his monstrosities.

The caged door flew open and green magic was surrounding him, forcing his head back until he could see Xakras, looking down at him as if he were a mere insect on the ground to be stomped.

“Quiet for once, are you? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a Sorian in their place before. Or is it perhaps too painful to speak to me?”

Aleksander’s brow furrowed in confusion, momentarily wondering if Xakras was speaking of perhaps grief. That is, until he opened his mouth to speak, the words inarticulate as his tongue throbbed in pain. “You’re a monster.”

Xakras laughed, a cruel sound that made his heart ache. Dante’s laugh had always been so warm, a fireplace in the winter. Aleksander bitterly thought of the feelings he had long ago held for him, naively thinking that making Dante laugh would make him fall in love. That had been a foolish thought, for Aleksander only ever fell deeper whenever Dante laughed.

How idiotic he had been.

“It would be unwise to reopen an already infected wound, Flemming,” Xakras remarked, releasing him of his magic. “I believe we both know that your constitution is rather... unsuitable for infection, is it not? Though, it wouldn’t pain me to see your tongue removed.”

Aleksander looked down at the scepter he held, his stomach flipping uneasily when he saw dried blood on the blade, wishing that it was only his own blood, that Alyssa wasn’t dead.

“I’ll die anyways,” Aleksander said, irritated that he couldn’t even speak like normal. It seemed that Xakras had taken away both his body and spirit. He wished he could hate him. “The best doctors in Soria couldn’t cure the infection.”

“The best doctors in Soria didn’t use magic.” Xakras spoke easily, as if stating a simple fact and not caring for the hope it brought him. He leaned against the caged door, looking down at him and for once, almost seeming like Dante again. “And I didn’t give you permission to die.”

A sudden anger overcame Aleksander, his fevered cheeks red. “I won’t become what you are. I - I won’t. Even if you force your curse on me, I’ll - I’ll find a way to die.”

“I wasn’t offering you lichdom,” Xakras said, rolling his eye. “Spending five minutes with you is long enough. I am, however, choosing to heal you.”

Magic paralyzed Aleksander yet again, and before he was able to process what was happening, Xakras was approaching him, pointing his scepter at him until the pain was only a memory. He released him roughly, not caring that Aleksander didn’t have two arms to catch himself.

He must have noticed how Aleksander was looking at the prosthetic like he had missed an opportunity, because he scoffed. “Please. I was a weakling when you lost your arm. It would have taken ten of me to heal the sickness you had.”

Aleksander thought that for a moment, Xakras sounded regretful, though the feeling passed as quickly as it came. Xakras turned towards the exit, his ripped cloak swaying in the wind. He watched as, before his eyes, a strange magic surrounded Xakras until - to his surprise - he looked like Dante again.

In his shock, he didn’t even react when the prison door was left open. Nor did he react when Xakras said, “You’ll find your old study repurposed for your new life. Don’t try to escape - you’ll find yourself stuck between myself and my guards. Pray that the guards happen to find you first.”

With that, he left, leaving Aleksander with a hopeless exit to inevitable enslavement, wondering only what purpose he could possibly have for Xakras, wondering if Quentin would think to come find him.

—

Aleksander had wondered if it was pity that made Xakras spare him, though the study that had been transformed into a workshop told him otherwise. He barely remembered the dusty old room, having used it when he lived in Sipara. Now, it so closely resembled his workspace in Soria that, for only a moment, he feared that Xakras had already infiltrated his home.

There were several differences, however, that never allowed him to feel quite at home.

Aleksander had stolen one of the guest bedrooms at his estate, turning it into the very place where he had built the first prototypes for his prosthetic. He remembered how Maria would catch him awake late at night, working through the last kinks of his most recent idea. She had always scolded him for sleeping so terribly, and yet she had always left a steaming cup of his favorite coffee on his desk, kissing his forehead before going back to bed.

She had made the entire room warm, despite the constant draft it had.

He sat down at the workbench roughly, still exhausted from the fight. He wanted to do nothing more than sleep, yet he was too terrified to dare close his eyes in Xakras’s palace, fearing that at any moment, someone would come to kill him.

Instead, he scavenged the room for metal, having memorized the blueprint for his prosthetic in case he ever lost it. Building was harder than before, and Aleksander realized that he had grown spoiled by having two arms again. Now, he was practically useless, and he occasionally considered asking one of the guards nearby for help.

He didn’t realize that time had passed until the sun was low in the sky, casting his desk in a red light that, strangely, made him long for his little knight. Gods, he could only imagine what Quentin would have done if he had been imprisoned. The poor bastard had panicked enough when the elves had captured them.

Aleksander stood with a shaky breath, frustrated at the slow pace of which he was building. He wasn’t surprised to find that the only window in the room was barred, though it seemed like a useless precaution. The room was several stories in the air - and Aleksander was terribly afraid of heights.

Dante would have remembered that about him, Aleksander thought.

He stared at the horizon, watching the ocean from afar and wondering where Quentin and the others had sailed to - if they had even survived the chaos of Loria burning. The smoke of a burning village nearby still hung in the air. It had been a massacre, supposedly. He had been unconscious during it, stuck in the dungeon for who knew how long.

Aleksander knew Xakras was near when the guards outside his door kneeled in unison, their heavy armor clanking about and echoing in the empty halls. He tried to prepare himself for whatever the tyrant was planning, though he didn’t think he would ever be able to face him without thinking of Dante, without wishing things had gone differently.

He briefly wondered - only for a moment - what would have happened if he had refused Alyssa’s quest, if he had instead demanded a conversation with Dante instead of an assassination.

He supposed it would have all ended the same, anyways. He wasn’t Oklena, so he supposed there was no use in trying to predict what was the best decision.

“It’s not your best work, I’ll admit.”

Aleksander flinched, whipping around to see Xakras by the workbench, observing the barest mechanics of a prosthetic with a scrutinizing eye. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your abilities already.”

“It’s hard to build with one real arm and one hunk of mangled metal,” Aleksander remarked, his throat lumping bitterly. “The crystal in it is - it’s all beyond repair.”

Xakras snorted. “Did you think it would be easy, facing me? You built the original with a fever and a half-dead arm. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is I had a friend with me, last time.”

#Dante story #not my story #my writing #fantasy #writeblr #writblr #come get ur juice

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runningwithhellhounds · 3 years

Text

Theo, across recent timescapes. Theo x life: a series of impressions.

Theo is an invasive agent in Hayden's sensory collection. She's trying to not pay him any mind.

She also tried to erase his self-importance by pretending he didn't exist when she knew he watched with his bridge-burn eyes as she and Liam kissed. Found success in his uncharacteristic silence in a moment that was ruinable.

They are standing in dappled shadows on the forest ground, waiting for Liam, who ran ahead to make a call out of Theo's earshot. Theo is sitting by a tree with his knees up and loosely spread, with his hands in between them. His hands, chained: it's simplest hazard control. Effective, though. Hayden feels spiteful as she's walking left to right, throwing a palm-sized rock from hand to hand. Theo looks bored, irked.

''Where are you going to, little Red Riding Hood?'' Theo addresses her, smooth to self-entertain, making her stop mid-throw, causing the rock to hit her palm and fall on the ground. She picks it up and mimes throwing it at him. Success unfound, in how he doesn't flinch. Success unfound, in how he's making this into a story about a little girl and a sneaky wolf.

She considers him. If answering at all would cater to his amusement, or lesser his situational unpleasantries, which she's trying to avoid. But Theo is in the midway of doing nothing and determined to draw attention to himself, the way he has been.

''We're out of flowers, I'm afraid. Would you like some redwood wood, instead?'' Theo offers in a made-pleasant public service voice. Hayden notices that he's siding with the forest, here, scuttling into its floors where he has found purchase through extended stay.

''You know all the tree species?'' Hayden asks. Takes a bite and wills it into a treat for herself, rather than bait. Theo probably meant the tall and non-wiggly tree he's sitting against; Hayden wonders if he ever studied forestry, or if this is werewolfery knowledge.

''I know better things, too. If you come closer, I'll whisper them to you.'' He grins. Lifts his chained wrists as he adds, ''No pressure, though.''

Hayden considers him. Again and again. This is, she guesses, learnt prudency; a refined taste for justice, maybe. Guesses resurrection does that to you.

''Warning, beware of dog,'' she says.

Theo looks at her, eyes hooding and mouth neutralising. He shrugs, looks sideways. Attention, lost. Trade, declined. Secretful threat traded for blankness, if anything. Hayden, it seems, does not entertain in Theo-ways.

—

Theo Raeken, it turns out, has a finitude to his spread of catastrophe. Sheriff Stilinski watches cross-armed as running-mouth-boy exposes the culprits of murder; aggravates them like it's his best expertise until they say things they tried not to say and so saves his own slate from police-worthy additions.

Stilinski watches as Theo, for some inexplicable reason, lingers in the police department. Theo is sitting on one of the reception benches, eating a bag of mixed nuts from the vending machine. One would think it's ill-advised, that as soon as Parrish released him, Theo asked Parrish to buy him some goods from the vending machine, said he was detained unfairly. Deprived of food for this short but uneasy time. Didn't have his belongings on him. But it mustn't be nonsensical; it must be some behavioural tactic of making himself appear unconcerned. As having clear consciousness, innocence, all of those.

Stilinski resumes watching through the screen as Theo's chewing slows down when an officer with a police dog walks to the machine. He watches Theo's frowned, suffering, doubtful expression, staring into the dog's eyes like he can't take the dog seriously. The officer stops fishing change out of his wallet with a metal scoop in his cupped hand to shoot Theo a questioning look.

''Everything alright, son?'' the officer jingles the change in his hand, looking Theo over.

Theo's gaze doesn't even change when he looks up. Doesn't turn into a stranglehold of a gaze, either. ''Does your dog bite?''

The officer considers Theo, the sagged, unruffled spectre of him.

''No need to worry,'' he assures. Starts inserting the coins. He then turns to Theo in an afterthought. ''Is someone picking you up? You need anything?''

''Oh,'' Theo breathes, ''for real? Would you? Just something to eat? I've been stuck here waiting.''

Stilinski watches as Theo picks up a protein bar from the machine drawer. Flavoured water, a second later. Probably, apathy comes easily to him. He must not think in any understandable way; rather, he must think unfeelingly. Kid's got— not a care in the world.

—

Liam is holding a bouquet and inspecting its flowery contents. Frowning at the petals he's scraping at, glowering at the buds he's poking.

In the aftermath of the ceremony ran on the anniversary of Liam's school in the decorated sports hall, his mother is standing by the chairs in unison with another boy watching her son.

She knows him from a photo Liam showed her, a boy new in the school, softly named: Theo. It was evident that Liam took the photo discreetly, which she commented on and which Liam denied. She notes the distance at which Theo keeping and approaches him.

''Don't worry, he's not keeping secrets from his friends,'' she says. ''He doesn't have a girlfriend, at least not that I know of. I was the one who gave him the flowers.''

''Oh?'' Theo says. ''I see.''

He puts his hands in his pockets. He's probably shy. This happens sometimes, with high-school boys, they can become clumsy with themselves. She feels motherly talking to them in moments like this; motherly and pleasant in her efforts to engage adolescents when they are dithering.

''I think he's reconciling masculinity with flowers,'' she comments.

He smiles. Smirks, more like it. They must be close.

''Good colour choice,'' he comments on the orange of the flowers.

She nudges his arm. ''Go talk to him when they're done taking photos.''

Theo shakes his head, shrugs once. ''Nah. I will be leaving soon, anyway,'' he says, and she drops her hand from his arm. He's probably a little shy.

—

Mediterranean sunrise comes with a surprise: a man awakening on the ground a few steps from the barely-formed footpath. A man, or maybe younger, his Mediterranean awakening accompanied by the smell of fig trees, and all. Kind red soil.

He's naked. He's slowly wiping a hand across his lips. You know, suddenly, that this is a complication. The circumstance makes his body looks like an involuntarily stripped body. Perspective changes: red soil is now needled soil. Acrid tones sour the sunrise.

''Hey,'' you call, stepping closer in your sandals and a coral-printed towel around your neck, feeling unsuitable for the demands of the situation. ''Hey. Are you okay? Should I call the police?''

He's pushing himself up. Not looking at you. Not mindful of the resin at his back. This is indicative, you think, of something, because you're mindful of the way road dust is making your hair dry and webby, while his attention is this narrow, or overall absent.

He looks up, then, at you. ''What?''

A surprise gifted by a foreign agency; not Italian, then. You switch to English and try to make it not clumsy.

''I'll call the police for you,'' you assure him. Scramble to find your phone in your tote bag.

''D'n't call th'police,'' he says. He isn't trying to cover where his body is exposed.

''I don't want to assume anything,'' you say, feeling odd and performative. ''But— Look. I can just call the emergency number and they can direct you to a centre for sexual assault.''

Body, bodily manuscripted into the soft soil. He looks like he's processing slowly. Gets distracted inspecting his hands. Is that blood, you wonder, realise, really, it all just getting worse and fraughter. In between his fingers.

''Don't call th'police,'' he says. ''Was jus' drunk.''

''Is that blood? On your fingers.''

''I jus'. D'n't call. Did s'me things I shouldn't have.'' He reads your face, then says, ''Not like that. T'myself.''

Heat is lowering to the grounds of the morning and your sandals are light on your feet, escape-hairs pleasant, pine trees your favourite. And the hostility-seen boy is trying to act alright.

''It's okay,'' you say, wondering if it is; something complicated about the okayness of not-okay. You squat down, to balance the eye heights. ''I can call the hotline for—''

''No, n't—. Just stupid, no police. Please.''

''Do you want some water,'' you say, taking it out of your bag, and he takes it. Uncaps and smells it, blinking with his nose above the bottle opening, before he shakes his head a little, and starts drinking. Your phone is still in your hand, but you're unsure. You give him your second non-swimly shorts and wait until he overcomes his hesitance and gingerly takes them.

''You don't have to tell me,'' you insist. ''But I'm sure that there's someone who—''

''Thanks. It's okay, you can go now.'' He starts moving to get the shorts on, then swiftly straightens his back, inhaling deeply and looking up. Must be avoiding some hidden ache.

You hesitate, phone in your hand, legs starting to feel stiff from the position.

''I could drive you someplace. My car is ten min—''

''Thanks, but I'm okay now. You can't help,'' he interrupts. There are cases like this one, right, people using caustic means for secret-maintaining ends.

''Are you sure?'' you press. ''I could go away while you're talking to—''

''You're not helping,'' he says, monotone now, now operative and controlled to be alkaline. He's looking at your eyes fixedly, and you stop hesitating. ''You should go.''

Ground gives. You shake your head and start walking away, leaving him with your shorts and thinking then good fucking luck, honey.

You turn back one more time. He's looking at you leaving with unfocused glossy eyes, and you wonder, surely not for the last time, how deeply and stickily swamp-lodged he must be.

—

A hot guy is walking in the chest-high sea and doing little dives. Grazing the water surface with his fingertips in between and wiping salt from his eyes, before diving again and re-salting his eyes, like some deliberately mindless-seeming cyclical mechanism. Salt for maintenance, salt a nuisance.

Now he bends his knees and only submerges up to his chin, and you imagine he's sensing freshness at his nape.

''You just have to relax,'' you say loudly from where you come to stand in the water to your ankles, ''and you can probably hold your breath for longer than that.''

He stands up and turns until he spots you. You walk closer until the water is at your waist and he's looking at you like someone unexpectedly interrupted. Unexpectedly perceived, unfortunately. A popular kid being addressed by an unpopular one.

''You wanna teach me how to swim?'' he asks and smirks a little, and you shrug.

''If you feel like you can't stay underwater for more than five seconds, it's probably because you're panicking. You can hold your breath comfortably for at least fifteen seconds, I dare say.''

He looks at the glistening in the water, looking weary.

''Can I,'' he says, more of a response made to be unrevealing than a question.

''One thing I'll say,'' you say, untying your hair to avoid breaking it when it will be wet and to be casual, maybe; mitigate the upfrontness and possible insinuation, ''is that your body looks mad functional. Don't take this in any funky way.''

''I won't,'' he says.

—

Theo is in no space. Some telephone line space.

Should I be taking this personally, Liam texts him. He knows that Theo has been straightforwardly ignoring his messages. He hopes, actually; hopes Theo hasn't run into any of his long-known non-friends who see his face as a face, fanged, and not eyes, often confused, tongue, often tied, responses, often belated. Hopes that Theo isn't not answering because of some surviving anachronism from his past, but rather because of something new. That would be more manageable.

He also hopes that Theo isn't not answering because he is succumbing to his self-damaging instincts, even though that would mean simmering resentment towards Liam; even though that would likely be the best possible option in the precarious array of options in Theo's life.

Liam texts, did you know that if space was infinitely big and infinitely old, it would be white? I don't really get why, do you?

—

You have a boy couched in your living room. His name is Theo. Picked him up on a staff-only fire escape. It would be a leisurely sight, now, a tracksuit-hoodie-boy sitting right next to a drying rack, which he said he didn't mind. If it wasn't for your rapid heart. Heart: heated, speaking in unit-free measures. Heat: a smooth, unfibrous thing.

''May I,'' he murmurs, and you lean in.

It's a classic student situation: a breathless undertaking to the backtune of wine in tea mugs. He selected a Sierra Nevada mug with a setting sun. Came with the flat.

''Add me on Facebook,'' you say. The two of you haven't even done much, but you feel so hooked, by the fire-escape boy who moves in a way so self-assured and touches indoor objects warily. ''Or Instagram. Wherever you want.''

''I don't use social media,'' he says. He uses his hold on your hand and your finger to push his hair out of his eye. You like the way it parts and hits his temples.

''Phone number?'' You suggest, more joking than not. Exchanging phone numbers feel more joke-like than not.

''No phone number,'' he says. Must see your expression, shrugs and says, ''Guess I'm too old for technology.'' He smirks at the dry look you shoot at him, knowing your age of twenty-three to his twenty-two. He's saying too old and you don't buy it. He carries no weariness in his jaguar body. He takes his lower lip in his mouth. ''What if,'' he then says, ''I'm a vampire.'' He touches the tip of his tongue to his upper teeth.

''My favourite paranormal activity,'' you say.

''Too bad,'' he says, grinning. You look at his ajar lips and think: too bad.

''Your canines are sharp, though,'' you say. ''At least.''

He grins wide. Pointedly and slowly leans towards your neck with an open mouth, until teeth make contact. You feel your smile dropping when his phone beeps. He hesitates for a beat and then leans his forehead on your chin, just breathing there, and you know you are both thinking about him saying no phone number.

''But none for me,'' you say. Because of all the places your bodies have been touching, a beat of silence means: five heartbeats of him staring at his phone, engulfed in the jacket he discarded on the floor by the couch, and you staring at him. And then he leans over, easily shifting your weight, until he can kick the jacket, some, not really achieving anything.

''Another vampire,'' he says, then, on the side of unapologetic. Luckily, you are known to be unresentful. Good at not taking things personally. ''From another brood.'' He places his hands back on your hips.

''Hm,'' you say. It's fine. The monomania of the green-eye boy is temporary. He's hot, but your desire never lasts, anyway.

—

There's a guy on your bus ride, on the opposite side of the passage, one seat forward. Your age. You noticed the generic niceness of his face.

He's drawing a sinusoidal curve on the fogged window. Moves his hand further right, where the window is still fogged. Starts drawing vertical lines, carefully, some methodology to it, the lines parallel to each other. He pauses after he draws four. Huffs, twists his smile into one that is hiding and downturned. He crosses the four lines with one that is horizontal, then adds another vertical line to the side.

You feel yourself smile. He drops his hand, shakes his head a little. Looks through the window at the frost-covered barren brown fields, away from his prisoner day-count. It's funny. He's funny. You look away.

—

It's a short, crude thing. Like this:

A fictitious boy stumbles out of a bare-walled building. Languid, unrestful body. Unleisurely, water-logged body. A tired backstreet play-doh thing. Young.

''Hey,'' you call. ''You. You good?''

The night is warm, humid. A post-rain road construction night. A night for cicadas, if you drive further out.

He inhales in the way of catching breath. Squints at his watch, eyes go glassy. Looks at the moon overhead, then squints at you. And you— you feel awake now.

You look him over, the sugarburn boy with a backwards baseball cap. The trouble of a tooth cavity, which means: okay, if you have some money. Some reckless uncare, too. He's watching you. You inhale slowly, but it turns out all tell-tale anyway. He must see the appeal you feel, in how he licks his lips and tilts his head.

''Interested?'' he asks.

You hesitate. Feel for your jacket pocket with your wallet in it. Lift it without taking it out, clear enough.

He nods. Clears his throat.

''Can you play nice?'' he asks. Teasing, but also not.

You can.

He nods. Looks at his watch. You follow him.

—

You pick up your pretend-sugar fake-care service by a closed ice-cream stand, its inviting light sign shining red on his face. It's raining lightly when you pull up and he doesn't have his hood up like he knows the wet hair strands sticking to his forehead make him look good. In the car, he has no song requests when you ask.

''How can I service you?'' he asks.

—

''What should I call you,'' you ask.

''No need to call me,'' he says.

''What if I want to,'' you admit. Not subtle and elusive. If I may be so bold as to in the back of your mouth.

He pauses, thinks. His gaze is saccading empty spot to empty spot and you know the only type of name you'll get is a fake. You'll take it, as a consolation purchase.

''Theo,'' he says.

—

Alec answers the knock with a toothbrush in his hand.

''Theo. Jesus,'' he breathes.

''Hello,'' Theo responds, overly carefully-crafted for the simplicity of a greeting, but Theo has never carried himself as though he was simple. ''I brought you those,'' he hands Alec paper sheets folded in half. ''I got my hands on some werewolves. Could you give those to Scott?''

It's more automatic than not, when Alec takes and unfolds them. They are black-and-white prints of photographs of ID's.

''You did?'' Alec says, still dumbfounded, still in the act of being interrupted. Habit-mindedness sliced in half. ''How?''

Theo shrugs. His face furrows for a beat, then he fiddles with the door handle, pushing it down twice.

Alec looks at the goods in his hands: a toothbrush, werewolfy profiles. ''Do you want me to tell him that they're from you?''

Theo looks conflicted. That's fair; it's a conflicting state of circumstances, or what is it that Liam told Alec. Maybe Theo turned to Alec because of the implied similarity: both well-accustomed to doing what it takes. Maybe Theo is finding some comfort in that; like Alec would recognise that Theo is a runaway object, or a throwaway one, only having made himself a weapon because he had been made into one first. Like Alec would recognise that Theo is trying to pay his dues. Or maybe Alec is misjudging and Theo isn't seeking comfort at all, which is what Malia thinks. Guess Alec is a little soft for softer scenarios.

''Jesus,'' Alec says again. ''You were gone so long. You didn't say anything. Have you—'' He hesitates, frowns a little. ''Does—Ah, well, you know. Does Liam know?'' He was going for tentative with this one before he swerved. Tending to the habits of skittish wolves.

Theo is looking past Alec's shoulder, distanced and glassy. Alec thinks of dolls, their eyes amiss in that they are unseeing and custom-built. It's a thought too cruel, unless it's sympathetic.

Theo shakes his head, slowly, and exhales, touches his temples with his index fingers, then drops them lower and presses them over his jaw muscles.

''TMJ pain?'' Alec asks.

Theo drops his hands. ''What?''

''Oh. The jaw joint,'' Alec points to his own.

Theo shrugs. ''It's just tender. This muscle,'' he taps.

''Have you been stressed? TMJ problems are common for young people. Can happen because of stress. Stress can cause teeth grinding.'' A clumsy explanation, but Alec can't re-order its parts now, just hopes Theo takes it. Hopes Theo makes his skin onion peel and shows something less dry underneath. And Theo:

Theo looks at him expressionlessly, for a beat, and then exaggeratedly sad-faces. Pouts, closes his eyes, nods slowly. ''I've been stressed,'' he says.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32225941

#teen wolf #theo raeken #thiam #teen wolf fic #for theo-thinkers who hunger #and dont frequent ao3 my home #do you like it any #do you want to buy me a treat yet #i painted a generic boy into my painting and am calling him theo for implied and unclear wolfery

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quillandink333 · 3 years

Text

Scarlet Carnations ~ Part II

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.7k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

By day two of our investigation, there wasn’t much left to look into other than the gardens. We’d already searched the rest of the house and found nothing of note. On that groggy morning, however, as soon as I stepped out into the gardens, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that struck me as abnormal.

“Link, come here.” My comrade stood to attention and came to stand beside me, on the footpath lining the sides of the zen garden. “See that?”

He followed my finger to what had caught my eye: the big footprint right in the middle of the pattern etched in the sand. His eyes widened.

A grin spread its way across my face. “What say we try getting a closer look?”

This, unfortunately, was easier said than done. Leaving our own prints behind would be tantamount to the destruction of evidence. So in order to reach the spot where the footprint was located, we would have to hop across the stones scattered throughout the zen garden. And to say that the sandals one was given when visiting the Sheikah estate and was expected to wear at all times were unsuited for this endeavour would be a gross understatement.

“Honestly...” I huffed, searching in vain for the next best place to put my toe. “There’s a footpath for a reason.” This earned a chuckle from Link, who was still two or three rocks behind me, but seemed to be struggling to only a fraction of the extent that I was.

With my attention elsewhere, I made the mistake of stepping on a stone that was barely even the size of my heel. Inevitably, my foot started to slip, and I began teetering back and forth like a broken pendulum.

“Eep!”

Just when I shut my eyes in preparation to fall, I was caught and held steady at the waist by my assistant.

My breath caught in my throat. He was leaning over me, his front curved flush against the arch of my back and his gloved hands pressed flat into my abdomen, and here I was, graceful as a swan, arms sticking out at odd angles and legs spread three feet apart.

“Are you alright?”

His smooth, demure voice in my ear startled me out of my sudden paralysis. “Yes!” I squeaked, then cleared my throat and brought my outstretched foot back in. “Yes, quite. Thank you.”

His arms left my waist, and he straightened up, putting as much distance between himself and me as there was left on the perch we shared.

“I suppose this is close enough.” I smoothed out my capelet coat before crouching down toward the sand-covered ground, careful not to let anything trail in it. Before proceeding, I breathed a deep, mind-clearing sigh. “Let’s see what we have here.”

If this had been wet sand, I would’ve had a much easier time identifying the sole responsible for this vandalism. But unfortunately, this sand was dry, so all there was to go off of was the size of the prints.

“My guess is, some oaf thought it would be quicker to cut across the zen garden via these stones like we’ve been doing, but ended up with his or her foot in the sand at some point or another.”

“So...do you think this could be a clue?” he inquired with sweet naïvety.

“Well...” I crossed my arms over my chest. “If this is in fact our culprit’s doing, then that would point to this crime being a spur of the moment, which would blatantly contradict all the things we’ve seen so far, or haven’t seen, rather.”

“You mean the security footage?”

I muttered my bitter answer through gritted teeth. “That’s one example.”

The rest of the gardens offered even fewer leads. There were no unusual disturbances in the flora, and nothing was found lying at the bottom of the koi pond. The walls surrounding the place were no higher than the walls of the main building, but they were still too high and too flat for the average person to climb over. Either way, we found no signs of such activity. We’d quite literally left no stone unturned, but to no avail.

I let out what must have been at least my twentieth sigh since our arrival. “Alright then. I suppose it’s time we start questioning some witnesses.”

“Zelda, listen to me.”

I was in the living room in the midst of an interview with Paya. Link was standing on the opposite end of the room, going over his notes. I’d asked him as politely as I could to refrain from listening in on our conversation as she’d started bringing up some sensitive topics of which it was best for him to stay out.

“You can’t let your own personal feelings interfere with your judgement,” she whispered. “You’re a detective, aren’t you? You should know this.”

“It’s been seven years,” I hissed back, “and he spent five of them in an asylum because he was an amnesiac and he hadn’t any idea who he was. He himself, Paya, let alone me.” I took a moment to try and collect myself before continuing. “I’ve told you this before. And yet you somehow suspect that I still feel the same way about him as I did when we were teenagers?”

She shook her head at me in a patronizing manner like the goody two-shoes she always had been. “You may be able to hide it from him, but not from me. I know because...well, I feel the same.” The nerve of this girl was unbelievable. Had she no shame at all? “In any case, you can’t ignore the evidence, no matter what you or I feel toward him.”

She’d finally pushed me to my limit. This was the person who’d been stalking Link from afar since the start of this entire case. I could no longer sit here and tolerate her utterly guiltless accusation of him despite her creepy obsession.

“Just who do you think you are?!” I snapped, standing up and lifting her out of her chair by the collar. “I’ll have you know I’m the one running this investigation, thank you very much.”

“But Zelda, I—”

“Enough!” She shrank back. “You’ve no right making me out like an amateur!”

I could’ve sworn I saw Link jump out of the corner of my eye just then. But when I turned around, he still had his nose buried in his notebook.

Either way, the raging fire within me had died; I released my grip on my “sister,” who crumpled into her chair like a withering lily petal. Slumping back into my own seat, I let out a weary sigh. “So you’re sure Auntie Impa was asleep in her bedroom when you turned in for the night. Correct?”

She nodded curtly. “Yes.”

“And your basis for this was...what, again?”

She sat up straight with her perfect posture. “Well, she always goes to sleep at nine o’clock, and I hadn’t seen her since supper.”

“Right...” I massaged the bridge of my nose with my first and second fingers. “So you didn’t actually see her sleeping. She could have been awake in her room for all you knew.”

“I suppose so...”

“Splendid. And you can’t think of any household members, or anyone at all, who might’ve had a reason to kill her?” Like the Yiga, for example? I added silently.

“No.”

I shut my notebook, slipping my pen into my pocket. “Thank you for your time.”

At this point, I was starting to lose hope. There was only one other matter that it had even occurred to me to look into, and even then, I wasn’t sure if it would be possible to do so. So one could imagine my pleasant surprise when my object of interest was found unharmed in Auntie Impa’s study.

“So this was her own personal Sheikah Slate...” I marvelled, peering into the miniature safe in her desk at the item in question.

“That it was,” replied Auntie Purah. “She supposedly had it made for work purposes. You know, keeping track of finances and marketing and all those hum-drum tasks she was in charge of.” She rolled her eyes. “But I’m quite sure she used it for other, undisclosed means as well.”

“That’s what I’m hoping...” I confessed. “You said earlier—and I ask this with all due respect, of course—but you said you didn’t know of any dark secrets she was keeping? Any skeletons in the closet that might’ve provided a motive for this murder?”

She shook her head in dismay. “No, I’m afraid not. She was always terribly secretive, even with me.”

“Ah... That’s alright, Auntie,” I sympathized.

“But when your mother was still around—oh my goodness! Constantly, those two would whisper in each other’s ears about who-knows-what, ever since they were old enough to speak, I tell you.”

“Is that so?” I humoured her as she spiralled into a speech about the days of her youth. Since the Slate had been kept in her study in a one-of-a-kind safe made specially for this house, it was reasonable to assume there would be no strange fingerprints on it. Nevertheless, I dusted for them anyway, and sure enough, the only ones on it belonged to its late owner. “So, what’s the trick to gaining access to it?” I too owned a device similar to this one, courtesy of my connections with the company as an adopted part of the family that ran it, but because they were still so rare and invaluable, I typically left it at home and didn’t often have the chance to make use of it. As such, I wasn’t nearly as familiar with its mechanics as I ought to have been.

“Well, one of the Slate’s features, which happens to be one of my favourites, actually,” she boasted, “is that it lets the user create a lock that’s entirely unique from one on any other Slate. There is practically no limit to the number of ways one can keep their information protected.” I listened with immense interest, knowing the technology she spoke of was entirely out of my intellectual grasp, but being fascinated all the same. “It seems my sister simply opted for a riddle, though,” she lamented as she activated the device. “Pity. I was looking forward to showing you what the system is capable of.”

“You can still show me!” I fervently insisted. “I’d love to see how it works. Do you have your Slate with you?”

“Oh, yes, I do!” she chirped, reaching into her dress pocket. “This is going to knock your socks off, young lady.”

But before I could lean in for a better view, a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I turned my head and met eyes with Link, who glanced insinuatingly at the thing we’d come here to investigate.

“Oh.” I stifled a chuckle. “Right. Let’s see this riddle, then.”

“Ah, yes,” she laughed along with me. “My apologies, Zeldie. I do so get carried away at times.”

“Believe me, Auntie, you’re no worse than I am,” I contested, picking up the Slate sitting on the desk.

The screen displayed an empty text box with a typewriting keyboard below it and a question above it that read the following: “I observe the world as I hide in a cage. In my youth, I am weak, but I gain strength with age. I both give life and take it away. When one tries to pluck me, I make them my prey. What am I?”

Until now, I’d thought myself to be quite skilled at solving riddles. I’d even used to make them up in my school days for sport. But as I reread the words written on the Slate over and over again, I couldn’t think of a single answer that made the least bit of sense. “When one tries to pluck me...” and, “...as I hide in a cage,” were what kept throwing me off. It seemed no two statements could have been more unrelated. Even the few things I came up with that I deemed worth a try were denied. Even when Link and Auntie Purah tried, nothing worked.

Soon enough, I was taken completely off-guard when the question vanished, and in its place appeared the words, “This Sheikah Slate has been disabled. Try again in 1 hour.”

I slammed the damned thing down and threw my hands in the air. “Are you bloody joking?!” I stood hunched over the desk, shaking with frustration. “Five guesses? That’s all we get, really?”

“Maybe it’s something no one but her could ever know,” Auntie Purah pondered. “I could picture her pulling something like that.”

In that moment, it felt as though my heart were too tired to go on beating. “If that’s the case, then...” I held my head in my palms, nails scraping into my scalp. “Then we have no hope of ever figuring it out. Do we?” The longer I stared at the words on the screen, the deeper I fell into their endless, dark abyss. This had been my last hope of finding any sort of lead on this case. If this riddle truly was impossible, I was doomed.

“Now, now. No need to fret, dear.” I raised my head, realizing I’d begun to hyperventilate. “I’ll take it with me on my next trip to the lab. I’m sure Robbie and I will be able to crack into it once we put our heads together.”

“Okay...” I counted to ten in my head while Link stroked my shoulder in quiet consolation. I gave him an appreciative glance, then turned my attention back to my auntie. “Shall I trust you not to let anyone get their hands on it until then?”

“You can count on me, Zeldie,” she winked. I could only hope she would take my request seriously.

It was well into the small hours of the night now, after I’d returned home, and I was still awake as could be, staring endlessly at my bedroom ceiling with wide eyes. There were so many things weighing on my mind all at once, it was difficult to differentiate between them.

At the centre of it all, though, was the memory of something that had occurred earlier that afternoon, when my partner and I had been reviewing the results of the investigation in my office. The things he’d said to me then wouldn’t stop replaying themselves again and again in the theatre of my mind.

“Umm... Zelda?”

I’d looked up at him from across our shared desk, more than a little surprised to hear him call me by my first name. “Yes?”

“I just—” The unsure look in his eyes had created an air of tension thicker than a miasma. He’d begun glancing around the room, gnawing at his lip. “I-I just...”

“Is something the matter?” I’d prompted.

He’d shaken his head then, shifting in his seat. “No, no. I just...wanted to thank you.”

I’d raised my eyebrows at him. “Whatever for?”

His gaze had fallen to his hands resting on the desk. “For getting me out of...that place you found me in.”

My chest had tightened at those words. He’d never uttered anything so personal and so heartfelt to me during all the months that had passed. After all this time, what could possibly have urged him to say this now?

“You did that, even though I didn’t have the slightest notion of who you were,” he’d continued, making my heart twist and writhe within the confines of my ribcage. Then, steeling himself and meeting my eyes with his, “I just wanted you to know that, even with my affliction, I’ll never forget that day.”

Those words still rang in my ears even now, after the several hours that had gone by. They tormented me. I was the only one who had a shred of faith in him—in his innocence. And yet, if I couldn’t figure out a way to prove that someone else had used the police-issued revolver bearing Link’s ID code to commit the murder, then all my efforts to free him would go down the drain, and he’d be locked away for good, if not unthinkably worse.

#my writing #fanfic #botw #zelink #botw zelink #zelink botw #botw link x zelda #botw zelda x link #link x zelda #zelda x link #zelink fanfic #zelink fic #zelink ff #zelda pov #detective au

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stiltonbasket · 3 years

Note

How does Lan Wangji feel about Wei Wuxian's new title, Xinhua-jun?

The first time someone addresses him as something other than Honored Master Wei during an assembly, Wei Wuxian barely registers it.

But in his defense, he’s been up all night for a week straight, hurrying to get his irrigation talismans finished in time for the planting season, and the first batches have just been shipped off with a handful of Lan-trained shidao cultivators accompanying them to supervise.

All Wei Wuxian wanted to do was sleep, after that. It’s a wonder that he stayed awake long enough to attend the conference at all, which is why he doesn’t realize what the petitioners from Moling called him until he takes a soak in his bathtub that night and asks Lan Zhan to rub his shoulders for a while.

“How was the assembly?” Lan Zhan asks, while Wei Wuxian raises the temperature of the bathwater until the washroom fills up with steam. The ability to take long, hot baths without harming his cultivation is the only good thing that came from losing his golden core, and Wei Wuxian made sure to bathe in heated tubs as often as he could after his resurrection; he used to envy the Jiang shimeis in his childhood, since heat only benefits cultivators with excess yin energy, but now...

“Wei Ying?”

“Oh!” Wei Wuxian sighs and straightens his back before reaching up to pat his husband’s arm. “It was fine, I suppose. The Su cultivators presented their case, Uncle and I went through it, and then we agreed to all their demands except the one about Moling receiving a sixth of Gusu’s tax revenue.”

“A sixth?”

“They don’t have enough noble families living within their borders,” he says absently, making a small sleepy sound of approval as Lan Zhan pats the tension out of his neck. “The Lai and Xu clans relocated to Qinghe last year, and the Liao family—you remember that clan whose little mistress proposed marriage to Jingyi this spring?— they moved to Laoling the year before that, and they all paid enough taxes to keep the Su clan comfortable.”

Lan Zhan’s hands withdraw from his neck and reappear in his hair a moment later, covered in the sweet-smelling hair soap Wei Wuxian makes from the lotus pond in the back hills. “Did they—treat you well?”

It’s a sensible question, Wei Wuxian supposes, even if the worry in his husband’s voice makes his heart ache with love for him. “Better than most Moling cultivators usually do, Lan Zhan. It was all Xiandu this and Xinhua-jun that, until—”

“They called you Excellency?”

The conversation comes to a swift end at the realization, because Wei Wuxian accidentally swallows a mouthful of foamy water and chokes on it until Lan Zhan helps him cough it up. And then they have to get ready for dinner, and coax the children into finishing it before they fall asleep in their bowls, which is why Wei Wuxian doesn’t think about the conference again until after hai shi.

When the truth of Su She’s association with Jin Guangyao came to light—as Wei Wuxian recalls when Lan Zhan and the little ones are safely asleep—most cultivators from Moling Su seemed to detest Wei Wuxian more than they did while he was dead, if Jiang Cheng’s spies were to be believed. As a matter of principle, none of them even attended Wei Wuxian’s wedding, and offered nothing but flimsy excuses when Lan Xichen traveled to Moling to deliver the invitations in person; and since then, they preferred to keep their distance from him, and would likely have continued to do so if Xichen hadn’t been in Baling for the month to see his new baby grandson.

But today’s petition had been urgent, so Wei Wuxian had to stand in as Lan-zongzhu by proxy while his husband and brother-in-law (not to mention A-Yuan and Jingyi, who accompanied Lan Xichen to Baling) were occupied elsewhere, and none of the Su cultivators were discourteous to him in the slightest.

Oh, no,” he groans, as Lan Zhan tries to hush him with a kiss. “This can’t be good, Lan Zhan. They ordered their city magistrates to send word if I crossed the Moling border, and they turned Xichen-ge down again when he invited them to Chun-bao’s hundred-day feast—you don’t think they’re planning something, do you?”

Lan Zhan only gives him a fond look and kisses him again. “Go to sleep, A-Ying,” he says gently. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

* * *

When Wei Wuxian married into the Cloud Recesses nine years ago, the question of his formal title remained unsettled until after the month before his and Lan Zhan’s first wedding anniversary. If he were a woman, the cultivation world would have known him as Lan-furen, and that would have been the end of it: but Wei Wuxian was a man with no title save that of the Yiling Patriarch, and even Lan Zhan was at a loss when his uncle asked what he should be called following the wedding.

“Third young master Lan?” Wei Wuxian suggested, absently petting Xiao-Yu’s fluffy hair. “Or Wei-gongzi? It doesn’t really matter, Shufu.”

“Third young master Lan is unsuitable,” Lan Qiren pointed out, plopping another baby rabbit into Xiao-Yu’s lap. “Xichen is the sect leader, and Wangji is the Chief Cultivator. Neither of them can rightly be called gongzi any longer, so the titles of first and second young master must pass to Sizhui and Jingyi.”

They settled on Lan-san-gongzi in the end, mostly because everyone already knew that Sizhui and Jingyi were the first and second heirs to the Lan sect, but then Lan Xichen (who remains the best brother-in-law Wei Wuxian could ever have hoped for) came to bring Wei Wuxian his lunch one afternoon while he was working in the produce field, and laughed himself silly at the sight of his difu talking to a particularly stubborn lotus bloom in an effort to get it to grow.

“What a happy flower, to be so doted upon!” he chuckled, passing Wei Wuxian a wet cloth so he could clean his hands and sit down to eat. “Xinhua-jun, xiao-hua, be good for A-Xian and grow, won’t you?”

And then a strange excited grin spread across his face, right before he dropped the lunch boxes into Wei Wuxian’s arms and ran back towards the main compound as fast as his legs could carry him.

Wei Wuxian’s students have called him nothing but Xinhua-jun ever since, even though it was more of a pet name than a title. But it never caught on outside the Cloud Recesses, since most of Nie Huaisang’s court is much older than he is, and Yunmeng still knows him as Wei-zongzhu from the year he spent leading Yunmeng Jiang before he and Lan Zhan were married; and the less said about Lanling Jin the better, even if Jin Ling and Mianmian have been ferreting out the last two sect leaders’ supporters ever since A-Ling succeeded Jin Guangyao.

The thought of his title becoming common knowledge in Moling of all places gives Wei Wuxian a chill down the spine, and he says as much the next evening while going over the reports of young women’s education rates from Gusu’s subsidiary sects.

“Who could possibly have told them? It’s very suspicious,” he grumbles, answering a plaintive letter from a particularly pompous scholar who insisted it was far too much work for his colleagues to teach the boys in the morning and stay three hours longer to teach the girls in the afternoon. Teach them both in the same class, Wei Wuxian writes back, snorting at the man’s foolishness as his daughters climb into his lap to peer curiously at the scroll. If any of the young ladies’ parents prefer their daughters be taught separately from the boys, the Cloud Recesses will send a delegation of lady tutors to Xibei and have a second school built.

“Suspicious?” Shuilan pipes up, before pointing to one of the characters on the scroll. “That’s part of my name! It says shui!”

“Very good!” Wei Wuxian smiles, kissing the top of A-Lan’s head. “Chun-bao, can you find any?”

Chunyang nods shyly against his neck. “A-Chun see cloud,” the baby says, happily smudging the yun in yunshen buzhichu with her little hands before snuggling down into Wei Wuxian’s silky robes. “A-Die, eat? A-Chun is hungry.”

Wei Wuxian glances up at the sky and cries out in dismay as he notices that night has nearly fallen. “Come, come—but A-Lan, sweetheart, put your socks on first! It’s cold in the kitchen, and I don’t want to leave you here all alone.”

“I’m a big girl,” A-Lan complains, as Wei Wuxian laughs again and slides a pair of soft slippers onto her dimpled feet instead. “Can’t I stay with gege?”

“Gege’s taking a bath,” Xiao-Yu shouts—from the bathroom, naturally, since he spends his afternoons getting delightfully muddy in the produce field and moseys back home by sunset with grubs and leaves and rich black earth clinging to his clothes. “Be a good Lan-bao and go with A-Niang.”

At twelve years old, Xiaohui has finally settled on a course of cultivation study, surprising everyone but his parents by deciding he wanted to learn natural cultivation instead of following the martial dao, and he and Wei Wuxian have been working on agricultural talismans together for the past two years; Xiao-Yu even had a hand in the talismans Wei Wuxian just sent out for the border territories, since Wei Wuxian relies on his son’s spiritual energy to activate them. He is so very proud of Xiao-Yu, grubs and mud and all, and Wei Wuxian throws back his head and laughs when his tall son rolls into the kitchen half an hour later with his hair pinned up in a damp knot at the back of his neck.

“Is supper ready, A-Niang?” Xiao-Yu asks, while A-Lan sits at the table with one of her brother’s many, many cats purring in her lap. “Should I lay out the bowls?”

“Yes, please, A-Yu,” Wei Wuxian yawns, swaying back and forth with Chunyang on his hip as he stirs chili paste into his pot of soup. “And fetch a shawl for A-Lan, her clothes aren’t warm enough.”

“A-Niang stir more,” Chunyang tells him, pointing down at the pot. “Not done.”

Wei Wuxian does as she says, breaking up the last chunks of paste just as A-Yu comes rushing back in with a warm shawl to drape around A-Lan’s shoulders. After that, he puts a broad wooden lid over the pot and leaves it to boil, moving from cauldron to cauldron with one hand keeping Chun-bao in place and the other wielding his ladle: a weapon almost as effective as his sword, if A-Yuan’s condemnation of his cooking at the Burial Mounds is to be believed, though Wei Wuxian learned how to cook without covering everything with chili oil during his brief stint as Sect Leader Jiang ten years ago.

“I love A-Die’s food,” Shuilan declares, squeezing Heimao (named, quite literally, for his smooth black fur) in sheer delight when Wei Wuxian plops a bit of hot tofu into her mouth. “If Papa doesn’t come home in five minutes, can I eat everything?”

“A-Lan can eat as much as she wants,” Wei Wuxian promises, because A-Lan is only five years old and eats less than half of what Lan Zhan does. “Come help Yu-gege serve the rice, and then we can eat.”

Lan Zhan comes home late that night, after Lan Yu and Wei Shuilan have finished their dinners and gone to bed. He went to Lanling to help Jin Ling oversee a trial just after mao hour, and his early return is a pleasant surprise; Wei Wuxian nearly weeps with joy when his husband opens the door to the jingshi and sweeps him and A-Chun up into his arms, carrying them to the long divan in the receiving room to kiss them to his heart’s content, and fussing over A-Chun until she toddles away and comes back again with the little bowl of hot soup that Wei Wuxian left on the table with a warming talisman.

“Papa eat,” she says adoringly, curling into a chubby pink ball against Wei Wuxian’s stomach and watching with big eyes as Lan Zhan raises the bowl to his lips. “A-Niang cooked!”

“Your A-Die always cooks dinner,” Wei Wuxian says, kissing the tip of her sweet pink nose. “Remember, Chun-bao?”

“Papa breakfast, and A-Niang dinner,” the little girl agrees, before drifting right off to sleep between her parents with one tiny fist curled around the end of Lan Zhan’s forehead ribbon.

Jiang Yanli used to fall asleep like that, Wei Wuxian remembers, safe in Jiang-shushu’s purple-draped bed with him and a toddling Jiang Cheng curled up next to her on either side, and she always stayed asleep no matter how often they squirmed and kicked and whispered over her head.

“Sweetheart?”

“I missed you,” Wei Wuxian sighs, without mentioning where his thoughts had gone—the pain of his shijie’s passing will never heal as long as he lives, but it has been easier to bear with Lan Zhan beside him, if only a little. “Will you have to go again next week, Lan Zhan?”

His husband shakes his head and gives him a lingering soup-tasting kiss on the soft dent over his mouth. “It is finished, my heart. Forgive me for coming home so late?”

Their faces draw together again, yearning towards one another like two mated butterflies forcefully parted as Lan Zhan shifts A-Chun to the crook of his arm and lays Wei Wuxian down on the divan to kiss his cheeks, and his forehead, and then caresses his hands with heart-breaking tenderness, as if he were holding a treasure beyond price. In turn, Wei Wuxian reaches up to touch his husband’s face, tracing the smooth lines of his brow and chin until Lan Zhan catches his fingertips with his lips and pulls him upright to keep Chunyang from getting squashed.

“Let’s put this little lotus to bed,” Wei Wuxian whispers, though it turns into another yawn before he gets to the end of the sentence. “Come with me, xingan?”

His husband—his beloved, precious, perfect husband—goes with him without a word, coaxing their daughter into her sleeping gown and laying her in the middle of the bed without waking her. “I heard some news in Lanling before I left,” he says, while Wei Wuxian helps him take off his Chief Cultivator’s headpiece and put away his waist-pendants. “I investigated the issue with Moling Su, since I feared that they might have a greater grudge against you than we thought, and Jin Ling informed me that the minor sects have begun to address you as xiandu of their own accord.”

Wei Wuxian feels his jaw drop. “What?”

“You have been taking over the portion of my work that cannot be solved by night-hunting,” Lan Zhan points out, as they slip under the covers and tuck A-Chun in between them to keep her warm. “The schools, the trade conferences, the farming failures in the south and the northwest. These matters are resolved by letters written in your hand, not mine, and petitions written to the Chief Cultivator are taken to court by the Chief Cultivator’s husband.”

He pauses to brush their noses together, and then:

“It has been so since you married me,” he says, with a smile that melts Wei Wuxian’s limbs into jelly. “Did you never notice, Wei Ying? It is well known that Hanguang-jun follows the jiandao, and goes wherever the chaos is, and that Xinhua-jun sees to the everyday matters that must be put right for a sect to thrive. Even the clans who would have dared speak against you know it now, and give credit and praises where they are due.”

“I can’t just become the Chief Cultivator by sharing your work,” Wei Wuxian snorts, rolling his eyes fondly as Lan Zhan leans over to blow out the candle on the nightstand. “I’m your husband. What else would I do?”

“I have not yet heard your sister-in-law being called Jiang-zongzhu,” Lan Zhan returns, with a bright spark of mirth in his sweet voice. “Though I suspect your brother would not mind, if she was.”

“Yes, I suppose—but Lan Zhan, surely the minor sects can’t just decide to call me Chief Cultivator? You were chosen for the position by vote.”

“They chose me for Chief Cultivator ten years ago, did they not? And now, since there is no law that two people cannot share the title, they have chosen you. Nie Huaisang will support it, since he lives in fear of me stepping down and making him succeed me as Excellency, and so will Jin Ling. And Jiang Cheng.”

“...I’m never getting out of this, am I?”

“Do you wish to stop?” Lan Zhan inquires, with some concern. “You have done more good than I could ever have dreamed of, but if you do not want—”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” Wei Wuxian begs, thoroughly overwhelmed at the thought of it. “Come hold me, er-gege.”

And Lan Zhan does, hugging him so tightly that all he knows is the sharp scent of sandalwood on his husband’s clothes and the soft-smelling lotus of Chun-bao’s hair until he falls asleep.

* * *

Nanhai Cheng, Baling Ouyang to the Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan

Senior Wei,

When did you become the Chief Cultivator? Jingyi and A-Yuan want to know, but they can’t write at the moment because A-Qing put them on diaper duty. Is it true? Or was A-Ling just making fun of us?

Best wishes,

Ouyang Zizhen.

P.S.—make sure to bring Lan-xiansheng for A-Chen’s full month party! You haven’t forgotten about it, have you?

* * *

The Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan to the Unclean Realm, Qinghe Nie

Nie-xiong,

If I ever find out that this Excellency business was your fault, I’ll steal all your grandchildren and hide them in the jingshi. What in Heaven’s name were you thinking?

Suspiciously yours,

Wei Wuxian.

* * *

The Unclean Realm, Qinghe Nie to the Cloud Recesses, Gusu Lan

Brother Wei,

My, such accusations! I really can’t say. But have fun with all the paperwork, Wei-xiong—it’s the best part of the job!

Your (best) friend,

Nie Huaisang.

#wangxian #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #my fic #thoroughly in earnest

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

Photo

It is always dangerous for soldiers, sailors, or airmen to play at politics. They enter a sphere in which the values are quite different from those to which they have hitherto been accustomed.

- Winston Churchill, The Gathering Storm

**Pictured above: Seated, left to right: Air Chief Marshal Sir Charles Portal; Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke, the Rt Hon Winston Churchill; Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham. Standing, left to right: the Secretary to the Chiefs of Staffs Committee, Major General L C Hollis; and the Chief of Staff to the Minister of Defence, General Sir Hastings Ismay.

No one serious has ever doubted the statesmanship of Winston Churchill. However a broad criticism of Churchill as warlord only came to light after the war. Many historians thought that he meddled, incurably and unforgivably, in the professional affairs of his military advisers.

The first surge of criticism came primarily from military authors, in particular Churchill’s own chairman of the Chiefs of Staff, and Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Alan Brooke. The publication of his diaries in the late 1950s shocked readers, who discovered in entries Brooke himself retrospectively described as “liverish” that all had not gone smoothly between Churchill and his generals.

On 10 September 1944 he wrote in his diary (an entry not known until the 2001 updated version was published:

“[Churchill] has only got half the picture in his mind, talks absurdities and makes my blood boil to listen to his nonsense. I find it hard to remain civil. And the wonderful thing is that 3/4 of the population of this world imagine that Winston Churchill is one of the Strategists of History, a second Marlborough, and the other 1/4 have no conception what a public menace he is and has been throughout the war! It is far better that the world should never know and never suspect the feet of clay on that otherwise superhuman being. Without him England was lost for a certainty, with him England has been on the verge of disaster time and again….Never have I admired and disliked a man simultaneously to the same extent.”

Many of the British field marshals and admirals of World War II came away nursing the bruises that inevitably came their way in dealing with Churchill. They deplored his excessive interest in what struck them as properly military detail; they feared his imagination and its restless probing for new courses of action. But perhaps they resented most of all his certainty of their fallibility.

Norman Brook, secretary of the Cabinet under Churchill, wrote to Hastings Ismay, the former secretary to the Chiefs of Staff, a revealing observation: “Churchill has said to me, in private conversation, that this was partly due to the extent to which the Generals had been discredited in the First War—which meant that, in the Second War, their successors could not pretend to be professionally infallible.”

Churchill’s uneasy relationship with his generals stemmed, in large part, from his willingness to pick commanders who disagreed with him—and who often did so violently. The two most forceful members of the Chiefs of Staff, Brooke and Cunningham, were evidence of that. If he dispensed with Field Marshal Sir John Greer Dill as Chief of Imperial General Staff, he did so with the silent approval of key officers, who shared his judgment that Dill did not have the spirit to fight the war through to victory.

As General Hastings Lionel "Pug" Ismay (later 1st Baron Ismay), Churchill’s chief military asdvisor and link to the CIG, and others privately admitted, however, Dill was a spent man by 1941, hardly up to the demanding chore of coping with Churchill. “The one thing that was necessary and indeed that Winston preferred, was someone to stand up to him, instead of which Jack Dill merely looked, and was, bitterly hurt.”If Churchill were to make a rude remark about the courage of the British Army, Ismay later recalled, the wise course was to laugh it off or to refer Churchill to his own writings. “Dill, on the other hand, was cut to the quick that anyone should insult his beloved Army and vowed he would never serve with him again, which of course was silly.”

It was not enough, of course, to pick good leaders; as a war leader, Churchill found himself compelled to prod them as well—an activity that occasioned more than a little resentment on their part. Indeed, in a private letter to General Claude Auchinleck shortly before he assumed command in the Middle East in June 1941, Dill warned of this, saying that “the Commander will always be subject to great and often undue pressure from his Government.”

The permeation of all war, even total war, by political concerns, should come as no surprise to the contemporary student of military history, who has usually been fed on a diet of Clausewitz and his disciples. But it is sometimes forgotten just how deep and pervasive political considerations in war are.

Take, for example, the question of the employment of air power in advance of the Normandy invasion.

As is well known, operational experts and commanders split over the most effective use of air power. Some favored the employment of tactical air power to sever the rail and road lines leading to the area of the proposed beachhead, while others proposed a systematic attack on the French rail network, leading to its ultimate collapse. This seemingly technical military issue had, however, political ramifications, because any attack (but particularly one targeted against French marshalling yards) promised to yield French civilian casualties. Churchill therefore intervened in the bombing dilute to secure a promise that French civilian casualties would be held to a bare minimum. “You are piling up an awful load of hatred,” Churchill wrote to Air Chief Marshal Tedder. He insisted that French civilian casualties be under 10,000 killed, and reports were submitted throughout May that listed the number of French civilians killed and (callously enough) “Credit Balance Remaining.”

This is not to say that Churchill’s military judgment was invariably or even frequently superior to that of his subordinates, although on occasion it clearly was. Rather, Churchill exercised one of his most important functions as war leader by holding their calculations and assertions up to the standards of a massive common sense, informed by wide reading and experience at war. When his military advisers could not come up with plausible answers to these harassing and inconvenient questions, they usually revised their views; when they could, Churchill revised his. In both cases, British strategy benefited.

In The World Crisis Churchill wrote: “At the summit, true strategy and politics are one.” The civil-military relationship and the formulation of strategy are inextricably intertwined. A study of Churchill’s tenure in high command of Britain during the Second World War suggests that the formulation of strategy is a matter more complex than the laying out of blueprints.

In the world of affairs, as any close observer of government or business knows, conception or vision make up at best a small percentage of what a leader does—the implementation of that vision requires unremitting effort. The debate about the wisdom of Churchill’s judgments (for example, his desire to see large amphibious operations in the East Indies) is largely beside the point. His activity as a strategist emerges in the totality of his efforts to shape Britain’s war policies, and to mold the peace that would follow the war.

The Churchillian model of civil-military relations is one of what one might call an uneven dialogue - an unsparing (if often affectionate) interaction with military subordinates about their activities. It flies in the face of the contemporary conventional wisdom, particularly in the United States, about how politicians should deal with their military advisers.25 In fact, however, Churchill’s pattern of relationships with his Generals resembles that of other great democratic war statesmen, including Lincoln, Clemenceau and Ben Gurion, each of whom drove their generals to distraction by their supposed meddling in military matters.

All four of these statesmen, Clausewitzians by instinct if not by education, recognized the indissolubility of political and military affairs, and refused to recognize any bounds to their authority in military activities. In the end, all four provided exceptional leadership in war not because their judgment was always superior to that of their military subordinates, but because they wove the many threads of operations and politics into a whole. And none of these leaders regarded any sphere of military policy as beyond the scope of his legitimate inspection.

The penalties for a failure to understand strategy as an all-encompassing task in war can be severe. The wretched history of the Vietnam War, in which civilian leaders never came to grips with the core of their strategic dilemma, illustrates as much. President Johnson, in particular, left strategy for the South Vietnamese part of the war in the hands of General William Westmoreland, an upright and limited general utterly unsuited for the kind of conflict in which he found himself. He did not find himself called to account for his operational choices, nor did his strategy of attrition receive any serious review for almost three years of bloody fighting. At the same time, the President and his civilian advisers ran an air war in isolation from their military advisers, on the basis of a weekly luncheon meeting from which men in uniform were excluded until halfway through the war.

A Churchillian leader fighting the Vietnam War would have had little patience, one suspects, with the smooth but ineffectual Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Earle Wheeler. He would, no doubt, have convened all of his military advisers (and not just one), to badger them constantly about the progress of the war, and about the intelligence with which the theatre commander was pursuing it. The arguments might have been unpleasant, but at least they would have taken place. Perhaps no strategy would have made the war a winnable one, but surely some strategic judgment would have been better than none. Nor can strategy simply be left to the generals, as they so often wish.

The Churchillian way of high command rests on an uneven dialogue between civilian leader and military chiefs (not, let it be noted, a single generalissimo). It is not comfortable for the military, who suffer the torments of perpetual interrogation; nor easy for the civilians, who must absorb vast quantities of technical, tactical and operational information and make sense of it. But in the end, it is difficult to quarrel with the results.

#churchill #winston churchill #quote #generals #military #leadership #command #world war two #war #strategy #politics #admirals #military high command #civil-military relations #history #britain #army

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enkelimagnus · 3 years

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Words We Stole from the Night

A Caleb/Astrid story, a roleplaying thread between @brunetta6 and I

4849 words, Rated M, Warnings for Abuse, Murder Plotting and everything that comes with Trent Ikithon and the Volstrucker.

Read on AO3

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The house across from Claykeep Prison was as decrepit as ever.

The paint of the door was even more chipped than she remembered. Signs of the time that had passed were scarred deep into the walls, into the roof, into everything Astrid saw. Vigil’s Circle was always bustling and passing people and the passing war had clawed and burned its marks into the sanctuary.

She hadn’t been there in a while. The last time had been when she’d first heard the Mighty Nein were in Rexxentrum. She’d stood on the roof where she’d spent so many hours and nights staring at the prison, and she’d waited. He hadn’t come. She really hadn’t expected him to, but she’d waited, just in case.

It felt ridiculous now, watching the sun come up on the major places of law and judgement of the Empire, now that she knew what it was like to be executioner for a corrupted judge and no jury. It felt ridiculous to stare at it the way she had in secret as a child.

And now she was back. She climbed up the side of the house, feet finding where she’d scaled many times before. She was steadier than before. Shakier too. But differently, she guessed.

She sat on the edge of the roof and waited. The night was dark, but Rexxentrum was alight. No one would see her here. No one who didn’t know what to look for.

Then, a soft, accented voice called out — just barely loud enough for Astrid to hear.

“It’s hard to forget this place,” Caleb murmured.

Astrid turned instinctually to see a familiar face. His deep-set eyes were obscured with shadow, that light of brilliance and hunger the only thing that survived the dark. His red hair was loose and dirty, falling around his shoulders, and a dark cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. If some unwitting peasant had seen him, they might have mistaken him as some kind of spirit.

It was, as always, hard to see him.

Astrid always forgot that over a decade had passed. Her mind kept bringing up the image of the Bren she'd known. And then, their paths crossed for a moment, and she saw him, and she remembered that he wasn't Bren, that he was Caleb, that they were 30, that they were broken, that there was a wall the size of a mountain between them and that it was unscalable.

"You're here," she said softly. "You really are?" She hadn't wanted for it to come out as a question, but it was, and she was so tired. So she didn't hide it.

“I was about to ask you the same question...” Caleb whispered hoarsely.

Astrid huffed lightly, humorless.

He watched her for a long moment. For anything. A twitch of movement. Something to show him she was real.

Caleb bowed his head, swallowed thickly, and turned his eyes back to the prison.

There was a lot to say. Years apart, and then the last few months and what it had brought. Him back to her. And... her plans changing, shoved out of their course by eyes too blue and too familiar and too haunting. She reached up to her neck. The burns had long past healed. It had been over 15 years.

"I'm here," she nodded. She looked up at him briefly, before turning back to the view of the prison. "I've seen the inside of it many times now. Claykeep." She pointed out. "It's nothing like we used to wonder.”

“I suppose you will be visiting me there soon,” Caleb murmured, his voice rough and wasted. “At some point.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow, looking up at him again. "Are you planning to give yourself in?" She asked quietly.

“No,” Caleb murmured. “But I am not foolish enough to believe I can run from him forever. Or from you... Not anymore.”

Astrid shook her head. "Prison is never going to be for you. Not this one anyway." She didn't hide the bitterness in her voice.

“No. No, it will not...” Caleb whispered, eyes locked on the distant building. “But it would make a brilliant torch, would it not? Standing against the sky this way, as it does...”

Astrid closed her eyes for a second. "Burn it all to the ground. It's already covered in ash anyway." She exhaled. "Why are you in Rexxentrum, Br... Caleb?"

She was happy to see him. Happier than she'd been in for so long. It was almost overwhelming. She didn’t know how to express it exactly.

“We did what we needed to do in the wastes of Eiselcross,” Caleb explained. “The others are safe. I told them I needed a break... so we agreed. Split up. Meet again.”

Astrid nodded at that. "And you came here, of all places." She pointed out. "On this roof, at this time."

Had he hoped she would be there? Or did he just want to reminisce about the past and stare at the future, or some iteration of it?

"I'm glad they're safe."

“Are you?”

"You love them," Astrid shrugged. "They love you." She didn't want him to be alone. He had a family now. She didn't want them to leave him.

Caleb took an unsteady breath, eyes wavering, his own sore heart threatening to crack. Do you? he wanted to ask. But he couldn’t ask. He wasn’t sure if he could survive the answer, one way or another.

They sat and stood there for a long time, watching the lines of the prison stand resolutely.

Finally, Caleb broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking,” he murmured quietly. “About if I were in your position, and you in mine.”

It was hard to imagine being in Caleb's position. Being free. Having a family. Loving people. Astrid would rather not try to think of it. It was too hard. Too difficult. It made something hard and suffocating wrap around her chest.

"And what did that thinking lead to?"

“It made me hope a little more... that I might convince you to come with me. To leave your dark purpose behind.”

Astrid looked up at him with wide eyes. "My dark purpose?" She watched him, a little bewildered. "What do you think that is, exactly?"

“A self-inflicted destiny,” Caleb whispered, still not looking at her. Those eyes were burning, smoldering with redirected hate towards the distant Candles. “A desire for power that you were born with, but caged by him . Told that you’re only good for one thing. Supplanting him feels like the only answer, but it’s not, Astrid.”

"Then what else is there?" Astrid snapped, sudden anger rising inside of her. He thought he understood but he didn't. He'd escaped. "Someone has to do it. Someone has to supplant him. I'm perfect for it. I'm the only one who can do it properly."

“He will never choose you, Astrid.”

"You're foolish if you think I'm giving him a choice." She snarled back.

Caleb finally looked at her, but the hatred was gone. His shoulders were heavy with sheer exhaustion. “And what will you ‘do properly?’” he asked hollowly. “What will change?”

Astrid hummed. "I've never been good enough for him. He doesn't consider me even capable of having thoughts for myself, let alone anything more complex than that." She muttered. "I've spent the last.... fifteen years with weekly reminders that I was nothing compared to what you were. The longer it went on, the clearer it became that he didn't see me... And he gave me to the Academy, and to the recruits and to.... When he's dead, I will protect these fucking kids."

“You’re better than me in many ways, Astrid.”

"I'm not," Astrid shook her head. "I'm not. But... Two years ago, there was this kid... Brand new recruit. Wide-eyed, fresh out of the middle of fucking nowhere... And I'd been... asking the questions. You know the ones. Where are you from, do you have family. Will anyone fucking miss you if you disappear." She swallowed. "And there... this girl. Red haired, brown eyed, full of freckles. With eyes like she wanted to gulp down everything she could. Like you. I asked her the questions. And she said..." Astrid closed her eyes. "Blumenthal."

Caleb closed his eyes too. Bowed his head, as if praying at a funeral.

“...And what happened to her?”

Astrid looked down at the ground for a moment, letting vertigo take her.

"The report in her Academy file says she's unsuited for the specialized study courses."

“What. Happened.”

"I lied on the report." Astrid whispered, knowing the admission could be her end. "She's safe."

“Good,” Caleb hissed. Burning blue eyes locked on her. “That is step one. But what happens now?”

"For her?" Astrid hummed. "She's studying. She's brilliant, but she's made friends now. She's integrated. She's out of his reach." She explained. "I'm keeping an eye on her, but I can't... I can't be close. Ever."

“And nothing has changed,” Caleb whispered, softer now. “You lied for one girl. But you cannot do that forever. He will expect things of you. If you take his seat, they will expect things of you, Astrid. The pressure will not vanish when you become an Archmage. They kept him on for a reason. They will expect an elite force to keep the peace. How will you satiate that need when he is gone? You cannot take volunteers— there is no protection. No safety. Only illusion. You have to see that, don’t you...?”

"And what then? I will not do nothing. If I can save one, it's already that. Two. Maybe more if I'm smart enough, if I'm strong enough, if I stay the pathetic, not good enough girl he thinks I am," Astrid shrugged. "I can't lie for them all, and I can't undo a lot, and I know they will desire results but I'd rather be fighting them for the rest of my life, no matter how short, than do nothing. I'm tired of that."

She sighed deeply. "She's 17 now," she explained. "But then... when she started, she was only 15. And she was from Blumenthal. And I almost, almost asked her what our names meant now. What had happened to the names Beck, Ermendrud and Grieve."

“But you did not want to know. Did you.”

"It doesn't matter," Astrid shook her head. "Beck will die with me. Ermendrud is already dead... Grieve is agonizing." She shrugged. "And I didn't want to hear about how tragic it was. How sad everyone was. How they remembered them and their kids fondly. And they hoped we were doing okay in Rexxentrum, being mages and all. And I didn't want her to know what I was."

“I am surprised that there are still children from Blumenthal willing to come to the capital after us...” Caleb took a hollow, shallow breath. “But then again... knowing us, perhaps I should not be. There will always be hunger in humanity. A fascination with the arcane...”

The middle-aged man — that was what he was now — rested his back against the chimney stack.

“I was thinking of finally going to find out for myself. I could not do it with my friends, but... maybe alone.”

"As far as I know... Trent made sure that there was no enemy for us out there. No one who could remember our faces. As far as I know, they think we all died too, perhaps even in the fire." Astrid reached for her neck again. "You can go. Find out. But... whatever you find, I don't want to know." She felt so heavy now. So empty, at the same time, like a gaping hole in her chest that was swallowing everything down and taking her with it. "I have work to do here. Solutions to find. People to kill."

“Come with me,” Caleb pleaded softly.

Astrid turned to look at him for a moment, sad and tender. "Why?"

“Because I want you to...?” he whispered, gazing at her with all the weight and bittersweet love in the world. “I know that— I’m sure that my desire means little to you after all this time, but...”

He licked his dry, cracked lips and sighed, closing his eyes.

“I have never believed in fate,” he confessed weakly. “But this is such a coincidence... I feel that I must try. Perhaps you are— perhaps we are standing on a precipice and don’t even know it. I don’t want to step off alone. Not again. Perhaps it is selfish, I don’t know, but I never professed to be an unselfish being...”

Astrid picked up her feet and stood, walking towards him.

"Caleb..." She whispered.

She wanted to be selfish. She wanted to be selfish and say yes and leave and forget the world and fuck the consequences, for her or for others. She wanted to run to the ends of the world and wait for Trent there, content and happy and warm for once.

"I want to be selfish. But I have already been, for so long..." She leaned against the chimney next to him, watching him. "I want to be loved, and I want to be free. But I'm pretty sure... When we dropped you off at the sanatorium, I knew then and there, when the door was closing on you and he was holding my arm.... I cannot be loved and I cannot be free, and I would... I deserve to die trying to right it all, or else I will have accomplished nothing worthwhile. Magic and power and knowledge, what are those worth to me when I stand there alone and broken and missing people I can never have?"

A hard lump rose in Caleb’s throat. He took an unsteady, shaky breath.

“Come with me...” he pleaded with her. “Be selfish, Astrid. I may be a worthless bastard, but... I will do all I can for you. I will right the wrongs that I can. I will profess to you truth . I am so... sick of lying to you, walking on eggshells around you. We spent our youth together. We... We gave ourselves to one another... Physically and... in all the ways that matter. I know that it’s not going to be the same, not at first, but— if you are willing to try, so am I...!”

It would be so easy to kill him right now. He was standing there so close, so vulnerable, and he wouldn't even fight back, wouldn't he? She could just... do it, and throw his body away and walk home and wait until Trent's rage took physical form and he realized what she'd done and he came for her and killed her too, and then she'd go to where worthless things like her go.

Astrid reached up to touch his face. "You should see all the kids, Caleb," she whispered. "You would love them as much as I do." She nodded. There was stubble under her thumb. "Gods... You've only gotten more beautiful with time..." She was more shy than ever under his gaze. "What will your family say?"

That startled a cough of amusement out of Caleb. “They will be suspicious of you, for good reason,” he admitted quietly. “You will likely go through a few talks with them. There will be distrust at first... but all trust requires risk. And you’re worth the fucking risk...”

Astrid took a deep breath. "I... I want it," she muttered. "I want that. The... risks and all, I just..." She turned away, looking back to the Candles, back to the high walls of the Academy. "What about them? When I'm gone, who do they have left?" She asked quietly. "If I could take them all with me... I would."

“There will be other teachers,” Caleb whispered. “Take a sabbatical. Take some time overseas... do research in Marquet. Go north. Guide your own expedition to Eiselcross. I have artifacts that you can bring back, as a cover. You don’t have to go forever... I just... Let me steal you away. Just for a time...”

Astrid bit her lip. It could work. For a time, she could... forget. She could be free for a moment. She would get stronger, she would think through plans. She would find out as much as she could about everything she needed...

"I have... I have an idea." She muttered. "You will have to trust me. Blindly."

Caleb’s brows furrowed. He opened his mouth uncertainly... then sighed heavily, eyes narrowed.

It’s worth the risk. The worst that could happen is that I die. And that’s not so bad.

She’s worth the risk. This is worth the risk. On my own, this is worth the risk.

“...All right...”

Astrid looked at him. "I need to tell him I'm leaving with you," she muttered. "He needs to think... that I am doing my work correctly.”

Caleb took a deep breath... and let it go.

“What will he think we are doing?” he asked softly.

"That... that's not important," Astrid shrugged. "He needs to know I'm with you, and with your friends. And I... will feed regular information." She explained.

“You won’t be with my friends,” Caleb murmured. “Just me. I’m not... willing to share you just yet...”

"If I am to stay with you, it needs to be useful for him," Astrid explained. "He won't let me go to Marquet or Eiselcross just because I want to. I'm a teacher, yes, but I am a Volstrucker. I am his. He needs to think he's gaining something by letting me out of his sphere of influence. He knows about our history, so it will be... it will make sense for me to seduce my way back into your life for him."

“Then it is better for me to be alone, no?” Caleb murmured, searching her eyes. “My friends would keep me on a short leash. But if I am alone...”

His gaze flickered subconsciously down to her lips and quickly away. “If I am alone, it is easier for you to pull me off track.”

Astrid nodded. "Yes, yes. But I will need to bring something from them too. They are a big point of interest for him." She smiled a little. "I need you to trust me. I will give him the kind of things he wants to hear. Things that are hard to disprove. Things that are close to the truth. I need you... to be open with me. And I will be open with you, in exchange." She looked at him for a moment. "And it won't be hard to be close to you, anyway. You always had such a magnetic effect on me. It has only... heightened with time."

Caleb coughed softly in amusement, shaking his head. “No need to stroke my ego. Really...” he murmured, rubbing his face. “I know I am not much to look at. My face is too long. My features are too cruel. I am... wrinkled. Gott , to return to a time when we never thought we would have bags under our eyes and lines around our mouths, hm...?”

"Look at me. All scarred and marked and... used," Astrid had a small laugh. "We were so arrogant and confident in our own bodies," she chuckled. "Thought time would never get to us." She reached to run her fingers over his face, over his features. "You're still beautiful to me. Still magnetic. It's not about your face, it's about... everything else." She muttered.

Caleb couldn’t help but close his eyes, leaning into her palm. It felt like dangling over a precipice of immense size... but while he was alone, it was worth the risk to feel her touch again.

“I have... um... something...” Caleb whispered. “For you. If you want it.”

Astrid watched him for a moment, taking time now that his eyes were closed and she could let herself drink in everything he was now. Caleb Widogast. She liked the name. A lot.

"What is it?" She asked softly.

“It is not physical...” Caleb told her quietly. “And... it might not be wise to give it to you right now, if you do want it at all. But...”

He took a breath and opened his eyes, but his lashes were still lowered. He gazed down at the curve of her arm. The dark fabric of her cloak.

“I can take your years away,” he whispered. “At least thirteen of them. It won’t extend your life, but... if you wish.”

Astrid looked up at him for a moment. "I..."

It was one hell of a thing. 13 years less. The weight of everything that had happened in the last thirteen years. Missions and pains and murders and two marriages, neither good in any way. 13 years of Trent. 13 years of nightmares.

"I'm okay," she whispered. "I don't need it." She muttered. "Not now. It wouldn't make much of a difference..."

Caleb nodded silently. “I wanted to offer,” he murmured. “I’ll— I’ll be here. When you’re ready to go.”

Astrid looked at him. "Thank you. I..." She looked over at the Candles. "Give me... a week. Maybe two. Get my affairs in orders at the Academy. Take care of everything. Tell Trent." She nodded. "You can stay at my house, if you want. It's... unscryable." She muttered. "Safe."

Caleb rubbed softly at his temples. “...Alright. I will,” he mumbled. “What about your servant? The halfling man?”

Astrid shrugged. "He'll be quiet." She said simply. "He's been with me since I got the house." That said enough, hopefully. Caleb knew what she did.

None of her staff would dare to talk about what happened inside of her house. Not if they wanted to live another day. And they were very aware of it.

Caleb closed his eyes and nodded. “I need a shower...” he mumbled unhappily.

"You do," Astrid chuckled. He looked dirty, probably from trying to make himself invisible. "There's also probably some clothing that you could wear." She muttered. "And we'll have a nice meal."

Caleb nodded again, his mind shutting down in preparation for the next week. Blind trust did not come easy, especially not to him. Certainly not in the shadow of Trent Ikithon’s tower...

Worth the risk. Worth the risk.

“...I will come in the afternoon, while you are away,” Caleb told her softly. “Will you— Will you tell Wulf?”

"Do you want me to tell Wulf?" Astrid tilted her head to the side for a moment. "I... I don't know where his loyalties lie. I haven't for a while. He's... different."

“Different...?”

"He's devoted," Astrid explained. "And not only in his worship, which he found relatively recently but... He's not like me. I've always been a bit... shadier. More gritted teeth and tight-lipped smiles. I don't know if he's an amazing actor or if he really worships Trent as much as his goddess."

She didn’t know where Wulf stood anymore, and it was the worst part of her life.

“I would hope not...” Caleb whispered. “I wish I could talk to him without barriers.”

Astrid could understand why. But she didn’t know if it was possible anymore. "Wulf... He's in the field a lot. Never spends long in Rexxentrum. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even have his own place." She explained. "He's been... very useful as a ranged weapon for Trent."

Caleb’s eyes darkened. He looked at her sternly. “Useful,” he repeated. “Astrid, he can’t feel right about this... Can he...?”

Astrid looked down. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know. He's..."

She crossed her arms, trying to shut out the impossible guilt and shame she felt at what had happened to her best and only friend.

"15 years since you left us,” she started, both an explanation and a bit of a criticism. “And it hasn't stopped for us. Especially not for him. I'm lucky, I don't... do as much of the dirty work. Or at least my work is different. more poison, less dagger." She muttered. "I don't know. I just know I can't trust him."

Caleb sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair. He hated it. Hated that he had abandoned them to this fate. Abandoned Astrid. Abandoned Wulf.

But he was back now.

Caleb exhaled shakily. “If there is hope for Wulf,” he murmured steadily, gazing emptily through the skyline of Rexxentrum, “it will be in the future. When... we can talk, and protect him, without risk of Herr Ikithon finding out. I despise this... but we must leave him be for now.”

Astrid didn't want to tell him she'd given up on helping Wulf a long time ago.

He stayed at her house when he was in town, in the guest room that was just his room now. And they crossed each other, and sometimes, she saw in his eyes her best friend, but that was so rare she'd stopped hoping. Most of her time she let him be quiet and go through the motions and didn’t even try to rage against his coldness anymore. She wasn’t sure he cared enough not to report her to Trent if she disobeyed to help him.

Not that she'd been in a much better state until the girl from Blumenthal. That had woken her up, but before that... she was as much of a zombie as he'd been. Empty. Deadly.

"The Matron will keep him," she whispered. More of a desperate hope than anything else.

The gods have never helped us. Why should they now? That was what Caleb wanted to say. What his deeply bitter and angry soul wanted to snarl into the shadows. But he couldn’t say that, not when such sadness and quiet desperation permeated Astrid’s voice.

He rubbed at his eyes, brows furrowed. “I am sure she will...”

The anguish at what had become of Eadwulf threatened to overtake her for a moment. Astrid gently reached an arm around Caleb to pull him closer to her. Hold me. Remind me you're real. She wouldn't say it though. She needed his comfort. She needed to be close, now that she’d let herself say yes to an impossible plan to taste freedom.

"If you have questions over the past years, I can answer them," Astrid muttered. She had never told anyone anything. Even Wulf. She couldn't add to his weight. Maybe Caleb could help. Maybe he would let her tell him all the things that haunted her at night.

Caleb hesitated... but he wrapped his arms around her; after a moment of hesitation, he pulled her into his lap and held her there.

“...You’ve always been small...” he whispered, burying his face in her shoulder.

Astrid hummed and snuggled into him, closing her eyes for a moment. "You're taller than I remember," she pointed out. "Stronger."

“I am still a very skinny man.”

Astrid nodded. "Hmm. Can feel that," she muttered. "Still a very skinny woman." Everything was... so nice for a moment. "Still. You're different." His hair was much longer, he had a light beard and he was taller and stronger, somehow, than he was in her memories. Maybe it wasn’t physical strength as much as it was the steadiness of his mind.

“So are you...” Caleb hesitated... then he rested his hand against the side of her throat. Feeling the warped, smooth, rippling sensation of those old, faded burn scars.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “So sorry...”

Astrid closed her eyes a little harder. "You weren't in your right mind," she muttered. "It's okay. it's fine." She repeated. "it's been a really long time." 15 fucking years and counting. The burn was long healed. The memory of it was not as fuzzy as it should have been, however. She wished she could forget the state he’d been in, his despair and his anger. She wished she could forget the pain.

“...I should go.” Before I do something stupid.

Caleb took a breath, stroking her hair and forcing himself to let her go. “I will see you tonight, Astrid...”

Astrid didn't want this to end. She wanted to stay there for the rest of her life, on this roof, in this night, with Caleb.

"Don't change your mind about me," she whispered. "Promise me you'll come." She didn’t know if she would be able to take a defection like this one.

Caleb’s heart ached at her whisper. He swallowed thickly, and finally met her eyes. He cupped her cheek — his face crumpled with conflicting desire — and rested his forehead to hers.

“Ich verspreche dir, dass ich kommen werde.” I promise you that I will come.

Astrid exhaled. "Danke." She whispered.

She wasn't alone anymore. She dared to hope for this to last for a while, so she could soak it up like a sponge.

“Gern geschehen, Schatz...” You’re welcome, sweetheart...

Caleb faltered, wondering if he had gone too far... then huffed and gently forced himself away. He hurried down the stairs, out of sight.

Astrid watched him go, swallowing.

"Ich liebe dich", she whispered to the night, once he was out of sight.

Forbidden words. Almost forgotten words. Words she was afraid of.

#caleb widogast #astrid beck #caleb/astrid #critical role #mighty nein

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alarriefantasy · 4 years

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hiii, could you rec some fics that take place in new york? thank youu

Yes yes yes, darling!! :)

New York Fic Rec

Stealing Flowers by lululawrence

Words: 4k

Or the one where Louis pines after the Sexy Stranger on the Subway and almost asks him out. That's when the strange posters start showing up around Brooklyn.

Can't Shake You Out by fackinglouis

Words: 8k

Or the one where Harry and Louis have lived in the same building for three years but just meet now and bond over their crazy neighbors.

We Will Find Our Way by supernope

Words: 9k

AKA, Harry and Louis are uni students studying abroad in New York, stuck in the dorms together over Christmas.

A Rose, By Any Other Name by iwillpaintasongforlou

Words: 10k

Louis Tomlinson is the head of New York City's mafia, and Harry is the beautiful boy from Texas who falls in with the wrong crowd (which turns out to be the right crowd).

Don't Call Me Angel by larryent

Words: 16k

Manhattan is a dangerous playground for the rich and entitled Alphas of New York. Those same wealthy Alphas are robbed after spending one night in the presence of a blue-eyed Omega and Officer Styles is assigned to the case.

Of All That Surrounds Us by zanyemajik

Words: 20k

Or, the high school AU where all five boys grow up in New York City, Harry’s fingers won’t stop shaking, Louis has an affinity for cupcakes and alcohol, Zayn thinks he knows what he’s doing, Liam actually knows what he’s doing, the contestants won’t stop humping Drew Carey, and everything is really all about Niall.

Flawless by Throwthemflowers

Words: 25k

After a debilitating surgery, former concert pianist Harry Styles isn't able to come to terms with his new reality. Sundered from his high standards of performance, Harry can't seem to feel anything anymore, except perhaps interest in his favorite coffee shop's barista, a man who seems wholly unsuited for the job and whose blue eyes hold in them the same pain that Harry struggles with every day. When fate renders them more than mere acquaintances, Harry is forced to deal with the insecurities of his condition and his stubborn pride. Louis wants to love him, but Harry can't accept that, because he can't accept himself. And besides, he's never loved. He doesn't know how. He just wants to be able to play his piano like before, because it was safe, because at its keys he could control the roiling of his heart and funnel it into music. With love, things are much too risky. Why would he ever take such a chance?

Staring Across the Room by allwaswell16

Words: 26k

Harry Styles has a great life. He’s a children’s librarian at the New York Public Library, he’s got wonderful friends, and he loves cooking, green tea, yoga, and his collection of bow ties. He doesn’t mind that his life seems a little structured, maybe even a little boring. But when Louis Tomlinson joins the library staff as the new Installation Coordinator, things become a lot less predictable. Louis gets under his skin right from the start, bossing Harry around, making noise during story time, and eating the last cupcake in the staff lounge. Louis may be almost offensively attractive, but Harry will not be succumbing to Louis Tomlinson’s charms, even if the rest of the library staff have.

Tis the Season for...Love? by AFangirlFantasy

Words: 27k

Prompt: Harry seems to have it all: A successful career as a pastry chef, a Victorian home in London, and a dedicated boyfriend who he's been with for years. One day he stops by his boyfriend's apartment to surprise him and finds out that he's not so dedicated to Harry after all. Shocked and too depressed to celebrate, he decides to skip Christmas and on a whim leaves on a plane to New York. In New York he meets Louis…

Or...Louis might just be what Harry's needed all along.

sweet, where you lay by infinitelymint

Words: 27k

Louis Tomlinson is a twenty-eight-year-old succesful actor living in New York. Harry Styles is a twenty year old up and coming model and coincidentally also the one who turns Louis’ world completely upside down.

or, Louis is Zachary Quinto and Harry is Miles McMillan. Falling in love was always in the cards for them.

Brooklyn Saw Me by alreadyhome

Words: 28k

In the cold and unforgiving city of New York, Louis doesn't have a home and Harry wants to give him one. But as their heartstrings become increasingly intertwined, and the snow continues to fall, home is getting harder and harder to find.

These Constant Stars by stylinsoncity

Words: 31k

Louis’ career has nowhere to go but up. He’s living at the height of New York City on the precipice of an epic promotion. Life is good and only getting better. And then one day, things turn disastrous.

This is a story about life, death, and punk rockers turned guardian angels.

I Know How To Whisk (But Teach Me Anyway) by 2tiedships2

Words: 32k

Or the one in which banana bread just might make Louis change his mind about soulmates.

Manhattan From The Sky by sincewewereeighteen

Words: 47k

Harry's been raised to know that successful men do not fall in love. Louis believes that love is all you need to be successful in life. They meet.

Say It's Possible by cptniall

Words: 63k

Harry Styles is an out-and-proud rich boy that just moved to New York City and got an acting job in a small-time a play to escape his family’s shadow. Louis Tomlinson, the lead in the play, is a dedicated actor from Ohio, and absolutely hates Harry from the second he meets him - or at least, he really tries to. He really, honestly tries to. He wants to hate this kid with every fibre of his being. But he just can’t - which becomes a big problem when one day, Louis realises that he actually likes Harry. Like, really likes him.

Or - the one where Louis really doesn’t want to be gay but being around Harry makes it fucking impossible to deny.

That Sounds Fake But Okay by dancingontheceiling

Words: 112k

Harry Styles is a rookie journalist forced to work the gossip desk at a major New York magazine. Louis Tomlinson is the A-list actor who doesn't appreciate Harry or his articles.

♡ credit to the owner of the manip

♡ past themed recs here

#ask

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3rdgymbros · 4 years

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𝓑𝓲𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓵 𝓘𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Name: Rosamond Khan

Nicknames: None

Name meaning: Derived from the Germanic elements hros "horse" and mund "protection".

Gender: Female

Birthday: 20 February

Star Sign: Pisces

Height: 152 cm

Weight: 45 kg

Age: 16

Eye Colour: Green

Hair Colour: Black

Homeland: The Land of Flowers

Family: Mother, father

Quote: “They told me that I was not made for war; so now, I will have to find my own path.”

𝓝𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓡𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓮 𝓢𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓵 𝓕𝓲𝓵𝓮

Dorm: Khan Zhao ( a fandorm created by @conquer-the-raven )

School Year: First

Class: 1-D, Student 12

Occupation: Student

Club: Horseback Riding Club

Best Subject: PE

𝓕𝓾𝓷 𝓕𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓼

Inspired by: Khan from Mulan

Dominant hand: Right

Favourite Colours: Blue, green

Favourite Food: Fruits, vegetables

Least Favourite Food: Meat

Likes: Flowers, brewing tea, cold things on hot days and hot things on cold days, baths, early mornings, birdsong, comfortable silences, romance (movies and novels)

Dislikes: Loud noises (she startles easily when she hears them), butterflies, fireworks, sudden movements

Hobbies and Talents: Pressing flowers, baking, horse riding, hiking, camping, exploring, gardening, swimming, making flower crowns

Special Skills: Flower arranging, flower languages, running, archery, knife-throwing, hand to hand combat

𝓟𝓱𝔂𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓵 𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼

Appearance: Rosamond has long black hair, parted to the left. Her hair is wavy, and falls to the small of her back. Parts of her hair are pulled back, away from her face, and are held back in place by a bright red hair ribbon. Her eyes are bright green, and she has a very slender physique, with a modest bust.

Style: She has a very formal and girlish style of dressing, and her clothes are normally in muted shades. Examples of her outfits can be found here and here.

Makeup: Very light eye makeup. Usually seen with red lip tint.

𝓥𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓼

Voice actress: Kudou Haruka

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪

Personality: A serious and fussy girl, Rosamond rarely diverts from a stern expression. Far too serious for her own good, she often seems somewhat cold and intimidating because of her stoic nature, in which she displays a strict emotion most of the time. She tends to stubbornly deny liking or being fond of certain things, and also denies smiling or laughing, if she’s caught making such gestures. She also has a blunt side to her personality and can come across as cold or condescending.

Rosamond is fairly stiff and sharp, and is highly stubborn when trying to do what she believes is best for others. She is polite and very formal, and addresses upperclassmen as “senpai”, and her peers by their last names. She does not look kindly upon nicknames, but tolerates them when given by people she is close to. She is prone to making snide or rude remarks when annoyed and angered, or if she feels that people are not performing up to their standards.

She can be kind and caring as well, but doesn’t flaunt that side of her, nor does she draw attention to it. Kind acts are done by Rosamond in secret and usually without being asked, such as by turning on the lights when someone is reading, or setting a plate of fresh-cut fruits down for them after they’ve been studying for a while.

Alignment: Neutral Good

Strengths: Persistent, loyal, caring, reserved, self-reliant, independent, solemn, diligent, level-headed

Flaws: Haughty, prim, stubborn, overly-serious, feisty, prideful, distant, sharp-tongued, a perfectionist

𝓟𝓪𝓼𝓽

The Khan family have been soldiers and warriors guarding the Land of Flowers for generations, and to the Khan family, being called to serve is the highest honour. Rosamond was expected to follow in their footsteps as well, and she would train diligently, determined to make her family proud. However, no matter how hard she trained, she would never be able to meet the high standards and expectations imposed by her father, a fact which still pains her, as she wants nothing more than to be acknowledged by her family. Her inferiority and lack of self-confidence would further be emphasised when her magic developed, further proving that she was not made for war, as her father had told her, his words cruelly ringing out in her head.

Rosamond would later enroll in Night Raven College, and would be surprised, and a tad upset when the mirror placed her in Khan Zhao, as the atmosphere reminded her a little too much of home. At first, she is reluctant to interact with her dorm mates, and is even more reluctant to ask for their help, but slowly, after getting to know them, Rosamond tries to act more kindly to her dorm mates and tries to get to know them more.

𝓢𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓼

Rosamond’s magic is plant and flower-based and is suited more for support and recovery. Her current goal is training until she can master attack spells. She views her magic as being a source of shame to her family, and rarely uses it if she can avoid it.

Healing Cradle, Balm of Gilead: The user summons a plant called the balm of gilead, and uses them to form a spherical cradle around the user or another target. The user is able to generate multiple cradles to heal multiple people at once. However, each cradle can only contain a single person. One of the disadvantages of the spell is the requirement of the user or anyone to stay within the cradle for a period of time until the injuries are healed. During this time, they are defenceless against any attacks. The spell has been proven to be quite powerful as it can heal someone from dying of a critical injury in a short time.

Healing Shower of Apple Blossoms: The user grows a tree, and by standing under the falling blossoms, the user and the targets are able to be healed of their injuries. However, the spell takes a considerable amount of time to heal injuries and is unsuitable to be used for critical and life-threatening injuries.

Cherry Blossom Blizzard: The user generates a large amount of cherry blossoms that can obscure the vision of enemies on the battlefield.

Thorns of The Briar Rose: The user conjures vines with thorned roses, forming a barrier that can protect or confine people.

Unique Magic: The Dark Side of The Moon. Invoking her unique magic casts a shadow around the target, and whoever steps into the shadow will have their five senses (sight, taste, hearing, feeling and smell) cut off.

𝓣𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓪

- Rosamond prefers tea to coffee, but has to add at least three cubes of sugar into her tea. She also enjoys drinking bubble tea, and frequently tries new flavours.

- She wears combat boots, and keeps knives tucked away in them, just in case.

- Rosamond has a pet dog, but had to leave him at home.

- Rosamond is a skilled rider, who loves to ride. Her riding is the one thing that her father could not find fault with.

- She wakes up at five every morning to train.

- Rosamond gets cold easily, and suffers most during winter. She rarely leaves the dorm without being bundled up in a heavy jacket.

- Although her best subject is PE, she maintains A grades in her other subjects as well.

- Her favourite fruits are apples.

- Her favourite dessert is tanghulu.

#twst oc #twst ocs #twstd oc #twstd ocs #twisted wonderland oc #twisted wonderland ocs #twisted wonderland oc : rosamond khan #;; I REDID HER PROFILE #;; THIS TIME THE IMAGE IS DRAWN BY MEEEEEEE #;; ROSAMOND BB I HOPE I DID U JUSTICE !!

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doubleoh7q · 4 years

Text

Tables, Walthers, and Rodents

(1024 words, no warnings)

Q would challenge anyone who thought James Bond was the bravest man alive to see him now.

He’d come home from work to find his husband on their dining room table. Not at the table but standing on it and frantically looking for something on the floor.

“James, honey. Are you alright?” Maybe this was one of those breakdowns that medical said agents were prone too once they’d reached their limit.

“Q! Get up here!”

To Q’s credit he hadn’t laughed yet, and he managed to get on the table rather gracefully. By which rather gracefully means he only wobbled a little as opposed to falling flat on his face trying to balance on the turning stool. Once he was up, his husband immediately grasped his hand and Q felt himself looking around the floor of their house as well, though he had no idea what for.

“James?” Q said softly, not wanting James to snap completely if this was indeed a breakdown. “What are we looking for?”

James barely glanced at him before going back to look at the floor as he answered. “There’s a mouse.”

“A mouse?” Q parroted. This could still be a breakdown, he’s a double-oh agent, surely he is not afraid of a tiny mouse.

“Yes, a mouse. With the beady eyes and the spindly tail and the gross germs and the cheese.” James shuddered as he mentioned the tails.

“Right, and we have a better view from the table to find him, I suppose?” That would make some sense, Q thought. Though he still wasn’t sure the mouse would stay in this room if it thought they were a danger to it.

“Yes, it can’t get us up here.” James answered. Confirming that he was apparently concerned that the mouse itself was a danger to the two of them.

“James,” Q started slowly, he didn’t want to embarrass his husband, but he really did need to ask. “Are you afraid of mice?”

“Of course I am! Sneaky little bastards, hiding in walls, eating our foods. Probably terrorising the cats.”

He rants on for a while longer, leaving Q to wonder where exactly the cats were. He would have thought at least one of them would have come in to see what all the commotion was.

“James,” He says, interrupting the still ranting agent beside him. “I’m going to go find the cats.”

“You can’t go down there!” James whisper shouts back. Sounding unsuitably horrified by the very idea.

“I can and I will.” Q asserts. He does not often get a chance to be one leaving someone else in the ‘safe spot’. “You stay up here. I’ll sort the mouse.”

“Fine,” James relented, realising they couldn’t stay on the table forever. “But take this.” He said, handing Q the Walther he had in his shoulder holster. “Just in case.”

Q takes the gun, more because he was expected to than out of any delusion he would need it. Once the weight of it was settled in his hand he wondered if his husband actually expected him to shoot the mouse on sight. More importantly if James thought he would risk putting a bullet hole in their new flooring.

“I’ll come back.” Q assured before leaving his husband standing on the dining table so he could find his cats.

First though, Q headed to their bedroom and emptied out a shoe box, on the off chance that he wasn’t, as James thought, going to shoot the mouse. Then he ventured off into the living room, no cats or mice in sight, though he noted that James had, once again, three separate cups of tea on the go. No doubt James had forgotten about them the moment a little mouse had scampered across his vision.

Eventually, Q could hear a soft meowing coming from the study. Moving closer he started to feel the anticipation of finding the object of his husbands fears. Though what he actually found was both his cats meowing and hissing and scratching at the windowsill where the mouse was very calmly sat nibbling on half a biscuit.

The cats knew they weren’t supposed to sit on that particular windowsill because James kept a little collection of souvenirs on it. Apparently, that had overridden their want to get the mouse. And the mouse had worked out they wouldn’t reach him and was rather content to eat his spoils while the cats watched on.

“Alright, alright, let me through.” Q said gently nudging the cats aside to move his shoebox to just under the sill. He pushed the biscuit into the box using the lid and when the mouse followed his dinner in, Q gently placed the lid over him. “Hardly worth all that fuss, was it?”

The cats followed him back into the kitchen where he convinced his husband that it was safe to come down from the table.

“You’re sure it can’t get out?” Bond checks, warily eyeing them shoe box that housed the beady eyed, spindly tailed, germ filled, cheese eating rodent.

“Very sure, I’m going to go outside and take care of this and you take the Walther, put it in the safe and have one of the three teas I saw in the living room.

Q eventually reappeared after releasing the mouse into the house next door - Q would swear up and down that man deserved a rodent infestation after kicking Q’s cat when it was exploring the neighborhood their first week. And when he found his husband in the living room he saw that James had made a fourth cup of tea and they both made an unspoken agreement that no one would ever find out the great James Bond was afraid of mice.

Except maybe Moneypenny. And Tanner. And anyone else Q could get his hands on because the whole notion that a man could jump off planes without a parachute, fight on top of a moving train, diffuse bombs with seconds to spare and risk his life daily at work only to come home and be petrified of an itty bitty mouse was just too good not to share.

#james bond #quartermaster #00q #fic #doubleoh7q writes #mine

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