#And I have to see art where the Ashen One is about to murder him in 'glorious heroic fashion' while he is down and vulnerable

[rainbowsnowcone]

😔💔 I can not stop feeling devastated over Prince Lothric in DS3. You can describe his story as 'Here is a broken and traumatized abuse victim who only played a part in the apocalypse because he was lashing out against the system that treated him like a disposable object and refuses to die for it and it is your job as the 'Heroic Goodguy' to put this evil brat in his place with help from the 'very nice and helpful and concerned' High Priestess Emma who acts like she did not play a part in his lifetime torment and later rebellion. Go murder his elder brother Lorian the only person who truly cared about Lothric and will protect him at all costs. Then beat the ever living crap out of the vulnerable handicapped prince while the brother he is trying to revive is down (You know like a 'big strong manly hero who asserts themselves'). You kill him and take his head like fucking trophy to use it for the sacrificial ritual along with the heads of the others you murdered (YOU ARE HONORING THEM!).

#anti ds3 #Not fucking canon #This game was not made for me because apparently there was a good reason for a traumatized person like me to be treated like #a disposable object #I deserve to be put IN MY PLACE FOR LASHING OUT BECAUSE IT IS AN INCONVENIENCE FOR YOU?! #I can not even look at Twin Princes content and art without seeing Lothric being made a punching bag #If it isn't about pitying him or representing his tragedy #It is about giving him the MCU Loki treatment #And I have to see art where the Ashen One is about to murder him in 'glorious heroic fashion' while he is down and vulnerable #or see his fucking head #I was already disturbed by what the game did and it inspired the fandom to exacerbate things even more #I hate being alone in my grief #I have to be reminded that was my comfort character's entire role a mere punching bag for the big strong hero #Everything hurts #I hate how fuckin normal this is and it makes me want to leave this world so badly

[shaelashaela]

The King's Curse, ch. 3

[reading time] 5 mins.

Overhead, the sun beat down upon me, making for a strange combination of sensations. As I travelled east, the air all about me grew colder, and the grass crunched under my boots. But the sunlight was harsh and burned my skin. Knowing the weather would be chill, I brought a heavy cloak with me, but I constantly took it off and put it back on again as my body temperature oscillated. I hadn’t even made it to the Queen’s court yet, and annoyance already soured my mood.

I shielded my eyes with my hand and lifted my face towards the mountain. Throughout the day it had steadily grown closer to me as I moved east, and now that I was nearly at its foot, I could see it was not as tall as I imagined. Still, it was impressive and solitary among the fields of snow. It felt unnatural to me.

Thirty-seven, I counted, passing by a small stone stump. Worn with age, they were possibly some sort of road marker at one point. What exact pictograms or letters they once bore was unclear, but they led me in the right direction, fulfilling their ancient purpose as landmarks.

Most of the journey crossed a vast plain, but now as I entered the mountain’s shadow, the path cut through rock, hemmed in on either side. Twists and turns obscured my line of sight. From here on out, I would be quite vulnerable to ambush. I didn’t like it one bit, and my breath shortened. What might go wrong in there? If I ran into some random dark elf, would they kill me before I even reached my destination?

For a long time, I stood on the road, unable to urge myself forward. Wintervale suddenly felt far more inhospitable than it had that same morning.

Clip, clop. Clip, clop.

I heard but could not see. My breath caught in my throat, and I froze in place. Where were they?

Clip, clop. Clip, clop.

My head turned every which way, desperate to find the source.

Clip, clop. Clip, clop.

Before my very eyes, shadow coalesced and gave form to a black stallion, its hooves clacking on the rough cobblestones. Slowly, the darkness gathered, rising like smoke, and before long, the horse gained a rider. At first I saw only his greaves of black metal, twisted and bent like some great hand crushed them on to his body. Then his breastplate appeared in a similar gruesome fashion. Finally, his face, ashen and stern, came to rest upon his shoulders. Pale blond hair draped over his shoulders, wild and clumped together with sweat.

His steely eyes lanced my very soul. “State thy business,” he said plainly, his voice deep and even. The rider’s dialect was strange to me, unlike any Elvish variant I’d ever heard.

Nothing in the world could have compelled me to move or speak in that moment. My legs shook, and I feared my body would fail me completely.

“State thy business,” he repeated. “Or begone.”

Knowing that he didn’t intend to murder me right away returned some of my senses to me. I managed a soft reply. “The Queen has summoned me.”

His demeanour was inscrutable. “Thou art the one known as Sylvie Shaestari?”

I nodded dumbly.

Clip, clop. Clip, clop. The fearsome black stallion stepped closer to me, and his rider leaned forward, offering me a gauntleted hand. “Allow me to escort thee.”

Not knowing what else to do, I took his hand, and he hoisted me up so that I could climb into the saddle behind him. Once I was in place, I quickly withdrew my hand from his grip. My skin burned.

“Ow! Are you wearing iron?”

He urged his steed to turn and head eastward. “My apologies. ’Tis my burden.”

I dared not ask what he meant by that.

“My name is Nepenthe. I am bound to Queen Morrigan, and I will bring thee before her.”

“You have my gratitude.”

It was a genuine thanks, as I didn’t want to proceed deep into Wintervale without an escort. Still, his demeanour confused me. I looked down and noticed he carried a whip as his weapon—a long, coiled snake at his hip crafted from a series of vertebrae. I shuddered and hoped they weren’t elf bones.

The horse carried us deeper into the mountain pass, all featureless and grey. There was so little sign of life here. “Where is everyone?”

“We shall come upon a settlement anon. My men also ride with us.”

His men? I looked around, but saw nothing. They must also know whatever magic he used to remain completely invisible. I shuddered again. I didn’t like the thought of people watching me when I couldn’t see them myself.

Nepenthe’s steed jostled me, and I tried my best to hold on without touching the rider’s armour. I felt odd in that moment, as never did I imagine I might one day ride through Wintervale while having a perfectly civil conversation with a dark elf. Actually, I had to ask myself at that point: was he a dark elf? I narrowed my eyes and scrutinized him, but to my surprise, he had no aura of magic about him at all! What could that mean? Was he disconnected from the land entirely?

“Something troubles thee, m’lady.”

I jumped. How did he know? I was behind him. “I realize now that I know so little of the Winter Court. All my life I was told it was the domain of lunatics and hedonists. My one and only experience with dark elves before today reinforced that.”

He must’ve smiled. I could hear it in his voice. “Do I disappoint, m’lady?”

“Sorry, I meant no offence.”

“Thou didst not offend. In truth, thou remindest me of mine own daughter. She was quite inquisitive.”

“Oh? Maybe I could meet her.”

“Nay, m’lady. She is dead two centuries.”

I pursed my lips together and cursed myself for walking into a sensitive topic. I briefly considered apologizing, but decided it would be better if we completed the ride in silence.

My curiosity got the better of me, though. Something didn’t add up. “How… how old are you?”

“Over four hundred winters, m’lady. Forgive me, but I cannot recall with precision.”

What? I never heard of an elf living past two hundred fifty, save for the monarchs. How quickly I learned that I knew far less about my own home and people than I realized.

Deeper into the east we rode, and it felt to me an eternity. The sun sank lower behind us, though there was still some daylight left. My escort wasn’t overly chatty, but he did point out some landmarks to me along the way. True to his word, we also passed through a city, or a town, I wasn’t quite sure. Dozens of little grey houses flanked the road, but the populous ducked into their doorways as we wandered through. I couldn’t get a good feel for how many elves lived there.

“Why do they hide?”

Nepenthe paused briefly before answering, the first time he hesitated in our conversations. “They considereth me an ill omen, m’lady. I cannot fault them. I am the Queen’s hound, after a fashion. A demon to them.”

“Oh? You seem perfectly polite to me.”

“Thou art kind for saying so, m’lady. Let us hope thou remainest in Her Majesty’s good graces. I would loathe to hunt thee.”

Now I regretted asking. I still did not know what to expect of Queen Morrigan, and I had no doubt that if Nepenthe put his mind to it, he could end my existence without breaking a sweat. He was far too serious and straightforward to take lightly.

We reached the edge of the town, and the road ended at the foot of a hill. Stone steps ascended it to the top, where I could see a series of magnificent marble columns, but no roof. Halfway up, green grass gave way to powdery snow. Was this where the Queen held court? Out in the open?

My escort brought his steed to a full stop. “This is where we part ways, m’lady. The Queen awaits thee at the apex.”

He dismounted first with little effort despite his heavy iron armour. Then he reached up and took me by the waist, setting me gently on the ground. It felt weird to be handled like a princess, but I was thankful that I did not need to touch his gauntleted hand again.

I bowed slightly at the waist. “Thank you, sir knight.”

He took his horse by the reins and headed back the way we came. “I am no knight, m’lady. Remember that.”

What an odd set of parting words. I felt pity for him, though I couldn’t say why. Despite his even tone, he sounded sad to me. Perhaps he was also a victim of the Queen? Either way, I shook those thoughts from my head and turned to look up the multitude of stairs that were now the only thing between me and destiny. Briefly, I prayed I would see Rayna again someday before planting my foot on the first step.

#story #short story #writing #fiction #originalfiction #oc #my oc #original character #fantasy #modernfantasy #magic #witchcraft #sorcery #alchemy #supernatural #fey #fairy #elf #elves #neurodivergent lit #queer lit #bywb2

[sebystann]

Credit to the creator dzydar, such a beautiful piece of art.

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Here are a few more one-shots/series I have come across that I have fallen in love with! Remember to go show these amazing writers some much-deserved love!!

Some works may be 18+ so please read over the warnings the blogger provides. A majority of the blogs that I share on my fic recs are normally all 18+ and have very strict rules for interacting with their blog. So please before reading go look over their guidelines!

⛧ ANGST ⛧

: ̗̀➛ Damn Permanent Reverie by @sebystann

Description: Bucky wants to take his relationship with his girlfriend to the next level. And that means ending his three-year-long no-strings-attached relationship with you. Which sucks for you because you might just fucking love him. (I've worked so hard on this! If you would like to please check it out it would mean the world to me!! Reblogs are much appreciated!)

: ̗̀➛ it’s 3 a.m (i must be lonely) by @riverevelations

Summary | and she says ‘the rain’s gonna wash it away, i believe that.’

: ̗̀➛ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 by @aphrogeneias

Summary: you and bucky have an argument the night before leaving for a mission, but that doesn't stop you of taking care of each other.

: ̗̀➛ and he kissed me right here by @sunmoonandbucky

Summary: I've always been sure that all I ever wanted was a glamorous life.

: ̗̀➛ In Shades of Purple by @wkemeup

Summary: While on a mission, you uncover footage of the Winter Soldier Project, exposing just how much torture Bucky had endured.

: ̗̀➛ Take It Back by @alandoflimbo

Summary: About five years ago, a one night stand with Y/N tore Bucky’s life apart. It was also the night before his wedding. Now he’s married to her sister and she needs a place to stay.

: ̗̀➛ Ashen by @alandoflimbo

Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Modern AU. Dystopian. Some toxic relationship elements that could be triggering. Very sexual. Rated M.

: ̗̀➛ Ashamed by @andyl394

Summary: Sneaking around with the Super Soldier wasn’t easy and all you wanted was to stop it, but what do you do when Bucky doesn’t seem to want the same thing as you?

: ̗̀➛ 10 Signs An Introvert Likes You by @andyl394

Summary: Bucky wasn’t the type of guy to show his feelings and neither were you the one to notice subtle things, until you come across this video; A guidance that may help you discover rather The Winter Soldier likes you or not.

: ̗̀➛ Wrong Side of The Bed by @bugsbucky

Request: Could I request one where Bucky is in a bad mood and accidentally snaps at reader who is very shy and timid and she spends the day in her room and won’t even come out for dinner? Fluffy ending if possible?

: ̗̀➛ If I didn't Love You by @samthemarvelfan

Summary: Love is pathetic...or maybe that’s just Bucky Barnes.

: ̗̀➛ Meant To Be by @wanderlustpeach

Summary: some people are meant to be, and some are not. theres never a inbetween.

: ̗̀➛ A Place For Runaways by @noceurous

Summary: he needed to get away, it was easier said than done when you were in the picture.

: ̗̀➛ Love, Bucky by @redoceanx

Summary: In which James "Bucky" Barnes writes a letter to y/n, who was murdered in the Infinity War.

: ̗̀➛My Head Is An Animal by @buckysfaveplum

Summary: a dissociative episode leaves you and Bucky reeling, with Bucky questioning the safety of you being with him.

: ̗̀➛ I'd Choose You by @youlightmeupfinn

Summary: When Bucky starts second-guessing and is on the verge of wanting to breakup, you have to intervene.

: ̗̀➛ Didn't Mean It by @seabass17

Summary: We used to be pretty close. Now? Now he didn’t even acknowledge me.

: ̗̀➛ Play Pretend by @turbolisedcomet

Summary: Neither of you can let go of the past. So, you make the present your past.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐖𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 | 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 by @coffeecatsandcandles

Series Summary: You fell in love with Bucky Barnes in 1940. He was your everything, until he was taken from you. You’ll meet him again, just not in the way either of you expected…

: ̗̀➛𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐧 | 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 and part 2 by @coffeecatsandcandles

Summary: You and Bucky reflect on your failed marriage.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐒𝐚𝐟𝐞 | 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 by @coffeecatsandcandles

Summary: You become a stripper during the blip. When Bucky comes back, he has a lot of thoughts about it.

: ̗̀➛ Who Am I? by @youlightmeupfinn

Summary: You were intended to be used by HYDRA in order to create a brand new Winter Soldier. Upon wiping your memory; you have no earthly idea who you are as you escape. Only to run right into Bucky Barnes.

: ̗̀➛ You’re Leaving Tomorrow? by @youlightmeupfinn

Summary: It’s the year 1941 and Bucky comes home drunk, only to tell you he was drafted for the war, which he knew for a few days, and is leaving promptly the next morning.

: ̗̀➛ forcefield by @buckysfaveplum

Summary: when a mission takes a turn for the worst, Bucky and y/n are forced to confront their feelings for each other.

: ̗̀➛ safe haven by @buckysfaveplum

Summary: in the aftermath of the mission, y/n and Bucky realize just how strong their feelings for each other actually are (forcefield part 2)

: ̗̀➛ it’s up that i fell by @buckysfaveplum

Summary: the five years after the snap has changed a lot. with y/n on the run, her and Bucky have to make the best of the one moment they have together (based on As Long As Your Mine from Wicked)

: ̗̀➛ solace by @buckysfaveplum

Summary: Bucky’s been avoiding the idea of you spending the night, until he no longer can. After you witness one of his nightmares, he prepares for you to end it.

: ̗̀➛ OCEAN EYES by @noceurous

Summary: this is the story of James ‘Bucky’ Barnes learning what love and being loved is like.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐢’𝐦 ‘𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲’ by @noceurous

Summary: he loved you and you loved him, but sometimes things weren’t all simple like that.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 by @noceurous

Summary: alcohol, heavy amount of nostalgia, and bucky barnes what good could come up from that combination?

: ̗̀➛ what the fuck did you do by @sunmoonandbucky

Summary: Bucky’s been using you to try to make Natasha jealous.

: ̗̀➛ “coded in pain" by @riverevelations

Summary: after figuring out the reasoning behind Bucky’s seemingly ingrained habit, you try to help him break it. even through all of the bumps and potholes that come with this long journey, you prove to him that you’ll be by his side no matter what.

⛧FLUFF & RANDOM (SMUT)⛧

: ̗̀➛ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 | 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 and part 2 by @coffeecatsandcandles

Summary: Bucky reunites with you after the blip, only to find out he’s now a father.

: ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐘𝐨𝐮 | 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 by @coffeecatsandcandles

Summary: Bucky holds your baby for the first time. Inspired by Wanda saying to Vision, “Don’t you want to meet your son as yourself?” in WandaVision.

: ̗̀➛ Breaking Through by @youlightmeupfinn

Summary: You work as a doctor, treating the Avengers when need be. Bucky pushes you away, but you make it your mission to break through to him.

: ̗̀➛ Doll, I’m Home by @youlightmeupfinn

Summary: What if Bucky never fell off the train but actually made it home to you, safe and sound?

: ̗̀➛ Fluffy Bucky by @youlightmeupfinn

Summary: Your Tony’s younger sister, about to marry Bucky Barnes, the ’same guy who beat his face in at the airport’ as Tony liked to put it.

: ̗̀➛ agoraphobia by @buckysfaveplum

Summary: you bring Bucky along on your weekly trip to the farmer’s market. things are going great until you two get separated in a large crowd.

: ̗̀➛ a light in the window by @sunmoonandbucky

Summary: Bucky sees a light in the darkness.

: ̗̀➛ keep me masterlist by @sunmoonandbucky

Summary: Ways to say “I love you” without actually saying it.

: ̗̀➛ it’s brooklyn, baby by @riverevelations

Summary: a series of one-shots, blurbs, and multi-part chapters starring the golden college!trio and our very own, y/n. along with a few guests!

: ̗̀➛ “ain’t no rest for the wicked” by @riverevelations

Summary: the soldat was assigned to train her. he saw himself in her, attempting to get her to safety before hydra could have their way with her. prisoners don’t get merciful punishments, not this prisoner, at least.

If you are looking for only smut here is a fic rec I made focusing around only smut. :)

#bucky barnes x smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #marvel #mcu #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barns imagine #bucky imagine #bucky fluff #tony x bucky #bucky fanfic #buckysam #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #beefy bucky #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes blurb #bucky barnes x oc #winter soldier #winter solider #captain america

[cryptiql]

riptide

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 4.9k

a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)

dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.

he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.

dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.

he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.

he knew this would happen.

but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.

he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.

dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"

you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.

he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.

when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.

"is that a cake?"

you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.

"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.

"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.

you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.

"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.

"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.

"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.

"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."

dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?

why? why? why?

dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.

the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.

as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.

"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.

dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.

"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"

to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.

"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."

dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.

"i need you to do something for me."

the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.

"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.

"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"

this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.

coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.

"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."

despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.

dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.

dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.

the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.

"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.

"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.

"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.

"nah, you're probably right."

the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.

it wasn't raccoons.

dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.

the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.

in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.

even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.

something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.

the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—

dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.

"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.

"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.

you've never looked so pale.

a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.

"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.

"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.

dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.

and now you're gone.

you're gone, and—

dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.

where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.

his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.

"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.

you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.

it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.

a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.

if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.

"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.

dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.

#⛓.dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #anime x male reader #mha x male reader #touya todoroki x male reader #my hero x reader #my hero x y/n #boku no hero x reader #x male reader #bnha x you #dabi fluff #dabi angst #dabi imagine

[maxwell-grant]

Can you write about the Shadow's disfigurement ? I read that originally he was supposed to have a bandaged injured face like Darkman but that changed later

(Fan-art by Ryan Thompson)

It's a great signifier of what kind of character The Shadow is and how interesting of a figure he is in that, even a detail as innocuous as just his face has a whole sprawling history of intrigue and contradictions to talk about, not even getting into the specific features of his like the eyes and the nose, just the face. It's really great how I never run out of stuff to talk about with this character.

The true nature of The Shadow's face is an interesting oddity from the early stories that was never resolved in them, and several stories later took for a spin. It was one of the bits of information about The Shadow that Gibson reserved for rare and critical occasions, but it never really had a resolution and seemed to have been ignored when it was time to reveal Kent Allard.

Thing is, though, it was never really officially retconned, and it wasn't something you could ignore, it played a crucial role in some stories. And Gibson wasn't at all the kind of author who forgets plot points, he was fond of keeping notes and occasionally referencing his own continuity, which makes it all the more odd that a detail as important as The Shadow's real face was just not brought up again past a certain point. So here's the story of The Shadow's "real" face:

In the very first story, when Gibson was still testing the waters of what the character was going to be, he included a passage that teases a backstory for the character, as a former aviator who was scarred in the war.

"I seen The Shadow..." said Spotter eagerly. "I looked for his face. I saw nothing but a piece of white that looked like a bandage. Maybe The Shadow ain't got no face to speak of. Looked like the bandage hid somethin' in back. There was a young guy once who the crooks was afraid of -- he was a famous spy in the War, and they say he was wounded over in France -- wounded in the face. I think The Shadow is this guy come back." - The Living Shadow

In many of the following novels, even past the point where Gibson would more or less drop the idea all together, The Shadow's face is repeteadly described as "mask-like", usually when he's Cranston, something that both refers to the fact that he's masking himself as Lamont Cranston as well as Cranston's general impassive character. Throughout the character's entire run, Gibson never drops the idea of The Shadow's face being mask-like.

Cranston's eyes were almost smiling, even though his lips weren't - Dictator of Crime

The Shadow's methods of disguise are vague, but usually described as him using make-up putty on his face, using wire contraptions or wire masks, or thin sheets that he drapes over his features, and etc, it usually changes depending on the story or is all of these at once. The idea that The Shadow's true face had some kind of bigger secret was brought back a couple of stories later, when a villain unmasks The Shadow for the first time.

An arm came from the curtain. It reached forward and plucked the black hat from The Shadow's head. A low sound of amazement came from the curtain when the face of The Shadow was revealed.

"The secret of The Shadow," came the monotonous voice. "At last it is understood! The man of many faces - with no face of his own!" - The Black Master

The events of this story were brought up later in a story called Green Eyes, and four months after Green Eyes, we got The Shadow's Shadow, a novel whose resolution incorporated The Shadow's face in the finale.

Zubian's snarl became a cry of triumph as he saw The Shadow roll upon the floor. The slouch hat was carried away by the bullet. The head of the Shadow lay obscured beneath the folds of his cloak.

Zubian was aiming to fire further shots, to make sure of the Shadow's death; but he never accomplished that final purpose. An arm swept upward from the floor. Behind it came those glowing eyes; but it was not the eyes that stopped Felix Zubian. He was staring into the face of The Shadow -- not the disguised features of Lamont Cranston or Henry Arnaud -- but the visage of The Shadow himself!

What Zubian saw there; what expression on The Shadow's countenance made even that fiendish villain gasp in horror; no one could ever know. For Felix Zubian knew his last moment of life in that fateful instant. His trembling finger faltered on the trigger of his gun. The Shadow's unfailing hand did not yield - The Shadow's Shadow

And then, a year after this story, we got The Black Falcon, which has the most overt usage of The Shadow's "horror" face as it's once again the secret tool that allows The Shadow to gain victory over the villain

"If you are not Cranston," he demanded. "Who are you?"

"You shall learn." The Shadow's tone was ominous. "It will be your deserved warning. For those who have seen the true face of The Shadow have never lived to recite their discovery."

The man's face was ashen. A whispered laugh came from The Shadow's lips.

Only The Shadow knew why the sight of his dread face had brought terror to this evil fiend who never before to-night had known fear.

The face of The Shadow! The face that was never seen except when disguised to represent some other countenance. Roland Ransdale had met The Shadow face to face. The Black Falcon, he who had terrorized the law, had lost all nerve when he had viewed the true visage of The Shadow!

Only brilliant eyes remained in view. Burning eyes that surveyed the gasping shape of a man who had once thought himself invincible. As the fierce crook caught the burn of The Shadow's eyes, that sight, he knew, had been his sentence of doom. His nerve had passed with that revelation."

Stooping above the body of The Black Falcon, The Shadow hovered like a monster of the night..." - The Black Falcon

The last time we'd get a mention of The Shadow's face undisguised came from The Python. After he gets attacked and falls on a river, he's rescued by a couple of fishermen, and the narration states that the Cranston make-up had been blown off.

Squarely in the center of the rowboat lay a form attired in black trousers and a bedraggled white shirt.

Most of The Shadow's make−up had survived; but his features were no longer a close resemblance of Lamont Cranston's. He was still disguised; but only in a fashion. A grotesque hollowness had come upon his hawklike countenance. To Tanker and Pete, however, The Shadow was no more than a chance swimmer exhausted in the river - The Python

For the most part, any and all references to The Shadow's face from that point onwards would only be about how he alters it when he disguises, a process that's vaguely alluded to and usually implies him using make-up or wire frames to mold his face. In The Man From Shanghai, he even switches from Henry Arnaud to Lamont Cranston in the span of a single cab ride, and apparently keeps the Cranston face underneath the Arnaud one.

Deft fingers, pressing against cheeks and lips, were molding the countenance as one might work with clay - Chain of Death

Opening the briefcase, he produced a make-up box. Surveying his countenance in a mirror, he laughed softly and began to remold his masklike features. His visage changed beneath the pressure of his finger tips - Cyro

So far, the things we'd learned about The Shadow's real face by this point were: whatever is in there is horrifying enough to terrify and even traumatize hardened criminals (even after The Black Falcon gets some nerve back, he still can't bring himself to look at The Shadow without shaking, and it ultimately kills him in a gunfight).

The first story stated it was wounded in the war, and word got out about said injury to the point even an American gangster in the 30s knows about it. However, this fact was never brought up again, and it doesn't seem like a debilitating injury, as his face is malleable to the point of being compared to clay, and he doesn't seem traumatized or upset about it, even laughing at those who see it (which raises the possibility that it wasn't a war injury at all and that's just the story that got out).

It's said to be like "a piece of white that looks like a bandage", and later it was described as something that doesn't even really constitute a face. The only parts of The Shadow's face that are consistent are his burning eyes and his hawklike visage and both of these are malleable, and the most of his facial features we ever get to see for ourselves are described as having a "grotesque hollowness" to it, which is a delightfully horrifying adjective to apply to a face.

7 years after The Living Shadow, we got The Shadow Unmasks, which established that The Shadow's real, undisguised face was that of aviator Kent Allard. There were no further mentions of there being a "horror face" in further stories. You'd think this would be it, but if you've followed me long enough, you should know by now that there is no such thing as an "end" to weird mysteries when it comes to The Shadow.

In some stories following this one, his abilities of disguise would acquire some strange aspects. He'd be able to disguise himself by actively contorting his face along with the make-up.

Steadily, carefully, he bulged the contour of his forehead; squared his jaw; added a putty−like substance to his cheeks. It required longer for The Shadow to shape his nose like Wadsford's. The Shadow faked a facial twitch that resembled Wadsford's manner. - The Radium Murders

His features squarer; more mobile. Only a slight contortion was required to give them hardness. Thus The Shadow posed as either a respectable pedestrian or a tough-faced thug, according to the places where his search has taken him. - Buried Evidence

In others, he wouldn't even need make-up at all to alter his face.

His slouch hat and his black robe slid away from him. The disguise was thrust into a hidden compartment with one swift gesture. The Shadow was now Lamont Cranston.

But a ripple passed over his mobile face. His mouth and features seemed to writhe. Without changing anything save the habitual expression of his face, Lamont Cranston also vanished.

In his place was a smiling stranger. A man whose mouth looked weak, whose expression seemed almost timid. Well−dressed, faultlessly groomed, he seemed like a harmless, good−natured citizen whose car had broken down on a lonely country road - The Crimson Phoenix

In Shadow Over Alcatraz, The Shadow is even able to even contort the rest of his body to squeeze himself through a seven-inch gap, which is physically impossible for a grown man to pass through without extreme injury

The window was about three feet high, two feet in width. It had two upright bars, dividing it into three spaces, each about seven inches across.

Thrusting one arm through the central sector, The Shadow turned his head sideways and poked it through. Bars grazed his ears; when he turned his head, they became a sort of collar. He was wedging outward, drawing his other shoulder.

Below, his hand gripped rock. The Shadow tugged. It was a tight squeeze for his body, but he seemed to elongate as he drew his chest in. His hips slid past. His tall form teetered outward.

Crime County even states that The Shadow had become adept at remodeling his face through touch alone, and I cannot find any lines in the story that mention he's using makeup.

He was remolding the features of Cranston when Sparrow looked up. It was a process that The Shadow could perform by touch alone, even in comparative darkness.

Cranston's face was not The Shadow's own; in itself it was a disguise. A spreading motion somewhat flattened the aristocratic profile; downward pressure added a bulldog effect to the jaw.

And as the magazine reached it's final stretch, we started to get mentions in story that alluded to The Shadow's "real" face, undisguised, being that of Lamont Cranston

If Jud had known that Cranston in his other life was The Shadow, he would have... A tug of The Shadow's hat brim and his own face, that of Cranston, was obscured - The White Skulls

The Shadow's eyes, yet strangely Cranston's, for this was one time The Shadow did not care to disguise them - The Whispering Eyes

Which only capped off the mystery of his real identity by bringing a loop around itself, as suddenly it seemed Kent Allard was Lamont Cranston who was Kent Allard who was The Shadow who was Lamont Cranston and so on.

So looking on it now, "disfigurement" isn't really accurate. It's how it's been utilized in some stories past the pulps, Michael Uslan's comic storylines in particular leaned more heavily into it as a war trauma for The Shadow and a dramatic backstory. I have mixed feelings on this and you could argue it's playing with some ugly and unnecessarily ableist tropes (like The Phantom of the Opera), but if you gotta give him a punchy superhero backstory, I definitely prefer that than what the movie went with. It works to emphasize a tragedy tothe character's background.

But "disfigurement" isn't really the right word for it, because we only got one mention, in the first story, that it was due to an injury, and it came from a third party who had only heard faint rumors about a guy who could have been The Shadow once. Being defined as someone who's sacrificed his identity to fight crime, it's easy to assume that The Shadow's face is horrible to look at because it was destroyed in the war which already took so much.

Maybe that's just what he'd like you to think. Maybe that's all you need to know.

Every other instance in the pulps where we got to peer into some secret of The Shadow's face, it was never played up as if it was an injury due to some dramatic past event, but rather as if it was some horrifying secret of his true self that we were only getting the barest glimpses of.

Something that's gotta be much grislier than just mangled features, if it gets hardened criminals to quake in abject fear. Something that somehow still allows him to distort his face far beyond what's humanly possible, with and without outside assistance. Something that allows his "real self" to be, at separate points in time, Kent Allard and Lamont Cranston.

Something that makes it so he can have many faces, and yet no true face of his own. The great secret of The Shadow, and one that's always going to have a different answer. One where he himself only has one thing to say about it

Those who have seen the true face of The Shadow have never lived to recite their discovery.

Y-You cannot frighten me, maniac! You are only a man!

Am I?

#replies tag #the shadow #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #the living shadow #green eyes #horror

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 23

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: There's Chekhov's gun and then there's Ernesto's poison.  You know the rule.

Art is by @lunaescribe​ and @swanpit​!

***

“This way, all of you, don’t make noise.”

“But Sister Antonia, these are your quarters--”

“And you’ll stay here until you’re told otherwise, chicos. Make no noise. We’ll bring you food here until they’re gone.”

“But the girls…?”

“They wouldn’t take them for their ranks. God willing, they’ll leave them be. We’ll keep them safe, too. Now you stay here, all right?”

A few terrified, wide-eyed glances from the boys. No reply. 

“Am I clear?”

“S-sí.”

“Can we pray, Sister?”

“... Quietly,” Sister Antonia said, her voice tight in the way one’s voice gets when it’s so close to breaking up, and she closed the door, turning the key in the lock. When she turned to grab the bookcase and drag it across the floor, Imelda stepped in to help her push it. It left deep scratches on the wooden boards, but no matter. They would cover that with a rug. 

“Is Miguel still missing?” Imelda asked, her voice as firm as she could make it. Antonia lowered her gaze with a nod. 

“He’s the only one who didn’t come back. None of the boys has seen him since they went out to play hide and seek.”

Imelda bit her lower lip hard enough to almost break the skin. “Nor Óscar, have they?” she forced herself to ask, and the slow nod felt like a blow. Where was he? Where had they both gone? Could it be that they had both made it to her parents’ home, that Miguel had followed Óscar there? Maybe he had, maybe they were both safe. 

God, please.

“I’m sorry, Imelda,” Antonia’s voice reached her as though from a mile away, and she scowled. Anger came easier than despair, and it was more than welcome. No point in fearing the worst behind the safety of those walls.

“They may very well be safe and sound,” she snapped, and marched to the door. “I will go out looking. If they ask, I’m looking for some of our girls. Make sure they’re all in - if anyone asks, this is a girls-only institution.”

“... Do you know where Sofía is?” Antonia spoke up, fear now showing in her voice, and it made Imelda pause. As much as she rolled her eyes at their antics, poorly hidden behind hastily closed doors and too thin walls, Imelda knew they cared deeply about one another. 

“She’s taking care of something important. She will be here soon. Don’t worry,” she added, and smiled in the attempt to convey a sense of calm she did not feel. “She can handle herself just fine.”

Antonia’s own lips curled in a weak smile. “I won’t tell her you admitted that. Be careful out there. I really do want to see the gringo’s face when Padre Ernesto officiates your wedding.”

Imelda, who rather liked the idea of her wedding actually being both legal and valid in the eyes of God, knew they would probably have to settle for the gringo to officiate it, but that was not the moment to voice that thought. Except that, as she stepped out and ran towards the plaza, she quickly found out that perhaps the gringo would be in no position to officiate anything anymore, either. 

“What…?” Imelda stopped in her tracks, stunned at the sight of several men quickly carrying a body towards the church on a sheet, dark blood a stark contrast to the man’s pale skin and fair hair. He looked-- was he-- dead?

If they go around shooting priests, none of us is safe.

There was no love lost between her and Father John Johnson, and yet there was a stab of something in her stomach at the idea he may be dead. He had been trying to help, after all. He had left the relative safety of the parish to help its people.

Maybe he just said something stupid. He does it a lot. Only this time they were armed.

“Go call doctor Sachéz,” Imelda heard someone saying as they passed her by, but before she could even voice her question - would the doctor be of any use, was he even still alive? - someone else called out her own name. 

“Imelda!”

Ceci’s voice caused her to tear her gaze off the gringo who was perhaps an ex gringo. She was running up to her, hair dishevelled in a way Imelda had never seen it - she had always been dignified, even when they were young girls.

But today was not a normal day. 

“They have Miguel,” Ceci panted, grabbing her shoulders. “And Óscar.”

No. No. No.

For a moment, just a moment, the world seemed to spin around her. It was as though sunlight itself faded for a moment, distant screams muffled, leaving the world empty and dark. Imelda’s knees may have buckled, they almost did, but she couldn’t allow herself to collapse.

“Their commander is loco,” Ceci was saying, eyes wide. “He just kept screaming about a deserter, one de la Cruz, and the more we swore none of us knew him the more he lost it. And when Padre Juan stepped in-- Imelda! Wait! Come back!”

Imelda didn’t listen: she just tore away from her grasp and ran, towards the plaza, towards the cries. 

They had her brother. They had her charge.  She had to go to them.

Whenever she thought about that nightmare scenario, Imelda was so certain of what she’d do: get the pistol she had taken from Ernesto, and use it the second it was necessary. But now that it was happening, she knew that taking out the gun would mean signing her death warrant, and that of God knew how many others in the village. A lone woman with a pistol - she would be killed quickly, and retribution on everyone else would be swift. She would be of no use to anyone dead. 

Maybe Ernesto had been right, after all. What involvement she’d had had been from the sidelines. She knew nothing of war; Santa Cecilia knew nothing of war. 

But war had come to them, and it was a matter of learning fast or dying. 

He just kept screaming about a deserter.

There is no mercy in war, Ernesto had said.

He’s one of our own now. I can’t give him away. 

They have Óscar.

I promised we would protect him.

They have Miguel. 

We protect our own.

He lied to us. 

There must be something we can do. Anything. 

As she ran as fast as her robes allowed her, blood rushing in her ears and thoughts going in circles, Imelda could only pray that Ernesto would stay at the González farm, unaware, for as long as possible. 

If he returned too early and they found out he was there, and that they hadn’t handed him over, it would spell disaster for all of them.

***

“Miguel!”

Héctor’s scream was loud enough to hurt his throat, and it was still lost under the echo of the gunshot, under the wordless cries of the people of Santa Cecilia trying to back away, the shouts of those calling out for doctor Sanchéz and the stunned cries of ‘he shot him, he shot a man of God ! ’ coming even from the Federales themselves. 

It was lost beneath all the confusion, and Miguel’s screams. 

“No! What have you done! What have you done!”

“Be still-- be still, brat! Don’t try my patience, there is a bullet for you too if you won’t--!”

“Let me go!”

“I am warning you!”

“Murderer! Let me g--!”

“Wait! Por favor!”

This time, Héctor’s cry was loud enough to be heard. That, and it’s rather hard not to notice someone in a priestly robe throwing himself in front of your horse, gripping the reins and looking up at you with a look of pure anguish on his face. 

The commander seemed startled, pistol still in mid-air, and he let his gaze shift from Héctor to the motionless priest bleeding out on the cobblestones, a few men already trying to press on the wound to stop the blood loss, calling for help to take him to the doctor. Héctor didn’t look down, didn’t focus on the fact he had just witnessed a man being shot down, didn’t even think he was putting himself in danger of being next. 

All he knew was that the man had Miguel, and he couldn’t have him.  

He opened his mouth to plead, but the commander’s eyes were back on him and he spoke up before he could. In his grasp Miguel was shaking, eyes full of tears and skin ashen.

“Are all priests in this village eager to become martyrs? Let go of the reins now, or--”

“I’ll join you,” Héctor blurted out, holding tighter onto the reins. “I beg of you to let him go. I’ll take his place.”

The soldier’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline; Miguel, on the other hand, let out a gasp.

“Héctor, no--!” he choked out, only to trail off when the man gave him a shake. 

“You know him?”

“He is a warden of the Church. I--”

“Well, go back to the Church. We don’t take in priests.”

“I am a novice, not a priest,” Héctor spoke quickly, and fell on his knees. Blood soaked through the robe, warm and wet, while somewhere behind him Father John was taken away on a sheet. Federales allowed it, most of them probably still stunned at the notion their commander had just shot a priest; many held no more love for the Church than Huerta himself did, but fear of God’s punishment was too ingrained in their hearts since childhood not to hold some weight. “I have taken no vows-- none. I can join the army. I’ll do it right now. I’ll do anything you ask.”

There was a hiccupping sob, tears spilling down Miguel’s cheeks. He was always such a lively boy, so smart, always up to something - but now he only looked like the scared child he was. Héctor desperately wanted to comfort him, but he dared not tear his gaze from that of the commander, whose harsh expression had softened even so slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was… calmer. 

“You seem to care about this muchacho an awful lot.”

“He’s like a son to me,” Héctor said, and he realized the truth of it only as it left his lips. Miguel let out another sob, trying to wipe his eyes. 

“Héctor…” he managed, and Héctor finally dared smile at the boy. A shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

“It will be all right, chamaco, I promise,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it, and looked back at the soldier, who stared back a few moments… and finally lowered the pistol, putting it back in the holster. 

“What is your name?”

“Héctor, señor.”

“Héctor and what else?”

“Just Héctor. I-- I have no family.”

“Can you hold a gun?”

“Sí.”

“Shoot?”

“I-- only tried a few times. But I will learn.”

“Mph. I guess it’s something. We can’t be picky these days.”

“You won’t regret it. I swear.”

The man sighed. Much later on, Héctor would wonder if the look he gave him that moment truly was somewhat apologetic, or if it had just been his imagination. To his last day, he would never be entirely sure. “... Very well, Just Héctor. I am Commander Hernández. Welcome to the Federal Army,” he said, and let go of Miguel. The boy jumped off the horse and was in Héctor’s arms the next moment, crying hard, face pressed against his shoulder. 

“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” he sobbed, holding on tight. “You’ve got to get married-- I’m sorry I was so mad at you-- please don’t go--”

I’m sorry, Imelda.

“It will be all right,” Héctor managed, trying to sound as optimistic as he could. “I’ll be back once this is over and I’ll have plenty of stories to tell.”

Miguel sniffled, still holding on tight. “Promise,” he choked out. 

“I swear.”

Another shuddering breath. “Did you-- do you really--?”

“All right, all right, enough. Just looking at you makes my teeth rot.”

Gustavo’s voice rang out suddenly, and Miguel was torn from Héctor’s arms before he could react. He tried to protest, to break free, but Gustavo had already pushed him back towards Chicharrón, who trapped him in a steely grip the boy had no chance of escaping - Héctor would know, he had been on the receiving end of that a few times before. 

As the old gravedigger began pulling Miguel away despite his protests, and Héctor stood - so much blood on the cobblestones, surely the gringo was dead - Commander Hernández gave Gustavo a somewhat weary glance. “And you are…?”

“Gustavo Torres, señor. I wish to join your ranks,” Gustavo said, making a dismissive gesture towards the plaza behind him. “I’ve had enough of this place. I am a good shooter, too,” he added. Héctor knew that was an absolute lie: Gustavo couldn't even hit his own foot with any type of firearm. What the hell was he going on about - and why join the Federales? He was a pendejo, that much was no mystery, but since well did he support Huerta? What was going on?

Commander Hernández tilted his head, seemingly taken aback of for entirely different reasons. It probably wasn’t often anyone volunteered to join. “... Well then. If you’re willing to join, I see no reason to deny you.”

“Uh, Commander…” a soldier approached them, looking a little shaken up. Either he was new to all this, or he found his commander had gone a step too far in shooting a man of God in cold blood - gringo or not. He gestured towards a group of people behind him, separated from the rest of the plaza; all men of varying ages… and, to Héctor’s horror, among them there was a boy. Óscar. “We have the thirty men you ask--.”

“No you don’t,” Gustavo muttered. “What you have is twenty-eight men and a half,” a pointed look in Héctor’s direction, “plus a child. The muchacho with glasses over there? Those two bottle ends on his face are not enough to make him usable with a gun. He couldn’t tell his sister from a donkey. I mean, sometimes no one can,” he added, making Héctor want more than anything to wrap his hands around his neck, thumbs on the throat, and squeeze.

But he could see what he was trying to do, so he held his tongue and his hands. Just barely.

Commander Hernández raised an eyebrow. “If this is an attempt at taking the boy’s place, it is rather transparent,” he said, and Gustavo shrugged. 

“Then I can replace anyone else,” he replied. Either he did an excellent job at sounding like he didn’t give a damn either way, or he really didn’t give a damn either way. “Or you leave with thirty-one men. It just seems fair to warn you that the boy’s eyesight is awful and he’d make a poor soldier.”

Commander Hernández turned back to look directly at Óscar, who pressed himself against the wall under his gaze as though trying to make himself feel smaller, all skinny limbs and huge glasses. In the end, the man shrugged. “Mmh. Those glasses do seem awfully thick, and you do look like you’d make a better soldier,” he said, and he gestured for the closest soldier to let him go. Cries of mercy for others rose up from sisters, wives, parents - but none was heeded. There would be no more mercy that day. 

As he watched in relief Óscar being pushed away from the lineup, eyes wide and bewildered, Héctor only vaguely heard the commander’s orders for his men to give the new recruit uniforms, get supplies and fresh horses from the village, and be ready to leave within the hour. He let out a long breath and turned to Gustavo. 

“Gracias,” he murmured, only to get an annoyed look in return. 

“Don’t thank me. If we survive this, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Let me guess. This is all my fault?”

“Of course it is. It’s always your fault, somehow,” Gustavo grunted, glaring at the ground while they walked to get their uniforms. “We can only hope the puta is going to follow my instructions and get us help.”

A thought crossed Héctor’s mind, unexpected and blinding as the flare of a match in a darkened room. He found himself blinking, taken aback. He had no clue who the puta may be, but the rest was… revealing. “Those messages-- the instructions-- was it y ouch! ”

“Scream it for everyone to hear, why don’t you!” Gustavo hissed, falling back into step after stomping on Héctor’s foot. It caused him to walk a bit awkwardly, but he didn’t protest or say anything more. Only after a folded uniform was pushed into his arms - obviously used, ill-fitting and with specks on it that looked a lot like dried blood - did Héctor dare turn, heart heavy in his chest, hoping to get at least one last glimpse of Imelda before he left. 

And, for the second time that day, he got his wish. Imelda stood at the front of the crowd, holding onto Óscar. He was already taller than she was, but she cradled his head the way she did when she was a girl and he was just a young child. Miguel was there, too, having somehow escaped Cheech’s grasp. He was holding onto her robe but, unlike Óscar, he was looking towards him. Both him and Imelda were, his face tear-soaked and blotchy and hers terribly grave, and terribly pale. 

I’m sorry, he ached to tell them both. Stay safe. I love you. I’ll be back soon.

But they were too far away, and he could only hope his glance would be enough to tell them that. He could only hope they knew. 

When I return, Héctor thought, refusing to contemplate any other scenario, to add any ifs to that. He’d be back, whatever it took. When I return and we marry, Miguel will stay with us. 

Only then, with that thought in mind, Héctor was able to give them a weak smile.

***

Had it not been for her brother holding onto her like he hadn’t in years, or for Miguel clinging to her robe while shaking with hiccuping sobs, Imelda may have ran forward. She may have pushed through, to the commander, and screamed to him that she knew where to find the deserter he wanted - that he could have him, if he released everyone else.

One man’s life against thirty. Thirty men, including the one she loved, that could be released in exchange for one. 

I could save him. I could save them all, here and now. 

Later on she would not be proud of what she came so close to doing, but neither would she be ashamed. She had promised Ernesto she would protect him from the Federal Army if it came to it, and she had meant it; if it came to taking a bullet to keep that promise, she’d have taken the bullet. But letting other people do the same… that was where she balked. 

As much as it tore at her heart, she knew Héctor had made his choice. He must have known that giving Ernesto away would save him and Miguel both, but he had decided to take Miguel’s place and keep Ernesto safe instead.  The others, though, had no choice at all. Twenty-nine men who knew nothing of Ernesto’s deceit and could not make their own decision as to whether he should be protected with their lives or not.

There were young husbands, young fathers, family men who may never return home, leaving widows and orphans and lonely parents. Who were they to make that choice for all of them? Who was she to do it?

We protect our own. 

He is one of ours, too. 

One life. One life against thirty. 

Héctor may never forgive me.

He can hate me, if it means he’ll be alive to do it. 

Imelda watched, her head wrapped in silence, as Héctor took a uniform and finally, for the first time, looked back. Their gazes met, the coldness in the pit of Imelda’s stomach turned to ache, and the idiota did the unthinkable. He had the galls to smile at her, and somehow it was the most heartbreaking thing she ever had to endure - seeing that smile, and knowing it may be the last time she did.

No. No, she couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let that smile be taken away from the world a day too soon than it had to, no matter if she would never again see it directed at her. She would live with it. They both would.

With a long breath, Imelda made peace with the fact she may never be able to sleep well again as long as she lived, and gently pushed Óscar away. “Go home,” she told him, stroking his cheek, and went to step forward and go speak with the commander. 

Only to stop as Miguel’s grip on her robe tightened and he pulled her back, looking up at her with a tear-streaked face. “Don’t do it,” he choked out, and Imelda’s blood ran cold. It was as though the child had read her intentions on her face, plain as day. “I promised him he’d be safe here. I promised.”

Oh, my little one. It was too much responsibility to put on you. 

Imelda swallowed, unable to speak for a few moments. “Miguel…” she managed, her voice barely audible, most of it stuck somewhere in her throat. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Sometimes we need to make-- choices we’d never want to make.”

“I don’t want to choose,” Miguel pleaded, still holding on with both hands. “I don’t want either of them to die. He-- he’s loco, you didn’t see how he shot Padre J-Juan, he… he really hates Ernesto, I don’t know why, we can’t let him have him…!”

She sighed, and crouched down, wiping his face with a sleeve. “Miguel, listen to me--”

“No. You listen before you do something I assure you you’d regret.” 

Sofía spoke suddenly before Imelda could say anything more, crouching next to her as though to comfort Miguel as well. “First of all, lower your voice, Jesus Christ. Second, don’t do anything. We can kick Ernesto around for putting us into this mess later, and I’ll be first in line, but no need to see him hang.”

“None of those men has ever been in a battle. If they take them--”

“We’ll take them back.” Sofía pushed something into her hand, a folded piece of paper. “We will have reinforcements.”

“What…” Imelda read the brief message, taken aback. Then she read it again, and again, and again; the handwriting itself struck her as much as the content itself. “Wait… this is…?”

“Same handwriting as the instructions you’ve been getting, yes. It was Gustavo all along.”

Somehow, Imelda may have been less surprised to be told that the Pope himself had been behind the entire thing. Gustavo, of all people? Someone who never cared about anyone other than himself?

Except that he took Óscar’s place just now. I owe him. Oh God, he made me owe him. He will never shut up about it, will he?

“It-- what?” was all Imelda managed to say in the end, stunned. But it made sense, suddenly - how José and his men had known their bell needed repair, and why they had come running to fix it after Ernesto’s unsuccessful attempt, once Gustavo took it upon himself to find a solution. She knew there was something behind it, but she had no idea what. Now she knew.

The bell had always been their means to call for help.

Once they have left, ring the bell to a death knell and don’t stop. Help will come. Tell them to follow the trail. They’ll know.

“Wait, what… what did Gustavo do?” Miguel was asking, confusion overriding his anguish. Sofía smiled, and pulled him close. 

“Don’t worry, niño. We’ll fix everything,” she said, brushing back his hair. She smiled, but even her smile was wrong, sharp, teeth ground tightly. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Imelda stood slowly, slipping the note in her sleeve, and glanced up. Now all she could see were people huddled together mourning their losses, while soldiers took all that was not nailed down in the small weekly market. The men the Federales had chosen to join their ranks were gone, Héctor with them, without so much a last word between them.

No matter. This is not the end. We’ll bring them back. By any means necessary. 

“... Let’s take Miguel back to safety, and be ready to ring the bell once they’re gone.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

“There is something in my room I need to retrieve, and a horse I need to borrow,” Imelda said, very quietly, as they began walking away from the plaza. Sofía still held onto the hand of a very confused Miguel; she knew she was referring to the pistol, she had to know what she meant to do, but she didn’t say as much aloud or try to talk her out of it.

“Of course,” was all she said. "Be careful.”

“What’s happening?” Miguel asked, his voice small. Desperately wanting to be hopeful, but terrified of seeing that hope shattered. “How… can you really fix this?”

“... I’ll do my damndest,” Imelda replied, getting a somewhat shaky laugh from Sofía.

“If the gringo heard you, he’d have a heart attack.”

“Oh!” Miguel seemed to recoil. “Padre Juan! Is he-- did they get him help?”

“Huh?” Sofía looked down, taken aback. “What happened to the gringo?”

“He was shot.” Miguel swallowed, and tugged at her sleeve. “He was trying to save me and… and… can we go to doctor Sanchéz first? Por favor-- just to see if he’s… if…”

His voice faded, and Sofía looked over at Imelda with a bitter smile. “First one points a gun at me, then they shoot a priest. Our robes aren’t much of an armor anymore,” she said, and turned back to Miguel. “... I’ll send one of the sisters to see him as soon as you’re safe with the others, and let you know how he’s getting on. I promise.”

Miguel protested, but not too much. He was exhausted, still in shock for everything he had gone through in the span of little over an hour, and all things considered it was testament to his resilience that he was not curled into a ball and screaming. 

He let Sofía lead him back to the orphanage, and Imelda watched them disappear with a long sigh. He was safe now. He could rest. Her own work, however, had only just begun. 

Imelda gave another quick glance behind her, towards the plaza, before she headed back to her room, where a pistol lay hidden beneath a floorboard, waiting to be loaded. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to it; she had hoped the Federales would spare their village until the end of that war. But there they were, and there she was. 

It was time to see if the hours spent learning to load and aim had been worth something.

***

All right, so maybe the painfully slow trip to the González farm had been worth it, after all. 

Ernesto was almost entirely sure his half-assed blessing had precisely nothing to do with the young bull suddenly realizing what went where and enthusiastically getting to work - too enthusiastically, he had definitely seen more bull than he ever needed to see in his life - but he had to admit, the timing had been nothing short of amazing. 

The look on old Manuel’s face had been a sight to behold, and the fresh eggs he had gifted him immediately afterwards were a nice plus. He’d probably been moments away from falling on his knees and declaring him a true miracle worker, which would have been flattering but also rather awkward, right next to a bull and a cow getting down to business.

Ah, he couldn’t wait to tell Juan his blessing had worked, after all. Maybe he’d suggest Manuel González to name any resulting male calf Ernesto and a female Juanita, just to be spiteful. That would teach him. 

Ernesto was snickering to himself at the idea when suddenly, on the other side of the hill, the bell of Santa Cecilia’s church began tolling - slowly, with long gaps between strikes. It was enough to make the smile fade from his face, heart dropping somewhere in his stomach as always whenever he heard that sound. A death knell. 

What happened? Who died? I was away only hours, what did they do?

It may be nothing, of course; one of the old parishioners may have kicked it, a sad but not really unusual occurrence. With some luck, it may be the insufferable gravedigger. Maybe the sexton had finally fallen off the stairs and broken his stupid neck.

But that couldn’t be it. The death knell would only ring out during a funeral, or… or maybe the damn Pope had died, didn’t all churches do that if news came that the Pope croaked? He was almost sure they did. Or maybe someone had just climbed on top of the belltower to fuck with the bell for no reason. 

I was only gone for a few hours. What can possibly happen in a few hours?

Anything, was the answer. He’d learned the hard way that anything can do wrong in a few hours. Everything can go to shit in less than a few hours, and something in his gut told him that was exactly what had happened. Trying to keep a sudden wave of panic at bay, Ernesto spurred the stupid donkey to go faster until he reached the top of the hill, and looked down.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe; it was as though something had taken hold of his lungs, and squeezed all air out of him. From way up there in the distance, nothing about Santa Cecilia looked amiss - but it was not the village itself he stared at. What made his blood run cold was the column of men on horses and carts further west, leaving it behind. Federales.

They’re leaving, Ernesto thought, hands shaking on the reins. It’s all right, he told himself, but it was a lie and he knew it. The Federal Army never left anything behind if not devastation, and the bell kept going on and on and on, the continuous death knell making him want to scream. He could taste bile, stomach clenching.

Dead, dead, dead.

There it was again before his eyes - the men who stood blindfolded before the firing squad, his own rifle gleaming in the sun, the wails of women and children and the elderly quieted down by the deafening bangs once the order was shouted and they obeyed. When they left those villages, too, had he heard the church’s bell ringing to a death knell. Mourning. 

Santa Cecilia was in mourning. His village, his parish. His people. His friends. Who did they take? Who did they kill? 

Not me. They’re leaving, they must not have been here for me. It’s all that matters, isn’t it?

… Isn’t it?

Ernesto didn’t answer his own question. He shut down all thought the way he desperately tried to shut out the ringing of the bell, and spurred the donkey down the hill as quickly as he could, heart hammering somewhere in his throat.

***

They’re mourning us already. 

The thought was enough to almost break him, but Héctor forced himself to keep going, holding onto the reins of the horse he had been given, clad in the too-small uniform that had been drenched with someone else’s sweat and blood. Forcing himself not to turn, not to break, because he knew that if he did he may never be able to put himself back together. 

Was that how soldiers got through it? Was that how Ernesto had survived until he'd found refuse in Santa Cecilia - by focusing on nothing but the road ahead, never turning back to look at what they may never see again?

No. I will be home again. I’ll be with them again. 

Héctor held tightly onto the reins and followed the horse in front of him, holding onto that thought with all he had.

***

They’ll come as soon as they get the message. They must.

Towards the back of the convoy, Gustavo shot a glance ahead towards the commander. He kept riding, not turning once. Thinking the bells were ringing to mourn them, most likely, or the stupid gringo priest who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, or both. Either way, he would be wrong… but he didn’t know that. He wouldn’t know until it was too late. 

Gustavo Torres pulled a knotted-up handkerchief from his pocket, one of several he’d stuffed in, and prepared to let it drop as soon as the column of men turned to another path.

***

With how little he’d lasted in bed the one night she had been dumb enough to spend with him, Sofía had written off Gustavo’s stamina as non-existing. However now, with her arms already aching from ringing the bell no more than a few minutes, she had to take that back. 

Not that she would say that aloud, let alone in his presence, but apparently he wasn’t bitching for no reason when he said bellringing was more work than it looked like.

No matter. Keep ringing. Keep going. Help will come.

So she did keep going, letting her gaze wander towards the column of men, their men among them, leaving the village right ahead of her. She kept ringing as she noticed Imelda leaving the parish down below, clearly having recovered the pistol they had taken from Ernesto and heading towards her parents’ home to… borrow one of their horses.

Be careful, Sofía thought, and might have prayed for her safety if she still believed God gave a damn. Instead she bit her lips and kept pulling. Kept ringing, focusing on nothing else.

And thus failing to notice Ernesto rushing down the hill, into the village and towards the plaza as quickly as the donkey - and then his legs - could carry him.

***

“They came upon us like locusts--”

“I turned and they were there--”

“They took my son! My only child, what will I do--”

“Why didn’t God smite them where they stood!”

“Thirty men, my brother among them, I ran but I was too late, I couldn’t say goodbye--”

Ernesto heard all of it, heard the cries and pleas, the anger and pain, but they seemed so very distant. He stood on the spot, reeling, eyes fixed on the ground in the middle of the devastated marketplace. 

There was blood. There was so much blood, soaking into dirt and pooling in the cracks between cobblestones. People and carts and horses had stepped over it in the chaos, tracking it everywhere; no matter where he turned, there was blood. A trail of it left the plaza, away from it, towards the church. Only one clear trail.

Only one body. 

“Who…?” Ernesto managed to ask. His ears were buzzing, and his tongue felt too large. The reply came like a blow to the pit of his stomach. 

The Delgado widow crossed herself, her skin pale as ash. “Their commander knows no God. He tried to take an orphan, the boy Brother Héctor spent so much time with-- Marco, was i--”

“Miguel?” Ernesto blurted out, horror stealing his breath for a moment. He looked at the woman with wide eyes, feeling as though all strength was sapped away from his body. All that blood, it seemed impossible it had all come from a child. It felt like a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

No, not him. It can’t be. Héctor will never recover. 

“Yes, Miguel… the poor child, he was so scared. Padre Juan tried to save him, to stop that man, but that beast pulled out his pistol and… and… ay, I told you, he knows no God. To shoot a man of god like an animal!”

“What-- Juan?” Ernesto looked around again, at the blood, at the weeping people all around - and back towards the church, where the trail led. Above him, all around him, the death knell kept ringing.

“He shot-- Juan?”

Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Sí. Ah, it was horrible. He fell back, and didn’t move-- so much blood, I couldn’t bear to watch.”

Ernesto staggered back, light-headed, struggling to make sense of what had happened. How had it happened? Only hours earlier, Juan had been alive and well - in a good mood, even. Messing with him by sending him out to bless a stupid bull. He’d chuckled, patted his arm like the insufferable bastard he was, promised there would be no Latin lesson that evening.

And now there would be Latin lessons at all, ever again, because that idiota could learn every stupid rule of an useless dead launguage but didn’t have enough brains not to step between a man with a gun and his target. 

Bile rose to Ernesto’s throat, and he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelid the sun still shone, merciless, and he stood in the desert, beneath two swaying hanging corpses, talking to a priest on the brink of death. Left to die for trying to be merciful when the world would not, for trying to put himself between prisoner and executioner. 

It was a bad call, Padre, Ernesto had said.

It was my duty, Padre Joaquín had replied. 

Stupid priest. Stupid gringo. 

High above, the bell kept ringing.

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

When Ernesto heard himself speaking again, his voice was barely audible to his own ears. “... And Miguel?” he managed. Had Juan’s death at least been worth something, anything at all?

“Oh, the child is safe-- Brother Héctor took his place, it was heartbreaking to see, but at least he has a chance of coming back alive.”

Ah, of course. Of fucking course Saint Héctor had taken the boy’s place. What was it with that village that made everyone so damn inclined to martyrdom? What was it about Santa Cecilia that made those who lived there so eager to die a stupid death?

God damn you, stop dying on me. Stop leaving me behind. 

“Padre Ernesto, will you pray to God for our men’s return?” a voice spoke up, and Ernesto turned to face a small, scared crowd. It was the first time he got to linger in a village after the Federal Army left it behind, and he found he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the anger, the pain, the pleading looks. He couldn’t stand how the first thing they chose to do was praying to a God who would not hear, or chose not to listen. 

God had never been any good to Ernesto. He had long since learned that if you want a job well done, you have to do it yourself. 

Ernesto gave a kind smile, seething with anger behind it. Anger was good, though. Anger would get things done. Anger was something solid to cling on to, so that he could ignore that other thing gnawing at him, threatening to undo him if he let himself acknowledge it.

He knew what he had to do.

“Of course,” Ernesto said, still smiling. “I will immediately retire to pray for their safe return in the chapel. If you’ll excuse me.”

He rushed towards the parish before any of them could say one more word - and before any of them could mention anything about the deserter they were looking for. He followed the blood trail for a distance and then diverged towards the back of the church, the death knell unbearably loud in his ears. He did his best to shut it out, to focus on the small voice in the back of his head. Juan’s voice, back when they had only just met. 

“As the founder of my order said, todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.”

Any means to find the divine will. 

Ernesto had seen the wisdom in de Loyola’s words then, and he certainly saw it now. By the time he reached the small shed where holy wine was stored, among other things, the blood rushing in his ears almost covered the incessant ringing of the bell. His hand closed around the cold metal key in his pocket, and bared his teeth in a smile that was almost a snarl, jaw clenched so tightly his face hurt. 

He had no idea what the divine will was, and neither did he care. He knew his own will, and he would see it become reality. 

“Todo modo,” he gritted out, and turned the key in the lock.

***

“... Do you think he has any chance of pulling through, Doctor Sanchéz?”

The man didn’t reply right away, washing his hands in a bowl of warm water that had by now turned almost completely red, as had the towels strewn about. For several moments all Antonia could hear was the quiet splashing of water, the distant echo of the bell ringing outside - what was Sofía doing? - and the painful-sounding gasps as Father John Johnson struggled to draw in each breath, eyes shut, skin pale and clammy, covered by a sheet. 

“Mph. I stitched up all I could, but my guess is that he’ll be the gravedigger’s problem before sundown. I have never seen a man lose as much blood as he did and live to tell the tale.”

Ah. Antonia nodded, folding her hands. There was no love lost between John Johnson and… any of the sisters, really, but this was not something she would wish on anyone. 

He tried to stop them. 

“I see,” she finally said. “We will pray for him.”

“Getting Padre Ernesto to come as soon as he returns would be a better use of your time. He will need the final rites,” Sanchéz muttered. Antonia barely had enough time to open her mouth to let him know she would when she was cut off by a groan. They both turned towards the bed; the gringo was still unconscious, but stirring weakly. Or was he regaining consciousness? Had he heard them? Or--

“Er-- nest--o,” he choked out, and that was it. His head fell back on the pillow and he made no more noise except for a weak, low whimper. 

After a long silence, doctor Sanchéz sighed. “... Go get him, for Christ’s sake, so he can give this poor bastard his final rites.”

Antonia nodded, something heavy in her chest, and went out to do just that. She was told almost as soon as she stepped outside that Padre Ernesto had indeed returned, and headed to the church to pray… only that he was not there. He was not in the chapel, not in the living quarters - not in the yard, nor in the orchard, or in the orphanage to comfort the children, or even back at the plaza. No one had seen him since. 

Padre Ernesto had returned, they told her... only that now he wasn’t anywhere.

***

Chicharrón needed a drink. 

It wasn’t that the events of the day had left him shaken, that he had felt powerless, or that he was terrified out of his mind of how quickly Héctor would die in battle, after a lifetime learning how to handle a guitar and barely touching a rifle. It wasn’t that he worried about Miguel’s state of mind, or that he was generally so upset even Juanita looked crestfallen. 

No, of course not. He was too old for that nonsense. He needed a drink for reasons unrelated to the day's mess, that was all, and he knew just where to find it.

But it seemed someone had found it before he did, because the shed’s door was open and what caskets of holy wine had been left were gone. 

Of course, better of them to have found the wine rather than any weapons or other supplies hidden away - that would have probably made them decide to burn Santa Cecilia to the ground - but that was the last straw and Chicharrón was suddenly too furious to even try and see a silver lining to anything. 

“Those bastards! Even the wine! Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Chicharrón would have kicked the door, if not for the fact he would have probably lost his balance or even broken his peg leg, so he did the next most reasonable thing, and punched it. 

“YOWCHGODDAMNIT!”

He punched the door again for good measure - his hand already hurt, anyway - and limped inside. Maybe they had left at least some wine, at least a casket; it wouldn’t hurt to check.

As luck would have it, there was one casket left, but Chicharrón didn’t pick it up right away. For a long time he could just stand frozen on the spot, staring at the empty space where something else had been stored. Something that was not wine at all. 

Well, look at that. Had those damn idiots taken the rat poison, too? God, he hoped they thought it to be sugar or something or the other. He hoped they would eat it and choke on it. 

Chicharrón limped right out of the shed with the remaining casket under his arm, slamming the door shut behind him and getting ready to toast to that wish - entirely unaware of the fact that a priest who was not a priest at all was currently clambering up the hill with two donkeys, one of whom carrying nothing but caskets of wine, hellbent on making that wish come true. By any means necessary.

High up in the belltower, the bell kept ringing.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

[serararku]

Homesick

She woke up first; a rare occurrence if there ever was one. It was always a treat to be the first one out of bed, but S’era had to be careful- R’zevi was, for the most part, a remarkably light sleeper. If she wanted to start her day without interrupting his peaceful rest, she would have to do so as quietly and as slowly as she could manage. 

Ilm by ilm she pulled away at the covers, until her bare toes popped out from beneath the blankets. She pressed her elbow against the bed and pushed herself upright, overtly cautious of the one creaky spring residing somewhere between their bodies. With her thumb and index finger she lifted his wrist off her waist, and pushed the spare blankets underneath so he could still have something warm to hug. Now that the hardest part was finally out of the way, S’era slowly swung each naked leg off the edge of the bed, and planted her feet on the freezing wooden floor.

“What should I make him for breakfast?”

Her eyes darted along the inner confines of the fridge to find an abundance of alcoholic delights, and a stark few items that could even qualify as a balanced breakfast. She was no cook- that much was certain- but she wanted to try. Fortunately he would eat just about anything she made him, whether he actually liked the taste or not. The end of her tail bent and twisted when she saw it; the half-empty egg carton tucked in the back corner like the social outcast at a party. Frying up some eggs was so easy even S’era could do it, and as long as she watched the temperature closely, the sound of them cooking wouldn’t be enough to stir him from his sleep.

S’era covered her mouth to muffle her yelp when the bubbling butter she tossed onto the pan spit at her. With her gamble to excite her lover should he wake as she was cooking him breakfast, she neglected the golden rule of cooking; never do it naked. But she couldn’t stop and put on some clothes now- by the time she settled on an outfit for the day, the butter would be burned and so would the last precious eggs they had. “If you’re crazy enough to stick your hand in a fireplace, you can take a few stinging drops of butter…!” She took in a few deep breaths, protected her nipples with a free arm, and used her tail to protect everything south of the border.

Six spotted dodo eggs. Garlean salt. Crushed and dried red peppers. La Noscea cheddar. All mashed together in a clumsy attempt to make something edible -- the smell was fantastic at least, yet it looked absolutely awful. Another genius idea popped into her head, and she fetched several premade flour tortillas, dropped her sizzling goop into them, then folden them all in half. Breakfast was served. Breakfast was saved.

“Oh, Zeviiii~” S’era softly called, turning to look up at the second-floor. “Breakfast is reaaady!” She heard him stir and mumble under his breath, but much to her dismay, he didn’t sit up and see her in all her glory. Disappointed but not deterred, she slid his breakfast onto a plate and cautiously took the slender stairs back up to the curtained room suspended over the bathtub. When she used her tail to sweep away a curtain to step inside, the hairs on her nape stood up, and she felt the back of her scalp tighten.

R’zevi had the blanket tucked against his body, his arms and legs wrapped around it like he was holding her instead. He looked so innocent, despite their escapades the night prior, like a child clinging to his mother’s leg. Seeing him curled up in their bed washed away any intent to wake him. Instead S’era gently set the plate down on the nearby drawer and slipped back into bed with him. Keeping his stomach full and his stones empty was the greatest thing to happen to her in recent memory, but the small details are what truly brought her joy.

It was the way he looked at her. How his stunning blue eyes flickered the first time he saw her naked. How his ears would drop ever so slightly and his voice would rise whenever he spoke to her when they were alone. When the corners of his lips would curl back before he told her a lie. Or even when she was simply sitting in his lap, or running her fingers through his soft hair, how strongly his heart would pound against his chest from excitement. She could feel the hairs on his arms stiffen when she touched him, even now as he slept. Noticing his beaming smile when he first noticed her enter the room usually remained the highlight of her day. But S’era wanted more; she wanted her belly to swell from his child. She wanted to see if he would cry when she walked down the aisle. She wanted to grow old with this hard-headed fool -- the only man in this world that was as insufferably stubborn as she was. But how could she walk with him hand in hand into the rest of their lives when she still kept things from him?

Even staring face to face with her lover, close enough to smooch him, was not enough to keep her worries in check for long. The overly cheerful façade she’s maintained for a few moons or so, coupled alongside the Ashen Wolves dealing with their own problems, has kept attention away from her mental health for the time being. But it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.

S’tage’s killer was still out there, roaming free. The love she thought she had for that man had long extinguished, but it didn’t change the fact that someone she knows killed him. But for what reason? Spite? Was it a scornful lover she had from before? If they were jealous of her affections for S’tage, then why didn’t they return to her when she was heartbroken and single? She didn’t get it -- and a part of her was grateful she didn’t know the truth, for the truth would be far more terrifying than she could imagine. And yet… deep down she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave the past where it lay until she had answers to questions she wasn’t comfortable with handling, especially by herself.

Another unanswered question and troubling mystery revolved around her wrathful anger. She’s been angry before -- furious even, but never to the extent where she became a mindless killing machine. Those filthy Garleans all deserved a gruesome death and more, but, not by her hand; they should have swung from the gallows like every other criminal. The death she gave them was still, in fact, merciful. But all that was beside the point. Learning how to properly wield a katana in the endangered and nearly forgotten Doman arts had awakened something sinister in her. She could hear it ringing in her head. Wiggling in her blood. Scratching at the cracks in her skull. If she was cursed, she couldn’t bear the thought of passing this maddening rage down to her children; what if in her blind anger she hurt them? She shuts down when she goes into that murder trance. Her next ‘episode’ could have her killing the closest people in her life.

As much gil as she could afford, all went to every doctor, every alchemist, every scholar, and every conjurer she could find, and whenever R’zevi asked what she was spending all her money on, the usual excuse was ‘treats’ and ‘snacks’. Whether he believed her or not, she didn’t know for certain; but she couldn’t keep lying to him forever. She needed answers, and she only had one last card up her sleeve left to get them -- her ancestral home and the life she left behind.

The Zu Tribe.

S’era smiled when R’zevi wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, mumbling something softly in his sleep. His breakfast was already cold by now, but she didn’t mind. Slowly she closed her eyes in his warm embrace, and drifted back to sleep.

---

Mentions: @rzevi-tia-ffxiv​

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

roddy plays fire emblem: three houses - prologue

all I know about this game I learned from twitter. I don’t know much of anything about this game. but I’ll tell you what I know about the characters anyway.

I’m only doing characters who I can distinctly recall off the top of my head. I’m not looking up anyone’s names because there are so many characters in this game.

Byleth - the player character. a teacher at this academy, despite not being much older than the oldest students here. game devs are cowards who couldn’t believe that lady Byleth could be Big Sexy in proper armor and instead they gave her fuckin....thigh-highs and lace and a titty window and a belly-button window ma’am your organs are there, you can’t expose that. my disdain for impractical lady armor is outweighed by my desire to play as the girl whenever possible, so like, I’ll play Lady Byleth, but I just won’t be happy about it. 

Jeralt - Byleth’s dad? I think it’s Jeralt? There’s some other guy who looks a lot like the guy who I think is Byleth’s dad so I can’t actually tell you if I got the name right. he’s a mercenary. I don’t know why he and his kid are hired at a fuckin....church academy? but they are. he raised Byleth basically as a feral child and he doesn’t even know how old they are? even though his wife died in childbirth and I think he talks about how long ago that was? or something? there’s something about him not knowing how old his own kid is. Dad what the hell.

Rhea - the lady pope of The Church, but not a cool ladypope like Leliana Dragon Age. I saw someone compare her outfit/hair to Ghetsis from Pokemon and I sent that meme to Wolf and Liam asking if they could confirm or deny and they told me that’s an insult to her but Ghetsis is slime of the earth so relatively, we still don’t know. I don’t trust her because I don’t trust quasi-historical-inspired-setting fantasy church leaders, except for Leliana/Vivienne/Cassandra.

Seteth - green hair? all the church people have green hair are they related? is it magic? I think it’s magic, Byleth’s hair is sometimes green. he’s like the Hot Dad but since he’s not your dad you can romance him. I don’t know if I trust his goatee but one of my friends retweets a lot of art of him and I trust her so maybe I trust him? he’s on thin ice.

Flayan? Flayn? Flyann? I’m calling her Flan like the custard but I know there’s a Y in there somewhere right? - more green hair, so a church person I guess. I have no idea how old she is because this is anime and she could be anywhere from 12 to an ancient dragon person because I know this series has some of those. maybe Seteth’s daughter?? I get that vibe??

Sothis - the ancient dragon person who looks like a 12 year old girl. more green hair. I couldn’t tell her and Flan apart for a while.

BLACK EAGLES

why aren’t they the Red Eagles? they’re red. the other two are blue and yellow. who named these guys. what the fuck.

Edelgard - every time I see the pokemon Eldegoss in SwSh I think of her. leader of the BE. controversial. very controversial. doesn’t like the Church. I can handle this, I romanced Anders in my first playthrough of DA2 which was my first time playing any Dragon Age game, controversial and Church-hating is like.... sometimes you just gotta blow up a fantasy church, you know? I get it. even if I don’t end up agreeing with her, like, I get it, I guess. she didn’t always have white hair but something happened. there sure is a lot of magic hair color shit in this game. I think Dmitri is her stepbrother.

Hubert - Edelgard’s right-hand man. vampire jokes for days. I’m gonna cut myself on that edge....the edge of his cheekbones they are Sharp. I don’t buy that this guy is a teenager. I don’t know whether he’s actually tall or people just play that up because it’s funny to draw him Tall and Looming behind Edelgard.

Ferdinand von Aegir - I AM FERDINAND VON AEGIR!!!!!!!!

Dorothea - she’s the opera singer one, right? if I got the name wrong, I’m talking about the pretty opera singer one with the hat that’s kinda like a beret. she’s my favorite because I’m gay and she’s very pretty and looks very sweet. she’s like the only one of the Eagles who’s a commoner I think? I don’t know why she’s here but okay. I like her. I would like to kiss her.

GOLDEN DEER

Claude - that’s not his real name. leader of the GD. he’s an archer and he has a big fuckoff dragon wyvern. his mother is from whatever country this game is set in but his dad isn’t and lots of people are rude and racist to him for it. he seems kinda chill but also suspicious of everyone which honestly I get it. also he might poison people? I trust him and I’m sure he has good reason to do it. I support him.

Hilda - Claude’s right-hand lady. pink hair anime girl with a giant fuckoff axe. I thought I knew more about her than that but nope that’s all I’ve got. has an older brother.

Lorenz - purple haired anime boy. look at his post-timeskip haircut this boy is Gay and there’s nothing anyone can tell me that would change my mind. needs to be smacked with some good ol’ Character Development to grow past being a pretentious noble prick but he’s pretty cool once that happens. one of the artists I follow who turned overnight into a FE3H twitter for like six months is a big Lorenz stan so I think I could be biased toward him already but that’s just How It Be when you’re coming into this via osmosis.

BLUE LIONS

Dmitri - leader of the Blue Lions but everyone calls him a boar. gets absolutely hammered by Bad Times in the timeskip and comes back with an eyepatch and absolutely feral and unhinged. murdered a bunch of people? Dimi You Can’t Just Go Around Murdering People. 30-50 feral hogs in a big fuzzy mantle. very unfortunate that he’s being forced to do Leader Shit and just wasn’t allowed to be chill and relax and get to work through his issues instead of getting more of them and going feral.

Dedue - you cannot convince me that this man is not a 30-year-old father of two. how is he a student. get out of here. you’re wrong and you’re lying. who did these character designs. I think out of almost everyone here, he is the guy who Does Not Deserve All Of This but fate has been a dick to him. everyone he loves got murdered by I think Dmitri’s countrymen but now Dedue is Dmitri’s right-hand-man which I do not understand. He deserves better both in-game and also from the writers because they just kind of write him out post-timeskip I hear. just free this man from whatever the fuck is going on in his life and the game. I still don’t believe you that he’s of any age to be a student.

Sylvain - the redhead. childhood friends with Dmitri and someone else but I don’t remember who. The Horny Guy. may just automatically be recruited by Lady Byleth to their class, betraying his country and his oldest friends because he saw a belly-button window. just y’know. sometimes it be like that. 

FELIX - he’s the other childhood friend. I don’t know shit about him.

OTHER STUDENTS WHOSE NAMES I CAN RECALL BUT I DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY ARE AND IT DOESN’T MATTER BECAUSE YOU CAN RECRUIT ALMOST EVERYONE TO ANYWHERE ELSE

Caspar (artist?), Linhardt, Bernadetta (Bernie, my brain keeps just swapping her and Dorothea around because they both have these long regal names but I don’t think they’re actually anything at all alike), Petra, Leonie, Marianne,

ASHEN WOLVES

they’re not really a house they’re just a bunch of people who live in the fucking basement and I think it’s the church’s fault.

Yuri - the other purple-haired anime boy. got kicked out of war crimes academy somehow. declared himself the leader of the basement people and they were just like “hey sure cool I guess”. 

Someone who’s a friend of I think Hilda’s older brother - not even a student or someone who needs to be living in the basement, he’s just down here for tax fraud? debt evasion? again, it be like that.

THE PLOT

matchmaking simulator. Byleth plays matchmaker for all of their students by setting them up into the most healthy friendships/relationships that are as ambiguously gay as the COWARDS writing this game will allow. I know there are a few, but it’s mostly a few Byleth romances, so. that.

also Byleth makes the other professors’ jobs easier by poaching all their students so that they only have to teach like two people while Byleth has everyone in their class. recruit the students by giving them gifts and having tea with them. eat lunch like five times a day trying to hang out with everyone. go fishing. go fishing some more. the game limits your amount of bait per month because otherwise this will be a fishing simulator. I know this specifically because I asked Wolf and Liam if I could just fish infinitely forever and they told me no. I was upset. the day that the game starts is 4/20. I know this because Wolf made a meme about it and that’s what started our long conversation about the game that established nothing.

immediately after everyone graduates, Byleth goes into a fucking coma for five years and wakes up and the five-year reunion is interrupted by a war between the three houses. -rimshot- also there might be some greater threat called the Flame Emperor or some shit but I know fuckall about that. mostly I just know everyone’s despair as they are forced to kill their friends who they didn’t manage to recruit.

I’ve never played a Fire Emblem before and I’ve never known what a tactic is in any RPG I’ve ever played. this is going to be fantastic.

#roddy plays fe3h

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

FANFICTION.NET

TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 09: OUR SPIRITS, KINDRED

QUEST SUMMARY:

When Ariane is kidnapped and the signs point to Sliske, Jahaan is forced to confront the Mahjarrat once again. But this time, things take a turn for the twisted, and Jahaan uncovers the truth behind Sliske’s obsession with him. Can Jahaan survive Sliske’s games? After all, broken bones heal faster than a broken mind…

CHAPTER 6: THE FALLEN HERO

Getting Jahaan to a healer wasn’t as simple as it sounded, especially once the group clocked on that they were in the middle of nowhere.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, a panting Mary Rancour’s shoulders sagged. “Where… where are we?”

Below them, the ground was charred and ashen, coarse and tainted. The same black clouded the skies above them, perpetual darkness seeping as far as the eye could see. The trees around them had died years ago, their clawing branches creating eerie shadows, lifeless and haunted. There was a biting chill in the air, and the ever-present feeling of a thousand eyes staring them down…

Gulping, Idria was the first to utter its name, “It’s the Wilderness.”

The Wilderness was a large and dangerous wasteland which made up nearly the entirety of north-eastern Gielinor - with the exception of the Daemonheim peninsula - situated directly north of the kingdoms of Asgarnia and Misthalin. This area was formerly known as Forinthry. It was a lush and green land at the time Gielinor was discovered by Guthix. But during the God Wars, Forinthry’s glory came to an end.

When facing off against the alliance of Saradomin, Armadyl and Bandos, a desperate Zamorak siphoned energy from the Stone of Jas to destroy them. While he didn’t succeed in killing the other deities, he caused a massive explosion that swept across the entire continent, turning it into the cursed wasteland that is known today as the Wilderness.

Such horrifying destruction caused the Anima Mundi - the life force of the world - to cry out in agony, which awoke Guthix from his long slumber. Soon, the Edicts of Guthix were put in place, and the gods were banished from Gielinor. The wars ended, but the damage was done; many races like the aviansies, icyenes, ourgs, and wyrms were almost wiped out of existence, and all of Gielinor suffered from the effects of the wars.

But not one kingdom suffered as heavily as Forinthry.

Today, many ruins of mighty cities still remain in these lands, barely recognisable as the great settlements they once were. All that was left were piles of bricks, and around them were the spirits of the creatures who died during the God Wars, too restless to pass onto the afterlife.

Suddenly, Ariane’s ears pricked up. “Do you hear that?”

Rising to a defensive posture, Mary Rancour confirmed, “Voices.”

Silhouettes soon appeared over the horizon, a group of people walking in their direction, featureless in the distance.

Looking around the barren wasteland for anything that could be used as a weapon, Idria asked, “Do you think they’re bandits?”

“Probably,” Ariane confirmed, biting the inside of her cheek. “Looks like a lot of them. We’ll be outnumbered.”

“We could run?” Idria suggested.

Sniffing a dark laugh, Mary Rancour countered, “Where to? Lumbering Jahaan around, they’ll be on us in no time. No, we stand our ground. If we’re lucky, they’ll rob us and be on their way.”

“We have nothing worth robbing!” Ariane snapped, “I did not escape Sliske’s hellhole just to be murdered by some rouges.”

Idria, instead of joining in on the bickering, was fixated upon the incoming group, her squinting, curious eyes trying to focus upon their leader. Slowly, she began to walk in their direction.

“Where are you going?” Mary Rancour hissed, but Idria shushed her. The Guardian of Armadyl’s heart was going a mile a minute. Soon, she quickened her pace, daring to call out, “Razbawn? Razbawn!”

The silhouettes stopped moving briefly, their mumbled chatter floating towards Idria. Soon the tallest figure called back, “Idria? Is that you?”

Thanking Armadyl for her blessed luck, she cried back, “Get over here! We need help!”

As she ran back to Jahaan and the others, Razbawn’s group quickly emerged into view, hurrying after her. There were about a dozen of them, armed and kitted up for battle.

“What are you doing out here, Idria?” Razbawn demanded, looking shiftily around him. “These are dangerous parts!”

Razbawn was an Armadylean archon, the fierce leader of an Armadylean warband. Warbands were a basic raid and defend occurrence that took place in the Wilderness, with each warband fighting to overtake and protect storage camps guarded by the followers of the different Gods. These camps are founded to gain an advantage for the followers of a particular God. Partaking in Wilderness Warbands was something Armadyl reluctantly turned a blind eye to. These bandits were going to take advantage of the Wilderness anyway, but at least they were doing it in his name. At the same time, they helped to show the might of Armadyl’s warriors when faced up against the armies of other gods.

Razbawn wore no armour on his torso, boldly (and recklessly) relying on his bulky shoulder and wrist guards to hopefully absorb any incoming attack. He also didn’t wear much on his bottom half either, relying on a rugged looking plateskirt to protect him. Around his neck, Razbawn donned a dream-catcher-esque necklace with the Armadylean wings in the centre. He had a headdress shaped like an eagle’s skull, decedent golden feathers protruding from the back, and boots that had steel tips, shaped to resemble talons.

Behind him was a group of Armadylean myrmidons, fighters donned in similar attire, only with full robes underneath their armour to cover their skin. Most were melee fighters, but Idria spotted a couple of archers among their ranks, all wielding the illustrious Armadyl crossbow.

“We have no time to explain,” Idria stepped out from in front of Jahaan, motioning down out the barely conscious man and saying, “Our friend needs a healer. Can you teleport us to civilisation?”

Immediately, Razbawn knelt down by Jahaan’s side, quickly checking him over without shifting the man in any painful direction. “No signs of bleeding. He looks concussed. What happened to him?”

“Long story. No time,” Mary Rancour hurried them along. “Please, can you help us?”

Shaking his head, Razbawn woefully declared, “You can’t teleport here, we’re too deep into the Wilderness.”

Collectively, their hearts sunk. There was a curse placed upon the Wilderness. It prevented any of its occupants from teleporting if they ventured too deep into its depths. Thus, anyone forced into a combat situation could not escape. No-one really knows the origin of this curse, but its another one of the many reasons for the unprepared to avoid the Wilderness at all costs.

One of the archers stepped forward and removed an amulet from around his neck. The ruby in the centre was dull and lifeless. Handing it to Idria, he stated, “This will teleport you to Armadyl’s nest. We’ll escort you south until the amulet regains energy. Right, Razbawn?”

Nodding, Razbawn added, “It won’t be too long of a journey - we’re by the Forgotten Cemetery. It’s about a mile or two south for the teleport block to fade. Don’t worry, your friend will be fine. Braddan, pick him up.”

A burly looking gentleman proceeded to lift Jahaan into his arms with all the exertion of carrying groceries. Jahaan barely stirred. He was in a groggy state of semi-awakeness throughout the entire half an hour walk. During which, fortunately, there was very little incident. A few skeletons made eyes at their party, but the archers made short work of them. At one point, in the distance to the west, voices could be heard and figures started emerging into view, but thankfully they re-directed themselves in a different direction. Ariane could only spot three of them; they must have been put off due to being woefully outnumbered.

After walking for long enough, Idria felt her palm start to tingle as the amulet was brought back to life. Calling for everyone to halt, she turned to the warband and said, “We’re here. I can’t thank you enough, Razbawn. Everyone. Good luck on the raid.”

Braddan passed Jahaan back over to Mary Rancour, who needed Ariane’s help to catch him and take half the weight. Her previous adrenaline rush where she carried him throughout Sliske’s cave had long since worn off, replaced instead with the relentless aching of her tired limbs.

Nodding to the Guardian, Razbawn replied, “I hope your friend recovers soon. Go with Armadyl, all of you.”

As soon as the teleport spell sent them to the nest, Mary Rancour and Ariane collapsed to the ground, losing their footing as they tried and failed to balance themselves and Jahaan upon landing.

Idria, managing to stay upright, didn’t waste any time before calling out, “Medic! We need a medic over here!”

Upon their clumsy arrival, numerous heads were turned, and soon a group of avianse had crowded round to assist them. One of them, recognising Idria, asked, “Guardian, what happened here?”

Turning to the falcon-headed female, Idria hurriedly replied, “No time, Talak. Where’s your healer? We need to get this man to the medical bay, right now.”

Talak gasped. “This is the World Guardian!”

By now, the avianse had helped Ariane and Mary Rancour to their feet. Two others held Jahaan upright, basically carrying his dead weight as the young man didn’t have any strength in his legs.

“I’ll introduce you later,” Idria blew her fringe from in front of her eyes. “Right now, medical bay.”

There were many medical bays in the fortress, but unfortunately, the closest one also happened to be the smallest. It was more of an observation and recuperation facility, with only a dozen beds, half of them currently occupied by resting avianse awaiting to be discharged by Gaw’kara.

Gaw’kara resembled a heron, tall and slender, with sharp eyes that pierced into their target. His thin feathers were neatly trimmed, orderly and pristine. He was the chief healer at this particular station, having practiced modern medicine since his time on Abbinah. He was never a fighter; his talents lied outside the battlefield, treating the wounded. Thus, he was fortunate enough to not be in Forinthry when the majority of his kind were wiped out of existence. He was back at one of the fortresses, attending to his patients.

He never thought himself fortunate, though.

As soon as he heard the bustle coming from outside, he rested his clipboard down on the bedside table next to the sleeping patient he was attending, awaiting the commotion patiently.

He wasn’t expecting half the flock, alongside four humans, to come barrelling into his domain.

Locking onto the condition Jahaan was in, he motioned towards the nearest free bed and hurried over to his side, summoning his assistant with a click of his fingers.

“Set him down here,” Gaw’kara’s voice was a lot warmer and smoother than was expected, a lot more soothing than his somewhat intimidating physique.

The avianse laid him down on the thin mattress, trying to be as careful as possible. Jahaan stirred slightly with a slurred groan.

Addressing the gaggle crowding around Jahaan’s bedside, Gaw’kara asserted, “Not all of you can stay. There isn’t enough-”

“I’ll stay,” Ariane affirmed, resolutely. Seeing the determined look in her eyes, Idria and Mary Rancour didn’t even try and talk her out of it.

As the rest of the humans and avianse dispersed out of the medical bay, Gaw’kara urged, “What happened to him? Tell me exactly.”

Rubbing the side of her aching temples, Ariane forced herself to repeat the preceding events, the memories more painful as the thumping in her head. “He… he was beaten. A lot. Thrown into a wall, punched in the ribs and face… he’s been in and out of consciousness. I think he’s got a bad concussion.”

Propping up Jahaan slightly with another pillow, he tilted the man’s chin upwards, but garnered no response.

“Get the guam,” Gaw’kara ordered to the avianse assisting him, who handed over a pestle and mortar with the ground leaf inside of it. After adding a couple of droplets of a violet liquid, Gaw’kara dipped a small cloth into it and held it to Jahaan’s nose. After a few seconds, the young man awoke with a start, throwing himself forwards and doubling over in the process. Moving so suddenly proved far too painful; Jahaan fell back down onto the bed with a high-pitched wail.

Gently, but firmly, Gaw’kara held him there. “It’s Jahaan, isn’t it? The World Guardian? Calm down. You’re going to be fine.”

Wide-eyed and panicked, Jahaan fought against Gaw’kara’s hold, but he had no strength to do so. “G-Get off me, dragonkin!” he hissed, his blurred vision making a terrible mistake.

Quickly, Ariane hurried into view. “Jahaan, it’s me, Ariane. He’s not a dragonkin, he’s an avianse. He’s here to help you. Relax, okay?”

Despite his rapid breathing, Jahaan started to calm himself. “A-Ariane? How did you get away from Sliske? Where are we? Where’s Ozan?”

That last question hit a bolt straight to the centre of Ariane’s chest. Stepping backwards, she simply replied, “This is Gaw’kara. Just listen to him and do what he says. Can you do that?”

Nodding meekly, Jahaan found himself overcome with tiredness, all his meagre energy being exerted in that last jolt. Seeing him slipping back under, Gaw’kara nudged him back into alertness, saying, “Jahaan, I need you to stay awake for a little longer while we have a talk, then you can rest. Is that okay with you?”

Jahaan mumbled something inaudible, so Gaw’kara pressed, “Jahaan? I’m going to need you to speak more clearly.”

Gaw’kara had an awfully reassuring tone. It was so comforting and smooth you could forgive just how patronising he was being. It was the healer’s way, of course. It worked in relaxing people more often than it annoyed them, and Jahaan was not one to complain right now.

“Right, yeah, okay,” Jahaan replied, taking a deep, strained breath to try and keep himself lucid and focused. His words were slurred from the gaps in his teeth, drool escaping onto his stained shirt below. 

Satisfied, Gaw’kara started his examination. It didn’t take much for him to feel the bulging lump forming on the back of Jahaan’s head. From his drowsy and confused state, coupled with the way the injury was inflicted, a concussion was undoubtable. Gaw’kara proceeded to ask a few questions, simple ones that Ariane could fact check, or ones that were common knowledge. Knowing he was treating the World Guardian didn’t change a thing - Jahaan was just another injured soul who needed to heal. Treating humans wasn’t that different from treating avianse, when it came right down to it, and Gaw’kara had treated enough of both in his time.

Motioning Ariane to one side, Gaw’kara whispered, “He’s definitely concussed. How severely is something we’ll need to monitor, to avoid any complications. After I’ve finished assessing him, we’ll need to keep waking him up periodically, asking him some questions, and check him over. This is done to make sure he doesn’t have any serious damage, like a bleed on the brain. Sometimes these things have a delayed onset, and we can’t risk him slipping into a coma without us being aware.”

The terms ‘coma’ and ‘bleed on the brain’ brought Ariane’s heart to her throat. She’d had her disagreements with the man - severe ones, perhaps - but she’d never wish this upon him. Not after all he did to try and save Ozan...

Suddenly, she was taken out of her thoughts by Gaw’kara’s voice in her ear. Blinking twice, she focused back on the avianse and said, “Sorry, come again?”

“I said, I’m going to check his ribs over next,” Gaw’kara repeated. He already had a little knife in hand to slice through the fabric of Jahaan’s shirt. “Are you okay? Ariane, isn’t it? Sorry, pleasantries were a little rushed earlier.”

Exhaling a light laugh, Ariane rubbed around her eyes. “Sorry, I’m just tired. Yes, it’s Ariane.”

“Would you like to go and rest with your group? I can-”

“No,” Ariane firmly cut in, softening her tone when she continued, “No… no I need to stay. I’m fine. Please, continue.”

Deciding to leave the matter for now, Gaw’kara used the small blade to delicately cut through Jahaan’s shirt, exposing the battered flesh underneath.

The sight made Ariane want to wretch. Jahaan’s chest was a contorted mess of coloured blotches. Blues melted into greens with yellow epicentres; dark purples gave way to black imprints. If she looked closely enough - not that she wanted to - Ariane swore she could still see knuckle marks.

Wincing, Gaw’kara lightly placed a hand on Jahaan’s chest. “Jahaan, this is going to hurt a bit. Can you tell me where the pain is worst?”

“Uh-huh,” Jahaan groggily replied, only half registering what was being said as the avianse ran his hands across his chest. There was no immediate pain to speak of, nothing more than the pounding ache he’d almost grown accustomed to. But that was until Gaw’kara pressed down on his left side of his false ribs.

The cry that followed made Ariane feel sick.

Quickly removing his hand, Gaw’kara turned to Ariane and said. “There’s undoubtedly multiple breaks here. Fortunately, he hasn’t broken any of his true ribs - the upper ribs, such as the ones that protect his heart. Despite the serious damage, I’ve thankfully not detected anything indicating that he’s injured his lungs. They should heal within six to eight weeks.”

Gently, with the help of his assistant, Gaw’kara pulled Jahaan slightly more upright, having the assistant hold him there while he carried out an inspection of his back. There was bruising, but it wasn’t anything like what he’d seen on the young man’s chest. Running his taloned hand carefully across Jahaan’s back, Gaw’kara stopped at his collarbone, noticing something amiss. From being thrown back into a wall, a shoulder or collarbone injury was the most likely, and from how it felt to the touch, Gaw’kara deduced that Jahaan’s collarbone was almost certainly broken.

“He’ll need a sling to assist in his collarbone’s healing,” Gaw’kara announced to Ariane. “It’s broken. It won’t take more than two months to fix itself, mind. That is - and I reiterate - he rests it. No sword-wielding in the interim.”

Ariane just about managed a half smile. “I’ll make sure he’s sensible. Thank you.”

The rest of Gaw’kara’s inspection didn’t take too long - he wanted to let Jahaan rest soon, but already scheduled with his assistant when the man should be re-awoken for evaluation. When Ariane pointed out the potential injury to his wrist, Gaw’kara told her it would be fine as long as it was splinted. The bone was broken, severely, but just like everything else, time is a great healer. They just had to rely on Jahaan not getting into any scuffles anytime soon.

Once they left the medical bay, Gaw’kara repeated the short form of the diagnosis to the other women. Noticing the burns on their hands, he ushered them into another medical bay to get treated, not wanting anyone disturbing the World Guardian and his other patients.

To Ariane, he said, “Once you’ve rested, I would like to hear how all this has come about, Ariane. As would Armadyl, I’m sure. No doubt he’s been alerted to how he is now housing the World Guardian.”

“Thank you, Gaw’kara,” Ariane replied, feeling her eyes starting to close but desperately forcing them open. She planned to nap beside Jahaan’s bed until he was next evaluated, knowing she’d have to give into the tiredness of her body at some point soon, or she’d just drop. “We all can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for us today.”

Smiling warmly, Gaw’kara replied, “Community and compassion are pillars of our faith. Now, go and rest, young one. Jahaan will be fine.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#kindred spirits #i feel like there could have been a lot more drama in this chapter #but writer's block was already kicking me square in the dick #so :/

[the-foxes-fangs]

What Goes Around Comes Around

Mitsuhide in the modern world as requested by @otomediary​ who is a total doll <3 

Warnings: implied nsfw

***

The thing he had noticed after the rain had stopped that first night was that there was a constant low buzz everywhere, like the noise of cicadas from a long distance, but with no end. He had no trouble blocking it out after a few hours, though he’d never tell her how unsettling the total lack of silence had been at the beginning when he was trying to sleep. 

But then there were so many things that could capture one’s attention in her world that it seemed a wonder anyone ever slept at all. He had learned to focus on her steady breathing in the night like a lullaby. She watched him closely at first, almost fearfully, as if he might not take her world in stride. 

There were times when he was startled awake in the dark at the ungodly wail of a siren or the rattle of a train, but he soon adjusted. Setting up a household with her had actually been fun, carrying boxes and furniture up flights of stairs with Sasuke, to whom he found himself irritatingly indebted for his forged documents and general guide to survival in the modern age. 

“You pay for water?” He had asked upon overhearing her talking to a worker about it. “Water that comes out of the ground and falls out of the sky? That water?” 

“We pay for everything. We practically pay to breathe.” She had answered with a fond shake of her head. 

Western style clothes were another kind of adjustment, given that he felt damn near naked with nothing more between himself and the world than a thin cotton shirt and a pair of pants that could only be described as concealing nothing. It was one thing to pack his matchlock and sword away, though getting used to moving around without them at his hip took some doing, but clothes he couldn’t so much as hide a small knife in were another thing altogether. 

But that was mitigated by the flash of hot desire in her eyes when she looked at him, which he returned upon seeing her in what she considered regular dress. 

“You look--” she had inhaled sharply and cleared her throat, sweeping her eyes over him boldly, “really good. I mean, you always looked good but...” 

“What a delightful expression on your face,” he had answered, gliding toward her where she sat, her bare legs tucked prettily under her, neck and shoulders scandalously bare halfway down her breast, the rest of her covered just enough to be make him wonder how long it would take to peel off those clothes. 

“Want to show me the proper way to get undressed, little mouse?” He had whispered as he leaned over her, pleased to watch the flush travel up from her chest to her face. 

He spent weeks poring over books, absorbing as much of history as he could, trying to draw a coherent thread through the centuries. It amused him that every book on the subject seemed to take it for granted that history could only have happened the way it had, when nothing had been clear or certain at the time. 

When he wasn’t reading, he wandered the city while she worked, watching people go about their lives, feeling strange walking through the small pockets that had been preserved from a time closer to his own, listening to the language of tourists whose origins he couldn’t even begin to guess. 

He had even found work thanks to Sasuke again, teaching the kind of arts that he had never considered himself particularly skilled in before-- archery, which, to Ieyasu’s chagrin he had all but abandoned in favor of the gun, and tea ceremony, for which his general irreverence had once been a thorn in Hideyoshi’s side.

His calligraphy was sufficient though not as elegant as Masamune’s, but taken out of context it was more than good enough to keep his lessons in high demand. 

It made them feel far closer than they were, he could all but hear their laughter and criticism, as if they were wandering in and out of his manor again. He couldn’t say that he was particularly homesick, but it was pleasant to bring them back to life, if only in his mind. 

He had come home one evening, and how strange it was to think of having a home that wasn’t in constant danger, and found her in a bright mood, fairly sparkling with excitement where she stood working at her laptop. 

“And what’s got you all in a lather?” He asked, and he sauntered over to wrap his arms around her from behind and kiss the top of her head. 

“I found a great deal for golden week-- a seaside resort down south. It will be nice for both of us to get out of the city, and” she said and spun around to offer him a dazzling smile, “you finally get to take a flight!” 

“Why, I’m not sure I’m prepared to leave the ground. What if I have to hide my head in your lap?” He asked, teasingly as he lifted her onto the counter and she hooked her legs around his hips. 

“You’re vastly overestimating the space in economy class seats is the answer to that.” She answered with a wink, as she draped her arms over his shoulders and grinned up at him with an honest affection that he had never gotten used to from the day they had met, and probably never would. He bent to kiss her and hooked his arms around her, carrying her toward the bedroom with a satisfied laugh. 

She was more nervous than he was the day of their departure, and he reminded her to breathe several times as they sailed through security, his documents passing without a hitch. He’d have to bring Sasuke a bottle of something particularly nice for that. 

They waited to board their flight by the window and though he kept a deliberately neutral expression, he couldn’t deny that he was excited. He had learned what there was to learn about the mechanics of flight, but there would always be something slightly magical about it for him. 

They boarded and settled in, and she took his hand as he stared out the window at his side, still slightly struggling to imagine himself actually leaving the ground. 

“Are you nervous?” She asked him softly. 

“Me? Not even slightly. I was just thinking that if you’d try to tell me about this back then, I would’ve thought you were possessed.” 

“Charming,” she said dryly, and held his hand more tightly as the engines roared to life. 

“Are you nervous?” He asked, studying her. 

“Not exactly. I get a little airsick though.” She said, looking a little green as they began to move. “But never mind that, I’ll be fine.”

He lifted her hand and kissed it gently. “Then I should thank you for putting yourself through something unpleasant for my sake.” 

“Well you’ve been itching to fly since you got here, and what’s a little nausea compared to getting to watch you see the tops of the clouds for the first time?” She answered with a pained but sincere smile. 

 He exhaled in surprise at the curious sensation of being pushed back into his seat as they took off, rising at a dizzying speed. He exhaled softly as they cleared the cloud cover, which rolled out beneath them like a scene from a dream. 

“Good god I hope nobody teaches you to play poker.” She said, smiling despite looking rather ashen. 

He tore his eyes away from the view and drew her wrist toward him. “Too late for that, I’m afraid. I’ve already taken one of our neighbors for thousands.” He shot back, deadpan. She raised an eyebrow at him but a wave of sickness interrupted whatever she had intended to say.   

“This might help, or at least it does with seasickness.” He said as he pressed his fingertips into a pressure point at the junction between her wrist and hand. 

“That...” she trailed off and looked at him in surprise, “actually seems to be helping. Thank you.” 

He smiled and kissed her forehead, and turned to look out at the clouds again, fingers steady on her wrist. It was a short few hours until they began to descend, which seemed just dangerous enough to be fun. She looked considerably better as they disembarked.

The humid heat made the breeze off the glittering blue sea even more refreshing as they left the taxi at their inn, which looked slightly shabby but pleasant enough. 

“Oh no.” She said as they went in, greeted with a knowing leer by the innkeeper. She handled the paperwork as he watched a handful of women heading down a dim hall in the company of several seedy looking men. 

“Goodness, my little seamstress, I never knew you had this kind of thing in mind.” He whispered as they made their way to the elevator, her face growing more red by the moment. 

“I am going to make my co-worker pay in blood for suggesting this place.” She muttered, eyes fixed ahead, resolutely avoiding his gaze.

“Sex and violence? You do know how to keep things fresh.” He teased as they stepped inside. He put a protective arm around her as an older man looked her up and down with a predatory grin before catching his eye and noticing the murder in it. The blood drained from his face as he stepped by them and left them alone to make their way to their room. 

“Oh dear god,” she mumbled as she sat reluctantly on the bed, some obvious noises coming from the adjacent room. 

He snickered at her as he began to unpack their things, and cocked his head at the silence as it fell. “Well that was brief.” He said, and flashed her a grin. 

“I want to sink into the floor and disappear.” She said, staring out into the distance with a look of horror that he found amusing. 

“Do you really? Because I propose we give them a little competition.” He said as he grabbed her by the waist to tumble onto the bed. 

“I shudder to think of where these sheets have been.” She said, but she smiled at him just the same. 

“Oh I promise you we’ve shared worse.” He purred into her ear with a kiss that drew out a shuddering sigh. 

“You’re incorrigible.” She answered, running her fingers through his hair as she relaxed under his touch. 

“Mmhmm. But that’s why you love me.” 

“Is that why? I’m not sure, you’d better remind me.” She replied, drawing him in for a hungry kiss. 

They managed to disentangle themselves and dress in time to find a place to eat with a beautiful view of the sun sinking into the sea, and walked along the beach arm in arm. 

“Nothing phases you, does it?” She asked with amusement as the waves washed across their feet. 

“Oh, this will give me years of material to tease you with.” He answered, as he tucked a strand of windblown hair out of her face.

“You know how they say ‘what goes around comes around?’ that applies to you too, you irrepressible fox.” She shot back with a glint in her eye that left him wondering as she took his hand in hers and they made their way back to their room. 

He was in a pleasantly exhausted sleep when a distant rattle in the early morning light roused him as it picked up to an otherworldly shriek, followed by an ear splitting sound like the largest loudest gun in the world being fired. He grabbed her instinctively, only to be greeted by a sleepy giggle in the ringing silence. 

“Dare I ask what’s so funny?” He muttered, noticing her trying to repress further laughter.

“Just that it took an actual sonic boom to startle you. I wasn’t sure it would be enough.” She answered with a yawn, still looking decidedly amused. 

“Shall I take this as an invitation to startle you? Because if so, you’ve come unarmed to face the artillery.” He said, glaring at her in mock fury to cover his own amusement as his pounding heart slowed.

“No! I owed you for all the times you made me squeak--” 

He cut her off by tickling her, adding “like a little mouse?”

“Do your worst! You can’t erase that split second look of confusion from my memory!” She said, gasping and laughing as she writhed in his hands. 

“You’re going to have do a lot to persuade me to call a truce.” He muttered as he pulled her close with a low laugh.

#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #modern setting #requested fic #ikesen mitsuhide #Akechi Mitsuhide #cybird ikemen #mitsuhide x mc #fluff

[unfolded73]

How Do We Get Back (14/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Surprise! I’m posting early because with Thanksgiving approaching, the rest of my week is slammed.

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one. Explicit, this chapter 3.8k words.  (ao3)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13

Okay, I have a lot of notes on this chapter, so listen up!

1. Thanks to @j-philly-b for giving this chapter a careful read to make sure the plot made sense. Oh god, so much plot to tie together here. It gave me hives.

2. I’ve mentioned several gods from actual mythology in this fic, but Istus is from Dungeons & Dragons. So thanks to Griffin McElroy and The Adventure Zone for the characterization and even a couple of her lines, which I lifted out of the TAZ: Balance arc.

3. As I posted a week ago, this is what I’m picturing for Istus.

_____________________________________

Chapter 14

It was still raining when he woke up the next morning, and Patrick had to admit that he wasn’t in any hurry to go out and search for their mysterious homeless woman. He looked over at David, still asleep, his cheek pressed into the pillow and his hair sticking up in a tangled mess from his head, stubble dark on his cheeks. I’m in love with him, Patrick thought. It wasn’t a maybe for him, not now, not after last night. He would have been happy to just spend the day in bed, not thinking about what was going on in the outside world. Not thinking about the fact that something supernatural, something that didn’t fit into his analytical worldview, might have touched his life. He’d finally found the person that maybe he was meant to be with, and he wanted to just enjoy that for once. He wanted to protect it from the world.

David, in contrast, woke up to his phone alarm with determination on his face. He wasn’t even deterred when he discovered that Seamless was down and that he couldn’t get breakfast delivered, and he sent Patrick out to pick up food while he got ready for the day. By the time Patrick returned with egg sandwiches balanced on top of a tray of coffee cups, David was sitting at the table, studying something on a laptop computer and making notes in his journal.

“You didn’t see her, did you?” David asked as Patrick shook out his umbrella.

“No, but I saw a scary number of police cars, given that I only walked two blocks.” Patrick sat down with David and began unwrapping his sandwich.

“There are a fuckton of homeless shelters nearby,” David said. “This may take a while.”

It did.

A lot of the places that had popped up on google when David searched ‘homeless shelters’ weren’t actually that: they were thrift stores or soup kitchens or the offices of volunteer organizations. By asking around, they were finally able to find their way to a few shelters where they might find their missing woman, but by mid-afternoon, they’d had no luck.

The rain had finally let up, but David’s earlier determination was clearly melting away. “Let’s go back to the apartment and rest for a bit. Maybe she’ll turn up in your neighborhood now that it’s not raining.” He gave David a quick kiss on the cheek.

It almost wasn’t a surprise when they turned the corner toward David’s building and there she was in her usual spot.

As she watched them approach, her shoulders sagged with what looked like relief.

“You went there, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Went where?” Patrick asked. Let her say the name of the place if she really knew so much.

“Schitt’s Creek. Where all of us belong.” the woman responded.

“How do you know all this?” David asked.

“I’m a technopagan. I’ve known for years that the timeline took a wrong turn, and the people I work with online narrowed it down to the fortunes of your family. My mission was to come here, David; to watch you, to try to nudge you in the right direction.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now… if you want to know more, some food and a shower would be appreciated.”

David grimaced.

Patrick put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you go pick up some food and I’ll take her up to the apartment, okay?”

David pointed to the woman’s cart. “That doesn’t come into my apartment.”

“Okay, David,” Patrick said with two quick pats on David’s shoulder. “Maybe get me a reuben?”

David made another face. “Incorrect, but I’ll get you a reuben.”

“What’s your name, by the way?” Patrick said as he accepted David’s key and ushered the woman toward the building.

“It’s Gwen.”

~*~

“I’ve been here in New York for almost a year. My husband doesn’t know anything; he probably assumes I’m not coming back. Although if you two can fix things, maybe it won’t matter what happens on this timeline.”

That’s what she had said to him months ago, Patrick remembered as he chewed a bite of his sandwich, that he needed to fix things. “What makes you think we can fix things?”

“That’s what all the portents tell us,” she said mysteriously, which didn’t really answer anything at all. It seemed like the kind of thing that someone who termed themselves a ‘technopagan’ would say, whatever that was.

“I don’t understand why my family has anything to do with anything,” David said.

“Why has the fact that your father didn’t lose all of his money led to the downfall of society?” She laughed, running her fingers through her drying mop of gray hair that looked way overdue for a trim. “If I could answer that, I’d be leading our coven, not living rough on the streets of Manhattan, believe me.” She took a big bite of her sandwich, and then proceeded to continue talking while she chewed. “My people have been trying to answer that question for ages. A million tiny things changed when the Rose family continued to live as they had in New York. Moira Rose had acting roles she wouldn’t have otherwise had. Johnny employed people he wouldn’t have otherwise employed. Eli went to jail and interacted with other white-collar criminals he wouldn’t have otherwise spoken to. Alexis traveled places she wouldn’t have otherwise traveled. You sold art that wouldn’t have otherwise been sold. Any one of those things, or a combination of them, has sent the world down a path that’s just a bit darker than it should have been. It’s chaos theory.”

“I still don’t get how you know all of this,” Patrick said.

“I lived there, dummy. You’ve been to Schitt’s Creek, so I don’t have to tell you about that place, right? There are a few places around the world that work that way. Windows to parallel worlds. And I have ways of quite clearly seeing how things were supposed to be: the Rose family there and the town revitalized by your presence.”

“The store?” David asked.

Gwen nodded. “Among other things. I mean, I would have preferred Christmas World, but you can’t have everything. And people love Rose Apothecary; some of them drive all the way from Elmdale to shop there.”

Patrick snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering. “You’re Bob’s wife!” He recalled the town gossip not long after he’d moved to the town, that Bob’s wife (Bob of the eponymous garage) had left him.

“He’s been clueless about all of this, poor lamb,” she said. “And then I was summoned here, so I had to drop everything and go.”

“What was the plan?” Patrick asked.

“I only got pieces of it; the leaders of the coven aren’t exactly forthcoming. I do know they’ve been trying to get you two together in the same place for a while. Attempts to lure David to Canada didn’t work; I myself spent at least a month in the public library crafting emails to David about art shows in various parts of Ontario.”

“I don’t read spam,” David said.

“When Patrick got married, we were pretty disheartened, but then he took that business manager job and the goal became getting him to a conference here,” Gwen said.

“Wait,” Patrick said. “The conference in Hoboken was you?”

“I mean, it was a real conference, but I did send some of the emails about it to you,” Gwen said. “And to your boss.” She put the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. “Then it was just a matter of getting David to a bar where you could run into each other. As I understand it, someone hacked your Tinder account.”

“Oh my God,” David said, and Patrick couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that in the midst of all of this, David had the space to be offended about the integrity of his Tinder account.

“So we met because of these techno-wiccans?” David asked.

“Technopagans, and yes.” Gwen grinned at them. “I mean, we couldn’t make you actually hook up with each other, of course. That part of was all you two.”

Patrick grinned back, images of those nights flashing in front of his eyes, but David’s face had gone ashen.

“What about Alexis?” David said quietly.

“David—” Patrick began.

“No, because we hooked up but then we went our separate ways. The thing that brought us back together was Alexis dying. Did the technopagans do that too?”

Gwen shook her head. “No, absolutely not. We don’t murder people,” she said emphatically and she looked like she was telling the truth as far as she knew, Patrick thought, but she didn’t know everything. She’d admitted that she only saw pieces of the operation.

“So what do we do now?” Patrick asked.

“You go to this address,” she said, grabbing David’s diary and pen and flipping it open to a blank page. David’s hands twitched like he wanted to rip it out of her hands and was restraining himself. Once she’d written the address down, she handed the diary to David.

He raised an eyebrow. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Well, she is a goddess. What do you expect?”

~*~

David looped his arm around the subway pole, trying not to touch anything with his hands. He hated the subway. It was dirty and smelled bad and germy people stood way too far inside his personal space. His other hand was clutched in Patrick’s as they made their way uptown.

“Maybe I should have tried uninstalling the app and reinstalling—”

“David, it seems pretty clear that Uber is no longer functional, at least in New York,” Patrick said.

“Then we should have taken a cab.”

“Did you see any cabs?”

David pouted, his eyes darting around at their fellow passengers again, trying to assess if any of them were ill with a communicable disease.

Finally, the doors opened at their destination, and David and Patrick pushed their way out into the 77th Street station, making their way over to the nonfunctioning escalator. They climbed the metal stairs and emerged into the early evening twilight, walking east.

“ID please,” said a bored police officer standing by a crowd control barrier.

David reached for his wallet. “What is this?”

The police officer took his driver’s license and stared at it. “You don’t live up here; I can’t let you through.”

“Show her the address, David.”

David opened his diary and showed the police officer the address that Gwen had scrawled inside it. “We have an appointment at this address,” he said, hoping that the police officer didn’t ask the next logical question, which was ‘with whom?’ Because David had no idea.

Instead, the officer looked back over her shoulder, where the brownstone they were headed toward was only another half block away. She sighed. “I’ll escort you, but if you’re lying to me, you can expect to spend tonight in jail.”

David met Patrick’s eyes. Were they expected? Reluctantly, he squeezed through the gap in the barrier that the cop widened for them, Patrick following. The cop set a quick pace despite her stature, and David trotted a little to keep up. She stomped up the stairs to the door and rang the bell, eyes darting back to the post that he suspected she wasn’t supposed to have abandoned. David and Patrick stood two steps down from her, like street urchins looking for a place to spend the cold night.

The woman who opened the door was strikingly beautiful. She wore a peasant blouse and a long floral skirt, bare toes sticking out beneath it. She had an astounding number of tight, black braids on her head, some of them piled up in a messy topknot and some of them hanging down past her waist. Deep brown eyes took them all in.

“These gentlemen say they have an appointment at this address,” the cop said.

“They do,” the woman said, nodding. “David, Patrick, it’s so good to see you finally. Come in.”

The police officer nodded. “Have a good evening, then,” she said before hurrying back up the street.

The woman stood back, opening the door wide, so David took Patrick’s hand and walked through the door.

She led them down a dark hallway to a small room, where a rocking chair stood before a crackling fire in the fireplace. “Sit down,” she said, gesturing to a couple of high-backed, overstuffed chairs. Dropping each others’ hands, they sat.

It was a nice, cozy house, but every time David tried to look at something specific, like a hanging on the wall or a knick knack on a shelf, it seemed too far away and blurry to bring into focus. Meanwhile, the woman seated herself in the rocking chair, picking up some knitting from a basket and moving it to her lap. The needles started to move, almost too quick for David to follow. His eyes followed the… scarf?... from the woman’s hands to where it trailed down into the basket, and then beyond, into… well, he couldn’t really see where it ended. Maybe it didn’t end. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“My name is Istus. Some people call me the lady of fate. Some call me the goddess of destiny. But Istus is fine.” She smiled a small smile. “I must say, the two of you are just in time.”

“Goddess,” Patrick said flatly. “I’m sure you can understand my skepticism.”

She chuckled, the rhythm of her needles never stopping. “You’ve seen your alternate futures. David, you saw first hand the connection that the artist Carmen Herrera had with the ethereal plane. Patrick, you heard Ash talk about Hela and her worshipers in Norway. Even Gwen’s technopagans are divinely inspired, after a fashion. Is it really that hard to believe in me when I’m sitting right here in front of you?”

“But you could just be… you know. A person,” Patrick said.

“Could I?”

And no, no she couldn’t. No human being had ever been as beautiful as Istus was, the perfection of her brown skin and the angle of her eyes and the shape of her lips. An actual, literal goddess. David felt a tear slide down his cheek.

“Ironically, the sickness of the world has made us more powerful, although I don't like to brag. But humans are starting to notice us more, worship us more, and… I’m not gonna lie, it’s kind of nice? But it’s not the way things are supposed to be.”

“Okay,” David said to prompt her to go on.

“You’ve been to a liminal space and gotten a glimpse at another reality, a better one. Well,” she said with a tinkling laugh, “maybe not better from the perspective of the Rose family fortune, but better in other ways. It’s unfortunate that you’ve seen something you cannot have. Most humans aren’t ever burdened with that kind of knowledge.”

“You’re the one who said you were a goddess of time and fate or whatever,” David said. “So fix it. Undo it and do whatever it takes to get us to that place.”

“David, if it were that easy, the world would have been a lot less shitty a long time ago,” Istus said. “Do you think you’re the first people to come to me and ask me to change the past?” She smiled to herself. “There was a famous comedian who feared that he’d inspired the current U.S. president to run for the office by making fun of him at the Correspondent’s Dinner. He came to me and asked me to undo it. But when he understood the price, he backed out.”

“What was the price?” Patrick asked.

“Uncertainty.” Her needles paused long enough for her to run a hand down over the scarf. “I can pick out the threads of a certain event, but other things will change, and even I don’t have enough power to control for everything. So in that case, yes, I could make it so that he never made those jokes. But I couldn’t guarantee that his children would still be born. In fact, it was very likely that they wouldn’t be. Other children, perhaps, but not the ones he already knew and loved.” She shrugged, resuming her knitting. “He couldn’t go through with it.

“I can make certain that Eli gets away with his theft, and that will almost certainly drive the Roses to Schitt’s Creek, which with any luck will set civilization on a slightly less terrible path. I’d even lay good odds on that saving Alexis’ life, if for no other reason that she won’t be on that yacht. But I can’t guarantee she won’t die another way. And I certainly can’t guarantee that the two of you will ever meet. In fact, I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

David looked over and met Patrick’s eyes.

“But I went to Schitt’s Creek in both realities,” Patrick said, and David could see the effort he was making to treat all of this like it was a reasonable topic of conversation. “This one, and… and the one we dreamed about.”

Istus made a scoffing sound. “Coincidence. The odds of you ending up in Schitt’s Creek after you ran away from your engagement to Rachel are…” She held up her fingers to her face and counted on them for a moment. “One in one hundred seventy thousand.”

“So I’ll track him down,” David said. “I’ll find him.”

“You won’t do anything of the sort, because you won’t remember him.” She rolled her eyes. “I know you’re new at this, but try to keep up. What you’ve asked me to do is unweave time to the moment that Eli gets away to the Cayman Islands with your father’s money. You won’t have ever heard of Patrick Brewer, so how can you track him down?”

“Can David and I talk alone for a moment?” Patrick said, standing up.

Istus shrugged. “Certainly.” She indicated the door with an upturned palm. “The rest of the house is at your disposal.”

Patrick pulled David up out of his chair and marched him down the hall into a sizable kitchen. As soon as they reached the center island, Patrick swung around and pinned David down with a serious stare.

“I still don’t know if I believe any of this, but if you can save Alexis, and I guess the world, then you have to do it,” he said.

“No, I know, but…” David fumbled with the hem of his sweater. “She could be lying. There could be a way to save Alexis and have you too.”

“I don’t think she’s lying.” Patrick huffed. “I think she might be certifiably insane, but I don’t think she’s lying.” He put his hands on David’s biceps. “Regardless, I’ll be fine. And you’ll have Alexis.”

David nodded, and there wasn’t any doubt in his mind what his choice should be. But it didn’t mean that he didn’t feel it in a rising lump in his throat, in a thundering in his heart and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pulled Patrick in for a hug, and the feeling of Patrick’s lips against his neck as he let himself be pulled unlocked David’s tears.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either, David.” Patrick squeezed him tighter, kissing his neck again. “And if I don’t get another chance to say it…” He pulled away and looked David in the eye. “I love you.”

David shook his head, another tear falling. “You don’t have to say—”

“David. I hope you know me well enough by now to know that I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t mean it. I know it’s soon, and that we haven’t spent all that much time with each other, but…” He laughed a watery laugh. “I don’t know, maybe I absorbed something from that alternate reality we dreamed about. All I know is that I’ve fallen in love with you, and you know what?” Patrick’s eyes flashed with determination. “I’ve just decided that I don’t care what Istus says, I’ll find my way back to you in any reality. I swear it.”

With a sob, David put his hand on the back of Patrick’s head and pulled him in for a fierce kiss. He opened his mouth against Patrick’s and tried to pour everything he was feeling into that kiss.

“This isn’t the last time I’m going to kiss you,” Patrick said when they finally parted.

David wanted to believe him more than he’d ever wanted to believe anything, but deep down he knew this was it for them. It brought him a burst of courage to say what was in his heart. “Maybe I absorbed something from that other reality too because I… love you. I’m also… I’m in love with you.”

The expression that bloomed on Patrick’s face was heartbreaking, and for just a second David changed his mind — let the world burn if he could just have Patrick, if he could lock himself away from all of it and just be with Patrick. But then he remembered his sister, he remembered Alexis, and he dismissed that idea. He’d never be able to forgive himself knowing he could have done something to save her and hadn’t.

“I’ll find you,” Patrick said.

“One in one hundred seventy thousand,” David whispered.

Patrick winked at him, a terrible wink that caused his other eye to half-close, and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “I can beat those odds.”

It was a lie and David knew it, but he clung to it as they went back into Istus’ den.

“Okay. Do it,” David said. “Make my family poor and save the world.”

Istus gave him a long look and then nodded. Holding up her knitting needles, she let a stitch slip off of the pointed tip of the right needle and drop. She pulled the needles apart, stretching the yarn, and the stitch continued to slip down, creating a long scar, a gap in the middle of the rows.

“If my sister isn’t alive in this new world, then I will make destroying you my life’s ambition,” David said, grabbing for Patrick’s hand for strength. He was feeling weak, and like his vision was narrowing, but Patrick’s thick fingers threading between his helped.

Istus laughed. “You won’t remember me, but I take your point.”

His vision was only a pinpoint now, and he squeezed Patrick’s hand tighter.

“And if it helps?” Istus said.

“What?” He’d lost his vision entirely, and he was no longer aware of his body in three dimensional space anymore. He was just a consciousness now, the apartment and Patrick and the world around him gone.

He heard Istus’ voice distantly, from down a deep tunnel. “David Rose. You’re going to be amazing.”

Chapter 15

#schitt's creek #schitt's creek ff #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #hdwgb fic #my fic

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Finn “Firkle” Sinn

out of character info

Name/Alias: Alison Pronouns: she/they Age: 21 Join Our Discord: c; Timezone: est Activity: 6.9/10 Triggers: n/a Password: jimmy can fastpass my ass Character that you’re applying for: Firkle Favourite ships for your character: uhh Fike or Firkmore. Whichever bugs Kyle most.

in character info

Full name: Finn Nyarlathotep “Firkle” Sinn (I hate his canon name, I’m sorry.) Birthday: October 25th, (Scorpio) Sexuality, gender, pronouns: Death (Bisexual), Goth (cis man), “Don’t fucking talk about me” (he/him). Age and grade: Freshman, 14

Appearance:

Standing at the height of 5’7, but subtracting three inches the moment his boots come off. Firkle always wears two expressions, one of constant disdain, or a vacant one. Despite the eerie faces he likes to make, he has a rather pretty face. Heart shaped, large almond eyes, the color the storm clouds before the rain begins to fall, a small, slight turned up nose, a smattering of freckles on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. More often than not, he straightens his naturally wavy black hair, his fringe hangs down, on his right side, past his chin, and the sides are shaved with an abstract design of geometric shapes.

He has piercings, including: a septum ring, a bar through his left eyebrow, numerous cartilage piercings, a bar through his tongue, and his collar bones. He has a total of 7 tattoos, a skull with horns and the word 'death’ over its forehead on his right upper arm; he got it when he was 13 and properly initiated into the cult. An Omega (Ω) on the outer side of his left wrist, “some ghosts are so quiet, you would hardly know they're there” in a small handwriting font on his left thigh above a small ghost line art. He has an octopus the size of a CD on his left upper arm, it holds little knives in each hand. He has a boo from Mario over his left forearm, accompanied by the three life hearts from Legend of Zelda, and the Space Invaders alien.

His body type is thin, though he does have lean muscle from several years of fencing. His fingers have numerous scars on his fingers from years of playing with knives. Pale scars, a very slight contrast from his already corpse-like skin tone. His makeup is usually just dark eyeliner and black lipstick, very rarely does he use any cover-up or contour. In contrast to his minimal effort in his appearance, he has a very decorated taste in clothing. Plain black skinny jeans, plain dark grey t-shirt, wallet with chains hanging from his hip, boots with studs and buckles, and his jackets, always black, commonly leather, have studs, patches, and/or patches.

Personality:

Firkle is a true nihilist, he believes that nothing really matters, and he’d defend that philosophy until the day he died. Though he lacks empathy and is an undiagnosed sociopath, having said that, when he finds someone he wants to nurture and cherish, he does so. He would murder for them, and take care of them through thick and thin. It's incredibly rare that this occurs, and he isn't fond of the majority of the people he talks to. He has a short patience for people he doesn't like, he's snappy and will start roasting people in hopes they will leave him alone. He often comes off as cold and reclusive, but it's actually because he hates talking to people, it makes him emotionally tired; though good at carrying conversation and it's the entirely of his school career, it makes him want to curl up into the fetal position and sleep for a week. Having control over his emotions is something he's mastered over the years and it's rare that he would snap at anyone outside of being tired. Anger, sadness, and even happiness are controlled.

Behavior wise, Firkle is cunning, often lying to cover for himself, and generally selfish. Admitting when he's wrong is something he despises doing, and he will get violent over small, insignificant disputes. Instead of getting mad or arguing, he's more likely to slap someone than to shout at them. (But if they do shout at him, he can get incredibly loud, and he does not take anyone's shit.) He's not selfish in the “all for me, none for you" sense, but he will let someone become a scapegoat as long as it keeps him looking like the Eldritch Golden Boy his cult sees him as.

When he hits his most stressful moments, he grows numb and acts robotic, because the only rational, sanity retaining, thought he can think is that none of this actually matters, and his pure form, the sadistic apathetic asshole he is deep down comes out.

History:

Firkle was born to a single mother, Maeve Sinn, due to the absence of his father after his conception, his mother gave him the name she felt was most appropriate for him, including her own last name. Finn is a traditional Irish name, Nyarlathotep is the name of an Elder God, and Sinn has been the last name in his family for ages. His name rhymes, but he's not fond of being called by his first name. When he was born, his mother was finishing her doctorate to start working full time as an alternative medical doctor. Commonly referred to as the local witch doctor, more accurate name than the population knows.

Firkle was raised by a goth and more or less by the cult his mother belonged to. Spending his earliest years, being laid down to nap on the pews of the abandoned church. By the time he was old enough to start school, the sadist fit in well with the resident goth clique. It took a long time for him to even like them, he betrayed them at gunpoint at one point, and it wasn't until they forgave him unconditionally, that he came to realize that he had friends. Not really his own age, as they were all four and five years older than him, but much closer in age than the group he was raised by.

Spending the next 6 years being numbed to be the most apathetic asshole he could be, in the one place on the planet where everyone was a bit on the psychotic side. Must be something in the water. 12, and in the 6th grade, he spent the second semester of school in the South Park public school system, creating a reputation of defiance early. For his 13th birthday, the following semester, he was properly initiated into the cult, no more sitting on metal chairs, or on the pews, he got to attend the rituals, not just the sermons. Throughout the next year, he became a very active member of the group, attending every sermon and ritual he could, even if it meant skipping out on things normal kids got up to. Homecoming? He was harvesting blood from a sacrifice. Despite how much time he spends at these meetings, they never became common knowledge. He just called it “therapy”, and never went into any details. 

Sample paragraph:

McDonald’s espresso, it seemed like a good idea when he bought it, but as Firkle sat at his booth alone, he came to realize how terrible it was. The taste was bitter and scalding, the way he liked it, but that wasn’t the issue. A gremlin released upon the world was, and it made the young goth livid.

Some punk ass eight year old came running down the aisle between booths, banging his fist down on each one, for no obvious reason. Naturally this caused the craved caffeine to tip over, soaking into a filled page of poetry, rather than into the goth’s blood stream. A great Shakespearean Tragedy. The pools of ashen misery he called his eyes just watched the liquid soaking into his pristine white page for an absurdly long moment, frozen by the thought he just spent three dollars to ruin a twenty dollar bullet journal.

Letting out a long overdue huff, he starts to sop up the remaining fluid. All of the pretty poetry pictures he had hoped to obtain were lost to time now, dumping the hardly used notebook in the trash with the napkins, he heads off towards the nearest location with any hardcover journals available. Doubtful any would ever be waterproof, the goth was still resolved. His mind void of any emotional attachment to the event further than the major inconvenience it happened to be. He had to draft the artwork his writing was before he could ever dream of posting it for his whole school to see, and now he was going to write a new poem. One called McDonald’s Espresso.

Headcanons:

-He plays violin. -He has a total of 0 expressions when anything happens, he just keeps this blank look on his face like he’s some sort of robot.

Anything else: I love you gays.

#Firkle #accepted #Admin Samantha #submission

[operationrainfall]

Title Psychedelica of the Ashen Hawk Developer Otomate (Idea Factory) Publisher Aksys Games Release Date June 29th, 2018 Genre Visual Novel, Otome Platform PlayStation Vita Age Rating T for Teen Official Website

As someone who’s been looking to expand his PS Vita collection for some time now, Psychedelica of the Ashen Hawk has been on my radar since it released this past June. The artwork really struck a chord with me and the initial impressions that I saw were very positive. However, given that it’s an otome visual novel, I initially passed on picking it up and playing it. Having played it now though, I can honestly say that was a big mistake.

Visual novels generally aren’t my cup-of-tea and otome most certainly aren’t aimed at someone of my demographic. My original assumptions were that this would end up being some sappy romance story with tons of fan service (something that I have a major distaste for). This made my shock all the greater when I discovered how tremendously wrong those assumptions were. The story, setting, and overall tone of the game are much darker than I expected. Nothing about the story feels “sappy” and the romance elements are given a bit of a backseat to a more complex, engaging storyline.

The story begins in a remote, Victorian-era village plagued by perpetual snowfall. Local legend speaks of a malevolent witch who is the source of the town’s suffering and the never-ending snowfall. Because of this legend, the villagers are quick to turn violent around anyone deemed to be involved with “the witch”. To further complicate things, the town is comprised of two factions- the wolf clan and the hawk clan. These two groups are in a constant state of civil unrest. It’s in this town that our protagonist, Jed, was born and raised. Having been born with a red eye (the sign of the witch), Jed must disguise herself as a man and keep her true gender a secret from those around her. She also chooses to reside in a secluded tower in the woods outside of town. She shares this tower with a strange man named Ashen Hawk. Ashen Hawk is a lazy amnesiac who allows Jed to stay with him in exchange for looking after the tower and taking care of him.

The information that I’ve conveyed above is all laid out at the onset of the game. As the story progresses, romantic relationships are introduced, Jed sets out to locate a mysterious artifact, and we learn more about both Jed and Ashen Hawk’s pasts. There is also a sub-plot that revolves around a mysterious string of murders. The story overall is a nice mix of heartfelt moments and some downright brutal ones. These brutal scenes serve to darken what would initially seem to be a pretty light-hearted atmosphere. The game has 12 distinct endings, some spanning multiple flows of events. I enjoyed each and every one of these endings (even though some were much sadder than the others). One of the things that I most appreciated from the story was the allusion to events and elements from the game Psychedelica of the Black Butterfly. This is Psychedelica of the Ashen Hawk’s sister-game which released just a few months prior. I really enjoy seeing connected universes between different games and this is no exception. After finishing this game, I am equally excited about turning my attention towards the other one.

In terms of how the story is presented, there are three types of events: main episodes, short episodes, and talk episodes. All three of these are available to initiate from map screens which change as the story progresses. The main story episodes directly advance the main story and must be completed to progress. Short episodes are more focused on character development and relationship building. Viewing these is often necessary for unlocking main story episodes. Lastly, talk episodes are essentially short, 10-second long snippets of information about the townspeople. Viewing these earns the player points which can be used to unlock additional content and short episodes. This is one of my main gripes about the game. Throughout my time playing, I found over 80% of these talk episodes to be pointless, adding little to the overall story. They consist of a quick question and answer and neither tended to be very interesting or have much of a point. This isn’t a huge complaint mind you, but the talk episodes just felt out of place among the rest of the story content.

Other minor issues that I noticed include some very minor translation errors at points and some annoying save habits. There are autosaves in place for your progress and manual saves for your current “bookmarks”. Basically, the autosave keeps track of what you’ve seen while the manual save keeps track of where to return to when you resume the game. If you finish a series of main episodes and end up at a map screen, you are unable to save at this map screen. You need to instead choose one of the short episodes or main episodes on that screen and then save once you start viewing them. If you don’t do this, then regardless of any progress you make, you will be forced to view the episode associated with your last manual save. You won’t lose any completion progress, but you will be forced to watch or skip through some of the content again. This was a tad bit annoying until I realized what the issue was.

When all was said and done, my total playtime came in at just over 15 hours. I thoroughly enjoyed all 15 of them. The artwork was excellent, the voice acting was stellar, and the music (while a bit generic at times) fit the atmosphere very well. Combining those elements with an interesting and engaging story, I feel that this visual novel is definitely worth playing (even if you’re like me and generally aren’t interested in playing visual novels). You can grab your own copy either physically or digitally on the PSN store for $39.99 USD. To give you an idea of how much I appreciated this game, I felt compelled after playing it to purchase a physical copy. I also went ahead and snagged a physical copy of Psychedelica of the Black Butterfly. For those who don’t own a PS Vita or a PS TV, there is a PC port of Black Butterfly releasing in November and I would not be surprised if Ashen Hawk saw a port shortly thereafter. I would highly suggest that you check this one out.

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[easyreview cat1title=”Overall” cat1detail=”” cat1rating=”4″]

Review copy provided by the publisher.

REVIEW: Psychedelica of the Ashen Hawk Title Psychedelica of the Ashen Hawk

#Aksys Games #Idea Factory #Otomate #Otome #psychedelica of the ashen hawk #Review #visual novel #Vita

[winterscream4]

No Works and No Days (Part 1)

“Love me a good mystery! Tra-la-la!”

The toy soldier advanced forward, climbing over a cake of burned out Pal-Mals, layered with a crust of ash at the top.

“No one can stop me now! I am at the top! And the New York Ripper will soon be in my gr…”

“AHAH!”

Another toy soldier landed from the sky, his spruce green face crudely washed over with pigments of white. Black circles enveloped his eyes and red paint was smudged round his lips.

“No, my dearest Marlowe! The world belongs to me! You better Hyde up or play dead! Not even the devil himself, can save you now!”

“Damn you Hyde! Run back into the gutter where you dragged your stinking ass from! Pew! Pew!”

A third soldier figure arose from behind the ashen pile. Threads of black cloth had been crudely sewn round his torso, ending in a double tail meant to resemble a 19th century frock.

“Time for you both to face the Music! Your Meister has arrived! Your pathetic strife shall serve as fine material for my new sonata!  Ha-hah-hah-hah!  John Martin, you are nothing but a hack! As for you detective, I shall strike you on the back! KABANG!”

Ding-Ding!

Marlowe dropped his toys and rushed to the microwave. White fumes and the scent of crackling meats met his nostrils, as he dragged out what some may called a club-sandwich but what most cardiologists would call the back road to an early grave.

Six slices of bread, the first filled with bacon and cheddar cheese, the second with barbeque sauce and potato fritters, the third with tomato, pork sausage and ketchup, the fourth with mayo and chicken nuggets, the fifth with beef and sour sauce and the sixth with grated parmesan and two fried eggs. A gruesome pile of carbohydrates and animal fat, self-humorously named by and after its inventor.

The Marlowe Sub. Also known as the shortest possible route to the emergency room.

With that monstrosity in hand, Marlowe hauled his newly acquired twenty-pound-extra beer-belly to the dining table, where he rested on a night-sky themed chair, made in 1924 as a gift from Clara Winter, to her son Robert, a few months before she perished from pneumonia. Marlowe, had spent the last two years of his life in the Winter manor, first setting in the Fall of 2018, when he attended the funeral of Christopher Winter’s housekeeper, James Krumphau.

James was diagnosed with liver cancer the previous year but kept it a secret from everyone he knew, including Marlowe. Yet again the people James knew count scarcely be counted in the fingers of two hands. James was never exactly the socialite, having spent half of his life serving the Winter family and the other half, being Christopher’s right hand man during his Music Meister years.

The housekeeper was always nice to him, albeit a little distant. Marlowe had garnered suspicions, that there were certain dark spots in James’ private history, albeit he paid no regard to them for long. After all, since his 2012 brush with Martin and the Black Glove, the classic detective novel mystery of “Who’s the criminal” had been reversed into “Who isn’t?”.

Even if James had claimed his literal pound of flesh, by the time they met, he had become one of Marlow’s handful of allies. In retrospect, James was the one to inform him that Christopher had willed him the Manor and half his fortune on that 2013 night that came to be known since as The Storm of the Century. James was also the man, who facilitated Marlowe by providing him with the passwords for all the Winter-family bank accounts and trust funds, including the house in Wilbraham, where Marlowe discovered the existence of the Black Glove and the spawn of their abandoned experiments. In the ensuing years, Marlowe would even receive letters from James once in a blue moon, typed in a code they had pre-agreed upon. James would share a few notes about his routine, but for the most part he inquired on his welfare and progress in rooting out the organization that had destroyed the life of Winter and Marlowe alike. Upon hearing the news in 2018, Marlowe rushed back to Midvintersville, where he made arrangements for James’ inhumation. Marlowe was not surprised to find himself alone during the ceremony, lest for James’ Asian-American nephew Lee, who had apparently visited his uncle a few times during Marlowe’s hunt for the Black Glove. Meanwhile, James had apparently spent his last years in prosaic retirement, tending the Winter manor and its grounds, interrupted only by a short adventure involving a Pleistocene fossil, his nephew had drawn him into.  Upon its closure, Lee had gifted his uncle with a Chinese pine Bonsai, that James never failed to prune and water and love as if it was the child he never had.

No tears were shed during the funeral, just a merciless silence occasionally interrupted by the uncanny echoes of the maple leaves dancing in the wind, before collapsing on the freshly mowed cemetery lawn. A single line from Homer’s Iliad was read by the Catholic pastor, before the mahogany casket with James in it, was swallowed by the dirt.

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

In the following day, when Marlowe read James’ will, he couldn’t do otherwise but take a moment to weep for James but maybe more so, for himself.  James had bequeathed his share of the Winter fortune to Marlowe and Lee alike, although the Winter Manor was left entirely under Marlowe’s custody. His sole request was for Marlow to care for the tree and be there for Lee should the need arise.

The little pine now rested against the oval window of the Winter Manor’s second floor ballroom. Marlowe would remind himself to water it each day, even when his ruminations became too self-consuming to let him rise from bed, he’d still force himself up to tend the Bonsai before burrowing under the sheets once more. Marlow had even employed the tree in reenacting vignettes from his life, using a vintage toy-soldiers set he had unearthed from the Manor’s old storage, that since 2008 had become the Music Meister’s center of operations. Under its upward pointing branches, lay three soldiers whose faces he had charred against the hearth’s embers and then placed in horizontal position, each marked with the label: Prospero, Driskull, Boisette. Three powerful men who sought immortality, and left mountains of bodies in their efforts to achieve it. And yet the last beheaded the rest and he was in turn penetrated to death by the very man whose cruelty he envied. A much coveted eternity, cut short by the razor-sharp fangs of a monstrous always.

Marlowe often starred at the pine’s, fallen needle-sharp foliage, drying and dying and rotting over the toys representing the inhumane leaders of the Black Glove. And he would often take pleasure in the thought, that his actions, in part, made sure that men like them deserved to have no place on earth, or beneath it.

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

 The once detective, now close-to-obesity recluse, however had little clue on how to care for anything living. Youtube channels on botany and gardening tutorials came to be of great help, teaching him the delicate arts of trimming, soil enhancing and of course, the spiritual and medicinal value of plants across human history.

In his early days at Winter manor, Marlowe attempted to dig deeper into plants, immersing himself into books about foraging and gathering as well as the transcendental aspects of the natural world, he found in the pages of Henry Thoreau’s Walden. Marlowe even attempted to conduct Thoreau’s experiment for a while.

In early 2019, he had moved to a tightly-spaced lodge not far from the Manor, where he spent his days, wandering across the forested lands surrounding the property, ensuring the well-being of James’ child as well as the much larger: mountain planes, black spruces, white oaks, balsam firs and the bonsai’s towering cousin, the white pine. His diet consisted solely of wild apples, grains, dried nuts and a variety of fungi, weeds and berries like the newly sprouting cattails he’d heat and serve with dandelion and purslane toppings, and the salty morels he’d sizzle on the campfire with elderberries and meadowsweets. Sumac and dog-rose teas became his daily refreshments, while his wonderings provided daily inspiration in the shape of new discoveries of various shapes, size and species.

Alien-looking British Soldier lichens, multicolored lady-slippers and processions of various insects and parasites growing out of severed tree stumps were but a few of the curiosities he’d encounter as the woods themselves seemed to come alive throughout spring. Vireos, wobblers, whippoorwills and the occasional grouse, would often surround his lodge for scraps, while in the still of some King’s Country summer nights, a barred owl would descend like a shadow of times long past, a demon-winged silhouette against the silver moon, snatching the avian visitors away from the camp and into scalpel-like talons that promised an one-way trip to the spectral realm. Marlowe witnessed it in full only once, yet he did not fail to see the semblance between the majestic and terrifying grace of the ancient bird and the thing he had seen John Martin transform into, a few years ago.

Reflecting upon that night’s experience, Marlowe started putting bizarre sketches into paper. While finishing the lines of two shadows, facing together at an endless ocean formed of teeth, gloves, hats, scarves and corpse-baring owls, he felt a sharp pain cutting across his stomach. At first, Marlow lifted his flannel shirt, glancing at the ten-centimeter line of still healing flesh, outlining the area below his ribcage. Marlowe gnarled as memories of Stephen Boisette slicing right through him with a double-edged saber, gifting him a scar the size of a pencil, were returning. The Alchemist, the Black Glove’s personal bulldog. The man that framed him for the murder of a girl at Cambridge all those years ago, turning him into England’s scapegoat for a decade. The man who gloated after his mother’s death from cancer. The man that got an inch away from sending him to join her. Now dead, by Martin’s dick and teeth. Served him well.

But the ache returned, stronger now, more penetrative.

His gut began turning ferociously as Marlowe crawled on his knees, pushing himself to and fro against the moss-covered stump of a severed birch.

The last thing he remembered when he woke up in the E.R., was dialing 991 and watching a cauldron of bats with a barred owl, savagely screeching at their tail, breaking away from the canopy and into the evening sky.

[wavesofinkdrops]

Hellfire - part  I

Warnings: IMPORTANT POINT: READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTE RIGHT BELOW, it explains a bit of what is going on. Warnings for this fic (posted in five parts) are heavy: contains WWII, atomic weapons, graphic violence, dark themes, dark!America, dark!Russia, dark!China, torture, implied torture, murder, dystopic themes.... this is the 1984 AU, after all. Also it does skip from one time and place to another, because there’s like... decades to get through. This isn’t even half of the complete story.

A/N: The important point I have is that this is a prequel to the two previous installments in this series (1 and 2). This is based on extensive historical and literary research into Orwell’s book (Goldstein’s, more specifically). I will put all the notes into a different post once all the parts have been posted to explain any confusion that might have remained. Two people I have to thank for this are @stirringwind, whose 1984 AU comments (especially about how American government and society would have changed during those times - something I develop on in later parts; sorry if tagging bothers you, just wanted to bring this point to light!) helped me build the universe in a way that makes sense, and @freedomeagles whose art and ideas are just awesome (the bit about Taiwan is all because of her and just a bunch of other ideas...) So without the two of them, this wouldn’t be half as good as it might be! I’ll link all the parts to each other, and once everything is posted, the final “notes and analysis post” will also be linked to this. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask me (here or @an-old-telephone! Enjoy!

Next Part

JULY 1941 - WASHINGTON D.C., USA "Alfred, I-" Arthur cringes, and Alfred sees the awkward way in which he shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the situation he is in. He stands in front of Alfred, a rather old suit hanging on his thin frame, his health clearly affected by the war - the war that had begun less than a year before. But the Germans' strategy was very aggressive and taking a hard toll on the British. His face was ashen and his eyes shadowed by dark rings. Meanwhile, Alfred was lounging at his desk, his feet propped up comfortably on the desk, twirling a fountain pen in his hand. The document he had been reading through was laying forgotten on the desk, right under where his feet were.

"Arthur? Hello, Earth to Arthur, you still there?" "Yes, yes, I am here, I am merely trying to say... something... which, well, isn't easy for me to say," Arthur coughs out, his eyes flitting about the office. "Okay...?" There's another silence, when Arthur looks like he's about to say something, but thinks otherwise. "Arthur?" "Yes, fine! You know very well of the situation Europe is in," Arthur states with whatever scraps of pride he has left. He still manages to lace his voice with feigned disinterest. "Yeah, I am." Alfred finds this kind of funny almost, the way Arthur was trying put the dirt back into the grave Ludwig was digging for him, without Alfred's help when Alfred was sitting there with all the money in the world in his hands. "Well, you've also heard about the... attack Britain faces." His voice and posture are stiff, tense, and Alfred's just trying to see every single opportunity this chance gives him. And they're all looking pretty appealing. "Yeah," he states nonchalantly - not his war, not his business, not his country, not his men. That was his people's opinion. For now. "And the British government was merely wondering if there was any way we could expect aid from our allies," Arthur continues, and falls silent. He shifts on his feet. Alfred waits for another minute, seeing whether or not Arthur would say anything more. He doesn't. "Dude, that was terrible." Alfred almost laughs at the offended look Arthur tries not to give him. "If you're asking for help, you're gonna have to actually ask. I'm not psychic, I don't know what you want." "Lord, you are making this far too painful for me and enjoying it, aren't you?" Alfred frowns. "No, I'm just doing things the proper way." My way. "Fine. I am here to ask if you would assist Britain in her campaign against Germany." Alfred looks at Arthur with an expectant look, but nothing comes. "Well, if that's the best you can do... I guess we can send some weapons or food or something," he says with a shrug, and then takes his feet off the desk. He plasters a smile on his face and picks up a pen, ready to go back to reading his documents. "If that's all, have a nice day and have a nice war, I'll tell-" "Alfred, I'm asking for help, please, how clear can I make this?" Arthur's frustration bubbles up. "Well, there we go, you need help, but you haven't told me what kinda help. You gotta be specific, how should I know what you mean?" "God, I don't know, Britain needs your help! I - Alfred, please, I need your help, the Germans are bombing London, who knows if there'll be anything left tomorrow morning? You're a powerful country, your economy has recovered at flash speed, I am helpless - Europe is helpless, Francis, Lars, Emma, they're all - Ludwig is far too good at this, I'm afraid if we wait any longer there will be no Britain to speak of!" Alfred is silent for a minute. "Damn, you really need my help." Arthur manages not to roll his eyes, and Alfred gives him credit for it. He knows that if the positions were switched, he'd probably have punched Arthur in the face already. "Okay, I'll help you, but you gotta do this on my terms, okay?" Alfred stands up, his face set in a rather uncharacteristic grin. Arthur doesn't pay attention to that. "What more do you want? For me to grovel at your feet and revere you as our saviour?" Arthur asks, his sarcastic tone slipping from his wounds and desperation. "Nah, I'm not that greedy. I just wanna make sure that nothing is left to chance. We have to coordinate to the last man if we want to make this quick and painless. Painless for us, I mean," Alfred laughs. "We need this done quick and clean, and we really can't leave anything - anything - up for debate or whatever, and we need to function with perfect coordination. I'm saying I don't want you to shoot down my propositions, and consider my strategies." "Oh." Arthur thinks for a moment. "We... we would be very grateful to receive your help."

"Good, guess I have to get to work then. Don't worry, I’ll be your hero and save you from the clutches of evil!" Alfred smiles, and it's as if there's something he's not telling. Arthur doesn't ask because London might be in ruins, and he doesn't have time notice the gaslight gaze that follows him out the door.

FEBRUARY 1942 - MOSCOW, RUSSIA "Listen, man, you gotta like trust me, 'kay? You can't win this war on your own, and we're on your side!" Alfred explains with a wide grin. Arthur stands off to the side, preferring to stay away from the young nation's idiocies. "I am not involved in the war in Europe, you must understand that, Alfred." Alfred sours. "Damn it, Ivan, I'm tryna help all of us. But you gotta help me too. Listen, I'll help you with Japan all you want, if you help me with Luddy boy over here. Fair deal, Yao's being run over by a little island, your east is under attack, so I'll pop in from the south and boom, three-sided attack and Kiku's done for. Problem sorted. Now remains Ludwig in the west, who's gettin' awful itchy about this business. I can just feel him wanting to get a look at Moscow." Alfred sees the look crossing Ivan's eyes, and knows he's won. "A-ha! You know it too! See? We double-attack him, war on two fronts, by Ludwig. The Italians aren't a problem, Berlin falls and Rome's ours straight off. Yeah?" Ivan raises an eyebrow, but doesn't answer. Arthur sits down. It seemed like it would calm down from here. "C'mon, pretty please, I ain't gonna beg, but this should make it an awful lot shorter and easier for the three of us." As an afterthought, Alfred looks at Arthur. "The four of us. So if you wanna help, do, but if ya wanna suffer for another... I don't know, three-four-five years or something, be my guest, I got all the time in the world." Alfred leans in and his voice drops to a sound only Ivan can hear. "Mister Uptight over there and your Lil' Sisters over at yours, on the other hand, may not." Alfred stands back up, and throws on his coat. It's a brand new, shiny, bomber jacket. "So, ya know, your pick. See ya 'round!" Alfred is moving out the door, and Arthur is more than confused at the hasty departure. They're not even at the door before Ivan speaks. "Fine. I will help. Merely because it will make matters much easier for me." Ivan stands, and opens a door to another study. "We can talk in here." "Sweet!" And Alfred follows Ivan in, but when Arthur tries to, he's barred entry by an apologetic Alfred. "Sorry, but this'll be easier if it's just me an' him, you see?" And he gives a flash of a smile before he closes the door on Arthur. He turns to Ivan. "What do you want, then?" "You promised to help with Japan. Why should I want anything more?" Ivan asks with a glint in his cold eyes. Alfred looks at him with an less-than-amused gaze. "'Cause you're you, and it's never a simple yeah/no with you?" "Europe." "You're gonna have to be more specific." "I want Europe," Ivan states, his tone simplistic. "Hah, you're funny, but you're really having some sky-high delusions of grandeur with that if you think I'm just gonna-" "I know what you're planning, Alfred, and I will have a share in that world of yours." Alfred's eyes narrow. "Why are you so sure?" "Because you need me to help you crush Ludwig. Sure, you can bomb him to the ground - but that is against your twisted 'hero' ideology, isn't it? You need other nations - like Arthur - to believe you are the 'good guy' for as long as possible for your plan to work properly. You need me to defeat Ludwig, and you need both Yao and me to make Kiku's fall swift and quick. I know your scientists are close to that weapon, but know that so are mine. And when I do have it, you will not find it easy to take the rug from under my feet."

"How do you know what I'm planning? Why would I plan anything?" Ivan grins. Alfred is almost too sweet with this pretense. "Every country knows you were nothing short of displeased towards your leaders after '29 and their attempts to blame you. Yao and I both know something happened, during the Depression, and now you're here with an aggressive foreign policy, having all but taken control of the British Empire, and you are planning on taking power for yourself. Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor only cemented your alliance with Britain and the sentiment of revenge back home - they merely attacked because you were preparing to do the exact same. That's why you support that growing revolution, isn't it? It's your opportunity to dismantle your government and put a new one in place." "A new government would not do anything for me, doesn't change a thin-" Ivan chuckles. "It does, especially if you're trying to put yourself into power. Remember, Alfred, that most other nations - especially Yao and I - have seen this before. Have tasted power, felt the craving, and seen what it does to a nation. If you're sure it will work, no-one will or can stop you. But denying it is useless. That craving? I can see it in front of my own eyes." He looks straight at Alfred. Alfred's expression is much darker than it had been, but he tries to conceal it. He looks away before turning back to Ivan with deadpan eyes. "Fine, you can have half of Europe until Germany," Alfred concedes with a wave of his hand. "All or nothing, Jones, that's the bargain." Alfred's lip thins, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. He watches Ivan's cool eyes before huffing. "We don't have to settle on terms right now. Jus' help me, and I'll help you, and we can just sort this out once it's over with." Ivan leans against his desk. "Ah." He shakes his head in amusement. "So that is how you wish to go about it." Alfred looks affronted. "Don't know what the hell you mean, Braginsky, but I don't need to." He turns to leave. "This ain't over, but we'll put this on hold for now. See ya 'round." "You most certainly will." Alfred leaves, and Ivan waits only until he hears the American and his lapdog leave to call Yao. The Chinese man would most likely be interested in the underhanded imperialism Alfred was so obviously full of. And yet, Ivan had the feeling Alfred had been planning on his noticing it. Perhaps there was something more to that look of pure desire for worldwide hegemony in his eyes than he had let on.

MAY 1945 - BERLIN, GERMANY The city around them lays in ruins, a shadow of what the grand European capital used to be. Buildings torn apart by bombs, dropped from the sky, streets deserted as people had either been evacuated or killed; nothing living remains except the two men standing in a large square. Neither of these men pay attention to their surroundings, one because he cannot bear the sight, the thought of his capital in such a desolate state, the other because he has no interest in anything more than the man kneeling in front of him at the end of his rifle and the other man who isn't there yet. "Will you or will you not, kill me, Russia?" Ludwig asks, his voice strained and verging on irritated. How long had they been in this position, in complete silence? He's not sure any more. "I precisely told him to meet us – rather, me – here, today. His troops are nowhere to be seen or heard, and I doubt he's anywhere closer than wherever they are." There's a dangerous undertone in Ivan's voice. "It is a pity for you, seeing how he most likely would have been kinder on you than I will be." A  hint of a smile creeps up on Ivan's lips, and Ludwig tries his best not to think of it. "I recognise my mistake, Russia. I do. Believe me." He isn't pleading. "I have no reason to believe you at all, after all you were so very keen on breaking our agreement – remember?" "You were already allied with the United States and Britain!" Ludwig tries not to shout, but there's a mild sense of panic mingling with all the other feelings that came with the end of a war as a defeated power. "Technicalities – I had, at no point, intervened in your deeds nor had I attacked you. I am not a forgiving man, and you must know that already. If you do not," Ivan chuckles darkly, "you will find that out very soon. Ludwig looks at him expectantly, but Ivan merely grins. "If you come quietly, I will have no need to cause you harm. I would hate to employ any more force than I absolutely have to, this war has been very costly already, don't you think?" He snarls, and Ludwig almost flinches. "Stand." Ivan takes a step back and allows Ludwig some space. Dust clings to the creases in his worn uniform, and Ivan finds the sight an amusing change from what he remembers from the summer of 1939. Ivan shouts for his men, who come and surround the German with guns pointed straight at him. Ivan smiles. "If you'll follow me, I have many things to do – the first and foremost of them being marching West and driving aw- meeting America's troops." He can see from the look in Ludwig's eyes that he knows that he's done nothing but jump from a bad situation to a worse one.

#my writings #aph america #aph russia #aph china #aph 1984 #fanfic #dark #blood #violence #1984 hetalia #aph oceania #aph eurasia #aph eastasia #aph england #aph germany #wwii #pearl harbor #war #dark america #dark russia #dark china #fic #hellfire

[orangebatsanctuary]

Welcome to today main course~ get ready to relish to the hearty dish!

On a Wing & a Prayer by hakumei_hogosha

The grand brand-new AU action-fantasy depicts the beautiful InaSure love that will take your breath away. But before you taste the heavenly sugar, you have to pass through the hellish salt first *evil grin* 

Read on OrangeBat Sanctuary website:

http://www.orangebat-sanctuary.com/hakumei-hogosha

or click ‘Keep reading’ below.

Bon appetite reading!

Love,

Rosiel

*Title page’s art by hakumei_hogosha

On a Wing & a Prayer by hakumei_hogosha

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Tags:

Alternate Universe (AU), Post-Apocalyptic, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Angels, Automata, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor & Major Character Deaths, Canon References (S1&S2, Extra Day/24.5)

  Summary:

Against all odds -- be it time, space or fate -- he always reached me. No matter how much I denied and defied him, he always thwarted my efforts. So even if it may be impossible, for it to happen I pray; I pray for such a miracle.

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   Prologue

⊱Slaine⊰

 A door was silently closed and quietly, an ashen blond young man walked into a dark room. Upon approaching the opposite side of the room, he pulled a curtain back and let some light in before nestling in a wooden chair seated next to a bed. Once seated, the ashen blond retrieved an old book from his coat pocket albeit with a slight grimace. Momentarily he rubbed his left hand, where a worn bandage wrap was loosening. Underneath, a whip-like wound seemed to have opened once more and started showing signs of festering.

 The ashen blond hastily wrapped the wound again as he mumbled to the person resting in bed, “One moment Milady. I know. I know how much you want to hear that story again.”

 He offered a polite smile when looking to the person he addressed -- a sleeping beauty of long blond hair, ghastly yet still beautiful. He breathed shakily while his eyes momentarily watered, glossing over at the sight and before swallowing hard, he cleared his throat. Firmly he began to retell the story the sleeping beauty loved dearly.

 “Beyond the azure sky and stars above,

Our kingdom once resided.

In a foreign land, rigid and red

 Struggling, forsaken and isolated from Mother Earth

Our empire of Vers stood

Yet Blessed we were

 Blessed by the Power of the Gods!

Thought transcending matter

Wildest dreams becoming reality

 Green with envy our fellow man were

-- the Terrans were

So were we

-- Jealous of our fellow man

 Land abundant with resources

Limitless air

Food beyond krill

 And without fail, in our fallacy

We waged war (although we hated war)

Until (our so-called) justice be done

Though the heavens may fall

 And so it did

The moon shattered and the sun set the world ablaze

All were slain

 And life went on

For it all to begin again.”

 The ashen blond sighed and looked at the name of the poet. He traced the name when resuming to speak, “Written by a poet with your namesake, Milady Asseylum…”

 For a moment the young man waited for a response that he knew would never come and yet out of old habit, he continued this charade of a conversation. He let his imagination, his recollection of the sleeping beauty, of his childhood friend to fill in the other half of the conversation.

 “Yes there is truth Milady. Based on the ruins, our town is founded on a different type of earth compared to the neighboring towns. The description of the Vers Empire also can be correlated with the description of the fractured planet named Mars,” the young man continued.

 He nodded and smiled gleefully, “Where can the correlation be made? Mars is the name of the ‘red’ planet close to our Earth. Unlike Earth however it lacks an atmosphere so its cold… ‘rigid’ as described. Furthermore… ‘blessed we were…’”

 The young man’s expression became sullen as his voice trailed.

 “Stay back Slaine!” A voice from the past echoed in the back of his mind.

 Slaine face palmed and grit his teeth; he tried to hold back a sob.

 “This is my vengeance!” A man with burgundy wavy hair exclaimed. He adorned a military uniform and stretched his black wings, in hopes of intimidating his foe, a young woman of emerald eyes and blond hair.

 The woman brought forth both of her hands, facing her palms to the winged man, and exclaimed, “In the name of Asseylum vers Allusia, I demand you to sleep!”

 The man spat and with great spite, yelled, “I refuse! For my fiancee, for my flesh and blood I demand retribution in kind! You have no power over me! ARGH!”

 Asseylum struggled and golden emblems began to appear around the man. A barrier of light separated the man from Asseylum and her companion. Simultaneously, the man was being pushed back into the earthly wall, where chains of light manifested and coiled around the man.

 “It’s useless, Orbital Knight of the past! Desist!” Asseylum exclaimed.

 The man chuckled after finally giving up on his futile struggle. He smirked as he realized, “You may have won this skirmish but do not think this is the last of me, Princess Asseylum.”

 “Princess?” Slaine repeated in confusion.

 The man momentarily was surprised at Asseylum’s comrade but only chuckled under his breath.,“How absurd this hand fate has dealt… To think even in this life, we are still bound by our roles of back then.”

 “What do you mean?” Slaine tried to inquire only for the man to still return his smug smile before being entirely encased in golden light.

 Asseylum fell to her knees but was caught by Slaine. She breathed with great labor as her heart was giving out. She had overexerted herself, perhaps far too much for her body to handle.

 “Asseylum please! Save your strength and--”

 She took his hand into hers and shook her head. “It’s… too late for that… Slaine… Please… protect Lemrina… She’s the last… to be able to stop  him. He’ll return and… I…”

 “Asseylum!” Slaine cried when noticing her grip was weakening.

 She smiled before her eyes closed what she considered her last time. “Please… If he acquires… the family… Aldnoah… he’ll…”

 Her hand fell limp much to Slaine’s growing despair. Over and over he screamed her name.

 A knocking came to the door. “Are you there?” Asseylum’s sister asked from the other side of the door.

 The young man closed his book and asked, "Do you believe in angels, Lemrina?"

 "Do you believe in miracles, Slaine?" The woman queried back.

 The ashen blond huffed. "Touche, Milady. But the angels I speak of exist."

 "The Orbital Knights? They're not the angels that are heavenly and holy as literature makes them to be. Far from it actually..." Lemrina continued to retort back and had entered the room, making her to Slaine.

 "No. They're no different from devils. Perhaps they're worse than devils."

 "How did the prayer go again? Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil?"

 "I do not see your point, Milady."

 "Neither do I see yours. Slaine, you know full well how I have scavenged the world for the finest doctors and naught is there to awaken my sister."

 "Yes. By the wealth invested in your family, the descendants of the Royal Family that established the long forsaken Vers Empire... you have looked at every corner of the world... the known world for a solution. The solution we seek Milady--"

 "Slaine you wouldn't mean..."

 The young man stood up and offered his hand to Lemrina. Weakly he smiled, a ghost of his former smile the woman thought, and he nodded. Taking his hand, the two walked outside the manor and towards the rundown factory where Slaine's father worked away at a relic of the past.

 "My father has uncovered a relic called the Tharsis. If we are deciphering the runes correctly... it has a power over time."

 "Time?" Lemrina repeated.

 "Imagine... if we could go back in time and undone what had occurred. What if we were to prevent our fathers from activating the Aldnoah?"

 Lemrina chuckled. "You speak of impossibilities Slaine."

 "What about the miracles you speak of, Lemrina? What if we could go back to how things use to be?" Slaine dared ask the question, voice the wish she longed for.

 The woman was at a loss of words and her eyes watered. She lowered her head with her fringe hiding her eyes. "That would be too good to be true... There has to be a catch."

 Slaine patted Lemrina's head. "If you really want to obtain something... Lemrina... sometimes you have to be willing to pay regardless of the price."

 Lemrina grit her teeth and faced her dearest friend, whose smile was filled with resignation. "What price do you speak of?"

 He shook his head. "I don't know. I can't say. Activating the Aldnoah before brought back spirits of the past -- the Orbital Knights. One nearly killed us all in that room... surely… one of them will aid us."

 "Slaine... Please..." Lemrina begged as she lightly pulled at Slaine's sleeve.

 Slaine took her hand from his sleeve and squeezed, "Regardless of what happens, you're the princess I'll always protect. I promised your sister after all."

     ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

    Chapter One

⊱Lemrina⊰

 Like lightning and thunder, an alien light and a death cry enveloped the room. The smell of seared flesh filled her nostrils, the burning sensation watered her eyes yet nothing remained in her heart. The shock had vacated her fear, her anger and her reason.

 The void before her physically had only slowly registered in her mind and yet her hands had long made quick work. Her forearm bled an eerie yet matching color to the glow and with her damaged legs, she crawled desperately forward to the focal point of the catastrophe, the mangled, butchered cadaver, and dashed her spilled blood upon it. She knew not why but she knew if she were to do so, something would be done. Demented it may become. Cursed she may become. But death it will no longer become and no longer would she be alone.

 Drip. Drip drip. Drip...

 Then silence.

 A hitched breath and a prayer to the heavens above and to the damned below. Anything for a miracle or a curse.

 Nothing.

 Her heart sank. She closed her eyes and her fists shook as the mad scientist began to cackle. Little did the man realize he had murdered his son. "No," she thought, "He knew but did not care."

 The man's madness abruptly turned into fear. A jerk here. A jerk there. Slowly the cadaver came to life.

 Her eyes watered and she thanked the gods. It dug its bloodied fingernails into the metallic floor and began to sit up. Life seemed to return but it would be too good to be true. Soon her heart became cold at the sight and the sound. Crackling bones. Unnatural bends and moves.

 Lifeless turquoise eyes met hers.

 Slaine had not returned.

 The cadaver leaned forward and hugged its sides. Drool mixed with saliva and blood dripped from its mouth. It gagged and hissed as something cracked even more than before. Another crack. One more and soon it fell to its knees and the source of the sound erupted. Where her blood had touched, began to sear and glow like the light before.

 "No!" She internally cried and grimaced.

 She wanted to look away but she could not. She tried to block her ears as once more the scientist began to maniacally laugh. Nothing she had done prevented the scientist. It only impeded. His work had come to completion. It was bearing fruit.

 The blood on the floor had mixed with hers and unnaturally collected and climbed into the cadaver's back. The cadaver groaned and tears ran down its cheeks as the blood seared its flesh evermore. Tearing. Reconnecting. Rebuilding. Rewriting.

 Flesh met with the blood and the blood unnaturally cooled as its liquid form danced and derived itself into coils and wedges. It began to resemble gears of various sorts.

 Her blood had become the medium to realize the madman's dreams. Aldnoah did not answer to her alone. It heard the madman. It heard all. It granted all. It served fate above all.

 Wings of god blessed metal adorn the cadaver's back. No longer entirely a corpse it was but neither was it entirely human nor robotic. Whatever it was, it was the first of its kind... and nothing of what it once was.

 The cadaver turned its head unnaturally like an owl, from Lemrina and to the mad scientist, the cadaver's human father and now perhaps its creator.

 "My son!" The mad scientist Dr. Troyard warmly greeted and offered opened arms. It was a spectacle to behold how the very murderer showed more emotions to the grotesque transformation of his former kin, blood and bone.

 Calmly, the cadaver straightened itself and slowly, somewhat stiff as if adjusting to its restored body, walked forward to the scientist. The two did not embrace as the doctor surveyed his former son more closely, walking around and then touching, tracing his hand along the newly formed mechanical wings and finally to his son's cheek. Paler, abnormally paler did his son's perplexion look. Abnormally in such a manner of not looking organic or human, more pale than he had originally been.

 "Fath...r..." It spoke. The first word it had said since its awakening and the scientist's eyes watered. Finally the two embraced.

 "Just like a newborn! Oh to think the power--" Dr. Troyard had began to babble only to cough and blood escaped his lips in place of his words.

 He coughed as he froze in place, it was only when the cadaver walked backwards and pulled out its right arm from the scientist's rib cage. Looking down the scientist's expression paled momentarily before evermore, maniacally smiled in perhaps accepting fate's hand upon him. In the grasp of the cadaver's blood-soaked hand laid the scientist's still beating heart, still linked to the many capillaries, arteries and veins. It was fascinating yet fearful. Never before did he see his insides with his naked eyes but he too knew full well what this meant -- he was moments' away from death's embrace in the hands of his former son. This cadaver was not his son.

 No... it surely was as the scientist finally looked to his son in the eye.  The doctor had seen this expression countless times; he knew them well... far too well. What shred of humanity, of fatherhood that remained in him ached and for this last moment he felt the entirety of his failure. How many chances had gone past his fingers? How many times did he turn his son away in the name of this research, this very research that had taken his son just as it had torn away his wife before. He had not learned and now he was to pay the last thing he had to offer.

 "Dad... you should come early today. At least today... M... Mom would appreciate it." His son had once told him while the scientist worked on improvising the assembly line. He did not heed Slaine's advice and soon after, his wife had left him.

 Bitterly Doctor Troyard had once more withdrawn into the collapsing factory, his last haven and semblance of happiness from his married life. The two had discovered this place and decided to restore it to its former beauty. Years had past, responsibilities and thorns of reality corrupted that dream.

 As Doctor Troyard had slugged more of his vodka and rested upon the assembly line, gazing to the night sky in the gaping hole of the ceiling, his son had made his way. "You leaving too?" Dr. Troyard bitterly asked; he had dulled his senses. In the end, did their presence matter to him now when his wife, who once shared this dream of restoring the archaic technology their forefathers once bore, had left him?

 He should have suspected as once she bore his child, the time she committed to their dream would dwindle into nothing and more, she would ask for him away from this dream. He dared not let this dream die.

 "No." His son calmly answered and leaned on an adjacent part of the assembly line. "I'll only remind her of her life here... and anyway, I would like to see you achieve what she considered an unattainable dream."

 Doctor Troyard was at a loss of words and chuckled to himself. Little did his son know how much he resembled his mother.  The difference was his son knew very little beyond the fog of this town they lived in. He knew very little of what broader horizons awaited him if he were to leave.  Doctor Troyard knew yet as much as he knew what future awaited the two if they were to continue this seemingly fruitless pursuit, how hard their life and how many more losses they will incur, he could not bring himself to send his son away. He could not do what he should have done as a father.

 And now he was paying for it. Aldnoah had answered his desire to revive the forgotten technology of eons past and the noble wish his son had for him to see this impossible dream come to fruit... only to become its vessel. The mad scientist's knees buckled and with his last ounce of strength, he had reached for his son's cheek and tried to speak. He tried to apologize yet how little those words meant now.

 In one quick stroke of movement, the cadaver crushed the removed heart and released its fingers and digits one by one. He let the oozing blood spill on the collapsed corpse. For a moment it looked at the corpse but not a moment more before turning to what hung in the hangar before them.

 Lemrina groaned as she tried to get herself to sit up. The pain of her wounded legs had dulled but the fact she begun to not feel anything scared her. A conclusion had dawned to her and she knew it was most likely true and nothing could be done at this point. She eventually got herself to sit up and once more brought her attention to what was unfolding before her. To her surprise, the cadaver had approached her; it was within her reach and as much as she longed to caress Slaine's cheeks in her palms, she knew this was nothing but an illusion.

 The cadaver had kneeled before her and then bowed, bringing its right forearm over where its heart would be. "Heiress of Aldnoah," It began and slowly retracted its arm, from its chest and grasped Lemrina, an arm under her legs and another wrapping around her back. The cadaver had picked her up and brought her forward to that which hung from the hangar. Lemrina held her breath as the cadaver's cold embrace was nothing like Slaine's former warmth. Heiress Aldnoah it  had addressed her as... Aldnoah the name of the lost technology their forefathers had used... to humanity's initial destruction. And yet for some reason, it was perhaps humanity's last hope of revitalizing the world they called home.

 She gulped as the cadaver brought her ever closer to the edge of the walkway they were on. Was he going to drop here considering how helpless she was, unable to walk on her own two feet anymore?

 "Heir..ess..." It addressed again and she turned to face it without a second thought. She chided herself when trying to remind herself this was no longer Slaine... yet she was weak to that semblance of his voice, although no longer filled with life and the hope she adored.

 "Yes... Slaine." Lemrina acknowledged and still held her troubled expression, she was uncertain how else to address it. Her expression paled as she realized hanging lump of metal before her had risen its head and faced her. Its once dead eyes illuminated and like the cadaver as if claiming what remnants of life the cadaver, the eyes brimmed with a turquoise glow.

 The cadaver did not reply and so Lemrina dared ask, "What... exactly is this relic of the past  did Doctor Troyard unearth and try to revive?"

 "Tharsis. A Kataphrakt capable to foresee the future." It curtly responded and faced Lemrina. For a moment she swore she could see Slaine still dwelt in the reanimated, "your wish is our command, Milady."

 Her eyes widened as the wholesome truth of what Aldnoah, fate had dealt her, sunk in. Just like Doctor Troyard, she acquired what she had asked for... albeit twisted and morbid, eternally and like a growing sickness in her heart, her heart sank realizing and dreading she had ever wished this fate upon her love.

 Never will Slaine leave her side but never will he be her equal. They could never fall in love.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Two years later...

 Stratus clouds loomed overhead. Endless, steady rain continuously fell and pitter-pattered on the lone black umbrella. Underneath the umbrella, a pink-haired woman dressed in a black gown sat in a wheelchair. Her eyes downcast and her hands resting on her lap. The wind blew and without hold, the umbrella flew elsewhere.

 The woman remained still. Her attention was fixated on a lone epitaph underneath a willow tree.

 "I take your hand one more time.

I cast your hand away this last time.

 I'm sorry my dearest friend.

I'm sorry to have fallen for you.

I'm sorry for having cursed you.

 Please forgive me.

No. Please don't forgive me.

I know too well you will forgive me.

 You were the kindest soul of all

Too good for this world

Much too good for me most of all."

 She chuckled to herself and sighed. It had become a mantra, a prayer to someone long gone or to heavenly above whose ears have long gone deaf.

 Once more she visited a hollow grave. More so then her own parents but she could not bring herself to mourn, to weep for their passing. There were no heartfelt feelings for them in comparison to the one before her.

 She was in the wrong. She knew she was in the wrong. Parents always loved their children; perhaps she misunderstood their love. At least that is what Lemrina is always told. She did not care either way.

 Her heart throbbed and hurt most looking at this grave for her dearest friend, her long dearly departed.

 "He will never find rest," she thought bitterly and truthfully.

 She looked upward and cast her cold, piercing blue eyes forward. In the distance, she could see a clearing among the junkyard's piles of rubbish where an angel seemed to aimlessly wonder. At least that was how the townspeople perceived it to be. Little did anyone beyond her household know the terrible truth.

 The angel was an abomination. However it was not the most horrid. The most horrid was its creator -- her.

 Her eyes had long dried up. There were no more tears. Her voice had long become hoarse from all her screams and pleas for a different reality, for time to go back or perhaps everything to be a dream.

 Lemrina chuckled again to herself and leaned back into her chair, gripping tightly to her useless thighs. She would never walk and yet this was the least of her pain. Her gaze went from the junkyard and to the left, toward the second floor of her mansion where a curtain recently was pulled in.

 "Ah," she realized. Her eyes had fallen to the window belonging to her sister's room.

 Even now, her sister still was more fortunate than her. Bitterly even in her sister's pathetic state, Lemrina couldn't help being jealous --

"If only she knew how much the world preferred her over me."

"If only she knew how much he longed to see her wake up and call his name."

"Things would be better if it was she that became the cripple and not the comatose."

 Such thoughts once more plagued and ravaged Lemrina's mind. She shook her head, trying to shake them away from her conscience to little, to no avail before turning to face her butler.

 "Milady..." Her butler, Harklight, softy addressed her. His voice ebbed with hesitation and a thin sliver of objection to where she wish to go.

 "Harklight," she said in an attempt to match but in a far more bitter and spiteful tone. She did not care what her butler had to say.

 Creaking wheels came to a stop as a pair of dress shoes dared not step any further. The woman sitting upon the wheelchair silently exhaled deeply and opened her eyes, narrowly looking to her surroundings. Resentment, regret and resignation adorn her features yet she remained steadfast.

 She knew the gravitas of where she was and what had occurred here. Before her, the decrepit factory was filled with dust and showed signs of being abandoned for many years. No sign of recent activity could be seen from inside. Control panels and assembly lines were caked in dust and falling into disrepair. The Tharsis had long been repaired and no longer resided in the decrepit factor. Where it was, Lemrina did not have the faintest clue yet it mattered not. Years have passed and without fail it was certain Lemrina had full reign over the automaton and the one under its charge.

 As if it unconsciously knew, the automaton had made its way to where she was now. Her butler gulped and subconsciously released his hold on her wheelchair. The automaton dropped down from the gaping hole of the ceiling and softly landed by fluttering its robotic, rusting wings much like a bird.

 "Good afternoon Slaine." Lemrina greeted and similarly, the automaton greeted her yet by kneeling before her and kissing her offered hand.

 After kissing her hand, the automaton looked upward to her. Remorsefully she smiled at the abomination her friend had become and caressed its left cheek. Lemrina pondered to herself. She had to tell him, even if it really wasn’t him. She had to selfishly for her own sake. Only it could offer some semblance of solace, peace of mind of the conclusion of their odyssey to awaken her sister.

 “How I longed to see you smile once more…” Lemrina wishfully thought.

 “Heir...ess?” It asked in his voice, void of any emotion. So close it was to being her dearest friend yet such a far cry. Whatever humanity he had was ripped apart him, figuratively and literally.

 She struggled to hold back her face twisting into utmost remorse. She swallowed hard and summoned, focusing every ounce of concentration she could muster.

 “Slaine is not really here… just like she won’t be… and soon I won’t.” Lemrina convinced herself. One deep breath and she had reclaimed her composure. “Slaine,” she addressed with her full attention and began, “as much as I have tried… I fear time has run out.”

 Lemrina paused, taking in the sight of the automaton before her. Her eyes watered and her breath became ragged for a moment. She could easily recollect and imagine how he would have reacted upon hearing such words. Fear. Despair. Struggle. And most of all… hope. Even in the darkest and hardest of times, Slaine would still try his best to seek a way to make the situation better or what good there was in the situation.

 There was nothing expressed in the automaton. Expressionless, emotionless and eternally waiting for a command from Lemrina.

 “She will not wake Slaine,” Lemrina finished and lowered her head, “ever again.”

 “...”

 The pink-haired woman took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Of course it would be silent for…”

 Her train of thought was disrupted. In the corner of her eye, she could see tears falling down the automaton’s cheeks. She gawked at the automaton which had risen to its feet. It spread its mechanical wings and fringe hid its eyes.

 “Then Milady’s barrier will fall and the Orbital Knight Saazbaum will break free. We need to escape post haste, Milady Lemrina,” the automaton informed and offered its hand.

 His mistress shook her head. She smiled even more peacefully than before and crossed her hands on her lap. “Thank you Slaine but this time, I will be the one to stay behind.”

 “Count Saazbaum’s objective will be to acquire the Aldnoah activation rights and abilities you hold Milady Lemrina. As Heiress, your well-being is--”

 Lemrina had reached forward, resting a finger on its lips in an act to silence it. A tear ran down her left cheek. “Slaine…” She spoke in a weaker voice, “you must flee. More so than me… It is inevitable for Saazbaum to acquire the Royal Family’s ability of Memoria. It is not inevitable, however, for him to be unable to use it indefinitely. As long as he does not obtain the Tharsis, there is hope.”

 “Milady… pardon me for speaking out of turn but what hope is there when the Orbital Knight, a wielder of unspeakable power from the distant past gains the ability to rewrite history?” Harklight dared ask.

 The butler’s mistress had remained quiet with her attention still fixated on the automaton. Its tears had long dried yet their trails remained on its cheek.

 “You’re still in there aren’t you Slaine?” Lemrina asked rhetorically and took one more deep breath. “Surely you are… and now, now you no longer need to be bound here.” “Flee Slaine,” she commanded much to Harklight’s surprise -- a surprise perhaps the automaton shared.

 It had remained in place.

 She exclaimed again in an authoritative manner, “Go! Don’t fall into Saazbaum’s hands! This is my last order.”

 Lemrina was about to repeat herself yet stopped as this time, the automaton -- with some hesitation -- levitated upwards before taking flight again through the opening in the ceiling. Seeing the mechanical wings glisten in the sunlight of the rising dawn, Lemrina wiped one of her own tears.

 “Shall we find refuge elsewhere?” Harklight asked.

 “No need after all--”

 Harklight groaned as he was thrown to the other side of the room and standing before her, a man stood dressed in a burgundy uniform covered in dust.

 “Saazbaum,” she addressed and gripped her wheelchair’s armrests tightly.

 “My princess…” The man acknowledged with a disturbing smile and approached her, pointing his cane to her neck as a threat. “Even to the bitter end, you still give me trouble.”

 Lemrina smirked and although short, she relished in the moment of the Orbital Knight’s detestment against her.

 “Any last words, Princess Lemrina?” Saazbaum entertained.

 “...”

 “None at all? Hmph. Suit yourself.

 As the cane dematerialized into an eerie red beam and struck downward towards her piercing blue eyes, she closed her eyes and welcomed death. There were no more words for her to say, only a prayer that she hoped against all odds would be heard and granted by the heavens above -- “Please be free Slaine.”

   ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

   Chapter Two

⊱Automaton Slaine⊰

 Quick sequential bounces could be observed among the forest canopy as the automaton soar ever heavenward. Once at the peak of the tallest tree in the forest, it turned to a dominating fire that loomed in the horizon. The land and its people the automaton once guarded burned in the distance. The Vers Empire once more had fallen.

 Reaching forward in one hand, the automaton tried to grasp the fire in the distance. Hoping it did for feeling warmth or an undeniable scorching fire, it dared to grasp the unattainable yet stupidly, for the distance was too great. Only the night’s chilliness and the dissipating water vapor was in its hand. It withdrew its hand back, forming a fist and then released. There was nothing, only a slight dampness.

 It peered its gaze upwards once more to see the slowly but surely dying fire in the distance. Soon there too wouldn’t be anything there. Nothing meaningful to warrant its services anymore.

 Furthermore…

 “This is my last order.”

 The heiress’s last command prevented him from going back. For now at least.

 The automaton grimaced -- a behavior it knew was abnormal for an inhuman object such as himself -- yet the urge overwritten its protocol. It rested its palm on where a heart for a human would have resided only for there to be nothing of such value located there for the automaton. However it hurted there. It throbbed where there were no physical abnormalities and everything read normal to its parameters.

 “Just like the tears,” it noted and recalled when fleeing the factory and looking one last time to its heiress. “Perhaps I’m malfunctioning… I no longer have a master… and the last order is too broad.” It assessed.

 The metallic plates resting on its left side shimmered and aqua runes appeared but such seemed like a normal phenomenon. The automaton closed its eyes and dropped down from the branch, only slowing its descent with a few flaps of its wings. Once on the ground, the automaton unsheathed several daggers in its left hand and opened its eyes. Its turquoise eyes glimmered in the darkness, coldly staring forward at its unveiling predator.

 “Thank you Tharsis,” The automaton said under its breath and the runes pulsated momentarily as if a reply before fading. Residing in the automaton’s left eye, the profile of the coming threat appeared.

 The automaton’s predator adorn the burgundy uniform of the Orbital Knights from the distant past. “Count Maryclian…” Slaine identified.

 “I knew you Terrans were not to be trusted! As ordered by Lord Saazbaum, I shall execute you in Her Highness’s memory!” The aristocrat laughed hysterically and riled his head back, cackling ever more loudly. He revealed his small black wings and evilly grinned. Red sparks lit around him and in their place, long burgundy mobile laser guns manifested. A laser was aimed at the automaton, which proved to no longer be in its original position. The laser went through the afterimage of the automaton that now hovered overhead before giving chase.

 “You’re a slippery devil.” Count Maryclian commented as he chased after the fleeing automaton. “But can you escape my Herschel’s attacks?”

 The count soared to the moonlight and waved his right arm to the sky. More burgundy sparks appeared overhead but this time lights seem to fall towards the automaton.

 Slaine grimaced as it momentarily turned to face them. As it anticipated most of them, its movements began to slow down.

 Count Maryclian continued to smile arrogantly. “Even with your predictions, you can’t cope with this many.”

 The automaton somersaulted into the air and brought both of its hands together. In place of the daggers, two white shields appeared over its arms. The automaton eyed the river below and immediately, red beams shot from beneath its shields. The rising waters evaporated and offered a smoke screen cover as the automaton continued fleeing.

 “Well, well, you’re fairly clever after all.” It had amused the count who once more pursued the automaton. “Nevertheless! Futile, futile, it’s futile!” The count exclaimed as he manifested a laser gun and added to the barrage.

 The additional shots fired hit their target and the automaton was forced to abandon one of its shields. It spun and faced the confident count.

 “Is running all you can do, you inferior scum?!” The count added.

 The automaton landed and knelt, still maintaining its gaze upon the count who levitated before him. “Not running anymore? Then again… there’s nowhere left to run.”

 “...”

 “Cat’s got your tongue?”

 The automaton rose from its knees and back flipped, falling into what seemed like a bottomless ravine.

 “You’re the one who has nowhere left to run.” The automaton finally spoke.

 As the count’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the automaton was almost within his grasp and showed its back to him. Or so he thought. Within a blink of an eye, the automaton turned to face him and reached towards him, empty-handed. However the automaton was far from empty-handed. The count breathed his last as something sharp in the darkness had impaled him in the neck. Cold steel glistened in the coming moonlight and the ghostly visage of a white colossal machine hovered over the automaton; it’s right mechanical arm had fully manifested over the automaton’s. Its arm was the source of the blade and had reached towards him.

 “The Herschel’s greatest weapon is a simultaneous attack from all directions. But here, your attacks are confined to just one.” The automaton explained and let its hand fall back to its side. Only its lifeless turquoise eyes peered at him.

 The count struggled for air, gasping and tried to mouth one last remark. The automaton unnaturally smirked and one last shudder went up the count’s spine. “Even in this lifetime, you are again bested by an ‘inferior Terran scum,’” the automaton added as the tangible hologram of the Tharsis disappeared and the count’s dying body fell beside the automaton.

 With his dying breath, Count Maryclian declared, “I am far… from the last… Another will… take my place… and you… you’ll be unable… to keep running.”

 The automaton said no more and turned to leave but stopped in its tracks. It hunched over and reached for its right arm, the runes furiously pulsated. The metallic plates cracked and rusted. Its right wing fell apart and only the bare structure remained.

 The count huffed triumphantly, “Even you… have a limit. You too… are an Orbital--”

 “SILENCE!” The automaton yelled and with its damaged right arm, tossed a blade at the count, who had been silenced once in for all. “ARGH!”

 Slaine fell to his knees and gripped his right shoulder. The panels that layered his right arm started to fall off, revealing unnaturally pale skin. He grit his teeth and rose his left palm, once more tears fell from his eyes and an unfathomable pain enveloped his heart.

 “Is this… sorrow? I’m not human… I’m… I’m… ” Slaine asked in a distressed voice and wept. “Milady… what is the point of running if you’re no longer here? What purpose is there left for me?”

 “None at all.” Someone said from behind him.

 Slaine’s breath hitched; a terror he had felt long ago surfaced and the fear ran down his spine. No matter how long, no matter what lifetime it was, Slaine could never forget the owner of that voice. It was possible now. He wished it was not the case. He knew it was so. As much as he was aware that there was no point and no need to confirm, Slaine slowly turned his head over his shoulder.

 The all too familiar cane came rushing down and he was pushed down to the ground.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 The automaton swayed lifelessly as Count Cruhteo yanked several components from the automaton’s back. Already, the automaton was without its left leg and barely its arms kept him suspended from the ground. It seemed Count Cruhteo had taken Slaine back to the his family’s junkyard and into one of the various abandoned warehouses’ littering lot. Slaine was certain of such when seeing a pile of orange metal panels, which his father had long ago gathered up. It had caused a false alarm to his parents thinking they had found a relic of Aldnoah for the panels were giving off readings indicating Aldnoah exposure. In truth the pile constituted parts for one of the warring faction’s Kataphrakt -- a Sleipnir if Slaine recollected correctly -- which lacked any Aldnoah technology and in turn, killed any hopes of rebuilding it to its former glory.

 “To think you would go so far as to defile my Tharsis by merging with it to keep living,” the count commented, entertained at the sight.

 The turquoise light in its eye flickered. One by one, the automaton acknowledged its removed, failing systems and returned its monitor to be vacant of such parameters. Its vision resembled like back then. As if it could hallucinate and struggle to remain aware, the concrete walls and the leaking pipe dripping ever so frequent were overlaid by metallic walls and cold light from futuristic lighting of the current world’s time.

 “How regretful Milady Asseylum must be… to put faith in inferior scum like you…” Count Cruhteo commented, unamused.

 The automaton was literally on its last leg before it would no longer function. Count Cruhteo knew and took it upon himself to slow down, to relish and enjoy the final moments of this torture. It knew. Slaine knew he should wish for this to end sooner, to end his misery quick or get this over with. However no such wish, no such fear of the approaching death washed over him. He was… at peace. Perhaps he had already accepted death and this was now really just a long, fleeting moment. No, perhaps this is what he had been looking for all this time.

 Slaine closed his eyes and smiled to himself. So many nights. In many daydreams, dreams and nightmares alike. He had reached towards the abyss, to the endless horizon for something he could not recollect or identify. All he knew he could not help reaching for it, desperately and longingly. Whatever it was, whoever it was he missed it dearly. It was the world to him. Foolishly he tried to obtain yet as time goes on, each attempt became more laborsome, more difficult. More impossible.

 “Why?” He asked himself so many, countless times. He mauled. He debated.

 “Because you had sinned. You had deceived. You had soiled her dreams.” A voice once answered him.

 “That is right,” he realized and whimpered. “But even so, I keep reaching for it. Whatever it may be.”

 He sardonically laughed to himself and withdrew his hand, looking to his palm. “Is there any point in this struggle?”

 “Yes,” A different voice answered. It was different and not one of the cacophony.

 “Why?” Slaine asked it.

 “I don't know.”

 “Will I find out why?”

 “No but you can try.”

 Slaine opened his mouth to speak. It was to naught as no words came to mind. Only raw frustration filled his throat in the form of sobs and incomprehensible, unpacifiable cries. He was a fool. No one is really ever truly ready for death.

 “Try?” Slaine bitterly repeated to himself. He was out of time. This was the end with the approaching count grasping at the automaton’s hearth of life.

 “I’m sorry Milady,” Slaine began as his final words to himself. Even to the end he still couldn’t grant her wish, a wish surely she said more for his sake than her own.

 “So you’re giving up?” The different voice asked.

 Slaine’s face contorted into bewilderment.

 “Who’s there?” Count Cruhteo demanded and looked around, alarmed.

 “He can hear it too?” Slaine wondered.

 The ground had began to rumble. Particles of light started to assemble between the count and his prisoner.

 “This light…” The count began to realize.

 “Aldnoah..!” Slaine identified and his heart sank. Another orbital knight was appearing and this time, seemed to answer his call.

 Soon the concentration of light became blinding and the voice seemed to have become more corporeal. Somehow Slaine could make out an assembling form of a person turning towards the count. A gust of wind, a blast of some sort was directed at the count who immediately flew to the other side of the room, where the wall gave way.

 By the time Slaine blinked and opened his eyes again, he met the gaze of a pair of crimson eyes and brown hair. A young man about his age stood before him, offering his hand. Unlike the other Orbital Knights, the man lacked a pair of wings; he only had one on his right.

 “Bat,” The man addressed.

 Slaine didn’t understand why but he knew what the man meant when he shouldn’t. He had never seen this man before yet his ‘heart’ ached and his eyes watered. A great sorrow. A great longing. A warm… encompassing feeling was enveloping him and soon as the tears fell, Slaine whispered, replying a word he too found incomprehensible but felt right. “Orange.”

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

Slaine awoke to the loud thud of being placed on a rotting wooden chair. As he looked around, he pieced together that he had been taken to an abandoned shopping market and that man was rummaging through a pile of rusty machines. He went about opening the various machines up and scavenging for parts. As Slaine changed his gaze to himself, he found one of his arms rested on his lap and he was missing his left leg. Only his right side seemed intact but barely functional. Slaine took his detached arm from his lap and looked at the joint; the wires were fried and had to be replaced if he wanted to reattach the limb beyond mere appearance.

 He sighed as in his current state and location, ideal repair was definitely a pipe dream. He waved his detached arm forward; there was a more pressing matter beyond his repairs and it was a matter that definitely needed to be addressed. With the right motion, he managed to make the hand of his detached arm point at the brunette. Thankfully the brunette was now clothed. Notably the man had chosen rather heavy clothing -- perhaps not very keen on the cold weather. He wore black cargo pants,  an orange turtleneck and a darker brown v-neck sweater over the turtleneck.

 “Why are you doing this?” Slaine voiced.

 The man remained silent when he stood up, pulling out a long pipe from a pile and studying its contour. He mumbled to himself, “This looks good,” which clearly meant the man was paying little to no attention to Slaine much to his chagrin.

 Slaine facepalmed with his detached hand and groaned, “Are you… even listening?”

 “I heard you,” the man he had named ‘Orange’ finally answered.

 The ashen blond breathed in. He could tell he was malfunctioning as he could of sworn a migraine was settling in when he tried to figure where to begin or how to go about this. Slaine had inadvertently summoned an Orbital Knight but no ordinary Orbital Knight. From the profile the Tharsis shared with him, the man that stood before him was ‘Kaizuka Inaho’ and was accredited as the ace of the warring faction against the Orbital Knights. Furthermore the voices of the other ‘Slaines’ -- particular the ones of the time Kaizuka Inaho originated from -- roared in his mind. Hate. Loathing. Demands. Frustration without cease. Utmost despair filled his very being and tore him from inside.

 As himself, Slaine couldn’t relate. Kaizuka Inaho… Orange had saved him from falling into Saazbaum’s hands. Slaine could still grant his mistress’s last wish. More so, he felt responsible for calling for someone from the beyond. The fact he was outliving the two women he held dear was heartbreaking and hard to bear. The thought of another potentially falling because of him was a fate he would not dare.

 Slaine mumbled, finally taking the step to voice his concern, “I… don’t know.. How but you need… to go back… wherever you came from. I’m being chased… and I’m on the run… and…”

 He looked up to find the brunette had walked over, only to compare the pipe to Slaine’s remaining leg. Again Slaine found himself frustrated and moped in growing defeat. “You’re not listening… really…”

 “You’re not going to run anywhere without a pair of legs,” Inaho reasoned and traced his hand along the pipe, somehow he had precisely cut the pipe in a manner for perhaps a knee joint to be added. “And I promised.”

 “Promised?”

 CLASH!

 Inaho had grabbed Slaine by the waist and jumped back onto the top of a shelf. At the entrance of the shopping store, everything was beginning to disintegrate when a bowl-cut man walked forward. He too was dressed in a military style yet did not bear the blood red color and instead a gray trim.

 Slaine’s eyes glimmered turquoise for a moment and he could see a profile of the person before him. “Sir Trillram… Pilot of the Kataphrakt Nilokeras.”

 Trillram laughed. His expression clearly showed he enjoyed the task he had been given. As he waved his hands, either side of the shopping market began to disintegrate. Inaho could see at any time the very infrastructure of the building would buckle and give way.

 “There’s no escape!” Trillram exclaimed and charged to the brunette.

 “Tsk,” Slaine bit his lower lip. In his current form, he was nothing more than dead weight.

 “That barrier seems to disintegrate everything it touches…” Inaho said aloud.

 Slaine turned to Inaho in confusion. Again someone else had taken over. “You took him down before!”

 Trillram had caught up and reached for Inaho who narrowly dodged, back flipping through a window. The two had landed outside and just in time; the building was giving way especially as Trillram’s barrier took out the last of the building’s structural support.

 “I have little recollection of before.” Inaho revealed… much to Slaine’s chagrin or so he thought.

 The Orbital Knight growled as he landed, “You dare mock me?!”

 “WATCH OUT!” Slaine yelled when Sir Trillram had leaped forward and Inaho had not dashed backwards enough. Slaine manifested a white shield with his remaining arm and overcharged it with energy, causing a backlash explosion to make up some, if not more distance.

 Inaho coughed and seeing the knight opposite of him getting up as well, Inaho immediately noticed smoke from his left. Slaine’s remaining arm had power surged and whatever remnants of the shield was dissipating into sparks. On the other hand what alarmed Inaho most was how Slaine groaned and was seemingly in excruciating pain, grasping for his arm. It was upon closer inspection, Inaho realized his robotic friend was more than he appeared -- where the machine met and entwined, human flesh could be seen underneath.

 “Orange..!” Slaine said, mincing his words, “He’s coming.”

 “You’re--” Inaho stopped; Slaine glared daggers at him and would not budge on this discussion. The brunette turned to the approaching knight. “No matter. I see his weakness,” Inaho stated and quickly demanded, “give me a knife. Now.”

 “Heh. As you command,” Slaine obliged by rummaging his forearm and dispensed one of his daggers.

 Upon grabbing the dagger, Inaho charged forward to the knight. A sonic boom occurred when the two had collided. The knight screamed in agony for Inaho pierced him in his right eye and seemed to dig the blade deeper into the knight’s skull.

 “I knew your barrier had gaps,” Inaho began as he dug the dagger deeper into Trillram. “Ground contact surfaces, for instance. You can’t put up a barrier under your feet. If you did, you wouldn’t be able to stand.” He elaborated, “The very invincibility of your barrier makes it impossible to completely cover yourself in it.”

 "Im-impossible." Trillram whimpered and keeled over with his hands falling to his sides. The feathers of his wings flew into the wind and dispersed into fading golden sparks of light.

 Inaho withdrew the dagger and returned to his companion, kneeling down to him. It was clear Slaine was far worse than before they had arrived at the shopping center with the sight of the automaton’s turquoise eyes once more flickering. Soon Slaine’s left eye had permanently stayed dark.

 “Looks… like you… you… you still can…” Slaine tried to speak yet his ability to vocalize was also becoming compromised. “Do… it… N-now… Run--”

 Peering down with his crimson eyes, Inaho shook his head and rejected that notion, “I can’t do that.” He instead continued their discussion before like if nothing that had just happened took place,” As I said before and will say again, I promised to save you.”

 Slaine’s brow contorted. His breath became uneven and could swear he heard -- felt -- the ghost of a heart beat. Slaine fumbled, trying to reach for something on his chest. He didn’t know what and again, tears he should not shed flowed down his cheeks without stop. As he feebly whimpered, he could feel his joints slowly become rigid and his internal commands to himself become unresponsive. He no longer could see; the optical drive had finally given out for his right eye. The only functionality he had left was mere tactile input; he was nothing better than a human-sized balance and thermometer.

 Inaho picked Slaine up and from the tilt of mass, Slaine could guess the brunette was looking for the nearest sign of civilization. Even without any knowledge of Inaho’s current whereabouts, Slaine was certain he could piece it together. Slaine could feel the temperature starting to rise; dawn was upon them and surely civilization will cast a shadow, bringing to light where Inaho should head.

 “Now rest, Bat. Next time you wake up, I’ll see to it you’re good as new.” The brunette said, stepping forward into a particular direction.

 “He must have found a destination,” Slaine thought and without further capability, he entered a dreamless sleep, leaving himself entirely at the brunette’s hands both figuratively and literally.

    ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

     Chapter Three

⊱Inaho⊰

 The sun was overhead by the time Inaho had managed to dredge into town. If it weren’t for the increasingly heavy pile of unresponsive technology, Inaho presume he would have made it sooner. He somewhat regretted not considering that alternative for noon in the town meant the busiest time in the center of any town and the mere fact he had one angelic wing in addition to a rather sophisticated lump of machinery on his back, he was drawing undesirable attention. Inaho could not back out so easily either; it would simply just draw even more attention and make him even more suspicious.

 “Hey there Mister!” A tall blond man with freckles greeted and approached him unnaturally friendly.

 “Hello…” Inaho followed suit while eying the people around; the gaze of the townspeople seemed to have lightened up upon engaging the blond.

 The blond man wore an olive green mechanic’s one suit garb and brown army boots. He wrapped an arm around Inaho’s shoulders much to the brunette’s chagrin and started to guide him over to a nearby building, more than likely the man’s workshop as the two places shared a very similar odor -- oil and grease.

 “My name’s Calm, Calm Craftsman and you are?”

 “...”

 “Hey… I’m just trying to help you out here. Surely you’re in business trying to sell that expensive Aldnoah tech--”

 Moment the blond had railed Inaho into the workshop, Inaho kicked the door shut and spun kick the mechanic against the very door.

 “Ouch!”

 “He’s not for sale. Rather I would like to repair him.”

 “Him?” Calm questioned and eyed the robot. As the mechanic looked, just as Inaho suspected the mechanic caught sight of the abnormality in the robot. “No- no way. Who created this?”

 “Can you repair him?” Inaho asked, ignoring Calm’s question and implicitly making it clear Inaho was talking business.

 Calm’s initial gregarious expression faded with a sigh. The mechanic had slid down the door after Inaho’s kick. He rubbed the back of his head after crossing his legs, crossing his arms afterward and debated. “I could… but it won’t be easy. Biocompatible parts aren’t cheap.”

 “And converting?” Inaho suggested.

 The mechanic’s left brow rose; clearly wherever Inaho had been spirited away, the world had yet to discover how.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 A door closes shut.

 Thud.

 Inaho sighed after closing the door into his bedroom. He had secured lodging on the upper floor of the town’s pub in exchange for working as its chef. The pub made for an excellent base of operations for Inaho considering the circumstances. The pub’s owner, the barkeep served as the deputy officer for the sheriff and was a kindred soul in helping Inaho keep his companion secret… or so he presumes for the time being. It was a minor detail he had to overlook for the time being.

 Initially Inaho had considered and been offered by the mechanic Calm Craftsman’s to stay at his workshop but the brunette could not. Lying down at the foot of the bed, Inaho looked to his right and at the automaton in disrepair.

 “His safety can’t be guaranteed even with non-Orbital Knights,” Inaho commented and sat back up.

 He crawled on all fours and now that he could idle without worrying about pursuers, Inaho inspected his ‘automaton’ companion more closely.

 “He’s definitely not entirely an automaton as he has implied…” Inaho discerned when gauging if he had to already change the bandages he placed on Slaine’s left arm.

 The automaton breathed and for a moment, Inaho could see its eyes move under its eyelids.

 “Definitely human… to some degree. He’s dreaming,” Inaho further assessed.

 Sitting back up, Inaho could tell how much more human the automaton was than not. Underneath the initially silvery white metallic chest plate, human flesh -- unnaturally pale -- could be seen at the edges and where there were veins, lines resembling copper wire connections seem to meet and entwine.

 “Very human looking in origin,” Inaho hypothesized and yawned, stretching his arms and one wing before eying the bathroom, then the automaton.

 Inaho brushed the automaton’s ashen blond hair and looked at his hand, frowning.

 “Dust…”

 As he suspected, he would need to do some maintenance to the automaton before going to bed.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Another day’s work was done and Inaho returned to his bedroom. The brunette pulled a wooden chair from the small dining table in the other side of the room and placed it next to the twin-size bed. Sitting down, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and gazed upon the individual currently occupying his bed. Inaho was certain without a doubt now that his ‘automaton’ companion was not simply a machine. A sentient AI? A human undergoing advanced medical treatment for this era?

 There was not enough clues for Inaho to work off, let alone he could not scavenge for such information without cluing those that sought his companion. Unfortunately this too was a detail he had to overlook for now except it was far from minor; it was rather pivotal.

 “No. It’s not pivotal…” Inaho argued with himself and formed fists with his hands, he grimaced upon seeing another part of the machinery dull in color and its humming cease. Another piece of machinery had stopped working; another piece Inaho would have to rake his brain to figure how to repair or strike a deal with the local mechanic. “I need to get him back up and running. The only secure course of action can be made with him. He is the only one that can offer answers regarding the Orbital Knights and--”

 Inaho hissed as he gripped his head, another migraine was in the making and they were happening more often. Initially he had hoped these were a byproduct of flipping his sleep schedule. However…

 The brunette struggled onto his feet and haphazardly walked to the other side of the room, where he turned on the faucet. He retrieved a rag that he had now left conveniently next to the sink and drenched it in the water. Now routine, he turned off the faucet with one hand and in another, draped the wet rag onto his lone right wing. The cool water on the wing lessened the pain Inaho was experiencing in his head. It made very little sense to him. The wing was without a pair and too small to practically fly with.

 Where did he get such an appendage? A ligament? He didn’t know what else to describe it. It was useless as far as he could see but having it removed seemed fatal considering how intricately and deeply linked it was to his ability to feel pain. Regardless, the pain soon subsided just as quick as it set in. Inaho did not discard the rag though and approached his companion on the bed.

 Inaho removed the bandage wrap he had placed around the one remaining, attached arm of his companion. The bandage wrap had dried blood stains and was overdue for being replaced. Before doing so, Inaho used the rag and wiped down the unnaturally pale human flesh, gently especially where machine met man.

 “Aldnoah…” Inaho thought to himself when seeing the machinery glimmer upon contact a gold color, which he could never forget. He had seen it somewhere, many times before.

 Somewhere he recollected following someone in a lab coat and towards a room filled with that light. The person turned; his silhouette long lost to Inaho. It was a haze; it was all a blur.

 He could only see a smile -- a bitter, sad smile. His heart ached but not as much. He caught himself thinking, “At least he’s no longer resigned.. .he’s moving forward.”

 “Who is he?” Inaho asked aloud before he clutched his head again when he actively tried to concentrate on the memory. As he tried to see who he was talking to, the person began to dissipate. Inaho reached out, offering a hand and this time, he found himself sitting in a cockpit of some sort. Various screens surrounded him and were malfunctioning. Inaho could not open his left eye; something was dripping heavily over his left side of his head.

 This time Inaho could make sense of someone being with him. His heart skipped as that person verbalized that they were there with him. As Inaho rose his head to look to that person, he could see the olive green military uniform and the blue insignia -- the UFE icon. None of that existed in this current world. Had he gone back to whence he came? But then what about Bat?

 Inaho blinked and next he found himself reaching out to that same person from before except now she laid in her own growing pool of blood. He struggled as he could no longer bend his left shoulder.

 “Don’t… Don’t get near her.”

 “That voice--” Inaho began; his body already turned once.

 He could see his gunman’s uniform yet he dare not look upwards, instead Inaho’s body turned again and this time Inaho reached for something cold and steel. As Inaho went to turn around, once again trying to look at the person’s face, everything turned black..

 Inaho woke up with a jolt.

 “NAOOO-KUN!!!” A female voice downstairs hollered.

 Inaho rubbed his eyes and peered at the nearby nightstand; it was already 4pm in the afternoon. How did time fly so quickly?

 It was time again to repeat the routine. Life goes on.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Two weeks later…

 “There,” Inaho said aloud before falling to his side, lying down next to his half-machine half-human companion.

 It was a momentary triumph as Inaho had finished the last of the repairs to Slaine. Slaine was now entirely whole; his limbs were reattached and from the rudimentary testing Inaho had done, surely they were operational. Now it was only a matter of the ashen blond to awaken. Inaho could feel his eyes grow heavy; he had worked nonstop for the last two days to make this happen and did not slack off on his duties at the pub.

 Any moment the ashen blond could wake up and at that moment, Inaho could see a decent probability of the ashen blond leaving without a trace. Inaho couldn’t resist closing his eyes anymore, the nauseating and pulsating headache was back and worse.

 But this time the pain was worth it.

 Inaho dreamt of being in a hospital room of some sort. He had gotten hurt and someone had visited him. He could see who his visitor was; it was the same person that had stood before him in the room illuminating with the golden Aldnoah glow. The visitor wore a heavy windbreaker yet underneath the same attire Inaho had recognized even in the current place he was -- a military uniform, surely of a lower rank to an Orbital Knight -- and more alarmingly, the visitor looked exactly like the automaton.

 Pale blond hair, enchanting turquoise eyes and a smile so heartbreakingly resigned yet ever so hoping for something better. Slaine would not leave him without a trace especially if the Slaine of this memory and the Slaine of where he was were the same person. His visitor said in a struggling voice, “"I'd like to imagine. To dare dream. To look..." Slaine gulped and looked at him with watery eyes. "To look forward to honestly talk with you....”

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Inaho began to wake up; he slowly then rapidly blinked his eyes to focus and saw Slaine realize his left arm was reattached. The automaton had brusquely sat up and with both hands, reached for what constituted his new left leg. Rotating his left ankle, Slaine could see the new limb too was functional.  

 “How long… was I out?” Slaine blurted and then covered his mouth, peering over his shoulder to see if the brunette had woken up. Inaho found himself uncharacteristically closing his eyes shut for a moment as the ashen blond turned, who sighed in relief and looked to his new leg again. Slaine bent his knee and slowly but surely got out of bed on his own. As he lightly balanced and tested the amount of force he could apply on his new leg, he smiled. The automaton seemed satisfied with Inaho’s handiwork. The automaton turned to the brunette and reached for the blanket, which was when Inaho decided now he would ‘wake up’ by slowly sitting up and stretching with a yawn. Slaine held his breath as he waited for Inaho to focus on him.

 “...Slaine?” Inaho asked as groggily as he could sound.

 The ashen blond was taken by surprise at Inaho’s identification; he had yet to properly introduce himself, “Y-you remember?”

 “What’s wrong?” Inaho asked.

 Slaine looked away, touching his new left leg. “N… nothing at all. Your repairs… they are working very well.” Slaine attempted to compliment. Again the automaton gripped at his chest where a heart should be.

 The brunette remained quiet and maintained his gaze on the automaton. Slaine returned the stare although he knew his eyes were barely cooperating with him; they had watered and his sight was becoming blurry yet he refused to cry. The automaton was displaying unnatural unease considering what he had said about the repairs. “Is something still not functioning correctly?” Inaho pondered and again repeated his earlier inquiry, “Now Slaine, what’s wrong?”

 Noting Slaine’s guard was down; Inaho pulled him back onto the bed.

 Slaine grimaced and once more tried to notion for the door with his gaze. Inaho forced Slaine to close his eyes by pulling the automaton back on the bed with his back much to his discomfort and pinned him. The brunette would not let him sidestep the question any longer.

 “What was that for?” Slaine asked, trying again to avoid a question. Slaine covered his face with his left forearm.

 He grit his teeth as he felt a sob climb up his throat. The back of his forearm was becoming wet and his eyes felt warm. Slaine could hear Inaho sigh and then the covers shuffled with Inaho readjusting his position. Inaho sat next to Slaine and tried to remove Slaine’s forearm. Slaine resisted with his other arm, which Inaho quickly seized.

 “Let go..!” Slaine tried to yell but his voice came out weaker.

 “No.” Inaho calmly refused and with a little more struggle, Inaho pinned both of Slaine’s arms to either side of Slaine’s face and entwined their hands. The ashen blond was crying.

 “Slaine,” Inaho chimed his name in Slaine could have sworn was said more emotionally, more warmly than before. He caressed the automaton’s cheek before resting its head over Slaine’s left shoulder.

 “Slaine… don’t bear everything on your own. Trust me,” Inaho said and Slaine could feel Inaho tightened his hold on their clasped hands,

 “But… the Slaine you refer to… he’s long gone.” Slaine finally confessed and looked elsewhere, anywhere but at Inaho.

 This truth finally seemed to sink into Kaizuka Inaho who released Slaine. Inaho had withdrawn and sat back up. Slaine too sat up and bitterly smiled.

 “You’ve been saying that a while,” Inaho finally spoke, “you speak as if this is a foreign world to me and from what I’ve seen thus far, I can see that. However to say you are not the Slaine I know and he’s long gone… you are implying something.”

 Slaine clasped his hands on his lap and closed his eyes, having faced downward into his lap to hide his growing sadness. “Yes… I cannot determine the exact length of time it has been since… your time but it has been many years… possibly thousands of years. The Aldnoah technology for example is perhaps different from what you remember.”

 “Yes,” Inaho agreed and then reached for his right shoulder. “This is also different. I am human--”

 “Were human,” Slaine corrected. “I don’t know how… but you were brought back by Aldnoah into this time… You’ve long passed away chronologically speaking.”

 “I see… so you mean the Slaine I address has long passed as well yet you identify yourself as Slaine,” Inaho noted.

 Slaine’s eyes opened when recollecting that detail. He had so casually responded to such a name. Slaine reached again for something that clearly he didn’t have -- something that had once wrapped around his neck. Clearly a previous timeline Slaine had rubbed off on him. He shook it off and tried to remind himself of what he really was.

 “I was… once a human named Slaine, Slaine Troyard, but after… my human counterpart… failed at activating a relic of Aldnoah technology… I became this… automaton--”

 “Wouldn’t cyborg be more correct?” Inaho interjected. “After replacing your leg and fixing your left arm, I went to see if you needed other repairs. Your entire right side and head are human.”

 Slaine blinked in confusion and slowly shook his head. “No..?”

 “The technology of this era seems further regressed than mine, even for the Aldnoah technology… so the fact you cry would be abnormal for an automaton if I went by what you said. However you clearly do not fully understand your condition.”

 “My condition?!” Slaine yelled and scoffed. His brow crossed as he lashed out, “What could you possibly know of my situation? How could you understand? I’m not human! Does a human have metallic wings growing from their back? Does a human not feel pain when they’re ripped apart?”

 Slaine beat his chest with his hand and felt tears running down his cheeks. They were clearly not helping his case. “Thanks to the Aldnoah Milady Lemrina bestowed upon me, I still recollect my human life…” He stifled a sob when recollecting the cacophony of voices that torment him. He corrected himself, “lives… my past lives… I can remember pain… yet as this… this machine… as Count Cruhteo once again shredded me… I felt nothing… Only a hollow memory of pain… of fearing death and--”

 The ashen blond fell silent as the brunette rested his hand on Slaine’s chest and traced.

 “You’re right… you’re not the Slaine of my time,” Inaho confirmed. “He bore scars that tore his flesh even after many years from the war and suffered dearly whenever he heard something resembling a whipping sound. However… your entire chest… it’s smooth and it’s clear to me now… when I arrived... you were about to be…”

 Inaho stopped when he looked away; his brow too became crossed. “Perhaps I…”

 Slaine shook his head as he took one of Inaho’s hand into his. “Perhaps you delayed my inevitable fate… yet I am thankful. You have my gratitude.”

 Inaho blinked and faced Slaine, who dared not look beyond the hand he had taken into his. He continued to voice his gratitude, “You have given me a chance to find a way to grant her wish.”

 “Her wish?” Inaho wondered. “Seylum-san’s..?”

 Slaine shook his head again to which Inaho figured, “Different Asseylum too I see…”

 “No… from your time, my mistress was her sister Lemrina vers Envers…” Slaine explained and released the brunette’s hand before standing up. “However my pursuit has nothing to do with you. You are out of your timeline or have been taken from the afterlife… I know not how to return you so maybe… you can take this time as a second chance at life.”

 Slaine released Inaho’s hand; the automaton proceeded to the window and could see it was early morning. Inaho must have taken them to a nearby town for he could see some people beginning to walk outside. They must be staying at an inn or pub of some sort. It was beyond Slaine as to how Inaho pulled it off considering they had neither money nor a trustworthy appearance to easily acquire lodging.

 “While you continue on the run from the Orbital Knights with no end in sight until they captured you for some reason?” Inaho queried.

 The automaton didn’t turn to face and simply nodded. Slaine touched his right shoulder where some aqua runes once again appeared. In his right eye, he could see the Tharsis reveal information he telepathically requested. Clearly Saazbaum had found a way into the vault where the other Orbital Knights’ information was stored and was activating them, bringing them back to life to hunt him down. The count would not relent until his revenge was realized and it could only be realized by either finding where his Kataphrakt’s main body was or repurpose the Tharsis Slaine inadvertently carried within him.

 “If it was my time, there was at most 37 and that would be feasible… you could have outlasted them but considering the time span and your track record…”

 “It may be an impossible but…” Slaine mumbled and could see in his reflection the bitter smile. He could also see what Inaho was pointing out earlier. His eyes no longer resembled that of a machine. They looked completely human down to the very watery gloss. “Milady Lemrina believed in miracles… it’s the least I can do  in her memory.”

 Inaho stood up and stretched, proceeding towards the door.

 As Slaine turned to follow suit, he was surprised. Inaho had turned facing him, expectantly and waiting with a hand resting on his waist.

 “Then we should consider a plan of running where they cannot reach us.” Inaho suggested.

 “Us?” Slaine picked up.

 “However before leaving we should consider supplies such as rations. You may be in denial of being even half human but it’s clear your body is in need of supplements at the very least. Your right arm is suffering a high degree of muscle atrophy,” Inaho spoke as he approached the door, turning the knob and incidentally led Slaine downstairs.

 Before going down the stairs, Slaine stopped and somewhat spoke in an authoritative manner, “Wait…”

 Inaho turned at the foyer of the stairs just as Slaine had commanded.

 “You’re going to..?”

 “I know nothing of this world yet it’s clear the Orbital Knights still pose a threat. Even if you are not the Slaine of my timeline, you are still Slaine and I will protect you as I promised.”

 “Even if--”

 Inaho sighed, clearly getting irritated and pushed forward down the staircase, “I promised you back at the shopping center. I see no difference from now and then.” He then paused as something dawned to him, “You wouldn't perhaps have a tracker on you?”

 “Of course not! Why would I--” Slaine interrupted and realized, resting his hand once more on his chest.

 Inaho caught on and vocalized, “Nevermind… perhaps there is now a way to acquire Aldnoah readings… and considering how interconnected you are with--”

 “NAO-KUN!” A woman exclaimed and embraced Inaho.

 “Nao… kun?” Slaine pondered.

 “Ah! Robo-san! I see you are functional.” The woman observed. She released Inaho and offered her hand, which Slaine took into his for a handshake.

 Inaho filled Slaine in. “It is Yuki-nee’s nickname for me.”

 The woman pouted and gave Inaho a nogging. “What kind of manners is that?! Properly introduce me!”

 The brunette obliged. “Slaine, this is Yuki-nee… Yuki per se and she runs the pub here. She has been allowing us to stay upstairs with me helping her cook during the evenings.”

 “I… see… Thank you for the hospitality,” Slaine said and bowed. He too offered, “now that I can walk… if there is anything I can assist with do not…. Hesitate to… ask?”

 Inaho noted Slaine's voice trail off; surely the ashen blond was finding Yuki’s behavior bewildering. Stars could be seen sparkling in Yuki’s eyes and within moments Slaine was in her embrace, perhaps too tightly even for his comfort.

 “You’re gorgeous! You really look like a doll!” Yuki praised, rocking him in her embrace.

 Yuki released Slaine and for a moment, fell silent. She clearly was taking in the information and crossed her arms, nodding. “I see. It makes sense considering Robo-san is rare and many bandits have been on your tail trying to steal him away!”

 “Bandits..?” Slaine mumbled. Inaho could see that Slaine was trying to determine the alibi he had used to to convince the pub owner to allow them lodging.

 Inaho clearly continued the charade. “Yes and we may be overstaying our welcome. I would not like to get you involved.”

 “I understand. Still! Take your time and make sure you’re properly prepared for the road. Robo-san seemed to have taken quite a beating from your last encounter.” Yuki advised.

 “That reminds me…” Slaine went and asked, “What town is this? How far is it from Vers?”

 “Oh yes. I forgot. How rude of me to forget!” Yuki realized and grinned, waving her hands. “Welcome to Shinawara, Slaine-kun!”

 “Er… thank you.” Slaine blushed. He would really regret if something bad were to happen to such a kind person as Yuki.

 She chuckled and continued, “As to how far it is from Vers… no wonder you were so battered. I heard a wildfire had burnt the town to the ground and how the dead were rising from there. Hmmm… if I recollect Vers was north, northwest from here… and it takes a few days by buggy to get there.”

 Yuki patted both of the young men and chuckled. “Now you two must be hungry… well Nao-kun at least. Don’t worry too much Robo-san Slaine-kun. How about you sit down and let me make you something.”

 Yuki had ushered them to the nearby counter, where the two sat and she proceeded to the back after picking up an apron. Inaho spoke a little louder as Yuki clearly was starting to work at the stove, “Don’t put the heat too high.”

 “I know! Just you wait, Nao-kun!” She yelled back.

 “A few days…” Slaine repeated and from the information, the Tharsis projected a map once more to Slaine’s optical nerve. “How long have we been staying here, Inaho?”

 “Two weeks… it took awhile for me to find the parts so I ended up having to make some dealings with the local mechanic here,” Inaho informed.

 “That long..? And no one came?” Slaine asked in complete surprise, especially as Inaho nodded.

 Slaine rested his chin on his propped, crossed hands and thought. He focused on the projected map and started to consider possible routes the Orbital Knights could use only to be brought back from his little world when Inaho tapped him.

 “I think they have changed tactics,” Inaho said in a low voice. Someone had walked in and the bell had chimed.

 Yuki greeted after coming from the kitchen and placed two plates of food before the two men,

“Welcome! I’ll be right with you! Please take a seat wherever you like!”

 The ashen blond was confused for a moment. The Orbital Knights they had encountered thus far were rather hard to miss considering their attire and furthermore, seemed to pay little attention to their surroundings as they tunnel visioned on their goal.

 “They don’t seem entirely too different from my timeline as they continue to proceed one at a time but…” Inaho elaborated and with his eyes, hinted for Slaine to look at the most recent visitor Yuki was serving. “They are learning to adapt more to this world. Does she look familiar to you?”

 Slaine ran through the list of profiles the Tharsis had provided and proceeded to do a quick comparison between the visitor and the images. Within moments, a match was confirmed just as Slaine was about to ask what made Inaho suspect the visitor was one.

 “Countess… Femieanne…” Slaine identified and added, “pilot of the Kataphrakt Hellas.”

 Slaine cursed under his breath as he realized he had spoke aloud and the suspected visitor smirk, suspiciously standing up and facing them.

 “It’s nice to see you are still operational Tharsis,” the countess said.

 “Ma’am…” Yuki began but was interrupted as Slaine and Inaho too stood up.

 “Let’s take this outside,” Inaho stated and immediately stood in front of Slaine, gesturing his arm before Slaine to further indicate he was Slaine’s vanguard.

 The countess huffed and crossed her arms, gigantic golden wings materialized behind her. She sneered, “Going outside will make no difference. Terrans outside, Terrans inside.”

 “Yuki-san!” Slaine exclaimed and tossed a handful of daggers at the countess, who dodged in a direction distancing her from Yuki. “Run!” Slaine demanded and could see the barkeep jump behind the counter.

 “Heh… you think you still have that luxury, Tharsis?” Femieanne asked as she walked to the side, Slaine and Inaho began to pace opposing her. As she walked, an orb appeared where she had been -- six to be exact. As each one materialized into a metallic arm that floated and stretched its fingers, she addressed each one, “Marax. Botis. Ronove. Halphas. Raum. Vine.”

 With each arm now materialized, the three exchanged stares waiting for the first move. Slaine caught sight of one of the arms flexing its fingers and formed a fist -- charging towards him. Slaine unsummoned his daggers as he jumped back and manifested a beam of light.

 The countess laughed profusely as Slaine’s efforts were wasteful in that it only deflected the rocket arm.

 “Tsk.” Slaine grimaced and then noticed Inaho had made a run for the back. Slaine followed suit and as they jumped over the counter, he saw Yuki putting in ammunition into a handgun. She hovered a finger over her lips and winked.

 “Pardon us,” Inaho mumbled under his breath.

 “You know where they are,” Yuki said as she offered cover fire.

 Running through the kitchen, Slaine was astounded with Inaho’s familiarity of Yuki’s kitchen, which seemed haphazardly maintained. Pulling back a curtain and opening a questionable refrigerator, Inaho retrieved a rifle.

 “Hellas, was it?” Inaho asked.

 “Er.. yes?” Slaine confirmed while Inaho handed Slaine some magazine rounds.

 “She utilizes rocket arms… six only.” Inaho observed and elaborated while removing the safety from the rifle, “For her to have destructive power...  she has to increase their impact by their speed.”

 “The fists increase their hardness by becoming a single, giant molecule. Bullets cannot destroy them,” Slaine informed.

 “No. They can be destroyed,” Inaho disproved and as he suspected, a rocket arm flew through the narrow entrance of the kitchen towards them. Its fingers flexed as it reaffirmed its fist formation. In that instance, Inaho shot two bullets, which hit their mark. The fist was deflected off its course and clearly showed damage. Inaho explained, “Their molecular structure seems to revert back when their fingers move.”

 “I see…” Slaine noted and adjusted his parameters of his energy blast but was interrupted when Inaho warned him.

 “Here one comes, Bat.”

 With insufficient time, Slaine only again deflected the rocket arm and pulled Inaho to his feet. “We need to take this outside, preferably at higher ground. We’ll drag more people in!”

 “Higher ground…” Inaho considered and looked to Slaine’s ‘wings.’

 Slaine huffed and could see what Inaho was thinking. “My right wing is fried. There is no way I can fly, let alone carry you with me.”

 Inaho gripped Slaine’s hand harder and the ashen blond noticed the brunette’s hand started to glow orange. “Don’t worry, I’ll compensate. Trust me!”

 Slaine grit his teeth, reaffirming his grasp of the brunette’s hand and as they charge through the wall-sized window, Slaine kicked off the windowsill for some lift. The automaton flapped his wings to take flight. He was caught by surprise when noticing how much distance they had from the ground.

 “Your ability--” Slaine started to ask.

 “Gravity manipulation,” Inaho quickly responded and slightly turned to find the countess as well as the other five rocket arms trailing behind them.

 Clearly they had done some damage to the countess’s morale for the woman was furious. “Marax..!” She called and then gestured for two of her rocket arms to approach.

 Inaho lowered his rifle and retrieved something from his back pocket. Slaine grunted when feeling a strong tug from behind; he soon noticed Inaho had harpooned a wire of some sort to the two arms. “Pull them closer!” Inaho demanded with Slaine obliging.

 Countess Femieanne let out a frustrated deathcry seeing another of her two rocket arms destroyed and sent another, even faster than before.

 “Get directly behind it!” Inaho exclaimed.

 Slaine grit his teeth as he lunged Inaho upward, aerially looping behind the rocket arm, where Inaho targeted the back of the rocket arm.

 “As I suspected… their tails have no armor… meaning their engines are also vulnerable.”

 Descending once more from above, Slaine reported, “Two more coming in from aft!”

 “Maintain course,” Inaho replied and noticed the barkeep Yuki walking out with an even more mean, heavy duty gun and took aim.

 Just as they were about to hit the ground, Slaine changed trajectory at last moment. Yuki snickered as she let a round of bullets go, “Only remembering me when you need help!”

 Two more explosions could be heard from behind them. Slaine smiled while he circled back towards Yuki; it was time for them to take care of the countess herself. His plotted course was abruptly stopped.

 “She’s gaining distance!” Inaho realized. Countess Femieanne was even closer than expected and was approaching at an alarming rate.

 She barked, “HOW DARE YOU HARM MY CHILDREN!”

 Slaine quickly went back to flying further down the road. “Use your rifle to throw off her trajectory!” Slaine yelled.

 Inaho refuted, “She’s too big!”

 “I can’t dodge her while carrying  you!”

 Countess Femieanne had caught up and was within an arm reach. She smirked, “I’m going to crush you like the bugs you are.”

 “She’s almost on us, Bat!”

 “Keep quiet, Orange!”

 Slaine pushed back harshly and nosedived, narrowly dodging the countess.

“You dodged me?!” Countess Femieanne voiced, caught by surprised.

 "He stalled out to lose altitude?" Inaho pondered at the impressive last minute maneuver.

 The countess shook it off and resumed her pursuit. “The same trick won’t work on me twice!”

 Slaine grimaced when Inaho noted, “She’s back on our tail.”

 “I can’t pull out just yet!”

 Again Countess Femieanne had caught up and she was certain this time she would triumph. “It’s all over!”

 The countess gasped as Slaine changed his flight plan and she was met with a surprise.

 “Get out of our town you demon!” A man with a stubble demanded and fired a bazooka at the countess, whose golden wings disintegrated upon impact.

 Moments later, Slaine dropped Inaho off and landed on the ground.

 “Is.. is it over?” Slaine blankly asked, completely appalled at how they narrowly yet seamlessly survived.

 Yuki walked towards them, her machine gun resting over her shoulder and she grinned, offering a peace sign towards the man with a stubble. “Nice work Sheriff Marito!”

 “Heh,” Marito rubbed his nose and showcased his pocket liquor, “can’t have someone mess around with my deputy officer!”

 “Deputy… officer?” Slaine repeated and noticed Yuki wink upon hearing him.

 “Now what in the world is--”

 “Saazbaum of the Vers Orbital Knights’ 37 Clans has arrived. Please make your peace, Slaine Troyard,” a booming, ominous voice declared.

 Looking to the source, the four found a man dressed in a burgundy jacket stood on top o the center building’s roof top.

 Inaho walked forward while forming a fist with his left hand. He had a bad feeling about this. “Yuki-nee, see to it Slaine is kept safe. I’ll hold him off,” he ordered.

 Slaine refuted, “Don’t be stupid! You don’t know what his combat capability is! You can’t win alone!”

 The brunette reloaded his rifle. “I don’t need to win. I only need to slow him down.”

 “Inaho…”

 Yuki rested a hand on Slaine’s left shoulder and asked, “You aren’t planning to act as a human shield, are you?”

 “That’s an ineffective means of buying time,” Inaho reassured and reminded, “Now go. Hurry.”

 “I like your reckless courage, warrior of Earth. But you will have no mercy from me!” Saazbaum said in acknowledgment to Inaho’s indirect proclamation of a duel. “Blade field engaged. Sword drawn.”

 “I’ve seen that weapon before somewhere…” Inaho noted and with a sting on his mind, he momentarily recalled a glimpse of a Kataphrakt he once took down. “That weapon!.. It’s--”

 CRASH!

  ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

   Chapter Four

⊱Slaine.2⊰

 He could neither hear the sound of the collapsing ceiling nor the hollers from Yuki and Marito. The past overlaid before him. The only sound he could hear was the fall of a jewelry trinket. He could recollect a silver amulet adorn with pale blue gems. It was an heirloom. It was a memento of his long deceased father.

 “No,” Slaine tried to convince himself, to remind himself that this was not his memory.

 However it was to naught. The past paved way for the future – a future he no longer needs. Slaine grasped for the missing weight upon his chest, for the trinket that was not his in this realm. Everything was happening in slow motion; everything seemed surreal. Everything... was pointless.

 Inaho had been tossed past Slaine; he  landed in the back wall of the pub. It was only then that Slaine came back to reality and ran to the brunette's aid.

 “Inaho!” He cried and could see Inaho had started to bleed somewhere on the left side of his head.

 Slaine grit his teeth; his heart lunged as he began to remember a memory which many voices from that fog – that cacophony of voices – scream “DON'T!”  

 “DON'T!” A bullet fired; a golden blond leaned back.

 “DON'T!” Another fired and she was gone, lying in her own pool of blood.

 “Slaine, get out of here,” Inaho ordered as he rose his left hand that glowed orange. He was again using his gravity manipulation ability and tossed one of the pub tables at the count. It was a wasted effort; Inaho was clearly fighting a losing battle and scrambling just to buy time.

 The table immediately disintegrated upon contact while Count Saazbaum walked forward calmly and without a hint of fear or hesitation; he was confident with every nuance of movement. He was certain he had won. Slaine was sure.

 “That- that barrier...” Slaine mumbled; he started to feel a growing panic to find something – anything – to delay although his heart knew there was no point.

 Count Saazbaum was upon them and peered down at Slaine, the count's shadow overcast. The count's eyes remained fixed with Slaine's who knew his were entirely enveloped in fear. Count Saazbaum was surely relishing every moment for he simply picked up the brunette by his bleeding head in his right arm, lifting the young man and leaving him dangling.

 “Please...” Slaine felt his voice give out; his mind was going blank. He didn't want to lose someone important again.

 “Oh?” Count Saazbaum asked in a teasing voice and for a moment, his grasp on the brunette seemed to lessen as if debating to oblige.

 Slaine lowered his head. “I surrender. Ju-just let him go.”

 “Slaine!..” Inaho groaned; it was clear the brunette didn't want this.

 Slaine bitterly smiled and on his own two feet, approached the count to further display his willingness. The count smiled and once again tossed Inaho to the side.

 Now Count Saazbaum placed a hand over Slaine's left shoulder and humored, “Shall we?”

 Inaho struggled onto his knees and reached out, the orange glow struggled to stay alit. Slaine shook his head and pulled the hidden handgun from the count's waist, moderately surprising the count – even more so when the ashen blond aimed it at Inaho.

 “Don't. Don't come near me. Don't make me take your left eye in this timeline,” Slaine declared. He could see that the very act took the last of Inaho's drive to fight; he could see the brunette's crimson eyes widen and his complexion turning pale. He was surely having a flashback from the past.

 The ashen blond swallowed and could feel his brow contort. This was the last thing he wanted to do... he didn't want to make someone suffer on his behalf.

 Slaine turned over the gun to the count and added, reiterated, “Stay away... I'm not the Slaine you swore to protect.”

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 The next time Slaine came to, he awoke to something he had not heard in years -- his own, authentic heartbeat.

 “What… what… are you doing to me?” Slaine voiced out. His voice came out more hoarse and less autotune than he recalled.

 “Perhaps not everything from the past comes back entirely the same. You do not know my ability as a knight, do you?” The count mused and spoke from overhead, somewhere behind Slaine.

 The automaton tried to speak but unspeakable pain began to overrun his senses. Light accumulated and engulfed the disembodied automaton. Metal components began to drop to the ground and the cords rattled before running wild from being short circuited.

 “Like my Kataphrakt in the past, I incorporate the abilities of others. In this world Slaine, I acquire the abilities of others with the Aldnoah activation factor such as your Tharsis’s ability of knowing the past and possible futures. Right now, on the other hand, I am primarily using the Aldnoah ability of another Orbital Knight -- restoration. You cannot hide anymore what you really are Count Slaine Saazbaum Troyard.”

 Tears ran down Slaine’s cheeks as light agglomerated and soon newly formed hands covered his face. He weeped, sobbed and cried. He begged the count to stop but it was far too late. Slaine’s once dulled senses seem emblaze -- most of all the pain of what he had done to himself.

 “Rejoice Slaine. Reclaim your birthright. This is a new world. The sins of then no longer chains us. They now guide us towards a brighter future.”

 Slaine dug his nails into his left shoulder blade. Blood streamed relentlessly as the restoration Aldnoah surged through him, restoring him to what he had become -- an Orbital Knight.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Slaine awoke to a voice calling out to him in the distance. He must have fainted from the pain.

 “Slaine!” The voice yelled again; it was Inaho's.

 “I told you to stay away… but of course you’d come. You always did,” Slaine thought as his eyes met Inaho.

 The past and now again overlapped before his eyes. The prison door had opened and unveiled a man with an eye patch and dressed in the opposing army’s uniform. The door to where he was being kept had bursted open, where the very man he recollected stood, Inaho did and breathed heavily, catching his breath.

 It was too late. It always was.

 Slaine smiled one last time and closed his eyes. He straightened his back and peered his forehead toward Saazbaum’s fine hold on him. Slaine fully stretched his  newly restored left wing. The all too familiar turquoise glow began to emanate from him.

 “You--” Saazbaum growled and pulled at Slaine’s hair. “I won’t let you have your way Slaine Troyard!”

 “In the end nothing can be changed. It was all to naught. It was impossible after all… but…” Slaine opened his eyes slowly, he could see the power gather in Saazbaum’s palm over Slaine’s forehead. It was beginning to blind him but Slaine turned his attention elsewhere, once more at Inaho who was running towards him once again, reaching with that hand trying to obtain what he sought.

 This time it won’t make it. Slaine will see to it.

 The ground ruptured and they began to lose their footing, soon falling with the forming debris. As everything started to become monotone and mute to Slaine, he was unnaturally calm. He saw all he needed. The Tharsis had answered his beckoning and as Inaho was about to reach him, the Tharsis had gotten a hold of Inaho, pulling him into the safety of its robotic palm, leaving Saazbaum and Slaine to free fall into the abyss below.

   ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

  Chapter Five

⊱Inaho.2⊰

 Inaho coughed, slowly rising on all fours and looked upward. The sound of dripping water and distant trembles could be heard. More immediately, he heard the sounds of adjusting gears and pumps. Inaho sat up and met the gaze of the mechanical colossal that saved him… against his will.

 “Tharsis,” He addressed.

 The machine’s eyes pulsated, perhaps acknowledging him. Inaho sighed and looked around. No sign of the count and his prisoner…

 "Slaine…"

 The brunette stood up and hopped off the machine’s hand. He lessened the severity of his drop with a few gusts of his one wing. Inaho reached for his left shoulder blade. He tried to focus again. Earlier he felt the warmth and it had clued him in on where Slaine was.

 Only a cold, void sensation filled him. Could Slaine have..?

 Inaho dared not continue the thought and pressed forward.

 “Judging from the fractures on the wall--” Inaho began to assess before hearing something unexpected behind him.

 Where the Tharsis use to be now was particles of golden light, which gathered before Inaho.

 “Aldnoah…” Inaho concluded and found himself facing a clear replication of the automaton except it was for certain entirely robotic. There was nothing in its construction that resembled being human.

 “I advise against what you are planning to do Kaizuka Inaho,” The automaton voiced. Its voice was entirely lifeless, monotonous and yet… in the same octave as Slaine’s.

 “You’ve used Slaine as your basis.”

 The robot did not speak. It could tell Inaho had more to suspect. Inaho continued his assessment, “You have been shielding Slaine like an exoskeleton. That is why he is able to use  his ability seemingly infinitely and why he possessed rather human-like characters… far too human-like.” The last bit was hard for him to voice. Inaho had easily glossed over those details; he considered the majority of Slaine’s original construction versus the now-obvious peculiarities.

 It still did not speak much to Inaho’s growing annoyance. Perhaps it was not going to speak and in a more literal sense, abide by the rules binding its existence -- the laws of robotics or automata, assuming there were any differentiation between the two. Inaho returned his attention to the wall and soon went about what he had originally intended.

 Only then did the miniaturized machine speak, “Continuation of this course of action has a high risk.”

 Inaho paused before speaking. He had to figure out what his newly acquired companion had to offer. There was no time to waste. Saazbaum was going to do something to Slaine and whatever it was did not bode well for whoever and everything involved, either.

 “Who designated your task and what is your task at hand?” Inaho finally queried.

 Immediately -- unlike before -- the Tharsis answered, “Slaine Troyard issued his final order to protect you at all costs.”

 “Typical. Protect Hime to the bitter end and now me.” Inaho sighed. It should have been blatantly obvious what Slaine had done. Slaine was always like this. Everything and everyone the ashen blond had treasured -- always were the things and people Slaine prioritized over his own well-being, his own happiness, his own… everything.

 Inaho grit his teeth and once more shook off the growing fear and likelihood of Slaine being…

 The robot interjected Inaho’s train of thought; it proposed a different course of action, “The Orbital Knight have is not within the vicinity. It is possible for us to avoid intercepting with him and leave the battlefield.”

 A moment and another passed; Inaho did not answer. It was a waste of breath to him to reject the robot’s suggestion as it would surely go at length against his current actions. Inaho logically knew the unnecessary risk he was going to place on himself and how it contradicts the robot’s orders. Surely there had to be a way around it--

 “Wait,” Inaho realized with widened eyes and approached the robot. He was inches away from it as he repeated what it had just said -- primarily the detail of concern. “Final order you say?”

 “Yes.”

 “What do you mean by final? Slaine wouldn’t be--”

 “Slaine is still alive and 2.47 kilometers from our current location. However I am unable to pinpoint the enemy threat’s exact whereabouts but it is safe to predict the threat is within Slaine’s vicinity.”

 “Which direction?”

 “The shortest route involves breaking past this wall and heading north-northwest.”

 Without a moment to spare, Inaho approached the wall and rested his palm. His brow crossed as he tried to use his newly discovered ability.

 “I advise against this Kaizuka Inaho.”

 His concentration was interrupted and he sighed, annoyed. “I. Do. Not. Care.” Inaho addressed and exaggerated, enunciating every word in their entirety. Surely the machine recognized something about his tone of voice to forego whatever lecture it would systematically impose on him.

 To his surprise the machine huffed and smirked; it was replicating Slaine’s expression entirely. “Typical. Just like my pilot.” It commented.

 “Pilot?”

 “Before thought transcended into matter, creations like myself were not as interactive and required manual input through the handling of a pilot.”

 “Slaine Troyard would be--”

 “He is-- Correction was.”

 “Was?”

 “He severed our connection before the fall.”

 “Severed?!” Inaho repeated in alarm. His voice surprised even himself. Never before did he feel so emotionally affected. It was clear his judgment was impaired yet he really couldn’t afford it. His other half…

 “Yes. I assume he did so to delay Count Saazbaum as long as he could. By severing his connection with me, Count Saazbaum could not have used Slaine as a liaison to make use of me.”

 “What would be the advantage of--” Inaho stopped. “By having you -- since he doesn’t have a machine--”

 “Kataphrakt--” Tharsis supplied.

 “Kataphrakt… He cannot continuously use his abilities indefinitely.”

 The Tharsis nodded.

 “If that is the case, surely Saazbaum would--”

 “Correct. I am bound to be his final destination. Before that is to pass, I must ensure your safety,” The Tharsis finished.

 “My safety cannot be ensured,” Inaho stated and reached for his left shoulder blade. “Without Slaine, I am not whole.”

 “You have never been whole to begin with,” Tharsis refuted, “Many times my pilot was before you. Not once did either of you acknowledge your bond.”

 Inaho grimaced. Of course they had not and he was a fool to not consider. His ignorance was his crime and one he could not shrug off as not knowing. The hints were there and it was in Slaine’s character to not be so easily identified. Inaho was the one at fault; again he failed him.

 “I still have a chance,” Inaho mumbled before shaking his head. He spoke louder and more firmly, “We still have a chance.”

 The Tharsis fell silent and remained unmoved. Again it smirked much like Slaine; the Tharsis approached the wall and much like Slaine had done before a shield manifested over its arm. The wall gave way after the sound of a laser cutting through filled the room.

 “We should make haste then Kaizuka Inaho. I can only confirm Slaine is unconscious and breathes. His actual state of injury and the aftermath of Saazbaum’s newly acquired ability are things I cannot confirm remotely,” Tharsis informed.

 Inaho dashed every so often just as the Tharsis levitated and proceeded barely ahead. “Please Slaine. Just awhile longer. Wait for me.”

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 After two kilometers, the two reached a rather ornate area. The damaged walls began to resemble a barely disturbed ziggurat. Pillars filled the widening hall and at the end, a large double door made of onyx faced them.

 The Tharsis had landed on the ground and eyed the door, it voiced its concern, “As predicted, the threat is here. Count Saazbaum is with Slaine.”

 “I see. Then we are expected. We have no capability of surprise--”

 “We do.”

 “You aren’t suggesting--”

 The Tharsis smiled with recognition and pushed the door open. The machine seemed to mock the brunette, relishing in Inaho’s troubled and appalled face.

 Inaho could not stop it. It was the most efficient plan even the reincarnated strategist could recognize.

 Within seconds of the door turning, Count Saazbaum had begun his attack on the miniaturized robot. A barricade of lasers had shot from their right and the robot flew into the other wall. A dash of crimson -- Count Saazbaum -- passed Inaho and securely pinned the Tharsis. Although futile and not entirely at full strength, the Tharsis manifested its shields and brought forth a different weapon -- a weapon Inaho had not seen even the automaton had used in the past -- large blades. Count Saazbaum slashed his left arm at the blades, which immediately cut upon contact. The count’s arms had become coated with an ability Inaho had seen before -- Trillram’s dimensional barrier.

 “Surrender Tharsis. You’re mine,” The count declared. The outcome of the battle was long ordained.

 Seeing the count was entirely focused on the humanoid Kataphrakt, Inaho looked for Slaine, who still remained unconscious north of Inaho. Inaho rushed over and after cradling Slaine in his arms to see for any wounds, he heard the count a few steps away. Count Saazbaum levitated and the defeated Tharsis weakly hung from the count’s left hand.

 “He brought that fate to himself but perhaps the better of the two outcomes,” Saazbaum went.

 Inaho looked over his shoulder, “What have you done?”

 “He is an Orbital Knight. He has sworn servitude to the Royal Family and has been acting independently. I was going to fix that but alas he disrupted me when I was rewriting him.”

 “Rewriting… him?”

 Saazbaum smiled menacingly  and proclaimed, “No matter. You both are no threats to me any longer. Consider it mercy and good will that I shall allow you to see the birth of a new world.”

 Did the outcome of the world matter? This time? Had they not fought for it once before? Can they not forego it just this once?

 He had forgotten once. He dared not forget again and if whatever madness Saazbaum does result in the destruction of this world, then at least Inaho wanted to be with the person he most cared about. This time he didn’t want to leave him behind.

 The count laughed victoriously and made his leave. His footsteps echoed in the distance and soon became inaudible to the running water of all the broken pipes around them. Inaho had let the count go without a fight; he went with the Tharsis’s plan…

 “...W…” Pale ocean blue eyes started to open and he mouthed something barely audible.

 Inaho could feel water well up in his eyes. Slaine was blank as a slate. What Slaine had done to ‘protect’ Inaho resulted in Saazbaum’s doing to be interrupted and instead of having his memories rewritten, they were entirely wiped.

 The ashen blond came to and Inaho sniffled. The tears ran down his cheeks and the ashen blond curiously,  not intentionally wiped the falling tears. Were they tears of relief? Thankful, the ashen blond was alive and in reach? Or were they tears of sadness? Now together they, were as good as strangers.

 “That’s fine,” Inaho thought to himself when cradling Slaine’s cheek and noticing the ashen blond relished in his touch, resting his cheek evermore into Inaho’s palm. Inaho breathed shakily. His heart was unease; something was off with this situation yet he dared convinced him otherwise, “A new world is coming… we can start over again… surely this time, right Slaine?”

 He rocked Slaine who seemingly was clueless of what Inaho was thinking. Of course with no surprise Inaho could see the concern reflect in Slaine’s eyes. Slaine recognized the brunette was hurting. Slaine had always recognized his emotions faster than anyone else. They had been each other’s worst nemesis. They had been each other’s significant other.

 This time though. This time Inaho is with him. This time… they can begin again. They won’t start as enemies. They are there for each other. This time… without fail…

 Inaho embraced the ashen blond tightly and let a sob escape his throat. He buried his head in the ashen blond’s neck.

 “You are free of the chain of misery, Bat. I’ll see to it.” He swore to himself with Slaine unaware, tries to console Inaho with gently rubbing Inaho’s left shoulder blade.

 “This was how it should be,” Inaho convinced himself.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 His mind was blank. His sight both saw and did not see. His feet knew not where to tread but where to go. Was it a feeling? Was his logic so deeply rooted that he knew where best to go?

 Whatever it was be it self-preservation or vulnerability, he did not care. He simply was… there when he came to upon that familiar porch. The familiar bell rang and the long-haired brunette of this timeline greeted him, unsuspecting him and thinking perhaps it was another random customer.

 He was not wrong in that assessment for she did not immediately rise to greet him. She had already said her peace of a typical greeting to her new arrival. “Welcome! I’ll be right with you. Sit wherever you like,” she would say and what he had heard so many countless times the last time he was here.

 It was both discomforting and comforting to hear such words. A sense of normalcy seemed in place upon hearing her voice. Inaho knew she was not the same Yuki of his timeline, perhaps a descendant, perhaps a reincarnation or simply someone that miraculously aesthetically looked like an exact copy of her. It was sad to be so familiar with her yet be so far from the relationship he once had with her in another life, another place, or another time altogether.

 However even if this was not his Yuki, this Yuki carried the same mannerism he treasured most of his sister. When her eyes met his, her eyes had widened and sparkled. She dropped whatever she was doing, whatever she was holding and slowly but gradually sped to his side. Concern was all over her face as she knelt to his crouched level and reached him gently as if he would break.

 He could see her mouth move yet perhaps his hearing had finally gone. God knows how many explosions and whatever unspeakable disasters he had ventured and narrowly escaped unscathed with his companion. He did not need to hear them. He did not need to decipher what she was saying by reading her lips. He felt what she was trying to convey. His heart knew although his expression remained unmoved.

 Inaho had fallen to his knees as Yuki called someone among her customers -- seemingly a doctor who had already was making his way to them -- and was relieved of the burden he bore.

 “Pl…” Inaho tried to speak yet his throat was dry. His sense of feeling was returning and it was clear how shaken he truly was, how overwhelming the reality of his situation was now had sunk in.

 Yuki hugged him tightly and rocked him, resting his head on her shoulder. Over and over she repeated, eventually Inaho could either hear or hallucinate some semblance of what she was trying to say, “It’ll be okay. Everything will be all right. Don’t worry. You did well. You made it. It will be okay.”

 His breath came ragged as he felt an unnatural shudder overcome him. He sniffled in her embrace. He knew what she was trying to say. He knew there was nothing more to be done. It was out of his hands at this point. He had done everything at this point yet… he could not help thinking, wanting to do more, anything.

 And then it occurred to him as Yuki released him, staring at him in the eye and clearly enunciated every syllable of what message she wanted to convey.

 “He will be fine.”

 That’s all he wanted to hear, to believe and to hope would occur.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Inaho could not decipher how many days it had been, let alone grasp much of what he did each passing day he had arrived at Yuki’s renovated bar. The orders came and go. The customers, new and regular, arrived and departed. Life went on.

 It was only when he went upstairs to his room, he began to feel again the stillness of time and the uneasiness, the anxiousness ebb at him. Before, Inaho had taken it for granted when considering the automaton resting on the bed could be easily reactivated once he finished his repairs. Now, that was no longer the case. The automaton was as he had thought -- it was truly a human that clung to a thin thread of life thanks to Aldnoah -- and now whatever humanity was there, was now gone. No, humanity was never the question. The person, the individual, the spirit of the person living before him was always in question.

 Approaching the bed like clockwork, Inaho retrieved the foldable metallic chair from next to the door he had opened and pulled up to the bedside. Before sitting down, Inaho reached over to his sleeping companion and combed away with his fingers, the ashen blond hair that had flown over his eyes. He then readjusted the blanket and finally sat down on the chair, leaning back with his hands resting on his lap. Inaho absentmindedly stared forward at the open window, watching the curtains dance in the slow breeze. For a moment he slowly closed and open his eyes, momentarily recollecting past days he had sat at this very spot and how he seemed the only fixated point; before him, a storm had past and he had not moved. It was only due to Yuki and the doctor of the town, Doctor Yagarai’s interference that Inaho’s companion and bedroom did not completely become soak in the cold rain. Days past and the heat was unbearable. Only the night made it seem like a midsummer’s dream with the crickets and fireflies about with the cool air.

 “Wait for me Slaine” Inaho remembered coining. It was a line he had said so many times in his past life. He recalled how in a similar situation like this, the ashen blond was miraculously alive after suffering a fatal wound and telling Inaho how unfair he was being.

 Inaho stood up upon noticing the time on the nearby nightstand; he had to report downstairs. He had promised Yuki he would go down a half hour past six. He would ‘eat’ and then work throughout the night into dawn. Before leaving the room, Inaho once more brushed Slaine’s fringe and rested his hand on his cheek. Inaho pecked briefly on Slaine’s cheek; he did not know if this Slaine reciprocated those feelings.

 “I’m not the Slaine you seek.”

 “I am not the Slaine you promised… the Slaine you refer to is perhaps long gone.”

 The brunette presumed perhaps that is what the ashen blond of this world would tell him. Slaine would deny his feelings, thinking Inaho was projecting them upon him. Slaine would remind Inaho how unfair he was being, treating and recognizing Slaine as someone he clearly was not.

 “Slaine…” Inaho struggled to speak, to find the words to properly convey them, “Don’t belittle my feelings. We may have come from different worlds, times… whatever you want to label them as… but it does not matter. It does not matter if you knew our past lives or can project our future paths…” Inaho could feel himself rambling; he started to see the irrationality in his current behavior yet he could feel his heart growing lighter, “I love you Slaine. I love the you, you are now. Before me. Presently. Here.”

 Inaho went on his knees, taking one of Slaine’s hands into both of his and rest his forehead. “So please… please wake up. Come back.”

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Inaho awoke to the sound of a wind chime. He had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position and tried to sit up yet found most of his joints had gone numb.

 “What do you think?” Yuki asked.

 The brunette blinked. He was slightly surprised Yuki could tell he was waking up especially from the angle of how he slept, he could barely see her face. He could only tell Yuki had fixated something on the window -- chances are a wind chime of some sort.

 “It… sounds… wonderful.”

 Inaho brusquely sat up much to his body’s detestation. He gawked for he met turquoise eyes that curiously blinked at him.

 Slaine had woken up.

 “Slaine…” Inaho blurted.

 The ashen blond tilted his head. His brow contorted as he tried to make sense of what Inaho had said. Inaho frowned when slowly regaining hits wits, berating himself,“No. I shouldn’t have done that. He is a blank slate.. With the power of Aldnoah and--”

 Inaho could see he had made a terrible mistake when the ashen blond started to grip his left temple. Yuki had approached him, embracing the ashen blond and tried to calm him with a slow, quiet hush. The ashen blond was taken by surprise at the act and hugged his sides, clearly shuddering at the contact. He grimaced with his eyes starting to tear, reaching particular to his left wing.

 “It’ll be alright. Take it slow. You’re among family,” Yuki said slowly and in as kind of a voice she could muster.

 Slaine motioned to speak however his breath came shakily and his voice was not cooperating. It didn’t matter for Inaho. Just like back then, Inaho could hear Slaine through their unspeakable bond as each other’s halves. Slaine’s left wing fluttered and momentarily glowed aqua.

 “I’m scared. Who are you? Family? They’re gone! Wait what family?” Slaine’s thoughts came through to Inaho, who was thankful to hear such thoughts; it reaffirmed their bond was still in tact even after what Count Saazbaum had done.

 Inaho removed Slaine’s hands from Slaine’s sides, uncurling Slaine’s fingers and entwined them with his own. The brunette gently squeezed and took one hand up to his lips, gently pecking the back of Slaine’s hand.

 “Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. You’ll never be alone… for you’re my other half. We’ll always be together,” Inaho reassured.

 Slaine took back one of his hands and like before, like the Slaine Inaho knew, reached for his chest. However this time Slaine looked to him, squarely and directly, wholeheartedly. Yuki had released Slaine from her embrace, smiling at what unfolded before her.

 “See!” Yuki inadvertently tried to reaffirm and patted Slaine’s head, “Now how about we get you something to eat?”

 “Uh…” Slaine pondered yet his stomach’s growl answered the question.

 Inaho smiled and struggled to his feet, asking the two albeit more so to the ashen blond, “Scrambled or rolled?”

 The brunette had started to head to the door except was stopped by Yuki’s vocal insistence.

 “I’ll decide! I’ll take care of breakfast, Nao-kun!” Yuki immediately rushed to the door, getting ahead of Inaho.

 He quickly figured out why the sudden change when feeling a gentle tug on his navy knitted sweater.

 “Ah- sorry, I-” Slaine stumbled for words and looked away blushing.

 Inaho turned around and sat on the bed, reaffirming his grasp on Slaine’s hand, which he withdrew. The brunette leaned onto Slaine’s hunched over form and nestled his chin  on Slaine’s hair.

 “It’ll be alright. We have all the time in the world. Take your time,” Inaho said aloud and promised to himself, “I’ll make sure of it. I promise you.”

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 A wind chime jingled lightly as a gentle breeze brushed along an open window. The curtains rose with the coming wind and as the curtains rested, the flaps of a bird could be heard. A bird had landed on the window sill only to hop a little more inward when a finger approached towards its beak. The bird nestled against the finger. The ashen blond chuckled and soon rubbed under the bird’s beak.

 “Good morning,” the ashen blond greeted the bird and somewhat sat up, taking a peek outside to find only some cirrus clouds in the distance and endless blue wherever the sky stretched towards the horizon.

 A pair of strong arms tightened its embrace on the ashen blond’s waist and grabbed the blond back inwards the bed. The bird abruptly left.

 “I-Inaho!” Slaine screeched.

 A crimson eye cracked open from underneath the blankets and once more the bush of brown hair nestled deeply, into their embrace. Slaine sighed, giving in and spoiling Inaho.

 “We need to get up Inaho. Yuki-nee is going to scold us again if we don’t rake the leaves before dinner. We have delayed far too long as it is…”

 Inaho refuted, objectively and unsurprisingly to Slaine… albeit in a groggy voice. When did the brunette become such a sloth? “We are still in the middle of autumn and there are still leaves to fall. It is better to let them all fall before collecting them.”

 “I know Inaho but that’s-- be…” Slaine blushed and held back a whimper. Inaho had sucked on Slaine’s neck, having risen up just a little bit.

 The ashen blond grimaced, slightly annoyed as Inaho emotionlessly stared at him with rather fabulous bed hair. Slaine hit Inaho with a pillow within reach, demanding, “Get up Orange!”

 Slaine continued to playfully smack him with the pillow but Inaho would not budge. Inaho tightened his hold around the ashen blond's waist and nestled his head. He would make certain these sort of days would continue.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 The wounds Slaine had acquired and endured when he was becoming an ‘Orbital Knight’ left no trace upon his restored form. Inaho could presume the restoration had erased even scarring. It was perhaps one of the few positive things the count had done on Slaine. Maybe the memory wipe could also be considered a blessing.

 Inaho could feel his heart flutter and the inability to stop the corners of his lips from rising upward. Slaine’s smiles and laughs warmed his heart. He was void of the hardships and suffering he had endured in this lifetime and the many lifetimes he had foreseen. However even this happiness and peace seemed fragile still. Something felt unnatural to Inaho and increasingly, that something was becoming more obvious.

 Slaine nearly fell when following Inaho out of their bedroom; the ashen blond had become strong enough to walk on his own and to help out at the pub yet soon after waking up from bed, Slaine’s struggle to easily walk out was becoming clearer.

 “What’s wrong, Slaine?” Inaho inquired although already suspecting what it most likely was. Rising his head, Inaho could immediately confirm his suspicions with the ashen blond’s crossed brow and the sight of his eyes losing focus -- eyes that glimmered ever so frequently aqua, “Aldnoah…”

 There was no way around it; there was no way to deny Slaine’s identity as an Orbital Knight. Extracting the Tharsis from him simply only left him with a finite amount of uses; it did not entirely rob him of the ability he was gifted with.

 Slaine looked to the brunette before once more shying away. He apologized, “S-sorry… I was… getting dizzy again…”

 Inaho remained silent for a moment, staring at Slaine’s eyes and waited for the glow to subside. In moments they had returned to their normal tranquil turquoise shade; at that time Inaho helped Slaine back onto his feet and stabilized him. He misled the ashen blond into thinking Inaho was his lucky charm.

 “T-thank you Inaho. Without you, I’d be lost I fear,” Slaine mumbled, surely overpraising him.

 The brunette shook his head, physically trying to shake off the lie he had inadvertently caused. “It’s nothing… but perhaps we should ask the doctor to check on you.” Inaho hesitantly voiced his concern.

 Slaine fell silent upon hearing the suggestion and looked to his right, a habit Inaho was all too familiar as nervousness. “Yes… that… may be best… it’s been happening a lot more recently hasn’t it?” Slaine asked.

 Inaho’s heart sank slightly but he quickly tried to mask the uneasiness. Surely Slaine was picking up on it through their link. Inaho tightened his hold on Slaine’s hand, trying to convince not only Slaine but himself, “Let’s see what the doctor says.”

 He hoped it was really nothing. He knew otherwise; he knew better.

 Slaine had no recollection of how to use his ability and each time he used it, another feather fell, another speck of his life force was gone. Forever was all too far a fantasy and a forgone dream yet to make now seem everlasting, every moment counted. Having him forget everything of his life before now seemed to have made Slaine happy. Alas, soon this ability -- the ability to see projections of what had been and what will be -- would surely be something Slaine would have to come to terms, come to use.

 “Could he somehow be rendered unable to use it?” Inaho had once considered. He had little to no idea even for his own ability how it works. He only understood that he willed it when he wanted to make something within feasibility to happen. If that is the case then… did Slaine inadvertently be trying to remember?

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

 Moments past with Inaho remaining in the room unmoved. Only when the front door downstairs closed shut did Inaho realize how long he had remained in the room alone. He felt his feet drag.

 “I would prepare if he does remember.” The doctor’s words echoed in his mind.

 Soon he found himself before the bedroom’s door. He hesitated to grasp the doorknob. Slaine was waiting for him on the other side.

 “I don’t think it’s possible to prepare for that situation doctor,” Inaho thought rhetorically and turned the doorknob, walking in.

 The window remained open. The curtains danced in the wind. Moonlight seeped into the room and in the center of the silent sight before Inaho, the ashen blond sat in bed looking out. Inaho’s heart grew heavy. How did Slaine go about acting like he knew nothing of what had happened before? How can Slaine have started afresh knowing full well what Inaho had done to him in another life?

 Slaine turned and the outline of his one wing cast a shadow in the moonlight. “Inaho,” the ashen blond warmly spoke. The ashen blond offered open arms. Inaho couldn’t hide anything from Slaine as the brunette crawled into bed, embracing the ashen blond. “What’s wrong?” The ashen blond asked. “I wouldn’t think anything bad was uncovered from the check up… was there?”

 Inaho shook his head while well buried in Slaine’s chest. Slaine paused for a moment; Inaho could guess the ashen blond was pondering why he had become so sullen. “I see…” The ashen blond went, “then… what is wrong? Or would you rather not talk about it Inaho?”

 The brunette rose and loosened their hug. He could not bring himself to face the ashen blond. The doctor’s advice continued to reverberate in his mind. Preparation was impossible in the long-run. Lying would and could not take place of facts. Surely as well whatever Count Saazbaum had planned would eventually reach them. Everything that led to that point now and then.

 “Inaho?”

 Without thinking Inaho caught sight of the the turquoise eyes before looking down. Slaine’s shirt had been left unbuttoned, surely from the doctor’s visit. His chest was bare.

 “No scars like then… Smooth…” Inaho reminded himself and rested his head once more.

 “Inaho… please. Please tell me what’s wrong,” Slaine pleaded and repeated. Inaho could see Slaine’s hand reach for Inaho’s chin but Inaho would not let him reach. The brunette backed away and looked elsewhere. This was unlike him. He was doing everything he didn’t want to be doing. He didn’t want to worry Slaine. He wasn’t protecting him as he swore back then.

 Inaho clenched his teeth as he heard Slaine’s breath became shaky and the ashen blond face palmed. “In… Inaho-san…”

 “San…” Inaho noted and saddened. The first few days Slaine had awakened came to mind.

 “You once told me…” Slaine continued. Inaho reached to wipe one of Slaine’s tears.

 “You said I was your other half… If that is the case… Then…” Slaine mumbled but could not continue his train of thought. His shoulders shook as he wept.

 “Slaine…” Inaho tried yet his voice came weak and distant. It was heartbreaking.

 “Why… If we are together… I…” Slaine looked up and a weak, bitter smile formed.

 The past overlaid before Inaho. So long ago Inaho had faced his perceived-rival, now defeated and so resigned. Nothing had changed, even after all this.

 “Why do I feel so alone?”

 “I can’t hide it Slaine… I’m not strong like you. But…” Inaho smiled, bewildering Slaine and kissed the ashen blond on the lips, longingly and dearly. “Slaine. I’m sorry.” He apologized. "But I too believe in you. Together… Together we can think of something neither of us could have alone.”

 “I-it’s fine Inaho-” Slaine tried to say but Inaho interrupted him with another seal on his lips. Slaine reddened and before attempting to push the brunette back, “In-Inaho please.”

 “The reason why I don't want you to remember… the reason why I fear your power Slaine…” Inaho started before pausing to look at him squarely, “is because you were fatally wounded… multiple times. You died once in this world already and..  I nearly lost you.”

 “So you were keeping me in the dark… to protect me?” Slaine asked, trying to make sense of what Inaho was telling him.

 Inaho nodded and left a trail of kisses down Slaine’s neck. He grasped Slaine’s left hand,  removing it from Slaine’s face and kissed it. Inaho entwined his fingers with Slaine and left a trace upon Slaine’s knuckles. Simultaneously Inaho maintained eye contact with Slaine, looking at his other half alluringly. Slaine was becoming more and more flushed. His bottom lip trembled.

 “In… Inaho…” Slaine spoke in a needing voice yet with a tinge of alarm. Inaho could see the ashen blond’s eyes glow. Correspondingly Inaho’s hand glowed orange and soon Slaine’s glowed blue.  

 “I'm here Slaine. I know. Let your power loose. Trust me.”

 Slaine shuddered and felt himself weaken, collapsing onto Inaho. Slaine’s right shoulder blade burned. It was not a painful burn however. It was… intoxicatingly warm. Slaine turned his head from Inaho’s neck and before him a ghastly blue outlined wing. The ashen blond struggled, startled and looked between the wing and Inaho who smiled. Inaho rested his forehead on Slaine’s, closing his eyes.

 ⋆⋆⋆★⋆⋆⋆

When Inaho reopened his eyes, he noticed he had become separate from his corporeal form. He could see his physical body support Slaine and the two rested on their bed. Surveying his capability as a spirit, Inaho discerned he could oddly see his reflection about the window and in the window -- he had two wings. One of which carried the aqua glow.

 “Slaine!” Inaho thought in a panic and hastily looked around, floating through the walls of the bedroom outside the very pub or into the halls. There was no sign of Slaine. Visually.

 As Inaho came to a stop, Inaho could hear muffling sounds. He had originally suspected it to be the wind picking up as night had fallen yet the more he listened, the more he recognized the voice. No. Voices.

 Inaho could feel his heart grow heavy when he could identify all the voices. They all belonged to Slaine but each individual voice had a different mannerism and tone. However none of them were the Slaine he was seeking. The Slaine he sought was not speaking a comprehensible word.

 The brunette had closed his eyes for a moment to hone his hearing and only opened when he pinpointed the source of the voices. He soar upwards, towards the shattered moon and found who he was looking for. Without a moment’s delay, Inaho rested a hand on Slaine’s right shoulder. The crying ashen blond peered upward from his withdrawn, shrank self.

 “In-Inaho..!” Slaine cried and embraced him.

 “I’m sorry. I made you wait again,” Inaho apologized and hugged him back while looking forward. A man wearing the emblazoned uniform of an Orbital Knight stood before Inaho and Slaine.

 “Count Slaine Saazbaum Troyard,” Inaho addressed.

 The knight offered a polite, small smile. He did not look at Inaho back and instead seemed more attentive to Slaine who remained nestled in Inaho’s chest. The longer Inaho gazed at the Orbital Knight, for a moment his attire changed to that of a pair of pale blue clothes and then again to a lab coat. If he concentrated even more, Inaho could see the knight’s appearance ever so often, flickering like a time-lapse.

 “Kaizuka Inaho,” the knight finally responded. Its voice however was not singular. Inaho could piece out one voice saying the very same in a far more bitter, hateful manner. The brunette was sure he could -- if he willed it -- recollect when and where a Slaine had said that to him. However he saw it as a wasted effort. Even if the knight before him came from the same timeline or world Inaho originated from, it mattered not to Inaho. The Slaine he had sworn to protect and promised to save was the one in his arms.

 The two continued to lock eyes on one another until something caught Inaho’s eyes -- lights. Traces of light started to appear around them, descending towards the town below them. The lights resembled shooting stars at first but when Inaho looked at them more closely…

 They were robotic arms and laser beams. They greatly resembled the Kataphraktoi technology the Orbital Knights had used.

 “Hellas and Herschel,” The Orbital Knight identified; perhaps Inaho’s thoughts of the subject transferred to the Orbital Knight just like it did to his Slaine. The Orbital Knight did not entertain his curiosity and seemed to continue to inform. He spoke coldly and authoritative -- a similar mannerism when the Orbital Knight had delivered speeches in broadcasts of a war so long ago, “Count Saazbaum has infiltrated the town and in sixty-one seconds he will have reached Yuki-nee. Forty-nine seconds later he will reach us if we maintain the present course of events.”

 Inaho’s eyebrow rose as he realized what Count Slaine Saazbaum Troyard was informing him and when he once more looked downwards, he could see the projection of Count Saazbaum having entered the pub. The immediate surroundings around Inaho and the two Slaines had changed to inside the pub where Yuki had collapsed by Count Saazbaum’s hand.

 The Slaine in Inaho’s arms stood up and went upwards to the ceiling. “We need to get out of here and away--” Slaine proclaimed, disappearing from sight.

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The next time Inaho regained his bearings, he had been dragged outside to the outskirts of town by Slaine’s doing. Slaine released Inaho’s hand and turned to the appearing visage of Count Saazbaum.

 Slaine questioned in complete bafflement, “Having the power to rewrite history infinitely was not enough for you?”

 Saazbaum smirked. “Mishaps happen. Clearly I had an err in my judgment to keep both of you alive. As long as you both remain, my seat of power will always be in question. Also…”

 Saazbaum rose his cane pointing to Slaine and soon Inaho who stood between the two in an act of defending Slaine. “To know one past is to know one’s future. Your ability to see both is one I cannot go without.”

 Slaine lowered his head, his fringe covering his eyes. He sardonically huffed to himself, holding back a sad bout of laughter. “So even in this timeline… we must cross again?”

 “Feeling remorseful now? Perhaps you really are not my son,” Saazbaum mused and withdrew his cane, “Enough of this.” The count glared as he commanded an array of orbs transforming into rocket arms and balls of light akin to the Kataphraktoi Hellas and Herschel, “Fly my servants.”

 Inaho grasped Slaine’s hand with his right just as Inaho waved with his left an orange barrier thwarting the arms inward. “Slaine,” Inaho curtly addressed, narrowly dodging the laser shots with Slaine tagging along.

 Slaine shook it off, releasing Inaho’s right hand and turned back, manifesting one of Tharsis’s shields over his right arm. Opening his hand, palm forward at the approaching lasers Slaine shot back with similar energy blasts. “Sorry. Sixteen from one o’clock to five.”

 “Too many,” Inaho remarked and frowned. With both of his hands illuminating orange, he gathered energy into his palms.

 “I know,” Slaine rebuked and frowned, shooting several blasts upward overhead.

 “Giving up again, Troyard?” Saazbaum intimidated and dashed forward.

 Seemingly pointlessly, Slaine shot more beams of light except at the count himself who did not suffer even a scratch. Saazbaum was also utilizing the shield the Kataphrakt Nilokeras had.

 “Energy sword activate!” Saazbaum exclaimed and lifted his cane that correspondingly glowed red.

 “Now Inaho!” Slaine beckoned with his left arm, which Inaho quickly grabbed to offer more momentum and Inaho reversed his gravitational burst onto the count. The count spat blood as the gravitational force caught him off guard and pushed him back.

 “Just like before, the barrier needs a gap and every time you use a different capability, you make yourself vulnerable,” Inaho assessed.

 “No matter. I’ll rewrite you until you’re no more!” Saazbaum proclaimed and teleported to them.

 Slaine grit his teeth as he back flipped in mid air to try to make some distance. Saazbaum still managed to grab his ankle.

 “Slaine--” Inaho called out yet the ashen blond only shook his head, eyes peering at the brunette determined.

 Inaho looked down to the cliff and with both glowing hands, ushered an earthquake from below or so Saazbaum initially thought. Within moments, Saazbaum could feel himself being tugged downwards.

 “I will not go down without a fight!” Saazbaum desperately screamed and tightened his hold on Slaine’s ankle.

 The energy blasts that Slaine had shot earlier had returned back down and pierced through the Count’s legs and wings.

 Slaine prepared to plummet, closing his eyes with the count. He would not take the man’s life again. He had no right to take another; if debts could be carried over lifetimes, then he surely had one to the count.

 A prayer, a voice from the past spoke next to his ear, “Slaine please be free.”

 “Lemrina,” Slaine realized with his eyes opened and his claim on his life renewed.

 “Did you think I would forgive you?” A Slaine from the past exclaimed.

 Slaine slashed through the count’s arm that clung to his ankle with the pointed edge of his shield and spun kick the count further down. With the second volley of shots Slaine had shot earlier, the fog below cleared and revealed a pocket black hole which the count was accelerating ever faster inward.

 Saazbaum fruitlessly reached upward to Slaine with his dismembered arm yet soon withdrew. He could recollect a sight once past, an array of warnings and static.

 “That’s right this isn’t where I should be.” He thought to himself as he began to feel his end was near.

 Looking up, Saazbaum could see the sad silhouette overhead, peering down on him.

 “Not too shabby… my son…” Saazbaum said to himself, recalling a similar knight he once had in the past.

 With the last sight of the burgundy uniform, Inaho closed his hands and formed fists. Similarly the black hole mimicked the behavior and dissipated. Inaho took a deep breath, once more taking a long moment staring where the count had been and confirming that he was no more. It was further cemented when hearing his other half’s sniffles behind him. He sighed upon seeing the shaking figure, floating upwards and embracing him.

 His other half cried and clung, desperately to him. He wept for the things that had come to past once again. Once again his other half could not save those he cherished. Again he lost a father he barely got to know.

 “Are... are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes no matter how much time passes? No matter the circumstances?” Slaine asked Inaho.

 Inaho wanted to tell Slaine 'no.' He really did yet knew full well, even Slaine himself that the likelihood of repeating is so much more astronomically higher. It is human nature to be stubborn, to not learn from past mistakes. It is also however... human nature to learn, to overcome them together as a unified people.

 None of that mattered to the brunette. None of it should matter for Slaine as well, the brunette thought and cupped both of Slaine's cheeks. With his thumbs, Inaho wiped the most recent tears before gently, slowly settling on Slaine's lips.

 “It doesn't matter Bat. That was then. That is not now. If it is meant to be, then it will be,” Inaho conveyed through his thoughts, knowing full well through their renewed, bond that Slaine received them.

 He could see Slaine raise his arms to protest only for such to quickly subside. Inaho had slid his right hand on Slaine's back and caressed the ashen blond's right wing, which corresponded with his. He could feel his own handiwork yet it didn't bother him as much as the ashen blond. Inaho easily could understand why; Slaine's ability to feel had returned from the Count Saazbaum's  handiwork and the wing the ashen blond too bear was surely more receptive to such sensations. Slaine's knees were beginning to buckle as he was weakening; surely if they were not floating – more exactly Inaho wasn't keeping Slaine afloat – Slaine would have fallen over. Slaine gasped and was becoming more and more flush as Inaho continued to run his fingers through the right wing and with his other hand, tightened his embrace around Slaine's waist.

 “In-Inaho...” Slaine struggled to say; his breath was heavy and hot.

 Slaine rested his head on Inaho's shoulder and whimpered, trying to hold back a moan when Inaho playfully bit at Slaine's exposed neck.

 “St-stop!” Slaine begged although his body and thoughts said otherwise.

 Inaho obliged... for the time being as he released Slaine's neck and could see Slaine raise his head with great determination. Slaine was surely a hot mess and Inaho had barely done much – a fact Slaine was too aware especially when Inaho's small smile seemed to only grow upon the two sharing this realization.

 Inaho rested his nose on Slaine's after seeing how Slaine blushed even more somehow and could no longer keep eye contact. “Don't worry. We can take our time.”

 “But I'm not--”

 The brunette narrowed his eyes and this time sealed Slaine's lips forcibly, letting something slip in to stun the ashen blond. Inaho could feel his other half start to lose the strength to keep himself standing and once more released him. “You're the Slaine I love. Here. Presently. Now. With me.” Inaho enunciated, emphasizing each  word purposely.

 Slaine tried to speak again but stopped. His shoulders were beginning to tremble again; he was beginning to cry again and started gripping his chest. Inaho let these tears go; they were definitely tears of happiness. Slaine continuously asked why through their link but he did not answer. Inaho was sure Slaine knew better than even himself. The brunette could feel a warmth resonate from the ashen blond and it seemed to envelop him entirely too.

 This was surely happiness.

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    Epilogue

⊱Slaine.3⊰

 A gentle breeze passed much to Slaine's relief. He picked up the wooden basket and looked up at his finished work – several sheets of table cloth blew in the wind and were newly washed. It was a welcomed breeze considering he hung the cloth to dry.

 “Smells nice,” someone complimented from behind.

 Slaine could feel his ears redden after hearing such a voice. As much as he tried to not feel, his right wing tingled in anticipation. Inaho was clearly having fun teasing him implicitly.

 “Y-you've smelled it plenty of times. S-surely you've grown nauseous or have become desensitized in smelling it...” Slaine tried to lessen the compliment.

 It was futile. Slaine could feel warm hands embrace him from behind and someone's chin brushing along his left shoulder, taking a nice long whiff of his exposed neck.

 “Not again!” Slaine groaned and facepalmed with his free hand.

 “Why not?”

 “We already sleep together... b-bathe together... you should know...” Slaine bit his lower lip; he could not bring himself to utter anymore words.

 Inaho lifted his head and released Slaine from his embrace much to Slaine's relief. It was hard enough to still remain steady on his feet. Slaine knew his sensitivity to both physical and emotional stimuli was higher than normal due to his long connection with the Tharsis life support system. However Inaho made it extremely more difficult. The brunette may seem emotionless and quiet externally yet he was far from such. Slaine sighed and removed his hand from his face. Inaho had fallen silent longer than normal.

 “Sorry,” Inaho apologized; he must have figured out what he had inadvertently done. Slaine had started clutching his chest, leaning back onto Inaho who had yet to move from behind Slaine. He closed his eyes; Inaho's feelings were so strong. It was beyond Slaine as to how they could be so while the brunette remained physically expressionless as a brick wall.

 But he would not have it any other way. The wave of emotion was so direct and overbearing, Slaine had no choice but to acknowledge, to accept and to give in.

 “It's fine Inaho. Thank you... Thank you...” Slaine responded after taking a deep breath to calm his heart. Somehow the novelty of this occurrence had yet to become lackluster; each time it felt like Inaho was confessing his feelings to Slaine for the first time.

 “I'm not the Slaine you swore to protect” was no longer something he could bring himself to say. Just the mere thought already made Slaine feel the intense disapproval and anger from Inaho.

 “Don't belittle my feelings. Don't deny them. Don't deny who you are and who you are not,” Inaho would constantly tell him both vocally and telepathically.

 Slaine could not anymore. He could feel the sincerity, the support, the endearment, and most of all, love.  It was not a love like devotion. It was not the love Slaine had for Asseylum in this timeline or the others. It was not a love that Lemrina and Harklight had for him out of admiration and duty. It was a love for who he truly was-- no, who he truly is.

 “We probably should get back to the chores... shouldn't we, Inaho?” Slaine queried with a smile; he tried to hide his so easily shed tears. “Yuki-nee is going to scold us again at this... rate..?”

 Slaine blinked as he momentarily shivered; something cold and metallic had been wrapped around his neck. He dropped the basket he held in his other hand. His eyes were immediately drawn to a silver amulet resting on his chest. It was not ornate with blue gems; rather with various sized gears in multiple shades of brown and gold. Somehow the amulet was akin to the memento he had in another life while resembling the wings he adorned as an automaton.

 “Inaho...” Slaine grasped the amulet and had turned to face the brunette who offered the more frequent small smile.

 “I was once told it was a charm to ward against evil, a charm offering divine protection,” Inaho commented, “but you told me that was not entirely correct for it was also for--”

 The ashen blond squeezed the amulet lightly, becoming familiar with its weight while simultaneously speaking with Inaho, “For a prayer.”

 “Was it answered?” Inaho asked.

 Slaine chuckled and covered his mouth for a moment, to poorly cover the renewed blush. Once more gazing back at his other half, Slaine could only nod. He could not bring himself to verbalize it; even now he still prayed.

 “Regardless of time, space or fate... you had continued to pursue and reach me. No matter how much I denied you, you always thwarted me at every turn. Even when deemed impossible, you still reached me. Always. So even if a time comes for it to truly be impossible, I pray for this miracle to happen again.”

  ~Fin

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   Author's Note (A/N):

             On a Wing and a Prayer is the result of an ambitious undertaking to write something in canon and in an alternate universe. My previous contributions to the AZ Fandom have been post-canon and in the same universe as the canon or to present-day reality. To further illustrate 'ambitious' I had gone so far as to interweave the canon content into the fanfic in a different order than they occurred while (I hope) making sense.

           The universe the fanfic occurs in is inspired by the atmosphere of several animes and literature works that I hold close to my heart. I leave it to the reader's' imagination as to what exactly those are but I will say, I had aimed for a world after the canon -- so far into the future -- mankind had to regress back to survive and rediscover its origin. Aldnoah had to be rediscovered and even in this change of time and world, the cast are still bound to the roles they had once played... or so I initially started with. I aimed to challenge each of his or her character development to see if he or she was capable of learning his or her mistake in the canon.

           Again it was quite the task. I gravely underestimated the gravitas of world-building and even overdone that aspect where one could say I became reliant on the intrigue and the mysteries of the world -- not the actual writing. So there are some ideas that didn't make it to the final product, be it for lack of polish or lack of smooth continuity if included due to a fear of word limit.

           That being said it has been an enjoyable struggle writing this work and hope to you, the reader find some enjoyment in this adaptation of Aldnoah.Zero.

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank the Blue Roses Network for encouragement -- particularly TururaJ and Himmelreich for the moral support, and paperballoon, fishdad and KuMikka for helping out with this monstrosity metamorphosis! Last but not least I would also like to thank Rosiel-sama, Rosiel_AZ for allowing me to be a part of the AZ Community.

  hakumei_hogosha

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#ALDNOAH ZERO #az anthology #inaho kaizuka #slaine troyard #inaho x slaine #inasureanthology #orangebat #on a wing & a prayer #hakumei_hogosha #fantasy #wing #steampunk is awesome