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gerrysherry · 1 year

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And They Were Moonmates

For @sadlittlebear-sometimes-beatrash for asking for a moon knight centric mythologically accurate look at Khonshu's aspects

Tw Horus being ableist for a hot minute, Khonshu mentioning breaking a previous avatar's run lemire run style and being turned to stone for it.

I am not muslim (I'm culturally Jewish like Marc) and open to criticism for any things actually culturally muslim people would pick up on.

Summary: Thoth and his avatar Hassan are sent to investigate Khonshu's new avatar (avatars?) and Thoth learns a new side to humans while Hassan makes three new friends.

plain text if link breaks:

Chapter 1: an old rival

A full moon hung over Cairo mimicking the crescent spires on some of the mosques. Many years since Cairo had abandoned the heretical worship of the moon and its gods and turned its face to the light of Allah, and yet the old gods of Egypt still lurked.

The ennead had each a man or woman amongst humanity known as an avatar. After the fall of Egypt many gods had turned themselves to stone or been forcefully turned to stone to sleep and await a better age.

Now in a veritable golden age, gods were being released en mass. However, to see they were adjusting well to their new roles, the new gods and their avatars, should they have one, should report to the council first every ten years , then every 25 years and finally merely once a century. Some of the newly released gods were causing trouble.

Bast, a rather peaceful goddess, had last been seen traveling to a small village in a mountain full of a mysterious new metal. She had not reported back in 20 years. Tawheret had vanished with her new avatar, an unassuming midwife who upon bonding with her goddess suddenly acquired a wanderlust and joined a caravan headed to Karnak. Lastly, Khonshu, whose avatar arrived late for the 10 year meeting, refused to remove his or her mask and spent most of the meeting cracking jokes at the other gods’ expense. Which, in the humble opinion of Thoth, was much better than breaking the will of the avatar and using them as a puppet, often to commit crime and bring about a twisted justice. This was, sadly, something several gods had done in the past (including Khonshu himself, Set was another repeat offender, and the less said of Ammit the better). Since Thoth had made the mistake of voicing his opinion, the ennead had tasked him with evaluating Khonshu and the new avatar.

That was five sunsets ago, inside the grand pyramid of the othervoid.

This was now, on the streets of Cairo under the moon in a large but empty street. There a mortal man bent over an equally mortal masked figure lying on their back in a ditch.

“Are you alright?” Asked Hassan, scholar, scribe and the current avatar of Thoth, god of Knowledge, trickery and until recently, the moon.

However after the rightful god of the moon, vengeance and protector of those who travel by night was released from his stone prison, Thoth yielded Khonshu back his rightful place as the lost eye of Horus (I.e. the moon).

The figure in the ditch was Khonshu’s current avatar. He or she, for neither Hassan nor Thoth could not discern the gender of the avatar, grunted and nodded.

“You should see the other man,” the avatar said.

“I am Hassan. What shall I call you?” Asked Hassan. Hassan knew Khonshu’s avatar had three different names used in different situations.He knew most about Fatima, but he also knew the avatar also went by Ali and simply as ‘Knight/Paladin of the moon’.With this in mind, he wanted to be cautious and ask instead of making a mistake.

“It’s real simple, when I wear the mask I’m the Moon Knight, when I don’t, I’m someone else. Are you a doctor or someone trying to arrest me?”

“Neither, Moon Knight,” Hassan said, halting on the epithet, said in the original Ancient Egyptian rather than Arabic, “I am a scribe. I learned some medicine when I worked in a hospital. But I also serve Thoth.”

The figure calling themselves Moon Knight staggered upright and shook Hassan’s hand. “Oh Hassan, you do not know how glad I am to meet another priest of the old gods. Khonshu does not have fond memories of you, you took a part of his power after all, but he’s a lout and we the avatar would love to catch up.” They said.

“We?” Hassan asked, his eyebrows rose.

“Me and my male and female aspects of course. But I can only introduce them somewhere safe. Would you mind accompanying me to my home? Or perhaps you would like to meet Fatima at a certain hole in the wall she visits to catch up on gossip. On the up side, it’s a public place so you can be assured I won’t attack you, but on the down side, it’s a public place, so we must watch our words.”

“Take the latter option, I want to see how the avatar acts in public. Besides Khonshu’s avatars had mystical powers, I have only enhanced your already keen mind, Hassan. You are physically outmatched” Thoth said to his Avatar. He did not manifest in the world of matter but merely spoke into his avatar’s mind. Despite this the masked figure bowed and said: “Big fan of your wisdom and Ibisness, great Thoth.”

“For once, Hassan, an Avatar I can get along with. You would not believe how rude, disrespectful and downright mad his previous avatars were. When they had any personality at all. This one is also mad, but at least pleasant.” Thoth complained.

“What’s he saying?” Moon Knight asked, cocking their head. Hassan would have loved to see their face.

“Merely that you are refreshingly kind for an avatar of Khonsu.” Hassan translated. It was a longstanding custom for avatars to soften their god’s words.

“That’s because all his previous avatars were deeply broken men of military backgrounds. I’m only gently used, not a man, and have no fighting experience outside the occasional street fight.” The figure replied.

“You are a civilian woman, then?” Hassan clarified. Before he had become an avatar of the god of knowledge he would have taken that for a given. Since then Thoth has taught him the pitfall of false binaries. Very good, Hassan.

“Civilian, yes. Woman? Only as Fatima. I’m not Fatima, therefore I am not a woman.” The masked figure said.

“You can reason quite logically. Many I have met cannot. I would love to meet Fatima. However, are you certain you are fit to be alone?” Hassan said. He had found Moon Knight lying in a ditch for the god’s sake, he was worried for their health.

“But I’m not alone, I have Khonshu. And when he’s gone, I have Fatima and Ali. We look out for each other.” They replied. The masked figure told Hassan an address in the poorer part of town and once he repeated it back to them, they leapt onto a nearby roof and disappeared in a flutter of white fabric.

“Did h-, did they just fly away?!” Hassan asked his god aloud.

“No, Khonshu may not gift his avatars flight, merely the gift of leaping and gliding.” Thoth replied, ever the pedant.

****

Thoth decided to manifest for this meeting, not that anyone besides other gods and avatars could see him. He stood behind Hassan, as a tall robed man with the head of an Ibis, as Hassan ordered merely a cup of tea, not trusting the local food. He was disturbed that this place served wine. Not that he had any religious qualms over it having been a secret pagan for years now, but it meant this place disregarded traditional Islamic values and that had potential to be dangerous.

The woman who served him had her hair tied up with the cloth in a bun rather than a headscarf. He wondered how close he had to be to ask where that tradition was from.

“Hagar! Two meat sticks and watered wine as usual! Oh and tea for the boy” said an androgynous but vaguely feminine figure trailed by a young boy with a staff. The boy stared at Thoth knowingly.

“Oh course, welcome back Fatima,” The bartender, Hagar, said as she slid the cup of wine and cup of tea in the woman’s direction. The bartender didn’t even look at the boy. Perhaps the bartender couldn’t see the boy. Fatima was a common name but her figure and voice was familiar enough. The boy then must be her god.

“Thoth you didn’t tell Khonshu is a literal child. I thought that was an epithet.” Hassan whispered.

“He is but only in his aspect as Embracer. He’s much older in his aspects of Defender and Pathfinder.” Thoth said, “I forget this sort of thing upsets mortals. It did not seem to upset you that Fatima has aspects so I decided you would not be bothered by it.”

Fatima, who could hear this conversation, waved politely.

Hassan waved back.

“Hagar, this is Hassan, he’s a friend of a friend. He’s here on official business. Sadly.” Fatima said. She may or may not be eyeing him with lust. With her mask-like expression, it was hard to tell.

“Sadly,” agreed Hagar and she was definitely eyeing Hassan with the eyes of desire. Hassan, whose large frame tended towards fat and was in no way the masculine ideal, was unused to such attention.

“Fatima, you are my favorite avatar ever and I trust your judgment, but do you not think that flirting with the man who comes to evaluate you is risky at best?” Khonshu said. He said this while tugging on her dress.

Hassan realized that perhaps this form really did encapsulate Khonshu’s maturity or lack thereof. Thankfully only Thoth heard that thought and gave a ‘ hmph, quite’ of agreement.

“No, no, I’m flattered. But yes, you haven’t tried to return to your old ways?” Hassan said.

He aimed the question at Khonshu, but Fatima answered, “No, Ali’s newly acquired knowledge of mythology sells many scrolls, I have not had to ply my trade in years.”

Khonshu added: “So what if Moon Knight and I are righting a few wrongs on the side?”

“Are you solving them with violence? That was why you were turned to stone last time,” Thoth said.

“ I was turned to stone for taking a man who had lost touch with reality, scooping out his tattered remnants of self like a brain hook scoops out the head marrow and inhabiting his body as if were mine. I have had millennia to rue this course of action…” Khonshu said, he had neither pride nor shame in his voice.

“And yet I cannot help but see you chose someone with a shattered sense of self, yet again” Thoth said, he said in a voice that was icily calm.

“Oh I know exactly who I am, all of me do,” Fatima said with defiance, “and the boy may have done horrible things in childhood but he was punished and now it is time to forgive. We can’t just be mad at him forever, not when he has such good ideas.”

“Avatar, not in public,” Khonshu said calmly but sternly, almost as a parent quiets a child. He looked taller too, more commanding.

Fatima wilted, she looked suddenly uncertain, lost. The ‘Khonshu is definitely exploiting this poor woman’ argument was looking closer to the truth every second.

“Oh, hello, Worm, it’s time you met my interrogator. Remember Thoth, my old fellow moon god after he won my title in a rigged game of Senet? This is his new avatar Hassan.” Said Khonshu who was taller now, dressed in traveling clothes and he held in his hand an astrolabe.

The person who may or may not be Fatima nodded meekly.

“Khonshu in his role as Traveler and Pathfinder.” Thoth explained to Hassan. Then turning to his fellow god he said: “and for the last time, I didn’t rig the senet throwing sticks, you’re just bad at strategy.”

“Oh I’m sorry Oh, Thoth ‘I invented this game yesterday trying to ignore Nut’s incessant weeping’, Oh Thoth ‘for a protector of the traveler you are terrible at guarding your pieces’, maybe it’s you’re just better at strategy than everyone else and I’m about average.” Khonshu spat out his face twisted in anger, his eyes glowing bright white. Now that he towered over the mortals rather than cowering behind Fatima’s skirts he looked terrifying.

“I thank you for the compliment, on my god’s behalf, but I think Fatima and I must discuss this in private.” Hassan said

The bartender nodded: “I’m afraid you’ll have to, Fatima, you’re scaring the other customers. Although I do hope your friend Ali is with you, the boy is clearly upsetting you today.”

The person whom Khonshu called Worm and who Hassan strongly suspected was Ali and not Fatima took his hand and led him out.

With his gift of enhanced hearing Hassan heard: “hope she marries him, he silenced her with a single stare. that’s the kind of husband a shrew like her needs.”

****

“I am Ali, welcome to my humble abode. I share it with Fatima. The other one does not sleep but they occasionally eat our food in between missions.” Ali said. He spoke as if they were different people despite Hassan knowing otherwise.

“He’s not lying to you, Hassan, he’s lying to himself.” Thoth voiced his opinion.

“Now Worm, enough prattle, get the cloak and mask and become….” Khonshu said then a word that roughly translates in Arabic to ‘Paladin’ but held more connotations, it wasn’t a word in Coptic either but the words the overvoid gods used before they even met humans.

Ali vanished. When he returned he was wearing the cloak and mask and Hassan decided to start thinking of him as Moon Knight as that’s what the figure in the ditch liked to be called once the mask came on.

The masked figure then spoke with the cadences typical to Khonshu rather than the jocular and informal way they had spoken before: “ I am ready when you are, Oh Thoth. I am in the mood to enlighten, so lend me your avatar’s ears.”

When two gods wanted to have a lengthy conversation, they’d use their avatars directly, this is how the ennead conducted their meetings and one of two acceptable reasons to fully possess an avatar’s body. The second is if it can save them from grave danger. Set and Ammit had used that excuse often for why they took over the wills of their avatars. Khonshu, who could resurrect his avatar from the person’s agreement alone, was always honest that he did it “to keep disobedient avatars in line”. The god had been turned to stone for good reason.

“Hassan, may I take over your body, please?” Thoth phrased it as a request when it really wasn’t.

“Certainly, Thoth,” Hassan replied and felt as if watching himself from the side. Thoth raised Hassan’s head, Thoth stared directly at the masked figure and Thoth said: “Explain yourself Khonshu”

“ You may recall my previous Avatar, a veteran and widower? Fought to defend the holy land against crusaders? I liked him a lot. I did take his loss well. That’s how I met the third one, in the cemetery. They were wandering around mad from grief of losing their father, trying desperately to both be a man named Ali and a woman named Fatima at once and becoming a third person instead.

“They had approached me, asked if they could hold me and told me I would be alright. That the grief would pass. Imagine that! I returned the favor in the only way I knew. I made them my avatar; I gave them a role, a name, a purpose. An out from the frankly abusive tenets of their religion. Never did like the Abrahamic faiths.

“Anyways, while I may see the worm as weak and too preoccupied with tomb raiding and his manuscripts, I consider Moon Knight my best student and avatar so far and Fatima is my friend. I am well aware gods do not befriend humans but what Fatima and I have closely resembles what mortals call friendship.” Khonshu said.

“You speak of Ali as if he is three people when he is clearly all three in disguise. Why continue the ruse when we already know?” Thoth asked.

“That is where you are wrong, Thoth. You are well aware my conflicting facets of Defender and Embracer make me assume different forms? There is a more extreme version of this with humans. Sometimes humans break, sometimes something so terrible happens that they can no longer stand being just one being. Perhaps it’s to isolate the conflicting components or to overcome loneliness and become ones own friend. Fatima doesn’t remember and Ali doesn’t show me that part of his mind, so I can only speculate.” Khonshu said. He skirted around the topic with tact not typical for him. This was much better than talking of the broken as ‘easy pickings’ and ‘his for the taking’ prior to being sealed in stone.

“That is a fascinating side of the human mind I have not yet heard about! So did Ali break into two other beings or is Moon Knight an attempt to reconcile Fatima and Ali?” Thoth asked. Hassan whimpered something about this being quite a rude thing to ask but Thoth reminded his avatar to stay out of this.

“Both at once,” answered Khonshu, “I don’t quite get it either but it keeps the avatar sane, so I don’t question it.”

“Well, I suppose I trust you, for now. The ennead are more worried about Bast and Taweret. I’d like to help with that instead, honestly.” Thoth admitted.

“Well good news, Bast is on mount Wakanda and she’s mostly setting up a theocratic monarchy like the pharaoh days. She’s fine, just busy remaking the olden days.

“Taweret travels only on moonless nights and I worry she’s planning something. But I don’t knew where she is, she’s not going to Karnak because she is all but avoiding me.” Khonshu said

“I shall report all this to the Ennead. I have no more questions, Khonshu,” Thoth said.

Then both the gods faded. Ali removed the mask and stared at Hassan.

“You’re welcome to stay the night, if not it would be Moon Knight’s duty to walk you home. This is a bad neighborhood at night and you would be one who travels by night and in need of protection.” He said.

Hassan wondered if it was more embarrassing to stay the night at the house of the avatar of the god whom he suspected was taking advantage of said avatar or being walked home by an obvious priest of Khonshu and have his neighbors suspect he had pagan ties.

“I know nothing of embarrassment but the latter is actually very dangerous. Khonsu gets touchy when you don’t let him play Paladin so I would choose the former option” Thoth told Hassan and Hassan only.

“I can sleep on a bed roll if it’s no trouble,” Hassan said.

Ali frowned: “I have nothing but the last owner’s prayer mats and a single bed. As befits sacred hospitality I must offer you the bed.”

Ali was not looking forward to sleeping on the floor. Hassan offered a compromise: “That’s alright, when I was a young monk I often shared beds with the other apprentices. As long as you don’t become Fatima I see nothing wrong with it.”

“I- She might be the one who wakes up, she likes mornings.” Ali admitted.

“It’ll be alright,” Hassan said, stripping dirty outer clothes. Then he realized Ali, the man, was also attracted to him. Suddenly Khonshu’s line about ‘something horrible happened to my avatar and now they are like this’ was making more sense.

“Like I told Fatima I’m flattered, but I’m not sure I reciprocate.” Hassan said. His actions implied otherwise.

Ali settled towards the wall and let Hassan sleep towards the room. In the darkness as they tried not to touch or look at each other Hassan said: “I’m sorry your god calls you ‘worm’ that’s horrible and disrespectful of him.”

“He first met me when I was digging for artifacts, it was a joke that stuck. But yes I wish he’d just call me ‘Ali’ just once in our time together.” Ali said.

“I’ll do everything in my power for Khonshu to start calling you your actual name.” Hassan promised. It was the least he could do.

Then he felt a hand clasp his and what sounded like sobbing.

“Thank you,” Ali said. “I couldn’t just get rid of him, that would all but kill the third and it would take away Fatima’s companion. Yet the suffering he puts me through just for being who I am, it’s harrowing.”

“The Ennead will not let such abuse continue, I promise you, Ali,” Hassan said.

“It’s moments like these that remind me why I chose you.” Thoth said.

Thank you Hassan thought and yawned.

****

Hassan awoke on the bed with a figure who had wrapped their hands around him. Still asleep the figure murmured things in their sleep. One phrase he made sense of was ‘he’s so beautiful I could die’.

Hassan woke up the person beside him and said: “I must report to the Ennead.”

“What already? Well tell them the boy is behaving himself and I’d hate to lose him.” Fatima said. For only she called Khonshu ‘the boy’. Ali had said she liked mornings.

“I will tell them what I saw, but I will take what you have told me in mind.” Hassan said as he dressed in his dirty clothes from yesterday.

Hassan hadn’t gone far from Ali and Fatima’s house when he saw the sign for the ennead to convene. Light rain on a sunny day directly over his avatar’s head signaled Thoth the Ennead wanted to see him. He took over Hassan’s body and looked for a door. At a moment like this any door would open to the overvoid pyramid. It was actually Khonshu who developed the system, being the gods of traveling. He wouldn’t shut up about it.

Thoth entered the nearest door and walked through the tunnel that led to the overvoid pyramid. Inside was a semicircle of chairs on which the other 7 members of the ennead sat. Each had possessed their avatar as overvoid space could easily trap or otherwise immobilize them should they materialize in the world of matter. The overvoid dimension was created by beings stronger even than gods specifically to hold them in the solar system and keep the other planes and galaxies free of them. Using avatars was how the gods discovered a way out of their prison. Horus, as the ruler, addressed Thoth.

“So what is your Judgment, Thoth?” Asked Horus through his avatar, a candle merchant.

Thoth stepped Hassan’s body forward and said: “I don’t trust him. But he knows how to find Bast. He may be downright cruel to Ali, one of the facets of his avatar, but he’s actually improved the sanity of the other two facets, giving them reasons to express their individuality and a purpose in life. Therefore…”

“Explain these facets, please” said Hathor, through the body of a celebrated military leader’s eldest wife.

“You, oh Hathor of three aspects, I hope you would understand this. I myself have aspects. Khonshu has four aspects. His avatar has three. He is Pathfinder when his avatar is Ali, Embracer when his avatar is Fatima and Defender when his avatar is the Knight of the Moon. The latter two would dwindle without him.” Thoth said.

“Mortals should not have aspects, roles yes, but this being sounds like delusion. I wouldn’t trust Khonshu with someone so cut off from reality.” Horus said.

“Khonshu says he knows how to contact Bast and get her to rejoin us. That is why I ask to monitor him and his avatars as we journey to see Bast. If he is deemed unfit, we can strip him of his power afterwards,” Thoth said.

“Very well, we will send a third with you to bring back Bast. The two of you shall meet us here tomorrow.” Horus said.

As Hassan was again on the street and not in the overvoid, he wondered what he’d dragged himself into.

The post that made me finish this fic. I have two other chapters with Bast and the first Black Panther and Taweret and her avatar coming soon so save this post.

#moon knight prequel #moon knight #moon knight 2022 #khonsu #khonshu #thoth #egyptian gods #original characters #original system character #my writing #my fanfiction

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rin-itoshi · 3 years

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kisses . genshin impact (pt. 2)

> summary: places the genshin boys kiss you other than the lips (ft. bennett, chongyun, razor, xiao, xingqiu, zhongli)

> content: fluff , gn!reader , ooc(?idk)

here’s part one!

# BENNETT

where: your palm!

why: this man does not know how to stfu, so when you have to forcefully shush him, your palm is the best spot for his lips to kiss.

“It’s awfully quiet today,” you murmured as you turned on your heels, hearing the whirlwind of a boy coming your way. He nearly tumbled—so close to crashing at your feet but fortunately caught himself before he could hit the ground. He stood up straight, dusting his clothes with a breathy laugh before yelping out a pained, “Ow!”

“What happened?” You ask as you reach out to cup his face, checking his head and skin for any injuries.

The male chuckled with a closed eyed smile, “I got hit by a rock!” His voice echoed within the city, making you slightly cringe when your ears ached. He was quick to go off on a tangent, babbling about some nonsense that made you even more confused than before.

“Bennett,” you call out to grasp his attention. The moment he turned your way, you slapped a hand over his mouth with an amused smile. “I know you’re excited and want to talk, but we should move away from the Knights of Favonius headquarters before Captain Kaeya kills us.”

He kissed your palm gently, eliciting a ticklish sensation in your hand that made you pull away. Before you could do anything about his sneaky kisses, he grabbed your hand and began dragging you away, talking about some adventure team he was putting together.

# CHONGYUN

where: your shoulders!

why: he likes the smoothness of your shoulder when he lays down behind you and can rest easily without being judged.

The bedroom door creaked open to reveal the blue haired male who stood in the doorway with a pensive look on his face. Upon seeing you lying in your shared bed, he exhaled deeply and you could practically see relief wash over is features. “[y/n],” he breathed out as he shuffled into the room, scurrying over the bed to climb onto the silk sheets and lay himself in the spot behind you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your body into his chest as gently as possible. As hesitant as he was, he was way too tired to be reluctant about holding you even thought you clearly felt the same need for touch as him. “’m so tired.”

After a long day of training, he was exhausted and was in desperate need of your touch in order to replenish the energy he had depleted earlier that day. It was only much better now that you were both living together and were able to cuddle as much as needed after work.

“Welcome home, my love.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, doing his absolute best to push away the strong emotions that burned inside of his heart. He refused to flare-up in front of you ever again, but with you unknowingly doing things to stir him up, he was always struggling to keep calm.

Peppering kisses along your shoulders, you felt a shiver run down your spine at the cold sensation of his lips on your skin. It was a blissful feeling, warming up your heart with love despite how cold his body truly was. Too beautiful.

# RAZOR

where: your eyelids!

why: this one may sound weird but he just gets curious when he keeps watch and tends to do it without a thought.

Razor stood tall at the peak of the mountain that you both temporarily resided on. His chin was held high, chest puffed out with a sense of responsibility flowing through his veins at the thought of watching over you while you slept to keep you out of harms way. It wasn’t necessarily a demanding duty but for you, it meant a thousand times more than it usually would have.

The boy approached your sleeping body. You were rested on the ground under his jacket that barely shielded you from the cold weather tonight presented to you both. He gently tugged his jacket further up your body, covering your arm that had been slightly exposed.

You were cute like this, sleeping so peacefully with so much trust in the guy who could barely communicate yet you loved him so much. It was amazing.

Subconsciously, he bent down and placed a chaste kiss on your eyelid. You stirred in your sleep, forcing him to jolt away in surprise before settling when you murmured something sleepily, smiled and then relaxed. Your behavior was new to him and yet, it brought so many different feelings into his heart. Unknowing to you, he smiled genuinely and patted your head gently.

“You rest. I keep watch.”

# XIAO

where: your forehead!

why: he just thinks it is less embarrassing than trying to kiss you on the lips openly + less chances of him getting denied the kiss.

His expression was rather dark as you stood in front of one another. It looked like he was thinking deeply about something but you brushed it off, assuming it was just his way of sulking since you two were about to split for the night.

“I packed you some Almond Tofu, so you can eat some on your way back. I also got you a jacket to wear since it might be a little cold in the evening. I know you don’t sleep and stuff, so I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Your rambling about his well-being wasn’t new to him, which is why he didn’t interrupt you. He watched with the same dark expression that seemed scary but if you looked closely, you would see just how soft those eyes had become after spending so much time with a “mere human” like you.

Grasping you by the back of you head, he pulled you forward and leaned in briskly, kissing your forehead softly before pulling away and turning around. You barely had a second to recover as he adjusted his mask on his face and disappeared from your sight, muttering nothing but a simple, “be careful.”

You smiled at the tingling sensation on you skin, knowing he had only escaped to avoid feeling any type of emotion after kissing you so brazenly. As mean as Xiao seemed, he really was a simpleton with you.

# XINGQIU

where: the back of your hand!

why: do i have to explain?

“Xingqiu, where are we going?” You asked with a tired smile on your lips as you allowed yourself to be dragged along this upward slope with no set destination in mind. The boy simply laughed, pulling you faster until you were nearly tripping over your own feet. By the time you had planned to complain once more, he came to an abrupt stop and you almost bumped into his body if it wasn’t for your quick senses. “Where are we?”

“Take a look, my liege. Quite fascinating, is it not?” He said as he took a seat on the branch perched on the top of the hill, big enough for the two of them to sit on. You plopped beside him, admiring the sun that was beginning to set while Xingqiu opened a book to the page he had left off on.

“My life seems fulfilled when I am sat here with a book in my hands and you by my side. Don’t you agree?” HIs words were sincere, surprisingly void of that mischievous tone he usually had these days.

“I’m not particularly fond of books like you, but I am extremely fond of you. So, yes, I do agree.” You said with a cheesy smile, leaning in his direction. The boy abruptly stood up, and you rose an eyebrow in confusion.

Bending his body slightly, he held out his hand to you until you placed yours on top of his. Once you did so, he pressed his lips to the back of your hand and flashed you an easy smile. “With this, I owe my life to you, my liege. A vow much greater than marriage.”

# ZHONGLI

where: your lips!

why: I legit couldn’t think of a non-lips spot so i gave up. mans just likes the way your lips taste like his favorite wine. two good things.

He admired his cup with bright eyes, absolute taken with the way it tasted on his tongue and hadn’t changed in all these years. It was a beautiful emotion that was a mixture of happiness and nostalgia, plus a bit of romance considering he was here with the one he loved.

“What do you think?” Zhongli asked, eyes full of curiosity as he turned in your direction. You hadn’t said anything all night and he assumed you weren’t enjoying the wine he had presented to you so happily.

On contrary, it was way too good to be wasted, so you chose to drink it slowly in order to savor the beautiful taste that somehow reminded you of Zhongli himself. Maybe it was because he talked about this wine too much.

“It tastes good,” you murmur, leaning into his side to gain a bit of warmth from the male who shared the emotion, leaning into your touch.

You glanced up at him, smiling softly when you already saw his eyes on you. “Stop staring so impolitely. Where are your manners?” You asked jokingly, giggling softly when Zhongli looked down and chuckled.

Leaning in, he cupped your cheek and smashed your lips together. He could taste the Osmanthus wine on you and it nearly made him melt into the kiss that he had long suppressed.

When he pulled away, a small smile settled into his lips, satisfaction in his eyes. “Osmanthus wine tastes the same as I remember.”

a/n: finally, I finished it. im going to bed now uhhdhfjf (idk if i’ll ever do other characters but we’ll see)

#bennett x reader #chongyun x reader #razor x reader #xiao x reader #xinqiu x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #xingqiu #genshin impact #bennett #genshin #razor #xiao #genshin fluff #chongyun #zhongli

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hikari3601 · 2 years

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Amidst the Snow (Part II)

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Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Pairing | Albedo x Fem!Reader

Author’s Note | I’m really sorry for the delay, but I hope you all enjoy this! All likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

Warnings | Descriptions of blood, poisoning, wounds and hypothermia. Reader is a hydro wielding, polearm user from the Knights of Favonius (it’s for plot purposes) and this was written before the release of Ver 2.3 ‘Shadows Amidst Snowstorms’ and was purely based on what was shown in the trailer -so it’s not entirely cannon.

Synopsis | An innocent trip to Dragonspine took a turn for the worse.

“If one day, I lose control, destroy Mondstat, destroy everything -can I rely on you to stop me?”

“Hey, Bedo…”

Idly, I rested on the small couch in Albedo’s lab, facing his back as he worked on one of his many experiments.

The majority of the other knights had already retired to their living quarters for the night, safe for the few guards and overtime workers. At first, I considered going home as well but opted to pay a brief visit to my teal-eyed friend whom I hadn’t had a chance to see over the last couple of days -but of course, my ‘brief' visit was anything but; just like every other time, I stayed for a couple of hours.

As I lay on my side, fiddling with the small jar he had given me the moment I set foot into his lab, I inspected its contents once more -still enthralled by its subtle beauty.

Within the jar, laid a small luminescent cecilia that’s faint glow pulsated in the dim lighting of Albedo’s in-office lounge area.

I thought back on what he had said to me as he placed it in my hand, a simple four worded phrase that released thousands of fluttering crystalflies in my abdomen.

“I thought of you.”

I raised the flower to my eye level and stared at the blond’s lean back through the glass.

“Are you happy here?” I questioned. “With your current lifestyle and —everything?”

I waited for his response, genuinely curious to know the alchemist’s answer but after a couple of minutes passed without one, I looked up. There, I saw him completely frozen in motion as if he was truly considering the state of his mind.

He stayed that way for a little while longer before he put down the beaker he was holding and released a deep sigh.

“I don’t think the term ‘happy’ suits my mental state. Happiness is a feeling that only the content and satisfied can achieve, and I am neither. My mind is sound and that is enough for me. Feelings such as happiness, love and serenity tend to flee far from beings such as myself.”

Shifting slightly, he met my gaze with a guilty expression, almost as if it hurt him to admit those words to me -a human, who naturally felt all such emotions that he could never experience.

I understood what his silence meant; that no matter how much we connected as equals within our friendship, there would always be something that he would never hold the capability of sympathising with -a constant rift.

“Don’t get me wrong Y/N. I am able to enjoy life, but I do so without those feelings.”

The smile he wore didn’t reach his eyes… come to think of it, had it ever? All those times we had laughter together, where they forced or were those feelings merely substitutes for joy?

I held the cecilia flower in my palm just a little bit firmer, thinking back on every single one of our interactions -the sources of my happiness. Surely they couldn’t have been faux. No, I was sure they were genuine, they had to be…

XxxX

“Albedo, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

I came to a complete halt and turned right -heading towards the source of Eula’s voice, but in spite of my best efforts, the growing numbness in my limbs hindered practically all my physical abilities.

When I finally reached an open arena-like area, I was taken aback by the sight of all my companions standing against the blond alchemist, muscles taut as if bracing themselves for battle.

Steadily, I approached both parties, taking note of the settling dust surrounding everyone as well as the quick and harsh rise and fall of their chests.

Something had most definitely happened.

As I continued onwards I abruptly paused, feeling the looming figure of dread behind me as my body began to shake with the distortion of my sight.

When my eyes regained focus, I willed my body to move forward, regardless of my continuous shivering.

I would have used the weakness in my body as a sufficient excuse for the way my knees gave way under the weight of my body as I tried to walk, but as I clung onto the eroded stone of a frozen wall, I began to understand just how dire my circumstances were.

“Y/N!” It was Bennett who had noticed me first -successfully breaking through the thick atmosphere enveloping every single one of us. Following his gaze, Amber quickly spotted my leaning figure and immediately took note of my rapidly declining health.

Seeing the faint change in my complexion from the cold’s searing fingers that had burned my skin, the brunette’s urge to provide me with the warmth that I was so in need of was as clear as day, but the unexplicit rule that had been placed in between every person in this area kept her still.

We all knew that if she -or anyone else for that matter, were to specifically leave the arena, the delicate balance of whatever the hell was happening here would shatter into smithereens, injuring everyone involved and that was something none of us could afford. And so once my trembling had ceased, I pushed myself away from the cold wall.

Step by step, I strengthened my strides and stiffened my muscles -straining my body to make it to at least one of my pyro-wielding friends, and that I did.

The relief I felt when I was finally able to stand in between both Bennett and Amber was immeasurable. I practically felt my body thawing as I stood in between them, allowing their subtle warmth to engulf me; but unfortunately, my moment of respite was abruptly cut short.

In a heartbeat Albedo was a few feet away from me, sword in hand and extended out, pointing straight towards the centre of my neck.

Everyone seemed to freeze in horror and shock for a split second, myself included. To my left, I saw Paimon flee behind Aether -shielding her eyes as he moved to reach out for Albedo while both Bennett and Amber tried to pull me away from the fast-approaching sword.

It was only when the tip of his blade was a mere inch away from my skin did I finally manage to recollect myself. Swiftly, I formed a small wall-like barricade in between his sword and my flesh from liquified snow, but I was still too slow.

I felt the freezing point of his sword draw a drop of blood as he broke through the still-developing blockade which, despite the delay, was able to bring his sword to a complete stop.

Bennett finding an opening, leapt into battle with his sword lit aflame and with Albedo’s attention elsewhere, I sprang backwards -along with Amber who had remained by my side, materialising my polearm, but despite the brunette’s close proximity, it did nothing to stave off the returning cold -Dragonspine was no place for hydro wielders.

As I straightened my back I thought back on what had just happened.

That feeling returned to me then, when Albedo was in front of me. That dreadful feeling that something horrible was in the process of operating.

The four-pointed star that had always adorned the flesh of his throat was missing and if I were to recall correctly, that was the only sign of his mortal artificiality. A symbol that he had deemed a ‘flaw.’

It was a hunch, an incomplete one at that, but I had a feeling that whoever stood in front of us was not Albedo.

Continuing on this train of thought, I remembered that whopperflowers were proven to be extraordinary predators due to their impeccable mimicry abilities. My guess could very well be wrong considering my current state of wellness, but despite how far-fetched this seemed, being with Albedo had taught me many things -one of which was that the most outlandish hypothesis sometimes had a higher chance of being correct; after all, Teyvat had its own set of strange and unique rules.

My guess was that this ‘Albedo’ was proof of whopperflowers predatory prowess, although this assumption was only based on the fact that Albedo's notes on an anomalous whopperflower had been coincidentally stolen.

Unfortunately, my thoughts were cut short when I saw Albedo dart into the air -raising his palm towards the heavens, forming a radial pattern spanning across the grey sky above us. Its beauty would have amazed me if it weren’t for the fear it instilled within me when I saw the massive emerging cryo shards pointing straight towards us.

But lethargy had soon taken fear’s place; and so, when the crystal shards descended upon us like bullets, it took me much longer to actually realise just how quickly they were approaching and by the time I had finally moved out of their way, I had sustained piercings to both my left shoulder and right thigh.

It felt as though a cold fire was beginning to ravage my blood, freezing my body while the need to sleep became far more apparent to me.

I failed to hear my name being called out by my companions until I saw Aether in front of me, the syllables of my name falling from his lips, but no matter how much I tried, between the pain in my body and my weariness, the terrible sensation of my returning hypothermia enabled my mind to comprehend a thing.

I remembered leaning against Eula and seeing Bennett’s back. There was some light heat beneath my feet but it disappeared shortly and before the world around me faded into a terrifying shade of black, I saw the white hair of a little pixie girl turn away from my eyes to look at something else -she seemed scared.

What was her name again?

I tried thinking of it as I stared into a dark, colourless void, but in spite of my best efforts, I couldn’t remember it.

I could barely remember a thing.

I only recalled a blond alchemist and this urge to tell him something. His name -I couldn’t remember it but I think we were looking for him.

Yes, we were looking for him, in a white place. Snow, we were looking for him amidst the snow.

I think his name was Albedo.

XxxX

“I have something I want to tell you when we get back.”

“If it’s something important, you can tell me now.”

Seated beside each other in front of a crackling fire, I leaned further into his friendly embrace -wishing that it was more.

It was snowing outside, it had been for a while now. In fact, the snowfall had begun exactly two days ago, when we had arrived in Dragonspine and by the looks of it, it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

At first, I enjoyed it. Its delicate beauty enchanted me and it gave me an excuse to be this close to the alchemist, but eventually, its exquisiteness was lost to me as the cold and my need to return to the warm comfort of my bed buried its charm.

“I’d rather tell you when we’re back home.” I spoke, snuggling closer into his jacket which he had wrapped around the both of us.

Closing my eyes, I pondered over Albedo’s response to the question I had posed some months ago.

I wondered if he still felt the same -living life without an ounce of joy.

It felt selfish; how I was able to feel so happy by just being within close proximity to him while he, on the other hand, felt nothing of the sort. In a way, it hurt -a lot more than I would have liked to admit.

XxxX

As the fraud raised his hand to summon another cluster of cryo crystals, I finally made it down to the bottom of the ring and wasted no time to kill off my brother’s creation; and as I lodged my sword into his torso -that was so chillingly identical to mine, I thought of my Master’s other creations that had also gone berserk, much like this whopperflower.

It seemed that the price of my faultlessness was much larger than what I had expected; to kill off my older brother’s every chance of happiness as it would only be gained through the detriment of those I cared for.

Forcefully removing my sword from the whopperflower’s now limp body, I rushed backwards; frustration saturating my thoughts as it took back its original form -another detestable creature created from Durin’s remains.

“It’s not over yet!” I shouted, finally sparing a glance at the rest of the knights and adventurers -but I felt every drop of blood in my body freeze when I saw your unconscious body leaning on Eula’s side.

From what I could see, you were suffering through the third stages of hypothermia and with the injuries you had just sustained as well as your hydro vision, your situation was not looking very positive.

Just the thought of what could happen in the coming minutes tormented my thoughts and nerves; and so, despite the waking whopperflower enlarging beside me, I ran over to your side -mind set on getting you away from the fast-approaching battle and snowstorm.

“She needs to leave now!” It was my voice that broke everyone’s horror-filled dazes. Clearly you had only fainted recently -meaning that there’d be a little more time to spare -that was what I had thought until I reached your body.

It absolutely terrified me to see your unresponsive body -looking as though you were held within a peaceful dream despite the blood slowly trickling from the wounds in your figure.

Straining my eyes, I desperately searched for the small rise and falls of your chest and when I found them, a minuscule drop of hope rippled throughout my turbulent mind -enough to calm its raging waters.

Without any hesitation, Eula placed you in my arms -eyes remaining on your wounds before she ripped her gaze away, staring at the ground with an expression much like everyone else’s, whose eyes were clouded by a cruel combination of anxiety, distress and fear.

“Paimon wants to come too!”

Normally, I would have complied with the little pixie’s words with a smile on my face, but it felt nearly impossible to do any of that today -not when everything seemed so grave.

“Not today, Paimon.”

The journey down to my encampment felt longer than it was. Although I had traversed the snow-covered land of Dragonspine more times than I could count, those twenty minutes between the arena and my lab felt endless as if time had stopped to mock the foreign ache in my heart.

The ache that grew in size and severity with every glance I shot towards you and your flickering light of a life -forcing me to remember all our memories as if a remedy for the excruciating pain just beneath my left rib would magically appear to me within my recollections.

I felt like a small child, hating and fearing absolutely anything that could take away their most prized treasure chest. In a way, you were that treasure to me -my most cherished relationship and as I thought about the agonisingly low chance of us all making it off of this mountain together, I felt a combination of both those feelings. Loathing the fact that it had to be you and not me and selfishly dreading the loneliness that would follow if you really were about to leave me behind.

And it was through this thought process that I realised just how important your presence was in my life. A smiling face I would always come across and a laugh so filled with life, it was contagious.

Happiness, a feeling that I had deemed a permanent stranger became something familiar to me as it took the form of someone like you. Someone so imperative to my artificial life and someone who had taught me that a being such as myself could, in fact, experience the joys and pleasures of life.

I wanted more of that -those moments, those laughs and smiles. I didn’t think much of them then, but now as I look back on the time we spent together, I realised that I would only find such pure felicity at your side.

But as I placed your limp body onto the couch beside a blazing fire and turned to look for every blanket within this small encampment, I paused a moment to look at your features -scared that I’d turn away only to return to your lifeless body.

I found myself briefly reminiscing on those days we spent talking away in my lab back at headquarters. I knew how much you cared for those priceless hours of sleep that always seemed to escape your grasp every so often -that’s why I was so persistent in spending time with you in my lab despite my endless load of research and experiments because I knew that you’d drift off into a restful sleep somewhere in between our many conversations.

And just like every other time, I’d turn my back to see you passed out on my couch and I’d smile at your sereneness, turning right back around to continue with my work while you rested.

If I had known back then, that you’d make the same calm expression while you were on the brink of death, I wouldn’t have spared a glance at your complexion. It would’ve been better that way, without the hope that you’d wake up just like every other time.

#🍁.content book #genshin impact #genshin fic #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact x reader #genshin angst #albedo genshin x reader #albedo genshin impact #albedo x reader #albedo fanfic #albedo #albedo kreideprinz #albedo angst #genshin impact angst

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cuppimagines · 3 years

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A REQUEST from a bit ago about a demon lover. This one is SFW but if you guys like it and wanna see more, I plan on an NSFW sequel, as I wrote it I just felt a sex scene would be going too fast so far

You were sniffling, in tears, alone in the woods, and terrified. You didn’t fight or scream when your father offered you as a sacrifice to a demon in the woods to help the crops grow for the harsh winter the village was to face. They didn’t want anymore deaths because of winter, and you didn’t want anybody else to die. But that didn’t mean you weren’t afraid, and that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when your father offered you so easily.

You didn’t fight or scream when you were dressed in white with simple jewelry. You didn’t fight or scream being brought out here and left alone. But you were afraid, and left alone. All you could do was sob and wait, for a demon you haven’t even seen before. For all you know, the village just left you to die at the hands of the wolves here. It was late, and you were cold and tired and distraught.

“Dry your tears little one.”

You heard the voice behind you and you turned your head quickly. You were looking at the hips of someone, and your gaze went up. A tall man in a dark wide brimmed hat. Ram horns sprouted from his head, his skin a deep green, his body strong with visible muscle despite being dressed in dark cloth from head to toe. His body was almost like that of a burly lumberjack, except 8 feet tall, with claws the size of daggers. His face was...very handsome, otherworldly so. His cheekbones strong, a defined jaw, curly black hair, and yellow eyes that glowed in the darkness. You stopped crying, but only out of shock and anticipation that this man would kill you here and now to complete the agreement.

“Do you think I’m here to kill you?” He asked. “Please don’t fear me. I do not wish to harm you.” He tried to stroke your chin, but you backed away, and so he put his hands back to his sides.

“You- you’re a demon?” You looked up at him.

“Yes, I may not be one that looks like he lives in the fiery depths of hell, but I am a demon,” he said. “I can give those the ability to grow healthy and plentiful crops for all of their life, in exchange for their soul. But...I didn’t want a soul this time.” He took off his hat and placed it to his chest.

“Y/n, I want you,” he got down on one knee, and held out his hand. “I understand you may not know me, but we have met, and I have seen the abuse you face in that wretched village.” Hesitantly, you reached your hand out to place in his. It was so large, and he had such strong sturdy hands.

“When did we...meet?” You asked.

“We met in the previous fall when I was merely disguised as a human. You looked happy away from your village, writing and observing plants,” he said. “And we sat, and we talked, until I saw the fear in your eyes when you could hear the voice of your father.” Your eyes grew wide. He was the kind dark haired stranger that long ago. Someone who actually made you happy, who sat with you and talked. But he was gone very soon, and you did miss him.

“Your father...he doesn’t treat you well does he?” The demon asked.

“No...he doesn’t...” you looked down at your feet. “I’m in my 20 and yet I’m the last to be married off to someone else, until now, but they assumed I’d be left here to die...” you started to sniffle again, and cried into your hands. The demon knelt forward and gently pulled your hands from your face, looking at you with those intense yellow eyes.

“Y/n, you’re safe now with me,” he said. “I want to see you happy, I want to see your smile.” Your body was still shaking, not from the cold of the night, but to try and restrain your own tears.

“I-I don’t think I ever caught your name...” you sniffed.

“You can just call me...Conifer,” he said. “And...I want you to make a choice.” You looked puzzled at that, and tilted your head a bit.

“I won’t force you to marry me,” he explained. “You can go back to the village, I will assure that you will live safely without fear of those who abuse you. And you will live happily and well fed until the end of your days. Or, now that you’re here, you can come and live with me, in the forest, together as one. You’ll be safe and happy, and I’ll provide you anything you want.” Both of those choices...no matter what it seemed he cared about you. He really wanted to see you happy, and now because of your village you two could see each other again.

“Conifer...I want to live with you,” you answered as you walked right into his arms. “I really do.”

“Then we’ll be home soon, my love,” he stroked your hair, and that made you realize how sleepy you really were. It was late, your body was weak, and Conifer’s body was so warm to the touch. It wasn’t long before you fell fast asleep into his arms.

...

You only woke up next morning, but it seemed that the trees outside were so densely packed together that sunlight could barely come through the forest. You were in a room that smelled like ash and pine, and your bed was large and soft, but the dress you wore was a bit uncomfortable to sleep in. When you sat up, you saw that Conifer was asleep next to you shirtless. He was so large and handsome...you could see the scars lining his body, His soft hairy chest and stomach, his massive biceps, his beautiful ram-like Horns.

“So handsome...” you mumbled to yourself. Your hand hovered over his chest, but stopped as you just looked at him sleeping there. You thought this was all a dream. You’d never believe you’d actually have a knight in shining armor save you from your family.

“Mmm...” Conifer turned in his sleep, and lazily rubbed his eyes as he woke up.

“H-good morning!” You turned away shyly. “I uh, did you sleep well?”

“Heh, don’t worry about me, how did you sleep?” Conifer held your hand, gently rubbing the back of it with his thumb.

“Very good, thank you! But uh...” you started tugging at your dress.

“I should’ve changed you, but you were asleep and I’d rather not take off your clothes without your consent.” You smiled at that, and you laid back down next to Conifer. So comfy, the bed felt so nice and big...

“Thank you, I’m still not convinced that thus isn’t a dream,” you grinned. “But this is the best dream I’ve ever had.” Conifer looked down at your smile, your sweet soft face and that dear sweet smile that he wanted to see.

“We can res for now, together,” he rubbed your cheek gently. “And whenever you wish, we can go to the kitchen for breakfast, sound nice?”

“Sounds perfect, actually!” The reassurance, the kindness, the fact that he cared for you. Conifer was such a gift, part of you felt that you didn’t deserve such a kind, generous, handsome man to save you, but you’ll prove to him that he won’t regret doing this for you.

#cuppimagines #exophilia #terato #monster boy #demon #demon boyfriend #demon boy

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raguna-blade · 3 years

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Persona 5, Makoto, And Cops

So, like...We can all agree that it's weird that Makoto want's to be a cop in the game right? Aside from general cop bastardry irl, there's like precisely one police officer in the entirety of P5 who's at all a clear cut good guy and even he basically just says out and out, super explicitly that the cops are like...Not great.

At BEST, at BEST, they ensure the laws are followed, but that doesn't always equate to justice being served, and it is hilariously easy for them to be made into tools of opression, and to be made into stooges of people who want to do wrong.

Like Zenkichi out and out says “You really shouldn't be a cop.”

But Makoto still want's to be, despite knowing this, despite agreeing with this, and it's a weird gap right? Of perhaps everyone in the group, she should know best how following the rules and laws can lead to people doing pretty screwed up things if her little stint stalking and then blackmailing joker and company.

And she's just a student council president you know? It's not like she has anywhere near the same authority as a police officer, and unlike Chie who (for sake of argument here) has pretty objectively Upstanding Excellent Cops in her neighborhood except for you know the one who decidedly wasn't but P4 isn't really dealing with Laws and their problems, so them not leaning into law enforcement is a problem makes sense. Dojima is a just dude trying to do his best and even here the only other cop of note is uh...A straight up monster who abused his position of authority to get away with terrible things.

But back to P5, like...The game isn't subtle about it's feelings about law enforcement. Every Single Shadow is represented in the field by varying kinds of law enforcement operative types. Guards, knights, actual cops, prison wardens, etc etc. The Ultimate Big Bad basically posits that humans can't follow the rules and for that need to be severely punished and so laws and rules more or less end up being the big bad foe here.

The motivation to be a cop is well...Painted as whole heartedly misguided at best. We never get to know anything about Makoto's dad, and he's her inspiration for that goal, but at the same time, we get to see the other daughter who I think it's safe to say ALSO had him as something of a goal and...Sae also doesn't exactly come off as a perfect avatar of justice here either.

She very clearly WANTS to be, no doubt, and the massive shock of the games events does change her trajectory, but she's been deep down in the swamp of the system and she knows intimately that well...It's a shit show at best.

So i'm circling back to it as...Why? What's the deal here with what the game is going for theme wise? The idea of internal reform I suppose is being suggested, but the game's also make it remarkably clear that that actually won't work.

I'd say even textually, not even dipping into subtext, the game is out and out saying that you cannot reform a system from the inside like that when it's that far gone. Between P5 and P5S it's made abundantly clear that even what is functionally in a metaphysical sense a hard system check of things going out of whack law wise like the phantom thieves (what with their flipping of the table) they can't actually solve the problems of the system itself being super fucked. At best they can stop it from going full on malignant, but the cancer is still there. If the people don't actually band together to overturn things that are broken, especially when it is well within their hands to do, it's not going to improve, it's not going to get better. It's a delaying action at best.

Like the Phantom Thieves can't save everyone. Akira Konoe bluntly makes it clear when he asks them and the PT can only really go...No we can't. If we knew sure, but we don't possess the ability to do that. It's outside our ability entirely to do so for everyone.

So...Back to Makoto then. It's abundantly clear, I think, that she's very much of the mold of she want's to be a cop to protect people. That's what the job description is, even if that's not what it is in reality. And I think we can at least say that she's not so naive by this point to think that if she goes in she's going to be able to reform things, not by herself. It's worth noting that her intended goal is to become a Police Commisioner, and basically form her own police branch under her rules and regulations which...Fair. Fine. There's something to be said for being an apt demonstration but it doesn't actually fix the problem at it's core does it?

Which I think pushes this into the funky grey area of things because I don't think she's precisely...Wrong to want to do this. As stated, I think the games make it abundantly clear that one person on their own can't make radical and deep changes. You need people and momentum and everyone willing to work and all that.

Certainly, I think, it would be tremendously easier to reform an organization if someone in that organization is willing to make calls against what they're doing presently. But by the same token, it's also clear if you're entering an organization to try and change that organization it's uh...Not precisely a good bet. Now there's something to be said for being willing to try it I think. While the game doesn't exactly indicate how it'll go, we can imagine that following the events of the game that Makoto wouldn't be crushed under the weight of it all and change for the worse....Though the question of if she'd be able to make her goals a reality are a different question. She has allies in that fight for sure, between Zenkichi, Sae, and (from all indications) Kaburagi, there is at least some element of reform at play, but it's also well...

The big ass conspiracy didn't exactly come out of nowhere no? And the cops at every level more or less were compromised to some level or another, and this includes these prospective allies.

But then, I guess this goes back to the Phantom Thieves themselves. They're not able to actually fundamentally fix the problems at play. They stop the worst excesses certainly, the most terminal aspects of it, although in doing so they are very nearly destroyed outright and with barely a thought. In that spirit, Of doing what you can with what you can it changes the read on the decision at least somewhat.

The Daughter of a well decorated cop, sister of a particularly well known ex prosecuter now defense lawyer, in addition to being a top honor student type, certainly gives her a bit more leverage to attack the problem, especially in the sense of getting into a position to actually change things. To say nothing of Joanna.

Taking her awakening quote into consideration

"Have you decided to tread the path of strife...? Very well. Let us proceed with our contract at once. I am thou, thou art I... You have finally found your own justice... Please... Never lose sight of it again. This memorable day marks your graduation from your false self..."

and the general story the game presents of Joanna as one who rose to the top of the organization she was in and shook it to it's core (doesn't particularly matter how true that is in reality, merely what the game says for this instance) it's clear that indeed that's her gambit, if not the specific trickster archetype she's supposed to embody (as opposed to Joker's completely outside the law rogue, Anne's Femme Fatale, or Morganna's Layabout by Day Vigilante by Night as off the cuff examples), of someone who appeared to all eyes to be a harmless simple part of the system until it was simply too late for them to do anything about it.

There is a solid arc there, and a story to be told, and I think in that light makes the continued ambition make sense especially given what we're shown of well...Uh, everything to do with law enforcement in P5.

Now if they actually communicated that idea WELL is um...probably a different story. I think it's there to see, but I can easily see this being overlooked if this was the actual intent. Though, thinking about it, the way the various trickster archetypes are shown to function isn't quite as clear as it could be, though I think there's something to say for looking into that.

Later though.

#Persona 5 #makoto nijima #theme analysis

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thelordofdarkreunion · 3 years

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Agents of the Golden Throne

It took me longer than I wanted to write this, but here’s the follow up to the current story thread. We see more of the Inquisition and their methods, we have what I sincerely hope to be a heartwarming moment, we touch on the subject of xenophilia, and, of course, we get to see the Grey Knights bust heads. I hope you enjoy the story, and, as always, no one except Drake and his crew belong to me.

“I carry with me an Inquisitorial Seal. It is a small, unassuming object contained in a neat box of Pluvian obsidian. It is a modest thing. Relatively plain, adorned with a single motif and a simple motto. Yet with this little object I can sign the death warrant of an entire world and consign a billion souls to oblivion.” -Inquisitor Flast of the Ordo Malleus

“It is Mankind’s holy destiny to rule the stars, and rule them alone.” -Lord Inquisitor Knael of the Ordo Xenos

“Do not worry: your memories will return with time.” The deep bass voice of Lord Hector Rex cut through Vir’s headache. He was aboard the Fury of Deimos, the heavy starship that served as the headquarters of Rex and the Grey Knights. He looked around him, taking note of the gloomy gothic architecture and the massive cathedral windows of the hangar bay. A cadre of humans stood around him; individuals that he was sure he knew but couldn’t really remember. His memories were in the back of his mind, flitting things that he tried in vain to claw back to the forefront of his brain. He remembered being on some strange planet… something that had to do with the color red. There was some sort of white orb, too. Nothing else besides that. He couldn’t recall the interior of the Fury of Deimos, something Rex unabashedly told him they permanently deleted. No one save the most powerful and dedicated servants of the Ordo Malleus could come aboard a starship of the Grey Knights and still leave with their memories. It was explained to him as a simple security measure, but it still irked him. He could, though, remember the probing, the strange devices… the pain. It was the singular most painful experience he had ever gone through, and that was saying a lot. Ripping through someone’s mind to make sure their soul was untainted did a number on the pain receptors of nerves, not to mention the utter wrongness of such an act.

But, apart from the pain and the memories of the elderly Inquisitor guiding him through his recovery, he could remember nothing except brief hints; shadows of what he once was. Then there were his companions, people who he was certain he should know but didn’t. There was a brown haired, easy-going man dressed in a black and yellow jumpsuit. It was something he would have found ridiculous except for the sense of respect he felt for the individual; that particular memory ran deep.

Looking rather confused was a man with close cut hair, wearing what Vir vaguely remembered as a combat armor bodysuit. Faint memories of competence, fighting side by side, something in common… This man was some sort of friend. Trustworthy.

The third perplexed individual was wearing high boots and a leather jacket vest, similar to his own. This one Vir held slightly in awe, somewhat like the first man. He remembered hearing stories about this one, but, frustratingly, couldn’t remember.

The last had a black coat and boots matching his equally black hair. Blue eyes roved suspiciously around the hangar, looking with untrust at the Inquisitor and the other Imperials. A series of conflicting feelings rose from the sight of this man: good advice, utter hilarity, slight insanity, and a disturbing amount of large explosions. What the hell…?

“How soon will our memories recover?” asked the black coated man. Rex scratched his head. Vir could tell he was frowning behind his mask.

“This is not an exact science. I would estimate a day, perhaps two, for all of your memories to fully come back to you. It could be as little as an hour, or, in the most extreme, as much as a week.” Rex noticed the alarmed looks being cast his way. “Though that is unlikely. I can give you my utmost assurance that all of your memories, except for the ones of the halls of this ship, will return.” Another man entered the room, this one dressed in a distinctly Imperial style, with an elaborate, overly-embroidered greatcoat and cap. Vir remembered him… from somewhere. He thought this man had been on his ship before. His ship… what was his ship called? Something fierce, he hoped. The man bowed to Rex and spoke in a worried, but polite tone.

“Greetings, Lord Inquisitor.”

“Greetings, Commissar Cain.” All four of the non-Imperials in the hangar looked up sharply. Cain. They remembered him better with a name to go with a face. “I trust your stay in the hangar has been satisfactory?” inquired Rex.

“It has.” Ah, yes. Cain stayed here because he didn’t want to get mind wiped. And he didn’t touch the orb, like we did. That’s why we’re here! The orb! Cain cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Lord Inquisitor, and I do recognize that this is your area of expertise, but was it necessary to completely mind-wipe them?” Rex cocked his head curiously.

“We did not mind-wipe them. Unfortunately, it is a side effect of the process that makes sure they are untainted. If we could avoid it, we would, but there is simply no other way.” Cain nodded.

“Very well. I thank you for your explanation, Lord Inquisitor.” He glanced at the still confused four mind-wipe victims. “May I take them back to their ships?”

“You may,” replied Rex with a nodd. He made a curious symbol on his breast, folding his thumbs together and outstretching his palms. “May the Emperor guide you, Commissar Cain.” Cain returned the gesture and bowed.

“And you as well, Lord Inquisitor Rex.” He gently guided the four to a shuttle. “Come now. We need to get you back where you belong.”

Rex watched them board the shuttle and take off. They were strong of mind and soul, those ones. That must have been why the Prognosticators of the Grey Knights had told him not to interfere with their business. He had been annoyed that xenos had seen the Knights, but it was inevitable, he supposed. After all, the Sons of Titan had teamed up with the enigmatic Aeldari to fight the daemons of Chaos when necessary. More xenos, especially ones deemed necessary to the future by the seers of the Grey Knights, couldn’t hurt too badly, he supposed. There were worse enemies out there. He did, however, chafe that those pesky GA delegates were still around. He had pulled rank and ordered the Knights not to destroy them. That would cause too much of a political headache. Though, he did discreetly mind-wipe them with his powers, and pull the orbital defenses of the Rundi homeworld from the chairwoman’s mind; information he had subsequently turned over to Inquisitor Vail. They wouldn’t ever remember meeting him. A good thing, all things considered. They had neither the training nor stomach for fighting demons. He spun on his heel and strode into the hall of the Deimos. There was work to be done.

Aboard the shuttle

The shuttle had roved from ship to ship, dropping off passengers that barely remembered where they were going. The yellow-shirted man, who had introduced himself as Kirk (some more slight memories came from that realization… something about a TV show?) was left on a ship called the Enterprise (a good name. Adam hoped his ship was named something just as good.) The First Mate, a tall thin man with strange pointed ears, had sighed as if this were a regular occurrence and led Kirk deeper into the ship.

The short haired man was left aboard the Normandy (memories of beaches, and machine guns, and mass death in a war a long time ago.) A raven haired woman wearing a bodysuit that left little to the imagination greeted them.

“Ah, Commander. Welcome back. I trust everything went satisfactory?” she asked. The other man stared at her.

“You have a strange accent,” he said at last. “Where are you from?” The woman, who Vir presumed to be the First Officer of this ship, merely cocked an eyebrow. Cain rolled his eyes and stepped in.

“Ms. Lawson, the Inquisition performed an intensive interrogation on Commander Shepard, the side effects of which include the temporary, and I stress temporary, loss of memory.”

“He has no idea who I am. Or anyone else,” stated Lawson bluntly. Cain nodded and pushed Shepard from the shuttle.

“Off you go Commander. Hope the doctors don’t take you apart.” The shuttle ramp closed, veiling the sight of a very confused Shepard and very exasperated Lawson. It took off, slipping through the void. The silver shape of a large, rectangular ship flitted through the viewport. Vir looked out in wonder. This ship… this one’s mine. What is it called…? Harbinger? Harbinger sounds right… but… no…

The shuttle touched down in a large, open hangar. A shorter, brown haired woman stood at attention there, waiting. The ramp came down with a heavy thunk, and Vir and Cain exited.

“This is our stop,” said Cain. “Will you two be alright?” he asked the shuttle’s other two occupants. The black coated man nodded jerkily, still staring into space.

“What? Oh. Yes. Don’t worry about us. Commissar Cain. Admiral Vir.” He rattled off their unfamiliar names, the taste of the words strange on his tongue. As the shuttle took off once more, the woman approached Vir and Cain.

“Admiral,” she said with a crisp salute. Vir looked her over, trying desperately to remember who she was. Obviously some sort of ship’s officer.

“Ah… yes,” he stalled, trying to buy time for his memories to return. “Uh…” The woman stared at him.

“Are you… alright, Admiral?” she asked, perplexed. Before he could do anything to embarrass himself, Cain stepped in.

“Ah, Simone.” Simone! Yes! Now he had a name to go with a face. Simone was his… assistant? Maybe? “As you know,” continued Cain, “Admiral Vir was interrogated by the Inquisition. The side effects of which include temporary memory loss.” Simone’s mouth set in a hard line.

“Those utter-” she stopped herself, realizing who she was talking to. “Ah. Yes. Commissar.” She turned to Vir, clearly trying to ignore that she almost criticized the most deadly and powerful organization of Cain’s home government. “Admiral… you really don’t remember me?” Vir shook his head a miserable ‘no’.

“No. I don’t. There are bits, and pieces… but not much.”

“Well, you should probably get settled. Go to your cabin; someplace familiar. I’ll make sure Kril doesn’t kill you,” said Cain with a wink. He strode off, Commissar’s greatcoat swirling. Simone watched him leave.

“What did they do to you…?” muttered Simone. “I’m your First Lieutenant, Admiral.”

“Ah hah!” came Vir’s triumphant shout. “Yes. Simone. I remember you are my first lieutenant. It’s coming back. A bit.”

“Alright, then. I’ll take my leave, Admiral,” she said. Vir shook his head, still confused. He wandered through the hangar, somehow knowing where the exits were and where they led. He knew his cabin was somewhere towards the front area of the ship, near the bridge, but found his feet taking him a different way. He walked through the bowels of the ship, saluting the crew he passed with automa-like precision. It was mechanical. He remembered none of them, but for an unknown reason kept walking until he reached a door near the engineering area. He instinctively stepped inside, though he did not know where it led or why he did so.

The room was bare, with empty metal walls and a corrugated steel floor. The walls were covered with elaborate weapons blueprints and armor designs. In the corner, huddled over a workbench, a large figure welded something. Flying sparks illuminated a sleek blue carapace and four arms. Vir had no idea who this was or what sort of creature it was… but he knew it. He trusted it. He felt safe here. Hearing his footsteps, the figure turned around and lifted its welding mask.

“Adam? You got back already?” He felt something stir inside him at her (he knew it was a her) voice.

“I… I can’t remember anything,” he confessed. “The Imperials interrogated me… one of the side effects was temporary memory loss.” The blue alien stood to its full height.

“Those bastards… You don’t remember me?” she asked. Vir shrugged.

“Tell me your name. It helps with remembering,” he replied. She stepped forward and took his arms.

“Sunny,” she said. Suddenly, everything clicked.

“Sunny,” he replied. It was a statement. A sentence spoken by a weary man who has finally come home.

“You… you do remember me?” asked Sunny with concern.

“I remember your name,” said Vir with a smile. “Clearness. Blue skies. Light. Warmth. Happiness. Sunny.”

“Is… is that it? You don’t remember anything else?” Vir stepped forward and threw his arms around her. He felt tears go down his face as he buried it into her chest. She drew him close, her four arms wrapped around him.

“Yes. I remember that I love you.”

Aboard the Millennium Falcon

The Falcon was full to capacity. Nearly fifty individuals were crammed inside. Han Solo and Chewbacca were quietly flying in the cockpit. Not a single word passed between them, for the First Mate realized his Captain wished to be alone with his thoughts. In the small recreational spaces of the ship, sitting morosely in the chairs that controlled the dorsal and ventral guns, slouching in the hallways and resting in the cargo holds were dozens of the Apocalypse’s armsmen.

After Thomas Drake had returned from the Fury of Deimos, he had instinctively gravitated towards Richter and Ordelphine, whom he had told his predicament. The two had immediately and bluntly set him straight, giving him the beginnings of his memories back. He had been lucky; most of who he had been and what he was doing returned within the span of hours, no little thanks due to his First Lieutenant. He had been scrolling through his computer files when a note to himself had popped up… and he had a sudden epiphany. Which was why the Falcon was currently headed to a small but busy moon in the far reaches of this galaxy known as Noctopolis.

The note, and the realization it brought, was simple. The Holy Ordos of His Divine Majesty’s Inquisition and the laws of the Imperium of Man were harsh. They were known to declare all those who dealt in alien technology Excommunicate Traitoris. This meant that the individual in question was expelled from the Church and light of the God-Emperor and cast out of the human race to be hunted down and executed. If such a punishment was fit for those who merely traded technology crafted by aliens, then what of those who romanced, or even copulated with aliens? The punishment for such an act would be… unbelievable. Unfortunately, xenophilia was an accepted act in five of the nine galaxies that now made up reality. Should His Majesty’s Inquisition find out that such people were accepted, it would mean instant and eternal war.

Drake realized the Inquisition could deal with aliens by themselves, for if the aliens fought alongside humanity against larger threats, then they were an asset. However, if Holy Humanity debased itself with aliens, and to the Inquisition, if aliens were treacherous and convinced humans to perfore perverse acts with them, then the Inquisition would have no other choice but to step in. This would result in any alien race that had any sort of xenophiliac history with humanity to be exterminated, and human civilizations that thought xenophilia was acceptable to be brought under Imperial compliance.

The civilizations and the xenophiles themselves had no idea of the storm that was about to bear down on them. With Inquisitor Amberly Vail of the Ordo Xenos now in this galaxy and presumably finding out whatever she could about it, Drake had what he believed to be four options.

One, he could do nothing. The simplest option. If he stood by, Vail would find or overhear that Admiral Adam Vir had convinced the Galactic Assembly that xenophilia should be legal. In that case, Drake could claim plausible deniability and the Inquisition might believe him. Regardless, the xenophiles would be rounded up, the GA destroyed, and this galaxy would become part of the Imperium of Man.

Two, he could turn the xenophiles over to the Inquisition. For eradicating such a large heresy, the Inquisition would probably give him whatever he wanted: advanced weapons technology, one of those delightful gothic starships, perhaps his own private moon. However, innocents would die, the Scoundrels would be broken up, and Vir, Quill, Kirk, and Shepard would despise him before being forever silenced.

Three, he could tell his compatriots or wait for them to do something. However, Thomas Drake had succeeded and survived in life through one maxim: if you wanted something done right, then you did it yourself.

Four, he could side with the xenophiles. He would have to do this carefully, as, otherwise, the full wrath of the Inquisition would come down on his head. He would have to get them underground, undercover, completely invisible from any prying eyes. Already, he had sent warning messages to the Milano, Normandy, Omen, and Enterprise. All were hand written and hand delivered, all written in Drake’s camera-less cabin. No one could hack into handwriting.

The question was hard. The answer was simple. He was siding with the xenophiles. Why? At the moment, the xenophiles were sitting there, doing nothing. The Inquisition, on the other hand, had gone and messed with his brain. All moral concerns aside, he was siding against the Inquisition ‘cause fuck ‘em, that’s why. Ah, spite. That most excellent of motivators.

The Falcon touched down on the putrid streets of Noctopolis, the polluted air swirling around the landing gear. Drake and the armsmen disembarked, leaving Solo with Chewbacca to reclaim the last vestiges of his shredded memory. The armsmen wore garb similar to Drake, all in heavy boots and trench coats.

Good: the trench coats were not armor or uniforms, and thus they would not be easily recognized.

Bad: a group of people wearing black coats and strutting about an overcrowded criminal-ruled moon would be seen and possibly remembered.

Best: trench coats could conceal weapons. A lot of weapons. Each of Drake’s armsmen wore clothing that was reinforced to stop bullets, and had enough guns on them to fuel an army. No one would be messing with them today.

They walked through the streets, their massive numbers and intimidating bearing making sure no one got in their way. Making their way down fetid alleys and downwards, ever downwards, they reached a gorge with red smoke, pollution from some nearby factory, billowed. They made their way through a deserted alley and reached a door. Drake knew it hid a deceptively large building.

“Fan out,” he ordered the armsmen. “Surround the building. No one in or out without my permission.” The armsmen nodded. Weapons were pulled from concealment, the larger ones assembled quickly by their wielders. First Squad had drawn duty today, and Saul stood by Drake’s side. Two black coated women stood next to the door, shotguns at the ready. He wasn’t expecting it, but there could be hostiles inside. You never knew when you might need a hot breach. Drake rapped on the door. There was a long pause. Drake and Saul stood unmoving. The armsmen were ready with their weapons, turning the door and the alley into a kill zone. Eventually, a slit opened and a pair of human eyes peered out.

“What do you want?” asked a somewhat surprised voice.

“I’m a friend of Adam,” replied Drake, the grin on his face unable to hide itself. There was a snapping and rattling of chains and locks being undone, and the door opened. Drake and Saul stepped through, two other armsmen who had been ready to provide support with compact submachine guns hot on their heels. A man with electric blue hair stared, frightened, at the quite obviously mercenary soldiers that had just walked through his door. Before he could say or do anything rash, Drake held out a calming hand.

“Relax. In this case, I really am who I say I am.” He held out a paper, which the man took and carefully scanned.

I, Admiral Adam Vir, hereby state that Thomas Drake is a close confidant and can be completely trusted.

Drake had papers with similar messages from all the Scoundrels. He had forged their signatures and had their fingerprints on file. It was, perhaps, a breach of trust, but he would not be offended if they did the same to him. It was just good business. Plus, such documents were very useful. Very useful indeed. As the man puzzled over what was happening, Drake held up a finger to his comms device.

“You know, you really should change your passwords. And your back door code is 0-0-0-0. Sloppy,” sighed Drake. “Very sloppy indeed.” The blue harried man gapped up at him. Drake sighed again. “Can we, perhaps, go somewhere to talk business? That is, of course, why I came.” The man nodded, still slack jawed, and led the mercenaries through what seemed to be some sort of club and into the back rooms. A group of strangely dressed humans and aliens stood there, apparently summoned by the blue haired man. Drake sat in a vacant seat, the cheap leather scratching through his coat. Saul and the two other armsmen stood beside him, their coats open, ready to grab hidden guns at a moment’s notice.

“Are you here to kill us?” opened one of the humans abruptly. The other faces at the table were silent, but held the same worry. Drake sighed for a third time.

“I only kill those whose deaths are necessary or deserved. You are neither, so you have nothing to fear from me.” There were a few audible sighs of relief.

“Then why are you here?” asked a small, furry alien.

“I come with warnings. There are those who would kill you, and I wish to prevent that,” replied Drake calmly. There was a splatter of derisive laughter before another human held up a hand.

“Are you… one of us? Why would you want to warn us?” Drake gave a rictus grin. Some of his table-mates visibly shrunk back.

“No I am not. Frankly, I don’t care about you or your opponents here. Let us just say that it’s better off you weren’t mass murdered by zealots.” That brought a series of murmerings.

“What?” asked a Drev. “I think you’d better start from the beginning.”

“Indeed,” replied Drake. “It is always wise to start at the beginning.” He settled into his chair. “I’m sure many of you are familiar with the fact that there are now nine galaxies in this universe, not just one.” A chorus of yeses greeted this fact. “You may also be familiar that in one of these galaxies resides a government known as ‘The Imperium of Man.’” A chorus of hissed curses greeted that name.

“Xenophobic scum,” muttered someone.

“Hmm. Yes,” replied Drake neutrally. He leaned back even further and crossed his legs. “At the present moment,” he continued, “The Imperium’s secret police, known as the Inquisition, is here, in this galaxy, investigating a completely unrelated matter.” More mutterings. “They are bound to investigate everything they can about this galaxy, and when they do, they will find out about your existence. If this happens, you will all be tortured to death, and the GA, with most likely every alien race here, will be exterminated, with the galaxy coming under Imperial rule.” Drake smiled over their horrified faces. “I do not wish to see that happen. Which is why you must do as I say.” They all leaned in, desperate to hear if he could save them. “One, you must disperse. Groups attract attention. I found this place easily, because I knew what to look for. The Inquisition is even more adept than me. Two, you must leave this place. If a trail can be found, something I am trying to erase, believe me, but, if a trail can be found, it will lead to this moon. Three, you must never, ever practice any sort of xenophilia, or have anyone suspect what you are. Four, if you do as I say, and are still captured by the Inquisition, you must tell them that you are alone; a singular degenerate alone and unloved in this universe. They will ask you to betray your comrades; don’t. They will kill you either way.” There was a stunned silence, before the room went up in shouts.

“No!”

“Absolutely not!”

“You ask us to give up everything! Everything we’ve worked so hard for! To no longer be ourselves! Adam Vir would never do this!”

“Adam Vir is not here!” thundered Drake. “You are dealing with me now.” He stood and rubbed his forehead as he paced. “Nothing I have told you, or will tell you, is a lie. My colleagues are, to a man, all better people than I. However, they are, at times, unbearably naïve.” He spun around and fixed them with his most intimidating glare, the one that made corporate oligarchs, high generals and planetary governors quake in their boots. “Be grateful that you are dealing with someone who knows precisely what they are talking about.” The table sat back down and watched Drake. He frowned. “Now, I can get you off this moon; get you to wherever you want to go. I can give you new identities, multiple identities, just in case, food, tickets, papers: whatever you need to start a new life.” He paused. “However, all things come at a price.”

“I knew it!” hissed one of the humans. A tesraki held up a hand, silencing the other members around the table.

“What do you want?”

“I want information. And you are going to give it to me.”

“What do you want to know?” The voice was resigned to its owner’s fate. Drake leaned forward.

“Everything about the LFIL, everything about Admiral Vir, and everything about this galaxy that I don’t already know. Give it to me and follow my directions, and I can ensure you will survive.”

Aboard the Fury of Deimos

Lord Inquisitor Hector Rex stood on the command bridge of the Grey Knight’s ancient ship, surrounded by the mindless servitors that crewed it. In front of him were winking holograms of Admiral Vir, Captain Kirk, and Commander Shepard. Deep into the blackness of space, a space station, so sleek and unlike anything Imperial, orbited an empty planet. A camera feed from inside the research station flickered through the terminal in front of him. What it displayed was clear signs of daemonic presence.

“We got word just recently that this research station went dead,” said Vir. “They apparently had some sort of artifact they were studying here. It only came alive in the past few days.” The cameras showed an infestation. The artifact had spread throughout the station. Twisted masses of white bone, flickering with red energy and black ooze, clung to the floors and walls. Dark energy, lit with crackles of red, pulsed through the ceilings as if the station were some living thing. As if the red crackling were arteries, filled with blood, flowing to the artifact, the beating heart of corruption. The station’s crew were all dead. Their bodies were held up by tendrils of bone, some twitching slightly as the horrible mass grew inside them. Bone spread through every empty space in their bodies, growing through their eyes and mouths, infesting their noses, even going through their very veins. To the watching Scoundrels, it was horrifying. To Lord Hector, it was just a regular day.

“It was good of you to inform me,” he replied. “Stay aboard your ships. We shall take care of this.” The Scoundrels nodded. If there were people who knew precisely how to combat this sort of thing, then they would differ to their expertise. Rex deactivated the holograms and turned, walking off the bridge. As he strode through the ship, he sent a mental message to Doctor Strange. Strange was aboard, just in case the Knights or Inquisition needed his help. He was staying in the hangar bay, though, for he just didn’t want to take the chance of being mind wiped.

Strange. We are cleansing the research station here. Stay aboard. If you receive word of any other artifacts being activated, you are free to intervene as you see fit.

Understood, Lord Inquisitor. I’ll be keeping my eyes open on the areas that celestially connect to Polaris.

The Scoundrels awoke from their induced slumber with a warning: there were corrupting artifacts, hidden in the locations that Polaris was connected to. These artifacts needed to be destroyed. Rex couldn’t agree more.

Through the halls bearing the symbols of the Grey Knights he walked, until he reached the teleportarium. The five Knights who had accompanied him on this mission stood there, silently waiting, weapons in hand. Rex simply nodded at them. No words were needed. His sword was always at his side, his armor always on him; no need to go get them.

The silent party of Ordo Malleus operatives stepped into a large circular chamber, mysterious machinery clanking along the walls. A servitor trundled forward, and flipped a lever.

With an almighty crack of displaced air, Lord Hector Rex and the Grey Knights teleported aboard the now derelict research station. The pulsating mass of bone and energy crackled ominously around them. They marched inexorably forward, untouched by the corruption.

“They are coming,” spoke the rumbling baritone of one of the Knights. “This thing defends itself.” Without warning, a fallen scientist leapt at them. It’s eyes were dead and gone, replaced by inky black spots of primordial darkness. It’s mouth stretched impossibly wide, bone spurs ready to shred flesh.

It was unnaturally, unimaginably fast.

The Grey Knights were faster.

Nemesis force halberds crackled to life with but a thought, pure blue-white energy flowing across their blades. The Knight nearest to the lifeless abomination spun at speeds the mortal eye could not follow, his psychic powers enhancing his already enhanced body. The blade of his halberd connected with the thing’s neck, cleaving through bone and thin, lifeless skin like a knife through tissue paper. The once-human fell, the unnatural life in its eyes gone. With its death, the station exploded.

Tentacles of bone whipped forward, seeking to impale the intruders. More infected bodies darted forth, running at the Knights with speeds that would have astounded a normal human. The darkness seemed to grow deeper, an unnatural deficit of light swimming forward to fill the halls.

Lord Hector unsheathed his blade. The sword was called Arias, an ancient weapon carried by the Ordo Malleus’s greatest heroes, reportedly blessed by the Emperor Himself during the Great Crusade. It glowed with faint golden light, repelling the darkness around them. He now brought it forward onto a corrupted scientist; a quick slice, almost as if he were swatting a fly. The infected form fell, cleaved in two by Hector’s power.

The Grey Knights spun and swirled through the station as if they were smoke. Untouchable. Untaintable. Their psychic powers churned through the air, leaving blessed purity where there had been corruption a moment before. They moved in tandem, augmenting each other with their power, exactly in tune with their brothers’ minds. They were a brotherhood of demigods, slayers of the demonic, a group that brought only death to the damned.

Lord Rex spun Arias in a defensive pattern, the consecrated blade shredding every attacker that reached him. He held out a hand, and a dead Vrul scientist that had leapt at him, bone-fangs ready to tear his throat, stopped in mid-air, suspended with his mind. His fist closed. The Vrul exploded into bone shards.

A wall of force, crackling with golden energy, swept away the encroaching darkness, fueled by the combined might of the Knights. The scientists were all dead now, shredded by the psychic ammunition of the Grey Knights wrist-mounted bolters or cut down by their crackling blades. The tentacles and walls redoubled their efforts, desperate to make sure the Inquisition didn’t reach the artifact at the center of the station’s corruption.

With a swipe of his hand, the Grey Knight’s sergeant flicked open the heavy doors that led to the artifact’s chamber. They saw it, a small mass of bone, swelling with unnatural power. With a flick of his sword, Rex cut the tendrils that suspended it. The very station seemed to shriek underneath them, the bone tendrils spasming. Rex held the thing in mid-air, unwilling to touch it.

“What shall we do with it?” he asked the sergeant.

“Put it in a box. Take it back to Titan. We must study this,” replied the deep voice. Another Knight came forward with a purified small metal container, and Rex telepathically lowered the artifact inside and sealed the lid. With a mental command to the servitor, the Knights and Lord Inquisitor disappeared, teleported back to the Fury of Deimos. The starships of the Scoundrels and Inquisition erased any trace of the station, its memory gone forever. In its box, the cursed artifact pulsed, another relic to be taken back to the headquarters of the Grey Knights to be studied.

I hope you liked it. If you have any requests or want me to write about a specific group or person, please tell me! Wherever you are, have a great day.

#magnificent scoundrels #story #writing #my writing #crossover #empyrean iris #warhammer 40k #star wars #crossover story #humans are space orcs #humans are weird #sci-fi

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lacrimaomnis · 3 years

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BRF Mini Reading, 3/9/2021

I hope it is not too late, and it is rather late here where I live this will be just a very simple three-card spread I do about the BRF. I will do a more in-depth reading about this topic somewhere around this week, most probably on Sunday my time.

As written, this is merely a speculation and therefore must be taken with a grain of salt. This speculation is not true until proven otherwise.

My question is, how would September be probably like for the royal family?

Cards drawn: Queen of Wands, Page of Cups, Ten of Wands

Underlying energy: Knight of Cups

Summary: Because there are no major arcana cards in this spread (I do not include clarifiers in the main spread), it seems to suggest that this month will be rather uneventful -- this does not mean, however, that there is nothing going on behind the scenes.

First card: Queen of Wands. As a court card, this card stands for an Aries person. She is wise, strong, and charismatic. She is social, resourceful, and generous, she is a powerful ally and a strong leader. She is highly energetic, busy, and active.

Now, I am not sure why she appears in this reading -- the energy from this card is confusing. The things that came to my mind when I saw this spread was either the Andrew-Roberts lawsuit as Andrew's signifier, the Knight of Cups appeared, or something else. I decided to draw a clarifier for this card:

Clarified by: Strength. This is the card of having inner strength and resilience, inner fortitude, and the power of the human spirit to overcome any obstacle. This card is a reminder that we can endure life's obstacles through confidence, stamina, and persistence tempered by patience, compassion, and inner calm. Astrology-wise, this card is ruled by Leo.

This card comes across to me not as a person, but as an attitude towards a situation. The Queen of Wands has mustered her Strength, gathering her wit and ready to persist throughout the situation, and triumph. She is the woman depicted in my card, controlling the lion with quiet determination. This affirms the idea that this card is talking about the Andrew-Roberts lawsuit, as Roberts is a fire-sign person (according to Wikipedia, she is born on August 9, making her a Leo).

Second card: Page of Cups. Pages are messengers, and Page of Cups, in particular, heralds a good omen for a creative project, venture, or relationship. She also brings the message of the necessity of turning inwards rather than outwards, but she can also be a message that the decision to turn inwards has turned into escapism, the unwillingness to look outwards and to face the problem presented by the situation. This card also warns about an unwelcome message, young and immature people, and not to take everything at the face value.

This card comes across to me in two ways: first, this month will be the month where BRF will once again turn inwards rather than outwards as they are dealing with the Andrew lawsuit, and this seems to suggest that anything done by the family regarding this lawsuit will not see the light of the day unless BRF decides it is allowed to be known to the public. Second, this is a warning to us -- as this card represents immature people (Harry and Meghan) and to not take everything at the face value. I am sure this is a classic adage by this time around here, but we are once again reminded not to take whatever Harry and Meghan push through their PR at the face value.

Third card: Ten of Wands. This is the card of being burdened, of responsibility, rewards, and being fatigued. This card is illustrated with the character sitting in an awkward, burdened pose as if she's hunching over to support the wands on her back. This card seems to suggest that the BRF will be quite burdened this month, perhaps they are having too much on their plate?

Underlying energy: Knight of Cups. This is a court card of a Pisces, and my gut says that this card stands for Andrew, a Pisces. As the underlying energy of this spread, this card seems to suggest that this month we will see bits of him here and there, especially concerning his alleged sexual abuse. However, because this card belongs to the minor arcana, I feel like this month we are not going to understand the situation better than previous months, for those who are following the lawsuit.

Conclusion: I will perhaps do a bigger spread about this question later this week, as I am curious if I can see anything about Harry and Meghan -- their energy is there, but it is rather weak and the card that carries their energy (the Page of Cups) is more inclined towards warning us, rather than saying anything about them or what they are planning.

#reading: brf #g reads

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dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“…Many readings of Troilus and Criseyde suggest that Criseyde occupies a masculine space in the narrative that is vacated by Troilus through his courtly love behavior – certainly in the first three books of the poem, and perhaps the fourth as well, since there, Troilus is rendered passive in the parliament, in the bedroom, and in his inability to affect any change of circumstance, or even to change Criseyde’s mind. Perhaps more useful, however, is recognizing Criseyde as offering up an alternative, female masculinity. Speaking of the Wife of Bath, Karma lochrie implies that Chaucer challenges ideas of masculinity, noting “by placing masculinity, with its ties to authority, commerce, violent mastery, social mobility, and publicity, ‘up for grabs,’ the Wife performs an alternative masculinity.”

Given that Criseyde is already, to misquote Chaucer’s Franklin’s Tale, “lord in love” (5.793), the possibilities for her offering up an alternative masculinity that extends beyond the boundaries of the romance plot into the epic and thus bring her into what lochrie calls the “world of marital rivalry, textual contestation, and sexual struggle” come to the fore. Criseyde’s authority in romance is unsurprising: the lady is conventionally constructed as the locus of power against the vulnerability created by the male lover’s desire. For all her seeming anxiety about the love affair, Criseyde appears to be the far more experienced, active lover, another function of her widowhood. If Troilus’s inactivity prevents him from showing a “mannes herte,” Criseyde’s composure suggests that she possesses one.

The overarching narrative conventions of romance render her masculine in these first books, provided readers proceed from the shreds of definitions of masculinity that Chaucer offers up. However, once the war reasserts itself within the narrative, and epic takes over from romance, the reading of Criseyde as “tendre-herted, slydynge of corage” (5.825) tends to dominate readers’ understanding and thus becomes the source for both condemnation and sympathy. The image of her “with women fewe, among the Grekis stronge” (5.688), with all its implicit threat, becomes a symbol of a reclaimed feminine isolation and vulnerability.

This reading ultimately negates Criseyde, rendering her formless and passive, which the poem quietly but steadily refuses to do. Understanding Criseyde as entirely vulnerable and useless, unable to escape her father and prey to the dangerous advances of powerful men, is to make her, in Mary Behrman’s words, “much less interesting. Stripped of any motives of her own, Criseyde becomes a mere automaton, and the readers’ interests switch to the men who manipulate her.” Criseyde is either “the tale’s victim or its villain.” She can be read as a simple traitor to love, who should have chosen death over dishonor (or Diomede) when circumstances refused to allow her to return to Troy, but while many readers have done so, the poem suggests a more complex course: it reveals her as condemned not because she is “slydynge of corage,” but because she acts in self-protection, choosing the most powerful figure around as her protector in Greece as she had in Troy, denying certain elements of her own desires to do so.

Thus, Criseyde’s failure in Troilus and Criseyde comes not from her rejection of her position as the masculinized lady created by the romance genre, but in her at least partially successful attempt to preserve it, even within the epic narrative of war. Halberstam’s definition of masculinity is essentially epic, noting that it seems to “extend outward to patriarchy and inward into the family”; that it “represents the power of inheritance, the consequences of the traffic in women, and the promise of social privilege”; that it inevitably “conjures up notions of power and legitimacy and privilege”; and that it “refers to the power of the state,” she could be describing the gendered dynamics of Troilus and Criseyde. By maintaining her active, self-determining position within the war, instead of accepting the feminine vulnerability that brought about her trade in the first place, Criseyde attempts to save herself, if not her reputation.

Throughout the poem, Criseyde’s portrayal creates a tension between passive construction and self-determined action; she is pulled between the roles that the text’s genres create for her and the contradictory actions the poet allows her to take, which, to increase confusion, are often a product of the very roles they seem to countermand. Part of the difficulty arises from the ways that Criseyde is defined by the passive femininity conveyed by her status as solitary widow and romance lady. Indeed, Gretchen Mieszkowski views her as “substanceless, ... a lack” in her position of the “lady of courtly love” and adds that “she responds to others; she does not act herself. She stands for no independent values. She is Western woman: supportiveness without content, and absence of being, the Other, sheer responsiveness, no one at all.” Chaucer certainly opens up the possibility of reading Criseyde as passive femininity through the emphasis on her solitude, although this, too, is ultimately ambiguous.

Her fear, which by Book 5 comes to be an essential texture of her portrait, makes her vulnerable, while her role as desired object also renders her passive and observed, tied to the conventions of love. Yet ironically, her fear causes her to act as much in Book 5 as in Book 1, and it is her position as romance heroine that provides her with a kind of subjectivity and authority in the love relationship that does not completely vanish at the point of consummation but continues to inform her actions – and Troilus’s expectations – in Book 4. Even her widowhood is an ambiguous symbol of passivity and activity. Widowhood is a kind of solitude, as we see in Chaucer’s repeated use of the word “alone” to describe Criseyde, but it also provides an opportunity for women to be free of male control, a status she later calls to the reader’s attention.

…This picture is further complicated by the reintroduction of her anxiety; she is “Wel neigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere” (1.108). Yet this very fear, which would seem to render her inert, does the opposite; taking control of her situation, she allies herself with the most powerful, most masculine figure the poem offers, Hector, the prince of Troy. Always a warrior, never a lover (his wife, Andromache, never enters the text), Hector occupies one of the few uncom-promised spaces. Edward Condren sees Criseyde’s plea here as an attempt at seduction; in abandoning “her passivity to lay her helplessness before Hector,” she aims to cast him as her lover.

Although this argument is somewhat unconvincing, Condren’s analysis remains suggestive: if Criseyde is indeed making this ploy, she is casting herself in the male role. After all, Blamires reminds us, “that, since men ‘do’ the deed in sex and pursue women, then women are recipients not agents where sexual activity is concerned.” Readers of Chaucer are aware from the Book of the duchess that the male lover casts himself at the lady’s feet crying “Merci”; of course, Troilus and Criseyde offers this formula as well. So in her mixture of passivity and activity – Condren agrees that “this sequence ... remains the only act planned and executed by Criseyde herself”– she mirrors two male activities.

Of the two, however, her active choice to connect herself to Hector bears greater implications for understanding Criseyde’s masculinity in the poem. Berhman points out that Criseyde “admires men of action, men like heroic Hector who value their individuality and refuse to let challenges daunt them.”Her vision of Troilus as war hero causes her to fall in love with him, not any admiration for the passive lover who writes the letter and whom Pandarus represents. The Troilus she sees is “a knyghtly sighte” (2.628). To look on him is “to loke on Mars, that god is of bataille” (2.630); he is further described as “so like a man of armes and a knight / He was to seen, fulfilled of heigh prowesse” (2.631–32). Troilus here appears at his most Hector-like, which the people’s cry, “‘Here cometh oure joye / And, next his brother, holder up of Troye!’” (2.643–44), firmly cements in Criseyde’s mind.

…That she ends up loving Troilus does not negate her acknowledgment of her own active will in her choice; she is not simply the objectified lady of romance. Even when the romance constitutes her as passive and desired, the immobile object of her dream of the eagle in Book 2, Criseyde “certainly does not view herself as a passive person” on whom meaning is imposed. Again, the reader is confronted with a tension between Criseyde’s fear and her self-determining force. At this moment, her understanding of her widowhood as a complex position is also revealed. The role of modest widow suggests a kind of isolation, if only a social one that allows singing and reading with her ladies, and Criseyde’s dark clothing “evokes both the idea of Criseyde’s vulnerability and the visual sign of her personal loss” and testifies “to the reality of human mortality and mutability,” while emphasizing her “state of being alone and vulnerable.”

It also suggests a possible availability: “the role [of modest widow] is not compatible with a sexual relationship, but it is compatible with the platonic segment of the lady-role, which Pandarus bullies Criseyde into accepting.” Yet in her widowhood, Criseyde sees her own freedom: “I am myn owene womman, wel at ese,/I thank it God – as after myn estat,/Right yong, and stonde unteyd in lusty leese, Withouten jalousie or swich debat./Shal noon housbonde seyn to me ‘Chek mat!’ For either they ben ful of jalousie,/Or maisterfull, or loven novelrie.” (2.750–56) Her recognition that widowhood provides self determination because it frees women from the hierarchies of the sexual economy causes Criseyde to ask “‘Sholde I now love, and put in jupartie / My sikernesse, and thrallen libertee?’” (2.773–74), noting that in love, “‘we wrecched women nothing konne’” (2.781).

In contrast to the earlier presentation of widowhood as fearful solitude, here it becomes an active, powerful position that allows for self-determination and self- construction. Criseyde’s chess metaphor reveals her masculine agency again: while “Criseyde’s allusion to chess also reveals that she thinks of herself in martial terms,” allying herself with the powerfully masculine figures of Hector and Troilus in their warrior guise that has just been presented to her, it also shows the potential for the female to take on masculine traits of mobility, power, and central importance. Or, as Jenny Adams comments, “a reader/player, who sees himself or herself as a piece on the board, must take responsibility for his or her own ethical conduct”; therefore, the player becomes responsible for her own actions rather than perceiving herself as acted upon.

In chess, the queen is the most versatile piece, able to move in all directions and any number of squares, while the king is limited to a single square’s movement, and his capture loses the game. Indeed, the king is a quite feminized figure in chess; he runs and hides behind the castle, and if he must start moving around, the player is in trouble. If widowhood allows Criseyde to assume the metaphoric position of a chess queen, it also allows her to win within a metaphor equally suited to love and to war, the two worlds of Chaucer’s poem. In the romance world, Criseyde claims the power available to romance heroines. This power may ultimately be a conventional fiction providing no real autonomy, but it remains inscribed in the story as a given. Criseyde is aware of and seems to enjoy some of these elements of power while understanding the difference between them and the more “real” autonomy of her widowhood.

Criseyde adds to the powers of romance a self-determining factor. The contrast between the two lovers’ decisions are striking; “while Troilus performs his unconditional surrender in a soliloquy, Criseyde negotiates a contract in front of a witness, fixing the rights and duties of both parties.” Blamires calls this a radical disruption of the “passive/active assumption in the scenes of courtship of Criseyde,” and in so doing alerts readers to the shifting nature of gender within the love narrative. In establishing the terms under which she will agree to love Troilus – that her honor and reputation will be protected – Criseyde again defines the terms of her consent – and does so publicly, thus in the masculine realm. That these guarantees ultimately fail does not detract from Criseyde’s self-determination, but from its ability to function within the assumptions of the genres of the narrative. The irony of her desires – the protection of her honor and reputation – given the ending of the poem only serves to create greater tension between the roles Criseyde attempts to play and the boundaries the worlds of Troy and the Greek camp (as well as the boundaries of epic and romance) impose.”

- Angela Jane Weisl, “A Mannes Game”: Criseyde’s Masculinity in Troilus and Criseyde

#troilus and criseyde #angela jane weisl #gender #courtly love #geoffrey chaucer #medieval literature

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morihaus · 3 years

Text

White Hands

A single, uncoiled strand of time carries him to this moment, crossing the bridge in the shadow of the tower. The old familiar haze of un-time washes over the knight's mind as he moves with purpose through the dreamlike world of the indefinite, lit by crackling thunder and the light of falling stars.

Citizens of Rumaranth scatter around Trinimac, making war and peace with one another, weaving interlocking tapestries that become ever-shifting with the uncertainty of their cyclical lives; some pay him heed and look on in awe, others run into their homes or cast stones at him, which merely clatter harmlessly from the interlocking sheets of crystalline glass. The flawless surface of his armor continues to reflect the many warped visions of his surroundings.

He is of a single mind, however, and passes through without concern. He cuts this path through the frenzied arena for a meeting at White-Gold- he's checked Ada-Mantia, thinking the lord of that tower may have returned, but it seems that instead he lingers at the source of this calamity- and nothing gives him pause as he enters the Imperial Palace. Nothing, save for a presence in the throne room, and then, the sight of the emperor.

It's the hole in his chest. His brilliant silver armor shows a massive crack along his left breast, revealing a dark cavity, lit by the regular pulse of a red crystal within it. He lays motionless upon the throne, pale like death, placid like the sea before the storm- even like this, he grips a mace tightly in his sword-hand, letting it hang over one side of the throne as he slouches.

He notices Trinimac, regarding him with eyes of cold-fire, familiar and unnerving. "Who visits my court? Is it war?" He sits up, cutting an ill-mannered figure as a ruler as he leans in with interest. "It's been too long since I've fought a good war. It calms the storms that rage in my clouded mind." His eyes travel rapidly and he blinks not once as he analyzes the man stood before him.

Trinimac is not sure what to say to that, what to say to this figure at all for that matter. The resemblance is unmistakable, even past the conspicuous cavity; the figure sat before him struck him as remarkably similar to the frigid corpse he met in long-gone green Atmora, the cruel features of a friend who could no longer recognize, familiarity without warmth. Yet he finds no recognition in this man's eyes, which scan him as a stranger, expectant of a response.

"I'm here to see Auri-El." He says.

This appears to have been the wrong thing to say, as he suddenly darts up to his feet, raising mace to make a threatening decree. "Then you have come to the wrong place, elf! Those pointy ears, I should have known!..." He scowls across at the aedroth. "So it IS war!"

"No," Trinimac says rather quickly, the prospect of battle with this misplaced corpse failing to excite him. "I have no quarrel with you, my business is with him." Being called 'elf' is odd to him, for some reason, and the venom with which it is uttered takes him off guard. Perhaps it is no surprise he should still hold a grudge, but to not recognize his own executioner?

"'Business'? Hah! The only business of the elven god is oppression and misrule, scarcely any better than consorting with the daedra." His face is serious as he speaks, his eyes seem to flicker and spark before Trinimac's glow, illuminating the dim white halls of the chamber, decorated only with tapestries of dragons and red diamonds. "You Old Ehlnofey are bold, to walk to the feet of the human king, asking to meet with your god. Perhaps it is only my duty to do you this favor?"

He watches as the strange man grips the handle of his mace, narrowing his eyes as he harbors conflicting feelings. It should be just as appropriate, he supposes, that he be undone by that which he himself sundered. But had he not come here to meet with Auri-El? And would it not be cruel, subjecting this one to the burden he bears now, the blood of a once-friend staining his hands and his spirit? Then again, perhaps he, in some twist of fortune, has forgotten. He should only be so lucky.

"Who are you?" Trinimac asks.

The question seems to almost instantly distract the other knight, who rights his posture to proclaim. "I am the last emperor of the Nedes. I am the answer to the question put towards elven ruling. I am the succor of man. I am called Pelinal, Whitestrake, Champion of the Divines."

The flowery titles do little more than confuse the god further. "Champion?"

"And who are you, to ask this of me, elf?" Pelinal steps forward, raising his chin to meet his eyes with a challenging gaze.

Looking down at the last emperor, he lets out a soft breath as he considers his response. "...I am Trinimac. Nothing more."

Pelinal wrinkles his nose up as though he'd been insulted. "Trinimac...?" He blinks- for the first time, his visitor notes. "I have not heard your name. Are you one of their sorcerer-kings?"

"No."

"Their wizard-generals? Mage-slavers?"

"No. Who is 'they'?"

"The Ayleids! Do you serve them?"

"No." The word did not ring familiar.

"Hm..." Pelinal turns his head to gaze thoughtfully over at an empty corner, before looking back up. "Strange. I had not expected one from over the seas. What is it you want?"

"I've told you." He says, growing weary as he grows perplexed. "I'm not an elf. And you're not really a man, are you?"

The emperor looks scandalized, mouth agape, but no indignant words flutter out.

Trinimac puts a hand to his breastplate. "I am a spirit. You are too."

"No," Pelinal says. "I am not."

Trinimac lifts his hand now to point at Pelinal's breast. "You have a hole, in your chest."

Pelinal pauses and looks down at himself. "...Yes."

"You are not mortal."

"No."

"You say you are mortal?"

"Yes," Pelinal nods. "I have died."

"And yet, you are here."

Pelinal frowns at him. Trinimac feels as though this conversation is intrinsically the wrong way around, as though explaining the stars to Magnus. He also feels Pelinal is being overly stubborn, but to pretend he wasn't once the same would be untruthful.

"I'm sorry, but," Trinimac bites his tongue as he ponders on the most diplomatic way he could say this. "I feel that we've met. You're... Shor, aren't you?"

Pelinal pulls the most indignant expression yet, actually spitting at his feet at this accusation. "Wipe your tongue clean of that name! It does not belong in your mouth, nor over my head!" His incensed voice reverberates through the expansive chamber, as though he were speaking from everywhere at once.

The knight's brow furrows. On some level, he agrees, who is he to speak of the dead? Still, he presses on. "I've met Shor. We... we were shield-brothers." He steels himself to stay firm and stand rigid straight even as guilt claws at his innards.

"With *you?!*" Pelinal cries. "Don't speak such slipshod lies!"

And even if it is the truth, Trinimac's heart sinks as though he were lying. For how can he call that the truth, knowing what more there is to the story? "I don't claim to understand it. He never made things simple..." He shrugs off the acidic grip of nostalgia and looks forward to the man he sees in this moment, primed to strike like a frenzied animal. "I see you and I see Shor. These are strange... times, I thought you might..."

And at this moment, something snaps along the tangled web of confused time, a crack of thunder only just perceptible to Trinimac, one that causes the Whitestrake to drop his mace as he clutches his head, screaming out in pain and collapsing to his knees.

In a moment, Trinimac forgets himself, rushing forward to help this uncanny visage of a friend. He extends a hand, but as Pelinal opens a fiery eye to see it, it sparks to life with white-light without warning, and he bounds backwards with fear as though barreled into, clutching his hand defensively over his chest.

Trinimac recoils as well, clutching at his own wrist as the white hand trembles.

The two of them stand and sit there, chests heaving and heavy with dread.

It is minutes, perhaps tens of minutes, before either of them speak again. Pelinal lifts himself up onto shaky limbs, leaning against the throne while Trinimac holds his hand out away from his own body, regarding it with fear, and the other's rattled countenance with remorse.

"...I am sorry, Trinimac." A soft voice cuts through the silence, Pelinal wears a dour expression, displaying a humanity not yet seen. "For not recognizing you. Really, I... don't know where my mind's gone, these days." An alien smile tugs gently at his lips for just a moment, before giving way to grief.

Trinimac blinks. "I-" His face screws up as he hears his own voice, vulnerable, sorrowful, quaking once again before another corpse. "Don't worry about it. I'm sorry, I've... intruded. I'll be going now."

But before he could, Pelinal reaches out a hurried hand. "Wait, please-" His own jaw clamps up, he takes a breath. "You don't need to go. I'd quite like your company."

Half-turned already, Trinimac looks back at him. He knows he should go. He has something important to get over with. And yet, he paces back over- maintaining a modest distance for their mutual comfort- and looks down to Pelinal. "...What is this, then? This form?"

Pelinal regards himself, shifting his body around as though only just now aware of it. "It's... well, I'm an incarnate." He looks off, morose. "I'm not exactly Shor, Shezarr, Lorkhan. There's... something of him, in here," He lays a hand on his breastplate, beside the hole. "But I am Pelinal. Hero to men, enemy to elves, liberator of the Nedes, divine-sent knight of Akatosh."

Trinimac nods. "Akatosh..." He frowns. "I'd heard that's what... he, calls himself here." He looks to Pelinal, equal parts perplexed and sympathetic.

He lets his head hang in response, giving a weak nod. "Yes. Though this confession weighs on me, at this point, there is no refuting it."

"You're the champion of Auri-El then."

"I suppose I am."

Another quiet interlude overtakes their exchange as they ruminate on the irony, the tragedy, and the cruel comedy of it all.

"Is it okay," Pelinal speaks up once again, lifting his head up to address his fellow knight. "If I ask you something?"

Trinimac simply nods.

His gaze trails off now, as he begins his query. "I cannot remember all that you have done at his command. To think on it too long leaves me agitated, stricken with madness and anger, as these things I know better than grief. Whatever you've done, I'm sure there is yet worse than convention, and far greater quantities. So, it is with this knowledge that I ask... how does one forgive himself?"

Trinimac is unsure how to respond.

Pelinal takes his silence as an opportunity to elaborate. "The things I have done under the dragon... they horrify me, and horrify those that I love. Perhaps it is true that I despise the elves and would see their Auriellic pantomime stricken from this world not meant for kings, but... in his hand, I was a sword, an instrument made to play myself. He directed me, but I carried out what I did with terrible enthusiasm. I wanted for nothing else but bloodshed, for it was bloodshed that best suited his needs. And now, though rage still burns within me, and madnesses still take me, I am left sometimes with my own thoughts, and I contemplate what I have done. It... it haunts me." He looks to the god with a pleading hope. "It's been so long for you- you must know something, some way to face yourself and your deeds."

Trinimac looks to him gravely. "...I do not."

This puts Pelinal to silence, and his gaze is put back to the floor.

There is a briefer silence this time, before Pelinal utters another question. "You came here to see Auri-El. Is this how you pursue your penitence?"

"...In a way." Trinimac turns away from him, staring off at the doorway out. "I came to... make my peace. Just to speak to him, say what I never got to say."

"And what might that be?" Pelinal asks.

Trinimac pauses. "I... it's not really the sort of thing you can rehearse." A boldfaced lie, he thinks, remembering all the times the uncaring world of creation played audience to his heedless cries to the heavens. "It's something that I can only do right now. Something that I have to do. In the moment, I'll know." Again, he lies.

"You're going to antagonize him?"

"Maybe." He says.

"He could kill you."

"...He could." He says.

He glances to see Pelinal stare at him, face difficult to read. In his face, he sees the both of them, dragon and scarab, disappointed in him. It's the last pair of expressions Trinimac wants to see right now. He begins to step away, content to drift to whatever ending awaits him.

"You would let go so simply?" Pelinal asks. "What of your existence? Your life?"

"I've seen what this life has to offer. Death could treat me no worse."

Pelinal sighs at this, Trinimac stops in his tracks and turns to look at him. The man's brow is furrowed, not with the disapproval of a lord, but the worry of a friend. "Anuics have such a perverse fixation on death. They look to this world and see only what they have to lose to it, blinding themselves to what could be gained..." Pelinal begins to step forward, slow and deliberate. "You do not need to think in their logic, Trinimac, your spirit is your own, it does not belong to them nor to me."

The other knight is just before him now, reaching up with his off-hand to press it against his breastplate. His formerly cold eyes become lit with a dull warmth; if not comforting, it's at least familiar.

"I do not know you like they do, but, I know what it is to be like you through them; I know how it feels to be torn in this way, to march to war against the rhythm of a ticking clock, or a beating heart, and to struggle for my own spirit." Pelinal's hand travels up to his shoulder, lifting further to brush against his cheek; Trinimac stands still, like a statue. "And I am sorry, for I know what it feels to be dragged into being- being one thing or another, or even being at all. But this world is not Auri-El's, it is scarcely Lorkhan's, because it is ours, we humble nirnbound spirits. Do not let one name rule you, do not let one moment define you, for you are so much more-" The hole in his chest glows bright red as the gem hums rhythmically behind his words, and in the same instant, pain sears across Trinimac's face.

He recoils, and Pelinal retracts his arm as his eyes go wide, frantically flitting between his hand, glowing with white light, and Trinimac, who clutches at his own face, his own off-hand glowing in response.

"Look at me!" Pelinal shouts. "See this mark of sundering! Spark from body, limb from limb, lord from tower, look and see it in yourself and in me!"

And Trinimac scowls, perplexed as he stares over at Pelinal's white hand, glancing at his own as well.

The Whitestrake outstretches his hand, which shone to illuminate the chamber. "Take it! Sunder the mark of my station, and I will yours!"

And in that moment, many things take place, winding around each other in strange sequences, though not strange for the time. In that white-lit chamber, there is a battle, an embrace, a retreat, a vengeance, but in the end, there is penitence, or at least an attempt.

White hands- an impossibility, what is and always has been but one appearing together by grace of confused time- join together, and create, for a moment, something so violent in both separation and unity. Alone, they are rent from the limbs of their wielders, together, they unmake themselves and vanish from the world forever, and the hands of Auri-El would never again find purchase within creation, only his voice. No champions such as them would ever blight the world.

In this, they collapse with relief, the tower shakes, and the string ends, or comes undone, feeding back into everything else.

#moriada #mori writing #PRESENTING: second fic about pelinal meeting some guy he has some things in common with ft. trinimac from the trinimac series #BIG shout out to kendra for helping w trinimac's characterization <3 we love you legend

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twstismymuse · 3 years

Text

Hello hello!!

Alrighty so this piece right here is based off this J-drama I watched called Homeroom! It’s really funny and honestly so crazy, I definitely recommend!!!

{Title: Her Knight In Shining Armor}

{Pairing: Aoi Cho x Yandere Dire Crowley}

{Summary: It’s weird how trouble seems to follow Aoi wherever she goes, but thankfully Headmaster Crowley is always there to save her!}

{Warnings: Yandere, Toxic mindset, One sided obsession towards a student}

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“Alright alright, settle down everyone!” Professor Trein barked at his rowdy students. “We’re going to go over the reading I assigned last night so I sincerely hope you all completed it dutifully!”

“Maaaan, I didn’t even open the textbook,” Ace whined, sinking into his seat in an effort to hide from Trein’s stern glare.

“I did!!” Deuce beamed, smoothing out his paper and straightening his spine.

“Tch, what a goody two shoes-”

“Quiet! Now then, our first question-”

“Yoohoo!” All heads turned toward an unmistakable masked face that was currently sticking through the doorway of the classroom.

“Headmaster Crowley? This is certainly a surprise.”

“Ah, it’s a surprise check in! It’s normal for a supervisor to want to see what his lively students are learning in class!”

“Yes but this is visit seems rather impromptu-”

“Oh don’t mind me! I’ll be as quiet as a mouse! You won’t even know I’m here, Mozus!! Everyone! Make sure to pay close attention to your teacher, yes?”

Trein sighed, not really having a choice in the matter, “Very well then. We’re currently reviewing the reading I assigned last night of pages 54-60 of the textbook.”

“Ah, excellent! Carry on please,” Headmaster Crowley stepped back dutifully and with a snap of his fingers, conjured up a simple wooden chair and took a seat in front of the blackboard much to the awe of the students.

“Whoa…”

“He didn’t even use a magic pen for that spell!!”

“Yes yes, we’re all aware our headmaster is a distinguished and very powerful magician,” Trein stated, a hand stroking Lucius’s fur absentmindedly. “We have more pressing matters to take care of, starting with question one…”

Turning towards the blackboard, Trein grabbed a piece of chalk and read along with each word he wrote down. Facing the students again, he asked, “Are there any brave volunteers who wish to come up and attempt to write the answer for us all to see?”

No one came forward.

“No one? Hm, most disappointing. I suppose I’ll have to call someone then.” Scanning the sea of nervous faces, his eyes landed on one magicless student who was avoiding his gaze.

“Miss Cho! You’re one of my best students in this class. Why don’t you come up?”

“Ah, is that so? I’m pleased to see that you’ve adjusted to student life here! I would so love to see what you’ve learned!” Headmaster Crowley encouraged.

Yet Aoi didn’t make a move to stand up.

“Psst, Aoi, get up there! What are you waiting for?!” Grim hissed, nudging the girl roughly.

“Cho? I hope you have a good reason for keeping us waiting.”

Aoi kept her head bowed, struggling to keep her cool as she stammered, “P-professor Trein, Headm-master, I’m really s-sorry but...I…I can’t get ou-out of my seat.”

“What? Whatever do you mean-”

“They did it again, Headmaster Crowley!” Deuce cried out. The man leapt out of his seat and ran to the row the prefect was seated in, the girl trying her hardest to stand up yet it seemed as though her legs had melded with the cushioned pew.

Upon closer inspection, Headmaster Crowley bellowed, “An adhesive charm! Outrageous! To use this on another student for impure reasons is simply unforgivable! Don’t any of you have any shame, targeting a prefect like this??” He kneeled next to Aoi and muttered a quick spell under his breath. “There! Try getting up now Aoi.”

Aoi cautiously got up, breathing out a sigh of relief upon finding she wasn’t stuck anymore.

“Thank you so much, Headmaster!”

“Of course!” Turning to the rest of the class, his glowing yellow eyes narrowed behind his mask. “I am deeply ashamed of you all! If the culprit is in this room, stand up and reveal yourself!”

Murmurs rose among the male students, but no one made a move to follow Crowley’s orders.

“I see...Mozus!”

“H-Headmaster?”

“Please dismiss Aoi Cho from this class! This is a serious issue that can’t be ignored!”

“Yes, yes of course!”

Crowley faced Aoi again, taking her by the hand, “Come with me Prefect. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“B-but Headmaster-”

Ignoring her protests, Crowley began leading Aoi out of the classroom, Grim hopping onto the ground and following behind, “Wait up, Aoi!! I’m coming too-”

Whirling around, Crowley held out an open palm, causing Grim to stop in his tracks. “It pleases me to see that you care for the prefect, yet this matter only concerns her. You must stay in class.”

“Eh?! But Aoi-”

“I’m sorry but you must stay behind! Come along now, Aoi.”

“O-ok!! Sorry Grim, I’ll meet back up with you at lunch!”

“AOI!!”

🕸🕸🕸

“Now tell me, how many times has it been now?” Crowley questioned, taking a seat behind his desk inside the Headmaster’s office. Aoi fidgeted in her seat, feeling like a little kid awaiting the principal’s verdict.

“W-well...I’d say that was the third time this week.”

“Just this week?!”

“Yeah…”

“And there was the incidents in your Potions and Flying class...Do you have any clue who could be doing this to you? Anyone who could have a vendetta against you?”

“N-no...there’s no one I can think of.”

“I see…”

“Um...Headmaster?”

“Yes?”

“I...um...I just want to thank you for all the times you’ve helped me. I’m really sorry for all the trouble I keep getting into, I don’t mean to cause any problems but...I just don’t know why this keeps happening to me. I-” Her eyes began tearing up as she inhaled sharply, shoulders trembling.

“Aoi…” Noticing the state the poor girl was in, Crowley stood up from his chair and walked around to kneel down on one knee before her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he pulled her into his chest, then wrapping his arms around the prefect as he cooed softly.

“Aoi. Do not be afraid. I merely want to protect you. It’s awful that anyone would do this to someone as sweet as you yet I assure you that I am here for you. This isn’t your fault, not one bit. Please, don’t hesitate to come to me when they target you again. As long as you are in Twisted Wonderland, I will watch over you and keep you safe.”

Struggling not to bawl like a baby in front of an adult, Aoi returned the hug and quietly smiled to herself, “Th-thank you, Headmaster. That...that really means a lot.”

Pulling back, he grinned,“But of course! After all, it’s-”

“Because you are so kind, right?”

Crowley paused, his mouth gaping open then bursting out into jubilant laughter, “Why yes! Haha, you already know me so well, prefect!”

“Pfft, only cause that’s like basically your catchphrase!” Aoi giggled, her unease from before forgotten.

“There we are! You look much better when you’re smiling like this!” Crowley exclaimed, enjoying the sight of pink dusting her cheeks and how she averted her eyes.

How cute...

“Well, I’ve taken up quite a bit of your time,” He remarked, rising up from the floor and flashing the girl a warm smile. “You can go to your lunch period now.”

“R-right!” Aoi hurriedly stood up, politely bowing her head and heading towards the door.

“Ah, Prefect!” Crowley called out just as Aoi had one foot out of the room.

“Yeah?”

“Do take care to remember what I said.”

Blinking once before responding with a bright grin, “Yes, sir!” The door slammed shut behind the girl. Crowley waited for a moment before returning to sit at his desk, taking his feathered quill out of its inkwell.

It was a good thing he made sure that the adhesive charm wouldn’t be too strong when he cast it before Aoi’s Magical History lesson. He never wanted to harm his dearest student, heavens no! All it took were a few nudges here and there in her classes, and he was able to finally get through to her. Oh the sight of her tears and her radiant smile was simply beautiful! To think he’d lived for so long without knowing what true beauty looked like!

All in due time, he reminded himself, quill scratching against parchment paper. He had to be patient. Honestly, what did she expect? A magicless human girl, all alone in an unfamiliar world, helpless with no one to turn to when a hidden enemy reared its ugly head.

However, she had nothing to fear. He’d never let any harm come to his little songbird, he’d keep her safe inside his academy.

He’d make sure to be her sworn protector, her knight in shining armor.

It’s because he was so kind, after all.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #character x oc #yandere #yandere dire crowley #yandere dire crowley x oc #aoi cho #ace trappola #twst grim #deuce spade #mozus trein

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lixiefe · 4 years

Text

Ivory Gates

l.mh

⎆ Words: 15k+

⎆ Summery: Lee Minho, the feared and monstrous warlock in the outskirts of sequestered magic, proficient in thaumaturgy and eminent for one and only deed; kidnapping the princess at least once a month. It seemed like the grotesque magician had an unhealthy obsession over the princess, smitten or not, who knew? But it was established that said warlock did bear strong passion for the beautiful princess.

But they all had it wrong, because Lee Minho wasn’t a big fan of the betrothed princess, neither did he forcefully null her into slumber and bound ropes around her wrists to abduct her every month. Instead, the only thing he wanted was to achieve another glimpse of the princess’ knight, clad in thick armor with fierceness in your eyes and a prominent ambition to execute the evil warlock at all costs. And that’s what enchanted him the most.

⎆ Genre: strangers-to-lovers, fantasy, magical universe, angst, fluff (a lot of drama basically), self-insert.

⎆ Warning: violence, grotesque themes (a little bit), minho is vicious but soft.

⎆ Credits: the below aesthetics are taken from @/academia--nut. And a few quote-like lines are inspired by pinterest searches (unknown source), so if you fine any similarities with any quotes you’ve seen before, that’s probably it. (i don’t like doing this but it just fitted so much, i couldn’t resist the urge)

Also, great thanks to @pinkchcn for being an excellent beta reader for this work (crap) i’ve pulled out. A few of her hilarity would be written at the end, to support this rollercoaster of a fic. anyway, thank you again bub!

Prologue: The boy

Once upon a time, there lived a quiet boy. His magical powers surpassed many and his passionate soul entrapped everyone’s favor. He was praised, favored and loved for the flame his palm erupted. Villagers passed by him with fluttering smiles, ear to ear praises passed above their bucket of fruits and glances thrown in pride. Until one day, the sky fell upon his shoulder under crevassing dawn as smoke emerged from the roof of his house, blazing fire swathing the wood and pillars and there resonated a single cry amidst the painful silence of flame.

The little boy couldn’t do anything to save his home, nor his parents. And the only resonation of the trauma was the despair turned into monstrous rage in his chest, one that overpowered every other emotion he harbored. After then, gazes turned hateful, words of scorn floating around the air with every step he took, every tear he shed. Because in everyone’s eyes, the fire was an involuntary result of mis-controlled power under his veins. And thus the boy was the cause of his own demise in the eyes of society.

And there was nothing he could do to salvage their misconception.

But one day, hope came in the shape of a man, pale white in complexion and sporting a look of utter pity. He came to the boy, patting his back as he spoke, “I can help you.”

“I don’t need your disgraceful pity,” said the boy.

“I do not pity you child,” the man replied as he pointed at the front to the flying specks of dirt polluting the pathway. “You see, you have such immense power. It would be such a waste if it was to be used for nothing. The only compulsory is to realize the magic that courses within you, channel it into a tamed flow of fire.” His finger followed as a man sprinkled water over the polluting dust, the air getting cleaner by the second. Tamed and resurrected of it’s daily purity. “Just like this.”

The boy followed his gaze as the man now looked into his eyes, a precise promise of surety evident in the firm gaze he maintained. “I know who initiated that fire.” The little boy spurted up at this, eyes wide in curiosity and clouded with the vengeance his mind chanted. “You do!?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I – I need to kill them. Tell me where,” his eagerness baffled the man, but what disclosured him more was the raw hatred subjected in his eyes, the strong will of revenge under the moist of his irises.

“What you should ask me, is how. How would you even encounter them, much less defeat? They are much stronger than you.” The man stated, reclining his hands to himself.

The boy sneered, fury blazing in the depths of his breaths, “There’s no scenario of defeat here, sire. They deserve death. Burned from within and screaming with the pain I inflict upon them, right until they fall breathless.”

The man was utterly bewildered at his words. How such a young child could bear such strong darkness and could spew such words of cruelty was out of his mind. But nonetheless, he’s even more impressed and even more determined to have this boy under his custody. “Boy, you are agile and emergent. Allow me to show you true power, and help you to salvage your parents.”

And that’s how Lee Minho, a crucial fire bender acclaimed magic with the provision of his patron and developed into a powerful warlock. A thaumaturge too spectacular to defeat, but too cruel under the spell of darkness in his soul.

Therefore, just as his patron promised, on said day and said time, teenager Minho vanquished the defective cult of flame tribe with fire under their skin. He wore a sadistic smile, had his veins iridescent with the flame erupting from his fingertips and shot fire of revenge into the luxury of those killers. Mentioned area was then stripped of life as his rage subjected the settlement into black mist of after-remains and squalls of their cries that resonated through thick silence.

Thus, the little boy who cried under boulders covered in moss, now grew to be the most dangerous and feared entity of evil.

What people thought to be vicious, they wanted to probe and kill.

But anyone who went near the sanctity of his home returned with empty eyes and a body that didn't breathe; or with faint life speckling in the back of their eyes and wounds covering their skin; all from the snap of mere fingertips and every sip of wine that Minho took. Until, there was no more intrusion among kilometres in his life.

Years had been fine, but he was getting tired of such a lifestyle.

Lee Minho was bored.

Days passed by in tedious ways, with the same chores and same words following suit of everyday sunrise and sunset. There was nothing interesting in his days that he could fanny about, much less be engaged with.

Until he's wandering along the outside garden area he's not supposed to step foot into. It was just a simple, thoughtless planning initiated from spectacular boredom; however, the walk hadn’t been as tedious Minho surmised it to be. Instead, he caught his eyes fixated on a soldier dragging their sword along the ground with harsh, continuous friction. The noise it made was unpleasant, but accompanied with the somber whistles emitting from your pouted lips, things weren’t irrational anymore.

Hidden behind the fur of his cape, Minho’s lips followed the shape of yours, curling into a worm shape as he tried his best to push air through his lips. But no sound emitted, only an annoying, raspy resonation of forced breath hitting the air. His mimicking halted as soon as you sat down on the ground, looking up at the sky with a type of expression Minho can’t look through. Your sword by the side, your fingers played with the leather fabric on your pushed up knees. He watched as you diverted your eyes downwards and leaned your face on your knees.

Minho’s brows furrowed, what were you doing? And then he saw your pull yourself tighter, shoulders reverberating up and down as faint hiccups surrounded you. He was even more discombobulated at that, brows sketched together and trying his best to articulate your emotions. But then, the faint sounds gradually turned into painful cries and you were shaking on your spot.

You were crying. You were in pain.

“They’ll kill me,” he heard you say among choked whimpers. “And I will die being the princess’ knight.”

And then after a while, he saw you pull yourself together, callously wiping the tears caressing your face. Taking a few deep breaths, you smiled to particularly no one. Minho’s eyes followed as your hand picked up the thin sword and swung it back into your sheath. And then, you hurtled to a run. Minho’s hands instinctively spread forward as to follow your back, but you were gone. Armor’s tail flying behind and the band of your hair shredding loose as it spiraled behind, gently careening along the wind.

After you left, Minho’s mind wandered to thoughtlessness, the only thinking expanse focused on you, your unclear eyes and your running silhouette. Princess' knight? He thought. Would you come to save the princess if she were to be in danger? Would you come to rescue her if she were to be abducted?

Maybe he'd be able to see your features a little more clearly, would be able to observe your eyes and the way your lips moved. It seemed like a luxury he wanted to obtain, wanted to treasure. After all, the beating of his heart was something that made his resolute stance unsure and made him repeatedly question why the blood rushed to his heart faster than usual.

Maybe you'd casted some magic over him to make him feel like this. But then again, how could you? You radiated no power, there was simply no smidgens of magic around you. You were just a human in normalcy, proximate with your moral qualities and strength, but no super-naturalism.

What happened to him?

And then one night, Lee Minho abducted the over qualified, praised princess of Galvarsi.

“Who are you? Where am I? Am I getting killed? I am a Princess! You cannot possibly threaten my kingdom like this!”

The brunette woman continues with her resistance and squabbles, timely thrashing against the thick rope that forced her wrists together. She continues screeching into the silence, constantly yelling and gritting her teeth as if fierceness could pave to her escape.

“Shut up.” Minho speaks, short and orotund. The princess arrives to a halt, lips turned downwards in a depreciative scowl as she maintains premonitive silence. A second or two for the peace of the warlock's ears.

“How dare you speak to me like that!? Do you even know who I am!?”

Minho resists the urge to seal her lips shut for a solid minute and spare himself a little quietness. Albeit exasperation fills him to the brim where he desires to smash the wardrobe against the floor, but he hadn't no ill intentions. So he initiates another abbreviate, but louder, “Shut up, princess.”

But with visible annoyance.

The princess sneers, “Haa! Show some politeness. How impudent! Have you no manners!?”

Minho's eyes are wide in bafflement, astonished how someone had decided to point a finger on his rather rude demeanor; and utterly confused how the tiny woman felt no fear to impolitely scold their possibly dangerous abductor. After all, no one dared point impudence in Minho's words, nor raise their voice of admonishment at someone like him. A disastrous warlock at that.

However, he maintains brutally forced calmness, “I beg Your Highness very much politely to shut the hell up “

The princess seems to be much more enraged as she shouts a series of unladylike profanities to her disrespect and raises a storm over the rudeness in Minho's tone. Her mere voice jounces off the walls and straight into the warlock’s ears, all too painfully. And Minho sighs an extremely irritated huff, swishing his finger and casting a seal over the pink tinted lips of the princess as he solemnly walks away.

“You'll be free when your knight comes to save you.”

“She’ll be free after I save her, your highness.”

Those were your last words when you abruptly stomped away from the grand hall, mounting onto your horse as you galloped away to your doom.

The warlock’s castle, in it’s dementing and horrific glamor, was the euphemism of something you’d strongly want to avoid. But this was your job, this was your punishment. So you gulped down the chilling fear and walked closer to it. It’s entrance wasn’t grand, at all. Instead, the thin frames of the huge door were entangled with pirouetting ivory branches, dark and tiny flowers doing injustice to ‘adoring’ it with their poisonous appearance. It looked every bit rusty and old, and more so of whimsical antiquity. But you disregard it anyways.

Wandering through the dark hallways of the castle, you come to a spacious hall, a familiar figure sitting on a chair in the middle, “Princess!” you yell.

She instantly looks over at you, but there’s no excitement, no relief for being finally saved after how many possible torture (so you thought). Instead, she yells over in mild desperation, “Yes! Untie me, please.”

You do as she says, hastily unbounding the knot tethering her wrists together. You keep great watch as you do so and prepare for any possible attacks from indiscreet angles so that you don’t actually end up dying how they had tasked you to. You look into the eyes of the princess. She wasn’t a slight bit bothered, nor struck with a traumatic concussion you’d expected her to. There was only nonchalance in her eyes, as if liberty wasn’t something she wished very dear. And you wondered what had happened here that she was so indifferent about her captor.

She suddenly finds interest in your eyes, peering with an intensity that had you doubting your observation traits, because you couldn’t tell what on earth she was about to say. “Prince….Felix. Was he worried? Did he say anything about me?” She asks.

Prince Felix, the other piece of the madly in love soulmates the entire city envied. Lee Felix was the third and underrated prince of your lovely neighboring kingdom, Rawajk. Lee Felix was a subdued prince who preferred to hide himself under his room’s roof, and came out only for his meal or daily practices; in a word, he was underqualified. But then, in a twisted hassle of degrading your king by offering him such a downcast prince, that too, born third in row with a concubine instead of the queens, it somehow became an astronomical union. And the castle halls quite greatly supported them both. By the time their engagement was to be announced, Felix was frankly more expedient than the second prince, who was rumored to be the best offspring. In all, Felix was the princess’ beloved betrothed she couldn’t spend a moment without.

“Yes, he’s been greatly concerned. He would surely have my head if I delayed a minute more,” you answer as you toss the worn ropes away onto the floor. The princess silently squeals. You clasp her hand into yours, standing her up as you speculate for any unnecessary, inscrutable sound or view that could threaten your safety.

“There would be no one. The purpose of my captor has been generously achieved. Return the same path you came from.” The princess states. What on earth..? You almost blurt out of curiosity, because what even was their motive? And how is it so easily achieved? You wonder. But that’s none of your business. It was a royal affair, something you’d rather not entangle yourself with.

“I see.”

Saving a princess has never been so easy.

Eyes that sparkle under the faintest of light, not with positivity but with utter trenchancy towards life, a type of sarcasm that vanquishes all hopes and leaves one with nothing but a blank canvas. Nonetheless, Minho can’t be any less charmed as he watches you through the oval mirror, a small smile adorning his face like never before.

The mirror zooms into your face as you free the princess, and Minho watches. He watches as your ponytail gracefully falls in front of your shoulder, watches as your hands tremble in the slightest way, but you do your best to conceal it under swift movements. There is terror in your eyes, one that he doesn’t like at all.

He efforts into hearing the wave of your thoughts, but his expectations are squished into nothing. There were bloodsheds, numbers of screams and tears of lament, but there was also insurmountable disappointment, self-loath for being fatally unserviceable and a plethora of fear, but for what he didn’t know. The smile of his face transforms into brows knitted with displeasure, why did you sound so dejected in your head? Why were you learning to accept death as an outcome of something he couldn’t reach? You were terrified, scared and haunted out of your dreams, for what he badly wanted to figure out.

But he satisfies himself with the subtle view of your features as of now. He was undeniably right to presume that you’d be breathtakingly beautiful, because even the mirror’s hue turned pink as it showed a close view of you. Perhaps, the mirror was a practical spectra of his feelings, but he hadn’t known what pink meant yet.

Maybe, just maybe, you were an enchantress, because he was so strangely and so impeccably captivated.

Minho abducts the princess again soon after, being a silent ghost as a captor for the second time.

And the third time, sun bats over thick clouds and the princess is found absent in her chamber among the chilling rain that bestows over earth’s surface.

“Aha, hello batface. Long time no see. I missed your buns tho,” the princess jokes, prodding around the hall’s floor as she skips about. Minho huffs an exasperated sigh for the umpteenth time, but cannot help feeling a little amused at the woman’s childlike antics.

Chan widens his eyes from the corner of the room, baffled at the princess’ blatant witticism. But Minho doesn’t notice that, instead he knits his brows at Chan, asking for a silent reply on why he seems rather unusually surprised. However, the man only eyes Minho’s bottom, inclining the boy to stumble back a few due to his ludicrous gaze.

The princess seems to catch onto that, immediately snickering as she says, “No not those buns, the food. The bread buns, batface’s guardian.”

Chan’s face scrunches up even more at that as he mumbles a series of incoherent complaints on her ridiculous nickname. However, Minho voices it out, “Who are you calling batface?” He speaks, impassive and bushed like the miniscule strength of his finger.

“You of course. Don’t you have a mirror? Confirm it,” she deadpans, slouching on the chair in the middle of the hall as she props one leg above the other with a gaudy comfort Minho was sure he didn’t provide.

The warlock respires a deep breath, “I’d rather not.”

The princess then takes her eyes off of him, now walking around the edges of the hall and peering over to the rooms situated within. Chan shoots the warlock a wave when he walks away, leaving the two together in unappreciated silence. The princess, as she looks around, pirouettes over to face Minho.

She offers him a mischievous smile and Minho wishes for all his willpower to hold on for a few more days for your sake. For you, and for his unfigured feelings, he will do it.

“You do me a favor, batface. Prince Felix is so caring with me everytime I go back, aaahh. I feel like you’re aiding my marriage.”

Again.

“Of course I am not-”

The princess jumps on her heels, hands adjoined and mouth running on a dangerous pace as she continues, “The prince is amazing! Did you know he’s won so many battling contests? And he’s so very handsome too. He might not be the best but he’s all I want.”

Her cow eyes are a wonder to Minho, and the way she speaks about her fiancé is an idiosyncrasy for him. Despite his blatant unwillingness, he listens, hears all the indiscriminate praises spoken about the particular lad and all his normalcy turned into brilliance. That’s a perspective he can’t really grasp. Why was the princess so undeniably smitten by a fellow prince?

A tap on his shoulder brings him back to reality and he pivots behind, noticing the princess eyeing him observantly. She smiles and Minho expects a little peace, or anything that doesn’t trigger his nerves.

“You’re quite the eye candy too, except that ugly cape and your horrible fashion.”

But alas. The princess doesn’t seem to be capable of offering peace.

“I don’t need you commenting on my appearance.”

The irritation Minho expresses is unfiltered, but the godforsaken princess can’t be less bothered. She continues to smile with full gums and exasperates him further.

“Oho, but I will. Expect more of me, will you? I actually love how your hair looks, and you’ve got such delicate features too.”

“Shut up, princess.”

“Alright, you’re boring.”

ii.

You’ve never been much vengeful, nor have you had uncontrollable complexity of rage. Because you’ve been raised under every circumstance, every convolution and taught to endure any kind of inferiority complications, and the torture that came with it. But you’ve never experienced such unfairness, nor such injustice in any part of your life.

But you’ve held the frustration in and forced back the tears when the officials spoke about conspiring a clean death of yours, masked by faux stories they’d brew by convenient situations. But it was hard. Very much when you’re not allowed to sneak a glance of the people you loved, not allowed to even know whether they’re alive or not. It becomes much more than the torment subjected upon you every day, with every minute that passes and every second of further conspiracy.

For them you’d do. You’d try your best to stay alive for them, with the hope that you’d get to see your mother smiling at you, your family rejoicing for you. But they were hopes, hopes left unclarified.

So the only thing you could do is, live and fight your way through the conspiracy, by hook or nook. Maybe a miracle, or by a sudden wonder, you’d be able to dodge the clutches of death if you work hard enough; even though being a knight was the most unsuitable occupation for you. By far, you’ve managed. Even when they sent you to a deadly warlock's den, into the mouth of inevitable death, you have survived; much courtesy to the humble villain who did close to nothing sort of harmful.

At this point, you guessed that maybe the governors are the one purposefully getting the princess kidnapped. Just to get you annihilated.

But why put an important life at bait?

You sigh audibly, you’d never know their pesky brains and the absurd treachery they engaged in.

By this time around you’ve memorized the way to the hall and out pretty meticulously. But something is rather eerie this time. The silence is eccentric and the air permeates tension in the most sensible way. The hair on the back of your neck perks up as you walk through the dark pathway, hands rubbing against each other.

All you had to do was get the princess and leave from here, that’s what you’ve been doing and that’s what is supposed to happen.

Unless it doesn’t.

With great force, you feel a hand clasp around yours as you’re yanked somewhere through the wall. Albeit their force was apposite enough to effortlessly drag your weight with them, their hold wasn’t really choked or rigid; it was gentle, light and too subtle for someone to be causing you danger.

Perhaps it weren't danger at all, but you wouldn’t know.

Your black is slammed against the wall and hands pinned beside your head by a man you didn’t know. You dread looking up than the black cape flowing behind his knees. However, your apprehension rises by the minute as you feel his warm breath on your cheeks. He’s close, very painfully close. You’re every much scared the way an ordinary civilian would, but the man doesn’t exude menace how you’d supposed.

Despite the dread crawling at your stomach, you look up. Through your lashes, you see a pair of dark brown delicate eyes peering down at you in an emotion far different from threat. The glimmer of his eyes is the same as his subtle hold on your hands, careful not to hurt you. And when you look up fully, you’re awestruck.

Luminance dancing in the swirl of his chocolate orbs shielded by archly curved and silken lashes, you cannot help but be captivated by how he looks down at you. His eyes are somberly orphic, mysterious and entrancing; yet beyond ordinary understanding. You cannot help but notice a pervasive delicacy in the furrow of his brows, something unusual of a deadly warlock to ensemble.

For a man so adapt to killing, his eyes were remarkably soft.

Suspiciously beautiful pair of lips adhering to hesitation before he speaks fully, “Who are you?” he whispers.

Who were you?

What answer did he desire? You were an unwilling knight on the path to death anytime soon, but you were sure that wasn’t an answer he wanted to hear. So you keep quiet, only returning the intensity of his gaze.

He hesitates again as his lips stumble against each other. You’re astonished even more at how you’re focused on each insignificant cognition of his face, however, you really can’t help giving his eyes a second scrutiny.

For a man so adapt to killing, his eyes held so much innocence, conspicuously active and omnipresent.

“Why are you haunting me like this? Have you known me before?”

His whispers are almost inaudible, but that’s the privilege your close proximity offers when you barely make out his words to be cohesive.

The questions in your mind are uncountable, and your mouth is speechless as you tilt your head in confusion. His face nears you a little more, and his grasp tightens around your wrists bearably. He is so close to you that his dark brown fringes barely graze your forehead. You accumulate his expression to be torn, as confused as you and desperately looking for answers you had no idea of.

But his solution is you, the only foreboding to diffuse the complicacy of his mind he finds is through you. However, you’re in as much of the obscurity he’s suffering. “I do not know what you mean,” you attempt to answer.

Despite his harmless visuals, you’re still scared for your life and dreading that your last breath could be determined quite rashly, concluding that you could be killed in instant if your answer does not please him. But the warlock’s hold loosens as the words leave your mouth, so does the expression of his face. He seems dangerously inexpressive by the time your wrists are barely dangling off of his fingers. But the purity of his, is one thing that doesn’t falter even when they are empty and extracted of any potency he detained before.

An emptiness fueled by seclusion.

“Leave anything of yours here and take the princess.”

A different voice commands from an angle you cannot figure out. It’s certainly not his, because his lips stay in unyielding motion. His sub audible whispers gave little measure to his actual voice, and you wished with a minor candor that you’d hear how he sounded like. However, he doesn’t seem keen on speaking and you’re not inclined to do anything either.

So you do. You leave your handkerchief on the table with no questions asked.

But not before taking a good look of the warlock who now stares downwards, sketching the shape of his face and silken bouffant hair drooping down to his eyes.

Though unwilling, your eyes still fall upon his fingers that enveloped yours moments ago; traces of blue and impending flame pirouetting around them in oblique indecent shapes. You knew by then, the flame warlocks fire can never lie or pretend.

Because a warlock’s elemental secretion illustrates the stability and subjugations in their blood flow and nerves. Dismantled, obtuse portrayal means unstable emotions.

The warlock showed less than what he felt.

As you left, Minho brought his mirror in front of him. Just like the last times, he watched you search for the princess and drag her away. But this time, your eyes grew frantic with a sudden speed in your actions. This time, your steps quickened and so did the palpitations of your heart. This time, your head nestled in the clouds and so did your thoughts wander off to a certain encounter faced minutes ago. And just like this, this time too, Lee Minho lost sight of you in the woods.

The dawn breaks through the cracks, lighting up the dirt path ahead of you, decorated with outgrown roots, wildflowers and fallen leaves that crunch beneath your running stallion. You gallop through the forest with the princess behind you, holding tight onto your waist as you swing the reins with a turbulent breath. Getting back to the palace as fast as possible was the utmost priority, as well as keeping the royal blood safe and sound. But your guts were telling you otherwise. Your stomach churned the more you heeded to the ominous gargle occurring within. You gulped a tensed one, hands and feet paranoid as you compellingly will yourself to swish the thoughts away.

The light provided by the dangling lantern in the princess’ hands is inadequate. But you make the best of your senses as you saunter through the lengthened grass. Even through mild panic brewing inside you, the sense of kinship this forest had with flora, of a primeval soul that expanses into everything that lives gives you little soothe.

Hordes of trees pass you in a swish with a tempestuous wind forcing you aback along with your incredulous speed. Perhaps, such a hurry was unnecessary, but the intimidation that canopies your heart is far greater than a speed you can control.

The mass of trees seem just fine and everything sounds out of danger too, but a smell of tepidness hovers in the air. Until, you begin to hear faintest steps of a running parade. Soldiers. That’s the first thing that occurs to your brain as apprehension settles in the middle of your stomach. The princess notices that a few minutes later as she lifts up her head from your back and asks light and low, “What happened?”

You gulp, “Soldiers, Your Highness.”

The princess returns to the comfort of resting on your back, sighing a breath of relief as she replies, “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Your majesty the king has never sent aid for the three times I’ve rescued you.”

“What do you mean?”

The princess is only alerted when you clench your jaw, pure dread overtaking your features, “They’re here for me.”

You can hear her awe in bewilderment, now attentive with the comfort seeped out of her. “For you. To-to annihilate you?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“B-but why so suddenly, why would you even need to be executed? It threatens my safety too!” she asks, much- concerned.

You smile through the trepidation that covers you in a choked cloak, trying to gather as much assurance as you can and say, “They’d escort you back to the castle. I was appointed as your guard for the sole reason of getting killed by another well-trained knight. In a scheme of self-defense of course.” You surprise yourself by how simply you explain to her, no choked cries and no impending sobs threatening to leave your throat. Instead, you smile. “It seems I escaped death thrice, since the warlock didn’t kill me according to their change of plans.”

“No no, y/n, I say go back. Turn back right now!” the princess yells in desperation, hands taut as you feel them pull you back a little.

Even though turning back couldn’t be an option, because that appoints you as an ally with the forest’s warlock; and that is treason against the kingdom, punishable only by death sentence. However, there was only end for you no matter which way you turned to and whichever path of escape you adhered to.

There’s very less time for you to decide whether to return to the warlock’s den or not. Because as time passes by, the royal soldiers get impossibly closer and you near your doom. The princess is abundant to make you liberal and she constantly rushes you.

“But your highness, you need to be escorted to the castle. My life is inconsequential,” you reason with her as you refuse to heed to her orders. You had long accepted the fate of your inevitable death, and the choice of a short, neat death is better than prolonged days of torture to follow your execution. So you try to say more, “There’s no guarantee that the vicious man won’t kill me either.”

“There is no possible way in the universe that he can kill you. You of all people. Your life matters to me more than something as petty as simply returning to the hellhole,” she shouts under the air that slightly blurs her voice. She snags at your arm from behind, twisting the horse’s neck behind as you both stumble on the grass surface.

You attempt to balance the both of you among the spasmodic jerks when the horse takes turn without notice. “But princess-”

“This is the best choice, believe me.”

For once, maybe believing a kind royal won’t cost you bloodshed under a graying sky filled with radiant explosives. Even though the promise of trust was futile, you decided to obey by her words. Maybe once, for once.

And upon the forest floor so woven with ancient tree roots came a light filtered by the bouquet of foliage beside. But it’s not the belonging light of the sun breaking in the dawn; it’s the light of malignance, of death and endangerment and of what’s to come. The light accompanies virile hawks, shaking you to the core.

And suddenly, you’re rounded by several hard armored wicked bandits. The royals probably deemed it unnecessary to have the soldiers’ even wear an emblem. Or maybe it was their primal goal to sublimate this incident into a mid-forest bandit raid; to avoid hassle. So, here came your demise in the shape of dappled knights, menace protuberant from their mere movements.

One of them harshly yanks the princess off the horse, bounding her hands behind her back as he fluently cages her. “Now.” he orders.

This is it.

You embrace the future which is inescapable, inhaling a few deep breaths before the air stops running through your blood. You’re scared, terrified and still not as ready as you supposed you’d be. Because who can even be ready for death? There were so many wishes, so many hopes and so much you had yet to accomplish. You’d lived an entirely vain life until now, cowered under heavy scrutiny and submitted yourself into the conspiracy leading to this.

The princess’ screams are flagrant yet concealed in your ear as the men rise their arrows at you, all at once. You simply sit on your horse, unmoving yet scared; and with a formidable hope for help, anything to save you from vanishing off of the earth. But then the men pull against their arrows, narrowing their aim and pointing solely at you. Your terror is inexplicable, throat dry as consternation swallows you into a whole tight grip. Eyes shut close, you prepare for the arrows to pierce into you, tear you apart.

But after a few moments, your dread is masked under vicarious and malicious growls of blooming flame. And your eyes spat open, widened and flabbergasted. There is a ghastly orange grin, wavering and outrageous as it tears through the verdant woodland. Suddenly there’s unfettered flames devouring hungrily at the coppice, swishing and flicking in a dance without rhythm. They reach out to the sky like pallid, gnarled hands, as if desperate to latch onto the greenery and sear the earth away.

You can’t see anything in the blazing fire and by some miraculous reality, the fire does not graze you one bit. Instead it paves way for you when you stagger forward. The smoke engulfs you into a dizzy stature, eyes burning with the gas spreading in like wildfire. Violent screams resound and the royal soldiers are thrashing among the fire that targets itself towards them and them only. The cruelty here is mutual, yet you feel nauseous in the pained snivels of those men, brutally tortured to death.

And among the haze, you see the princess harmlessly approaching you; when suddenly, you’re encased into a hug. Never in your life would you have expected the princess, one of high social status and respect, to weep for you. But you acquiesce to the reunion, draping your arms around her and patting her back.

The princess tears away from you and there is a different smile on her face, one of care and relief. Perhaps foreign to you, but you can’t control how it touches your heart.

She cares for you.

Before you knew it, fire tainted the earth with grey, stripping the surrounding trees of the virescent beauty, leaving their gaunt, skeletal remains rooted to the barren soil as well as those of the men. The entire area had turned into specks of charcoal, grayed and ashened to where all there was, was stillness of burned woods and bones, like a great famished beast devouring everything in its path and belching out black. Except the land you stood on. It was still as fresh as before, the grass intact and only batted under your footsteps.

Terrifying.

It would’ve been abundantly terrifying for you if not for the cruelty you’ve witnessed before and the fact that you were, as strange as it was, untouched and safe. Never is the woodland silent, though it is quieter than any city; there’s always whistles and calls of rendezvous, always a forest sound.

But right now? There’s no sound except for your breath mingling with the remnant oxygen. There’s nothing, not a single speck of auditory evidence.

“Lee Minho…” you hear the princess whisper under stunned breath, clutching onto you even more as to balance herself. Your mind instantly rewinds back to when you’d met with black cloaked man in that vacant castle. You remember it clearly, bluish flame caressing his forearms like a splintered glove. Was it him?

“Who is he?” you ask, voice shaken.

The princess does not say but points ahead of you, eyes locked onto the front.

There he was. The same dangerous man with soft eyes and fire sheathed around his arms like faint fireworks dancing in the air. His blackness matched that of the earthly area, leaden and darkness shrouded with the most destructive veil. But oh well, not when he looks up to meet your eyes. Not when his eyes are glistening with emotions you dare not apprehend. Not when his reddish lips part ever so gently as breath relieves from him.

“I guess we have no choice.”

What choice would you even take?

iii.

What choice would she even take?

The princess walks beside you in slow, matched steps. You expected disheartment, or post-traumatic fear, or anything to prove that she’d experienced something so deadly for the first time in her life. But as you look at her, her face appears to be nonchalant, no sign of pessimistic emotions engulfing her into a silent state. And after a few, much not to your surprise, the princess whistles tunelessly with her puckered lips as she walks at front.

You’re not one to judge, because even after ferocity and thrilling carnage had been your side-path for the majority of your life, you were still undoubtedly scared. Scared of that breath loss, of that smoke reducing you to the face of the earth, of that fire that imperially spared only you and massacred your threats. But why? Perhaps it had been the birdcage the steering flame fabricated around you, trapped you in an inescapable cubicle, or maybe it was something else. But you knew for sure that it wasn’t the terror of those men, it wasn’t the brutality that eradicated them into nothing but scarred bones.

Indulged into your thoughts, you don’t notice when the princess runs up to the black clad man at front, a few hands away. You walk behind with your head in a segregating quagmire and feet moving continuously in a doubtfully symmetrical way, maybe a little unstable; and quite a little flimsy.

You feel fatigue settle in your aching limbs, desperate for some respite. Your brain screams at you as your knees buckle up with every step you take. You’re irrevocably famished, and very visibly parched to the core. You think it’s the fire; the fire that had perspiration trawling over your forehead like tears of rain-struck trees. Maybe it is the fire, when all you feel are insufficient solidity and suffocating intake of breaths.

You couldn’t walk anymore. You knew you wouldn’t be standing anymore when your legs gave out, nausea creeping up your abdomen as your head spun with thousand needles piercing at your head. Then with one step backward you crumpled like a puppet suddenly released of their strings.

Though your body falls with a soft thud, the princess instantly turns around as she runs toward you. You wanted to speak out, say that you’re just fine, but words from your throat seemed incredibly hard to emanate. Gulps felt like trodden sand down your throat and esophagus unadapt to vocalization.

You hadn’t fainted, but you’re not deliberately awake either.

“Batface! Help!”

“What is it- Oh!”

It was like the most elegant, rich definition of voices, smothered with silken adverbs and ecclesiastical tones; as ironic as it could be. And then he speaks multiple words sketched altogether in measured cadences, “Do you hear me?” but all you can focus in your hazy state is the conciliatory timbre of his voice, something so assuaging that it soothes the uproar within your head.

You see him crouch down next to you, hands hovering above your cheeks as he speaks again, “Can you hear me?” it’s quietly pacifying when you focus on the ambiance of his voice, light and soft like a bellowing feather aerial above mountain breeze. It feels too serene, yet throbbing around your head like placate waves crashing into the shore.

You can only properly understand and place his words into comprehensible criteria when he speaks a little louder this time, cold fingers pressing against your cheeks, “Are you awake?”

Even as your head feels like haggard stones of excessive weight you try your best to move just enough to indicate that you were perhaps, mildly conscious. You feel two arms snake around your knees and back and you’re instantly hauled up into a shrimp in their arms. It’s much more comfortable than the uneven soil you’d laid on, and much more warm too.

You let your head lull to a side and rest against the crook of their neck, conspicuously contented and nestled into a muddled haze. And after that, you were out cold into deep slumber.

The princess watches Minho settle you into his arms as he begins walking. Though prepared, the princess is moved when he asks suddenly, “Do you think this happened because I..?”

“She….is not supposed to be wavered by that,” she replies, head shaking in denial. Then there’s a silence, not stifling and not uneasy either, just the three of you approaching the dark boulders surrounding the warlock’s castle.

The princess is highly intrigued by the face the cold-toned warlock sports; apologetic and strangely concerned. The considerations of his mind come off to the mien of his face in a very aphoristic way, expressing so much in just a furrow of brows and terse lips. And the princess knows very clearly that he’s adept on thinking that you’d fainted because of him, because of the terrible fire he caused with bare fingertips.

But you’re not one to be shaken by the fire. You’d faced many atrocious calamities of fate, much of it plain unspeakable. And so the princess rushes behind Minho, clearing her throat to gain attention. She then curves her lips into a reassuring smile, saying, “Maybe it's just the smoke.”

There’s a small hint of gratefulness in his eyes, one that could have initiated a reciprocal smile in any person’s face. But he only nods, considerate eyes casting on you who he carries.

“Maybe it is.”

Minho and the princess reach the castle as the sun glaciates through the splints of dawn. The warlock immediately stabilizes you in his arms as Chan’s eyes meet Minho’s in a known glance understood only by the duo. The princess excuses herself at the first step taken inside and trudges off to the room provided long ago.

The patron basks in the unusual expression his apprentice couriers, worried himself when he sees you cold unconscious in his arms. “What happened?” He asks.

“I….the fire.”

That’s all it took for Chan to escort both of you in a vacant room. At Chan's signal, the latter carefully lays you down on the adjacent bed, hand holding gently behind your neck. Even with eyes closed, it’s like nothing changed. His mind still performed somersaults at the sight of you, tranquility evident in the minutest features of your face. On your lids showed a rare peace, one that is unachievable in the scarcest way, on your cheeks flared dancing pink, one that comes with leisure conciliation and on your lips graced the faintest color with the promise of sweetness to come.

You were the opposite of him.

Minho’s eyes snap wide into reality when Chan pushes him back to rest a hand on your forehead. He closes his eyes in concentration, meditating into your mind. It’s all the same procedure he has done many times, the same curative he confers with his power. But Chan crinkles his brows in a way suspicious to Minho, as if- something was wrong inside your mind. Immediately, the warlock queries, “Is she okay?”

Chan opens his eyes, looking at the younger with assuration. He smiles scantly, “She most definitely is, she was just overwhelmed by the smoke. It must’ve been suffocating for her.”

It’s as if something doesn’t sit well with Minho. Chan’s assuration almost seems untrue and the smile he offers seems fabricated. It inclines Minho to think that perhaps it had been him behind your collapsing, it had been the dreadful fire, the excruciating rage implicated into the malignancy of its uproar. Perhaps you were scared, fainted out of repulsion. And you’d come to abhor him for that too, because that was the primary reaction of the people who witnessed his fiery curse.

“I see,” he replies, blank and in distrust.

Chan smacks his lips together, knowing exactly what was swirling among the darkness in his head. He sighs, “No you didn’t harm her. There’s no scratches on her body. Furthermore, look at the princess! Why is she skipping about?”

Minho nods, not believing him entirely but not distrusting him at the same time. “Look, it’s not your fault. Trust me.” Chan says one last time, much-serious. Minho knows his patron has no reason to lie to him, but cannot swat the nagging gaunt away from his guts. However, he nods again, a little more convincingly.

He then looks over at you, feeling conflicted like a ball of yarn; the stray strands of it being coherent and usable, the rest? Tangled into a mess of bird’s nest, endless and unyielding.

The castle’s master was heartless. There was no care in his heart, nor any positive emotions. But oh! He is bound in a spell by an enchantress. A spell that returns life to him, slowly, time by time.

And he feels very thoroughly when his heart resonates a profound beat.

Has it always beaten that way?

The first sight you see the next morning are two ridiculously exploratory eyes peering down into your own like repulsed cow eyes at the sight of red. The princess gasps in shock as you suddenly sit up on the bed, startling you both with how patently alert you seemed. “Where are we?” you ask, meticulously active with nascent panic.

The princess replies wide eyed at your impetuous apprehension, “We? We’re at the warlock’s house. Don’t worry he’s not one to fear.”

The warlock’s house? His mention itself smothers a blanket of relief upon you. You relax noticeably, back slouching as you huff a breath. The warlock didn’t seem like one to fear, instead he reeked of anything but harm. But you do not know the wonders of his mind, do not know if he has anything incongruous perked up in the clamp leather of his cape. However, the assistance and comfort he’s offered trounced most of the redundant doubts you had.

Chuckling softly under the slumber's trance, you say, “You’re fearless, your highness.”

The princess leans back, belched chuckles escaping into the playful air. You’ve never really heard the princess smile audibly, much less laugh off into the situation; unless it is with her majestic betrothed from the neighboring kingdom. Even so, they’ve always been discreet and secluded into where they were not hearable.

To see the princess smiling so nonchalantly with you, it made you feel something foreign, a form of happiness that you’ve succeeded to- even though unintentional- make someone laugh, someone who appeared to ignore the blemishes on your reputation and advance a hand of amiability.

Someone with the potential of becoming a friend of yours. It’s a nice feeling; quite triumphant when she erupts laughter like blooming sunflowers in the summer.

Soon enough, her laughs reduce to a simple smile as she states, “Since you’re awake, I will return to my chamber. Get well soon, yeah?”

You nod, reciprocating with a similar smile of assurance, “Yes, your highness.”

But then she frowns, coming up to you with a gentle flick on your forehead. You’re caught in the headlights, dumbfounded with the surprise of such a sudden attack. Your back leans backward and hand instinctively caresses onto the stinging burnish in the middle of your forehead.

“Oh please, don’t be so formal around me. I don’t think any of us have status while we’re here,” says the princess, lips puckered into a complaining pout. You quench the urge of smiling out at her adorably childish antics- quite reminiscent and invigorating, and very casual- like how you’d improvise fake madness in front of bosom friends.

But your royal practices nip at your gut and you hesitate, shaking your head with the improvisation of implicative denial. She frowns even more, now seeming downright comical, “I’m not so happy with this either.”

Right then and there, you were stripped off of all your choices; the only option left being compliant and abiding by her wishes. Even though it's unnatural for a guard to befriend a royal, you cannot help but feel a simple, supportive bond forming with the reduction of formal addresses. It's just a simple, gratuitous and illimitable companionship formed under unbound saint’s equanimity; without a dire need of social raise nor wanted by the advantages to come.

“As you wish, Mina.”

The powerful, haunting warlock of the dark forest; a precarious, feared figure by the people of social locality. But you, you saw more to him than just the danger, even though it was a major part of it. It seemed like an animate lie to assume him to be an aphrodisiac with a thrill of slaughter, or the definition of grovel madness driven into strong inclination for assassinating. But you didn’t really see the ill intention they’d subjected him to have, or the murderous impetuous and classic ‘merciless’ conduct.

It’s as if he wouldn’t hurt a fly if not necessary.

He’s as beautiful as a samurai sword and just as deadly, but his blade only biased for the wrong.

Suddenly, two fingers snap in front of your eyes, abruptly breaking you away from the daze you were intentionally trapped in. Looking up, you see him, his intrinsic morose leather cape hanging behind and his face clad in sarcastic worry. However, he doesn’t speak; only keeping a bowl of emerald sour looking tunic beside your bed as he sits down on the wooden table chair.

Oh, he was who you were thinking about!

Knowingly and quite voluntarily had you been indulged into appeasing your curiosities about him, that now, you feel the same mystery and the same urge of overthinking. Your cheeks color in a faint blush when you realize you’d put too much exertion on notions about him. Nonetheless, you pretend composure and say “You’re the warlock who kidnaps the princess.”

As soon as those words leave your mouth, you slam a manic hand over your mental forehead, irrationally cussing yourself for starting out so lame. The porcelain skinned man on the other hand, takes in your rhetorical statement and simply nods without much reaction.

So much for trying to start a conversation.

You heave a breath, looking straight into the beauty of those unhesitant eyes; unnerving and somehow gratifying, like the most expensively intricate graphite stones. His irises hem his eyes like darkened copper wires bent in flowers and spirals. It’s enchanting, way too nulling. You feel your lips drying before you mumble a ‘what to say’ low under your breath.

You needed to ask questions that had answers he could know.

You prepare yourself for the bracing to come, unsure yet fixated. “It is strange how you never showed yourself, much less hurt us. Why?” there’s no clean brows or ice clear orbs when you ask him that, such is his reaction. His crystal eyes are a tad bit stunned, unexpectant and reluctant in his answers, “What is it that you wanted?” you ask once more.

“It might not have been in the right way, but I have what I wanted with me. Close enough,” he says, lips stretching scantily when they meet each other.

The answers are a vague reflection under the shield of his lashes, it’s not clear, nor is it a cluster foggy residue. It seems he’s reluctant into providing a clear-cut answer, and instead settled for an answer to suffice the moment.

But you push further, “I am confused. What was it?”

The tiny smile he formulates turns into a left-sided smirk. He appears to ignore your query and instead maneuvers to gather the bowl of tunic in his palms. Just when you’re about to give up on the silence, he says in a low adverb, “Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

“I see.”

With careful movements, he hands you the melanin bowl, “It’s medicine for any discomfort in your body. Headaches and soreness.” You nod and receive the disgustingly sour looking liquid.

It seems essential to drink it by the way he observes you and even though you’ve never properly taken care of your health, the peering man looked more than eager into confirming that you drank the unappealing greens. It’s mere appearance screams distaste and a month of repugnant burps after every meal.

Squeamishly, you take a sip and immediately grimace, face turned ugly from the incredulous taste staining your taste buds into hells. Monstrous, making anyone drink such disgrace of a medicine is monstrosity. You’re appalled far into depths you cannot decipher. But you gulp the dread down your throat and force the rest into your mouth, quite critically.

The way you curl your lips almost make the other smile, if not for your eyes that return to him soon after. Minho straightens himself instantly, indulging in a pretense that he hadn’t just been amused by the mawkish repulsion you displayed.

You, on the other hand, catch him rather diligently and instantly notice how his lips twitch to remain still. That brings upon a smile on your face.

“What are you called by?” you ask, smiling.

His name you ask? He, himself, wasn’t as sure on what to respond with, because his name has ever only been called by his guiding patron; to the point where he deemed it to be confidential for others. But looking at your unscathed brightness, and your unwavering curiosity to know him; it seems maybe it’s not so bad to introduce himself once.

“Umm, if you can’t say your name it’s fine too-”

“I am…. My name is Lee Minho.”

It sounds undeniably foreign to him when he spells it, never-present and extraneous. But it’s taken as a name, an introduction he’s bound to make.

“Lee…Minho?” Minho watches in undivided attention as your face scrunches up, looking convoluted. You were probably digesting the sound of it in your mind but he instantly assumes that you disliked how his name had sounded. It doesn’t offend him, instead, he stumbles to fix that and undo the overture.

“But you can call me whatever you want, even though you don’t have a reason to,” He injects hastily, hesitation in his voice as the density fades away at the end. When you don’t respond soon after, he adds again, “Just not batface.”

You suppress the unavoidable itch to burst into a laughter and let a modest grin grace your lips. “You have a very beautiful name. Lee Minho…..it sounds like you, doesn’t it, Minho-ssi?”

The way his name reels off your tongue in a simplistic, becoming way suddenly has him on the edge. Minho feels stilled, petrified in his own spot when a strange gurgle bubbles up in his stomach. It does not help how a certain pace takes over the beating of his heart, walloping in a strenuous run and never returning back. He feels as if he’s lost any verbal independence and rational discerning, so he blurts out the first thing that occurs to his mind scurrying miles per hour, “Your medicine.”

“Crap.”

So, she likes my name.

iv.

“It’s nice that your voice is the first thing I hear today.”

Minho smiles, partially sure that your half opened eyes cannot see the minimal happiness grown on his face. He takes pleasure in watching you shamble on your bed for a light morning stretch to grow out of the soreness of slumber. However, your eyes remain closed and a satisfied lopsided grin adorning the apple of your cheeks.

“It’s very endearing when you’re half asleep,” he replies after you.

And then you wake, the smile on your face more apparent and livelier. Minho feels his heart skip a quiescent beat when your eyes crinkle with morning light. A deep curve on your lips makes the world stop around you, a smile that enunciates a million butterflies in a split second. The precious dimple that crinkles and makes him question the functionality of his heart and brain. It was established in the corner of Minho’s consciousness that you had the greatest smile, a smile that made him feel happy about being alive, made him feel just a bit more human.

Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks, it had already been a month since you’ve been living in the tranquil home. Minho didn’t have the slightest inkling on what happened to his cold and calloused heart. You felt like family the instant he met you, looked into your sympathetic eyes and spoke words of scarcity. Was it passion or joy; how could he convey this unusual feeling?

Your company was soft colors of nature, pastel and greens; sometimes yellows and sometimes a vibrant apricot; or the delicate browns and the sky that deepened to show him the stars. It felt like an earthiness that lasts a lifetime, sempiternal and extremely, seductively beguiling. And sometimes the soft colors smeared upon the brief conversations, lousy acts and breakfast under the sky that matched allies with you.

It seemed the sky turned a little brighter, the trees swayed with more vigor and the wind offered you gentle caresses. You were starting to believe in him, believe in his wind and his fire. Believe in the darkness of blameless intentions. And when you dragged him into your daily dosage of amusement, splayed water in Chan’s alcohol beverage and basked in the laughter that erupted you from his dubious face oh so effortlessly; then you noticed how breathtaking he actually was.

There was innocence in his sonority, and a lost childhood in his expressions.

He wore the smell of blood and death like a perfume. There was fire in his eyes; and ice in his veins. But you grew fond of him anyway, for he is a star, burning with the light of a thousand suns.

Minho’s patron, suspicious yet gratified, watched you turn the same pessimistic leather-caped warlock into a ball of mush. It was rather surprising for him too, to watch the man walking by your skipping form, wearing an admiring smile. He wondered if it was the same fiery soul who said he was the definition of hatred and abhorrence, who believed he was an uproarious definition of vengeance, of absurdity and unlikeliness.

It couldn’t be the same warlock who had empty eyes and passive speech. This one however, had twinkling eyes and a resonation of hope and solidarity.

It wasn’t the warlock anymore.

It was him, it was Lee Minho.

Minho’s enchanted and ancient mirror had that patina of age over the bronze frame, likewise the surface of the glass was splotched black in places. He observed and stared at himself, or at least the distorted image of himself on the obscure edges. The mirror showed him the boy the world saw, all they saw, somehow it didn't seem right. Inside he was fireworks and rage, love and frustrations, ambition and fear. All they saw was rippled danger and the ferocious brown eyes you dread looking into. He ran a finger over the frame, feeling its cool ridges and grooves and the layer of dust that clung to it in the past few weeks.

“Show me,” he commanded.

The mirror instantly lights up with a pinkish luminance as your walking reflection projects in the middle, pushing through the poisonous spikey branches in the eastern forest. It has been a malignant area, filled with traps and a haywire of noxious plants to fruits. It’s also the only pathway for the eastern barbarians to reach him and advantageously, the toxicity of it protects the warlock from them. Minho has always been told that it’s to be avoided at all costs by humans and feeble beings; since all they’d be forwarding for is demise in the deadly nature.

But you didn’t know that.

The mirror is harshly thrown on the floor as the frantic warlock sprints through his castle doors, a pirouetting fire already jeopardizing at his fingertips.

[ you ]

You’ve visited the forest multiple times already to know the trajectories of the near-woods. You’ve never crossed the safe region though, and never went past the invisible boundaries Chan settled. So nobody could foresee that one day, un-notified of your departure, you would sprint off to the greasy slopes in search of food.

In your defense, you didn’t want to seem like a lousy scrounger, or laze around the house as your daily chore. It was nagging at your principles; screaming at you to quit being a trifling. So helping out with garnering food was your chosen option.

But it didn’t seem to go the way you’d presumed.

The forest was evil and thickened with devilish roots sprouting into epitomes of utter endangerment. You realized that far after you’ve entered into the unusually long and prickly leaves swathing the sun to where even a speck of light cannot pierce through. It’s mildly terrifying, as it is dangerous.

Attending to your nerves, you notice a bit late when a hefty lithe limb approaches your neck at a ridiculous speed. You shriek in terror, eyes shut tight and unbraced for any harm that’s to come.

I should’ve stayed away, you think.

But the branch doesn’t even graze you as you’re shoved behind by a familiar grip and dragged into an immediate careen. The cape flying alongside you makes you affirmative of the hand’s identity. “Just run,” he says, hands never losing the grip on your wrist.

The tree’s limb is still chasing after you like a monster, feral and aggressive. Your heart beats out of sync along your breath when it expands into a different form and reaches impossibly close, almost in touch with your quiver. Minho yanks on your arm stronger and pulls your face into his shoulder. All you feel afterwards is a nostalgic heat enveloping your back- transparent and invisible but not hotter than the hand that pulls you closer; and that is however, something you cannot ignore even with all willpower.

It’s not something that burns, simply a perennial warmth that you don’t mind. And when Minho breaks out of the unintentional embrace and drags you away again, you look behind. The frontier of the region is burned into ashes and charred remnants of trees; It’s blackened and seared with dark smoke vanishing at the sky’s reef along with the limp thickness of the branch on the ground- nothing you didn’t expect from someone who bent fire at his will.

The one you now harbored unidentified emotions for, was deadlier than the terrestrial forest of death- lethal than any monster you’ve seen and any power that reduces earth to bones. However, he was kind as he was strong and he was the one you cared for so deeply.

That evening, beside a brook rimmed with the ornaments of petals and verdures, fiery ebony hands held yours with a smile. He said nothing, did nothing but provide you a strange confidence you never knew you had. So you told him in a low tone that you grew feelings for him; unmatched, unfamiliar and beautiful emotions. You told him in vague words the impersonation of a confession and looked at the vermillion sky. You told him, “I want a forever with you, in any way. With love or without, I’d simply stay beside you.”

Then his lips, in soft motions, replied, ‘not me.’ He said, “You cannot love me, for I am dust and danger and nothing more.”

To which you simply reply with, “The earth is dust and danger and nothing more,” then you look through the confusion etched onto his face and say, “And so you are my world.”

Maybe you were hallucinating in broad daylight, like a madwoman caught in inexplicable passion. In a trance like the fog of stark winter; in an other-worldly imagination cloaked with ocean waves. Because there’s no way that the next second transpires with supple lips on yours with the same craving as you and a hundred, thousand words conveyed with a mere movement. You hear nothing, sense nothing, and think only of the moment that stretches to time unknown.

You never knew the stars had a flavor until you kissed him. It turns out they taste like ambition and ancient fire, desperation and self-destruction, determination and darkness within- and the mind numbing fear of being left alone again. You're caught and magnetized into it, thrifted of your senses and surpassed the general capacity of feelings. Turns out you've never felt anything this captivating, anything this camouflaging- this deadly. It’s honey on your tongue and poison on your teeth, chastised on your heart and sinful on your mind- it's convoluting and clear like water.

And when he pulls you in deeper, holds you tighter- you forget to breathe.

“Good morning,” the princess says, somber and atypically soundless. You don’t see the usual gleam nor the characteristic smile on her face in the bleach of the morning. It seems strangely unusual that the princess, in the days wake, sounded demented.

Your head pivots towards her as fast as she enters the room with the gloom condensing her voice. “Good morning to you too,” you reply, mildly suspicious and also aware of the sudden change of ambiance she brought forth.

The Princess doesn’t speak, however, simply looking up at you with a pair of pessimistic eyes. It seems as though she is contemplating whether or not to disclose her thoughts to you, or tell you any of the unpleasantness her mind is negating through. “Is there something on your mind, Mina?” You inquire, mindful of the symptomatic signs she's enunciating.

“I feel a sort of premonition, it's something bad, something really negative and hopeless. It feels of danger- something that we cannot predict and something we are certain to lose.”

Her statement is confusing but it is nonetheless not an impossible probability. You know better than not assenting to her skeptical words in all importance. It is known in the Royal sources that the Princess was cryptically peculiar, born with a gift that hadn't been recognized or even occurred before in any historical records. And that is something that made her a peculiarity, an aberrant mutant among the Royals who discoursed of arrogance and narcissism.

Maybe it was something that made her different from all the palatial typicality. It was that and also her unmatched kindness, her welcoming demeanor- and her non-fabricated love for the prince.

“I will….do something about it. We can get through it right?” You motivate, trying to pry some hope in her.

But her response is rather enigmatic, and leaves so many questions lingering in your head for the next moments that unravel.

“It is unsure whether you are to survive it or not. Even a burning fire doesn’t seem to be an option here.”

Not even him?

But that cannot happen, right? Minho is powerful to an unimaginable extent, he could deflect even a royal battalion, so what’s to fear even if an unnecessary attack takes place?

All of a sudden, the princess shrieks in fear when a loud, booming explosion sounds in your ears- evoking terror into the both of you. You immediately dash out of the room, running down the halls with a frantic heart. Did it start already? You didn’t know any of what was happening, but you prayed that nothing happened to Minho- he couldn’t have been hurt. Chan wasn’t there as well, which meant reduced protection for the sanctity of the warlocks residence.

You desperately wanted to know what was occurring outside, what the source was of those blasting sounds battering against the ground; but it didn’t seem like any soon that you’d get to. You rush towards the nearest window and splay the blinds open. The sight is unlikely for you because- no, it wasn’t the royal army. Their uniforms weren’t a brash silver and red, their huge supplementary flag wasn’t one of an elephant. It was the colors of golden and blue splashed together in the battlefield below; the flag a fierce lion in the middle of gold-blue lines.

It was the neighboring kingdom, it was prince Lee Felix.

You couldn’t let Minho fight him, you couldn’t. it would hurt the princess too much, it would force her to hate him till her departure. That couldn’t happen.

But your doubts are already cleared when Minho shoots a powerful surge of bright yellow fire towards the army, Lee Felix just at front. You’re caught in fear for Minho’s life; he might be frighteningly powerful but prince Felix was an extraordinary sorcery practitioner. He had a nullifying ability- a power to ricochet any magical attacks with just a force of his palm. Which is why magic never worked against him, it was always martial arts and fist fighting to even scratch the skin of his body.

Minho’s fire would only come back to himself when it’s Lee Felix at front.

Just as you thought, prince Felix immediately summons a parapet of force, the incoming fire reverberating against the defensive veil. The fire, expectedly, bounces back towards the opposite side, extremely irritant- thrusting forward in arbitrary motions, swirling around the warlock as it closes in inch by inch. You see tension in his face for the first time, for a minute moment. But Minho puts forth both of his palms with eyes shut tight in similar concentration; you wonder what he was doing, if it was another offense that Felix would overthrow. However, the fire around him whirls back into his palm like an untamed tornado, getting sucked into the spaces of barely eight inches.

For all you knew, Lee Felix would prepare to get closer to fight hand on hand, make it physical. Because the opponent side wouldn’t be able to keep up with him anyways, for their power was one that he’d control. You had to prevent that, and had to avert Minho from encountering the prince at all costs.

The prince would show no mercy.

Your speed increases when you dash down the rest of the staircases and towards the lowest floor, mind screaming at you to run faster. Your feet stumble against the tabulate floors as you almost reach the outrange door. You sprint past it, and into the vast field out of the ivory gates.

Felix signals with an arm up in the air, circling his hands forward. He’s commanding the soldiers to charge arrows aimed for the warlock. You keep running and running, but never seem to reach them any closer. And then the arrows come forth like uncontrolled, furious ocean waves- drawing a half circle into the air as they pierce through. Minho swishes one finger in front of himself, engendering a protective barrier of fire right before the arrows make it into the one meter precinct he’s imagined in himself. He doesn’t bat an eyelash at how fast and constant the arrows are- they burn right into the fire and scramble to ashes on the ground. it’s useless to do so, but somehow prince Felix doesn’t stop.

What was he planning?

Through the corner of your eyes, you see the soldiers on the end row rounding up arrows with the tips made of white, solid metal- tungsten. The lustrous metal tarnishes in air, forming a protective oxide coating and had the highest melting point of all metals- where it cannot be melted by the heat of Minho’s fire. Unbeknownst of their strategic planning, Minho is subjecting the same amount of fire, not increasing and not decreasing.

He can be killed this way.

“Minho!” You yell just as the first batch of tungsten arrows shoot up in the air, advancing towards him mixed among the other mundane ones.

You watch the arrows collide with his barrier once more, wooden ones burning into the fire and the unique ones? Their steel almost melts inside Minho’s shield, but the tungsten arrowhead doesn't. They shoot onward like white bullets soaring through the air. You see panic in Minho’s eyes when he looks straight at you- afraid and yet courageous- not the fear of death you saw, it was the panic of seeing you here.

The bullet-like solids push through near Minho, almost all of them missing him by mere millimeters. You feel nearly relieved when the bullets- like a meteor shower- miss his body in a whole. But it is too soon of a happiness, and too soon to feel relieved.

Shock masks your face when you see his right shoulder fling behind to an absolute fall, the grass staining red so shamelessly. You hear him groan in the slightest, his fearless face coated with pain as he clutches onto his shoulder. The blood cannot be seen on his black clothes, but the way they stain his fingers and slide down drop by drop tells you that he’s bleeding obtrusively.

He was in pain.

The shield of fire around him vanishes in the instant he falls down and you rush towards him frantically. Tears sting at your eyes when you see him curling up on the floor, not even trying to disguise the pain behind a faux mask. “Please stop!” you scream at the prince who seemed to be preparing for another discharge.

The prince holds up a hand, immediately stopping the impending attack. You can sense that he is utterly confused why you’d be so desperate to save a traitor in such worry. But you don’t heed to him and instead reach for Minho with the little strength you had in you.

Your knees buckle up on the ground as you plop down beside the black-caped warrior, instantly gathering his head onto your lap. Your hands hover above his right shoulder, shaking, desperate. The tears don’t heed your permission anymore as they flow down your cheeks flawlessly, falling onto his neck.

“C-chan..” he whispers, voice hoarse. Yes, Chan, but where could you find him? Where was he?

“We..We need to get you back to the castle. Right now.” You say, getting ready to stand up. However, his blood stained hands hold yours in a gentle grip. He looks deep into your eyes, irises smiling in a joy you can’t figure out as he says, “Let's just..stay like this a little more. I’m so comfortable.”

You don’t know what he saw in this moment, or what he cherished so much in the pain spreading through his body. But you were convinced by just those few words. So you allowed him to look into your eyes as the teas fell, in a reasonless pleasure that only he discovered.

And Minho, was enamored by your grief. You were in pain with him, just like him, and accompanying him. You were sharing his wounds and motivating him to pull through with every fiber in your being. How is that? Why is it that you were so affected by a pain he cannot be less bothered with?

Minho’s eyes close slower than the prodding of laze on the ground, hands loosening around yours similar to the beats on the ground when the princess runs through towards her fiancé. His limbs goes limp when she begins speaking to him and the soldiers move aback, head falls back when the prince expresses shock at her explanations.

And his ears lost sound right when he heard vague and unclear, “The arrows were poisoned.”

v. End

“Can he…can he survive?”

“The poison has been removed, we just need to wait for him to wake up,” Chan replies to you. His irises seem unsure and his brows are furrowed; but you gather all of you to believe him. You needed to believe him.

However, the one question slips out of your without warning, “What are the chances of.. you know,”

Chan heaves a sigh, standing up as he gives your shoulder a reassured squeeze, “None, he will survive. I’m sure of it.”

He walks away after that, leaving you in the deafening silence. You can hear the fain crickets outside, the sound of wind and the howling of mammals. What catches your ears the most is his unstable breathing- labored, hushed intake of breath. It seems as if breathing is painful for him, like he’s staggering through every step to keep himself alive. His life force, his will-power, it all makes you wish harder that he survives, that he opens those placated eyelids and wakes up to you.

You rest your hands on his shoulder, softly rubbing your thumb against his shoulder blades and humming to a quiet, peaceful tune. You hope that he hears you, hears your heart and your desperations.

Please don’t leave me.

“Please don’t go anywhere I can’t follow.”

That night, you fall asleep beside his limp form; holding onto his hand as if it were your life force, your dependence.

The moon has never been happier for Minho.

The princess, upon meeting her prince charming, explains everything to him with you by the side. It’s almost like an untold duty of yours when you engage in incessant nodding, affirming everything the princess said.

However, even though foreseen, it shakes you when the prince states, “I will take you away from here, princess. And you too. Don’t worry, I am willing to help”; and that too, in a firm verdict that you can't refuse.

Unmatched footsteps impede your discussion, grabbing your attention at the instant. You notice Minho limping back here, his expression sketchy and very much obvious.

He heard you.

And misunderstood.

Then he says, “Would you care to come?” and you both return to his chambers, leaving the royal couple behind.

It is silent for a while, a miasmic silence, with the both of your thoughts galloping through. You doubt his thoughts though- he could be wondering about the earlier conversation, wondering if they’d leave together, wondering if you would leave. You open your mouth to clear your intentions, however, he breaks the silence and speaks first.

“If- If you want to leave with them,”

I was right.

“You don’t-”

Despite you trying to interject, he puts up a palm, halting you. His lips curve up in the slightest with deliberate gloom smothering it’s corners like snow in winter. However, he doesn’t look at you- eye downcast as he continues, “No, I truly understand. Nobody would really….prefer living with a…monster.”

A monster.

An abhorrence, a mutant, a calamity, a danger, a misfit- no, that wasn’t who he was at all. Even if he thought so, at every moment, in the morning and at noon, at night when the sun falls down- he might think the sun falls down to negativity, a pitch of darkness with no hope- but that isn’t true. Even if he thinks in every despondent way, he’s wrong.

And it hurts you.

You take a few firm steps, eyes obstinate with rage mixed in determination. You stand right in front of him, forcing him to look into your eyes when you say, “You are not a monster, Minho.”

A hopeless chuckle escapes him like tenebrous smoke, forlorn and like an act. “What else am I huh? A killer, a psychotic, a destroyer, a weapon. There’s nothing positive about me,” he says.

Your eyes soften, so does your heart; and you sit down beside him. You speak out the first words that come into your head without reluctance, “Everything about you is lovely.”

Minho appears to be frozen, stunned when you utter those words spoken with admirable formality- and with a cadency of unequaled honesty. He is even more stunned when he feels a gentle peck on his lips, succinct yet abysmal in ways he’d never have surmised. Your lips brush his, softly, delicately, like butterfly wings and the smoothest flower petals; just long enough that he could inhale your breath, feel your warmth and the taste of the small intimacy that lingered far after you’d reclined.

Your breaths could still be felt above his upper lips, elaborated and hushed intakes. He keeps his eyes downwards and onto your lips together in a sweet smile. What did he really do to deserve this? Kill, torture or avenge? He thinks this is utterly undeserving, but then again, how hurt would you be if he couldn’t love you back without a completely self-made guilt.

“I’m terrified,” you whisper, the smile now untraceable.

Minho flinches, the glint of his eyes dampening the more he thinks about the concise moment of bliss you offered just moments ago. You were terrified, of him, of his dangers;

“Then why did you kiss me?” What was the purpose of it? A goodbye gift? A final parting?

He sees that little smile again, and your lips part; a dreamy hue on you that makes him nostalgic. You cup his face into your hands, making him look up, “I think I feel too much for you, that I’m terrified of losing you.”

This time, your lips merge together under the moonlight; nearly chaste but demonically passionate. They chase after each other like moths drawn to a flame, like bees in search of their ecclesiastical honey, like a man starved in hunger. It was nothing short, nothing abbreviate- a long, proprietary collusion of time against your amorous bliss.

“Does this feel like a nice time for your senseless kissing?!”

Maybe not so long or blissful, but yes, it was worth the minute.

“I’m coming!” You say, hastily getting off the bed as you run off without looking back- shy and embarrassed with your cheeks heated up.

The princess looks back to a bewildered Minho, taking amusement in his widened eyes and tinted cheeks. “So would you follow your senorita, Mr. Pessimistic?”

The others sit in a conference in the ground floor hall, where the abducted princess was kept for most times. The place is rather sentimental, for it held so many memories- of the times Minho kept his mouth sealed shut as the princess’ lips kept running, of the times she was presented supper bread buns with Chan’s special decorating and of the times you kept coming with the same expression and took her away.

Now that wouldn’t be happening anymore.

“Would you like to come, Mr. Chan?” Prince Felix asks, the princess by his side in full cooperation. She jumps up before the latter can utter a sensible word, turning towards her fiancé as she says enthusiastically, “You won’t believe how much of a good chef he is! The royal food cannot even rest side to side by the bread bun he makes, they’re outrageously delicious!”

The prince laughs at her vigorous demonstration cocking an eyebrow towards Chan in a wordless question. Would you like to come?

Now would he come? He’s lived his life recruiting powers and imbuing then with his knowledge till they are turned into full-fledged warriors. He’s always been a vagabond, travelling from place to place and seeing the true world as it is. His longest stay had been with the vengeful child, who had no parents. So he took it as an unclaimed duty to take care of the child and to teach him his best, helping him achieve his revenge.

Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to do, but he doesn’t regret giving him a home, being his home- and turning him into his home.

After all, staying at one place for the rest of his life wasn’t something Chan would do; it wasn’t his cup of pastry. Chan wears an apologetic smile. “As much as I am flattered by your praise princess, I think I’m good,” he replies.

“But-” the princess interjects, a very evident pout scrunching into her face.

Prince Felix pats her side with a gentle touch, stopping her from continuing. He then looks up at her, giving her an assuring smile, ‘it’s his will’ he whispers softly. The princess’ forehead clears in understanding, but the little conflict is there, the little hesitation of letting Chan go out of her reach is still there.

“That’s that then. We’re taking your apprentice Chan.”

Minho, Chan thinks. It’s been so long of a journey with the little boy who grew up right before his eyes, from the peach-like short child to an attractive, grown man. It isn’t his forte to feel like a parent, but the ache in his chest is something he can’t really ignore. He feels proud, so proud that his trained warlock has come so far, has obtained a lover and is so evidently happy. There’s still a wee snitch though, a tiny sadness, reminisce or reluctance that he’s not going to live with him anymore, not going to see him nor take care of him.

Maybe he’s played his part and now it’s his turn to go back to his previous lifestyle. Travel around the world and discover new evolutions of beer and sweets.

But he doesn’t want to lose contact with Minho, not in his dreams, not when he’s alive.

“Tell him to write me letters,” he says, a bundle of emotions gathering at his face. His nose and ears turn visibly red, yet there is a smile of happiness on his face.

I’m going to miss that idiot so bad.

“Or at least inform me if he births another scoundrel.”

The prince explodes into laughter at that, walking up to Chan as he extends a hand of amity. “I’ll make sure of that,” he says, much-overjoyed. Chan’s eyes fill with satisfaction as he returns a firm shake to the hand of the latter.

“But promise me you’ll visit from time to time. He’s going to miss you, you know,” the princess states.

Minho is….going to miss him? He doesn’t know if he’s raised the kid good enough for the warlock to miss him, but one thing is for sure, he cannot bear to be apart from his long-life partner for too long. So yes, maybe a visit or two, maybe staying there for a few days too; he can do that.

“I’ll be glad to, Your Highness.”

At the end, Lee Felix appoints Minho as an unofficial advisor under provision and also a powerful war ally. He also offers him a rank similar to a commander, providing him the suited lifestyle and necessities. You were appointed as the lady-in-waiting and also a future governor for the Queen-to-be princess’ children. You are also released from remunerative enslavement and escorted into the kingdom of Rewakj, where it ruled democracy and sovereignty. Your family; your mother, father and a little brother, are liberated from servile enslavement too, and brought into Felix’s kingdom. Your father made an average living, and they were all, finally happy.

You had no strings attached to the kingdom that wanted to kill you, and were freed from every possible complicacy. And the princess too, was married to the humble prince in the following month. Their wedding counted your first appearance as a lady-in-waiting, and made you renowned to the royals of the kingdom.

Happy ending wasn’t that.

It wasn’t Minho and you living with your damn cat in the ‘nothing could get better’ scenario. Except that it could however. Chan visited occasionally, showing up unannounced and demanding Minho to write to him more often.

There were still complexities in life, hardships and quarrels, but you could get through them. Life wasn’t picture perfect, paginated smooth, you never expected it to be, but it was with a certain someone, someone who appreciated you and supported you.

And that was what you called a happy beginning.

~ end ~

Comedy from kai, a threaD:

a foreword: Mal, thank you for trusting me to beta this beauty i will now proceed to hate you for a while for putting Minho through that pain. I lof u, have a great daaaaaay <3 (ilyt mwah! thank you thank you thank youu for beta-ing this *whispers* c r a p)

kai to minho: no u little fuck i ain't letting u bleed out on me do u know i do that for a whole week every month bitch that's exhausting we're getting u ice cream u deserve it boo

kai to yalls: tag yourself i'm minho and mc is my cat trying to use me as a personal heating pad

kai to this fic: nvm I’m actually here

kai: a few screamings in her mother tongue BUT I FORGOT TO COPY THOSE. anyway she was...done.

YES WE ARE FINALLY DONE WITH THIS FIC, now, whohooooo.

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