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somewhatgreatexpectations · 3 years

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For The Lover That I Lost (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader)

Hello! Welcome to part 9, inspired by Sam Smith’s “For the Lover That I Lost”. This now takes place post-civil war.

Summary: Y/n and Wanda are finally able to talk. Will the talk end in love or tragedy?

“All of the memories feel like magic, all of the fighting seemed so sweet. All that we were, my love, was tragic and you're the last thing that I need.”

“Do you think we could have that talk now?”

For a moment you just stared at the clouds floating past the small window you were seated by and let the question hang in the air. She had given you space for a few hours, but you knew this moment was bound to come.

The problem was that your healing was precarious, you knew that, and you didn’t know if it could withstand a conversation that was sure to open the wounds you had spent months patching up.

“Y/n?” Wanda called, cautiously placed a hand on your shoulder.

With a deep breath you turned your body to face her. “I thought about it, and I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Wanda.” You answered honestly.

Her brow furrowed slightly, “I understand your hesitation, but-“

“Look, Wanda, allow me to save you the trouble.” You began steadily, “You’re sorry for how everything happened. I accept your apology. You don’t want to lose me from your life. Give me some time and then we’ll work on rebuilding the friendship. Did I get everything?”

She stared at you, her eyes troubled. “Well, not exactly, I was trying to-“

Once again, you interrupted her. “And I won’t stand between you and Vision.” You added with a snap, as if you had just remembered something important.

“Will you stop interrupting me?” Wanda exclaimed, shocking you into silence. “Sorry, I just-… I forgot how stubborn you can be.” She rubbed her arm in embarrassment.

You stared at her silently, granting her wish of no interruptions. Waiting for her to get to her point, that you still weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

As you observed her, you noticed the way she nervously spun the ring she was wearing on her finger while she seemed to ponder where to begin. “Have you always done that?” you gestured to her hands, unable to stop yourself from asking.

Her eyebrows raised at your question, obviously not expecting it. “I…” she thought about it for a moment, then ducked her head slightly. “I guess it was something that I picked up from you. For so long, your nerves were intertwined with my own that it just became a habit from watching you, I guess.” She mumbled.

You bit your lip and nodded but said nothing, taking note of how her eyes closely observed the action. You gestured for her to go on.

Wanda took a deep, steadying breath, making sure she maintained eye contact with you. “First, I am no longer with Vision. I haven’t been for months.” Your eyebrows raised curiously. “You were right though, part of what I wanted to talk about was how sorry I am. Y/n, I am, so, so, sorry. You deserved so much more than what I gave you. I don’t expect you to forgive me because I certainly don’t forgive myself.” The sincerity in her voice took you by surprise.

The glassy look in her eyes and prominence of her accent were tell-tale signs of how upset she was. It was information you wished you didn’t know anymore. You dropped your gaze to your lap, it was easier this way.

“There is no excuse-“ she continued until a quiet knock on the wall made her stop. You both looked over to see a sheepish looking Steve Rogers standing a few feet away.

“Sorry to interrupt. Again.” He coughed awkwardly. “I just wanted to let you know we’ve landed at our temporary hide-out. It’s that house up in the distance.” He gestured vaguely as the door to the quinjet opened to reveal an open field with an unsuspecting two-story house located in the center.

Under normal circumstances you would have thought it was a beautiful sight. The knowledge that you were all there on the run, tarnished that though. You let out a quiet breath. “It’s beautiful. Where exactly are we?”

“Spain. A very rural area at that.” He replied easily.

Despite the view, Wanda couldn’t take her eyes off you. She needed to talk to you uninterrupted and it seemed as though the universe was actively trying to prevent that from happening. All she could do was hope that this wasn’t an omen. That she still had a chance.

“How long will we be here?” Wanda questioned, finally tearing her eyes away from you.

At the question, Steve shifted in discomfort. “A few days... if that. When Natasha arrives, it’ll be best if we split into small groups at most. We’re wanted fugitives now.”

“Natasha?” you asked with a tilt of your head, distinctly remembering her on Tony’s side.

Steve nodded. “She helped me and Bucky get out. She’s wanted now too.”

Both you and Wanda shared a look of surprise, Wanda speaking up before you could say anything. “Thank you for the update, Steve. We’ll meet the rest of you inside.”

With a knowing nod, Steve took the hint and turned to catch up with Sam who had already began walking ahead. “Guess we better head out.” you mumbled.

“Can we take a walk before we go in? I’d really like to finish our conversation.” Wanda requested hesitantly, her eyes pleading.

With another steadying breath, you nodded. She seemed determined and obviously wasn’t going to let this go. “Okay, Wanda.” You stood up and walked with her out of the quinjet, veering to a small path that was on the side of the house rather than going inside.

After walking a decent amount, Wanda stopped and took your hand, effectively stopping you as well. You looked at her expectantly. She decided she couldn’t handle another interruption and decided to just be bold. “You’re the love of my life.”

Her words were so unexpected that you just stared at her for a moment, opening and closing your mouth as you tried to process. “I’m sorry, what?” you eventually choked out.

“You are the love of my life.” She repeated with three light squeezes to your hand. “Pushing you away – not fighting for you – was the biggest mistake of my life. A mistake I never plan on making again. I was confused and thought that my powers were tied to my heart. I was wrong. The only person that has ever held my heart and will ever hold my heart is you. I want to grow old with you. I want you for the rest of my life.” Her words were passionate and desperate as she tried to express the true contents of her heart, hoping you’d believe her.

Disbelief was the only thing you could feel as you watched her shimmering eyes remain on yours. Shortly following the break-up you had dreamed of a moment like this. Not anymore though. You couldn’t. You had spent months learning to live without her. The risk of allowing her back into your heart came at much too high a cost. You wouldn’t recover a second time. “I-I learned to live without you, Wanda. I can’t risk it with you again. I’ve played before and lost.” You answered, finally pulling your hand out of her grasp.

“Do you still love me?” she asked in a pleading tone, ignoring your words. She took your hands back in hers, you noticed that they were shaking ever so slightly. “Tell me you still love me. Please.”

You swallowed thickly and met her eyes, “I don’t love you anymore.” You said weakly, so weakly that you didn’t even believe it yourself.

Wanda shook her head, clearly on the verge of tears. “I don’t believe you. I know you still love me. A love like ours doesn’t just go away. I love you, Y/n. Let me show you.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she took your face in her hands and connected your lips passionately.

Wanda sighed contently at the contact she had been missing, the way you both fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. The rush of electricity was a feeling she longed for. Getting swept up in the moment, you returned her kiss temporarily before the shock wore off and the hurt settled once again.

Pushing at her shoulders you quickly stepped back. “You can’t just kiss me and expect everything to go away, Wanda.” You shouted at her. “I think I should go.” You mumbled turning to leave.

Watching you walk away again was a nightmare vision to Wanda and she would be damned if she gave up so easily again. She ran and stopped so she was directly in your path, preventing you from going any further. “Y/n, please, I can’t imagine my life without you” The tears she had been holding back bubbled over the surface and fell down her cheeks. You fought the urge to brush them away.

“You know, I used to think of you as the person that I was going to spend the rest of my life with too. As somebody who would never hurt me. Ever.” Wanda listened to you quietly as tears flowed more steadily down her cheeks. “Now all I see when I look at you is that last moment on the roof. Of you with him. It doesn’t matter what you say, or what you do… it’s too late.”

A sob escaped Wanda’s lips as she briefly covered her face with her hands. “Y/n, please… This can’t be it.”

“It is though.” Blinking back tears, you moved to step around her.

“Y-you’re a coward!” She cried after you, at your retreating figure. The pain clear in her voice.

Anger quickly replaced the anguish at her words. You spun around to face her, her jaw clenched. You couldn’t believe her. “I’m the coward? No, Wanda, you are!” you shouted back.

The woman in question ran a hand through her hair, tears falling even faster. She seemed at a loss. “You’re the one that chose to run instead of staying and fighting!”

Her words made something in you crack, she had no right to be angry. To pin the demise of what you both once were on you. “How is that fair?” you snapped at her. “I was supposed to stay and fight for someone who had very clearly decided they didn’t want me anymore? You don’t get to pardon yourself. The ashes of our relationship are on you and you alone.” You gritted out bitterly.

For a moment she just stared at you, her chest heaving as she clutched at her chest. Almost as though your words physically impacted her. “I…I’m sorry.” she took a deep breath and recollected herself. She reached out to you, you stepped back. Her face contorted in pain at the knowledge that you didn’t want her anymore.

“I know I don’t deserve it and you have no reason give it to me, but please, give us a second chance. Let me prove to you I mean what I say, to prove that you… you are everything. There will never be anyone else. I love you.” her eyes met yours pleadingly, slowly breaking before your very eyes.

You took your own deep breath and braced yourself for the words you were about to say. “Wanda, we don’t stand a chance. It’s sad, but it’s true. We’re bound to end in tragedy.” You said quietly, staring off in the distance because you weren’t sure you could handle watching her reaction. “It’s time to move on.”

Like a magnet though, your eyes found hers either way.

Broken. That’s the only word that came to mind when you saw her expression. Broken sobs left her lips. Her eyes glistened as they desperately searched yours for something, something that you had blocked off long ago. “You don’t mean that.” She whispered, her lips trembling along with her words.

You shut your eyes for a moment and prepared yourself to close the door on what you both had. “Goodbye, Wanda.” You whispered as you walked off without looking back.

If you did, you would have seen the way she fell to her knees. The knowledge that she had no one to blame for her own broken heart but herself bringing her to her knees. She buried her face in her hands as sobs wracked through her body. Longing for the comfort of your arms.

Silent tears rolled down your cheeks as you listened to the sound of her cries in the distance, but you knew it was for the best... At least you hoped it was.

That night Steve announced that it would be in everyone’s best interest to split up for the time being as he handed out older phones to everyone so each of you could be contacted and check in. After his announcement everyone retreated to their room. You quietly let Steve know where you planned on going and told no one else.

As you discreetly prepared to leave the following morning, you found a dozen flowers at your door, half purple violets and half white dittanies. The memory of the last time you saw these flowers filled your mind bittersweetly. A memory that no longer felt like it belonged to you.

When Wanda awoke, she was disappointed to find the flowers she had gifted you back at her door and the room you were staying in empty. Even if her heart ached, she knew that she couldn’t give up. She’d try and try again because your love was worth fighting for and she wouldn’t let you go again. She was determined to spend the rest of her life trying to win you back if she had to. There was no other path for her.

And there we have chapter 9! Angst, angst, angst. I got a little carried away lol. Only 3 more to go, where do you think the reader and Wanda will go from here? As always, hope you all enjoyed and thoughts and comments always welcome.

P.s. did anyone catch a hint of a different Sam Smith song in there? It may be a hint for the next chapter, it may not be. Still deciding.

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ramblings-of-a-mad-cat · 3 years

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I'm a sucker for Pokemon Mystery Dungeon, so You have Headcannons about it?

I'll Start saying that One of My First Playthroughs Treecko was my partner, so When Grovyle shows up I Made The Crazy HC that he was my partner from The future ajdbdj

Oh my good friend, it depends on which game you’re asking about!

But in general, I do love the wild implications and questions raised by having a Treecko on your team in Explorers. I suppose a similar idea presents itself in Rescue Team, though not involving time travel. Imagine if your partner was a Charmander, and the Charizard on Team A.C.T. was actually their biological dad? Just something to think about. Speaking of fathers, can we just take a moment to give a shoutout for how Dugtrio is depicted? (In Explorers, I can’t remember if they did the same thing in Rescue) I know it’s because they have three heads, and I know referring to oneself as multiple people isn’t really something that we see in the same context in real life...but Dugtrio being the way they are and everyone just accepting it, despite how it’s different than the norm...that’s such a great example to set? Like, I didn’t get it as a kid, but I so appreciate it now. It’s an unorthodox form of representation, but the writing of Dugtrio’s character has its heart in the right place.

Most headcanons I have will probably be for Explorers, since while I love all of these games, that is the one that I’ve played backwards and forwards. Here’s one: The Multiverse Theory. I believe there are several timelines that have occurred and overlap each other. The Dark Future, as well as the Restored Future that the heroes create, are just two examples. I feel like Darkrai would have tried several times, creating new portals for each failure.

Here’s a tricky question: If the Time Gears are supposed to be in Temporal Tower, and even have slots fitted for them...why weren’t they there in the first place? Why were they placed in different locations around the world? If Darkrai moved them, why did they have Guardians who seemed to have been there for generations, assuming that that was where the Gears were supposed to be? Here’s another question: The Time Gear depicted on the loading screen for Explorers of Darkness...what was that about? As of Sky, we’ve seen every Time Gear location, and there were only five...this is what I mean. Multiverse. That location looked a hell of a lot like the Dark Crater. I bet there was a timeline where Darkrai kept one of the Time Gears to ensure Temporal Tower could never be fully restored. We only know that he “sabotaged it” after all.

Here’s another question about Darkrai’s powers: How the heck does he have the ability to transfigure a human into a pokemon? How was he able to do that? I’m pretty sure the amnesia was just a naturally occurring side-effect, that the MC bumped their head or something. So that would answer that question. Here’s another point - Darkrai was aiming for Grovyle. MC shielded him. Which of course raises the question - what the heck would that attack have done to Grovyle? I’m not sure, part of me wonders if it wouldn’t have reduced him to being a Treecko, perhaps? That could be the connection. Or maybe it was just a run of the mill nightmare attack that he’s known for, but since it was meant for a Pokemon’s mind, it responded different to a human’s? What if the MC being a pokemon is, itself, a kind of dream, come to life?

The Dimensional Scream. This ability is so weird. In the past, it can work on anything. In the future, it’s only Time Gears. Why is that? I feel like maybe it has some connection to how the Time Gears being in different places across different timelines. How in some, they’re in Temporal Tower, yet in others, they’re around the world. I wonder where an ability like this would come from, and why only humans can have it. Why couldn’t say, a psychic type pokemon have this power? We see from the MC’s transformation that they retain the ability even in a Pokemon’s body. So again, why is it only humans who can have this power? That’s not even getting into the unanswered questions about how humans fit into this universe. It’s not like Gates to Infinity where humans are directly established to be seen as fairy tales to the Pokemon. In this game, they know what humans are, but the player is the only one they ever meet.

Here’s a fun theory. Those Time Gears fit into Temporal Tower, into a shape that looks like one big Time Gear. Suppose in the original, true timeline....it was all one Gear? That Darkrai’s sabotage was what broke it into pieces? Suppose the fracture of time is what caused all the divergent timelines to become possible, to overlap? Suppose the MC is psychically attuned to the fracture in time, and that connection is what creates the Dimensional Scream? It would tie in with how it’s animated, that’s for sure. It could go a ways to explaining why the ability is so random. Why it sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t, and how it even seems to be affected by the presence of Time Gears or lack thereof. What if The Dark Future is a kind of chasm where all of the timelines are leading to unless changed, and within the Dark Future, time itself is dying? After all, everything has frozen, and Dialga has lost all sense of reason. So the connection to other timelines is actually weaker in the Dark Future, hence only being able to use The Scream in connection to the Time Gears?

I’d imagine the MC was a coveted asset in the war. That Dusknoir would have, at one time, badly wanted to recruit them to work for Primal Dialga, because they would be the greatest weapon the Resistance could possibly have. But both the MC and Grovyle were willing to let themselves die to bring a better tomorrow (or well, “today) for the pokemon (and humans?) of their world. You know how Grovyle talks about seeing the sunrise for the first time? The morning after Darkrai’s attack? How much it blew him away and strengthened his resolve? Yeah, I think about that moment a lot. Man, the plot twists and characters in these games are so good. Even if you predicted the Grovyle/Dusknoir switcharoo, did anyone see the “My best friend...” twist coming? I know I didn’t, but it was so well foreshadowed! Speaking of that scene, the place we meet up with Celebi is absolutely the future version of Fogbound Lake. I don’t know if that was supposed to be obviously true, or if it’s just a head-canon on my part, but it seemed pretty clear. Hell if we assume that the portals can only travel through time, not space...then that means Dusknoir just brought us to the future of Treasure Town. What if...what if the Stockade was what’s left of the Guild? Oh my god.

Let’s talk about the Partner. How they had the Relic Fragment with them, the key to powering the Rainbow Stoneship, the beacon to signal Lapras...and the Partner just “happened to pick it up somewhere.” Seriously, that’s all we get. They handwave the question of where the hell the partner got this, and I think it’s an important one to think about. The way I see it, there are two possibilities. One, that the Relic Fragment itself chose the Partner, and thus presented itself to them. Think of like, the Sword of Gryffindor presenting itself to someone from that House who is worthy. If the Relic Fragment could somehow sense within the Partner’s soul that they were worthy, a good person. The other possibility is that the Relic Fragment was somehow stolen from where it was meant to be kept, and ended up getting passed around, stolen or moved by unsuspecting pokemon until it fell into the partner’s lap by pure chance. But if I had to guess a resting place for the Relic Fragment...hmm. I don’t know why Waterfall Cave is my first guess, since it doesn’t suit the aesthetic of the gem room at all. But it does have a built in trap. What if the gems were just a decoy to distract any visitors from the seemingly less fancy Fragment? Would make sense, especially since you can’t pick them up. Hell the cave itself is supposed to be a secret in general.

#Pokemon #Pokemon Mystery Dungeon #Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Sky #Grovyle #Dusknoir #Primal Dialga

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calitraditionalism · 3 years

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Arc Three: Chapter Six

(AO3 counterpart here.)

The broken ring of an audience was silent for a long time after Greyleaf’s story ended. They looked at each other, at the sky, at nothing at all, trying to absorb what they had been told and to deduce whether any of it was true or not.

All of the anger seemed to have left Greyleaf, his fur lying flat, if a little clumped and stiff from the rain. He breathed normally, his eyes tired and dark. He stood straighter, like the massive weight of his knowledge had been physically lifted off his back. Redheart mirrored his posture, though her head was a little lowered and her expression was one of relief. The two of them said nothing, merely watched the cats around them.

Flyfang was the first to speak, her voice cracked and weak. “Then my mom’s soul…”

“If she’s dead, she’s in that thing,” Redheart said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Flyfang shivered hard. “And my dad…” She froze up with a gasp. “When my sisters die-“

“When we all die.” Laurelclaw looked back and forth with increasing distress, his short tail puffed up like a coyote’s. “Our families, friends – everyone-“ He turned pleadingly to Redheart and Greyleaf. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Outside of leaving?” Greyleaf’s calmness was tainted with a bitter twitch of his lip. “Probably not.”

“They could be lying,” Beetlefoot said, hardly sounding like he was certain. “They could be mistaken.”

“I doubt it,” Darkpelt said, still cool and collected, even if her pupils were constricted and her tail was shaking. “This entire thing makes sense to me. Even if they made it up, it’s way too out there to be a reasonably invented lie. Who would claim something this crazy and expect anyone to believe them?”

Beetlefoot’s mouth moved a few times, but he gave up, staring at the ground with a dumbfounded sense of fear.

Greyleaf now looked at Mistface, deeply unhappy. “Can you see now why we have to leave with Mama as soon as possible?”

Mistface tried to breathe, but it came out shaky and stuttering. “We’re…we are on a time limit, ain’t we?”

Greyleaf dipped his chin a little in a half-nod before returning his focus to the rest of the group. “So whatever you want to do with that, you can. That’s the truth, and we’re trying to save everyone before they can die here.”

“It’s quite a task, as you can see,” Redheart said. “I’m amazed that any of you believe us.”

Silence again for a long moment, before Littlepaw’s timid voice broke it. “Then…what do we do now?”

Everyone looked at each other again, seeking someone to tell them too.

Darkpelt sighed and shook out her fur. “Well, for now, we should probably just rest. It’s night and we’ll need to think things over.” She pulled one side of her mouth back, considering. “I suppose we’ll have someone coming for us soon enough. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to have time to decide on my next course of action before they catch up to us.”

“I’ll take watch, if y’all intend to sleep,” Mistface said, a little quicker than he would have liked. He needed privacy to reflect, and he'd take it any way he could without outright abandoning the group.

A pause where everyone turned to the Clast deputy, silently seeking an answer, or an order - something to give them direction.

Redheart slowly spoke. “I think sleep would be best. None of us can go anywhere when it’s this dark and wet at the same time.”

“I can try, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,” said Laurelclaw. He shook his head and regarded Greyleaf and Redheart almost in awe. “I have no idea how you’ve slept at all for all these years.”

“I never knew anything else,” Greyleaf muttered, and moved to the side, prodding the ground for a dry spot.

“All I had was my goal.” Redheart backed a little and sniffed the ground. “That’s what’s kept me going.”

It took a long time before everyone was settled – finding a spot that wasn’t entirely muddy or soaking grass was difficult, and their breathing gave away their stress. Mistface didn’t speak to any of them. He just sat facing the direction they had come from, ears perked, mind racing.

It could all be a lie, he wanted to remind himself. It didn’t have to be true. His brother could have just been driven mad by his nightmares and Redheart took advantage of that. Or maybe Redheart was a loony, and Greyleaf was just desperate for an explanation. And even as he thought that, he knew how stupid of a suggestion it was. Darkpelt was right – this was too strange of a story to be thought acceptable to sell to others under the knowledge that it was made up. Liars could think up sensible details from dusk ‘til dawn, and the insane could believe total nonsense. Doing both was not easy.

These thoughts turned over and over in Mistface’s head as he half-listened to the rest of the cats’ breathing slow and deepen. It took a very long time for everyone to fall asleep, and Mistface kept his ear swiveling, listening for anyone having a nightmare. He didn’t know exactly how the truth would affect them, but he wasn’t willing to disregard the idea that someone was going to see something bad.

Grass shifted.

Mistface’s head jerked around. He got halfway off his haunches. No one could have found them this early, could they?

It was black and silver out here in the night, but he thought he saw something to the side of a tree on the edge of the grove. Some shape that could have been a fox, or could have been…

“Not a chance,” he said under his breath. He stood up and craned his neck forward, squinting.

A figure, tall and dark and thin. It stood silently, regarding him as he regarded it.

He immediately knew who it was.

Mistface did one quick dart of the eyes to make sure no one was coming towards them from the north, and then stood and slowly made his way to the shadow.

It didn’t move. In fact, the way it watched him, he was sure that it had timed its visit just so that someone would see it. Its snakelike tail, fading away towards the tip, waved a little, side-to-side.

“You’re right bold, ain’t you?” Mistface said, keeping his voice low. He stopped when he was several body-lengths away. “What if we hadn’t heard their story before we saw you?”

The Runagate blinked slowly, almost dryly. I was there to hear it. Have to keep close to them these days. My voice isn’t as strong as it was.

Mistface knew that, faced with a ghost – or demon, or devil, or spirit, whatever it was – he should be at least a little nervous, if not outright scared. He knew the tales. He knew that it could have been manipulating two innocent and stressed-out cats.

Somehow, though, it felt like talking with a neighbor. Or perhaps like sharing a view with someone else of something too strange to explain.

Mistface tilted his head. “Funny, ain’t it. Whole perspective of the world gets changed in one night. Now you’re hardly anythin’ to talk to.”

I’ve been ‘hardly anything’ for a very long time, the Runagate said. Its head lowered a little. Just slowly fading while I try to spread the word. It’s all I’ve got now, like them. A pause, and then, almost too quiet to hear the thought, I don’t even remember who I was before all of this. Before I died.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mistface said - genuinely, to his surprise. “You’re nothin’ like I imagined.”

The smallest ‘hm’, that could perhaps be considered a noise of hollow amusement. They always make me out to be some pale monster with a snake’s tongue. Got real tired of watching those performances the first couple generations.

“I can only imagine.” Mistface looked back, checking to see if anyone was awake. Nothing. He turned again to the Runagate. “You’re somethin’ special, certainly. How did you get away from it? Redheart’s mother didn’t.”

She should have fled herself, the Runagate said, and its voice was just a little more intense in Mistface’s head, with some emotion he couldn’t name. I took one look before I ran for everything I held dear. Didn’t pause to ask questions. Just ran. And I’ve been running since then.

Mistface was surprised at the pity in his heart – not just because he had it at all, but because out of all of the characters in the Clan’s legends he had been told about, he didn’t expect to feel it for a supposed demon who was living through sheer determination, even when the whole Territory was against them.

A question came to his mind. “There been anyone else you’ve told? Anyone else who’s known?”

A heavy sigh…or perhaps the wind. Only a few, and only one at a time. Greyleaf and Redheart existing together is a miracle. The others, they did nothing. They could find nothing to do. Most of them just ran away. Sometimes took friends or family out of the Territory. I don’t know where they are now.

Mistface’s eyelids lowered a little as he considered this. There came another question, burning with his curiosity much more. “Greyleaf ain’t ever been affected by this. You got any idea why?”

The Runagate made another lifeless, breathy noise like a chuckle. I wish I knew. He’s a first. Not many cats like him that nothing can get to. It took everything I had just to talk to him in his dreams that one time.

“Huh.” Mistface’s eyes drifted down. “Curious. It’d be worthwhile to study that.”

If you have the time before it’s too late, certainly.

“We will,” Mistface said, startled again by a new sensation in his chest – something steady and warm, making him feel a little bolder. “Everyone’s gettin’ the time. We’ll figure somethin’ out. This ain’t continuin’.”

The Runagate’s head tilted and its eyes narrowed, but its tone was almost surprised. You intend to do something about this.

Mistface was unsure of what he was feeling, but he let it guide him into a firm nod. “If for no one else, for my family. Mama ain’t goin’ to that thing.” His fur fluffed out a little. “No one is, if I got my way. I’m sure at least some of these folks’ll feel the same.”

The Runagate blinked slowly, regarding him. The fading tail drifted back and forth slowly, like grass in the breeze. Mistface met what remained of its eyes with firm focus. Neither spoke for a moment.

I can give you all what I know, the Runagate said finally. I don’t know how much help I can be otherwise. I’m running out of… The silhouette shuddered and rippled. I’m out of everything, really. Time. Energy. Fear can only keep one going for so long, brother of Greyleaf.

Mistface gave it one nod and said, about as firmly as he could at such a quiet volume, “You’ll rest soon. We can figure this out.”

The shadowy face had a hint of a smile. I’ll hold you to that.

#warrior cats #steorra #arc three #chapter #chapter six #redheart #greyleaf #mistface #beetlefoot #littlepaw #laurelclaw #darkpelt #flyfang #the runagate

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scribbleb-red · 4 years

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Neil is a lying liar who lies AU

A Morning AU - with a fab prompt from @djhedy

There’s a new boy in Andrew’s class and there’s something not quite right about him. He’s mouthy and sharp, the kinda kid that should end up in detention three times a week but never does.

They are seven years old, though the new kid looks five, with eyes like a wide open sky.

He is very pretty - that’s why Andrew notices him first - he looks like a fairy prince.

And it’s because Andrew is watching that he notices though: the kid is a big bad lying liar who lies.

The day he joined, the kid said his name was ‘Stefan’ to Mrs Stewart and ‘Chris’ to Mr Brasenose. The next day he was just ‘Neil’ and was given a fond, exasperated warning to keep his make believe in the playground.

But the kid didn’t stop lying.

Some lies were big and others were small.

On a Tuesday, Neil announced that he’d had a huge feast for breakfast - listing all the foods and making everyone’s mouth water with the descriptions. (But Andrew saw how he winced nd held his stomach like it was empty.)

On a Thursday, Neil said he grew up in England and proceeded to spend the next week speaking in a post English accent. (But he later admits at lunch it was just a couple months).

On a Friday, Neil whispers that his house is haunted and he’s scared to go home for the weekend. (There’s a little too much truth shining through those eyes as he talks about the ghost in his house. Andrew doesn’t doubt that he’s scared of something).

The following Monday, Neil explains his bruises by saying he spent the week learning to skateboard.

“My cousin visited and let me use her skate board. It was pretty rad.”

(Andrew eyes the split lip, it could be true. But then he sees the hand shape around Neil’s thin wrist and knows the truth: it’s a lie.)

Through it all, Andrew is very quiet and very alone. He knows how this goes - he’s seven years old with more cracks in his heart than a fifty year romantic - but he kinda enjoys Neil’s lies and how he gets away with them.

He particularly likes the outrageous ones:

My father parachuted into Paris because he’s a spy. He died landing on the Eiffel Tower. I once wrestled a monster. I won but it stole all my mom’s apples. I’m telling the truth. My tongue goes green when I lie. I met Kevin Day.

Andrew won’t pretend he’s not intrigued. He thinks Neil is interesting and his lies are ones he can often hold in the dark, imagining over and over when he’s hurt and wishing to be anyone, anywhere but here.

Plus Neil is funny - he always snarks at the teachers and gets away with the most ridiculous things. Other kids always want to play with him because his games are brilliant - epic journeys, castles and wizards, magical tigers, patchwork villains made from the skin of children.

Some of Neil’s tall tales are part fairytales, part nightmares. And Andrew isn’t sure which part Neil actually belongs to. There are times where he’s the brightest, prettiest boy on the playground. And times where his eyes are haunted, mouth wicked cruel. And then there are times like today, where Neil is quiet and blank - a little too familiar to what Andrew sees in the mirror these days, looking like someone has scooped out his insides and left nothing but darkness behind in its wake.

Andrew almost talks to him then.

Almost.

But he doesn't. Not for another few weeks. Not until Neil's facing down Greg Doyle - the fight has the vibe of a hissing kitten against a rottweiler.

There's no way Neil can win. Greg is a third grader and big beside.

But Neil doesn't look scared. He looks ferocious.

Not that appearances are going to help. Neil could have the sharpest claws of them all and he'd still weigh nothing against Greg. Neil dodges and ducks the first few blows. He snipes and snarks, that liar's mouth rattling off stories of how he took down a SWAT team once.

But dumb luck can’t do everything and finally Greg gets a thump in, straight across Neil’s jaw - hard enough to make him stagger.

"So much for a SWAT team, fucking liar."

There are gasps at the bad word from the growing first and second grade audience.

"Tongue turns green," Neil says. He spits out blood.

Andrew's had enough when he sees the blood.

Neil might be an idiot but Andrew knows that there's no way to win this one on alone He steps forward and puts himself between Neil and Greg.

"Oooo who's this, your boyfriend?"

Andrew would roll his eyes, but can't be bothered. He is the tallest kid in their year at nearly 4'5. He can look the nine year old Greg in the eye without trouble and he can see the bigger kid calculating his chances of taking Andrew on instead of the skinny little creature that was Neil "motor mouth" Josten.

"Back off," he says. He doesn't inflect. He watched a cartoon where a character spoke completely flat and it was really scary so he figures this might make Greg cower too. "Leave him alone."

Greg nearly steps into Andrew's space but someone has started a whisper:

Andrew Doe is the kid who killed his parents. Andrew Doe is the kid that burned a house down. Andrew Doe is the kid who took on Bertie Becker from fifth grade and flushed his head down the loo.

It's the last one that gives away the source of these rumours - Neil has started a chain of Chinese whispers. And Greg hears them swirling from mouth to mouth, ear to ear, each more terrifying than the last. It makes Andrew want to grin, so he does. Greg actually whimpers.

The crowd laughs when Greg runs away - he can’t save face when he’s fleeing from a first grader.

Andrew feels triumphant.

Especially when Neil steps up beside him, shy smile and summer sky eyes. “Thanks Andrew.”

Neil Josten knows his name, Andrew thinks. Wow wow wow.

Neil’s mouth is swollen but he’s still the prettiest boy in the playground so Andrew doesn’t say anything.

“Want to play a game?” Neil says.

Andrew shrugs.

“Yes or no?” Neil says again. “I won’t force you but I’d like to play with you to if you’d like to play with me.”

Andrew thinks about it before saying yes.

It’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

They start with games - make believe quests and imaginary journeys. They visit magical worlds in their heads and fall about laughing when one of them (mostly Andrew) doesn’t break character even for class.

They become inseparable - two boys with home lives full of ghosts but dreams that can take them anywhere. The lying liar is the better story teller but the stoic hero a better actor. And sometimes in games they hide their truths - violent families and horrifying pasts.

Neil shows Andrew his scars, “I sometimes say they’re from a shark or ninjas and stuff but...”

“That’s from an iron.”

“Yeah.”

In turn, Andrew tells Neil about his foster family.

“We could poison him,” Neil says. “I heard we can make poison from apple cores. Applesenic or something.”

If only it were that simple.

It happens just before the end of the year - summer is nearly there and Andrew can only imagine how fun it'll be having a friend to adventure with for the first time. And then he finds out that his foster family is getting rid of him. He'll be packed off at the end of term.

"I think mom and I will move too," Neil admits. "We never hang around anywhere long."

"Because of your dad?"

"Yeah..." Neil plays with the hem of his t-shirt. "He's in prison but mom is still terrified. She moves us a lot."

"Maybe you can move to the same place as me."

They pretend that the world isn't going to split them apart.

They pretend that they're going to have the summer together.

And the year after.

That they'll start middle school together.

And be best friends all the way to the end of high school.

And go to the same college.

"We could play exy together all the way through," Neil says. It's his new obsession.

"I'm not going to play stickball. I prefer playing games with you."

"We can play games on the court. You can be the fierce dragon and I'll be the knight that looks after you."

"You'd steal all my dragon gold."

"Would not."

Andrew raises one eyebrow.

"Okay, yes I would. I'd be the knight trying to take your gold. But I'd be sneaky about it." Neil's laughter is high and bright. "Does that mean you'll play with me?"

"Yeah okay," Andrew says.

But it doesn't work out that way.

Neil vanishes like sun behind a mountain the day after term ends.

Andrew's bags are packed. He's dumped in a new home near the beach. He hates the beach. He misses Neil the way his lungs miss oxygen when he's stuck in the swell of a wave.

He does play exy though.

He does it because he figures one day he'll find Neil on a court too.

He'll either face him down or by some miracle they'll be on the same team.

He'll find Neil again. He will.

He tells himself this every day.

Even when it feels like a lie.

Something like an epilogue

Years pass before Andrew hears anything about the little boy who - for two semesters when he was seven - was his best friend. So many years that if it weren't for one polaroid from a cheeky arcade photo-booth, he might have let the idea of Neil go.

But he keeps the photo with him - through home after home, through Cass and Drake and juvie and Aaron and Nicky. He hides it in books, folds it into pockets. Makes sure to hold onto Neil and the memories of those few happy months.

He plays exy. Keeps track of other teams and their players. The sport does nothing for him - but sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines Neil with his flashing blue eyes mischievous smile and that long ago conversation. He remembers why he's doing this.

At 13, he asks Pig Higgins to do a search on Neil's name but the policeman refuses.

At 14, he goes through the entire directory for California and when that's exhausted, he starts searching every state from West to East.

He calls 362 Jostens across the USA. None are Neil.

When he turns 16, he uses a fake and has two small dragons outlined on the top of his left shoulder.

When he's 17 he meets Riko and Kevin Day. He remembers Neil once saying he'd met Kevin and wonders if that was true or just one of Neil's many many lies. He turns the Ravens down.

He signs two weeks later with the Palmetto State Foxes - taking his brother and cousin with him.

He watches as the lists of drafted players on other teams go up. There's no Chris or Stefan or Abram - not with the matching face Andrew wants. There's no sign of a Neil Josten.

Andrew smooths out the photo at night, slipping it between the pages of Whitman's Leaves of Grass every morning.

Maybe it's time to put the memory of Neil to rest, but he can't.

Neil is one of those beautiful ghosts that he can't help but hold onto. The one unspoilt thing in his memory.

Unspoilt, that is, until a Monday when Kevin Day announces he's recruiting a nobody from a nothing town in the middle of nowhere Arizona and the nobody's name is Neil.

"Neil what?"

"Josten. Want to see his tape?"

"Nope," Andrew says. But his heart is a thunderdrum, hope cutting through the medicated hyper mania easy as a knife through butter. "Actually yes, gimme the tapes little birdie."

Kevin grimaces at his nickname but says nothing until they’re watching the tape. And then he can’t shut up about the player’s potential, his speed and natural flare on the Court.

It's not Andrew’s Neil.

But it is too.

The striker on the court is a brunette with dark eyes but he runs like Neil. He's ferocious and plays like it's the last thing keeping him afloat. He has that little flick of his racquet before he goes to score, a telltale that would never get passed Andrew but no one else seemed to have noticed.

Andrew says as much to Kevin.

"Exactly," Kevin says. "That's why we have to have him."

So they go to Millport.

And Andrew knows Neil well enough to anticipate that he'll run.

Knows him well enough to trip him with a racquet and catch him as he falls.

Neil hasn't grown much either - he's still small and sharp and far too pretty to be real.

"Stupid little liar, you should watch where you put your feet." Andrew wishes he were sober. Wishes he didn't have to greet Neil with this grin splitting his face.

Wishes wishes wishes.

But his one wish has already come true, Neil is here with him. Warm and lithe and alive.

"Drew?" Neil says, but the word is choked and breathless. Neil’s voice does something to Andrew’s insides and Andrew feels the muscles beneath his hands warring between flight and relief.

"Neil," he replies.

"Oh my god, Drew."

And then Neil's arms are around Andrew's shoulders, and his face is turning into his neck and Andrew realises they're hugging and he shouldn't want to hug back but he does. He does because it's Neil. His friend. His pipe dream. The little boy with the pathological need to lie and an imagination that could create whole worlds from a handful of dust.

He hugs Neil tight.

Never wants to let go.

Kevin of course ruins the moment.

But Neil isn't going to say no to the Foxes. Not now.

And even though Andrew can recognise the lies slipping passed Neil's lips, he doesn't tell Wymack. Doesn't call out his idiot's new ouchies. Doesn't answer any questions when Kevin demands answers.

"Sign," he speaks only to Neil. He means, Stay with me. "We can play a game. Yes or no?"

"Yes," Neil says and his smile is a little wild, a lot wonderful. "Let's play a game."

The End.

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chipper9906 · 4 years

Text

Hello, Stranger

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 15 EPISODE 18 ‘DESPAIR’ AND SEASON 15 EPISODE 19 ‘INHERIT THE EARTH’

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 6,201

Status: One Shot - Complete

Summary/Preview

The man above him was panting heavily, wheezing for breath through pained grunts, and usually, Dean would find some comfort in knowing he at least got a few good licks in.

Instead, all he could do was drop his head back into the carpet with gritted teeth. Great. He was Dean Winchester; He had taken on monsters that most believed to be fairy tales, he had taken on Lucifer, he had taken on God. Hell, he had even killed Hitler.

And now he was about to be killed by some goddamn junkie that had broken into his apartment.

Fan-friggen-tastic.

* * *

A post episode/ post season fix it fic because my heart hurts and I needed some happiness.

Link To Fic

Click Below To Keep Reading

* * *

Dean Winchester is a homeowner.

Well, he signed a contract that lets him rent a shitty, musty, one-bedroom apartment that has questionable stains on the carpet and the lingering smell of weed soaked into the walls, but it’s his. It’s also situated between a few bars and a pizza place that serves the best damn meat lover’s pizza he’s ever tasted in his life, so y’know. Silver linings.

The off-yellow, fluorescent light of the fridge hums obnoxiously at him, lighting the two last bottles of beer he has sat snugly in the corner. Dean pulls one out, grumbling to himself as he pats at the chipped kitchen counter for the bottle opener. He flips the cap off with a flick he has done many times, chucking the cap somewhere to the side (he swears he’ll throw them away later) and flopping down onto his couch with a groan.

His phone shrills at him from within his jean’s pocket and Dean throws his head back with an exasperated sigh. This was what he signed up for, after all. He just didn’t know how Bobby did it. The whole ‘normal job whilst also acting as an information source for the hunter network’ crap. If it were up to him, he’d just do the ‘hunter network’ stuff. You know, what actually matters. But he’s too old to be living out of motels which were paid for with fake credit cards and cash from hustling, so he has to do it the legal way. That’s not to say the apartment is a huge step up from the usual dumps he and Sammy used to stay in when on the road, but still. It’s his place.

Relief floods through him when he finally yanks the phone out of his pocket and sees Sam’s name plastered across the screen. Looks like he was free from hunter duties for a while yet.

“Heya Sammy,” Dean greets him the second he has the phone to his ear, his smile practically audible through the phone. “Is this an ‘another apocalypse’ phone call or…?”

“No, you jerk,” Sam chuckles down the phone. “It’s a regular phone call. You know, that thing normal people do when they check up on family?”

Dean nearly snorted into his beer. “Yeah, well, we’re far from normal, Sammy.”

“Funnily enough, I’m aware of that. But this is as close to ‘normal’ as we’re going to get. It’s the best we’re going to get.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully, swallowing down a mouthful of beer. “Yeah? Tell that to the dumbass newbie at work who decided he didn’t need to put the oil cap back on after changing the oil… oil everywhere Sammy. Everywhere. I can hack off vampire heads all day, but dealing with people? It’s a nightmare, Sam.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Sam assured him. “We’ll get used to it. It’s… Dean, you know how nice it is to hear you complain about work? Hearing ‘my co-workers a pain in the ass’ instead of ‘there’s a Were on my tail, bring the silver’ is something I never thought I’d get to experience.”

“Were on my tail? Wow, great pun there Sam…” Dean mumbled into the phone, getting a half-amused half annoyed snort from his brother. “Maybe one day I’ll go full ‘Bobby’. Get a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, open up my own mechanic shop… though, doubt I could go back to the old way of looking up the lore… Hey, they do satellite internet, right?”

Sam had suddenly gone very quiet. Dean raised his eyebrows as he waited for his brother's response, the white-noise from the other end of the line the only reassurance to Dean that the line hadn’t gone dead.

“Uh… yeah. Yeah, I think that’s something you could get set up.” Sam finally answered. “But… you know you can do all that without the whole ‘hunting network’ thing, right? That is still an option-,”

“I know, Sam,” Dean cut off his little brother abruptly. “I know that’s an option. And maybe one day I’ll realize just how old and broken down I am and accept that. But-,”

“But you won’t,” Sam sighed subtly.

“Maybe one day,” Dean repeated softly. “I just… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to quit cold turkey, Sam. I just… I need to do something.”

“Have you been on any hunts?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders, forgetting that Sam couldn’t see him. “Eh, a few. No solo hunts, before you panic. There was a hunter going through town, uh, Jason White? Hadn’t heard of him before, but-,” Dean huffed quietly in laughter. “-He sure as hell heard of me. Seems the Winchester name still has its rep around the hunter community.”

“I can never tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“Dude was giddy to work with me, so I’d say it was a good thing.” Dean took another swig of beer. “And that’s when they don’t even know we kicked God’s ass!”

“Jack kicked God’s ass,” Sam corrected him. “We got our asses kicked by God.”

“Yeah, but… we needed to get Chuck to beat us up for the plan to work, so… I think it’s fair to say we brought down God.”

“Depending on who you tell that to, you might end up being flayed rather than hailed as a hero.”

Dean paused with the bottle of beer to his lips. “Point taken… maybe it would be better to keep it to ourselves.”

“Probably,” Sam agreed with a chuckle.

“How ‘bout you, Sammy? How’s college life treating you? Again?”

“It’s…” Sam was about to do the usual ‘everything’s great’ spiel, but something about Dean’s inquiring tone made him pause. “… it’s more difficult than I’d thought. I don’t know, maybe I should have had some kind of buffering time between, try and adjust a little before going back.”

“I can imagine.”

“Back then, I felt like I belonged in college, you know? I felt… on par with everyone around me, but now? I stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Yeah? Well, you are an old man amongst eighteen to twenty-year old’s.”

“Thirty-seven isn’t old, jerk. Plenty of people go back to college when they’re…”

“…older?” Dean finished his sentence with glee.

“Shut up.”

Dean laughed smugly at his brother’s annoyed grumbles, though he quickly pulled himself back together. “Seriously though Sammy, I… I hope you know I’m proud of you for this. I know it’s not exactly what we – what I imagined, but… I’m glad to see you living out the life you set out for yourself. I know I wasn’t supportive of you when you first left for college, and I know it’s gonna be tough for you. But if you can go up against God and win, I’m sure you can pass your bar exam.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam’s voice sounded a little choked. “How are you doing, anyway? I didn’t really ask.”

“Living the dream, Sammy. Living the dream.” Dean answered dryly, staring sombrely at the last dregs of beer in the bottle and wondering whether it’s worth grabbing the last bottle from the fridge. Future Dean will hate him if he does…

“Seriously, Dean.” If Sam’s voice was anything to go by, he had the puppy dog eyes on full effect right now. “How are you? You okay? I know it’s been hard since… since…”

Dean swallowed hard, letting his eyes flutter shut and his head lean back against the couch. “No, Sam. I’m pretty damn far from okay. And I’m not sure if I ever will be, but… I’ll learn to cope.”

“Dean, it’s… don’t be afraid to ask for help with this kind of stuff. I know it’s a bit unconventional when it comes to our lives, but-,”

“A bit unconventional?” Dean spluttered. “Sam, how the hell would I go about explaining any of this to a shrink, huh? ‘Hey, I had the literal Death trying to kill me, and one of the few people I love sacrificed himself to save me by telling me he loves me.’ Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go down a-,”

“What did you just say?” Sam interrupted in a quiet, shocked voice. “Dean, you… did Cas say-,”

“I’m not talking about that, Sammy.” Dean’s tone left no room for argument.

“Cas was my friend too you know, Dean,” Sam argued back, his voice understanding but digging too much for Dean’s liking. “I know you don’t like talking about this, but-,”

“No, Sam. I don’t like talking about it.” Dean snapped curtly.

“But-,”

“Cas was my Eileen, Sam.” Dean could hear Sam’s mouth snap close, the stunned silence on the other end of the phone too loud in Dean’s ear. “And I know you sure as hell don’t like talking about her. I had to… Fuck, do you have any idea, Sam? I never let myself think about it, about what Cas was to me. He could be a stubborn bastard and hard to read at times, and this whole damn time, he loved me and… he never told me. All this time he’d been holding that to himself and he just… I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t say anything. He was just gone, and I…”

“You loved him.”

It wasn’t a question. Dean squeezed his eyes shut at Sam’s words. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. And he never got to know. He never heard me say it.”

Dean ran a tense hand through his hair, pulling at the strands with a pained grimace. “I still see him sometimes, Sammy. I feel like I’m going crazy. I’ll see a flash of him in a crowd, see that stupid tax-accountant get up of his out of the corner of my eye, and… I keep telling myself he’s gone, that I need to move on.”

“You will, Dean. Sometimes, after… after Jess, I’d see her, too. Grief does strange things to the mind.”

“Yeah, I know, but… I can’t help but think about when I lost him in purgatory. When I kept seeing him, back then, and… all that time, he was trying to reach out to me.”

“This isn’t like then, Dean.” Sam’s response was like a punch to the chest. “Cas was in Purgatory. When he was trying to contact you, he was back on Earth, right? Cas is… he’s in the Empty. The only being with enough power to get him out was Jack, but-,”

“But Jack’s not gonna be hands-on,” Dean said miserably.

“Right…” Sam replied with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Dean. I wish it was Cas, you know I do, but… he’s gone.”

“I know. I know that, Sammy. I’m not denying he’s gone, I just… I miss him. Guess I always assumed we’d win this thing together, you know? ‘Paradise on Earth’ and all that.”

“I don’t even know what Cas would have done after all this,” Sam said with a mild tone of amusement. “After meeting Cas, it felt like we had to stop one apocalypse after the other.”

“Poor guy never really got to catch a break,” Dean agreed sadly. “Maybe I could have trained him up to be a proper hunter, just like he wanted. Or… maybe he would have flown home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah, y’know; Heaven. If the other winged dicks let him back in, that is.”

“Dean… I don’t think ‘Heaven’ is Cas’ home. At least, it hasn’t been for a while, anyway. If Cas was still here, well… whatever he decided to do next, I can’t imagine anything that didn’t involve being by your side, Dean.”

* * *

The later into the night it got, the more tempted Dean was to break out the bottle of whisky he has hidden under his cupboard for ‘emergencies only’.

The only saving grace was that Dean had the day off tomorrow, so it’s not like he had to worry about work. Tonight was just going to be… one of those nights. Getting off the phone with Sammy always left him feeling bittersweet; happy to hear his brother’s voice, but the reminder that he was so far away only worsening the dull ache he felt in his chest that he could only fix by drinking until everything went black and numb.

‘THUMP’

Dean was upright from his bed in seconds, fingers curling around the comforting grip of his pistol under the pillow. The sound hadn’t come from his room, rather somewhere else in the apartment – the living room, perhaps? The kitchen? He slowly peeled off the covers, untangling them from his legs and stepping softly onto the dusty carpet, thankful it would mute his footsteps.

Dean cautiously approached his closed bedroom door, placing his ear up to the door and straining his hearing. Nothing. For a moment, he wondered if he had simply imagined the noise, his emotional and exhausted mind caught between sleep and lucidity, conjuring up a sound to distract him.

Maybe, if Dean were a normal person, he’d have waved it off and headed back to bed. Hunter's instincts are hard to shake off though, and not checking the apartment simply wasn’t an option. Sure, he had thrown up all the usual sigils in the apartment the second he had moved in (and likely ruined any chance of getting his deposit back), but you never know.

Dean clasps his free hand around the rounded doorknob, painstakingly turning it until he hears the ‘click’ of the lock, wincing at how loud the usually quiet sound felt in the silence of the room. Dean swings the door open slowly, peering out of the room and into the pitch-blackness of his apartment. He can barely make out the shadowed outline of his furniture, lit up only by the muted lights of passing traffic peeking in through the partly opened blinds.

Dean takes a single step out into the living room when a hand clasps around his shoulder.

He whirls around in an instant, knocking off the assailant’s arm and lifting his pistol to aim. The gun is wrenched out of his hands in an instant, the unexpectedly strong pull nearly sending him tumbling straight into his attacker. Dean hears his gun clatter to the floor, and he throws a punch out of instinct, feeling his knuckles connect with the strangers’ jaw. There’s a pained grunt from the man, definitely a man by his posture and deep, surprised groan of pain, and Dean jabs out his fist again before the man can counter. His fist lands squarely in the man's gut and Dean knows by the sound the man makes that he had just had the wind knocked out of him.

Dean’s next hit isn’t as successful, the man catching Dean’s fist mid-swing and twisting him away, pushing him forward until his chest hits the wall with a resounding ‘thud’. Dean grimaces at the pressure against his back and arm, kicking out a leg backward and feeling it connect with the guy’s knee. It buckles, the pressure on his back gone and Dean takes the advantage, spinning around and shoving the guy hard. He sees the blurry black figure go sprawling backward, slamming into the wall opposite with another pained grunt. Dean scrambles to the floor in search of his gun, blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the darkness of the room. He just about catches a glint of metal, reaching for the gun before it’s gone again, kicked out of sight by his attacker. Dean growls in frustration, jumping to his feet as fast as his body will let him. It seems he isn’t as fast as he once was, the man grabbing him by the arm and slamming him back down to the ground before he can even blink.

His back hits the floor hard, the air leaving his lungs in one giant ‘whoosh’, dust erupting from the unkempt carpet under him. His attacker had clambered over him, the heavy pressure he felt on his wrists surely the man pinning him down, the weight on top of his legs surely that of the stranger. His head was spinning, vision blurry from the dark, and the hit to the back of his head when he landed. The man above him was panting heavily, wheezing for breath through pained grunts, and usually, Dean would find some comfort in knowing he at least got a few good licks in.

And now he was about to be killed by some goddamn junkie that had broken into his apartment. Fan-friggen-tastic.

“Hello, Dean.”

His heart stops. Pauses, for just a moment. When it kicks back into gear, it's with a hard, resounding thump. The voice was gruff, grated, that of a man who had either smoked ten packs of cigarettes a day or had had his vocal cords shredded apart. It was familiar, like coming home, and he wants to scream to the Universe how fucking cruel it is for him to be losing his mind like this, that it was bad enough to be seeing him, but to be hearing him too?

Unless…

He squirms underneath the man’s grip, his shallow, quick intakes of air a sure sign of an approaching panic attack. To Dean’s surprise, the man's grip slackened, and he let Dean scramble up to his feet. Dean stumbled back into the wall as the man smoothly got to his feet, stood there silently watching Dean panic as he slapped his hand against the wall, searching for the light switch. Dean’s hand passes over the smooth cool plastic of the panel, and he smacks down hard on the switch.

The light bursts to life, bathing the room in that sickening bright white. It’s blinding - as if lightning had struck inside his apartment. Dean still has his hand glued to the light switch; his gaze glued to the stranger stood opposite him.

Except, that was no stranger.

There’s a thin trail of blood slipping down a split lip that’s curved up into a subtle smile, blue eyes glossy with unshed tears that are scanning up and down Dean like he can’t quite believe he’s there. His chest is still heaving with exasperated breaths from their scuffle and he’s holding himself awkwardly, one leg taking more of his weight than the other – likely a result of Dean’s attempt at defending himself.

“Cas? Cas, is this… is that really you?” Dean’s voice is breathy, uncertainty laced in every word.

“I spent the whole drive over here thinking about what to say when I saw you,” Castiel said. “And now all I can think is how I should be scolding you for not checking to see if I’m a shifter or a demon first.”

Dean blinked owlishly at Cas, the shock mixed with the adrenaline sending his brain into overdrive. Cas’s shy smile widened briefly for a moment, barely wincing at the sting of his split lip being pulled.

“Actually, I… I was worried for a moment that I had been told the wrong address and had broken into someone else’s residence. But then you were pulling a gun on me and it seemed a bit too late to ask, so I-,”

Dean rushes forward before Cas can finish his sentence, throwing his arms around Cas’s shoulders and burying his head into his neck. He’s fully aware his hands are shaking, scrunching up the back of Castiel’s trench coat so tightly that he can feel some threads popping loose under his fingers. Castiel’s hands were wrapped around his back in return, squeezing Dean close with all his worth, eyes squeezed shut in content with his head nestled next to Dean’s.

When Dean pulls away, it’s to hold Cas at arm’s length and just… look. Take him all in. To savor the warmth of Cas’s under his hands, to drink in the smile he never thought he’d get to see again. Because there’s a part of him that still doesn’t know if this is real, and he wants to take the time to memorize the feel of Castiel in his arms.

“You, uh…” Dean says somewhat awkwardly. “You need a drink?”

* * *

Dean’s been staring at Cas for way too long then is socially acceptable now.

He’s perched on what Dean knows from experience is an incredibly uncomfortable bar stool at the end of the kitchen counter, the beer Dean had offered him pressed against his split lip from their, um… reunion. Dean tapped his fingers against the cool glass of whisky he held, watching Cas as his eyes scanned curiously around the apartment, and Dean starts to feel guilty for not keeping on top of the cleaning as much as he should. In his defense, he wasn’t exactly expecting company.

“How… how are you here, Cas?”

“I had to hot-wire a car that had been left parked in a desolate road near a field in Illinois. In my defense, it seemed rather neglected, so I doubt it’ll be missed. It was quite difficult finding you actually, your number no longer worked and I had to visit many, many bars to find some hunters who had some knowledge on your whereabouts-,”

“Cas, that’s… that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean how are you here?”

Castiel pulled the bottle away from his lip, placing it down delicately on the countertop. The signature frown was back on his face, along with the cocked head that Dean found much too endearing. “Dean, have you not noticed?”

Dean followed Castiel’s hands to where he had placed a finger on his split lip, wincing when he pressed down a bit too hard.

“What? That I greeted my best friends return from the dead by giving him a beating? Yeah, I kinda noticed.”

Castiel sighed quietly, and Dean grinned at the exasperation. “Have you not noticed that it hasn't healed?”

Dean frowned at him in confusion. “Oh. Why haven’t you…?”

It finally clicked.

Dean sat up straight as it hit him; looking to the split lip, to the bruise that had already begun forming on the edge of Cas’s jaw, to the way he held out his leg at an odd angle like it was bothering him.

Almost as if…

“You’re human?”

“I believe so, yes. My grace was… warped. It’s been through a lot, through the fall… but… I believe it had been different from the very start. Chuck was right, in a way. I was ‘the angel with a crack in his chassis’. Maybe that’s why I was the only one. Out of all the other me’s that exist… I was the angel that began to feel. The angel to fall in love with the righteous man. Angels aren’t supposed to love, you see. Emotions are seen as distractions. Emotions were thought only possible to humans because of one thing.”

“Souls,” Dean answered for him.

Castiel nodded. “Dean, do you understand what the Empty is? What happens to us? It’s… it seems almost peaceful when you think about it. To spent eternity just… sleeping. But we don’t sleep. We dream. We dream of all that we regret. For most angels and demon’s, they have only one regret; their death. What they did wrong to meet their end, tortured endlessly by that mistake. I didn’t dream of my death though, Dean. My death was no mistake. Instead, I dreamt of you. I dreamt of all the times I let you down, of all the things I should have done or said but never did. Angels aren’t supposed to do that, Dean. Those aren’t the regrets soldiers of God are meant to have.

“The Empty isn’t a complicated being. It’s… it’s nothingness, and it wants to exist as nothingness. Billy made it promises she wouldn’t keep, keeping it awake when all it wanted to do was to return to sleep. So when it had dragged us into that place, when I fell into that sleep… perhaps it assumed it would be able to return to sleep. But my dreams, my regrets… they weren’t of the type that any another being in the Empty had. My grace wasn’t settling, it was… it was like an animal in a cage, it was…”

“It was keeping the Empty awake.”

“The Empty wanted me to suffer. But in doing so, it was suffering itself. It didn’t understand why; I didn’t understand why. Why my grace. What made it different? It wasn’t until I had been spat back out here; when the Empty had figured it out before me that I realized. It wasn’t my grace, Dean. It wasn’t grace at all, not anymore. I’m… I’m still not sure how it happened, whether it had been happening for a while, if it was the reason my grace had been diminishing over the years, or… if maybe Jack had a part to play in it, or… or if it was just myself. If me falling for you, to be the first angel to do that… maybe it’s something that could happen to all angels.”

Dean had never been more confused in his life. “What are you talking about, Cas?”

“My grace was changed, Dean. An angel’s grace, it’s a source of power, a piece of God himself; just like a soul. I’m not just an angel who has lost his grace, Dean. My grace is still here, just changed. Adapted. I’m human in every sense of the word.”

Dean knew what Cas was getting at, but he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “…You have a soul?”

“I have a soul,” Castiel confirmed, giving Dean a watery smile. “Humans were not meant to exist in the Empty. It’s not something the Empty has ever had to deal with - emotions. The Empty is a powerful being. It can tear into your mind, to know all that makes you suffer. But a soul? It doesn’t know how to approach that. It doesn’t know how to make it quiet.”

“So… so what does that mean now for you?”

“It means I’m here,” Castiel answered simply, his wandering gaze returning to their surroundings.

Dean smiled, glancing down to the whisky in his hand to avoid seeing Castiel’s judgment of his shitty apartment. “Yeah? And what do you think of… here?”

Castiel hummed thoughtfully, taking his sweet time to look around the abysmal contents of the room which Dean knows full well only takes about ten seconds to take in.

“It’s rather small,” Castiel finally gives his verdict. Dean ducks his head with embarrassed laughter, scratching awkwardly at the back of his head.

“Yeah, well… a high-school dropout who has barely any prior job experience and next to no references doesn’t exactly get many calls for interviews.”

“I see,” Castiel replied with an understanding yet sad smile. “Why did you and Sam leave the bunker?”

“Well, after Sammy decided he wanted to give college another shot, and after you and Jack, it was… the bunker was too empty. Too quiet. Too many memories, I guess. And it’s not like I was gonna be hunting like I used to without Sammy…”

“You’re not hunting?” Castiel asked, surprise clearly written across his features.

“Sometimes,” Dean replied with a shrug. “It’s… Sammy wanted another shot at the normal life, and after everything… that doesn’t even begin to cover what the kid deserves.”

“And what about you?” Castiel said with a questioning frown. “What about what you deserve?”

Dean laughed one humorless chuckle. “Cas, I always expected to go out in a blaze of glory. Maybe with Sammy by my side, maybe not, but-,” Dean paused, turning his eyes down. “I didn’t… I didn’t picture a scenario where I lived and you didn’t. I didn’t know what life was going to be like after that, after you… I didn’t think it was a pain I’d have to live with, you know?”

Cas’s calloused hand rests over Dean’s, thumb gently sweeping over his wrist. There’s a sadness and regret to Cas’s gaze, but a comforting smile curled onto his lips. “When I took that deal… a part of me never expected for it to be claimed. I thought the Empty had made some colossal mistake on its part, because… I couldn’t envision a scenario where I’d be happy. A scenario where we beat God and we made it out alive. But then I wondered… I wondered how much the Empty knew of me. It had tortured me with it once, with what I feared and… of who I loved. And Dean, it was almost funny when I realized, when I assumed the Empty had surely made that mistake. It knew what I wanted most, and yet, it was something I could never have.”

“What you wanted?”

Cas’s smile turned sad. “You, Dean Winchester. I wanted to know the touch of your lips, of the feel of your skin under my hands… I wanted to know what it would be like to wake up next to you, to be something that brought you some sense of happiness… I wanted to know what it was like to be seen as something more than family, a friend, a brother… I wanted what angels aren’t supposed to want. I wanted your love, Dean Winchester.”

“…Cas-”

“But there was a simplicity to it.” Cas continued before Dean could form the words he wanted to say. “I couldn’t get that happiness because… because I wouldn’t let myself feel it. It was easier to just push it down, to pretend as if this hadn’t been something eating at me ever since I had rebelled. And to just… to just say it. In letting myself feel it, in telling you, in telling myself… that was my own form of happiness. It wasn’t in knowing you felt the same way, it wasn’t that I needed you to say it back… I said it because I needed you to know.”

How did Cas do this? Every time he thought he knew what to say, Cas found a way to rip the words right of his mouth. Dean was thrown through a loop again, his brain brought to a standstill. None of it made sense in his mind. The thought that he was Cas’s happiness, that he had somehow made an angel of the lord love, it was just… why him?

“In a way, the Empty lost,” Cas told him. “It wanted me to suffer. It was cruel, yes, but genius on its part, I must admit. To only take me once I had found happiness on Earth, but… I didn’t suffer as it took me, Dean. To die, knowing you were safe? That I had kept you safe? My mission is and always will be to save Dean Winchester. If my ending was the one where you get to live the life you deserve? Then… that was my happiness.”

Dean huffed, staring down at his whisky, absentmindedly spinning the glass across the counter. “You had found your peace. I get that, Cas, I really do,” Dean stopped spinning the glass, eyes flickering up to meet Cas’s. “But if you think the life I deserve is one that didn’t have you in it, then…”

Dean chuckled dryly, taking a small sip of his drink, welcoming the burning sensation that crawled down his throat.

“Dean, don’t think I wouldn’t have wanted… this,” Castiel insisted, brows furrowing. “I would have been content to carry on the way we are. I would of course wanted to stay with you, and Sam, and Jack, just as we were.”

Dean licks his lips nervously, tasting the lingering leftovers of his whisky. “And what if I’m not content with that?”

Cas frowned at him, a brief look of panic flashing across his face. “I don’t get what you mean?”

Dean laughs. He can’t help it. They’re small hushed snorts of laughter, dropping his chin down into his chest and shaking his head, his shoulders shaking with every chuckle. “Oh, Cas… We’re both idiots, aren’t we? Biggest damn idiots there are.”

Castiel was only getting more and more confused.

“Cas, what the hell did you think that mixtape meant?” Dean asked once he lifted his head back up. “What did you think that prayer back in Purgatory meant, huh? Both times? When I prayed to you every damn night in that hellhole?”

“I… I assumed-,”

“Assumed… yeah, we both kept making assumptions about the other, huh? You know I’m not great with words, Cas. I’m… I speak better with my actions, you know? But this… you… I didn’t know how to handle the way I felt for you. Calling you my brother was easy because that was a love I knew how to process. It was easy. You knew I cared for you, and I thought that was enough.”

“It was enough,” Castiel assured him.

“No, it wasn’t, Cas,” Dean insisted. “I was too much of a coward to tell you the truth.”

“Dean, you don’t have to-,”

Dean grabbed Castiel by the lapels of his trench coat to shut him up, tugging him forward and damn near dragging him over the counter. Castiel had gone wide-eyed, bracing himself by grabbing onto Dean's arms, keeping him suspended over the counter.

“Listen to me,” Dean stresses the words, keeping his eyes locked with Cas. “You’re not just my best friend. You’re not just my brother. You’re all that and more. You’re not just what I want, you’re all that I need. And I’m telling you this now because I should have told you all those years ago. I should have told you when you told me. I love you, too. You got that? I love you.”

And then Dean kisses the shocked look right off of Cas’s face, just to drive the point home.

It’s far from the best kiss Dean’s ever had. The taste of Castiel’s blood is metallic and tangy under his lips, and he went into the kiss a bit too rushed and hard. There’s definitely a clash of teeth at first, and a kiss was apparently the last thing Cas was expecting as his lips remained frozen in disbelief for some good few seconds. And yet, it was perfect.

Because it was Cas.

It’s not until Dean’s hands frame Cas’s face that he gets a response. His lips move under Dean’s, chapped yet addictingly soft. Dean’s thumb brushes down Cas’s cheek, the burn of stubble against his skin something new, but a reminder that this was Cas. It was Cas’s lips on his. It was Cas’s hands brushing through the short strands of hair at the back of his neck. It was Cas pressing his body into him, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle that never thought the other piece would fit.

When they break away, it’s with a surprised “Oh,” from Cas that has Dean shaking quietly with repressed laughter, his forehead pressed against Cas with matching smiles on both men's faces.

“Like I said-,” Dean said softly. “-Idiots. Both of us.”

“I prefer the term ‘fools in love’,” Cas said with a grin. “Still idiots, but we have an excuse.”

“Yeah... yeah, I like the sound of that.” Dean agreed, returning Cas's gentle smile. “So, back on Earth, grace gone – or, changed into a soul. What’s the plan now?”

“Just... live life, I suppose. Experience humanity, of all there is to offer. Grow old...”

“Hmmm,’ Dean hummed in content. “Can you perhaps picture a little cozy cabin out in the woods? Maybe a yappy dog that won’t shut up and is constantly shedding all over the damn place, but you love anyway?”

“I think I could get on board with that... so long as there’s a cat running around that’ll provide the dog with some company,” Cas paused, squinting suspiciously at Dean. “Is there already a dog?”

“Apartment has a ‘no pets' rule. Miracle’s shacked up with Sammy for the time being, keeping the kid sane through exams.”

“...Miracle?”

“Yeah. Y'know, coz she was a miracle.” Dean swallowed nervously, struggling to get the next words out. “And... in this vision of the future... maybe you see yourself growing older with a grizzled, greying green-eyed hunter?”

“...Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“If you really have to ask that question, then I’m afraid I’m going to use to demote you back to ‘idiot'.”

“Wow,” Dean blanched. “Having a soul has made you a sassy dick.”

“You say that like you don’t love it.”

“I deal with it, but only because I love you. There’s a difference.”

Dean’s word elicited a beaming smile from Cas, that toothy smile he so rarely sees from Cas that he knows he’s going to be spending the rest of his life trying to see as often as possible. And really, what else can he do but smile back, just two idiots smiling at each other in a cramped, barely lit kitchen?

“I never thought I’d hear you say it…” Castiel admitted quietly.

“Well, be prepared to hear it until you get sick of it, coz I’ve got a lot of times I should have said it to make up for.”

#Destiel #destiel fanfiction #Destiel fanfic #destiel fic #castiel/dean winchester #Dean Winchester/Castiel #dean winchester/cas #fix it #fix it fic #happy ending #angst and fluff #dean/cas #cas/dean #CasDean #reunion

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justjessame · 3 years

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Glorious, Before the Burden - The Comfort ~ 10

I was in the obsidian building - with the golden veins - whose walls felt warm and alive. Darkness seemed drawn to it, as light drew in moths, and I looked around me wondering where this world’s version of Loki and the older Sylvie were - where the being who called himself He Who Remains could be?

Hoping that I wouldn’t trigger the obnoxiously sing-song voice of the holographic clock - Miss Minutes was it - I stepped away from the wall and chanced a further look around. My clothing felt strange, as did my limbs - a glance down and my breath caught in a strangled gasp that threatened to change into a sob. My gown was gone, replaced by the jeans and sweater I’d worn on Midgard - as was all evidence of the child that Loki and I had created. My stomach was flat, completely and totally barren of the life that I’d held within me only moments - was it moments - before.

Wandering the foyer, it seemed as empty of life as I was - but searching kept my mind and my emotions in check. If I was looking for ANYTHING else, I wasn’t thinking about WHY I wasn’t in Asgard, why I wasn’t wearing the same clothing as when I stood across from Hela and challenged her rule, why my womb was now empty - I was simply searching for SOMETHING.

No voices met my ears, not bodies met my eyes - I feared that I was completely alone. Alone and stranded in a place that I’d only seen once before - in a vision that I had no control over - terror creeped up my spine, cold and steady. If I’d been brought here, then by who? I wouldn’t have yanked myself away from HOME to come to a strange land to be left desolate and barren. I wouldn’t have, no matter how my powers chose to evolve or grow.

A panel behind me parted, a room appeared and I turned. There he was, the being from before - He Who Remains - yet I knew his other name, and -

“Come,” his eyes were softer than they’d been when he met Loki and Sylvie, his hands free of the fruit he’d held. “Come, Sigyn.” He gestured with one hand and I came closer, slowly, gingerly - carefully. He smiled, his teeth brilliantly white, but this too was a softer expression than one he’d shown when I had been simply a witness to his meeting with two who held different pieces of my heart. “You’re right to be cautious,” his voice was quiet, but it carried across the stone. “I think you know you’re safe with me.”

Did I? The fear I felt wasn’t from him, I knew that, it was from the chance that I was alone - the chance that I was abandoned and left stranded in a place that I knew nothing about and knew nothing about how to find my way free from - that knowledge led me on, closer to him.

“That’s right,” his smile was fixed and sure. “Come. You have questions, and I -” he sighed. “I hope I have answers.”

In a room that looked most like a library, he took a seat behind a desk after holding a chair for me in front of it. Seated, I stared across the surface and swallowed down the rising bile of sorrow that was building - loss, so much loss, but I couldn’t focus on it, not yet.

“Now, Sigyn,” he studied me, as though he wanted to commit me to memory, or as if he’d never quite seen anything or anyone like me. “Ask me what you’d like.”

I took a deep breath, allowed my gaze to settle on his, and the first question came easily, “Why am I here?”

The sigh that he released was long and dramatic. “I’d hoped you’d start slow and easy,” sitting back in his chair, he still studied me. “You - you remind me of,” he shook his head and his smile returned from where it had slipped away. “You’re here, Sigyn, because you were about to die -” I flinched, the idea of my own death and how he spoke of it as if it was just a given thing, but he pressed on. “And I couldn’t allow that, at least not yet.”

My mouth dropped open, my hands falling to my stomach - the flatness after I’d grown used to the fullness. “My - where is -” I couldn’t bring myself to ask. He’d made it seem like nothing to speak of my own death, how could I ask about the baby that I hadn’t held in my arms?

His gaze dropped, staring not into my face, but at the desktop. Taking a few moments to gather his own thoughts, I supposed. When he finally looked back up, I was waiting for him. “You told your husband,” my eyes narrowed as I waited for him to continue. “While he was imprisoned and you finally broke through that enchantment they had on his cage that made him see a nightmare if you visited - you told him that he had to consider what he was willing to give up for you to be together.” My eyes burned, please no, not that - not - “I couldn’t ask,” he looked upset by the fact that he hadn’t been able to ask for my input, but he rushed on. “You weren’t supposed to die, Sigyn. I couldn’t have your life end.” Something about the way he said the two lines, the way they conflicted struck me, but I was more focused on the high price I was paying for the privilege of being in his presence.

“My life for theirs?” Hushed and full of pain, the burn of the first tear creeping down my cheek reminded me that I was still alive. “Too high a price, far too high.” I shook my head, wondering how I would ever tell Loki, would I ever see Loki again?

“You’ll see him again,” this stranger who seemed so familiar broke into my thoughts. “Hela will destroy Asgard, Sigyn. Ragnarok will come forth, it will happen.” My head felt as if it would burst apart. “But that isn’t the worst to come, and you know it.”

I did, I’d seen so much worse, hadn’t I? Death, destruction, fire and death. “I could stop it.” A plea, a childish prayer. I knew it and so did he.

“You can’t.” He stood and came around the desk. “You know who I am, Sigyn, don’t you?” I shook my head, unwilling to allow it. “You do,” he knelt beside me, reaching out to take one of my hands and letting the warmth that I felt within the walls and within my own blood and body grow. “Just like the Loki you saw here, in this building in that timeline wasn’t YOUR Loki, I’m not the same - But you know who I am just the same.”

Shaking my head, fighting it. Fighting against what Frigga had tried to make me realize and what I had felt the first time I was in this building. I couldn’t, if I did then everything I’d ever known would be - I wouldn’t be ME.

“When I created this timeline, it was -” he was staring up at me, trying to get me to focus on him and his tale. “Sigyn, please.” Staring down at him, my tears blurred my vision, but I listened. “As I was saying, there was a version of me, just like the version of Loki that you saw here - that wasn’t ME but it was me,” nodding to show him that I heard and understood he went on, “it was long ago, and I had a daughter -” my breath caught in my throat and I felt the tightening in my chest. “She glowed like the sun, her power was phenomenal.” His fingers were tracing patterns on my hand, much like Loki would, but different - familiar, but not overly so. “Unlike me, she wasn’t dangerous to EVERYTHING. Sweet, kind, honest - She lit up the world.” His eyes were like molten dark chocolate, and I knew precisely what he was getting at. “Small, tinier than anyone could imagine for such a powerhouse, and always finding the her way into the hearts of -”

“Loki,” I murmured. The salt of my tears were on my lips, and his smile grew. “That’s why -”

“Your ‘parents’ were never quite sure about you?” He nodded with a chuckle. “It’s always something of a challenge to get you into that crib at the right moment.” Licking the taste of my pain away from my lips, I brushed my cheeks free from the dampness. “Different timelines gave you different parents,” a raised eyebrow and he shook his head. “They’re never much better, to be honest. You’re meant for Asgard, Sigyn, but Asgardian adults aren’t really -”

“They want sons who are battle sure or daughters who wish to be with sons who are battle sure.” I nodded. “I’m an anomaly.”

“You’re Frigga’s dream daughter and Loki’s lifemate.” He insisted. “Thor’s true sister. The daughter that should act as Odin’s conscience. That’s who you are, Sigyn.”

“And never a mother?” The pain was still raw, so very raw. “We finally -”

“I am sorry about -” his hand tightened around mine. “If I could have ripped you away from her without tearing you away from him -”

“Him?” How many cracks could my heart take before it shattered? “It was a boy?”

He lowered his head. “Yes, you had a son inside of you, Sigyn.”

“And now?” He, this version of a being who insisted he was my father, looked up at me in curiosity. “What happens now?”

“Ah,” he stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Now, my dear sweet child,” he brushed his thumbs under my eyes, wiping away the pooling of tears and offered a sad smile. “Now we try to find a place to send you back that won’t affect what comes next.”

#loki #loki x sigyn #loki series #sigyn #alternate universe

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modernagesomniari · 4 years

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Fic ‘I am Changed’

Part of the Mala Suledin Nadas Series (Eli Lavellan). You can read it on AO3 here.

The parallels between In Hushed Whispers and Solas' situation have always made me unneasy (which shows good writing tbh) but I wanted to explore how different Eli and Solas' attitudes are towards this sort of thing, how it's a natural part of who they are, which is why they'll oppose each other eventually.

PG-13, ~1750 words

I Am Changed

It was the new sparkly kid who told them what had happened, not their Eli. This was the first thing that set off the warning bells in Varric’s head. The second thing was that, within minutes of Dorian starting the story, she’d quietly warned him off exaggeration. The third thing was that he then did what she asked. In Varric’s opinion, men like this one didn’t tone down their exaggerations for anything. He should know.

Not that wasn’t like Eli to be quiet - she’d spent a good deal of the first week or so barely saying a word unless you spoke to her first, but Varric could understand that. She’d just been thrown into a situation so far from anything she’d experienced, anyone with any brains at all would take a few days to take the lay of the land before they started throwing their weight around. She’d picked up about day eight, starting to initiate conversation and get to know her new surroundings. Cheered right up, if he was honest, he couldn’t fault her strength.

This was different. She was sat in the circle they’d made around the camp fire down the King’s Road from Redcliffe. None of them had particularly wanted to stay in the town, so they’d kept walking and camped halfway between the town and the camp. Once the sun had set and they’d eaten, inevitably they’d asked what had happened. She was playing with a piece of leather in her hands, twisting it and tangling it only to thread her tiny fingers through it and smooth it out before starting all over again. She watched the fire, something violent in the way it reflected in her huge green eyes, but there was nothing on her face. This had moved her, deeply.

He kept his eyes on her as he listened, mostly horror struck, at what Dorian was telling them. The red lyrium clenched his gut, but the new kid’s description of who they found and how was worse, far worse. Poor Leliana. It was a sobering thought, the idea that a world where he himself was dead had existed. Not for long it seemed (only it had also lasted a year? Only it hadn’t? There was no way he was going to be able to put this into any book, was there?), but still the reality of it was a cold slap in the face. No one liked imagining a world where they were dead. Eli, apparently, had seen and experienced it. Watched some of them die.

It was only when Dorian was finishing the story, trying to tell them that it was all ok, that they’d found the amulet, sent themselves back, none of it ever happened, it was all a bad dream etc etc that Eli looked up, something wrong and fierce in her eyes now.

“It wasn’t just a bad dream, Dorian.”

Her voice was low, but something about it quietened the whole damn camp.

“Well it might as well be. Otherwise I’d have to live with the reality the whole rest of my life and nightmares do play havoc with age lines…”

“We can’t just pretend it all didn’t happen because it’s easier.”

Now her voice was raised and she’d sat up, leather clenched tightly in her fist. “Dorian. It happened.”

“Technically, no it…”

“Yes. It did. To us. If it hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be here. Alexius still sent us forward and then we came back, so if it hadn’t happened, we’d still be gone. And then it would have happened.”

Varric considered himself a clever sort of bastard, but he was having trouble keeping up. There was something frustrated but pained in Sparkler’s face.

“I see your point. But that doesn’t change the fact that they don’t fit into this world any more. For us to be here now means they never have to exist.”

“That doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. Just because they don’t fit anymore doesn’t mean they didn’t exist when we were there.”

Andraste’s ass but there were tears in her eyes now, not falling but glinting just enough in the firelight he knew they were there. He could never stand it when people cried, damn it.

“Then where are they? I know you think I’m being cowardly about this, but what do you want me to do? Cassandra is sitting right here. Solas has as impeccable a skin routine as when I first met him, not a red vein to be seen.”

“So they didn’t die? Is that what you’re saying to me?”

Varric definitely preferred it when she’d raised her voice to this quiet fury she’d switched to now.

“I didn’t say…”

“But that’s what you want to believe. What’s easier to believe. They died, Dorian. They died so that we could come back. And they were real.”

She shook her head, her face crumpling slightly as she couldn’t keep the tears in anymore. The brokenness of her voice did nothing to the ferocity in her eyes as she stood across the fire from Dorian, not flinching even as the tears ran down her face. “I am changed, Dorian. Their fight, their death, their sacrifice. They have changed me. And I am real. So they are, too. Think me foolish for mourning them if you must, but I will. And I will not forget.”

She turned, refusing to wipe her eyes but clearly not wanting them to see any more. They let her go. Silence fell over the fire as they all watched her take herself to sit on a rock at the edge of camp, looking down the ravine at the hinterlands below. No one said anything. It made Varric respect the new Tevinter mage slightly, that he just nodded solemnly and poured himself another drink rather than try and continue to fight his corner now he had no opposition. As for Varric, he took a sip of his own drink before casting a quick look around the fire. Most people were staring into their cups, uncomfortable and pensive. One of the few who wasn’t was Solas, who was looking after where Eli had gone like he couldn’t look away, something unreadable but deeply uneasy in the expression on his face. Varric’s inner alarm bells started going off again. This didn’t bode well.

“Was it so bad?” The Seeker asked after a while. Clearly tired, Sparkler just shrugged and nodded.

“I know what you look like after being speared by a Terror demon, if that paints a picture. And I’ve seen the difference between human and elven eyes when exposed to truly horrific amounts of red lyrium, which tops it all off nicely.”

“There’s a difference?” Varric asked, immediately wondering why he always asked questions he didn’t want the answer to. Dorian’s gaze was slightly haunted to match his hollow laugh.

“Elves are apparently more susceptible, or perhaps it’s just the same thing that makes their eyes glow at night. I don’t know.”

He took another swig of his hip flask before gesturing over to Solas. “You were a bloody breath of fresh air. Barely had to explain anything - caught on quick as a whip. Have you known her long?”

Solas looked as confused by the last question as Varric felt, eyebrows drawn together as he shook his head. “No. Didn’t think so. You get on though, don’t you?”

“If you are suggesting some sort of elf connection…”

“No. No I’m not. It’s just…”

Dorian paused, flicking his gaze over to the silhouette that was Eli, back at Solas and then back at the fire. Finally he just shrugged. “Oh, she’ll tell you if she wants to. If I were either of you, though, I’d find a few moments on the journey back to Haven to remind her you are both, in fact, still alive. She took your deaths pretty hard.”

No one said anything after that. No one really moved either. Varric wondered what it was - the horror, the reality of this Elder One, or just the realisation that their Herald wasn’t strong because she was all-powerful, but because she didn’t let her fragility shatter her. She would mourn, she would let her heart break for this world that should never have been and then she would allow it to make her stronger. Varric had seen it before, watched a person take more pain than he thought possible and turn it right back into fierce determination and unshakeable loyalty. Maker’s balls, but he was going to get in way over his head again, wasn’t he?

Solas got up first, quiet and graceful, stepping around them all as he angled towards the tents. Varric watched him go, wondering at what Dorian had said and hoping that what he suspected was going to happen wasn’t going to. Because he’d been there before, too, and there was nothing there but hurt, he knew it. So some part of him started silently willing Solas to keep heading towards the tents, even as he watched him slow down. Knew that there was a suspicious squint to his eyes as he watched Solas draw to a halt, looking over at where Eli was sat at the other side of camp. Felt something release as he turned away, back to the tents and clench right up again when he hesitated. If a low ‘Don’t you dare, Chuckles’ left his mouth under his breath, he couldn’t be blamed.

His heart sank as Solas changed his mind again, something reluctant in his gait even as he turned once more towards Eli and started walking towards her like it was despite himself. Honestly, Varric would almost say that the man was even more irritated at himself than Varric was for not being able to leave her. He watched him hesitate one more time, just behind her, before he took one more step forward and sat close beside her.

Varric couldn’t hear what they were saying. Knew damn well that he wouldn’t be wanted there even if he could. He watched her body sway slightly before she let it lean gently against Solas’ arm and his heart was heavy enough he actually sighed into his ale as he watched that arm come up around her shoulders, pulling her in. Damn that man for being an idiot, damn Eli for being, well, Eli and damn himself for seeing so much and caring even more. He’d seen this play out in Kirkwall, seen it a thousand times in every tale of every hero in Thedas.

There was no way this was going to end well.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solavellan hell #dorian pavus #varric tethras #varric knows all

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gottawriteanegoortwo · 4 years

Text

Creativitwins - Talking in the Garden

Following on from ‘Helplessly in Love’, Roman and Remus have a serious conversation about Remus’ motives and the topic of love as a whole.

Word Count: 1,771

(if you ship the twins, I’ll throw a frisbee at you)

Roman paced back and forth across the walled garden. This quiet place was considered the most obvious ‘neutral zone’ in the realm of the Imagination both siblings resided over. It was neither overly inspired by fairy tales, nor overrun by monsters and decay, making it the perfect harmony between both halves of Creativity. Playing the role of a Secret Garden, it granted the other Sides an entry into the Imagination without the fear of getting too lost on either side. To the left, there were elegant red rose bushes, trees with ripe and delicious fruit, and wooden frames helping clematis plants climb high overhead and guide you to the elegantly carved maple door. On the right, the grass turned darker. The path was lined with weeds and venus flytraps that would gladly snap at ankles that stepped too close. The trees were barren, yet birds would regularly perch on the branches. Poison ivy climbed the wall surrounding the walnut door with identical carvings to the opposite door. In the middle, a large pond housed a variety of colourful koi and piranha that cohabit the waters peacefully. In the open court between the two doors were two stone stools. When the twins would squabble in their younger days, they would eventually meet here and claim a seat to talk through the problem. It was something that rang true to this day.

After recent events had calmed down, Patton had taken the time during one of their tea parties to fill Roman in on events leading up to the group appearing in his room with Remus of all Sides. Not only that, Remus applied a ‘what would Roman do’ approach. No tricks, no attempts to make Thomas feel worse about matters… It was all rather strange.

“I’m going to have to call him eventually,” Roman muttered, tightly folding his arms as he lapped the pond for the third time. “Talking to myself about it isn’t going to give me answers, and I know I can’t leave this be… Ugh!” He forced himself to stop walking with a firm stomp of his foot. “Remus! Get to the garden now!”

The dark door draped in ivy was pushed open to reveal a rather confused Duke. It slammed shut behind him once he was in the garden, leaving the pair in silence for several long seconds.

“While I am one to gladly talk through problems, I don’t know what I did this time.” One of Remus’ traits was honesty, after all, and he had been trying to keep out of the way of the other Sides in recent times.

“No, I know. Nothing’s wrong. I just… I need to talk, okay? This is neutral territory so it’s not gonna make either of us feel out of place, or something.” Roman slumped onto one of the stone stools, hands interlocked to hide potential fidgeting. “I’ve been thinking about what you did recently - when you brought everyone to my room like that. Patton told me what happened… Why did you do it?”

“I told you already. Thomas needed the ‘love expert’, and he trusts you a heck of a lot more than he does me. No one else could get to your room too easily without you, so I was the only option left.”

“But you didn’t try anything. You didn’t hurt Thomas, or ruin the excitement. That would’ve been the perfect chance without me blocking you.” It seemed Thomas had kept his word and didn’t tell Roman about Remus’ good intentions. However, it came at the price of the topic pestering Roman once the excitement of love had faded enough to focus on other matters. “The first time you met Thomas, you wanted to hurt him. Why not now?”

“It’s really not as deep as you’re trying to make it out to be. Thomas needed you, I could help! It was for the greater good for Thomas, really.”

“You could have taken my place! It’s what you always say you’d do. ‘I’m Creativity too. I should be listened to as well’!” Roman’s impression of Remus was emphasised by a wave of his right hand, just like how his brother would do it. “You know about love, just like me. You could have given him advice and taken all the credit -”

“No I don’t.”

“- and showed… What?” Remus’ blunt interruption had Roman’s rambling screech to a halt. He gawked up at his brother with a wide-eyed, puzzled expression. In the pause that followed, Remus made his way to the other stone stool and sat on it. Compared to his brother, Remus was slouched forward with his arms resting on both knees.

“I don’t know about love. I never have.” Why beat around the bush with this? “Sure, I know what it means and what happens when people fall in love, but I can’t talk about it as you could. I don’t have the same desire to fall in love with someone, so why should I be the one trying to tell Thomas how to declare his feelings?”

“You… Don’t know about love?” Roman felt like he had been slapped in the face. Guilt bubbled in his stomach. All this time, did Remus lack any sort of positive relationship with anyone?

“I did have friends once, you know. I have ‘loved’ platonically,” Remus scoffed. “But this whole ‘one true love’ or ‘wanting a boyfriend’ stuff you’re always on about… That isn’t what I’ve felt about anyone. I never brought it up when we were younger because I thought it wasn’t necessary, or that maybe I’d be proven when I found the guy of my dreams.” He let out a sigh with a quirked eyebrow when he noticed his brother’s reaction to this. “Oh, don’t act like I told you a shark chewed off my leg. It’s not that big of a deal. I could give advice, but it would be an outsider looking in. Since Thomas needed personal experience and better insight, he needed you. We always did say you were the one who could inspire others. I’d never be able to do that for love. But you could, and you did!” Roman has always been the hero. That’s why he was the favoured twin.

“... I’m sorry I never considered your feelings.” Roman’s voice was low as the pity stayed on his face. “All those times I tried to set you up with denizens in the Imagination when we were younger as part of our stories, all those times you’d side-step or find an excuse to worm out of it… I must have made you feel so uncomfortable.”

“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t start that. I’m not angry. This isn’t something to guilt you over. You didn’t know, and I didn’t understand. I only learned that being Aromantic was a ‘thing’ when Thomas was learning about all the LBGT strands and worrying about them all in case he offended someone.” At last, Remus’ confidence in the matter seemed to falter a little as he added, “It was a relief knowing I wasn’t completely ‘broken’.”

“You aren’t ‘broken’.” Roman blurted, hoping to stop whatever dark thoughts were bubbling in Remus’ mind. “You’re you. And while I might not like who you are, that… Doesn’t make you the worst.” The last part was admitted as a reluctant grumble. “Me wanting to fall in love doesn’t mean you’re wrong not feeling anything about it. Just like me not wanting any involvement in your sexual opinions on guys I thought were cute doesn’t mean I’m wrong either.” Now it was Remus’ turn to look surprised once the penny dropped.

“You’re Ace?”

“I guess we both had something to learn today, huh? Not that this was why I called you here.” Maybe it was the magic of the garden, where the feud was left outside the walls and the brothers could simply talk. It allowed Roman to swallow some of his pride on the original matter. “Thank you. For, you know, not using it as a chance to take my place.”

“What can I say? I make a terrible Roman impersonator. Just like when the day comes that Thomas needs my help, you’d make a terrible Remus!” The darker Creativity twin grinned in anticipation. Roman was quick to take the bait with a cocky laugh.

“Oh please. We both know Thomas isn’t gonna resort to using your ideas.”

“This Hallowe’en might be the year. There’s gonna be a full moon this year too. He’d be a fool not to do something terrifying!” Hey, maybe Remus could try and get back in contact with Virgil to get him on the Duke’s side!

“Not a chance! I’ll get him to work on an epic, fantastical tribute to ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’! There’s a simply wonderful suit of an alternate costume that Thomas would look marvellous in!” Fuelled with passion, Roman sprung to his feet with a triumphant laugh.

“And he could try to persuade the cutie to dress as a Sally-inspired character?”

“Why would I… Wait, that’s - that’s not a bad idea.”

“Especially if he gets to wear something short and scandalous~”

“Aaand there goes that little bubble of respect. Good going.” Roman waved a dismissive hand as Remus cackled. “Look, I’m sorry that I was surprised you didn’t wanna hurt Thomas, but don’t ruin this for him, okay?”

“I had no intention to do so. Thomas deserves to be happy, right? There’s plenty of other chances to jump in and have fun! Can’t be too predictable, dear brother, especially when you have the upper hand on the topic!” Now Remus pulled himself onto his feet and turned on the ball of his foot to face his door. “Until next time -”

“Wait!” Roman needed to have the last word. He couldn’t leave like this. “You… You did a good job. Thank you for helping Thomas when I couldn’t.” A gust of wind picked up, briefly obscuring Remus’ vision with rose petals. When the breeze died down, the Prince was gone. Once he realised he was alone in the walled garden, Remus walked to the door to his part of the Imagination, only to pause.

A black rose had blossomed on his side of the garden, thriving despite the weeds that should have suffocated it. He had considered plucking it and taking it with him as a memento… But why kill it? Instead, he knelt down to gently brush his thumb against a thorn.

The black rose amongst weeds was like him with the other Sides - the oddity that shouldn’t exist. Yet they both do in spite of exceptions. In time, maybe both would prosper in their own way.

#sanders sides fanfiction #roman sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #aromantic remus #asexual roman #(why yes I wrote a follow up to a fic that I didn't fully post here)

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erekiosuncreativeideas · 4 years

Text

Reliving An Old Nightmare - Chapter 23

<= Chapter 22

Summary : We learn some new things about the past. Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337299/chapters/58928389

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New chapter ! As always, I hope you'll like it ! Thank you so much for all your nice comments, it means so much to me !! I have two or three chapters left writing and this fanfiction will be finished. It's the beginning of the end !

I had decided to not finish the drawing for this chapter (because it was too gory for my taste), but... I changed my mind and decided to post the sketch version. From that point in the fanfic, things are going to get pretty intense. I'm not sure if I should change the rating yet, but... Yeah, if you're sensitive to that, I'd suggest not looking at the drawing for too long, even if it's not "too gory" compared to the next drawings.

Anyway... Don't hesitate to tell me if you liked the chapter and happy reading !

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Chapter 23

Alistel had thought it was all a dream at first. A terrifying, awful nightmare his mind had come up with, something not real and bound to disappear the moment he would wake up. After all, this was all completely ridiculous, wasn’t it? Vanessa, locking him up into the basement and freezing the entire village? This had to be a joke! A bad one, sure, but a joke nonetheless. A sweet and nice person like Vanessa would have never hurt anyone!

And yet… This was all so very real. When the Prince woke up again, eyes still shut because of how tired he was, he just knew he hadn’t imagined it. Vanessa had gone crazy, he couldn’t deny the truth anymore. Alistel had always been a young man full of hope, but now… He didn’t know what to hope for. It was hard to think of a better future when you could barely move your fingers or your toes because of the awful cold of the cellar… At least, nothing hurt anymore.

The young man felt his exhausted mind be stimulated at the realization. How was it possible? The pain in his shoulders had been so unbearable, the cold attacking his limbs and making his muscles numb, the feeling of his joints giving up one after another… If Hell existed, this was certainly it. No matter how hard Alistel thought about it, he was sure that he didn’t deserve it. No one did.

But now, nothing hurt anymore. And he was not being shackled to anything anymore. He was lying on the ground instead.

He slowly opened his eyes, coming back to reality after what had felt like a restless sleep. Instead of seeing the usual darkness of the cellar he had been used to for hours, maybe days… A powerful ray of light greeted his vision, making him squint. Where was he? Was he still dreaming, somehow?

Did… Did Vanessa free him while he was asleep?

A sudden rush of hope engulfed him, hitting him like a huge wave would. It made him reopen his eyes, trying to get them used to the amount of light around him. He had expected to see the purple walls of his room or the red walls from Vanessa’s… However, his confusion grew even more when he looked all around him, trying to understand what was happening. The Prince was lying on the ground, on what seemed to be grass. Next to him were a few rocks and a tree. A little pond could be seen next to them. He was outside? Why? But as soon as this thought came to his mind, he noticed something very strange. The sky above him was not blue… But white. A pure and blinding white that felt much too unreal. He seemed like he was on a little floating island, which was surrounded by other small floating islands itself. They all looked the same as the one he was on: there were grass, rocks and trees, vegetation everywhere and no sign of civilization in sight.

He was dreaming, wasn’t he? He couldn’t see any other explanation for what he was seeing.

He tried to sit up in order to examine his surroundings better, though his attention was soon caught by something: the young man couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Fuelled by a feeling of panic, he straightened up and glanced at his legs to see what was the problem. Yet, nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared him for what he saw, not even all this time passed in the cellar.

He didn’t have legs anymore. Around where his knees should be, there wasn’t anything anymore, as if they had been cut off. Blood was all over the ground. But it didn’t hurt. All he could feel at the moment was an unbearable sensation of cold that was haunting his whole body.

A scream left his lips. It echoed in this empty and seemingly infinite place, replacing the oppressive and deafening silence which reigned. Fear, confusion, rage… All these feelings were mixed together and they were so overwhelming to him. His whole being was devastated by everything he was seeing. This could only be a nightmare! This couldn’t possibly be real! His breathing rhythm was quick, panicked but his heart wasn’t following it. In fact, it wasn’t beating at all, though he felt much too distressed at the moment to realize it.

The Prince was then pulled out of his terrified state when he felt something leaking from his right eye. At first, he thought he was crying, but he couldn’t help but bring his hand to his face, feeling the irrepressible need to check what it was. His face contorted in absolute horror when he examined his hand, not seeing tears but blood instead.

-“No…” The word left his mouth as he suddenly realized he couldn’t see anything from his right eye.

His voice cracked and more broken sounds came out of his mouth while he kept staring at his fingers covered in blood. His hands were blue and he couldn’t feel anything with the tips of his fingers anymore. He had no idea how he didn’t notice it earlier, though it was probably because of the many horrible things he was experiencing at the same time.

Alistel was incapable of thinking, his whole body trembling from how terrified he was. This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be happening! It could only be a dream! After all, pain didn’t exist in dream! That could only explain why he was such in a gruesome shape without even suffering from it!

A scared and nervous laugh left his lips as he considered the idea. No matter how real it all seemed, this was just his mind playing tricks on him! Soon, he would be back in the cellar, waiting for his lover to change her mind and free him! Another fit of laughter took him by surprise as he took his head in his hands, before sobbing uncontrollably. His voice echoed in the nothingness of this place as he screamed again, as loud as he could. But no one answered him. He was just alone.

The Prince knew he was just deluding himself. This place, the shape he was in, the fact that nothing hurt or the fact that everything seemed just so real… It could only mean one thing, an idea that he had had but decided to ignore completely.

He was dead, wasn’t he? And this place was the afterlife. The thought made him cry even more. What did he do to deserve this? He had only wanted to surprise his lover with a gift! He had never wanted any of this to happen!

He sobbed for a long time, though he couldn’t tell how long exactly, given how hard it was to measure time in this place. Screams and cries left his mouth until he felt better. Or at least, not as bad as when he woke up. Once he felt ready for it, he decided to take another look around him.

“What now?” thought the young man, glancing everywhere, including the other small islands. Was he supposed to wait until something happened? It wasn’t like he was going to stay there forever… Wasn’t he? The thought made him feel extremely nervous: this couldn’t happen, right? Every tale he had heard of the afterlife had never mentioned something like this! Then again, it wasn’t like someone would come back from the afterlife and tell people how it was exactly! Though, when Alistel thought about what would come after death, this was not what he had imagined.

Moving around in this state was not easy. Despite being dead, he couldn’t exactly float around, contrary to what many tales had proclaimed. So he could only crawl around and hope not to fall in the nothingness below the floating islands. The Prince had no idea what it was, yet, deep inside of him, he had the feeling he should not try to fall and see what would happen. Death might not be the real end, after all… And who knew what would happen if he did fall. Would he die again? Would he fall for eternity? Would he fall on something he couldn’t see from where he was? And if he did fall on something, what would happen to his already injured body? He didn’t really want to know.

So, while being very careful, he crawled around the island he was on, inspecting everything there was around him. He couldn’t feel the texture of anything because of how numb his fingers were, but he could tell it was real. There was no wind but the leaves of the trees still moved slowly and gently, same with the grass. There seemed to be some clouds in the white sky above him, though they were quite hard to see. But it wasn’t like Alistel wanted to try and spot them, given how blinding was the sky. So he just kept his eyes on the ground, trying to find anything useful or, at least, to occupy himself while waiting for something, anything to happen.

He really hoped he wouldn’t stay there forever… He couldn’t imagine anything worse than that… Or well, he could, given what had happened to him before waking up here. Though, he really didn’t want to think about it. It was hard to know which situation was better and, if he had to be completely honest, he didn’t even want to know.

He just wanted to be free. Not in the cellar. Not stuck in this hellish afterlife. Just free.

The Prince didn’t find anything really interesting in his search of information. He crawled to the side of the pond and lied down next to it. The more time passed in this horrifying silence, the more he couldn’t help but fear of staying there forever. He didn’t die in Vanessa’s cellar to be stuck somewhere else in the afterlife! This wasn’t fair! He frowned and anger quickly engulfed him again as new tears rolled on his cheeks.

All he did was to surprise Vanessa! This was not fair!

Rage settled over him again and he pounded the surface of the water with his fist, having nothing else to hit. Unsurprisingly, the water splashed around it and on his torn clothes. It only intensified the cold feeling he could sense on his blueish skin. He remained motionless for a while, debating if he wanted to do that again or just let it go and wait. Eventually, he turned to the water and, despite his fears, he looked at his face for the first time in what had felt years.

He shouldn’t have done it.

The right side of his face was covered in blood, most of it had dried up on his skin. The said skin was blue, probably because of the cold in the cellar. His right eye was still there, fortunately, but… It was badly injured and bloody. Alistel couldn’t bear the sight of it and glanced away, hiding it with his hair not to look at it again. At least, it wasn’t painful… He couldn’t see anything with it, though.

His hair had darkened too and his haircut was a huge mess, not that it mattered much in his current situation. His clothes were in poor shape and had holes everywhere. God, they didn’t look like this the last time he looked at them… Had he been dead for that long? He was utterly confused by the thought and tried to think about something else.

His hands were still blue, just like his skin, and were extremely skinny. His whole body was just skin and bones at this point, but it was still very unsettling to look at. His nails had grown a bit too much for his state but, just like his haircut, this was not his top priority.

Under his eyes, dark rings had taken place and his cheeks were hollow. His lips had a dark purple tone and were bruised by the cold. Truly, he really looked like a ghost but, in a way, that was what he was now, wasn’t he? He frowned and forced himself not to cry once more. His situation was already bad as it was, crying wouldn’t help him to get out of here.

Just as he was about to turn away from the pond, the water moved on his own and colours started to appear on the reflective surface. Alistel’s attention was caught once again as his glance went back on the pond. His confusion intensified when the colours started to form shapes, figures he could recognize if he squinted enough. Soon, the shapes cleared and he was able to see something. Was the pound magical? A new hope emerged in his mind: maybe it would help him to leave this place! The more he stayed in there, the more uncomfortable it became. It was just too silent, too strange, too… Lonely.

The Prince forced his mind to come back to reality as the pond was showing him something that definitely seemed important. It depicted a forest, trapped in ice and snow. Was it Subcon Forest?

-“Oh no…” murmured Alistel. Did Vanessa do that to their kingdom? To the forest? Did she really kill every living being because of her jealousy?

The pictures changed and showed him ice statues, all scattered around the forest and the village, as if the water was trying to answer his inner interrogations. But Alistel would have preferred not to know… The sight of the frozen corpses made him look away in despair. He didn’t want to see this, he didn’t want to see this!

-“Stop showing me that!” yelled the Prince, hitting the surface of the water again, troubling the picture on it. The colours mixed together as he turned away, definitely upset.

For a strange reason, the sky darkened a few seconds later and the clouds took a threatening colour, as if a thunderstorm was to come. The young man frowned, puzzled. Did… Did he do that? Or was the pond somewhat conscious and was angry at his reaction? No, this was stupid. Though, just to be sure, he tried to calm himself down, taking deep breathes he probably didn’t need anymore. Somehow, this seemed to have an impact on the “weather” and it turned back to its whitish and calm state not long after that.

What was happening? Was this place linked to him in some way?

Afraid, Alistel glanced back to the pond, which -thankfully!- was showing him something else. It depicted a dark, purplish silhouette walking through the snow, fighting against the wind to move. The blizzard going on around this person made it difficult to know who that person was exactly, though Alistel felt relieved to know that someone had survived. Someone out there was still alive! Someone had survived Vanessa’s jealous outburst!

On the other hand, he did not… But knowing there were still survivors made him feel incredibly relieved. At least… Not everyone had died because of his foolish decision to surprise Vanessa…

But as he wondered who that person could be, if he knew them, if perhaps they were someone he was close to… The colours of the pond mixed together again and the picture changed, showing him a much clearer sight of who that stranger was.

Alistel’s dead heart sunk in his chest as he realized that the person he was seeing was none other than himself, getting away from the manor he had died in. The Prince’s eyes widened as the shock left him completely motionless. Soon, the sky and the clouds darkened again as his mind was filled mostly with confusion.

Who was this person? Were they… Him? But they were alive! And he was here! How could he be at two places at the same time? Did someone steal his body? Was he even the Prince anymore if there was another “him” in the living world?

Alistel soon started to hyperventilate, though he probably didn’t even need air anymore. The sky darkened even more, certainly following his emotions, though the young man didn’t want to think about it. All he wanted at the moment were answers and to get out of here.

The Prince lifted his head to look at the sky, more than worried and particularly upset. Hopefully, he would get his wishes soon… The contrary being extremely terrifying to him.

The man turned back to the pond to keep watching what it showed him of the outside world. This was all he could do to get answers to his questions: wait and watch.

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Well, well, well, the plot thickens. Hope you liked the chapter ! See you on the next one, take care in the meantime !

Oh and. Brace yourself for the next chapters. :)

=> Chapter 24

#A Hat In Time #ahit #the prince #moonjumper #fanfiction #my art #Reliving An Old Nightmare #Raon

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fullmetalscullyy · 4 years

Text

the way it was - chapter 8

stand by me

summary: what if riza never went to war? riza hawkeye has just married the man she loves. six months into their marriage, an unexpected surprise stops her from following roy to the military. a canon divergence au that explores what might have happened had riza been unable to join the military. there will be plenty of family fluff, angst, and royai.

rated: m | warnings: no archive warning apply

chapter 7 | read on ao3

1910

no i won't be afraid, oh i won't be afraid,

just as long as you stand, stand by me

“I’m heading out East for a few days,” Roy announced one morning over breakfast.

“Oh?” Riza asked, expertly catching drool Mia had decided to try drip onto her new sundress. Of course, Mia thought this was hilarious, and tried to spit out more, which prompted a firm telling off from her mother. “What for?”

“There’s been reports of two highly skilled alchemists, and I’ve been asked to recruit them. Although, I don’t know how well that will go,” he mused to himself, eyes still scanning the newspaper in front of him.

“When do you leave?” she asked, catching Mia’s drool-soaked fist before she could start flailing it around. “Sweetie, eat your food, not your hand.” Mia squealed and tried to flail her arm around. Unhappy at the resistance against her fist, Mia frowned and let her indignation show with an annoyed cry.

“Tomorrow. Is that okay?” he asked, finally looking up from his paper. Riza heard him laugh, and she glanced up at him. She was currently wrestling their one year old, trying to get Mia to eat her breakfast, and must have looked a sight.

“I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“I can put it off until next week. We can arrange a babysitter for Mia, and the two of us could go together? We haven’t really had any time together since she was born.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve had every day together.”

Roy chuckled, standing to help his wife clean their child’s hands. “I meant like a holiday.”

“A holiday?” Riza echoed. She’d never had a holiday before. Never gone away to a different country to enjoy some time to herself. It sounded appealing enough, especially if she was going to be there with Roy.

“Yes. Going to the country isn’t much, I know, but you deserve a break.”

“I don’t know if I know the meaning of that word,” Riza sighed, taking Mia’s half eaten bowl of porridge over to the sink, giving up. The toddler was clearly more interested in playing with it than eating it. Riza jumped in surprise when Roy wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“Exactly. You work so hard, and you’ve put up with so much since… Well, you’ve put up with so much from me.” He kissed her temple as she washed Mia’s bowl. “And my work. If you want, we can arrange it?”

Riza smiled to herself. “That would be lovely.” Mia began to cry loudly when she realised she wasn’t getting her new toy back. Riza sighed. “In an ideal world.” Escaping gently from his hold, Riza approached her daughter. “Come here, sweetie. Let’s go and get some of your other toys. Preferably ones that don’t leave food all over the furniture or myself. How about that?”

“Riza –”

Roy was interrupted by Mia’s piercing cry. Riza flinched as it shot straight into her ear. “Wow, you have a set of lungs on you this morning, baby girl,” Riza grimaced, bouncing their child up and down. “Do you need your nappy changed? Is that why you’re so grumpy?”

“I have to leave for work,” Roy sighed, defeated.

“Okay, see you tonight.” Riza’s farewell was distracted as Mia screamed again, little tears dripping down her cheeks. “Oh, baby. Calm down, it’s okay. Sorry, Roy,” she added, turning to face him. “That sounds like a lovely idea. We can talk about it tonight?” she offered.

“Of course.” He kissed her cheek in farewell. “Bye, Mia,” he stated, running his hand over the top of their daughter’s head, his fingers brushing through her soft, black, hair. Their daughter looked up at him with large, wet eyes, as if begging him not to leave them. “Be good for Mummy, okay?”

She stopped crying at least, and watched her father leave to go to work. Riza sighed in relief, glad he’d managed to stop her crying, even if it was unintentional.

* * *

“So, what do you think?” Roy asked, rolling over in bed to face her.

“About?” Riza asked distractedly, continuing to write in her journal. It had been something she’d started when Mia was born – a way to record all her developments to show Roy when he got home, and now it was a habit. She’d like to read back on it one day in the future to remember.

“Going away on holiday,” Roy elaborated.

She’d forgotten he’d brought it up this morning. It sounded lovely. She’d always wanted to go and visit the countries she’d read about in books as a child, but they weren’t exactly the richest family growing up and after her mother died, that wasn’t even an option. Tomorrow would be too soon, but another time, absolutely.

“That sounds lovely,” Riza stated with a soft smile.

“I sense there’s a “but” coming.”

“Hm?” Riza asked, finally finishing her sentence. She closed the journal and met his gaze. He was lying on his side, his head propped up in his hand.

“If you’re not interested, that’s okay too –”

“No, I am,” Riza quickly interrupted. She grasped his free hand tightly. “Believe me, I am. It’s never been a possibility before and… Well, you know when you want to go out and do something, but it seems so impossible and difficult, you think it will never happen?”

“Intimately,” Roy stated dryly.

Riza smiled back. Of course, he knew. The path to the top of the military and redemption certainly wasn’t going to be an easy road. “That’s what it felt like for me growing up. I read about all these places and countries in books as a child, but they always felt like fairy tales. I knew I would never get the chance to go so it was a dream that would never happen.”

“Do you still think that now?” Roy asked quietly. He’d removed his hand from her grip and had begun to stroke his fingers lightly up her arm. Riza shivered in response, and that made him grin.

Riza tilted her head in thought. “I’d still never considered it, to be honest. Mia was top priority for me, then after she hit six months it was applying for schools to get into teaching. Other things just took over, so yeah, a little bit.”

“We should fix that, then,” Roy smiled.

“Tomorrow is too soon, though.” No one would be able to watch Mia.

“That’s okay. I knew it would be short notice. Another time, then?”

“That would be lovely. I’d really like that.”

Roy lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”

Riza chuckled. Placing the journal on her bedside, she slid down in the bed and snuggled up close to him.

As more time had passed – Riza didn’t think it was possible – but she fell more in love with this man. They weren’t perfect, they still struggled with things. Roy had become better about dealing with Ishval, but still wasn’t great. Riza made it a point to avoid everything mentioning it at home, to avoid the chance of him going back there mentally. She didn’t want that. There were still nightmares, and she tried her best to talk him out of them and calm him down. Sometimes they were visceral, and she couldn’t, but she still tried. She always tried to be there, and Roy told her it was a massive help. There were nights when he’d snap out of it and burst into tears. Riza would join him shortly afterwards, scared for him, but he’d just hold her in a crushing embrace and fall back asleep again. One thing he always did, was thank her profusely. She told him not to mention it, that’s what she was there for, but he continued to do it every time. Riza was just glad she could help. She’d hate to think what he was like if he was by himself and going through it alone.

There were other days where he’d break down randomly. Something would set him off, some tiny thing, and he’d be terrified, muttering about how he didn’t deserve her, and didn’t deserve to have a child. That worried Riza more than anything, afraid of what he’d push himself to. She’d consulted Maes, who silently acknowledged her request, and said he’d talk to him. Nothing more was said on the matter, and Riza didn’t know how to feel about that. She was still worried, but Riza had accepted she was always going to worry about him, the same way she felt about Mia.

The ugly head of her childhood insecurities reared up, a quiet voice in her mind whispering that he was shutting her out again, but Riza silenced it quickly. Roy had told her over and over again that wasn’t the case, and she trusted him completely. She always would.

Despite saying how he didn’t deserve her, or a child, in his darkest moment, Roy was a wonderful father. He fell into the role perfectly, like he was made for it. Mia adored him so much. Every time he walked in from work her little face would light up and she’d crawl hurriedly over to his feet, begging to be lifted into his arms. Together they looked almost identical. She took more after Roy than she did Riza in looks, and that warmed her heart. She could be a little terror, but both Riza and Roy couldn’t imagine their lives without her.

“I love you,” Roy whispered, breaking Riza from her thoughts. He lifted his hand to her cheek, cupping it gently, then slid his fingers through her hair.

“I love you too,” she smiled.

“What are you thinking about?” he wondered, shuffling closer. Riza slotted her head under his chin, like she fit perfectly.

“Just how lucky I am to have you, and to have Mia.”

Roy was silent for a moment, running his hand down her back. “Me too.”

“I love you both so much, sometimes I can’t believe it,” she chuckled. “Like it doesn’t seem real.”

“It’s very real, don’t worry,” Roy reassured her with a quiet laugh.

“I… I don’t know if I ever told you this,” she whispered, feeling the urge to voice something that had been sitting inside of her for a while. There had never been a chance to bring it up. She’d been too busy focussing on him and Mia that she’d never taken a little time for herself.

“What?” Roy asked, angling his head to kiss the top of it.

“… I don’t know, it sounds silly.”

“I bet it won’t. You can tell me anything.”

“I know that, but it’s so small and insignificant…”

“If it’s how you’re felling, it will never be insignificant.”

Riza smiled against his chest. “Okay.” She took a deep breath, still feeling foolish for even feeling this way. “I don’t know. Sometimes this feels like a dream – the three of us together. It hasn’t been perfect.” Roy hummed in agreement. “But we’ve both worked so hard to help you and to watch Mia grow up. I can’t believe she’s one.”

“Me neither,” Roy admitted with a chuckle. “She’s growing up too fast.”

“She is.”

“But that wasn’t what you wanted to say, was it?”

He always managed to worm it out of her somehow. “No.”

“Take your time. I’ll be here for you when you do.”

“It’s silly,” Riza chuckled, a hint of nervousness in her tone. “But sometimes I think it will just all disappear.”

Roy stopped his movements on her back. “In what way?”

“Like it’s all a dream and I’ll wake up back in that house with him again.” The mistake was letting her voice go quiet and reserved. Roy sensed something was off, so he pulled back to get a look at her face.

“Do you think about this often?”

Riza nodded. “It’s a dream I have sometimes. It’s horrible,” she admitted in a whisper, feeling terror gripping her heart. One thing in this life she never wanted to lose, was him or Mia. That would break her completely.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked gently, his tone lightly accusatory.

Riza shrugged, dropping her gaze. “Like I said, it’s silly. It won’t happen. That’s in the past.”

“But it upsets you, doesn’t it?” Riza nodded. “Oh, Riza.” Roy pulled her in close to his body. Riza curled against it, grateful for the comfort. Sometimes those dreams did come, and they turned into nightmares. She never told Roy because next to his nightmares, they were insignificant. That was nothing compared to dealing with memories of war. Plus, she’d been so busy with school and Mia, she’d forced it out of her head. “Why didn’t you say?” His hands returned to rubbing up and down her back.

“It wasn’t important,” she muttered quietly. She didn’t want him to hear but needed to get it out.

“It’s always important,” Roy replied fiercely. Riza curled in tighter. “How you’re feeling is always important to me.” He squeezed her tightly for a long moment, then let go. “Is it because of what I’ve been going through.”

Riza didn’t reply for a long time. She nodded, because it was true. She could handle a silly little dream about her going back in time. Compared to Roy’s nightmares, her dreams were nothing.

“I’m sorry if I made it feel like your thoughts were insignificant,” he murmured sadly. His hands were rubbing up and down her back.

“No, it wasn’t you.”

“What then?” he asked gently.

“I thought that. I could handle it, too. Plus, it made me feel foolish after helping you through with yours. You went to war, Roy. You’re not having a silly dream about your family disappearing and you going back in time.”

“It’s still valid,” he replied fiercely. “It’s a genuine fear, losing two people who mean the world to you. I feel the same way. I don’t care what’s going on, please tell me if something upsets you like this again. You don’t need to shoulder it alone. You did enough of that already,” he added quietly, referring to when he’d gone off to fight, leaving her behind and pregnant. Well, that’s how he viewed it. He did what he had to do, and Riza wouldn’t fault him for that.

“Okay, I will.” Her tone was resolute. In the future, she would.

Roy let out a long breath. “Thank you. And I promise, I’m not going anywhere, unless you ask me to.”

“Okay.”

“You’re stuck with me, Riza Mustang.” His tone held amusement. “Whether you like it or not.”

Riza curled into him even further, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face. “I like the sound of that,” she whispered.

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #royai au #emma writes #the way it was

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sightlessdarkcorner7 · 5 years

Text

The Case of the Southend Werewolf

What would go on to be called the Southend Werewolf begins in the Essex seaside town of Southend, England, on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon in 1952. On this day, 9-year-old William Ramsey was out in the garden of his family home playing by himself as he tended to do. He was an imaginative boy, who would often spend hours out there in his own little world, lost in his imagination. There was nothing particularly odd about him being out there lost to his imagination on this day either, and having just returned from a day out at the movies watching films about World War II pilots he was out acting like he was a fighter pilot, much to his mother’s amusement. But then something decidedly odd occurred. After about an hour of playing out in the grassy backyard as usual, young Bill Ramsey suddenly felt a strange wave of cold wash over him, like some icy winter chill, even though it was a warm, pleasant afternoon. After this initial chill, he started shaking uncontrollably and he could detect an unpleasant odor permeating the air around him. He would later recount about the feeling: “Have you ever walked into a meat locker right after you’ve been outside on a hot day? That’s what this was like. I was playing and my body temperature was normal and then, well, I’d say it felt as if my body temperature dropped a good twenty degrees. Sweat froze on me and my whole body started shaking. It was as if I’d opened this door and stepped inside to another dimension or something. And there was this odor. Very foul. A few years earlier, a sewer on our street had backed up. I’d never smelled anything as bad as the gasses that escaped. And that’s what this smell was like that day, I was afraid I was going to vomit.” As young William stood there bewildered and trying to make sense of the strange sensations and smells assaulting his senses, they suddenly subsided, yet he felt that something within him had changed. He was no longer interested in pursuing his imaginative play, thinking it rather childish and petty, but was rather extremely tense, coiled, and on edge, his senses keenly attuned to his surroundings. He glanced around him and up at the darkening sky but everything seemed somewhat off to him, and images of wolves began to inexplicably dance through his head, as well as the irrational sudden urge to run off down the road on all fours towards the sea. At some point, his concerned mother came over and called out to her son, trying to snap him out of his daze. It was at this point that Bill was suddenly overcome by a blinding, inexplicably burning rage that coursed through his entire body like an electrical current, and a deep growl lurched forth from his mouth. Before he even knew what he was doing, he allegedly tore a nearby fencepost completely out of the ground, along with its concrete mooring and wire fencing, displaying a vicious strength far beyond what such a young boy should have been capable of, and proceeded to swing it around like a baseball bat in some sort of adrenaline fueled rage. The out of character outburst was enough to frighten his parents into fleeing hastily into their home, where they waited for their son to calm down and gain some semblance of sanity. As they watched, their normally mild mannered son began to tear apart the wire fencing with his bare hands and even gnaw at it with his teeth like some sort of wild beast. Bill’s father decided to go try to subdue his son, but was met with a strength far beyond what he was expecting, and he was unable to pry the fencepost from the boy’s iron grip. With his own son snarling at him and lashing out at him like a beast, Bill’s father retreated back to the relative safety of the house.

After several minutes of his epic tantrum, little Bill Ramsey began to calm down and finally dropped the fencepost as he stood there panting like a dog, blood dribbling down his chin from the cuts he has sustained from biting the sharp fencing wire. After feeling the coldness and rage seep and leech away from his body, Bill trudged over to the house and calmly asked to be let inside. His parents obliged, but they did so cautiously, not sure if their son would revert to the animalistic fury he had displayed just moments before. As they awkwardly ate dinner that night in near silence, their thoughts going over the strange events of the day, they mentioned that whatever it was that occurred was not to be talked about again, and that they should try to forget it ever happened. It was at this time that Bill’s mother would later claim that she had noticed that her son had subtly changed somehow, although she could not quite put her finger on what it was. The family went on to live a peaceful life without further such incidents. Bill Ramsey would go on to have a normal life, get married, and have three children. He became a respectable family man long past that fateful sunny day. However, shortly after his marriage he began to be plagued by vivid nightmares in which he would sometimes wake up panting or growling like an animal, much to the concern of his family. The bizarre dreams and episodes would eventually stop in 1967, after which the family seemed to be free of whatever issues were haunting Bill. They would have a happy life for years and Bill started to think his life was getting back to normal, but then in the 1980s a series of bizarre incidents would prove to him that there was still something very much wrong with him indeed.

In early 1983, Bill was out drinking with a group of friends when he claims he felt a sudden rush of icy cold and sweat, very similar to what he had experienced as a child. Feeling ill, he went to the restroom and says that when he looked into the mirror he could see the frightening visage of a wolf staring back at him. Steadily unsettled by the whole incident, he asked to be taken home, and as he was riding in the car with his friends he was reportedly overcome with an irresistible rage that took over his body and stole its control from him. He began to snarl wildly, turning to the friend next to him and attempting to bite his leg. The driver of the car was able to pull over, after which they all struggled to restrain Bill and get him under control, a feat that took all of them since he seemed to be displaying a freakish amount of strength. Bill would eventually come back to his senses, marking the end of a very strange, very awkward evening out. He would later say that he could remember nothing of the odd incident.

Later that year, things would only get stranger still. At around Christmas of 1983, Bill began to suffer from nearly incapacitating sharp chest pains, something which he had never really experienced before. He also was overwhelmed by a cold sweat that poured from his upper body. His immediate concern was that this was the onset of a major heart attack, and Bill found his way to the nearest hospital emergency room. Once there, he was urgently put on a gurney and prepared for examination, but as he waited he could feel the familiar odd chill from his boyhood episode spread out and overcome him once again. At one point, as a nurse bent over to examine him, Bill purportedly let out a guttural roar and lashed out at her with teeth bared, biting into her arm, after which he threw around furniture and scurried into a corner of the room to growl, roar, and pace like an animal. Police arrived, and together with hospital staff they were able to restrain the immensely strong, rampaging man onto a gurney and sedate him with tranquilizers, all the while as he ferociously snapped his teeth at them and roared like a wild beast. Witnesses would later say that Bill had seemed completely, utterly animalistic at the time, with his hands curved into claws, teeth bared, lashing out at those around him, and snarling and growling unintelligibly. One of the policemen who had helped to restrain Bill would later claim that the man’s eyes had looked feral and wolf-like. The sedated man was brought to Runwell Mental Hospital, and when the drugs wore off Bill claimed that he had no recollection of what had happened and had no idea why he was at a mental hospital. Although doctors there suggested that Bill stay and undergo further evaluation and testing he declined, and since he had voluntarily checked himself in at the hospital he was allowed to leave. It was the attending psychiatrist’s opinion that he was likely to have another such episode in the future unless they figured out what was wrong with him but at the time Bill ignored him and went home, thoroughly exhausted from the whole ordeal and hoping that no further such mysterious attacks would emerge. The doctor would turn out to be right.

In January of 1984, Bill went to visit his mother and as he was driving home he felt another episode coming on. Realizing the now familiar tell tale signs of an impending episode, he rushed as fast as he could to the hospital and ended up in the same emergency room as he had been in before. However, by the time he arrived, the wolf-like ferocity had already utterly consumed him. When a lone nurse told him to wait a moment for a doctor, Bill allegedly lashed out at her and threw her roughly to the floor, before pouncing upon a startled orderly in a frenzy, choking him and trying to bite him. Police arrived shortly after and four officers warily circled Bill, who was by this time once again a savage, snarling beast. The beastly, fierce display was so frightening that none of the officers wanted to approach him, and when one did Bill’s response was to set upon him as a predator might do to prey, apparently injuring the officer so badly that he would remain at the hospital for 4 days afterward. The police would later claim that it took all four of them and all of their strength to get Bill into handcuffs, and that he had been much stronger than his appearance would suggest, to the point that they wondered if the handcuffs would even hold.

After he had been put into the handcuffs and thrown into the back of a patrol car, Bill reportedly came back to his senses and as before could not recall anything that had happened from the time that he had been approaching the hospital. After being interrogated and rationally attempting to tell his bizarre story to the no doubt skeptical authorities, it was recommended that he check himself into a mental hospital. Bill refused and was later released. Unfortunately, it would come to be clear that checking into a mental hospital might not have been such a bad idea at all. On the evening of July 22, 1987, Bill stopped by a bar called the White Horse Inn to have a drink after a hard day at work. There he met some friends and they ended up having a good time chatting and drinking, although by the time Bill left the bar he was fairly drunk. Worried that he was too drunk to drive and that a policeman might pull him over, he nevertheless got into his car to drive home, deciding to take a quiet route home where he hoped he could avoid other people and the cops. At some point he came across a lone prostitute walking along the street and got the bizarre plan into his head to make a citizen’s arrest. He pulled the van over and invited the prostitute in, who obliged as she thought she was dealing with a customer. However, as they drove, she began to get a very strange and ominous feeling from Bill, as if he meant to do her harm. She soon asked to be let out and that was when Bill started to let out a rumbling growl under his breath.

When the car slowed down enough, the prostitute then allegedly made a panicked run for the nearest police station and Bill stepped out of the car to follow her. A police officer emerged from the station as Bill approached, and when he drew closer, the beastly force overcame him and he threw the policeman to the ground to begin choking him. Allegedly, the officer was much bigger than Ramsey, yet the smaller man exhibited almost supernatural strength and was easily able to overwhelm him. More police officers then came running to their fallen comrade’s aid, yet Ramsey proved to be a force to be reckoned with, easily tossing the men aside as he roared like an animal and allegedly spat out: “The devil is in me…I am going to kill you.” It would purportedly take 6 strong police officers and several injections of tranquilizer to bring the wild rampage to a stop. Again, Bill would later claim that he had no recollection at all of what had actually transpired. The prostitute, only known as “Lauren,” would later doubt that Ramsey had ever had any intention of arresting her, instead preferring to believe that he had picked her up with the expressed interest in attacking her.

In the aftermath of this vicious assault, Bill finally checked himself into a mental hospital for evaluation, fearing for his own safety and the safety of those around him. A slew of tests were run on him, including X-rays, MRIs, and various psychiatric tests, yet no discernible cause fro the outbursts could be found. There seemed to be nothing wrong with him, neither physically nor mentally. He was kept for observation for 10 days, during which time he remained his normal, rational and mild mannered self, leaving the hospital no choice but to release him. The police station attack propelled Bill Ramsey’s case into international headlines, and soon everyone was talking about what was coming to be known as the “Southend Werewolf.” In the meantime, Ramsey had several more violent, animalistic episodes, which on several occasions prompted him to go to police and plead to be locked up to prevent him from harming anyone. Bill Ramsey’s plight would capture the attention of famed demonologists and supernatural investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren as they were on a trip to London. After contacting local law enforcement officials, the Warrens were able to get in touch with the Ramseys and arrange to meet with them.

While the Warrens at first were suspicious that the whole thing had been a hoax, after several talks with the police and Bill’s family, it soon became apparent that the strange events that had transpired were very real, although no one had any idea of what had caused them. The Warrens became convinced after several talks with Ramsey himself and his wife, Nina, that he was in fact possessed by a form of demon animal spirit. After much cajoling, Bill was convinced by the Warrens that he should come to their church in in Connecticut in order to undergo an exorcism with a Bishop Robert McKenna, who had many exorcisms under his belt. In 1989, Bill Ramsey and his wife made the trip to the States, hoping that perhaps an answer and cure could be found to his escalating condition. In the days before the exorcism, there was a bizarre incident in which Bill attempted to choke his wife in her sleep, which he would not remember in the morning. When the time for the exorcism actually arrived, there were present Bishop McKenna, the Warrens, Bill Ramsey, his wife, paranormal investigator John Zaffis, staff from the tabloid magazine, The People, who had funded the trip, and several off duty policemen who were to serve as bodyguards if things should spiral out of control. When the exorcism began, Bill was reportedly skeptical and unimpressed, and as the Bishop rambled on in Latin he felt nothing whatsoever. He began to think the whole trip had been a waste of time, and later claimed that he had felt it was all “mumbo jumbo” at the time. Yet as McKenna began to press his stole against Bill’s head and demand that the demon identify itself, things would take a sudden turn for the weird.

Bill’s demeanor abruptly changed, he began to snarl viciously and his face contorted into a beastly visage, teeth bared and eyes wild. His hands also curled up into talons, and he began to thrash about in a rage. Lorraine Warren would later claim that even his physical characteristics changed, with his ears appearing more pointed, his face more feral, and his hands more claw-like. Bishop McKenna also said that Bill’s appearance had changed, and at that moment the frenzied demon possessed man lunged towards him trying to maul him. McKenna stumbled back away from him and produced a crucifix, which he held high while commanding in Latin that the demon leave at once. This seemed to only further infuriate the demon, and Bill lunged and swiped at the Bishop, who ordered the nearby policemen to stand down while things played out. Just as the frenzied, out of control Ramsey seemed to close in for the kill and was about to seriously hurt the Bishop, something odd happened. The man who had moments before been a whirlwind of snarling, spitting aggression suddenly fell to the floor in a heap, with one last roar rattling through him before he fell still. Bill would later say of what happened: “The poison that had been in my body drained from me completely. I was left without any strength at all, and when I turned to look at Nina, that small movement caused me to black out. I gripped the chair as tightly as I could and let the demon continue to be pushed away by Bishop McKenna’s Latin words.” The entire exorcism was allegedly caught on film, and all who were present remain adamant that it all really happened. Bill Ramsey, for his part, would go on to claim that he never experienced any more such incidents and was able to return to a normal, peaceful life. Ed and Lorraine Warren would go on to write a whole book on the case, entitled Werewolf: A True Story of Demonic Possession. As to what had actually been wrong with him, that depends on who you ask. According to the Warrens, Bill Ramsey was possessed by some form of demon. Another possibility is that he suffered from a mental condition known as “clinical lycanthropy,” in which the victim truly believes they are shapeshifting into an animal, which can range from wolf, to bear, to pretty much any other animal, including even frogs, rabbits, and bees. He could have also been exhibiting any number of psychotic disorders or mental issues. Some psychotic outbursts can produce exactly the kind of behavior seen in the Ramsey case, and could also possibly account for the displays of seemingly superhuman strength during his rages.

Could this have been an actual demonic possession by some form of animal spirit invading his body and our realm? All we know for sure is that those who witnessed the events claim it is all true, and the victims of Bill’s attacks, including law enforcement officials remain rather baffled about the whole thing. Considering that Bill Ramsey has had no further episodes and has since 1992 sort of dropped off the map, this is just about all we may ever know. You guys can see the video of his interview for “Sightings” a show he appeared on if I’m not mistaken (video).

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taizi · 5 years

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falling over me like stars

the moomins pairing: moomin/snufkin word count: 2221 read on ao3

At first, Moomin isn’t sure what woke him.

One moment he’s dreaming and the next he’s in his bedroom, staring through the dark at the ceiling and experiencing that sideways bereftness of being suddenly transplanted from an imagined place to a real one.

It must still be late, if the dark of the room is any indication.

The house creaks a bit as Moomin lays there listening, the way hard-worked houses sometimes do, its bones settling after another long day of sheltering lots of lively people within its walls. The air is very cool, and smells like damp earth and ozone, but the bed is warm. And it would be, with two bodies tucked beneath a shared blanket.

Moomin tips his head to the side, cheek pressed against the pillow, so his view is filled with Snufkin sleeping bare inches away.

That’s right, Moomin thinks comfortably, teetering on the blurry line between sleep and wake, there was a storm.

The winds were something terrible, and the rain drove down on the roof like thunder. He’d been so glad Moominmamma had managed to convince Snufkin, in her patient, implacable way, to stay inside with them for a few nights until the weather cleared up again.

It always took some doing, but there’s really no holding out against Mama. She’s probably the only creature in the valley more stubborn than Moomin’s favorite mumrik-- and sure enough, Snufkin had lost that particular battle of wills.

He was good-natured about it, though.

“You moomins are certainly a worrisome lot,” he’d said without heat, rolling his tent up with deft hands so they could stow it inside for safe-keeping. “It must be exhausting, concerning yourselves with a tramp like me.”

He was smiling, faint and fond, and flicked a glance at Moomin from under the brim of his floppy, flowered hat. No hard feelings, that glance said, intimate for all its knowing. So Moomin smiled right back.

“We’re built for it,” he had replied smartly, rewarded with the surprised sound of Snufkin’s laughter.

Moomin smiles again now, watching the rise and fall of his friend’s chest, the artless tumble of his thicket-like hair.

They’re both bigger than they were the first time they slept this way, longer limbs and wider shoulders and, in Moomin’s case, more girth. It takes some maneuvering. Their feet all but dangle off the edge unless they curl up a bit. They used to fall asleep on their respective sides of the bed and wake up a comfortable tangle of limbs; now they just skip ahead to that part.

(Mama asked him once if he’d like a new frame, or perhaps for a second one to be moved in so they wouldn’t have to share anymore, but Moomin emphatically said no, thank you. And Mama just looked at him like she knew a secret and went back to fixing breakfast with a peaceful smile, and didn’t bring it up again.)

Suffice to say, tonight is shaped like all of his other favorite nights, comfortable and intimate and cozy. Snufkin is here, one hand buried in the thick fur at Moomin’s chest, radiating heat like a small furnace. Moomin doesn’t have any strange cricks in his neck or back from twisting into an odd angle in his sleep. None of his limbs are cramping, he isn’t cold, he isn’t thirsty, he was having a pleasant enough dream, for all that he can’t really remember more than a vague outline--

So what woke him?

Moomin frowns as minutes slink by and no answer seems forthcoming. He can’t even toss and turn without dislodging his friend, and just laying there, still and wide-awake, feels like torture.

And then Snufkin’s fingers tighten in his fur, almost to the point of pain. The mumrik gives a little jerk, and his head turns, and Moomin can see his expression.

“Oh, no,” he says in dismay, sitting up quickly. “Snufkin, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

He doesn’t so much reach out to Snufkin as just lay a hand on him, they’re already so close. He’s trembling, so slightly Moomin couldn’t tell until he feels it, and it’s enough to make Moomin’s whole chest ache.

“Wake up,” he insists again. He tries to work loose the fingers in his fur, if only so he can hold them instead. Moomin doesn’t want to raise his voice, not at Snufkin, but he’s getting more desperate with every second he has to watch that dear face twist with pain. “Those stars you love spilled their light into our room to keep you company. You’ll feel better in no time if you just open your eyes.”

Moomin gives him a little shake, and that does the trick. When Snufkin wakes up, it’s not with a wild start, the way Moomin sometimes flees a nightmare, but a little jolt. His eyes fly open and his mouth parts in a gasp, but he’s so quiet that Moomin might have slept through the whole thing if Snufkin hadn’t accidentally pulled on his fur.

That’s an unhappy thought.

“There you are,” he says brightly. “I should’ve known all I’d have to do is mention the stars and you’d come right back.”

The room is a study in silver and stardust, every dark corner touched with some of the faint light pouring through the window, and even Snufkin looks softer here. All of his earthen tones washed out to blues and white, the line of his body something surprisingly fragile for the rough-and-tumble vagabond Moomin knows.

He retracts his hand and murmurs, “Sorry, Moomintroll. Did I hurt you?”

Moomin’s a little sorry he let go, if anything, but he smooths out the ruffled fur with a paw. “Of course you didn’t. I bet you wouldn’t even know how.”

He tugs the blanket up over their laps, and Snufkin disentangles their tails before scooting in. They lean against the headboard together, the only two awake in this big, full house, and Moomin knows what it sounds like when Snufkin is trying to sort things out in his head, so he doesn’t interrupt the thoughtful silence.

Then Snufkin says, “I dreamed I got lost.”

Moomin jumps a little at that, surprised. “You’ve never gotten lost.”

“Maybe that’s why it was so-- alarming.” He’d been about to use a different word, Moomin thinks. “But I was lost. The road was gone. The forest was empty, even of birds, so there was no one I could ask for directions. The sky was overcast, so I couldn’t even use the stars to guide me.”

His voice is quiet, the same voice he uses to recite poetry or tell mysterious tales, but the wonder is gone from it. In its place is a festering wound of fear, something dull instead of sharp, a persisting ache rather than a single swift blow.

“The seasons changed, and I never found my way back,” Snufkin adds in a short, clipped tone. “I knew I wouldn’t see you again. And then I woke up.”

Moomin can feel a hollow sort of horror at the very idea of Snufkin out there alone in the world somewhere, lost and unable to make his way back home to the valley. What a terrible idea! What an awful nightmare, to come slinking in here and attach itself to Snufkin and poison his pleasant dreams!

“It wasn’t real,” Moomin says, not sure which of them he’s hoping to reassure. He doesn’t think Snufkin is in the mood to be grabbed, even for feel-better a hug, so he keeps his paws in his lap. “You’ve come back every year. Every spring. Why would that change?”

“It was just a dream,” Snufkin agrees. But he’s pressed against Moomin’s shoulder and his eyes are faraway. If it was just anything he wouldn’t still be so shaken.

So Moomin goes on, “You tell me yourself the birds are chatty no matter where you go! They hardly leave you alone once they realize they can pick a conversation out of you if they’re obnoxious enough. I bet your dream was a wish they’d find someone else to bother for a change.”

There it is-- the barest hint of a smile. Heartened, Moomin keeps it up.

“And just because some clouds got in the way, you’d give up on the stars? You, Snuf? When we first met, we talked about stars for hours. I thought you’d never run out of praises for them!”

Snufkin huffs a reluctant laugh, and then presses his lips together, but he’s smiling plainly now.

“Besides, even if the birds all deserted you, and the stars all burned out, you’re forgetting one important thing.” Sandwiched side-by-side as they are, Snufkin’s head pillowed on Moomin’s shoulder, it’s easy to say the words since he doesn’t have those bright brown eyes to get distracted by. So Moomin looks up at the ceiling and says, “If you didn’t come back, I’d go looking for you. I know you need your space, but you’ve never broken a promise to me. If you promised to come back and you didn’t, I would find you. I’d search everywhere until I found you. The way you feel about the world when you travel is the way I feel about you when you come home. There’s no way I’d ever let you stay lost, Snufkin.”

For a moment, Moomin feels good about that. He thinks he managed to explain his feelings pretty clearly, and hopefully it made Snufkin feel better-- but then horror quickly washes out the satisfaction, because Snufkin is trembling again in an all-too-familiar way.

“Oh-- oh no, don’t cry, Snufkin! I’m sorry, please don’t cry!” Stricken, Moomin tries to twist to look at his friend properly, but Snufkin stays stubbornly pressed against his side, shaking with tears, eyes hidden in Moomin’s fur. Paws flapping uselessly, Moomin rambles, “Well, no, that isn’t right-- you should cry if you need to, of course you should! But I’ll definitely start crying, too, and then you’ll be the one comforting me and that won’t do at all!”

"I'll hibernate this year," Snufkin mumbles, muffled, but Moomin still freezes at the words.

"You'll stay all winter? Here, with me?" he says. Snufkin nods. "And leave in the spring instead?" Moomin realizes, joy tempered by dismay.

"Leave next winter instead," the mumrik says, the best thing he's ever said, handing Moomin a hundred presents in a few short words. "I'll stay for that long. I want to try."

"Because you're afraid?" Moomin gives into the urge to hold him, wrapping both arms around him and hugging him tight. He remembers being younger, looking up at Snufkin and then looking level at him, but he's just a bit taller now. It makes hugging him even nicer somehow, not that he's ever come out and said so-- he just takes any and every excuse to bundle the smaller creature up and tuck him under his chin, for as long as he can get away with. "What if you're not afraid in a few days? You'll be sorry you promised it then."

"Not because of that." Snufkin seems to take shelter in the fact that Moomin can't see his face. Moomin wonders if he sometimes gets distracted by eyes he thinks are pretty, too. That's a nice thought. "I've seen a lot of the world, you know. A lot of it has changed. Even you have changed. It's a part of life, I think, of nature, that nothing stays the same forever. I'd like to see if I can change, too."

There's a lot of-- of something building up in Moomin's chest, something that feels the way the sun looks when it dawns. Bold and fiery and too big to fit in the space it belongs to, spilling light across the hills and fields and rivers, spilling color, spilling warmth. He doesn't know what to do with all of it until he knows exactly what to do with all of it, and Snufkin must have the same idea, because he looks up just in time for their noses to meet.

It must not be a surprise to him, because he laughs, and bumps back with his smaller snout, and oh, that is wonderful. Moomin is delighted. He never wants to move from this spot.

"I've always loved moomin kisses," Snufkin says softly. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is rather pale, but his smile more than makes up for it. "How sweet."

Moomin's heart is racing, and he's never known hearts could race with happiness instead of excitement or fear or nerves. It's just one more thing Snufkin has taught him, perhaps the best thing. He's sorry that a storm and a nightmare brought them here, but the sky is clear now, and the room is full of whispered voices and empty hands being held and a few more kisses just for the sake of exploring something so new in this love that's so old. Moomin would like to see any bad dream leave a mark on them now.

"What else do you love about moomins?" he asks, hoping he might hear a few things on Snufkin's list that he identifies with.

Snufkin hums fondly, eyes very close and very distracting, as usual. He touches Moomin's cheek and says, "Lean in close to me, and I'll tell you."

#the moomins #moomin #moomintroll #snufkin #snufmin #my writing #moomin fic #back on my bullshit lads

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pikapeppa · 5 years

Text

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquistion: Spirits

Chapter 10 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which FenRynne and the crew meet Bull and the Chargers, and there is some drama and arguing. O_o

Read here on AO3.

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

Hawke sighed and irritably shook her left foot. “I think there’s a hole in my boot. My foot is soaked.”

“Both of my feet are soaked,” Fenris remarked.

Hawke pouted. “Your feet are bare. They’ll dry in two seconds. It’s not the same.”

He shrugged and continued his easy stroll across the lush verdant hills of the Storm Coast. “Nobody forced you to wear boots.”

Hawke scoffed and playfully pushed his arm. “We don’t all have hardened dragon’s hide for soles like you do. Chances are I would cut my feet open the second I took my boots off.”

On Hawke’s other side, Blackwall winced and briefly bowed his head. “I apologize, my lady.”

Hawke rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Blackwall, please, just call me Hawke. And what are you sorry for?”

“For dragging you out on this chase for Warden artifacts,” he said. “I spent some time here a few years ago. I’d forgotten just how, er, wet it was.” He squinted up at the sky, which had been steel-grey and spilling rain since they’d arrived yesterday afternoon.

Hawke waved him off. “Don’t be silly, it’s not your fault. Leliana wanted us to look for signs of the Wardens too, remember? Besides, I should have bought better boots before coming out to a place called the Storm Coast. Bit of a tip-off with the name, don’t you think?” She nudged Varric’s head with her elbow. “Almost too on the nose, if you ask me. Whoever was in charge of naming this place clearly had no imagination.”

Varric smirked up at her. “You really should have worn better boots. I mean, even I’m wearing waterproof boots, and you know how much I love this nature shit.”

“He makes a good point,” Fenris said to Hawke. “If the hopeless city dwarf is properly prepared for the elements, why aren’t you?”

Varric snorted at Fenris’s colourful epithet. Hawke, meanwhile, shrugged and innocently blinked at Fenris. “Honestly? I was hoping you would carry me in your big strong warrior’s arms if my feet got wet.”

Fenris gave her a chiding look, then scoffed. “You do not need to be carried. You are not a housecat.”

Her lips lifted into a slow and salacious smile, and Fenris wilted in exasperation. He could practically see the quip gathering itself in her mind: some foolish joke about him making her purr, he was certain.

“Don’t,” he warned.

She laughed. “I didn’t say anything!”

He bit the inside of his cheek and forced his face to remain stern. “I know what you were thinking,” he said. “Do not say it.”

She grinned and pinched his chin playfully. “You know what? I’m glad I don’t have to. You just know me so well.”

He shook his head in exasperation. Then Solas’s voice floated over from about ten paces away.

“Blackwall,” he said. “I believe this may be the camp you sought.”

Blackwall perked up, and they all followed him over to Solas’s side. Blackwall crouched beside the remains of the campfire, then dug around in the ashes for a moment before pulling out a dented metal crest.

He excitedly looked up at the rest of them. “It’s a Warden’s crest,” he said. Then his smile faded slightly as he turned it in his fingers. “We wear these on our coats, usually. This one must have been ripped off in a fight.”

“Oh, look here,” Hawke piped up. She was inspecting a few sodden pages of parchment, and as Blackwall rose to face her, she held them out to him.

He took the pages, and his face lit up as he skimmed them. “Pages from a Warden’s journal,” he exclaimed. He beamed at Hawke. “An excellent find, my lady.”

Hawke folded her arms and smiled. “That’s what I’m known for: scavenging odd bits and pieces to cheer people up.”

Varric snorted. “That’s one thing you’re known for, at least.”

“Oh come on, Varric, that’s probably my favourite claim to fame,” she said. She raised her eyes wistfully to the stormy sky. “Rynne Hawke, Kirkwall’s finest retriever of lost and stolen junk. Truly, I would have preferred that over the title of Champion.”

“Retriever of Junk,” Fenris mused. “A rather undignified title, but it would have saved you some grief, I’m certain.”

She smiled and winked at him. Blackwall sat on a fallen log to read the journal pages, and as Varric moved away to read the pages as well, Fenris surreptitiously smoothed his hand down Hawke’s back.

The mages at Redcliffe were making their careful journey back to Haven, accompanied by Cassandra and Dorian and a contingent of Inquisition soldiers. Fenris and Hawke had thus decided to come to the Storm Coast to follow up on that invitation from Cremisius Aclassi, and the rest of their companions had volunteered to come along - though Sera had promptly abandoned them in favour of Scout Harding as soon as they’d arrived.

The journey from the Hinterlands to the Storm Coast had been relatively uneventful. This was not to say they hadn’t encountered foes; it seemed that no journey could be completely free of violence in these danger-laden days. But the enemies they’d encountered had been relatively normal ones: bandits, a few power-mad apostates, and only three small non-time-bending rifts. By the time they’d reached Harding’s first outpost on the Storm Coast, Fenris was almost feeling back to his normal self in the wake of the entire time-travelling debacle in Redcliffe.

Almost.

The constant travel was helpful. It was a good distraction from the memories of Hawke’s glittering red eyes, which still lingered at the back of his unoccupied mind. Sleeping in a different place each night was also helpful, as it warded off the nightmares that sometimes plagued him still, even after leaving Danarius’s side. Sleeping in the same place for multiple nights in a row had always been something of a trigger for Fenris’s bad dreams, at least until he became more settled and comfortable.

For this latter reason alone, Fenris was somewhat dreading the return to Haven. He was certain that the first few nights back in Haven would be heralded by a new set of red lyrium-related nightmares, and he was not looking forward to that.

He ran his palm along Hawke’s back once more, taking comfort from the smooth curve of her shoulder blade beneath her lambswool cloak. Then she leaned in close and spoke in a quiet voice.

“He’s kind of an odd Warden, don’t you think?” she murmured. Her thoughtful gaze was on Blackwall, who was listening seriously to Varric’s tale about their trip into the Deep Roads ten years ago.

Fenris scratched his chin. “How so? He has the same world-saving mentality as Stroud.”

“Yes, but he seems more… optimistic about it, don’t you think?” Hawke said. “Stroud is always so grim and serious. And it’s a bit weird that he’s so dewy-eyed over these Warden artifacts,” she added. “They’re his own order. He’s been one of them for years. You’d think he’d be over the hero worship by now. And seriously, why is he the only Warden who hasn’t disappeared? It’s strange, don’t you think?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. She made some very good points. “You think he is lying about his true role with the Wardens?” he whispered. “That he has some hidden purpose?”

Hawke shrugged. Her gaze was more curious than suspicious as she studied their burly companion. “I think he’s more committed to the Inquisition than he is to the Wardens. Good for us, but not great for them. If they know about him, that is.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “You do think he is lying, then.”

Hawke shook her head slowly. “Not lying, necessarily. But I think he has a story. He’s more than he seems.” She gave Fenris a mischievous smile. “That’s why his beard is so big. It’s full of secrets.”

Fenris snorted in amusement. Then Solas drew his attention. “Fenris,” he called.

Fenris looked up, then approached the small hill where Solas was standing. He was gazing off toward the coastline, and Fenris’s eyes widened as he caught sight of what Solas had seen: a skirmish of sorts with at least twenty men. Most notable of all in the fight was a tall, horned, and unmistakable figure.

“What is it?” Hawke asked. She squinted toward the coastline, then raised her eyebrows. “Ooh. Is that..?”

“It must be the Iron Bull,” Fenris said. “The qunari mercenary captain we’re searching for.”

“Interesting,” Hawke said. She smiled at Fenris and Solas. “Let’s go introduce ourselves, shall we?”

The two men nodded, and with Varric and Blackwall in tow, they made their way toward the coastline in the direction of the fight. As they splashed their way through the river toward the coast, Fenris wondered about the qunari they were about to meet.

The whole situation still struck him as odd. Not just the Tevinter second-in-command and the common-tongue nickname, but the idea of a qunari running a mercenary company at all. From Fenris’s understanding of the Qun, it was not the qunari way to exploit their considerable martial skills for monetary gain. Even the tal-vashoth they had once met on the Wounded Coast had scorned the idea of selling his skills for money. So how was it that a true member of the Qun was the leader of a mercenary band?

I suppose we will soon find out, he thought. They were about fifty paces away from the skirmish now, and before they could get any closer, Fenris held up a hand to stop the group.

“Let’s watch for a while longer,” he suggested.

Hawke’s eyebrows rose. “They’re fighting a bunch of those Venatori. You don’t want to join in and help to tear them apart?”

Fenris raised a sardonic eyebrow at her. “I absolutely will if necessary,” he said. “But that Aclassi fellow invited us to come and see what these Chargers are worth. I suggest we take him up on the offer.”

Hawke shrugged easily. “All right,” she said. She jerked her head to a nearby hill. “Shall we find some comfy seats from a higher vantage point? Some nice moss-covered boulders, perhaps?”

Varric huffed softly as they clambered up the hill. “Hardly my idea of a comfy seat, but sure.”

Blackwall chuckled. “The city dwarf needs more padding, eh?”

Hawke snickered, and Varric shot them a smirk. “You guys call me ‘city dwarf’ like it’s an insult, but I’ll have you know-”

A deep, roaring belly laugh rumbled through the constant hiss of the rain, and they all stopped short in surprise.

Hawke looked at Fenris with wide eyes. “Was that… a qunari laughing?”

“Yes, it was,” he confirmed. He adjusted the hood of his cloak and peered down toward the coastline; indeed, the qunari commander was grinning widely as he swung his battleaxe in a wide and sweeping arc.

“I didn’t think qunari even knew how to laugh,” Varric remarked.

Hawke nodded in agreement. “I’ve certainly never seen it.”

Varric smirked. “Well, I mean, you were a little too busy freezing their Arishok and pulling his guts out to notice if they laughed or not.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Maker’s balls, Varric. You always make it sound like it was such an epic fight, when we all know I almost-”

“Hawke,” Fenris interrupted. “Please don’t.” He did not need another reminder of a time that she’d almost died.

She broke off and grimaced apologetically, then folded her arms. “Did you ever hear the qunari laughing when you were observing them in Seheron?” she asked him.

Fenris tilted his head equivocally as he continued to watch the shoreline fight. “On rare occasions,” he said. “But qunari rarely drop their guard around foreigners. Certainly not enough to laugh with such abandon.”

Hawke hummed in acknowledgement, and they watched the rest of the fight in silence. By the time the final Venatori mage was downed, Fenris was convinced of the Chargers’s value.

The members of the mercenary company clearly knew each other well. There were about a dozen of them on the field, and from the seamless way they moved around each other, it was clear to Fenris’s battle-savvy eye that they were either deeply familiar with each other’s strengths and vulnerabilities, or that the Iron Bull was an outstanding commander who was able to place his people to their best advantage. In all likelihood, it was a combination of both.

Blackwall seemed to agree; he folded his arms and nodded in approval. “Mercenaries they might be, but they can certainly fight.”

“Yes,” Solas said thoughtfully. “And with only one mage among them. It takes considerable creativity to function so well in battle with so little magical contribution.”

Fenris nodded slowly. He might not be pleased to admit it, but Solas had a good point; the years he’d spent with Hawke had made him see the value of a strong barrier and a well-aimed blast of fire or ice, not to mention the not-inconsiderable boon of a healer mage’s restorative abilities.

“Creativity… yes, that is accurate,” he said slowly. He jerked his chin toward the shoreline. “Let’s go speak to them.”

They made their way down the slope toward the blood- and body-strewn beach. The Iron Bull was seated on a nearby boulder wiping his blade with a cloth, and as Fenris and the others made their approach, he called out to his second-in-command in a booming voice. “Krem! How’d we do?”

His accent was only faintly tinted with Qunlat. Another surprise, since most qunari either did not speak the common tongue at all, or with a heavy accent.

“Four wounded, Chief,” Aclassi replied. “None dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” The Iron Bull announced. He slid his enormous axe onto his back. “Let the throat-cutters finish up here, then break out the casks.”

Aclassi gave a brisk salute, then trotted off to speak to some of his comrades. Then the Iron Bull turned his head toward Fenris and his companions.

He grinned as he spotted them with his one good eye, and Fenris felt another jolt of surprise at the friendly expression.

“So,” the Iron Bull said. “You’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it.” He ushered them over. “Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

Fenris was nonplussed. This kind of geniality was not at all what he’d been expecting.

He nodded cautiously to the Iron Bull. “Shanedan. Ebasaam esaam kost.”

The Iron Bull looked at him sharply, then threw his head back and laughed. He waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, no need for that, we’re all friends here. Come on, sit your asses down.” He gestured more insistently for them to take a seat.

Fenris cautiously sat on a rock beside the Iron Bull, and Varric and Blackwall sat on some boulders as well. Hawke, on the other hand, smoothed her cloak down under her bottom and plopped down directly on the rocky beach. “Drinks are coming, you said?” She smiled up at Fenris. “I like him already.”

The Iron Bull grinned widely at her, and Fenris sighed quietly. He gestured to the nearest dead Tevinter. “This was impressive,” he said. “Your group works together well.”

“That we do,” the Iron Bull said proudly. “We’re expensive, but worth it. And you’re not just getting the boys: you’re getting me.” He rose to his feet to tower over them all and placed his hands on his thick, muscular waist. “You need a front-line bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is - demons, dragons… the bigger, the better.”

“You’re in luck, then,” Blackwall said. “There’s a dragon on the shoreline to the east, just that way.” He pointed along the coast.

“It was fighting a giant,” Varric added. “Pretty crazy stuff.”

The Iron Bull’s eyes lit up. “You’re joking. That’s bad-ass!”

Hawke stared at him in surprise, then laughed. “I suppose it rather was, yes,” she said, then looked at Fenris with a smirk and raised eyebrows.

He shook his head slightly, feeling more and more perplexed by this Iron Bull. He was nothing like the qunari Fenris had met in Seheron or in Kirkwall.

He scratched the back of his head, then shrugged and rested his elbows on his knees. “I should ask how much your company will cost the Inquisition,” he said. Josephine had said the Inquisition had some gold from the late Justinia, as well as contributions from the few nobles whose support was trickling in, but it wouldn’t do to spend it all on one mercenary company.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” the qunari captain said. “Your ambassador - what’s-her-name, Josephine? We’ll go through her, get the payment set up. Gold will take care of itself; don’t worry about that. All that matters is we’re worth it.”

Then his jovial expression sobered slightly. “Before you sign us on...” He trailed off, then beckoned for Fenris to follow him.

Fenris raised an eyebrow, but rose to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawke starting to rise as well.

He glanced at her and surreptitiously held up a reassuring hand. She frowned but settled back on the beach with Blackwall, Varric and Solas, and Fenris followed the Iron Bull a short ways away from the others.

When they were out of the humans’ earshot, the Iron Bull folded his arms. “There’s one other thing,” he said. “Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Yes. They are the branch of the qunari that handles security and intelligence, are they not?”

The Iron Bull gave Fenris an appraising look. “You do know a thing or two about us, don’t you? But yeah, you’re right. The Ben-Hassrath handle everything: information, loyalty, security, all of it. They’re spies, basically. Or, well… we’re spies.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, and the Iron Bull nodded his head in acknowledgement before going on. “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere,” he said. “I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

Fenris stared flatly at him. “Would your superiors approve of you admitting this?” he drawled. “It appears counterintuitive for a spy to admit that they are, in fact, a spy.”

The Iron Bull casually hitched his thumbs into his belt. “Look, I’m a bottom-line kind of guy. Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed, and I’ve heard that you’re the people to get it done. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“For now,” Fenris retorted. “Until you receive directives to the contrary from Par Vollen.”

“You sign me on with the Inquisition, and I’ll make sure those directives don’t happen,” the Iron Bull reasoned. He tilted his horned head. “My people back home want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damned world from falling apart. You let me send word of what you’re doing, it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone.”

Fenris folded his arms and lifted his chin. “And what exactly are you offering in return?”

“Aside from myself and my guys, you mean?” He shrugged and waved a careless hand. “Enemy movements, suspicious activity, intriguing gossip… it’s a bit of everything. Alone, they’re not much, but if your spymaster is worth a damn, she’ll put ‘em to good use.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “And what makes you think our spymaster is a woman?”

The qunari shrugged. “I did a little research. Plus,” he smirked, “I’ve always had a weakness for redheads.”

Fenris frowned, then glanced toward the others. Solas was openly watching them with a frown on his face, and Fenris had no doubt that the elven mage’s keen hearing was picking up everything they were saying. Varric and Blackwall were chatting casually while Hawke listened with a smile, but Fenris could see the slightly worried crease of her eyebrows.

He turned back to the Iron Bull. “I will speak with my companions,” he said. Then he walked back to join the others.

He crouched beside Hawke, who immediately turned toward him. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“He is a qunari spy,” Solas said quietly. He was still staring daggers at the Iron Bull.

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up, and Varric winced. “Oh. Shit. The Seeker won’t be happy about that.”

Fenris looked at them all in turn. “He is offering qunari intelligence in exchange for the reports he will send back to Par Vollen,” he said.

Varric rubbed his chin briefly. “I guess that’s something. Nightingale could make use of that. Maybe he’ll hand over something that could help us track down ol’ Corypheus.”

“But is that worth the risk?” Fenris muttered. “He admitted that the qunari’s main goal is to close the Breach. Once it’s sealed, he could turn on us at any moment.”

“What if we make friends with him?” Hawke suggested. “Make it hard for him to betray us? We made friends with Tallis, after all, and she didn’t abandon us.” Her tone was light, but Fenris could see the worry in the tilt of her eyebrows.

It was on the tip of his tongue to remind Hawke that Tallis had lied about her qunari identity in the first place, but Solas spoke before he had the chance. “That will not work,” Solas said firmly. “The Ben-Hassrath are the most insidious agents of the Qun. They are tasked with policing the thoughts of their own people as well as those they conquer. It will not be possible to manipulate him in that way.”

Hawke clicked her tongue in disappointment. “Well, there goes my favourite strategy.” She looked at the others. “So… is that a no, then?”

Blackwall sighed. “A shame, that. They’re strong fighters. Would have been helpful in any number of battles.”

Fenris, meanwhile, was watching Solas. He didn’t think he had ever seen Solas look so disapproving before. “You think we should not bring him in?” Fenris asked.

“On the contrary,” Solas said. He finally shifted his steel-grey gaze to Fenris’s face. “If you allow him to join the Inquisition, Leliana’s spies can monitor him. There are times when careful observation can be more telling than spoken words. Knowledge is power, is it not?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes briefly. He seemed to be hearing this a lot lately. Not that he disagreed with the idea by any means, but still.

He ran a hand over his hood, then glanced at the Iron Bull. He was smiling and talking to Aclassi, who was grinning back. To Fenris’s eyes, they looked very much like friends.

A qunari making friends with a Tevinter human and running a band of non-qunari mercenaries… It could certainly all be based orders from Par Vollen, but the Iron Bull’s manner still struck him as extremely odd for a faithful member of the Qun.

He rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said to the others, then he returned to the Iron Bull’s side.

“So?” the qunari captain said. “Are we celebrating, or are we moving on?”

Fenris folded his arms. “You are hired, on one condition. You will run your reports past the spymaster before you send them out. If she disapproves, they do not get sent.”

The Iron Bull smiled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Fenris nodded. Then he took a slow step closer to the Iron Bull and switched to Qunlat. “Your duty is to your people. My duty is to mine,” he said quietly. “The woman and the dwarf are under my protection. If anything you do brings harm to them, I will rip your beating heart from your chest.”

The Iron Bull stared at him for a moment. Then a slow, broad grin bloomed across his rugged face.

He let out a rolling belly laugh, then slapped Fenris on the shoulder. “You know what? I believe it.” He grinned at Aclassi. “Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired.”

Aclassi wilted slightly. “What about the casks, Chief? We just opened them up. With axes.”

The Iron Bull shrugged and tucked his thumbs into his belt once more. “Find some way to seal ‘em up! You’re Tevinter, right? Try blood magic.”

Fenris raised one eyebrow at the distasteful joke. Then the qunari captain turned back to face him. “We’ll have drinks sometime, you and I. I want to know how a bas like you knows our language. Your accent’s pretty bad, but your grammar is surprisingly good.”

Fenris scowled briefly; Tallis had criticized his accent too.

He lifted his chin and looked the Iron Bull directly in the eye. The qunari wasn’t going to like what Fenris was about to tell him. “I spent some time in Seheron. I fought alongside the fog warriors.”

The Iron Bull froze for an instant. It was just a brief instant, the span of a second and the blink of an eye, but Fenris saw it.

Then the qunari warrior shifted his weight and nodded as though he was impressed. “You don’t say?” he said. “Well. We definitely should catch a drink together sometime.” He turned away and waved one gigantic hand in farewell. “We’ll meet you back at Haven,” he said, then sauntered away to rejoin his men.

Fenris huffed very quietly. Then he turned away and made his way back to Hawke and the others.

“Come on, don’t keep us in suspense,” Hawke said. “What did you decide?”

Fenris sat beside her. “His company has joined the Inquisition. His reports will go past Leliana first.”

Solas and Varric nodded in approval. “A good compromise,” Blackwall said.

Hawke placed one hand on Fenris’s knee. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

He looked at her, then realized he was frowning. “Oh,” he said. “There was an odd moment. I told him I was in Seheron with the fog warriors, and he… reacted.” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “I wonder if perhaps I fought him there.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped, and she laughed. “Well, that’ll be awkward.”

“Ah, you’re both civilized men,” Blackwall said. “Take him to a tavern for drinks and talk it over.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Blackwall; he couldn’t be sure if he was kidding or not.

Varric, meanwhile, snorted with laughter. “Drinks between a qunari and an elf with a known history of ripping out perfectly functional organs? That sounds like a great plan.”

“Oh Varric, you have so little faith,” Hawke complained. “I think it’s a brilliant strategy! Especially since this Bull fellow obviously enjoys a good drink.”

Varric smirked. “So we’re calling him ‘Bull’ now, are we?”

Hawke scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m certainly not calling him ‘The Iron Bull’ every time I have to address him. Can’t be bothered to waste my breath.”

Varric tilted his head thoughtfully. “I dunno, Hawke. I think we should call him ‘Tiny’.”

Blackwall snorted with amusement, and Hawke burst into raucous laughter. “Yes!” she exclaimed. She slung an arm around Varric’s neck. “I love that. It’s perfect.” She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye, then looked up at Solas.

She tilted her head. “Solas, why so serious still? I thought this was what you wanted.”

Solas’s pensive frown cleared slightly as she addressed him. “Yes,” he said. “I… yes. Given the choices presented, I believe Fenris made the right one.” He turned his head to watch as Bull and his Chargers cleaned up the beach and readied their gear for the trip to Haven.

He sighed, then spoke quietly. “Freedom is a constant fight. A battle that may never cease.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Solas turned back to face them.

He smiled faintly as he met Hawke’s wide eyes. “Forgive me. The musings of a man who has had too little sleep,” he said. He bowed his head slightly to Fenris. “Shall we move on?”

“Yes,” Fenris said cautiously. He, Hawke, Varric and Blackwall rose to their feet, and soon they were all hiking across the hilly landscape once more and searching for clues about the Wardens’ presence, or lack thereof.

As they traversed the mountainous landscape, Blackwall asked Hawke, Varric and Fenris about their time in Kirkwall. Fenris left it to Varric and Hawke to tell the majority of the stories, interjecting on occasion to correct some of Varric’s more outlandish embellishments if Hawke was too busy laughing to do so herself.

Blackwall led the way under the sodden arching bough of a pine tree, then lifted the bough politely so the others could pass. “I’m curious, though,” he said to Varric. “Hawke said your book ends at the point when you all fled Kirkwall. Two years later, the three of you are here. What about the others?” He looked at Hawke. “Where’s your brother, for instance?”

“Ah, Carv,” Hawke said. “He’s actually still a Templar, and still in Kirkwall. But he mostly works for Aveline, hunting down abominations and such. No Circle left for him to guard, you see.”

She smiled as she spoke, and her tone was pleasant. Fenris reached over and briefly squeezed her hand. She shot him a quick little smile, but Fenris could see the sadness in her amber eyes.

Blackwall hummed with interest. “So Aveline is still in Kirkwall as well.”

“Yep,” Varric said. He clambered effortfully over a fallen tree, then sighed in annoyance before continuing. “She’s still Guard-Captain. I’m pretty sure Kirkwall would fall into the sea if she quit her job.”

Solas, who had been quiet since leaving the beach, spoke up. “What of Anders? The mage who incited the Rebellion?”

“He left Kirkwall with us,” Hawke replied. “But he didn’t stay. He…” She hesitated, then said, “He left immediately after we were clear of Kirkwall. We don’t know where he went.”

“Probably to Tevinter,” Fenris muttered resentfully, and Hawke shot him an annoyed look.

Varric glanced at Blackwall with a raised eyebrow. “We don’t know where he is, and frankly, I don’t want to know.”

Blackwall’s gaze darted between the three of them, and his tone was slightly guarded as he spoke again. “What about Isabela?”

Hawke brightened and grinned. “Oh, she’s doing fantastic. She finally got that ship she wanted.”

Varric huffed in amusement. “She went back to the Raiders. She’s calling herself an admiral now. I’m not sure if she’s really in charge or just has a really big hat.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Might be the same thing, honestly.”

Hawke snickered and elbowed Blackwall. “She doesn’t have a cock to wave around, so she’s got to use a hat, see?”

Blackwall coughed out a little laugh before speaking again. “I heard that Sebastian Vael was crowned the Prince of Starkhaven.”

Hawke harrumphed. “And I bet he’s really pleased about it, too.” She gave Fenris a mock-thoughtful look. “Do you think he’s still celibate now that he’s a prince again? I’m still convinced that he was so uptight because of the whole no-sex married-to-Andraste thing.”

Fenris shook his head as he gingerly stepped over a dead and decomposing nug. “Of course his sex life is the thing you wonder about since he’s been gone.”

Hawke hopped over the nug as well, then widened her eyes and linked her arm with his. “Of course it is. Who do you think you’re speaking to?”

He scoffed, and Hawke smiled. Then Solas spoke again.

“And the Dalish mage. Merrill,” he said. He looked at Hawke. “You mentioned once that she was the last one to take her leave from you and Fenris?”

Fenris stiffened slightly at the mention of Merrill, and Blackwall looked at Varric in surprise. “She was?” he said. “I thought you were the last to leave.”

Varric grimaced and shook his head. “Nah. I left a few months after Isabela. Went back to Kirkwall to try and help set things straight.”

“Oh,” Blackwall said. He looked at Fenris curiously. “What is Merrill up to now?”

Hawke’s fingers tensed slightly at the inside of his elbow. Then she released his arm.

Fenris glanced at Blackwall and Solas. “We don’t know,” he said.

Blackwall’s frown deepened. “You don’t? Why…?” His eyes widened. “Did something bad happen to her?”

“No, no,” Hawke said hastily. “Nothing like that. She just, err….” She glanced quickly at Fenris, then looked away and briefly scratched the left side of her ribs.

Fenris scowled. He did not want to talk about this with Blackwall and Solas, but forcing them to drop the issue would only make things more awkward, and Hawke was clearly feeling awkward enough already.

He faced Blackwall and Solas fully. “I had an argument with her. We had… strong differences of opinion, and she left.”

It was all they needed to know. The rest wasn’t their business. They didn’t need to know that Fenris and Merrill almost came to blows, or that Hawke had to physically place herself between them to stop the fight from happening.

They didn’t need to know how Fenris had yelled at Hawke like he hadn’t done in years. And they didn't need to know that she’d basically been forced to send Merrill away to calm him down.

A now-familiar surge of shame burned his stomach at the memory. He looked away from Solas and Blackwall and reached for Hawke’s hand.

She laced her fingers with his, but continued to avoid his eye. An uncomfortable moment later, Blackwall cleared his throat. “Solas,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got a question about spirits for you.”

Fenris was grateful for the clumsy topic change, and even more grateful when Solas swiftly latched onto it. “Certainly,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

“Well,” Blackwall said, “you make friends with spirits in the Fade. Are there any that are more than just friends?”

Fenris, Varric, and Hawke all looked up in surprise. Solas, on the other hand, immediately scowled. “Oh, for... really?” he complained.

Blackwall innocently lifted his hands. “Look, it's a natural thing to be curious about!”

“For a twelve-year-old,” Solas retorted, but Fenris noticed that his ears were turning faintly pink.

Hawke clearly noticed it too; her expression was slowly morphing from surprise into delight.

Blackwall’s face was wreathed in the kind of shit-eating grin that Fenris was used to seeing on Hawke’s face. “It's a simple yes or no question,” he said.

“Nothing about the Fade or spirits is simple,” Solas said. “Especially not that!”

“Oh, Solas,” Hawke crooned. “Your face is turning red.” She grinned at Varric. “He looks like Cullen when anyone mentions anything about underpants.”

Varric snorted. “Hawke, you’re the only one who ever mentions underpants around Cullen.”

Fenris ignored them. He frowned at Solas. “Are you saying you have had relations with demons?” he demanded.

Hawke snorted loudly, then slapped her hands over her mouth.

Solas glared at Fenris. “I did not-” He broke off abruptly, then took a deep breath before speaking again. “Such a crude question belies the complexity of the situation,” he finally said.

Fenris came to a stop and folded his arms. “Explain it, then,” he said.

Solas scowled. “The Chantry says demons hate the natural world and seek to bring their chaos and destruction to the living,” he said. “But such simplistic labels misconstrue their motivations, and in so doing, do all a great disservice.” He took another deep breath, then lifted his chin and spoke in a more measured tone. “Spirits wish to join the living, and a demon is that wish gone wrong.”

Fenris frowned more deeply. “So you admit that spirits and demons are one and the same.”

Solas narrowed his eyes. “Yes and no,” he said. “Many spirits are a pure embodiment of a virtue or purpose. Love, for example, or wisdom. Demons arise when a spirit is corrupted from its original purpose. And the most common source of such corruption is contact with the world in which we now live.”

“That’s all it takes? Contact with our world?” Hawke asked. The juvenile humour was gone from her face, replaced with open curiosity instead.

Solas shrugged sadly. “For many lesser spirits, yes,” he said. “This world is illicit and unnatural for them. They fight to gain entrance, but when the rules of this world do not mirror theirs, they lash out. Tragic, but not evil.”

Fenris was hardly reassured. “So you are saying that any spirit who enters our world becomes a demon,” he said flatly. He turned to Hawke. “I knew Anders was an abomination from the start. Trying to tell us that his blasted vengeance demon was-”

“A spirit of justice?” Solas interrupted.

Fenris turned back to him with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” he said suspiciously. “How…?”

Solas bowed his head slightly. “This is another way that spirits become corrupted: through contact with the darker impulses of the people who live in this world.” He sighed once more. “Men are rife with such impulses: anger, ambition, greed. These are corrupting influences, and demons are a reflection of that corruption.”

Hawke nodded thoughtfully, but Fenris raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You mean to tell us you have had relationships with beings whose nature is so mutable?” he demanded. “Beings who can shift from one thing to the complete opposite based solely on the person they are in contact with?”

“And what exactly do you think happens when corporeal beings like you or I foster relations with each other?” Solas said pointedly. “Do you think your nature so immune to corruption by the mistreatment of others? Do you truly see yourself unchanged by the people you befriend? By the people you choose to love?” He gestured at Varric and Hawke.

“‘Choose’ being the crucial word,” Fenris retorted. “There is no two-sided relationship with demons. There is only possession.”

“That is incorrect,” Solas said bluntly. “There is voluntary joining, and involuntary joining. The involuntary kind is what you think of as possession. This is the purview of demons. The voluntary kind, on the other hand… I understand that it can be transformative for those who are fortunate enough to experience it.”

“And you know this how?” Fenris said shrewdly. “You told me that you set wards so you do not become possessed in the Fade. Was that a lie?”

“It is possible to have a conversation with a spirit without becoming possessed by them,” Solas said acerbically. “Just as it is possible to speak to a person without entering into sexual relations.”

At long last, Blackwall spoke up. “So you do admit that sex was involved.”

Varric coughed, and Solas rubbed his face in frustration. “Fenedhis lasa. Teldirthalelen,” he muttered. He turned on his heel and took two steps away, then suddenly turned toward Fenris once more.

“Do you scorn every being whose nature is unlike yours?” he demanded. “Whose mode of being you do not understand?”

“I tend to have scorn for any being whose primary objective is to kill me, yes,” Fenris retorted.

Solas shook his head emphatically. “That is the - what I’m trying to explain-” He abruptly stopped, and Fenris could see the muscles clenching in his jaw.

He took a deep breath, then lifted his chin. “You have never met a spirit in its purest form,” he said. “Untouched and uncorrupted by the desires of man. Perhaps you will one day, if you are fortunate.”

His voice was calm, but his eyes were hard as stone. Fenris curled his lip skeptically, but didn’t answer. He and Solas stared at each other tensely for a moment longer.

Then Solas glanced briefly at Hawke, who had been watching the argument in wide-eyed silence. “Please excuse me,” he said to her, then turned and strode away.

They watched him go in silence. Hawke pulled a face at Fenris. “Wow. You actually made him angry,” she remarked. “I didn’t think he even got angry. He’s usually so… you know…”

“Placid?” Varric suggested.

“Exactly,” Hawke said.

Fenris grunted noncommittally. “We should move on. We’ll need to be on our way to Haven by tomorrow. The mages should be rested enough to close the blasted Breach by the time we get back.”

“Good plan,” Blackwall remarked as they followed in Solas’s wake. “Besides, I have a bet with Sera to follow up on.”

Hawke looked at him quizzically. Then she grinned. “Andraste’s sacred knickers,” she breathed. “Is that why you asked him that question about sex with spirits?”

Blackwall smirked, and Hawke burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s terrible,” she crowed. “You and Sera are terrible, horrible people.” She flung her arms around Blackwall’s broad body in an impulsive hug.

Blackwall chortled, and Varric laughed along with them, but Fenris couldn’t crack a smile. The argument with Solas was disturbing him more than he cared to admit. Until this point, he and Solas had gotten along relatively well, all things considered. Neither of them was particularly prone to idle chatter, and Fenris appreciated Solas’s quiet. They seemed to have similar feelings about a number of things, including Tevinter and the Qun. Fenris had always known that Solas had an odd preoccupation with the Fade, but Solas was such a humble mage that Fenris had believed his talk about wards and precautions and careful dreamwalking. But he hadn’t known that Solas’s attitudes about spirits and demons were quite this lenient.

There had been no reason to think Solas was so liberal about demons. The elvhen mage had fiercely fought every demon they’d encountered thus far. Knowing now that Solas was open to befriending them…

But it’s the spirits that Solas spoke of befriending, not the demons, Fenris thought. If Solas was to be believed, then spirits and demons were two sides of a coin. They were the same, but also... not.

Fenris shook his head. There was no evidence to back up Solas’s claims. Every time anyone had ever spoken of spirits - Anders and his blasted justice, and Merrill with her damned spirit of wisdom - what they’d really meant was demons.

But there was that one point Solas had made. The point about corporeal people being just as strongly affected - or corrupted - by the people around them…

At that moment, Hawke came up beside him. “Hello,” she said. “Everything all right?”

Her voice was still curled with laughter, and her cheeks were pink with it. Her expression was soft and warm, and for a brief moment, Fenris studied her.

Loathe though he was to admit it, he could see Solas’s point. The person he was with Hawke was very different from the broken husk he’d been with Danarius. Fenris was happier because of Hawke. He was calmer. Less angry. More inclined to laugh. He was unequivocally a different person when he was around her, and it would be foolish to deny it. If that was true, then maybe…

He reached out and linked his fingers with hers. “Do you believe him? Solas?” he asked.

She nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully before answering. “You know what’s funny?” she said. “I wasn’t raised in a Circle. But the more we travel and the more people we meet, the more I realize that my magical education was pretty much a Circle curriculum.”

Fenris tilted his head curiously, and she elaborated. “My father taught us that demons were evil and separate from spirits. But the way Anders described his whole experience with Venjustice…” She shrugged. “If Solas is right, it would explain Anders’s situation. He started off all noble and stuff, and maybe a spirit of justice was attracted to that. Then he got angry, and his anger turned the spirit into a demon of vengeance.” She paused, and her eyes widened. “Wow. That theory is actually a perfect fit.” She looked up at Fenris.

He pursed his lips. “This does not change the fact that Anders is an abomination,” he said sternly.

Hawke tsked irritably. “All right, fine, he’s an abomination. But I don’t think he started out that way. It really sounds like his little partnership with Justice was exactly what Solas said: a voluntary joining.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “In which case, maybe Anders was getting busy with Venjustice on the regular-”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Hawke,” he complained.

She laughed and squeezed his hand. “All right, all right. But it is an interesting theory.” She shrugged. “And who knows? Maybe we will meet a pure spirit someday. See if Solas is really right about all this.”

Fenris scoffed. “With all these angry and power-hungry factions at every corner of the continent? It seems extremely unlikely.”

“You know what else was unlikely?” she said. “You being thrown into the centre of all this. Stranger things have happened, right?”

Fenris grunted bad-temperedly. Then Hawke pulled him to a stop.

She reached up and stroked his cheek with her knuckles. “I mean it,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

He looked down into her serious face. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was fine, as he’d been doing since they’d left the Hinterlands. But the whole day thus far had left him feeling particularly burnt out. There was the uncertainty of that negotiation with Bull, then the prolonged storytelling with Blackwall, and now this argument with Solas…

He glanced away from Hawke to see where the others were. Solas was still out of sight, as expected, and Blackwall and Varric were about twenty paces ahead.

He looked at Hawke once more. “I grow weary of all this company,” he said quietly. “I… Hawke, I still…”

“I know,” she whispered. She stepped closer to him and pressed her forehead to his. “I know you want to escape. I know.”

He nodded, then wrapped his arms around her. She slid her arms around his neck, and for a moment, Fenris closed his eyes and allowed himself to savour the quiet comfort of her embrace.

He breathed slowly against her fragrant hair. A minute later, she brushed her lips against his jaw.

“Come on. We should go,” she whispered.

He swallowed, then nodded. He reluctantly released her, and they hurried along in Blackwall and Varric’s wake.

Stranger things have happened, Hawke had said. And they had certainly seen some strange things in their time together. Meredith turning into red lyrium, Orsino becoming a disgusting abomination, the varterral at Sundermount and Leandra’s reanimated corpse…

Venhedis, they had seen some strange and terrible things. Compared to all of that, meeting a friendly spirit wouldn’t be at the top of the list.

But it did seem pretty damned unlikely.

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

Qunlat phrase in this chapter: Shanedan. Ebasaam esaam kost = Greetings. We come in peace.

Elvhen phrases in this chapter, courtesy of FenxShiral on AO3: Fenedhis lasa = fuck a wolf’s cock [a very rude curse]; teldirthalelen = stupid people/people who refuse to learn.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #hawris #fhawris #fenris/femHawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #iron bull #the iron bull #solas #blackwall #pikapeppa writes

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forthegrail · 5 years

Text

Shirou!Percival Interlude

Lingering wills: The choice to become a Hero of Justice

Text Log.

Mashu: Mmmmm Master vc: Mash what’s wrong?

Mashu: I don’t know, but I’ve been having strange feelings all day, as if I feel like crying but don’t know why. I’ve tried everything to make it go away, I thought it might’ve just been a chemical imbalance but it seems I was wrong.

Shirou: I’m afraid that’s because of me, hello Master. Mashu, I’m afraid I’ve come with a urgent matter that needs to be resolved. It seems my saint graph has been rejecting my existence. Percival has stopped sharing his existence with me. I can’t even hear his voice anymore.

Mashu: Rejecting your existence? I’ve never heard of such a phenomenon before, has something happened to Percival? This morning when he brought be breakfast in bed with fresh squeeze juice and the latest copy of Sh***** J*** he seemed his usual self to me.

Master: Percival brings you breakfast every morning? Did we really need to censor Sh***** J***?

Shirou: I had the same thought but when I spoke to him he said that nothing was wrong, but he did give me some advice.

n Flashback

Percival: You can’t feel the me that you fused with anymore….mmm today is nothing important so you haven’t forgotten a birthday, and you’ve been a good boy as far my stalking has showed me…

Shirou: Perci get serious! This is very important without the ability to trace my weapons I’m not going to be able to be of assistance to Master or Mashu!

Percival: I am serious, I know myself better than anyone and the only thing that would make him outright try and end your shared existence would be because he’s upset at you directly. Otherwise you’d just be upset and take your aggression out passive aggressively like me.

Shirou: So what should I do?

Percival: Confront him, I’m a reasonable guy…..Well when it comes to the people I care about most I’m reasonable and seeing as I lent you my body, my memories, and entrusted the hero of justice title and the sword Galahad gave me I can’t help but think he trusts you even more then he would me.

Shirou: But how?! He won’t speak to me, I can’t hear his voice or hear his heart beat with mine. It’s like he’s not even with me anymore!

Percival: Maybe he’s not, maybe he’s hiding in the one place where you two can speak to each other. A world where reality’s fabrications are designed for the specific needs of fulfilling dreams and miracles can take place. Whatever happens I know you can do it, Kiritsugu and I always had faith in you. Whatever happens remember that you saved both of us from the darkness in our hearts…my little brother.

Shirou: ….I see thank you Perci.

n Flashback end

Master: So you’re gonna use your noble phantasm to confront Percival What connection does this have to Mashu’s pains?

Shirou: That’s the idea; my best guess is as for why Mashu is hurting so much must be because of the bond between most of our servants. Perci loved Galahad that much is clear from the memories I’ve seen of them. So much so even this resonation is possible in a world of miracles.

Mashu: Percival…It seems Galahad must be very upset if the pain is this severe.

Shirou: I’m sorry for dragging you into a family dispute like this, but will you come with me to confront this problem?

Master: Of course, I’m happy to help. I can’t have my favorite Kohai hurting without doing anything to help.

Mashu: F…favorite? There is no need to apologize in a way you’re family to us here too.

Shirou: Mashu, Master…Thank you for this! Alright Servant Percival deploying noble phantasm, I am the bone of my sword.

Steel is my body and fire is my blood.

I have created over a thousand blades.

Unaware of Despair,

Nor aware of Loneliness.

Withstood sacrifice to create weapons, remembering the love of another.

I have no regrets. I am his legacy!

A hero is born, Unlimited Dream works!

- In a instance Master, Mashu are enveloped in a soft light appearing in the endless fields of Camelot. A pleasant field with a castle off in the distance that can never be reached. Standing in the center of the grass is a familiar figure. Percival stood back straightened hands on his sword the exact same pose Both Chaldea Percival and Shirou made when summoned.

Shirou:….

Mashu:….Percival…

Master: …. Percival?

Percival: Hello Master of Chaldea that is currently in contract with Shirou Emiya, Galahads vessel it’s also good to see you, I’d ask if you were happy to see me but I already overheard everything. You shouldn’t had brought them here Shirou. They have no business butting in our family affairs.

Shirou: Galahad is worried about you, Mashu is worried about you, I’M worried about you! Why have you severed our bond? I’m being the Hero of Justice you always wanted me to be so why are you trying to separate us!?

Percival:….

Mashu: Percival, you have to tell us what’s going on, why are you suddenly rebelling against senpai? Why are you suddenly against Shirou?

Percival: ….I really am a monster aren’t I?

Master: ….. What do you mean?

Percival: You were such a young boy, you had no one…and Kiritsugu and I took you in. We gave you a home, hope, family. But it costed you so much, we forced fed you hopes and dreams that you never wanted. I forced you into taking a title and name that were never meant for you, in my selfish act of extending your life you are now here chained down by a contract forced to fight for a world that isn’t ours. I forced my love on you and all these new memories and emotions confiding you into a nightmare that you can never escape. I love you too much to let this continue further, I’m going to kill you Shirou.

Shirou:!? Mashu!? Master: Kill Shirou?! You can’t be serious!

Percival: I’m very serious, in this world of dreams any miracles can happen. That is the reality that we have created for ourselves. A beautiful dream that shall go on forever endlessly fighting as a Hero of Justice until our spirit breaks and you become something similar to the red archer, or even that alter that carries the same name in time. I refuse to throw this fate onto my little brother, so I’m going to do the one thing a big brother can when watching his little sibling suffer with no escape other than death. I’m going to save you. Then when this dream ends, and when I am alone again I will destroy this version of my saint graph to the very core burning it in flame so that this existence can ever be summoned again. Forgive me; hate me in your final moments. Master of Chaldea in this world my power is beyond then what you can imagine. This is my dream! This is the world where my nightmares manifest I do not wish to kill you, but I will not let you stop this. I’ll simply disarm you and beat you into submission so that you cannot interfere.

Shirou:….Percival…

Mashu: Master Servant Percival’s power is steadily rising! Preparing to engage combat! Waiting for your orders.

Master: There is no way we will let you hurt our friend! Mashu, protect this beautiful dream!

Mashu: Understood Master!

- Combat happens, Servant Percival is defeated-

Percival: Ugh…-heavy breathing-

Shirou& Mashu: AHHHH

Percival:….(Galahad…is stopping my ambition…that selfish fool…)

Mashu: Lord Camelot! Shirou: Trace On! Excalibur Gallatin!

-Percival ‘s armor is cut through shattering as his body starts to give away becoming translucent-

Percival: Ahh…it seems you’ve regained your power completely Shirou, I’m glad. I knew I didn’t stand a chance once I saw that spark in your eyes. But still…

Shirou: Perc—Big brother Percival, what happens now? Are you going to permanently disappear?

Percival: Sadly I cannot, our souls are connect but the balance has shifted, your soul is dominating mine, all the power I had held back in order to summon myself has been drained from me. All that will happen is that I will return to simply being your guide. A soft voice that whispers reminders of how proud I am of you.

Mashu: Percival, I felt so upset fighting you. I didn’t want to hurt you and yet I was angry that you would step this far selfishly. Shirou is our friend, he has his own right to decide if he wanted to stay here with us or end his own life. He might be your little brother but that doesn’t mean you decide if he lives or dies. Everything has a right to live and to die.

Master: Everyone has the right to decide If they want to live or to die.

Percival: ......Well spoken…from the heart. Maybe that’s why I was enjoying our fight so much, Mashu you really are Galahads legacy just as Shirou’s mine. You’ve taken his strength and ambitions and made them your own beautiful dream. I can’t wait to see the ending to your tale from within Shirou, I’ll be rooting for the both of you.

Shirou: Percival before you go there is something I’ve always wanted to tell you. I don’t blame you, I chose this path myself. You did guide me down this path but it was my choice to follow through. I wanted to become a Hero of Justice that would make you proud, I wanted the power to protect the people I care about most and it’s thanks to your love I can. I want you to rest knowing that Master and Mashu are safe, I promise!

Percival: Ahaha…I could never resist that adorable face of yours, even if now it looks similar to mine you’ve really become your own man. I’m sure whenever his spirit is Kiritsugu, Irisveil, Illya, are proud that you carry the Emiya name. Unfortunately I can’t hold this form any longer, take care and remember, being able to love you has been an experience that I'll always keep close to my heart. And that these are memories are the ones that when you feel alone I'll wrap you in when the world gets cold and you forget that there are people who are warm and loving always here by your side.

-Percival disappears-

Mashu: Confirmation of enemy saint graph has disappeared…I…

Master: Mashu… You’re crying.

Mashu: Ye—yes it seems to be Galahad. He’s calmed down now, the pain is gone but I can’t help but feel a lingering sadness.

Shirou: Don’t feel sad Mashu, Percival isn’t gone. He’ still with us, living on inside me waiting to see how we’ll walk down this new path he’s guided towards. And now that I know he’s supporting me, My resolve is even stronger to protect the memories that we share. Even if our world is gone, and I’m forced to fight again and again, now I remember I’m never alone. That is more than enough of a beautiful gift to keep me going. Let’s return, I’m sure Big brother Perci is probably pulling his hair out wondering if we’re okay.

Shirou: In monologue, “Big brother, thank you for everything. I promise by the hope that you gave me, I’ll always continue fighting for what’s right. Because I’m not just a younger version of that red haired archer, or just another person that shares his face. Nor am I just Shirou Emiya or Percival knight of the round. I am the accumulation of the love and support of so many people that guided me to where I am. I choose to be a hero of justice because, I have no regrets. I am his legacy! A hero is born, Unlimited Dream works!

#muse:Shirou!Percival #interlude #hope y'all enjoy

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mocosa-media · 5 years

Text

A Father’s Son

Assassin’s Creed Fanfic-

Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Tazim, Malik, Altair (for a moment)

Genre: Family, hurt/comfort, father/son relationship, family feels.

Words: 2,624

Summary: Tazim strived to make his father proud, to live up to his legacy. A desperate attempt of a heart broken son who just wishes for his father to return.

"I'm proud of you, my boy."

Those were the words Tazim would never tire of. He'd be blessed if he ever did get to hear them.

The young man lost his father when he was but a child. An infant. Tazim knew very little of the man beside the few stories he was so rarely given as a boy, the image he drew within his mind of his father would be cherished. Looked after very closely. Malik was strong, ruthless, Tazim imagined, yet kind hearted to only those dearest to him. His brother in arms, nephews in all but blood, his lover, and his son.

The young assassin found himself wandering in his room with very little to do. For the past few minutes he relaxed, sitting at his desk and reading through a book. Seeming to be busy. Too busy.

"Tazim." He heard from his door.

The voice was faint. A strangers' voice yet familiar all the same, full of warmth and the slightest bit of amusement.

Looking away from his book, a few stray hairs falling in front of his eyes, the young man turned in his chair. He saw his father by the door. Just as he had always imagined.

It couldn't be.

But it was. Malik stood, a tired and calm face yet he held his chin up with pride.

Tazim could only verify the mindful image he created of his father as a younger boy now that his fathers living embodiment stood before him. The blackest, thickest of hair Tazim had imagined became scattered with gray and white strands. Tazim noted his jaw, the structure of his nose, all like his own. But what stood out the most were his fathers' eyes, almost as if taking a peek into the future, Tazim saw himself. Or perhaps only a mirror of his fathers image which he could only hope to have become in both physical form and legacy. Malik's eyes were alert, as they should be but were tired, not as lively as they once were before.

Eye's radiating with the passion of his younger years. Filled with pain, wisdom and strength, Tazim.

"Father," he said in a mere whisper.

Malik nodded his head towards his sons book, "If you are busy, I'm sure this can wait."

The younger man shook his head quickly. He shot straight up, making his chair almost topple over with the sudden movement and closed his book.

"No," he spoke out rather harshly, then clearing his throat in fear of his voice revealing how bewildered he truly was, "I'm never to busy for my family."

Tazim walked over to his father after wiping his hand of imaginary dirt. Running a hand through his sloppy hair, he took long strides as his robes swayed with him.

He stopped only once he was right in front of his father. Tazim's mouth was slightly parted, he took in a short breath before pursing his lips.

Malik, tilted his head,giving him a strange look as he held up a brow. Was his son going crazy? Had something bothered him? The younger man was acting far too strange and jittery than he would have approved.

Tazim felt his eyes grow watery at the sight of his father but looked away and cleared his throat. Malik's presence before him was enough to ignite the fire in his chest, the desire of having his father in his life. The tears that tried to seep out eventually disappeared at the young man's force. Tazim would not let his father see him cry. He must take control of his emotions. He would not seem week before his father.

After composing himself, Tazim held his chin high, turning his head, and looked to his father once more.

Malik was a just a half inch shorter than his boy. The other man also looked slightly taller because of his untidy hair, he'd need to cut it, and soon. Perhaps Tazim could ask one of the wives when they weren't too busy.

"What do you need help with?" Tazim finally asked.

Malik scoffed. "Help? What makes you think I need help? You are the one who needs help." His father told him with a wave of his hand.

Tazim sighed and chuckled, "Fine, what is it that you need?"

Just like the rare stories of his youth, Malik was much too prideful. His father wouldn't want anyone's help anymore. He said that even in his old age, even with his one good arm, he was still capable of many things. Fighting, Tazim imagined, may not be an easy feat as it once had been but Malik's quick tongue could strike with just as much precision and force.

He refused help simply because he was handicapped, proving to be twice as strong as before.

"I'd like to simply talk with my son today." The older man said in such a quiet voice, Tazim was unsure if he'd caught every word.

Was his father truly whispering? The same warrior who Tazim idolized as a young boy and still was in awe of. Was Malik embarrassed of showing some true emotion apart from sarcasm and pride? He must've been.

Tazim held back a chuckle but unable to keep a smile from spreading across his lips. They each went back into the young man's room. Malik sat on the bed while Tazim went back to his desk and sat in his chair, facing his father.

Both felt comfort with the silence between them but Tazim soon felt an inescapable itch rise from his core. He had so many questions for his father. So much he needed to say. So much he wished to hear, the words which would sound only right once Malik spoke them. Tazim hoped, he prayed that he would be given enough valor to speak his mind.

He let out a soft breath, "I always thought I'd go on assignments with you," Tazim admitted, his head hung low as he spoke,"When I was a child I always fantasized of the day I would stand by your side and fight."

Tazim held his father in such high regard. It was his father after all. Malik was a hero, a god even. As a boy, the young man craved for his father's presence.

All that had been cut short as Malik had been killed. Beheaded. Now was the time to change things, to admit his true feelings and show his father that he only wanted to make him proud. As a child, he always craved story after story of his father before him. His family. The reason of which his mother fled Masyaf. Tazim believed his father a prideful man, perhaps that same pride was the key.

Malik was alive now and Tazim feared that this would be the only time to fix things.

"You knew I was pulled from field work. I wouldn't have been able to fight alongside you," Malik told him truthfully. He sighed before looking his son over, the corners of his lips twitched upward, "You've grown into a fine man, Tazim."

The younger man felt the words pound into his soul. His father meant so much to him, as did his words. How he longed for his father, for Malik to simply be there. Tazim was still slightly in shock. His father was in front of him, they were having a conversation as adults. It was surreal. Was his father truly alive or just a ghost, a fragment of his own imagination. Was his mind playing tricks on him as it did when he was a boy, wishing for his father to return? Illusion, hallucination, dream or nightmare Tazim cared very little at that point.

"I can't believe you're here." He breathed out.

Tazim looked up timidly, his brows knitted together and gave his father a sad smile. Malik returned the gesture, unsure of what to do other than comfort his son in such a small way. His eyes were calm and loving, fingers interlaced together as a sudden peace fell upon them. His eye's, Tazim could not get enough of, filled with knowledge and strength, pain and love.

Just like mother described.

The only time Malik would ever let himself become vulnerable was in front of his family. His son. He'd let his defense go down just for this boy. His boy. His Tazim. The same boy who laughed at the idea of failure. Who pushed himself beyond his limit to bring honor to his family, his father. To be deserving of his fathers name. To become an Assassin, strong like his father before.

"After fleeing Masyaf, mother always waited by the door at dusk. I never knew why at the time. I was only a boy." Tazim started to say.

He remembered well. Before the stories began. Before, when his mother feared to even utter his father's name. He was but a child but it was not something Tazim could forget. It took him courage to finally ask about his father.

"I began to ask questions, wondered why you never came home."

The stories began. First in secret, as he went to sleep, his mother scared to speak of the Assassin's before the rule of Abbas. Slowly, the tales became full of anger. Tazim's mother told them fondly and proudly to her son, of what his father was like in life.

"I'd play in the dirt while she sat, looking up into Masyaf with worry in her eyes," he explained, his hands ran cold as he held them atop his lap, "She cried sometimes, in secret so I would not hear. She missed you."

"I have missed you, father."

That's when he broke, Tazim's voice cracked and he held back a sob. Holding his breath for a moment, light whimpers escaped his throat. He composed himself short moments at a time before the gasp of a cry escaped once again.

"I've spent every waking hour of each day in training, I just wanted to make you proud," his bottom lip quivered and his brows met together as his face held pain, " To make you proud so you would come back to me."

Malik gave his son a look with pure love. He always did and always would care for him. He loved his son, he only wished that all the pain Tazim felt hadn't been because of him. There was little he could have done apart from making sure his family was safe

Tazim's mother always said Malik was a prideful man. Tazim believed, he sincerely believed, if only he did something, anything worthy enough of his father's pride, Malik would surely return.

"I thought that maybe if I did something right, you would come back to us. To me and mother, but you never did," he said as he stifled a sob and brought his head down.

Malik came over and put a hand to his son's shoulder. It wasn't much but it would reassure him that his father was there. With a light squeeze, Malik faintly shook his head, closing his eyes. How could he ever bring such pain to his son. Malik made sure to not let a single tear escape, he would be strong for them both. He would be the strength Tazim needed.

"Can't you just be proud of me and come home?" he whispered between gasps, his face now buried in his hands.

Tazim was now choking on his own tears, he gasped for air as he tried holding back his sobs. Wiping away his tears did very little as they soon appeared once again to wet his cheeks.

"I've needed you all my life. You were never there. I just want you to come home, baba." he managed to say through the tears.

Malik sighed, he helped his boy up. Tilting his head to wipe a stray tear from Tazim's cheek, Malik spoke softly, "I cannot come home. You know that."

The older man held his sons chin up. Things happen, all you can do is adapt. Tazim had wiped his face as clean as he possibly could yet the hot sticky tears refused to stop completely. He pursed his lips, trying to even his breathing as his father's words attempted to calm him.

"Cruel things will happen for unknown reasons, Tazim." Malik said in the softest voice he could muster.

Seeing his son this way tore him, it hurt him deeply. Watching your loved ones be in pain is the worst kind of punishment.

"But why, why must this hurt so much? I just want you back." Tazim said as he wiped away the trail of tears left on his face. He felt so vulnerable, he did not want his father to witness him in such a weak state.

Malik shook his head, "There are many people who will put you down. Don't be one of them." he told his son.

Tazim couldn't hold it back for much longer, he pulled his father into a hug. Malik was caught by surprise but wrapped his own arm around the younger man.

"I am proud of you, my boy, and of all that you have accomplished."

Tazim felt himself engulfed by the familiar warmth of his childhood. The stories his mother would tell him under the safety of the night sky. Of the Assassin's, and how Malik had grown up in such an environment. How he yearned to spend time with Malik. Wished for him to appear, to follow him and try to be like him in any way possible.

Malik would be proud to say that Tazim had grown up to be a fine man. One who would make any father proud. His Tazim. His son. The independent, the brave. He still had so much to live for.

A hard hit to his head brought him out of his dream as Tazim jerked awake. He'd fallen asleep with his head resting on his hand, gravity thought otherwise as his head slipped and hit the desk he was sitting by.

"Pleasant nap?" he heard a voice beside him.

As he rubbed his sore head, Tazim looked to the source of the voice and saw Altair who was sitting beside him, reading on his desk.

"I'm sorry." Tazim mumbled as he looked around the darkened room before his eyes fell on Altair once again.

The older man was reading through scrolls and writing on parchment.

"You mumble when you sleep." Altair said, his eyes never leaving the writing. "Your father would not approve. Although, he also mumbled in his sleep as a young man."

Tazim shook his head to wake up. His brows furrowed and the young man ran a hand through his hair in thought. Why the sudden talk of his father?

He dared to ask. "Why suddenly bring up my father, master?"

Altair chuckled as he kept writing on pieces of parchment and reading through his scrolls.

"Like I said, you mumble," he said smoothly, "He's proud of you. I know it. As am I." the older man said with a smile on his scarred lips.

And Tazim believed him. It was time to say goodbye to his father. Perhaps not a permanent goodbye as Malik would forever be with him but an 'Until we meet again'. He'd made him proud and that was that. He smiled and helped Altair up.

"It's late, time to rest." he told Altair.

They each held a strength within them and Altair couldn't help but think that Tazim was a clone of his old friend. A reincarnation of the man.

As Tazim walked, he now felt at home, here with his family. His father would always be with him, through thick and thin, and he would be proud.

#tazim al-sayf #malik al sayf #altair ibn la'ahad #tazim #altair #malik #assassins creed #fanfiction #hurt #comfort #family #death #AC #tazim al sayf #oneshot #writing #fanfic

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