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tadpolesonalgae · 7 months

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Eris x reader: Pomegranate Seeds

A/N: So they don’t really have kings and queens in prythian but for the sake of clarification because I feel that using Lady is an odd descriptor, I’m using Queen the first time. (I was listening to a greek mythology playlist while writing this!)

Warnings: wine?

Word Count: 1,844

“To a new world.”

Raise the glass, clinking with his own, ringing like tiny silver bells. “To a better High Lord.” Caramel softens at the edge, whiskey swirling as he inclines his head, the two of you drinking deeply. Ruby liquid warms your throat, pooling in your stomach, poised to soften your mind.

Drink quietly for minutes, taking in the beauty from the uppermost levels of the palace. Forest stretching for miles, red and oranges cooling beneath the moonlight into somber, neutral shades. Leaves flutter below as wind runs her fingers through the lustrous mass, dancing through, skating across the trees as she sweeps over the landscape.

“Part of me never thought the day would come,” Eris admits, quietly. “That his immortality would prevail over my own, and this relief would never arrive.” Shafts of moonbeam smoothen the planes of his face, bathing him in ethereal silver, wine dappled with sparkling light. The deep emerald of his waistcoat is darkened by the night, shade cast down the strong lines of his body as he braces his forearms on the balcony railing, caramel corduroy tailored to perfection. He’s dappled in jewel tones, the ruby heirloom sitting pretty around his thumb, the just-licked crimson shining resplendent like wine.

“It’s fictitious; yet here we are, standing triumphant.” Brows dip in the centre, a look of tired frustration marring his features. “I don’t feel victorious at all.”

Watch him sidelong: the downcast gaze, wine sitting discarded atop the railing, breeze kissing the soft, silky hair from his face. Take another sip of your drink. “This isn’t like you,” you reply quietly, “since when has inebriation made you so morose?” It’s true intoxication tends to macerate his normally abrasive personality, but not to the point of sombreness. Tonight he’s almost melancholy.

“I’m nowhere near the peak of this mountain. I thought at least from here it would be within my sights, yet I feel as though instead I’ve stumbled upon a crater,” he mulls bitterly. “A crater so great it would take the rest of my centuries to halfway circumvent the perimeter.” His head dips, staring into the blood-red pool of liquid. It simmers slightly in response, filled with effervescence.

Lower the glass from your lips, gently putting a hand over his shoulder. “That’s why you have me. We’ll get further as a pair than if you insist on wretched solitude.” Molten caramel warms your skin, brow dipped at the centre, poised to protest. “We’ve made it together this far, Eris. I’m not about to back out now. We’re in this for the long run.”

He watches you silently, absorbing the steadfast reassurance of your palm, savouring the solace of your touch. Moonlight sets your skin aglow, bathing it in silver—how you shine. The soft cream of your dress transformed by the night into something diaphanous and celestial. Contained within the gossamer is a dusting of warmth—the colour of rosey moonlight.

Takes it all in, and commits the silence to memory. The tranquility of your touch, the innate comfort of your person. Do you know he would have undoubtedly crumbled had you not been at his side? Swallows thickly—the new world has already begun. Changes will be made, battles will be fought, failures will be suffered, but progression is imperative.

“I want to be better than he was,” Eris says quietly. It’s always been his goal, but has it ever been voiced? Or has it been kept silently locked up, fearful of who might hear and hold him accountable. “Then you’ve already succeeded,” you respond, taking a sip of your wine. “Really, I had thought you to be much more ambitious.” Eyes flick to his, ready to push him further. “Where’s your discipline gone?”

He regards you quietly, then stands from the railing. Takes a deep drink from his wine before turning to face you, one side of his face bathed in silver. “I want to be better,” he repeats quietly, “I will be better.” The edge of your mouth raises with pride, pupils dilated from the many glasses that were consumed prior to the toast. “I want to make the Autumn Court my Court. And I want its citizens to think of it as home, rather than their birthplace,” he admits, at last voicing his wishes. “I want my people to be proud of their homeland; to also desire its nourishment.”

Eris takes in a slow, deep breath, air trembling within shaky lungs. Nerves wriggling beneath his skin under the intensity of your gaze. The depth of understanding between you. Steadies himself for the first step of change.

“I want my Court to be blessed with a strong, sound-minded ruler,” he begins, eyes latched with your own. “Someone who’s fair, and just, and kind without being weak.” Your hands join on their own, independent of conscious will, fingers sliding across calloused palms, roughened from sparring and flame. “Someone equally capable of keeping their head under duress, as their humour.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes playfully, “I’d hardly describe your backhanded compliments and bladed jabs as humorous, Eris.”

He smiles a little, one that’s initially difficult to place. Until the day is recalled. The day his youngest brother had fled to spring after having his beloved executed before his eyes. The first, and last day Eris had ever disobeyed his father. You still remember the pulse of his heart, the same smile he’d given you—full of nerves, and mild terror—knowing he was doing something that scared him, but that had to done.

“Maybe not,” he admits, lightly squeezing your hands. Only now making you aware of their tremble. Does he know you can feel the spike of his pulse? Hear the nervous beat of his heart? “But I’m not speaking of myself.”

Your brow dips, furrowing as you peer up at him, wondering what plan he’s cooking up within that wonderful mind of his. Always one for strategy. Gives you another squeeze. Spine straightens. “Centuries ago, I was set on completing this journey on my own. I was the only person I needed; the only one I could depend on when things went wrong. And I will stand by my past resolutions.” He swallows, gaze steadying, familiar certainty returning to his eyes. “But I don’t want to, if I don’t have to.”

He’s talking in riddles; you have no hope of following what he’s talking about. But he sounds confident and assured, so you’ll trust him. “I want someone by my side,” he continues, quiet but firm. “I no longer want to complete the journey on my own.”

Heart warms in your chest, unable to help the smile that softens your mouth, emotion welling across your breast. “I’m right here with you,” you murmur, peering up at him. He nods, that slightly nervous twist to his lips still prominent. Takes a deep breath. Mouth shifts into a serious set, features changing to sincerity, the swiftness catching you off guard. “I want you to be at my side,” he says frankly; earnestly. “As my Queen.”

The title clangs through you, eyes widening, lips parting, breath sucked from your soul. He maintains his hold, keeping you steady. “You’ve made it clear you’ll walk this path with me. Proved time and time again you can be resourceful, and understanding, and diplomatic. What difference does it make if the next time you appear before my Court, you wear its crown? Have equal dominion over that land you care so greatly for, despite the ruin my father tried to inflict upon it because he was too miserable and sour to make changes?

“He was drowning in his own wretchedness, so condemned everyone else to his fate. But you kept your head above the water, and fought for your right to life. You survived, and made something for yourself.

“I can think of no one else more deserving, more right for the throne, than you.”

You stare at him, speechless. Hands still grasped in his own, the band of his heirloom burning into your skin. “Are you serious?” You manage, disbelieving. Heart matching the pace of his, thundering in your chest. “Completely,” he replies. “I believe you are worthy of the title, and will be capable of taking on that responsibility.” Swallows thickly. Exhales heavily. Beat raising higher. “I understand you may have concerns: I am asking a lot from you. Requesting you dedicate the rest of your life to the Autumn Court, and in doing so, also to me. It is not purely objective reasoning that forces me to make this selfish appeal; it would be deceptive and insolent of me to invite you into this contract without revealing to you the full scope of my wishes.”

His attention remains steady and assured, but it’s as though he’s been stripped back a layer, petals peeling away to reveal his golden centre. Raw intention being laid bare before you.

“The truth is, there is no one else I want as my Lady. You made me feel like myself in a way others have not. Have imparted upon me the feeling of having a home in another being, and for that I have never sufficiently expressed by deepest gratitude and fear I will never be able to.” The moonlight spills into his whiskey and caramel gaze, sending sparkling starlight glittering like crystals. “I swear on the few things I still hold dear—you being one of them—that I will do well by you. I will be a better High Lord than my father, but also a better husband, if you will gift me the chance.”

Words flutter through your minds, boggled and scrambled from his proposition. There’s always been an undercurrent between you, becoming more and more prominent in recent decades. His father couldn’t have chosen a better time to kick the bucket—sick bastard. “Your court would never accept my word, even as the new Lady of Autumn,” you manage distantly, mind spinning from the sincerity of his piece.

It’s his turn to quirk his lips, “what’s a Courtful of males in the face of your ambition?” Challenge practically drips from his mouth, eyes gleaming in the night, heating with molten determination. He’s won already, and he knows it. The pull between you irresistible. Muscle looses it’s taut tension. “I did say I’d be with you every step of the way, didn’t I?” His features shift to something gentle and tender, thumb swiping across your knuckles. “You damned yourself from the beginning,” he murmurs, one hand raising to your jaw, allowing a moment for you to pull away. You lean into him. “Don’t call a life with you a damnation, Eris,” you murmur onto his palm, tilting your cheek, knuckles brushing beneath your lashes. “You’re the best damned thing that’s every happened to me.”

Hear his heart spike at your own confession, temperature raising. The slight pressure he applies to the space below your jaw—an almost subconscious request.

Lips part in response, allowing his sweet relief to sweep in.

You thought it would never arrive.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog

#Eris #🧶🍁#Eris x reader #Eris Vanserra #Autumn Court #Eris Vanserra x reader #Pomegranate Seeds

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semisolidmind · 7 months

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Uh oh someone is beginning to have a lil crush on peaches 👀 _ at least that what I think is happening could be wrong _ ، hope for there sake the monkeys does know but if they did how would they react to the?

(you're not wrong :) and i had a thought about a scenario where this crush becomes noticeable)

perhaps there's a sparring session at flower fruit mountain for all the demon royals in wukong's little circle (excluding reader, for obvious reasons). a normal occurrence; the monkey king needs to be sure of his allies' strength. so, wukong challenges each of his demon generals (and occasionally their guests) to a friendly spar. macaque watches from the shadows, rolling his eyes at his brother's need to prove himself superior.

the current opponent is princess iron fan, and she's throwing deadly gales all over the sizable training area in an attempt to hit her foe. the wind brushes the spectators; reader watches from the sidelines, alongside azure and a few other demon sovereigns. seeing as the lion demon was the only reliably friendly face in the crowd, reader sits next to him while her husband shows off his strength in battle.

they converse quietly. reader enjoys how cordial azure is in comparison to most other demon lords. he talks with her, not at her. he's never mistaken her for a servant and loudly demanded anything of her. he's always friendly, with both her and the civilians of flower fruit mountain. reader has come to see his presence as one of the only highlights of wukong's many war council meetings. unbeknownst to reader...azure feels the same about her, though in a much less platonic way.

as the two continue to chat, the last gale goes off course when princess iron fan is thrown to the gound, defeated. it hits the onlookers like a solid wall and many of the demons, not prepared for the full force of the oncoming wind, are blown backwards. azure and reader are among them, and, in an attempt to save reader from being blown away, azure grabs her and pulls her to his chest.

the two are thrown through the air. they hit the ground some feet away, skidding to a stop beneath a cospe of trees. azure, on his back and slightly dazed, holds reader close, arms around her and her head pressed to his sternum by one huge paw. once the demon has overcome his momentary daze, he finds himself staring at the woman in his grasp. reader, still cowering from the wind, her hair tussled, eyes closed and teary from the dust, the sunlight dappled across her face...

...azure only barely manages to stop the rumbling purr fighting its way out of his chest. she's so small, so soft pressed up against him. he can feel his face warming under his fur at their proximity.

once reader has realized where she is (atop her dear friend, practically straddling him, oh gods she hopes for both their sakes that wukong and macaque aren't looking), she apologizes profusely, hastily removing herself from his person and (laughably, because he's twice her size) attempts to help him up. he holds onto her proffered hand a bit longer than necessary (it's so small, his hand entirely encompasses hers) as she asks if he's alright. still a bit stunned, he breathlessly laughs. he should be asking her that, he breathes. she smiles at him in return.

the moment ends when macaque rushes up to them, quickly pulling reader from azure's grip to check her for injuries and fuss over her. the six-eared demon leads his wife away towards the water curtain cave, holding her hand and continuing to press her about any supposed harm. while reader waves away his concerns, azure catches the stormy look the dark-furred monkey throws back in his direction.

the lion demon feels a chill down his spine when the monkey king's voice rings out across the field—somehow both friendly terrifying— and asks him to spar next.

#bad end wukong #twice as bad au #lion's den au

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rottenpumpkin13 · 1 month

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*drops down from the trees by grappling hook with a birthday cake*

Dedicated to @altocat, who brightens everyone's day with her wonderful writing and headcanons 🎂 ❤️ Here's my attempt at bittersweet Glenn and Sephiroth fluff.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Sephiroth liked the smell of what Hojo was quick to label as 'dirt and grime'—the damp earth beneath his boots, the smell of fresh morning raindrops dripping from the trees overhead, the crisp mountain breeze that carried notes of pine and flowers.

It filled his lungs and reminded him that he breathed, as any other human being, and that there was more to the world than his obligations and Shinra's conquests.

Glenn and Sephiroth sat perched atop a rugged cliff, their backs against the cool, weathered rocks overlooking a sprawling ravine that stretched far below. Sephiroth's gaze wandered over the expanse before them. Gently letting his eyes flutter shut, he wished he could drink it all up, treating it like an addictive drug he would consume forever if he could.

Glenn extended a glass soda bottle towards him, its oddly-colored contents gleaming in the sunlight as he gradually opened his eyes. The whimsical label was adorned with a cheerful moogle proudly showing off its drink, and the words Kupo Pop! Secret Flavor!

"I don't understand why the ingredients can't be labeled on the bottle," Sephiroth, ever the skeptic, remarked as he accepted the glass bottle.

Glenn rolled his eyes as the younger boy began turning the bottle around, reading the scattered words for any hints as to what it contained. "Go ahead, give it a try," he encouraged, twisting the cap from his own blueberry soda. "Part of the fun is in the mystery, you know. Maybe the secret is that it's just irresistibly delicious."

Sephiroth looked up, his lips a thin line as he stared pointedly ahead. "Secrets aren't fun.”

"But they can be," Glenn countered, pointing his bottle at him. "They're fun to keep, fun to share, and most importantly, fun to savor." With a light clink, Glenn tapped his bottle against Sephiroth's.

Sephiroth's lips would have easily been confused with a squiggly line drawn by a child on paper. He frowned, staring down at the bottle with unease, his choppy hair falling over his eyes. "Aren't there supposed to be… orange flavors? I've heard about orange soda.”

Glenn nearly spat out his mouthful of blueberry as he pulled it from his lips. "Woah, you've never had soda before?"

Glenn's surprise was evident as Sephiroth shook his head in response. He tried not to let his jaw fall slack as he lifted his hand to his face, scratching at his stubble. “Huh…. How about that. Well don't worry. I'd never give you something you wouldn’t like."

Sephiroth arched a single eyebrow, looking mildly annoyed. "That's what you said about the marshmallows.” His hands clenched around the glass bottle. “They tasted funny."

“Ha!” Glenn nudged him. “Hey, it's not my fault you're a weird little dude who doesn't like marshmallows.”

As he drained the contents of his soda, Sephiroth looked back down at his own. Determined, he grabbed the bottle opener from the dusty ground and hooked it to the cap.

Gradually, Sephiroth braced himself and took a swig of the mysterious soda. Glenn watched, unblinking as Sephiroth squeezed his eyes shut and gulped it down.

Instantly, a sharp sensation tingled and bubbled in his throat. Acid? Not good. He instinctively spat it out, hacking and coughing.

Glenn erupted into laughter, letting his bottle fall to his lap as he clapped. Sephiroth cleared his throat twice, water lining his widened, green eyes.

"Is it supposed to burn?" Sephiroth spluttered, wiping his lips with the back of his wrist. His voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and discomfort, which would've made Glenn feel horribly guilty if it weren't hilarious.

Sephiroth The Great, defeated by a mystery Kupo Pop flavor. Matt and Lucia would never believe it.

Leaning back against the rocky ledge, Glenn's laughter subsided as he regarded Sephiroth with amusement. "Well, what does it taste like?"

Sephiroth paused, gathering his thoughts after the unexpected attempt on his life.

"I don't know. I was caught off guard by the burning. I forgot to notice the flavor."

Reluctantly, Sephiroth took another sip—small this time, less overwhelming. He was cautious as he contemplated the taste lingering on his tongue, his face twisting along with his flickering thoughts.

"Passion fruit," he declared after a moment of contemplation.

Glenn arched an eyebrow skeptically. "Hm. Is it offensive that I doubt whether you know what passion fruit tastes like?"

His tone was teasing, but he was serious. He barely knew what passion fruit tasted like. Exotic fruits were hard to come by in Midgar, and when they did, he wasn't willing to break open his wallet to succumb to expensive curiosity.

Sephiroth shifted uncomfortably, averting his eyes as he traced patterns on the bottle's icy condensation. “When Professor Hojo has my dental impressions done, the alginate has a passion fruit flavor.” He shrugged. “Or at least it used to when I was very young. Now it tastes like nothing."

Glenn's unease at the mention of Professor Hojo flickered briefly across his features, but he hid it well for Sephiroth's sake.

He suppressed the urge to make a joke about the mundanity of adult life— “Hey kid! Welcome to the real world, where everything is bitter and sweetness is rare.” That's what he would've said had it been anyone other than the boy sitting by his side, the child who should be able to taste passionfruit—and soda—and marshmallows. And freedom.

Glenn reached around, patting Sephiroth on the back as he masked his discontentment with a subtle grin. "Remind me to buy you a real passionfruit when we're back in Midgar.”

Sephiroth's smile held a touch of gratitude, but he said nothing else. His gaze lingered on the bottle in his hand, lost in thought.

Back in Sephiroth's mind, the passion fruit soda now tasted like a suffocating hand shoving itself down his throat, forcing him to throw everything good and whole he had digested back up in hopes of feeding him misery.

Glenn didn't like it when Sephiroth went quiet. "So!” He promoted, stretching his arms. “Secrets aren't fun? How come?”

"No," Sephiroth replied solemnly, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "They're barriers—walls built to control and keep you happy."

His conviction weighed the air around them. Glenn needed to distract him. "And do you have any secrets?" he tried gently.

Sephiroth looked up, his gaze translucent, unblinking. "There's nothing I haven't told you," he confessed. “And there's nothing I wouldn't tell you.” He pressed his lips together and straightened his back, probably trying to sound mature but cracking under Glenn's wiser gaze. “Not that I keep anything. From anyone.”

A quiet, almost inaudible “It's not like I can” reached Glenn's ears, but he chose to ignore it in favor of an idea that arose just as it was needed.

Glenn huffed. “Alright. How about I tell you one of mine then?”

Sephiroth listened intently, the cold glass of the bottle pressing against his reddened, ungloved fingers.

"Okay so. A few years ago when I was a rookie…I was a part of this mission out to the Gongaga region. I was supposed to be watching over our materia stash, since the group was small and we were camped out in the jungle. I thought it was a good idea to bury them in the dirt by the river. Little did I know how rainstorms are a daily occurrence in the jungle.”

He paused for dramatic effect, savoring the way Sephiroth's eyes went wide along with his smile.

“They all got washed away.”

The reveal was punctuated by a sudden fit of laughter from Sephiroth.

“But I didn't get in trouble,” Glenn continued, laughing too. “I blamed it on a random bandit attack and told a story about how I valiantly fought them off, but they took the materia.”

Sephiroth doubled over with laughter, leaning back. His bubbly cries echoed throughout the ravine. His cheeks were rosy, the sunlight caught in his silver hair just as the breeze messed it up, making him look every bit the kid he was.

Glenn pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled. "Now that's my biggest secret, so don't go around telling anyone, alright?"

Sephiroth's laughter faded. His demeanor shifted gradually. While he still maintained a small smile, he swung his legs over the rocky drop, looking down into the ravine.

"Don't worry. I don't have anyone.”

Glenn's heart sank, a pang of remorse gnawing at his insides.

After a few moments where they were both enveloped in a cloud of guilt—Glenn with his foot in his mouth and Sephiroth’s desire to eat his own words—Glenn mustered the courage to break the tension.

He turned his body to him fully. "You know, Sephiroth, you're such a great kid," he began, sounding as earnest as he could.

Sephiroth looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. "I am?"

Glenn grinned. "Duh. You're the coolest kid I've ever met. You're responsible, and fun to be around, not to mention smart as hell."

Sephiroth’s reddened cheeks complimented his smile. He opened his mouth to reply, but was inside of what to say. He wasn't used to being paid any compliments—at least, none about who he was as a person.

But it didn't matter. Glenn wasn't finished. The older boy's expression turned playful as nudged Sephiroth. "So watch out, because one day you'll have a lot of people to tell my secret to, and if you do, I'll kick your ass.”

Sephiroth looked down, clearly unsure. “I don't think…ah…I don't know.”

Glenn knew. He was certain of it. "Tell you what," he said. "When you find those people—and you will—promise me you'll tell them my secret. I'll probably be too old to care anyway."

Sephiroth's gaze softened, a flicker of mischief in the tone of his subsequent hum. "Older?"

Glenn rolled his eyes and responded with a playful punch to Sephiroth's arm, the impact light but affectionate.

"Promise me,” he pressed, his gaze locking with Sephiroth's. He was dead serious.

Sephiroth's expression softened, his resolve firm as he met Glenn's gaze.

"I promise," he nodded.

Sephiroth would only come to realize Just How naive he was at that age years later. Sometimes he could hear Glenn's satisfied “I told you so” whispering to him, and Sephiroth would give anything to have heard it from him.

Years passed since that day.

Sephiroth found himself seated on that same exact cliff overlooking the ravine. The warm, late April sun bathed the landscape in a warm glow, the gentle breeze carrying with it the scents of pine and earth. Just as it had been back then.

Although there were some key differences. In his hand, Sephiroth held an unopened bottle of Kupo Pop, raspberry flavor—since the secret flavor had been discontinued long ago.

He still found no appeal in fizzy drinks, but he hoped the memory concealed within the burn would be bittersweet.

“Hey,” Genesis approached from behind with a bottle of orange soda and a small smile. "Do you want to trade? I'm not nearly as not fond of orange as you are.”

Sephiroth nodded in agreement, accepting the offer and exchanging bottles.

Genesis plopped down on his left, muttering something about the dirt sticking to his coat. The clicks and flash of a camera signaled Angeal's arrival at the rocky cliff edge.

He excitedly snapped as many shots as he could of the trees, the ravine, the waterfall, and several keepsakes of their trek up the mountain.

Sephiroth looked up. "I don't think you got enough pictures" he quipped with a teasing smile.

Angeal settled down on Sephiroth's right—side-eyeing Genesis, who began shaking his soda bottle absentmindedly.

"I can never take enough.” Angeal settled the camera around his neck. “Pictures only do so much. They don't exactly encapsulate the memory you're trying to preserve.” Angeal’s tone was thoughtful as he gazed out at the breathtaking view.

Sephiroth nodded in agreement, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "I guess it's all in the special moments.”

Genesis twisted off the cap of his bottle, only to be met with a sudden eruption of fizz. The red soda sprayed all over them, prompting a chorus of startled reactions. Genesis let out a shriek, his expression shifting rapidly from embarrassment to frustration. Angeal screamed a swear as he covered his camera. Sephiroth laughed, wiping the red drink from his face.

"Is Genesis being an idiot a special moment?" Angeal snapped.

Genesis attempted to deflect blame, his face a mix of embarrassment and indignation as he flicked a soaked lock of hair from his eyes.

"Hey, it's not my fault! Sephiroth handed me the bottle like that.”

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes, then uncapped his orange soda. "Genesis, I just watched you shake the bottle.”

“But—!”

“Don't gaslight Angeal.” Sephiroth took a swig of the drink.

Meanwhile Angeal let out a violent snort. "He thinks it's an apple juice can," Angeal chuckled, punctuating his words with a mock shaking motion with his fist. “You know? The kind you have to shake first?”

Sephiroth snorted, pulling the bottle away from his lips quickly before he spat it out.

The pair fell into a fit of laughter, leaning on each other. The moment was definitely made funnier by the way Genesis was completely drenched in the soda.

Genesis shrugged sheepishly, acknowledging his blunder with a self-deprecating grin. "Shit. Muscle memory, I suppose," he admitted, his laughter mixing with theirs.

Once the moment faded into a comfortable silence, they each became lost in their own thoughts as they savored the serenity of their surroundings. Genesis contentedly sipped the remainder of Sephiroth's orange soda, while Angeal focused his attention on capturing the beauty of the waterfall below with his camera.

Sephiroth's mind wandered, his thoughts drifting back to that day, to Glenn, to their conversation and the passion fruit soda.

He was fortunate enough to have to keep his promise.

With a sense of resolve settling over him, he broke the silence. "I need to tell you both a secret.”

#sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #glenn lodbrok #ffvii ever crisis #final fantasy vii #crisis core #writing #ff7

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stxneflxwers · 3 months

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all's fair in love & war.

⋯⁂ Summary: You are the God of War—Zhongli is the Warrior God. You are known for your bloodlust and savagery, but some things go unexpected and unplanned when you cross him.

⋯⁂ a/n: heyyy im finally posting. not much happens in this chapter but it's gettin there !! i just needed to get this OUT of my BRAIN!!!! will work on chapter 3 when i get the ideas sorted out :3

⋯⁂ w.c: ~900.

⋯⁂ characters: zhongli/morax. gn reader (god name is kimaris.)

⋯⁂ cw: archon war and its side dishes (violence, blood, etc.); identity crises, memory loss/amnesia, minor display of suicidal ideation (for reader);

II — Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

You've hardly moved from your spot in days - still sitting atop that mountain pillar where Morax had left you.

You spend much of your time either sleeping or pacing back and forth, staring at the yawning horizon before you. Although, you're not admitting any time soon to almost walking off the cliff edge once…or twice. The third time it happens, though—

"You should pay attention to where you walk." Morax catches your arm and yanks you back onto the mountain before you take a long fall into the waters at the root of the rocks. That'd hardly be pleasant to experience.

"Oh." You snap back into reality when he touches you - and suddenly feel sleepy. There's something about his presence that threatens to make you fall asleep on him. "My…apologies." You mutter, staring at the sparse grass under your bare feet.

"Do not be. All I ask for is you to be a little more careful." He shakes his head.

His hand continues to firmly grasp your bicep, his gloved hand emanating a comforting warmth deep into your skin. Your eyes begin to flutter shut as you sway side to side from the sudden onset of fatigue. Before you can collapse, he catches you and pulls you straight against his body.

"Careful now. Have you not been sleeping?" He inquires in a whisper.

You shrug against him before falling deeper into the beginnings of sleep. Your knees buckle soon after that and he's forced to pick you up before your head can kiss the ground. He sighs, wondering what could be going on with him that makes you fall asleep every time he comes by.

He rests you down on your makeshift bed, getting you as cozy and comfortable as he can. His eyes now laden with thoughts about how he can help you.

—

You wake up later that day after Morax has left once more. You stir uncomfortably in your rest before jerking upright on your bed. You release a sigh that's heavy and loud - almost thunderous. You can hardly sleep without him here sometimes. You're not sure why, but there's something very calming and serene about him.

You swiftly rise to your full height, dusting off your rather ragged clothing. You glance around - from the horizon to the lonesome tree on this mountain pillar. Your eyes spot a little flower attempting to grow in the shade of the thin tree. Curious - you walk over to the white blossom and crouch before it. Before you can touch it, you hear footsteps and the familiar cadence of Morax's voice calling out to you.

"Ah, you are awake. Good." Morax notes aloud, his keen golden eyes watching you stand and spin toward him. "No worries, it is only me."

"Oh." You sigh a little, stepping away from the flower beneath the tree.

"Here. I have some tea…and new attire. For you, that is." He meets up with you halfway across the small area. He's carrying a kettle of fresh tea and a bundle of clothes in each arm.

Your face falls.

"What is wrong? If they are not to your liking, then—"

"No, it's not that…" You glance away, a tiny sneer on your features. "I'm not sure why you're…so nice to me. Have I not caused innumerable amounts of deaths?"

"Hm." He hums, handing you the clothes anyway. He sits down next to your makeshift bed, pouring a cup of tea for you. "I have observed you for a long time now due to your proximity to Jueyun Karst." He admits cooly as if he's hardly bothered by his confession.

"…Oh." You mumble, now staring down at the fine silk clothes in your hands. "…Why didn't you kill me?" You blurt out, your throat tightening and your heart drying up.

"I have my reasons." He glances up at you, noting your furrowed brows and a deep frown. "First… Let's drink this tea." He gestures to you to sit with him with a curl of his forefinger. "I had a dear friend make it. It should help subdue your homicidal urges around others." He informs.

"Alchemy, then… With…tea." You sigh, shaking your head before relenting and sitting down across from him.

"Yes." He nods, a soft smile temporarily etching into his face. He wants to keep your trust - maybe even deepen it. He knows there's some way to rid you of this homicidal curse… What may it be? He's uncertain. But what he is certain of is that there's something about you that tells him that you weren't always like this.

You grumble something to yourself - indiscernible even to his keen hearing. You take the cup he offers and take a huge gulp from it. He internally grimaces at your rather indecorous way of handling the tea. He brushes off the minor offense - knowing that you can't even remember yesterday half of the time.

"By the way," He cuts into your thoughts, "I will be taking you to my companions soon - think of it as a behavioral test."

(What am I? A dog?) You think, but quickly conclude that you are as feral as an untamed animal, "…Alright. I'll, uhm, behave—"

"Ah, just be yourself," He says with your name rolling off his lips at the end, "Forcing yourself to behave may cause…unforeseen troubles in the future."

"Right…"

You then chug the rest of the tea and hand the cup back to him, some of the tea dribbling down your chin going unnoticed by you - but not him. He mentally sighs.

#🌠— my works #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #💕— zhongli #zhongli x reader #🔶— all's fair in love & war

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thenightcallsme · 6 months

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ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 4

" And from Neteyam… From Neteyam, I get everything, and then nothing at all."

Synopsis: In the face of danger, the Sully's must leave their clan. Neteyam is the one to break the news. Will you go with them? Who will be the one to fight your case?

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, a smidge of angst???, everything is fixed in the end, little extra POV at the end from my darling Kiri

Word count: 6,617

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

Dull aches of pain echo each step I take. In just one night, I have learned to find a comfortable rhythm in my stride. As comfortable as a bullet wound can get. A reality where I didn’t sport a bloodied bandage in need of changing would be worlds better, but that is not my reality, so instead, I sport the bandage with a sort of pride. It’s a reminder that I am still alive under Eywa’s tenacious guidance, and it's her caution to not find myself in stupid future situations.

Through the word of Kiri, Neteyam has asked for me. Kiri is never short of being high on life, something I envy her for, but when she relayed her older brother’s wishes, there was something dark in her eyes. Sullen, apologetic. An emotion unlike her. I mark it down to the fresh hurt of Spider’s capture, something that has hit her and Lo’ak hard. I feel it, too, the lack of his small yet determined presence saddening, the idea of what is being done to him unsettling. But even with such a plausible explanation, I am unsure. Despite my current mood of indifference and the hums that reverberate behind my lips, that look is ever present in my mind's eye, haunting an otherwise usual request.

In the past year, the Sully’s and I have made it our mission to make High Camp feel like home. To the best of our abilities, at least. Home Tree was riddled with nooks and crannies that housed our secret hangouts and held copious childhood memories. Now all of it was reduced to ash carried away in the wind. We’ve combed thoroughly through the flying mountains in search of places that would be wholly ours. The one I find my way to is more out in the open and often inhabited by other younger Na’vi. Eclipse approaches, and as I make my way up the natural steps protruding from the side of the main base, it seems all have retreated under the promise of night. Nestled at the base of a jagged overhang ahead is a small stretch of plush grass that grows from the small circle of soil. From it sprouts the gnarled, twisted foundations of a hearty tree, impossible in age and size atop its natural pot of soil, and yet here it is.

Patches of wildflowers, mushroom heads, and glowing tangles of weeds peak through the soft grassy fingers that reach from the soil. My footsteps leave faint, glowing imprints in the ground that fade as I advance beneath a day at rest. Bioluminescent life instead lights the way to the tree. Its lush head of leaves cascades in a waterfall of fertile green, intertwining with small hair-like vines of neon pinks and blues.

Standing with his shoulder against the base of the tree is Neteyam, who idly twirls an unsheathed blade of obsidian between nimble fingers. It glides with a practised grace. Upon the sound of my approach, he sheathed it swiftly in the viperwolf hide scabbard at his narrow waist. His ears prick my way, tail swishing as he turns over his shoulder with that grin I love so much, all sharp teeth and dripping confidence. Neteyam is rarely obnoxious in his masculinity, but his lazy, lopsided grins are utterly male, and they always prod at a deep want. A need.

“Gi’anya,” Neteyam says by way of greeting.

I give him a gentle smile of my own and don’t hesitate to approach. “You called?”

He hums and returns his gaze to the sky, which yields to a wildfire of orange blazing on the horizon. “I did.”

Confirming the wary look in Kiri’s eyes is an indescribable atmosphere that follows Neteyam. His usual infectious air of ease and content is nowhere to be seen. Though he tries to not let it show, the way he avoids my gaze and his grin falls into a tight-lipped line. My stomach turns in warning.

“Kiri tells me you’ve been speaking with one of the warrior’s daughters, Eykana,” he continues. The subtle line of questioning is too casual to be his overall goal. It’s not often that he prods at my unsuccessful social life, either. “What’s she like?”

“She’s sweet,” I answer. “Very talkative, so far nice. I like her.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Good. That’s really good.”

“Mmm, but I wonder if she has another goal,” I continue. He looks over, curiously urging me to continue. “And she’s friends with Serexa and shit. They may not be close, but it still makes me think. I think her intentions are pure, but they do not hold me in mind.”

“How so?” He huffs a tired laugh. “You know you can be extremely untrusting, too much for your own good?”

I roll my eyes. “Trust me, just wait till you hear how much she talks about you. She wants you, ‘Teyam, and she’s just finding the easiest way to you.”

He shakes his head. The beads in his braids chatter against each other. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“Come on. Really? Last week it was Naimera, before that it was Quia. Even Serexa has been nice to me. Do you not see?” At his silence, I continue. “You’re coming of age. Soon you’ll take your dad's place and you still have no other half. The girls are getting desperate.”

He sighs. “I’m not interested in them.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Haven’t heard that before. Very surprising.”

“Just give her a chance.”

“I am.”

“It doesn’t sound like—”

“Neteyam.” I cut off, standing up straighter and levelling him with an exasperated gaze. “What is this for?”

He purses his lips and…cowers. Beneath my inquisitive eyes, Neteyam’s shoulders seem to inch inwards, his ears twitching towards his skull and brow pinching. “What is what for?”

I sigh. “Asking about a girl I’ve barely had any interaction with out of the blue is strange. And I really don’t like the vibe you’re giving off.”

“Hey.” His tone is somewhat teasing, but it sounds very hollow. “Don’t insult my vibe.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I’m just looking out for you. You need more opportunities, more life.”

Despite the strangeness of this encounter, he speaks truthfully. For the Sully’s, I couldn’t be more thankful. They have given me love and somewhat of a family when no one else was willing to. I am not officially their own and am instead an emancipated orphan. But there’s this unspoken rule that speaks otherwise. When I turned up at the Mother Tree speaking an alien language and brandishing the image of the sky people, my luck was thin. Even at my younger age, you’d think most would have been sympathetic to this scarred and scared child. Jake Sully was the only one to step up.

Jake understood the strange language I spoke and understood my fears, welcoming me into a life I should have had from the start. While Jake and his mate, Neytiri, showed me unconditional love, the rest were indifferent. The adults didn’t acknowledge me, and those my age never tried to connect. Why do you have five fingers? Why do you speak that way? Where is your family? You are not like us. These childish questions never manifested into a wish to know more about me. The Omatikaya did not owe anything to me albeit their leader's acceptance; I had no family name, no natural ties to their world.

Much of my life has been shadowed by a desire for more, and unfortunately for me, the one thing I needed desperately to be happy was not my right: connections. Yet, in all the despair, there was hope: the Sully’s. Growing up alongside them was my vantage point. We’ve been inseparable ever since. Tuk showers me with pure and unconditional love, and from Lo’ak I can always find humour in sadness. Kiri and I share a strong bond only shared between women, something I thank Eywa for every day; to not have her would be torture. And from Neteyam… From Neteyam, I get everything, and then nothing at all.

For as long as I can remember, Neteyam and I have been extremely close, being less than a year apart. Together we learned the building blocks of Omatikayan life. We hunted, we explored, we learnt to heed Eywa’s gentle guidance and connect with the world she has given. Our bond has been unbreakable from the start, and while I could never be more grateful, there’s still a dizzying selfishness that takes hold. For years, the sleazy grins, teasing words and occasional brushes of a hand have erupted a war in my mind. I want more from him, more than a friendly face.

But, just my luck, I cannot have what I want.

“There’s something else,” I push on. “What about some friendship I have with Eykana has you asking for me to come here?”

“I just, I…” His eyes seem to land on anything but my face. “I need to know you’ll be alright.”

My frown deepens. “Alright? Is this about yesterday with Lo’ak? Look, I know I get roped into his escapades more than I should—”

“No, it’s not about Lo’ak, but I do wish you two would stop feeding into this weird echo chamber of danger…” A sigh. “Kiri told me this would be easy, the liar.”

“’Teyam, you’re worrying me.”

My heart flutters in a sickening rhythm.

“Look, I’m not supposed to be telling you or anyone this right now, but it’s cruel not to. Knowing if you have more than us would ease my mind.” He takes my hands in his with a squeeze. If not for the horrible feeling in my stomach, I’d be a blushing, stuttering mess. “I’m leaving, Gi. Me, Kiri, Dad…all of us.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, only finding it in me to say a quiet, “What?”

“The sky people will stop at nothing to find Dad and tear him and his life apart, starting with the Ometikaya. For the safety of everyone, of all those innocent…he thinks we should leave for a long, long time.”

My breath comes hard and fast, the sick feeling accompanied by a heavy ache in my chest. I tear my hands from his.

My whole life has been a mistake, a burden in the eyes of Eywa. It’s not often that I am treated kindly by her, but somehow, I think the Sully’s were her one gift of pity. Only now, it feels like a poor joke and everything is slipping between my fingers like solid gold dissolving into worthless sand.

“You’re kidding,” I breathe.

He shakes his head. “I am not.”

“’Teyam, I—you… I can’t—”

I shake my head vigorously, unable to understand what I hear. Jake Sully wants to remove his family for the sake of everyone else’s lives, but does that not put them in more danger? There’s power in numbers, he used to tell me when I refused the groups I was assigned to during training many years ago. I was stubborn to put trust only in myself, but in his eyes, to trust others was to be strong. Now it seems his own advice has been picked up by a strong wind and whisked away.

“You can’t leave me here,” I beg. “I can’t survive here, I can’t.”

His eyes soften. Behind the sympathy and sorrow, there’s a sign of distress. “You doubt yourself too much. You’re strong-willed, no matter what you or the others think.”

“You don’t understand.” My voice aches, a manifestation of the painful swell of my heart. “Without you and your family, I would not be here. Or anywhere.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes and nose as tears threaten to spill. I blink rapidly and look away in shame. I cannot be like this in front of Neteyam, who I’ve always held up a strong front for. Even worse, my heart is breaking right before me, ripping apart into tiny pieces and collecting at my feet. Neteyam sees nothing but a friend in me, but even amid truth, I can’t help but dream.

“Hey, hey,” he coos. “Do not cry for me.”

I sniff. Everything about this is wrong. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to live,” he urges, his hand falling to my shoulder with a gentle shake. “You’re going to prove yourself to the rest.”

“No—”

“You have to.”

Suddenly, a bubbling anger erupts from the pits of my churning stomach, threatening to spill. Anger towards him, or Jake, or the state of the world, I’m not sure, but it’s overwhelming regardless. I shove his hand away roughly. Unnecessarily. The look in his eyes tells me it’s a silent jab to reject his comfort. Those feline ears twitch, drawing towards his skull. Slowly, I shake my head as he silently regards me, overcome by too many things at once.

“What am I saying that isn’t clicking.” My voice has gone cold and flat, emotionless against a painful subconscious war. “I would have thought you understood me. …You don’t.”

Those words draw something from him I do not expect. His ears flatten further, tail falling to brush the back of his toned thighs. His heavy-lidded, golden eyes narrow a fraction and his brow lowers. There’s an unfamiliar vibrato in his voice, sounding not only sorrowful and desperate but frustrated, as he speaks.

“That is not true.”

Every millisecond the reality of his words closes in, boxing me into a dark corner destined for me to waste away in. Every comfort I have ever known is no longer mine. The tears are coming now, hot and angry and shameful. I shouldn’t have sounded angry, shouldn’t have pushed him away, but my destructive taste for ignoring everything wrong can only hold so long. Now it has burst, I’m even more unsure of what to do. I need to be alone. I need to think. Without another word, I step around Neteyam with ragged breath, shoving away his outstretched hand.

My tears coming harder and faster once my back has turned. Soft pinks and harsh oranges melt away on the sunset, conquered by the promise of a dark night. Luminescent freckles appear on my skin in imitation of the budding stars above. A faint and miserable call of my name chases at my heels as I descend the stone staircase, but I don’t dare look back. Moss and lichen fade blanket the rock beneath my feet. My vision has blurred dangerously, and for a moment, I warn myself to slow down; one misstep could send me tumbling over the edge. And while I listen to the survival instinct, a sad voice challenges the response.

Why slow? Why not let it happen as Eywa seems fit?

I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.

Nobody looks my way once I’ve made it back to the heart of the skyward village. By now I have managed to wipe away the tears and conceal any visible sign of sadness. However, with a close enough look, they’re still there: glossy eyes, a pinkish tint to my nose and cheeks. They’re things a friend or a mother would notice. I don’t have a mother. The closest thing I have to one is about to leave, taking my only friends with her.

It’s dark by the time I stumble into my small hut and I fumble to pull the woven entrance close. The prepared meat I had hunted earlier doesn’t even catch my attention albeit the instinctual growl in my stomach. I want to scream; I want to rip the leaves from the walls, pull my jewellery apart one bead and feather at a time, scratch at my skin and claw out my hair. Never in my life has anything ever been fair, and it sure isn’t now.

For the rest of the night, I sob quietly in my nest on an empty stomach. Some nights I eat with the Sully’s, other’s I keep to myself, though it’s more with them than not. Nobody bothers to visit and I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or not. Maybe it is for the best.

•

The next morning I am just as alone as the night. A ghostly hot sting pricks at my nose and under eyes; a reminder of the restless night I spent crying. The pleasant morning air feels like a mockery, comfortably cool and carrying birdsong. I do not attempt to eat anything so soon. So instead, I spend a small portion of the early morning isolated in my tent, weaving together a grass bracelet. Although, I do not remain alone for long.

A pair of bright golden eyes peak between the flaps of my tent, belonging to a silent body that stares at my back. After a second, a faint psst catches my attention. My ears twitch towards the sound. Turning around, I see little Tuk with a beaming, mischievous smile. An ache pangs in my heart at the sight of her, but for her innocent sake, I try not to let it show.

“Good morning, sweet thing,” I hum.

The greeting is invitation enough. She strides into my tent with purpose. “Momma wants to see you.”

My fingers fall short of the knot I’m about to tie. “…Neytiri?”

She chews on her bottom lip nonchalantly as she swings her hips, hands clasped behind her back and eyes wandering. “She said to come now to our tent. And to be quick.”

“O…Okay.” I smile a little more to hide my confusion. “Lead the way.”

Tuk skips ahead as she leads me down a path so familiar I could walk it with my eyes closed. The walk isn’t far. In Home Tree, I was purposely homed close to the Sully’s after their realisation of their children’s love for me. It is no different in our new settlement. When I do not walk fast enough, the little Sully girl falls back to match my pace, tugging at my fingers and pulling at the beaded accessories falling from my loincloth. Every step is more nerve-racking than the last. It’s not often that Neytiri calls for me.

The sudden sight of their tent makes my head swim. Will Kiri be there? Lo’ak? …Neteyam? I’m not sure I’ll be able to face any of them so soon. Especially Neteyam. Thankfully, the boys go out together on pleasant mornings like this for a fly and a hunt. As we cross the threshold of their tent, my suspicions are true. There is no Neteyam and Lo’ak. Only Neytiri, Jake, and Kiri. The latter sits on an overhead beam that holds up the supports of the communal space in their intricately designed hut. Smiles are not unusual for Kiri, but the one she wears now is incredibly big, juxtaposing the last state I saw her in. I give her a small wave.

“That was quick.” Neytiri turns at the sound of Tuk and I’s approaching footsteps. She scurries from my side to join her sister above.

I bow my head slightly in greeting. “Neytiri. You wanted to see me?”

She clicks her tongue absentmindedly. “You are not busy today, are you?”

“No…” I answer slowly with a shake of my head. I cannot for the life of me predict where this conversation is going. Does she have a job for me to do?

“Perfect. Pack anything that is necessary to you.”

I open my mouth to speak, find no words, and then try again. “…Pack?”

She nods with a hum. “Pack, yes.”

“For…?”

Faintly and slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. It’s ghostly, as if she doesn’t want to give away the amusement she seems to find in this. “For our departure. You’ve been told we must leave, I hear. I hope I heard correctly.”

I’m not supposed to be telling you or anyone this.

My heart stops dead at her implication and I fight down the urge to weep in her arms, fearing that I heard her wrong. She is not referring to her family’s departure. She is not asking me to join them. She just cannot. But, truthfully, I know she is. For a moment, all I can do is stare up at the tall feline woman with wide, puzzled eyes. What was it that told her the decision was right? Or rather, who…

Neteyam told her; it couldn’t be anyone else. He was the one to tell me against the wishes of his parents. He was the one to witness my world crumble away. Kiri knew he planned it, that much was true. Nonetheless, the topic must have come from him. My moment caught in thought seems to amuse Neytiri further. Her smile truly begins to shine and Jake steps forward to place a hand on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze.

“We’ve seen how much you mean to our kids, and how much they mean to you,” he says with that kind, guiding voice. “Your bonds are strong and we won’t deny you it.”

“You’re okay with me leaving? With your family?” I breathe, still in disbelief.

“We want you to come.” Jake smiles. “My kids fight a hard case.”

“Thank you,” I breathe. “Really, you don’t know how much this means to me.”

“You can show us in time,” Neytiri says. “Now I suggest you hurry. We depart this afternoon.”

My heart is still racing as I make my way back to my hut, this time with Kiri at my side. She practically tackles me with a hug so big you would have thought we were saying goodbye. I hug her back and sink into the freer feeling. Although, while I am almost excited to leave High Camp in search of something else, I am not ignorant of the greater reason. The Sully’s are in danger, and wherever they go, it will follow. It doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m willing to show them how much I care for them, even if that means endangering myself.

“I’m so so so glad you’re coming,” Kiri announces for the fifth time. “I love my family, but sometimes I get tired of them. I could never get tired of you.”

I snort. “It’s not hard to find anyone less tiring than your brothers.”

She laughs her light, breathy laugh that I love so much. Then, a mischievous glint enters her eyes. Kiri circles me as we walk, tail swishing, eyes mischievous. “Speaking of my brothers… You should have heard Neteyam last night.”

I only raise a brow so as not to seem too interested. I pride myself on my ability to disguise my fears, my hopes and my desires. Letting people in sometimes scares me. But then there’s Kiri, who finds her way in against my will. I have never explicitly admitted to her my feelings for Neteyam or indulged in her fantasies; unfortunately, my closest friend is just incredibly understanding. Too understanding. She knows me best.

“He came storming in, already late for dinner, and we were all sitting around waiting,” she continues, knowing I secretly love to hear it. “Dad couldn’t even get a word in about his tardiness before he just blurted out that you were coming. He was all angry from the get-go before anyone could even argue. Mom and Dad tried to talk him down and say it was a risk, but he would not hear it. Lo’ak and I helped out—even Tuk. It only took a few minutes of convincing, by my my, everybody was shocked.”

“He shouldn’t have put that much effort in,” I say with pursed lips. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did last night. I cried and pushed him away when he was just trying to be nice.”

“So I heard. But don’t stress over it, Gi, he was just worried for you. Because he loooves—”

“He does not love me,” I cut her off.

She tsks. “You are blind. But seriously, don’t worry. We know why our home sometimes doesn’t feel like your home. Sometimes I see it myself. The looks, the mumbles. They think I’m strange. I’m only a Sully in name, so I’m not immune.” She shrugs away the thought. “You told Neteyam he doesn’t understand, right?”

“…Yeah.” My voice is full of guilt.

“In the moment, I can see that, but trust me, he understands. He does not feel what you feel, but man,” she rolls her eyes with a huff. “He likes to act all tough and unassuming but sometimes I think his feelings are dictated to yours. Poor thing. His heart is too big for him to handle.”

I laugh at the absurdity. Part of me finds a thrill in the possibility which I hurridly remind myself is nothing more than a girlish wish, for a man to show such care out of undying love. It’s just friendly. “Who would have thought, huh?”

“I’m bored of talking about the mighty warrior,” she says, dropping her voice to mimic her brother’s. “You know, sometimes I wish my parents just adopted you like they adopted me.”

“Well you were a baby,” I reason. “Someone had to. They also knew and loved Grace and I’m just…nobody’s daughter.”

Kiri shakes her head. “I will never understand why that matters.”

I sigh. “I just like to live vicariously through you.”

“You don’t need to live vicariously through me, you’re basically a part of the family,” she argues. It’s light-hearted, but suddenly, she’s frowning in thought. “No matter. Soon you’ll be a Sully regardless.”

I shove at her shoulder as she playfully bumps into me. “I thought talking about him was boring you.”

“Hey, I might be meaning me, not my brother, as we said years ago. Getting bored of the lacklustre males and growing old together, remember?” Her voice is a fun-loving mumble. “But fine, I see where you’re mind lies.”

“Kiri.”

“Fine! Be ignorant. Anyway, let me tell you about where we’re going while I help you pack.”

I’m both surprised and understanding to learn our destination. The Metkayina, an oceanic tribe found on the Eastern Sea reefs. To reach them is a few day’s journey by air, a journey I’m both resenting and restless for. Our ikrans are to be taken with two rucksacks per person. The scantness of my jewellery and clothes allows me to pick quite a few while making room for plentiful weapons and supplies and reliable food.

Kiri helps me pack as she gushes about the sea people we have yet to meet. She paints their world in vibrant colours and magnificent seas full of the unknown. Each word is more elated than the last. Her enthusiasm is overwhelming, and soon enough, contagious.

While she couldn’t sound any happier, Kiri is no stranger to sadness. My understanding of her character does not let me miss it. When she gets like this, she’s usually compensating for something, something being the home she has to leave behind. Again. I have little fondness for High Camp and let go of my longing for Home Tree a long time ago, but I have copious amounts of fondness for her. My other half, my second self. My sister not in blood or name, but through a spiritual connection that transcends this life and the many to come. In that fondness, I find secondary sadness.

The announcement of our departure and the ceremony that follows is a mind-numbing blur. It’s felt deep in the heart of the clan, invoking a shared, grateful sadness for their selflessness. ‘Goodbye’s and ‘good luck’s come endlessly. To my surprise, some of them are aimed at me. Many of them come from Eykana who hugs me and squeezes me and tells me there will always be a place in her heart for me. She doesn’t speak to or of Neteyam more than once. There is not nearly enough emotion in the goodbye he receives from her. It is sad, yet simple. What I get from her is greater.

Did I misread her?

The question is pointless. Of course I did. In my self-loathing and learned acceptance of always coming second in the hearts and minds of others, I categorised her as just another girl using me to get to the Sully boys. A sadness I didn’t expect to feel today is felt by that realisation. A part of it feels like another joke; it’s just my luck to finally find the promise of a real friend outside of the Sully’s, only for my world to be turned upside down in an instant, pushing that promise away. In my sadness, I make sure to hug her extra tight and whisper to her how much she will be missed. Surprisingly, it’s the truth.

At the foundations of the Spirit Tree, all of the Ometikayan clan gathered, hushed into a deathly silence as Jake knelt before one of our greatest warriors. Tarsem. He is known to be wise beyond his young years, courageously brave and headstrong for the people’s best interest. A cape of bustling red feathers strung from twisted, sharp tusks has been lifted from Jake’s shoulders and placed on Tarsem. I had stood a few feet away from the scene, Kiri’s hand held tightly in mine. The two of us watched on intently, blinking away the thin film of tears that clouded our eyes.

With a mighty cry, Tarsem raised his blade high, aiming the curved edge towards Jake’s bared heart. Neither of them broke their stare as the blade drove down, stopped by a twist of Tarsem's wrist to connect his knuckles with Jake’s chest. With a nod, the blade was pulled away, angled just enough to carve a shallow gash across the skin of his pectorals. The blood that trickled down his chest was a symbol of death in steed of his selfless exile, the spirit of the Olo’eyktan now reborn in Tarsem. The Na’vi erupted into bittersweet cries.

Silent among the cheering crowd, I had reached up a hand to squeeze Neteyam’s shoulder. At the height of the coronation, half my heart ached for Jake, the other for Neteyam, whose entire life purpose has been snatched away before his eyes and bestowed upon another. The title of Olo’eyktan is no longer his by right. It was a path once so solid, so black and white, now unsure. Though his stare never wavered from his father, his own hand reached up to rest above mine. The gentle sweep of a thumb across my knuckles told me he understood where my thoughts lay.

We remained as such for a moment as Tarsem raised his hands to the heavens, Kiri’s fingers woven tightly through mine, my other hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. Lo’ak, who consoled a sniffling Tuk, lingered at his brother’s other side. Soon enough, the celebrations call for a close, and we find ourselves accepting what is to come.

Jake is first to approach the sea of blue bodies and golden eyes, which part for him with bowed heads and whispered prayers. Neytiri falls into stride behind her mate with a quivering lower lip and soft sobs. Tuk searches for her mother’s hand. Kiri retreats next. With a squeeze of my hand, Neteyam urges me to follow. The saliva dries from my mouth as I do so.

A surrealness hangs in the air as we follow Jake and Neytiri to our ikrans. They have been prepared for us already, each perched on the cliffside beyond, bags tightly secured to their saddles with rope nets. As we emerge from the onlooking Na’vi, a tall figure falls into my stride.

“Apparently Metikayan celebrations are unrivalled, and lucky for us, their season of celebration is now.”

Throughout the ceremony, we had not spoken much, our interactions refined to wordless comfort. Netayam speaks to me now with a calm ease as if last night never occurred. He doesn’t look at me, instead leaning his head down a little as we walk as if we’re sharing a scandalous secret. I crane my head to look up at him.

“Do you even know what they celebrate?”

“No, but if they’re celebrating, I’m all ears.”

I huff a soft laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

At first, I decide I want to forget about last night. Kiri’s understanding of my greed for information, especially about her brother, told me everything I needed to know: he cares. Enough has been said. But as we continue to walk in silence, a nagging feeling begs me to speak. I have to hear it from him and satisfy the starvation that can I never ease.

“How’d you do it?”

Neteyam looks at me then, quiet and thoughtful. He understands what I mean. After a moment, he looks ahead again. “It didn’t take a lot of convincing. The others helped. Mostly Kiri—she’s better than any of us with words.”

I smile at the thought of her. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” he challenges.

“Why?”

“Because…” This time, he regards me with that wide, effortlessly seductive smile. Our ikrans screech at our arrival. “Because you’re one of us. It’s simple. I should have known what to do the moment I knew we were leaving.”

I barely have time to give him a warm look of appreciation before he’s striding forward to help his mother with Tuk, braids swaying with every stride. I stare after him for a moment longer before I make a beeline for my Ikran. As she bows her head to nuzzle, I can’t help but replay his voice over and over in my head. As if sensing my wandering mind, my Ikran, Vaana, whines.

“Did you hear that, beautiful?” I coo to the beast as I hoist myself onto her back.

Vaana gives me a humbling look as if to tell me I’ve heard those words many times before. She’s right; I have. Forcing down the swell it sends through my chest, I decide it is best not to read into the little things. Neteyam and I’s friendship means more to me than my hopes. I would never let it waste away because I made a move on him he couldn’t reciprocate, driven by a deluded mind. Life can be so unfair sometimes. Its temptations are purposefully cruel. As I connect my queue with my Ikran’s, she gives a huff that echoes my sigh, as if telling me she agrees.

•

Twittering bird chatter is the sign that the second day of the Sully’s travels is coming to a close. Overhead, small feathered animals fight for the best nesting spot for the coming night, calling out for friends and family while shooing away others. The Sully’s and their companion have found a spot deep within a thick wall of trees that surprisingly leaves room for a large family. It so happened that they were a large family. With their beastly Ikran’s surrounding their camp, they light a fire and cook the day’s hunt. Talk was not rare for them, and it wasn’t now, but behind the banter and the easygoing conversations, there was an ignored tension. It emitted from Kiri’s father the most. He felt guilty to see his family taking refuge in a forest days away from their true home, she knew. She also knew there was no use consoling him.

Instead, she takes a seat beside her younger sister, Tuk, weaving beads and leaves through small braids per her request. Across from them sit her brothers, Neteyam and Lo’ak, deep in a playful argument. Though, she wouldn’t be surprised if one of them began to strangle the other. Stood to the side are her parents, vigilant despite their need for sleep. Between Neteyam and her sits her dearest friend and sister on a spiritual level, Gi’anya.

Gi drifts between conversations with Kiri and Neteyam, unable to deny the occasional question and remark from the latter. It fills Kiri with an amusing pleasure to watch their interactions. She so badly wants to play matchmaker, and while the two of them refuse to admit what everyone knows, she tries her best. Kiri, stop. You’re delusional. We’re. Just. Friends. Whatever. The two of them made it extremely difficult for her, but deep down, she kind of enjoyed the chase if it meant she could poke and prod them here and there.

Soon the sun is setting and the fire is snuffed to protect their whereabouts. Jake urges them all to sleep, and with little Tuk nodding off within minutes, the rest follow so as not to wake her. For a while, Kiri submits to a deep, dreamless sleep. This part of Pandora’s forest is silent in a soothing way. The faint hum of nocturnal beetles sing Kiri unintelligible lullabies. However, she is soon disturbed.

Something draws Kiri from her sleep with a jolt, as if a hand had reached into her subconscious and ripped the roots of her being from slumber. Slowly and silently, she sits up to survey her surroundings. Everything around her is as it should be; Tuk fast asleep in her mother’s arms, her father turned towards wherever he thought danger would emerge from, Lo’ak sprawled out with a soft snore, Neteyam and Gi…

Eywa!

Kiri’s breath caught in her throat.

The pair sleep with ample space between one another, much to Kiri’s disappointment. Neteyam lies on his back, one hand on his stomach and the other laid out beside him. To his right is Gi’anya, who has curled up on her side facing away from him. Between the two of them lie their queues, which is uninteresting and unavoidable. Na’vi queues in close quarters were unable to activate on their own; the desire for Tsaheylu had to be mutual, and not to mention, in a waking moment. Forcing a bond on someone or accidentally creating one by standing too close was impossible. With that in mind, what Kiri witnesses, she is sure is a dream.

A faint, purplish glow illuminates the ends of the long, braided queues as the inner tendrils snake outward. Slowly, they advance towards the other, so slow that Kiri wonders if she should do something. She is overcome by a contradicting swarm of thoughts. Part of her is awestruck by the impossibility, and another part of her selfishly wants to let the bond happen. Maybe Eywa has grown sick of their back and forth, Kiri thinks, and has decided to push them together herself. Then there is another, smaller part of her that told her to pull them away, but she disregards it. This was a sign if she had ever seen one. Kiri watches unblinking as the first few of Neteyam’s tendrils brush hers…

Suddenly, Kiri’s brother lets out a soft huff. He turns his head to the left, and after a second, the rest of his body follows. His braided queue has been thrown across his chest, so when he turns to his side, it pulls away with him. The queues were no longer close. Their glows fade as they relax. Neither of them stir.

Kiri stays upright in disbelief. What she just saw… Had their queues connected in time to solidify a bond, or could the smallest contact have left the hint of one? Was she meant to tell the two? What an awkward conversation that would be. Or had she woken in time for Eywa to tell her the matchmaking was not in vain?

With that, Kiri reassumes her spot on the grassy forest floor, torn on what the right thing to do is. If it was not meant to be, would it have happened regardless? A mistake in their proximity? No…It was meant to be. It had to be.

• • • • •

A/N: trying to introduce other character perspectives. Also did not proofread this well enough cause I'm lazy. But here it is!! lmk if you want to be tagged in future parts

@jackiehollanderr

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

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enigmaticexplorer · 11 months

Text

A Spine of Tiny Dragons

Summary: Lost for days amongst the humid jungles of Eluca, you and Commander Wolffe come across your first sign of a water source. What better way to spend your afternoon than taking a bath?

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI; while there is no smut, there are sexually explicit thoughts at the end. Sexual tension; unresolved sexual tension; comfort; implied sexual content.

Word count: 4.6k

Read it on AO3.

A/N: A special thank you to @starstofillmydream for the beta.

This little story idea was inspired by my current WIP, specifically the tattoo.

Wiping away the sweat on your forehead, you blinked at the endless expanse of green. The baritone hum of insects had grown louder, distorting your hearing. It increased your distress—the inability to determine if something or someone else was out there. Beside you, Commander Wolffe paused, cocking his head.

You tensed. “What is it?”

The commander straightened, rolling his shoulders back. “I hear water. Most likely a river.”

A breath of hope squeezed your chest but you snuffed it out.

Less than twenty-four hours had passed since you and the commander emerged from Eluca’s mountainous tunnels. Caked in dust, eyes scrunched against the brightness of the sun, you had nearly collapsed in relief. Freedom from the endless, winding tunnels—from the omnipresent darkness and claustrophobic panic—had been a relief.

Relief was ephemeral: the oppressive heat of Eluca’s climate quick to remind you and the commander you were both dehydrated and famished.

The effects of dehydration and hunger were ubiquitous. Dark spots flickering at the edge of your vision; muscles spasming; difficulty breathing. Your thoughts were sluggish; your physical movements slow and uncoordinated. Even now, you weren’t entirely certain if you had heard him correctly.

Erring on the side of caution, you said, “Water?” He gave a short nod and you frowned. “You’re not joking, right?”

“I wouldn’t joke about your well-being.”

The deadpanned honesty was strong enough you winced. It had only been four days since you both were separated from your amalgamated crews. Days lost in the tunnels had contributed to a quiet comradery. Nothing more. You weren’t familiar enough with the commander to know the subtleties of his personality.

“But are you certain you hear water?” You wiped more sweat from your neck. Even beneath the shade of the loping tree branches and serpentine vines, the sweltering heat sucked hydration from your fatigued body. Hydration you were desperate to cling to. “I don’t hear anything but bugs.”

“I know what I’m hearing.” He pointed over your shoulder. “We’ll need to backtrack but it’s not far off.”

You rubbed at your blurred vision, trying to think. “Why didn’t you hear it before? I don’t want to waste energy on a futile trip.”

“It won’t be futile. I hear something. If it’s not a river, it’s a stream. And we both need water.” He took a step closer to you, resting his hands on your shoulders and gently urging you to turn around. “You’ll have to trust me on this.”

“But—”

The commander stalked away, pushing through the heavy, voluptuous tree leaves. You glared after him—offended by his dismissal.

He had been a respectable companion the past few days. Though taciturn and nearly apathetic at your predicament, he had proven reliable. Especially in the impenetrable darkness of the tunnels. The tightening walls suffocating. It was his gruff voice, the calm steadiness, that reminded you to breathe. To get your shit together.

And he had protected you at the meeting. Though you were fairly certain it was mere happenstance, since he was standing beside you.

Most likely instinct that dictated his decision to throw himself atop you as rocks larger than your head tumbled and crashed against the floor.

Serious and unwavering in his determination to escape the tunnels, his companionship proved more ideal than being lost alone. Even if he elected to ignore you, at times.

“Hurry up,” Commander Wolffe barked from ahead, his order sharp and demanding. “I’m not carrying you if you collapse.”

You scoffed, joining him, hope and desperation urging your aching legs to keep up. And if the commander heard the few times you stumbled over a root you could have sworn wasn’t within stepping vicinity, he remained quiet. Whether it was out of kindness or apathy, you weren’t certain.

Too many minutes passed before a distinctive rushing noise eclipsed the hum of the insects.

Commander Wolffe disappeared through a dense clump of vines and when you emerged after him, you staggered to a halt, standing upon the edge of a steep embankment. The barest hint of a breeze ghosted your face. Your lips parted in awe.

A river, nestled between the vibrant jungle on both sides, and perhaps a kilometer in width, lazed on its humble way. The rich blue of clean water reflected the few clouds in the sky. White rapids churned near the river’s center, though the sandy shores remained quiet and soothing.

The gentle, lazy flow beckoned you forward. Whispered your name.

With a sigh of relief, you jogged down the sandy slope, crashing to your knees and lifting a handful of water to your face.

“Wait—”

You ignored the commander’s warning, guzzling the water. It was cold. Cold and fresh, and so fucking refreshing. The reassurance you weren’t going to die was so overwhelming you started to tremble. And if you had the means, you probably would have cried.

Your hands acted on their own accord, scooping up another handful of water. And another. After five, you splashed water into your face. Rubbed it down your neck. Relished the sweet chill of the droplets beneath your sweat-soaked shirt.

“You should have waited,” Commander Wolffe grumbled from beside you, interrupting your brief moment of relief. He had removed his helmet, the dark color of his face shimmering with water. He aimed a baleful glare in your direction. “It could have been salt water.”

“But it wasn’t.” His glare might have deterred you days ago. Hell, it would have unnerved you yesterday. But the relief of the water in your stomach had swept you into a contented stasis, a soft smile on your face. “Relax, Commander. I thought we were going to die.”

He rolled his eyes and returned to cupping large handfuls of water, droplets arcing down his neck. At his lack of argument, your smile vanished. Death had been closer than you originally thought. It was sobering. Too sobering.

You pushed yourself to your feet. To your left, the river hooked left, disappearing amongst lively thickets. To your right, it was swallowed by the tangled mass of canopied trees. You and the commander were secluded.

Commander Wolffe regained his feet, running his hands through his hair. You studied him for a moment.

“Turn around,” you ordered, reaching for the buttons of your trousers.

“No.” The dismissal was short and annoyed. A verbal scoff.

“Yes.” You undid the first button, tossing him an exasperated look. “I’m taking off my clothes, so turn around.”

His head jerked back. Bewilderment furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“We’ve been walking for four days, Commander. Four days.” His jaw clenched and you straightened, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t bathed, using the restroom has not been pleasant, and I’ve been sweating endlessly. I probably smell awful and I want to clean myself.” You gestured to the river before crossing your arms over your chest. “We’re not going to be rescued today. Hell, no one probably even knows we’re on this side of the mountain. I feel disgusting and I finally have an opportunity to bathe, so I’m going to take it. Turn around.”

Commander Wolffe stared at you for a long moment. Long enough you had time to acknowledge you probably appeared desperate. Possibly hysteric. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t beneath pleading. You needed a fucking bath.

Preparing a different argument, you opened your mouth—

“All right.” Surprise raised your eyebrows and the commander rolled his eyes. “Make it quick.”

You reached for your buttons again, nodding at him to turn around.

“We’re in an unknown jungle with possible enemies. I’m not turning around.” He paused, and then drawled, “I’ve been with plenty of women. It’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

“That may be so.” You offered him an unimpressed look. “But you haven’t seen me naked. You can turn back around when I’m in the water.”

An inscrutable emotion flickered across his face, too quick for you to decipher. With an impressively aggrieved sigh, he turned away. You made quick work of your clothes and underthings, hugging them to your chest as you strolled into the lazing river.

The water wasn’t freezing, but it also wasn’t warm. You shivered, wading out until you found a spot where you could sit, the gentle currents lolling across your chest and shoulders. Decent cover. Just in case the men Commander Wolffe insisted would come for him actually did. Or the possible enemies he had referred to showed up.

At a fleeting thought of creatures lurking beneath the dark water and biting your naked bits, you hesitated. Was a bath worth it?

The lull of the river and the thought of a clean body convinced you to stay. Anyway, Commander Wolffe would probably rescue you from any wayward creatures. Probably.

“Do you have any soap in that belt of yours?” you called out, scrubbing the dust from your shirt. If he kept ration bars, small tools, and a compacted heat blanket in his belt, soap shouldn’t have been unlikely.

The thud of something heavy hit the sandy embankment. You ignored it.

“Can I turn around now?”

Leave it to the commander to ignore your question. Rolling your eyes, you answered, “Yes.”

Too focused on the task of cleaning your underwear, you didn’t hear the commander approach. He was impressively silent for a man of his size wading through water. He took a seat beside you. Close enough you could bump elbows.

You stopped, blinking at his proximity. He was taller than you. Tall enough the river hardly lapped at his chest, and it was not lost on you that his height and position could provide a certain inappropriate view should he want it. So why the hell was he sitting so fucking close?

The river was hundreds of kilometers in length, and he chose to sit beside you. Directly beside you. In your personal space. Either he didn’t trust you to keep yourself safe in the river, or…

Well, you weren’t entirely certain what the other option could be. Which left his assumption that you didn’t know how to swim. How annoyingly domineering of him.

The commander ignored your well-timed scowls, intent on scanning your surroundings. Sighing, loudly, you returned to your clothes, content to ignore him. Until he offered you a thin, dark gray bar. You stared at it.

“It’s soap,” he explained slowly, waving the bar in front of your face, as if to make a point. “You asked for it.”

“I’m surprised you actually had some.” You accepted it, bringing it to your nose. It carried a strong scent of amber, and a subtle note of tobacco. “Your belt is truly magical.”

He scoffed. “Utilitarian.”

“Magically utilitarian.”

“Utilitarian by my own forethought.” The corner of his lip twitched. “You should be grateful you’re stuck with me. Not all my men carry soap with them. And too many would have offered to wash you themselves.”

“Aw. Are you going to offer?”

He gave you a bland look. “No.”

Lathering the soap between your hands, you huffed a laugh. Sarcastic and dry. He was truly the ideal partner.

Minutes passed in companionable silence, the clouds above rolling along their way, the sun’s heat on your scalp a stark contrast to the chill of the water slicking your skin.

Once you finished cleansing yourself, Commander Wolffe took his time lathering the soap down his arms and neck. Suds bubbled and oozed, drawing your attention. White scars bespeckled the wide expanse of his back and chest. Dark hair skittered down his lower stomach and—

It was rude to stare.

While he was distracted, you exited the river and laid out your clothes on a hot boulder. The one benefit to the scorching sun: it would dry your clothes quickly. Upon your return, the commander did the same.

You called out, “When you said ‘make it quick’—”

“I’m not walking around in wet clothes.”

Grinning, you tilted your head back, eyes closed, allowing your body to float. Muscles ground down by days without food and water eased. The blisters on the soles of your feet no longer wallowed in pain.

The respite was needed. The river a soporific cocoon.

A splash forced your eyes open. Commander Wolffe was swimming out to the middle of the river, his strokes easy, his pace slow. The currents—even the tumultuous rapids—proved a pathetic obstacle to his strength. He ducked beneath the current.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds…

His lung capacity was impressive. You stopped counting after 100.

The river continued to churn; seconds slipped by; a cloud drifted in front of the sun.

Your stomach clenched in uncertainty and you swam forward a few paces, eyeing the frothing currents. He couldn’t have drowned. Right? He wouldn’t have left you out here alone—

The commander broke through the surface, brushing dark curls back from his face, angling his face toward the sun. Lost in his own serenity. You exhaled your worry.

The hard lines of his constant scowl smoothed. The corners of his lips turned up. He drifted in the water, seemingly relaxed. An odd term to describe the intimidating commander. He seemed more human. No longer a soldier—no longer a potential ally to your people. Simply human.

You watched him for some time. Watched the way his body cut through the currents like a lightsaber through metal—smooth and undeterred. Effortless.

Perhaps it was the haze from the sun or exhaustion finally claiming your mind, but you quite liked the sight of Wolffe at ease.

Until he looked in your direction and caught you unabashedly staring. He swam over.

Hands planted firmly in the shifting sand, arms occasionally bumping, you both sat there. Together. It was the first time in days you felt a semblance of solace.

“You know,” you said quietly, “working with my people is strategically asinine.”

Wolffe cocked his head. “Is that so?”

“It is.” You watched a cloud distort, transitioning from a lizard to an oddly shaped oceanic animal. “My people have been at war with one another for decades. Your Republic inserting itself won’t solve our problems. Beating the Separatists might curb the fanatics for a few months, possibly a few years. But we will always devolve back to internal fighting.”

For years war had plagued your planet. It was a folly to hope for peace. To hope for the end of bloodshed and the arrival of stability. Peace.

The Republic’s interference, while appreciated and desperately needed, was a waste. A waste of effort and resources and—

“You’ll risk your lives for a planet dominated by inevitable strife.” Your fingers dug into the rocky sand, pain pricking beneath your fingernails. “It’s a waste. We don’t provide a military or political advantage. We won’t help your overall fight against the Separatists. You should save yourselves.”

The heat of his gaze on your face burned hotter than the sun. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because…” You sucked in a sharp breath. Days lost in the tunnels and now in the jungle—the pessimistic realization that the Republic couldn’t save a people who refused to be saved—overwhelmed your tight control of your emotions. Tears threatened the corners of your eyes but you held them back, clearing your throat. “There are more important fights out there. You shouldn’t waste your lives on a doomed cause.”

Wolffe was silent for a long time. You glanced at him, observing the flex of his arms as he leaned back on his hands, the breadth of his shoulders, the hint of a tattoo on his ribs.

He was… Well, he was quite handsome. The realization was startling.

Roguish and dangerous amidst the shadows of the jungle, careful and resolute amidst the water and sun. His grumpiness and apathetic nature left for wanting. Yet beneath it, he was reliable and resourceful, selfless and driven.

His exterior may be rough; it warned others away. It would still be easy to love him, though.

The thought was unwelcomed so you banished it.

“I’m a soldier. My men are soldiers.” His tone was quiet yet steady. “We have a duty and we’ll see it through.”

“You’re more than just a soldier.” He frowned and you grimaced. “I mean: there’s nothing wrong with being a soldier. To choose to be a soldier requires bravery, courage, and a belief in a cause. It’s an admirable thing. But there is more to you.”

“And you know me so well.” It wasn’t a question, though careful curiosity laced his inflection.

“No.” You smiled away your embarrassment, entranced by the depth of the color in his eye. “But I do believe there is more to your humanity.”

“I chose. To be a soldier.” Wolffe held your gaze, his expression firm. Unwavering. “I could have deserted when I first left Kamino. But I chose to stay.” He hesitated, as if debating his next words. “I have a responsibility not only to my brothers, but to the beings of this galaxy. To protect them. And that responsibility extends to you and your people.”

The honesty in his tone was resolute and you smiled your appreciation. Wolffe studied you, his eyes dipping to your lips, quick in their return to your gaze before wandering the planes of your face. His perusal was slow, seemingly intent with a purpose unbeknownst to you.

The weight of his stare caressed your skin, its warmth softer yet more intense than the burning sun. A pleasurable tingle crawled up your spine, skimming your shoulders.

A breeze eddied along the river, twirling a few of his wettened curls, tossing one onto his forehead. Beneath the rays of the sun, the brown of his eye was darker, as if it were crafted from rain-soaked soil. He was so close you could smell the scent of his soap. So close you could reach for his wayward curl, lean into him and lick the streams of water easing their way down his throat.

Your heart beat a bit faster.

A cooler current reminded you of your position: naked in a river. It was a gentle nudge to break contact.

Turning your face toward the opposite embankment, you wrapped your arms around your shins, hugging your knees to your chest. And if your nipples were a bit tighter, sensitive, you blamed it on the chill of the water. It most certainly had nothing to do with Wolffe.

“You have a tattoo.” Another non-question weighted by his curiosity, and carrying a silent demand for information.

Resting your cheek on your arm, you grinned. “Your observational skills are quite acute, Commander.”

A slight smirk graced his mouth and he slid his gaze from your face to your back. You angled yourself out of the water so he could see the entirety of it.

“My people believe long ago that dragons guarded our planet. But over the millennia, the dragons died out.” You closed your eyes, breathing in the river. “We carve dragons into our doorposts as a symbol of protection. But also as a symbol of resilience. No matter what happens, we endure.”

“You have three.”

“To represent balance between the physical, emotional, and spiritual.” Wolffe hummed his intrigue, forcing you to assess his reaction. You weren’t necessarily interested in his approval, but you were curious by his observation. “In the dark, they glow. I can show you tonight.”

His brow arched and he gave a nod.

***

Hours later, fully clothed and sitting beneath the silvered light of Eluca’s two moons, you and Wolffe feasted on a pair of luminafruit.

Grown with a crustaceous shell requiring a vibroblade to cut it open, the fruit was a lucky find. Sweet and berry-flavored, it was much better than the dry ration bar Wolffe had offered.

High in water content, the nutrient-rich cream lining the shell’s interior soothed your throat and served as a balm to your dry skin. The best part of the fruit, though, were the five to eight pods of green, gelatinous pulp.

“I hope these are luminafruits,” you commented, chewing on one of the supposedly protein-dense pods.

Wolffe stopped midchew, scowling in your direction. “You said they were.”

“I said I thought they were.” You shrugged at the narrowing of his eyes. “I need to brush up on edible fruits and vegetables in this system. But I think I’m right.”

“And if they’re not?”

“We’ll probably die from chronic diarrhea and vomiting.”

Wolffe choked, shifting his scowl to the half-eaten fruit in his hands. He inspected it. Closely, carefully. You popped another pod into your mouth, enjoying the sight of the consternated man beside you.

After another minute of prolonged glaring and calculation, Wolffe sighed and caved into the ambrosial fruit. Hiding your grin, you looked above.

The stelliferous sky twinkled its indomitable vastness.

It reminded you of your predicament. Lost and alone on an uninhabited planet. Probably abandoned by your people, or considered a casualty of the cave-in. No one would find you and Wolffe. No one would search for you. You were one person, unimportant in the grand scheme—

“You told me you would show me your tattoo,” Wolffe interrupted your thoughts. He nodded to your back. “I’m expecting to be impressed.”

“Oh? I definitely did not say it was impressive.” You turned your back to him, shimmying your shirt up before glancing over your shoulder to watch him. “Just like I said. It glows.”

“Mm.”

While Wolffe studied your tattoo, you studied him. His expression remained guarded, closed-off. It was difficult to determine if he admired the intricacy in the white line detailing, or was bored.

“It’s not a bright glow,” you explained, staring ahead at the trees. “I wanted it to be soft and simple. Not a torchlight, or something crude like that. I wanted it to be like the bioluminescence that you would see in a cave.”

“It’s subtle.”

You smiled. “It’s supposed to be.”

“I like it.” The words were quiet, pensive. Like an admittance he hadn’t expected to speak aloud.

Words formed on your tongue—a question of disbelief—but they stalled at the soft brush of his finger along the base of your spine. You tensed. Your heart frolicked in your chest. Another graze of his finger and you released a shaky breath.

He was tracing the first dragon. Following the curve of its body down its tail and back up to its wings. His movements were calculated. Slow and purposeful, quietly curious. You held still.

In a languid pace, his finger rose higher, skimming the ridges of your spine. Goosebumps blossomed down your arms and he released a quiet chuckle, the sound low, raspy.

His touch was a gentle kiss to your heated skin; you wanted more of it, more of his soft touches, more of his slow, calculated perusal, more of his unwavering attention.

Your breathing slowed, your heartrate with it. A honeyed stream of warmth oozed from his touch. It slithered down your arms, loosening the tension in your limbs, to pool deep in your belly.

He grazed the sensitive spot at the base of your spine, so lightly and gently, you shivered.

Wolffe stopped and your eyes snapped open. Silence coiled between you both, weighted with unspoken words and uncertainty. Hesitating for a short moment, you shimmied your shirt back into place, ignoring the warmth in your cheeks and the slight throb between your legs.

“So, that’s my tattoo,” you wisely stated, turning around to face him.

The two moons painted the jungle in thick, inelegant strokes of various shades of silver. The same silver as the cybernetic of his eye. And while the silvered strokes of your surroundings lacked taste, they skillfully crafted the features of his face, heightening the curve of his nose, the strength of his jaw, the imposing breadth of his shoulders.

Wolffe was studying you, once again. His expression remained too elusive to discern.

Clearing your throat to absolve the mounting silence, you laid back on the soiled earth. Wolffe joined you, resting a hand beneath his head.

Stars winked, knowingly. They seemed to share in a joke you weren’t privy to. It irked you.

He skimmed a finger against your hand. A simple, tickled touch. Emboldened by your lack of response, he did it again. Slowly, lightly, he circled his finger along the back of your hand.

“My brothers and general will find us,” he said, his tone firm. Assured. “Until then, you’re safe with me.”

A smile warmed your cheeks at the same moment your eyes closed. “I know.”

***

Wolffe was a complete and utter bastard.

His brothers had kept him well-informed of that fact over the years. He knew it. Everyone in the GAR knew it. He was a bastard. And tonight was further proof of it.

The moment he closed his eyes he was greeted by the sight of softly glowing ink delicately positioned on a beautifully molded spine. Greeted by three tiny dragons, no longer than his pinky finger and no wider than five centimeters.

Fuck him, the image was imprinted in his memory. And that image led to a dangerous thought.

A thought of his hands slowly squeezing your hips, his thumbs tracing light, teasing circles, your fingers curled into the soil, your lips parted in ecstasy.

A thought of him kissing along your spine, sucking on your neck. Finding every sensitive spot that made you shiver. Made you gasp. He would trace his tongue along the lines of those tiny dragons, knead his thumbs into your lower back, drag his tongue lower until he was drowning in your pleasure.

At some point you would be on your back, your legs around his waist. He would kiss you—kiss you long and slowly, relish the feel of your hands in his hair and the rhythm of your two bodies, thrive in the heat of your cunt and the sound of your arousal easing his thrusts, enjoy the way you would lock your ankles behind his back to drag him closer, to take his cock deeper.

He would give you whatever you wanted. And he would give anything to spend long hours with your thighs on his shoulders and his face buried in your cunt, to massage your hips as he swallowed your release over and over.

The thought had lasted no more than thirty seconds before his conscience snapped him out of the dream.

It was rude of him. Disrespectful.

The two of you were in a dire situation. Separated from his battalion and your people. He knew the tunnels had fucked with you, and it was clear that the past day wandering the humid jungle had steadily gnawed at your wavering hope for rescue.

You were not in a good place. And he sure as fuck should not be thinking about you this way.

Wolffe scrubbed at his face, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

You trusted him—a man you didn’t know. And how did he repay your trust?

By strategizing the best way to effectively draw orgasm after orgasm from your trembling body.

You were kind and thoughtful, determined and driven. And he was the fucking prick who wanted to find the most sensitive spots on your body and edge you until you were limp in his arms.

He was grateful for the stars tonight. To keep his mind clear. And clean.

It was statistically improbable that his brothers and general would rescue you both tomorrow. The lack of communication suggested his men were searching the other side of the mountain range. But he didn’t doubt their ability to find him. He didn’t doubt his general.

He could only hope his belief in his men and general could appease your growing worry in the coming days. And if it didn’t, it was possible that you would turn to him for comfort. Late at night, exhausted from another day of enduring the heat, it was likely you would seek comfort in the form of an embrace.

He gave it a 92% possibility.

And if you fell asleep in his arms… Well, he didn’t mind that possibility. He didn’t mind it at all.

#commander wolffe #commander wolffe x fem!reader #commander wolffe x reader #my writings

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thetomorrowshow · 6 months

Text

knowing what the cards were

hi besties enjoy (or scream at me)

cw: past major character death (and mourning thereof), violence, blood

There's a pond in Rivendell, down the face of the mountain a little ways, right in the thick of the pine trees that grow all the way down the side. It's far enough away from the main city (and any outlying buildings) that likely few have ever even seen the pond, a place too insignificant to be worthy of any sort of attention. Despite this, the pond and its surrounding trees have always been a beautiful, peaceful location. The pond has only ever had the clearest water, carried down through a small stream from the melting snow of the high peaks.

Now, in the dark of night, water skimmers skate along the surface; a couple of frogs sit on rocks at the edge. Otherwise, there's no sign of life. No fish, no creatures poking through the trees to find a drink here.

The pond is a small, unseen place of tranquility, particularly at this before-sunrise hour, when even the owls are sleeping in their nests. The night is still, the forest silent, and the pond a dark reflection of all the unheard and unseen.

And Scott, sneaking out of his bedroom window like a guilty teenager, goes to it.

He had discovered the pond in his youth, a quiet hideaway from his brother and his parents and all their politics. He hadn't gone there frequently, only when everything really became too much and he had to get out before he exploded.

The pond had always had a calming effect, apart from the real world, a tiny piece of grace and solitude.

He chooses it now as the place not for its seclusion, nor its beauty, but for its lack of living creatures.

He doesn't know what's going to happen when he uses the artifacts.

Again, Alinar had been frustratingly vague on how to use the artifacts. There'd been something about magic, and something else about learning how the artifacts interact with him, so Scott hopes that using them before facing Xornoth in battle will be all right. He doesn't really understand what it means when it talks about interacting with him, but a test run never hurt anyone.

He already sent Gem the instructions (recipe? Scott really doesn't know a lot about magical terms) for the crystal that they need to trap Xornoth. She and Katherine are going to be working together on that, as far as he knows. Lizzie and Joel are occupied with the war. Pix has been out of contact for weeks. Pearl is maintaining neutrality. Shelby hasn't responded lately.

So it's up to Scott to execute the rest of the plan, not sure who he can even turn to for support in this. After all, only the Champion of Aeor can unite and use the artifacts to trap Xornoth in the crystal.

Scott lands carefully on the mossy ground beside the pond, wings drawing up behind him. The moon has disappeared beyond the mountain, but the sun hasn't yet begun to rise. Perfect time for experimental magic.

Scott pulls his Cod-woven bag off his shoulder and sets it down on the moss, leaning it against a small boulder, then slips off his soft shoes and sets them neatly beside it.

He doesn't much care for the feeling of damp moss under his socked toes, but a glance at the grass to his left tells him that it would be infinitely worse (and far more wet) to stand there.

Should he even be wearing socks when he puts the boots on? Will that ruin the . . . magical connection, or something?

Scott strips off his socks and stuffs them in his shoes, just in case. Then he unlatches his bag and pulls out the boots, which he sets atop the small boulder.

They glow, he realizes, the runes casting a very dim blue light over the leather and stone beneath. Scott stares at the glow for a moment, surely only bright enough to discern due to the almost non-existent light cast by the stars above, then reaches into his bag again, where his fingers meet the chilled gold rods of the antlers.

He withdraws the crown as well, sets it on the boulder. It glows as well, just the slightest bit, the gold clear against the dark background.

That's got to mean something. Maybe all ancient, godly artifacts glow like that.

There's really nothing else to wait for. At any moment, a servant could come knocking on his bedroom door, summoning him for matters of war, only to find him missing.

He should pray. Right? He is trying to get Aeor's attention, after all.

Haltingly, Scott kneels in the grass, grimacing when he feels the knees of his black trousers instantly become soaked. He's not really any good at praying, but he can give it a shot.

"Um," Scott says awkwardly. What is it the priests always say? "O Aeor, God of us all and of those below, God of the mountains and . . . and of the snow, God of the day that conquers the night, God that now slumbers until the world is returned to thy light. Uh. . . ."

The introduction part feels clunky and must actually be more ornate than that, but Scott can't quite seem to bring it to his remembrance, even with however many years that he's been hearing it. It's good enough, though, and now he ought to continue—but the prayers differ after that, a thousand and two different ones for any situation. And Scott, after he recited the main forty for his religious tutoring, made no effort to keep them memorized nor learn any of the others.

"Aeor," he says after a few moments of deliberation, dropping all attempts at following a prayer, "if I truly am your chosen, consecrate these holy objects now in me. Show me . . . show me the way. Help—help me."

Did Alinar ever kneel alone in a forest, praying for any help that his god would give? Did Alinar ever feel entirely inadequate for the job that he was faced with, for the mantle of Aeor's Champion?

Years ago, reading Alinar's tales, Scott would've laughed at such a thought. Alinar had been foreordained, had perfectly completed every task set for him. Never was there any doubt that the task at hand was beyond his reach.

But now that Scott's in the hero's story, he can't help but hope it's normal to feel like an utter failure. Normal to be scared. Normal to feel totally, utterly lost.

Scott stands, brushes off his knees, and pulls a boot on.

It fits perfectly, of course, his foot sliding into place with ease. He laces it up as tight as he can, the boot going a bit higher than halfway up his calf. The other is no different, though his fingers fumble on the white leather of the laces and it takes him a moment to get it pulled as tight as he wants it.

Okay. He has the boots on.

Next step.

Scott straightens, and with mounting anticipation and shaking hands, he lifts the crown of antlers onto his head.

He waits.

He doesn't . . . he doesn't feel any different, so far. Maybe . . . holier, maybe?

He flexes his toes in the boots. They aren't stiff at all, the leather well taken care of but fairly worn-in.

He tilts his head from side to side. The crown feels almost weightless, impeccably well-balanced. It isn't in any danger of slipping, either, set firmly on his head, fitting as perfectly as the boots do.

Now. How is he meant to test these out?

Scott takes a tentative step forward.

There's a sudden, crinkling-crackling sound from his feet—Scott looks down—

The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's frost under his toes. The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's absolutely no way.

He takes another step—more crackling, the ice spreads another foot down the pond.

Carefully, Scott puts some of his weight on the ice.

It holds. More spreads, even.

He puts both feet standing on the now half-frozen pond.

It doesn't even crack.

Ice magic, then. The boots have some sort of ice enchantment, likely written into the runes. That—maybe he's meant to freeze Xornoth? Freeze him, so that he can't get away from the whole crystal ordeal. Or maybe use the ice to freeze him to the crystal?

And when thou hast the daemone at thy will, binde it to the cristyl.

That . . . that might be right. Right? It's probably more than normal ice, it's probably strange magical ice. Something that can bind.

Scott crosses to the middle of the pond. He's walking on water, practically. The pond is just freezing around him, making a large path for his next step before he's even raised his foot.

Jimmy would have found this so impressive. He would've stood on the shore and sputtered, mouth hanging open. Scott would've laughed, and held out his hand, and brought Jimmy out onto the ice to stand with him. And then, gazing at his perfect lover with his permanently-messy hair and his still-shocked expression, he would have kissed him.

And it's for Jimmy that Scott is going to end Xornoth.

He can't kill Xornoth, the book had told him that much. Their souls are connected, some sort of confusing reincarnation of spirits kind of thing that Scott doesn't really understand. He needs to bind him to the crystal in a ritual that he also doesn't understand, but if the boots have an ice enchantment to freeze Xornoth in place or attach him to the crystal, maybe the crown just gives him the magical authority to command Xornoth to go into the crystal? Or something like that?

Scott points at a sleepy-looking frog. "Don't move," he commands with all the power he can muster.

The frog doesn't move. But it probably wasn't planning on it, anyway.

And part of the intrinsic elvish magic that he already has is the strength of suggestion. If he tells someone not to move, really tells them, with power, chances are they won't move.

Will the crown just amplify that magic, then? Or will it make it literally impossible to break a command given, since the power comes from a god and not just a normal elf?

Well, at least he figured out what the boots do. He really ought to get back—he's already spent enough time away. A servant could have alerted the entire palace by now if they knocked to find him missing.

Scott heads back to shore and unlaces the boots, stepping out of them and into his own shoes (he doesn't bother with his socks right now, tucking them into his pocket). Then he puts the boots and the crown back in the bag, beside a small book that looks . . . unfamiliar.

When did he put a book in his bag? Especially one that looks so . . . ancient?

Frowning, Scott pulls it out and cracks it open.

The text isn't anything like what he's used to, blue lines thick and letters big, with no discernable spaces for words. It takes a moment of staring stupidly at the large letters before he has the sudden realization that this is a book in that form of Oceanic that he was meant to give Lizzie. He's already given her the book, but he remembers that it had a smaller book inside. It must've slipped out at some point.

He'll probably see her soon, right? War negotiations have constantly been taking him or one of his advisors to and fro, so surely there'll be someone to give it to her, if not him precisely.

So Scott puts it back in his bag amongst the artifacts and takes off, flying straight back to the palace and landing on his bedroom windowsill, crawling in.

Unnoticed, the touch of his fingers on the window frame leaves frost.

When Scott wakes up (blurry nightmares of chains and indistinct threats), he feels cold.

He must've left the window open. He's done that before, woken up to a little bit of snow on the windowsill after a late-night flight.

And his bed's been rather cold as of late, missing the heat of another body.

But when Scott opens his eyes, his favorite blue blanket is white.

He sits up, confused—and snow falls off of him in little showers, clumping onto his blanket in the creases.

Why is there—?

There's ice on his bedside table, just a thin layer of it. Snow on the bedknobs. Snow on the rug.

And the window is closed.

The low fire that's usually still a bed of hot coals in the mornings is emitting zero warmth, the coals black and cold. The lantern on his bedside table has gone out.

Scott throws his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the cascade of snow that falls to the floor. How did—what?

The boots.

Are they still active even when he isn't wearing them? But—had something changed when he put them on? Is there a way to turn them off?

Scott fumbles around his bedpost until he finds his bag hanging, from which he pulls out the boots and turns them over in his hands.

"Stop," he says, voice still heavy with sleep. "Just . . . don't."

Nothing changes. Did it work? Are the boots still freezing the room?

Nothing really looks like it's melting, but there isn't anything new in the room, either. Scott sets the boots aside (and they feel normal, they aren't covered in frost or anything) and stands up, stumping over to the fireplace on numb feet. He stokes the coals, trying to bring any bit of warmth back to the room, but there's absolutely nothing left to be brought back.

He doesn't keep a flint and steel in his room. Usually a servant cares for these kinds of things, but he doesn't want a servant in here to find his room frozen. How on Aeor's green earth would he explain that?

He has to have a flint and steel in his travel kit in the closet, right? Scott ducks into the closet, finds his travel kit thrown on the floor where he left it after the funeral. He picks it up, rummages through it for a moment. Sure enough, tucked into a part of the leather kit is a small flint and steel, right next to a small hunting knife and needle and thread. He pulls it out and heads back to the coals. He can do figure this out. No need to panic.

There's a little pile of logs by the fireplace, which he shakes the snow off of before tossing them in, hoping they aren't too damp or anything. That would be just his luck, the inability to light a fire in a frozen room.

Thankfully, they aren't too damp. It takes a couple of tries with his numb fingers to get the flint and steel to strike a spark, and another couple tries to get it to light, but it lights nonetheless.

Once the flame takes hold, the room immediately starts to feel a bit warmer, and Scott shudders as his fingers start to tingle with pins and needles. Right, that's taken care of. Maybe now he won't freeze to death.

And then he remembers that there's quite a bit of ice and snow in his room, which will all be melting shortly.

That might be even worse than all the ice, and it's with a panicked hurriedness that Scott starts scooping up the snow in his bare hands and running it to the window to toss it out. He gets a good bit of it (at some point he lifts his blanket off his bed and just shakes it out the window) out, but it's already starting to melt and he can barely feel his fingers and the rug squishes under his feet—

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott curses, wipes his hands off on his dressing robe, and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes he isn't wearing his veil. He curses again, doubles back to his closet. He doesn't have time to pin the whole thing on, he doesn't have time for any of his—

Scott pulls a veil on over his head and doesn't even bother with any of the pins and ties. It's a long one, meant for trips out, but he just adusts it until his eyes are in the eye-slit and hopes that he doesn't have any hair sticking out.

Then he can get back to the door (he trips over the trailing veil, it wouldn't be long enough to trip over if he'd tied and pinned it properly) and crack it open, sticking his head out.

Surprisingly, he finds not a servant, but Galidre, a junior member of his council. Galidre bows, black robes sweeping the floor.

"Your majesty," they say, straightening. "A representative of the Undergrove is here to speak with you."

"Shubble?" Scott asks, a little bewildered. What does she need?

"Not—not the ruler herself, but an ambassador. I believe they are requesting sanctuary, Milord."

Sanctuary?

That doesn't make any sense. The Grimlands haven't really mobilized anything concrete yet, and as far as Scott was last aware, Mythland and the Lost Empire were both still attacking the Ocean Kingdom.

But Scott doesn't ask questions. He just withdraws and gets dressed (properly pinning his veil this time), then grabs all the towels from the washroom and lays them on his bedroom floor to try and soak up some of the water. Hopefully nobody comes in to clean his room or gather his laundry while he's out.

Last of all, he steps into his very normal boots, pulls on his black gloves, and sets his crown atop his veil.

Perfect. He looks the pinnacle of 'king-mourning-his-fiance', no doubt about it.

He misses Jimmy.

And just as Galidre had suggested, in the meeting with the representative of the Undergrove, Shubble's people are looking for sanctuary.

"There's so few of us, your majesty," the gnome implores, twisting his mushroom hat between his hands. "Less than eight thousand at our last count. We do not ask for you to provide for us, but if we could come to just the foothills of your lands, someplace safe for our children, we promise all able gnomes will serve in your armies."

That isn't asking much. It's asking far less than Scott would have asked, had the situation been reversed, and Scott's bruised heart aches at the humble plea. Can he even bear to turn them away?

"I will . . . I will discuss this matter with my council," Scott tells him, glancing between Galidre and Aphoras, the two advisors present. "I don't wish for any to be harmed while it is in my power to stop it."

If Shubble's worried, it means fWhip is getting ready to attack. Or maybe that Sausage and Joey are leaving their battle, hoping to strike Scott in his complacency. Something's happening soon, and the Undergrove cannot protect itself.

He doesn't want to uproot the gnomes from their new home. The gnomes had appeared in his childhood, three or four thousand of them moving from some unknown, conquered land to take up residence in their own small corner of the world. They've nurtured and cultivated that corner, built a city and begun farms and families, until it became what it is—a lovely little civilization beginning to thrive. To take that away from them would be cruel.

But he has to do it. To save them the destruction of their entire culture, he has to pull the gnomes away from everything they have.

He could make the decision here and now. His mind is already made up, he won't need to discuss this with his council.

But as the gnome hops down from his too-big chair, bowing deeply, Scott knows that there's another way.

He has to end the war.

Ending a war is easier said than done. For one, Scott still doesn't really know how to use the artifacts. The crown remains stubbornly unforthcoming with what its use might be, and the boots. . . . Well, the boots don't stop. The next morning when he wakes up, his room is frozen again—and the morning after that. Scott stops bothering to melt it and just pins a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, before moving to sleep in Jimmy's almost-untouched bedroom. That one freezes, too, as well as the sitting room, and Scott gives up on trying to stop the boots from freezing things and just piles blankets onto his bed and puts pans of hot coals in between the sheets for when he needs to sleep. Otherwise, he just stays out of his room and pretends like it isn't covered in ice.

(He doesn't notice, but frost spreads under his desk, and his untouched cups of tea ice over, and every tear he cries freezes on his face.)

(Others notice, though. Ilphas stares when a wave of Scott's hand sends a streak of frost along a wall; a servant cleans his office and is bewildered by the ice everywhere; the eldest of the palace begin whispering rumors of Aeor's Champion, remembering the old songs.)

For another, Scott doesn't really know how or where to meet Xornoth to defeat him. Does he just go outside? Call his brother's name? Hope the demon shows up, despite the wards around Rivendell preventing his entrance?

He really doesn't want to summon the demon. Somehow, that seems like a poor idea. Some part of Scott is certain that demons have the most power right as they've been summoned, and whether that's true or not Scott doesn't want to test. And he'd absolutely rather not have Xornoth in Rivendell.

The only thing he can think to do is meet Sausage's armies at . . . well, at the border of Mythland. It would be a bold show of support for the Ocean Kingdom—he would have either to march his army through Mezelea or sail across the ocean to reach Mythland. It should only be a move to make if he's certain that he's ready to fully enter the war, or if he's certain that Xornoth will be there.

And suddenly it doesn't really matter, because three days after the ambassador from the Undergrove arrives, he receives communication that fWhip has set out for Rivendell, thousands of soldiers at his command.

His hand is forced. Scott sends Gem a quick message, asking if she's been able to create the crystal. When she responds by gushing excitedly about the properties, he tells her to meet him at No Man's Pass, on the far East border of Rivendell.

It only takes two days to mobilize the advance party of his army, prepared as he has been to enter the war. He can but hope (and dread) that Xornoth will be there.

So Scott swallows down his anxieties about not being able to figure out the artifacts (and he really has tried, but he's only had them for a little over a week), swings the Codmade bag with both of them inside over his shoulder, and rides out to meet Xornoth.

With any luck, Aeor will guide.

It's a cold morning when Scott steps out of his tent, ready to treaty with fWhip.

Their armies had met the day prior, and both of their generals had agreed to a meeting between leaders to see if they couldn't come to an arrangement of some sort. So Scott steps out, dressed in his most moveable mourning clothes (a short veil tight enough to be almost a scarf around his face and head, a hood pulled over that, billowy black trousers and a belted tunic with an open-front surcoat) and the Boots of Alinar on his feet, the Crown of Alinar a conscious weight in the Codmade bag at his side.

And when he enters the treaty tent, set on a cliff overlooking a rushing river in the shadow of one of Rivendell's mountains, with Ilphas at his side and two guards behind him, there are more people in the tent than he expected.

fWhip he notices first, dressed in his usual black coat and scarf, standing between two guards of his own, elytra clicking idly. But next to him is Sausage (naturally Scott wants to kill him), and next to him is Joey.

Which is entirely unexpected, because as far as Scott is aware, neither of them brought their armies—or any sort of guard—with them. They must have flown over for this confrontation in particular, as if a war wasn't currently happening, as if their own soldiers aren't dying right now.

Scott can barely muster disgust past the fear (fear of what will happen, fear that it won't work, fear because these three men tortured him again and again and if all fails, he'll be at their mercy again).

Also present is Gem, wizard's staff in one hand, a leather bag swung over her shoulder, and Katherine, wings fluttering anxiously behind her.

"I'm here to keep the peace," Katherine says immediately. "I don't know why everyone else is here."

"I'm here because Scott asked me to be," Gem pipes up.

"I'm here to see my Xorny," Joey says obnoxiously.

It's less the idea of Joey dating a demon and more the idea of Joey dating his brother that makes Scott want to vomit. Out of all the men in the world, he picked Xornoth? And out of all the men in the world, Joey is his potential brother-in-law?

Sausage shrugs in a way that makes Scott want to kill him. "I just wanted to see it all go down!"

"Me too," a voice says behind Scott. Scott whips around—Joel's standing there, looking entirely unrepentant.

He was counting on the fact that there would be some factors within his control, such as who was present—he had only anticipated himself and fWhip and Xornoth.

"All right, this is far too many emperors in one tent," declares Scott. His feathers are standing on end, all of his nerves jangling. This isn't good. Something is going to go sour here. Especially adding Joel to the mix. Joel is hotheaded at the best of times—in the middle of a war, in a tent with the enemy? Scott doesn't trust him to keep cool.

Scott almost doesn't trust himself to keep cool.

"It's like a House Blossom meeting all over again," Sausage says, voice cheery in a way that makes Scott want to stab him through the heart.

"Hey, I'm just here—"

"This does concern me, after all, it's about—"

"Well if it concerns you, then it concerns—"

"—for everyone, so they—"

"—is that Lizzie said that—"

"My lords and ladies, your presence is acknowledged and appreciated," Ilphas steps forward, checking over their shoulder at Scott. Scott nods his go-ahead—he's never been so grateful to have political, stuffy advisors who know how to be polite.

"This is, however, a meeting between Lord Smajor and Count fWhip, and as such, no other rulers are permitted to be in the tent during the meeting."

"Aw, come on!" Sausage whines. If Scott could kill him without breaking a million laws right now. . . .

But they all clear out, even as Joel walks backward, glaring hard at fWhip.

And Scott is left alone with the man (and their combined guards and Ilphas).

fWhip nods toward the table and two chairs that have been set up in the middle of the tent, a clearly-just-unrolled red rug underneath them.

Scott waits. He doesn't plan on implying that he's at fWhip's command.

After a long moment, fWhip shrugs and sits.

It's the little things.

After waiting a sufficient amount of time to establish that he is the one running this conversation, thank you very much, Scott sits across from him.

He's about to speak. He's about to open his mouth and demand a conference with Xornoth. He's about to end this war.

But fWhip leans forward, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I heard it wasn't exactly quick," he says lowly, and Scott has a moment of confusion—quick? what wasn't quick?—before fWhip continues.

"Not as long as Xornoth was gonna make it, of course," he says, eyes fixed on Scott (and goosebumps spontaneously appear all over Scott's body as he flashes back to those six days in captivity). "If Xornoth got your little fish boy, he was gonna make it long. I heard some of his plans—something about making you watch as he slowly skinned him—?"

Before he even knows what he's doing, Scott's on his feet, hand dragging fWhip up by his collar, pulling him halfway across the table as the man lets out a surprised, choked noise.

"Milord," says Ilphas sharply, tugging on the back of Scott's robe.

Scott shoves fWhip back in his chair (which rocks onto its back legs from the force), hands shaking—whole body shaking, trembling with something like the grief-stricken rage Lizzie had shown at Jimmy's funeral. He—just to casually—casually mention torturing his dead fiance and—and Scott knows he's doing it on purpose, he knows it's to get a rise out of him, and he finds that he just doesn't care.

fWhip's guards step forward, though, weapons raised, and with Ilphas firmly pushing down on his shoulders, Scott sits back down, his gloved hands balled into fists.

He isn't going to stand for this. He isn't going to let fWhip sit there and just speak such filth about his beloved.

But he can't do anything. Not yet.

It gives him a bit of satisfaction to see fWhip ruffled, collar upturned and hair out of place. But fWhip just fixes a stupidly smug look on his face and crosses his arms.

"Scott, we both know you can't threaten me anymore," he chuckles. "Not since I beat you, whipped you, branded you with my own signet . . . there's absolutely nothing about you that I find scary. You've literally begged me for mercy way too many times for that, my friend."

Scott forces himself to breathe deeply, let his fists relax, even as the faded whipping scars on his back twinge in memory. He has to—he has to get control of himself, he has to conduct this in a kingly manner. It doesn't matter that he was tortured by this man, it doesn't matter that his fiance died mere weeks ago (over a month ago, his mind supplies, it's been over a month and the world has somehow gone on), it doesn't matter that he's only a hundred and nine, for Aeor's sake, he is a king and he has to act like one.

"We are here—" he starts, but fWhip interrupts.

"Xornoth only wants one thing. Well," he laughs a little, "a couple of things. World domination is pretty high on his priority list. But he wants you to give up the god, Scott. He already knows you're Aeor's Champion or whatever that is, so you are his best chance at finding the other one. After all, you've got a very rare direct connection to a god yourself!"

That . . . that doesn't make any sense.

The other one? Aeor is the only god that Scott knows of that happens to be living (other than Exor, who Xornoth is already irrevocably bound to). Are there others alive? Others that he's somehow meant to know about?

It doesn't really matter, Scott supposes. He's here to end this war and that's allowed.

"That subject is not the purpose of this meeting," Scott says stiffly, ignoring the chill that runs down his spine at those words that he'd heard so many times in his nightmares. "The purpose—"

"Yeah, yeah, you want me to not bring the war to you or something, trying to convince me to leave your people alone," fWhip waves. "Your people mean nothing to me. I'll kill them if you make me, but if you don't want me to do that, I have a couple of terms. So—"

"That is not what I intended to discuss," Scott says icily, smoothing out a wrinkle in his tunic.

fWhip raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Then what?"

Scott leans a bit closer, all of his instincts screaming for him to move further away. "I am here to demand a meeting with Xornoth," he says, forcing every ounce of cold anger that he feels into his words. "He has tormented these lands for long enough. My business is with him and him alone."

fWhip scoffs. "If you've got business with him, you've got it with me," he says. "So, go on. Say your piece."

You know what? Sure. Scott doesn't mind killing two of his tormentors in one go. First fWhip, then Xornoth. He can absolutely do that.

But Ilphas's hand falls on his shoulder, as if they know exactly what he's thinking of. It would be very, very bad politically to kill fWhip right here and now.

"You misunderstand me," Scott says, and his stomach flips because this is it, it's time to save the world and he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it, and he doesn't let his voice waver but he does let his breath catch— "I mean to kill him."

fWhip bursts out laughing. "Sorry—are you serious? You kill Xornoth? Like, I admire the initiative, but you're the weakest person I know! At least, the weakest living person."

Scott ignores the jab at Jimmy, as disgusting as it is. He just settles back in his chair, crosses his legs.

Eventually, fWhip stops laughing, and his cheerful demeanor drops into a glare alarmingly quickly, quickly enough that it unsettles Scott more than anything fWhip's said so far.

"Your funeral, Smajor," he says darkly. "It'll be nice to get you out of the way."

The lamp on the table goes out, bathing them in a cool dimness.

Scott's heart leaps into his throat.

He doesn't dare breathe in the sudden stillness.

The lamp flickers back to life, the once-yellow flame now a deep red.

The tent, which had been almost frigid for some reason, rapidly begins to heat to an unbearable temperature. Sweat breaks out on Scott's forehead, rolling down his back, dripping down his cheek. It's like he stepped into the Nether, hot enough that his head starts to feel dizzy and his stomach unsteady.

The table begins to rattle, quiet at first, then faster and faster and louder and louder. The ground begins to shake, actually, rumbling and trembling, and the tent walls are flapping in a sudden roaring wins and Scott knows he's coming he knows he's here—

The tent pulls free of the stakes and completely flies apart, the red light spilling outward over the darkening plain, much further than a lantern's light ought to go. Scott shoves back his chair and stands, surcoat whipping around him, searching the skies for any sign of his brother.

Scott's never really seen the demon up close. He's briefly seen him (outside of their youth) twice. Once was from a distance in the End, Xornoth standing atop a tower to watch the battle to save the dragon. The other time was just a brief encounter, Xornoth appearing behind him while visiting the Overgrown close to a year ago, seemingly to do nothing but spook him.

And now, as Xornoth appears before him, Scott loses sight of all his anger. He can't feel anything but cold fear.

Again, Scott's never really seen the demon up close. And as he stares now, feet rooted to the ground, he doesn't see a single sign of the brother he once knew.

Xornoth, like Scott, is dressed all in black, but where Scott's mourning clothing is carefully fashioned and clean, Xornoth's black robes are torn, his dark armor unshined and grimy. His feet are shod with armored boots, his hands with leather gloves, and upon his head is what could either be a literal pair of black antlers or the red-streaked crown of Exor's Champion, a crude mockery of the one hanging at Scott's side.

His face is distorted, blackened, eyes bulbous and entirely maroon, mouth far too large and cutting jaggedly into his cheeks. His ears are still somewhat elvish, poking through his straggly black hair (which had always been purple as a child), which trails down his shoulders and chest.

Whatever that demon is, Scott can barely picture his brother in its place.

Yet it is his brother, here and now, and Xornoth is standing atop a boulder on the edge of the cliff, dark veins of red spreading out from it through the earth, cracking apart stone and solid dirt. Soldiers and rulers that had been milling about leap back, weapons raised.

And echoing through Scott's head and bones and the stifling air around him is a voice that hasn't haunted him in decades.

"Well, brother," Xornoth says, their blackened lips stretching inhumanly, pointed teeth bared. "You think you can destroy me?"

Scott's really starting to think he can't. The very air is thick with the stench of brimstone, so much so that members of his army are doubled over coughing, and the wind is howling and the skies are dark and there's maroon smoke rising from the ground and Scott can't breathe, he's choking on his own air and he doesn't even know what he's supposed to do—

But he doesn't fall to his knees, even as Katherine does beside him. He doesn't cover his ears and squint his eyes shut, like Joel does.

Instead, he fumbles open his bag and pulls out the Crown of Antlers, which he trades out for the crown on his head.

And Xornoth's smile falters.

His gaze travels down, down to Scott's feet.

Scott taps a booted toe against the ground.

"That's right," Scott calls out, above the whistling of the furnace-like wind and the coughing of the soldiers. "I have the artifacts. I'm going to bind you and your master, never to return again."

Almost as if caused by his words, spoken with a conviction that he forces himself to feel, the wind changes directions. The sweat on Scott's back freezes. fWhip, mere steps away from Scott, coughs, his breath appearing before him in a puff of smoke.

"You don't know how to use those," Xornoth sneers, but despite the years it's been since they last spoke, despite how unrecognizable he truly is, Scott knows his brother. He knows that when his voice becomes harshest is at his moments of uncertainty, determined to command his way out of any problem.

That means he's scared. He knows what Scott can do to him.

(Even if Scott doesn't know it himself.)

"Gem," he calls over his shoulder, and within moments she's at his side. "I'll need you to hold the crystal while I bind him, all right?" he says, quieter.

She nods, reaches into her sleek leather satchel and pulls out a huge, clear crystal, bigger than Scott's own hand. It shimmers slightly, gold specks scattered throughout that somehow shine with the sun hidden by the dark grey skies. She hefts it up, mouth in a grim line.

Scott nods back to her, then takes a step forward, one arm up to shield his eyes as the wind and heat get stronger the nearer he gets to Xornoth. Another step. Another.

There's a crack in the air, deafeningly loud, and Scott only has a moment to register that Xornoth has vanished in a cloud of black smoke before a literal tentacle bursts out of the stoney ground right in front of him, sending chunks of rock flying, and wraps around Scott's middle.

It lifts him into the air, a sizzling sound and uncomfortable heat against his body and wings telling him that it's burning through his clothes and feathers, and Scott struggles against it to try and pull his wings free but it's holding tightly to him, raising him higher and higher into the air—

And then it stops.

Ice is gathering where Scott's fists have been beating against the tentacle, gathering and spreading down, and though it melts almost instantly it simply reforms, until the tentacle begins to slowly recede into the ground.

Scott stumbles out of its grasp and onto blessed solid ground (he loves being in the air but not like that), and Xornoth himself appears right in front of him.

The demon moves, arm reaching out, mouth stretching open, Scott's arms fly up to shield his face—

"Stop," Scott gasps blindly, putting as much compulsion as he can into the one word, even though he doesn't even know what he's commanding Xornoth to stop doing.

The wind calms to almost nothing. Ice crackles across the ground. The air becomes frigid, though the terrible smell still lingers.

Scott lets his arms lower from blocking his vision, terrified of what he might find. Dear Aeor, his legs are utterly trembling, but he doesn't have the time to collapse.

And he finds that Xornoth is standing motionless before him, face twisted in rage.

"Gem," Scott says, voice too loud for the sudden silence, heart pounding in his ears. "The crystal—Gem, now—"

Gem hurries forward, holds it out, and Scott musters everything he has in him and commands, making the words up as he goes, "Xornoth, Exor, and those demons within you, I bind you by the power of Aeor to this crystal, never to be free from it again."

He waits, breath tight in his chest.

Nothing happens. Xornoth glances down, eyes catching on Scott's waist, and chuckles.

"I bind you!" Scott says again. This has to work. He has the crown, he has the boots, he has the crystal, this should be working—

He shoves all the imagined power he can through the air, as if to push Xornoth bodily into the crystal, this has to work he's getting desperate—

He's knocked backward with a sudden force, a blast of frost and ice coming from his own body, and Scott hits the ground and rolls through the dust, bumping his elbows and knees and hips, his veil getting caught under him and tearing down off his face.

He lays there for a moment—he can't afford a moment, but he can't breathe—and when he gets up, pushing himself up on his gloved hands, he sees—

Xornoth is frozen, a giant block of ice encasing him. The crystal is on the ground, twinkling under a blanket of frost.

And Gem is on the ground too, slumped as if dead, hair white as snow.

No—no—

"What'd you do to my sister!" fWhip shouts, rushing forward to Gem. He kneels down beside her, pulls her into his lap, starts shaking her.

Scott struggles to his knees, tugs off his torn gloves with shaking hands. He didn't—he didn't mean to hurt anyone, he didn't mean to hit Gem—he doesn't know what he's doing, he was just trying to fix everything but he doesn't know how and he doesn't know what to do—Aeor, please—

He stumbles up, the lace of one boot getting caught under his foot and coming entirely undone.

Ice is everywhere. Great chunks of it around the plateau, coating every bit of ground in a sheet, the one tree growing in the tough dirt entirely uprooted and frozen.

Those members of his and fWhip's armies that are closest to the treaty grounds are dusting frost from their uniforms, some of them picking themselves up from the ground where the force of the blast had knocked them.

He didn't know the boots could do this. He didn't want to do this. He didn't mean for this to happen, he didn't want this to happen—

"You—!"

And before Scott can even really process everything, fWhip is barreling into him, sending him right back to the ground with an "oof".

"I'm gonna—" fWhip starts, straddling Scott's stomach, eyes wild and face red with anger, but a CRACK! that shoots through the air gives him pause.

Everyone, slowly, trancelike, turns to where the frozen Xornoth remains, and the large crack that's splintering down the ice encasing him.

With strength that must come from Aeor himself, Scott shoves fWhip off (he ignores the way fWhip's jacket goes stiff with ice) and rolls to his feet, stumbling toward Xornoth, scooping up the crystal on his way.

And then he doesn't know what to do.

He holds up the crystal beside the frozen chunk of ice that holds Xornoth, willing it to do something, anything.

"I bind you," he chokes out, pressing the crystal through the crack and into Xormoth's chest. "Come on. . . . I bind you!"

The ice shatters from Xornoth with a wave of heat that blasts Scott back, knocking the crystal from his hand as he once again hits the ground hard on his back (all the breath is forced out of his lungs and it hurts) and slides a couple of feet, feathers turning the wrong way and getting torn out.

Scott scrambles to regain his bearings—he can't breathe and everything hurts—but before he can even get from more than a sitting position, a foul-smelling boot kicks him in the chin and his head snaps backward, sending him back down.

He opens watering eyes, blinking several times to clear their blurriness, arms splayed out at his sides. Xornoth stands over him, radiating heat, the dark clouds in the sky behind him seeming to swell.

"You think you can trap me in a little piece of glass?" Xornoth growls, and when Scott again tries to get up, pushing himself up with his arms against the gravelly ground, he again kicks him down, knocking his head against the stone.

No. No, he has to save them—he can hear people shouting, he can hear screams, he's Aeor's Champion, this isn't how the story is supposed to go—

Xornoth laughs, cruel and derisive, before bending down over Scott and gripping one gloved hand in the front of his tunic. He drags him up, up to standing, his tunic tearing just slightly.

Scott can barely even struggle. His body feels like jelly, wings hanging limply behind him, legs almost unable to support his own weight.

He tried. He tried so hard.

Xornoth's face is so close to his that Scott can smell his reeking breath, see how the points of his black teeth glisten with saliva, but he can't even find the strength to tip his head back, get away from him.

"Even your little fish boy fought harder than this," sneers Xornoth, only loud enough for Scott to hear, and Scott's heart breaks.

Jimmy.

He just wants Jimmy.

Somehow, if Jimmy had been here, it all would have been okay.

A tear slips down his bare face. Scott swallows back a sob, brings up his fumbling arms and weakly pushes at Xornoth's hand.

Ice spreads across his glove, and Xornoth hisses before throwing Scott down. He lands hard on his side, feels one of his ribs crack with a flash of white-hot pain, and he can't do anything but lie there and try to breath through it.

"I am Xornoth," the demon declares, voice echoing around the cliff, and the armies waiting on either side quiet, the only sound Xornoth's voice and the once-again rushing wind. "I am the ruler of this world. The so-called king of Rivendell tried to challenge me, and has failed. If any of you who followed him wish to feel my mercy, give up your arms now."

Scott knows his people. He knows that despite his youth, despite some unpopularity among older generations, his people care too much for him (for tradition, for his family) to renounce him.

And he can't let that happen. He's done for. He failed.

Rivendell needs to surrender.

Scott raises his head, just a little bit, some grit that had been stuck to his cheek falling to the stony ground, and looks around—there.

He catches Ilphas's eye—Ilphas, standing at the forefront of his army, their grey cloak slipping from their shoulder and hair out of place but their chin held high and stance dignified—and ignores the abject horror painting their face, then gives the tiniest, most minute nod.

They blink several times, and if Scott didn't know any better, he'd think they were crying. They nod in return, though, and turn away, calling instructions to surrender.

Xornoth nudges Scott with the toe of his boot. "This is your king," he spits. "And he is dead."

Before Scott can do anything, before he can so much as move, another maroon tentacle cracks out of the ground beside him, burning hot, and wraps around his legs.

It's all Scott can do not to scream—this tentacle is far hotter than the other, burning straight through his trousers to his skin, but before he can try to squirm away, it drags him up into the air upside-down and throws him.

Scott doesn't even have time to process the wind rushing through his ears before he slams into the ground, knocking his head against a rock in a way that makes his vision flash black and grainy and sends pain jolting through his entire head.

Xornoth stalks toward him, he sees, through blurry vision red with pain, he says something—something terrible and pulsing—Scott scrambles back, his palms bleeding against the rough texture of the cliff, he just has to survive he just has to survive—

Xornoth grabs him by the right wing, pulls him up as the delicate bone strains, Scott tries to even out his weight to his feet but he can't find his footing—

The bone in his wing snaps and Scott doesn't have the energy to scream, his breath releasing in a little gasp. No . . . no. . . .

He meets Xornoth's eyes, the world hazy.

There's no pity to be found in those dark pits. No mercy. Only satisfaction.

And Scott knows, right then and there, with a clarity that cuts through all the pain and haziness, that he's dying.

He failed.

He failed all of them.

And with a burst of hot power from Xornoth, Scott is once again flying through the air and then he's falling, down, down, the wind buffeting his back as he goes over the cliff, his right wing thrown uselessly this way and that as his left wing tries valiantly to save him but his weight is too much, and with a gross clunk and a white hot burst of pain, it slips out of the socket.

Before Scott can scream, before he can pray, before he can do anything but twist his body in the air to face nose down, he hits freezing water and blacks out.

The last thing he thinks, mind desperately spinning, is that at least he won't have to live so alone anymore.

His body aches, pulsing up and down, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes, traveling up each limb and down each vein. Everything hurts, in ways that he can't quite understand.

The stag steps carefully through the forest, over gnarled tree roots and clumps of grass, each step rocking him from right to left.

Scott takes in a slow breath, body slumping further against the stag. The fingers of his right hand loosely grasp its hair, his left arm hanging at his side.

He just wants to fall asleep. He's so tired, and it all hurts so much that he can't even think. He just wants to sleep.

But he blinks slowly instead, watches as a squirrel skitters up the bark of a huge oak tree. A deer pokes its head out from behind a birch, its ears twitching curiously. Somewhere in the branches above, a chickadee sings its repeating song.

Scott lets his breath out in a long sigh. His body rolls with the slow trundle of the stag, jostling his various uncategorized wounds.

He swallows, throat dry.

Maybe he can sleep here. On the back of the stag. Let it carry him to wherever it intends to go.

He's so tired.

The ground below gets softer, bit by bit, the dirt becoming darker, the grass more frequent. The stag's hooves begin to leave impressions in the ground, the grass springing up after every step. A frog croaks from nearby, low and long. The leaves on the trees start hanging lower and lower, dripping down into puddles of murky water.

And then, the dirt now mud and squishing with every step, the stag stops.

Scott should see why it stopped. He should lift his pounding head, see what's before them, because surely if it's important enough to stop the stag he has to see what it is.

But he doesn't have the strength.

As his body is pushed, further and further—

After a long moment, the stag bends its neck, head dipping low in an arc, and Scott begins to slide forward, his fingers slipping from their limp grasp, his body leaving streaks of red in the brilliant white hair.

He slowly slides further, further, until he rolls between the stag's antlers, his tunic catching on a sharp antler and pulling a long tear down the side, before he slowly falls into a clear pool of water.

He sinks, red billowing up in the water around him—

Sinking, water filling his lungs, so much weighing him down and down—

Down and down, until his toes meet silty mud at the bottom.

He hangs there, in the water, letting it wash away his aches and pains and all the blood, and he sighs, bubbles spilling from his lips.

He's so tired.

A fish swims up to him—a cod—

Hands under his arms and pulling at his tunic, dragging him up onto a rocky shore scraping his back—

It noses at him, pokes him hard in the chest—

Pressing on his chest, harder and harder, again and again and it hurts—

And then swims up to between his eyes (it takes a moment to come back into focus) and stares at him, eyes large and somehow desperate.

And he sees, wavering in and out, desperate and beautiful brown eyes.

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fairy-verse · 6 months

Note

Random questions!

1. What would happen if a season fairy were to fall in love and have a child with a non-season fairy?

2. Since season fairies were initially born from the hopes and dreams of the Firstborn, do they have an innate desire to serve them or is it something they learn from their environment?

3. Is there a specific hierarchy/special roles among the fairies, or is it just the Firstborn and the season fairies?

4. How big is each season fairy colony? Do the Firstborn have close bonds with their fairies, or is it more of a ruler/subject relationship?

It has happened before (Cross’s father, XGaster, was half winter fairy, half monster fairy) and only a few minor inconveniences happened back then. Firstly, the faerling in question might be more season fairy, or more monster fairy, but would in both cases have something from both parents either way. They might wish to live among the monster fairies, or they may wish to stay with the season fairies. They will be accepted into the community they desire to stay with, but cannot later change their mind, lest they wish to be pushed away. Why this happens is uncertain, but anyway, this isn’t something that happens often.

XGaster stayed within Error’s Mountain Halls once he was old enough to make that choice, but later began to feel isolated and lonely due to the differences that made him struggle with relating to other pure-born winter fairies. His troubles made him rather harsh with Cross who desperately needed his emotional support after his mother passed away, and this situation caused a major rift to form between them. xGaster still cares for his faerling, Cross is all he has left after his beloved mate perished, but he doesn’t know how to reconnect with him, and he’s gone to deal with his own projects by the caverns of the most north parts of Error’s Mountains, so neither he nor Cross truly sees each other anymore; unless they actively seek each other out (which is rarely).

All season fairies have an innate desire to serve their respective Firstborn. This desire doesn’t truly set in until said faerling begins to grow of age, but they all will eventually feel it within themselves. Hybrids may feel a strong pull towards the Firstborn that represents the season they most relate to, but some (like Killer) may also just pick and choose as they like. If they serve at least one Firstborn, then that urge within them will be sated. Hybrids that are part Monster Fairy may be born without this innate desire.

The Firstborn is essentially the god/guardian/king/queen/mother/father of their respective season fairies, but any fairy that becomes their mate will immediately grow above a common season fairy, though there isn’t a particular name for them. They’d just be recognised as fairies of importance. Other than that, there would be specific fairies that might be labelled as guards/knights due to their strength and a heightened ability to protect other fairies from the Big Folk, and they’d be highly regarded as well. While some would view them as frightening (Horror), most will agree that these fairies are ideal mates due to how they will produce strong faerlings (Cross didn’t know how many admirers he had before he met Dream), and because of this, they are often seen as a higher rank than a common season fairy.

So, to conclude, it would go something like this: Firstborn A Firstborn’s mate Guards/Knights Common season fairy

The season fairies are somewhat scattered around the Firstborn’s domain, though you’d find most of them clustered around wherever their Firstborn has permanently settled down. Many winter fairies live in the grand mountain hall beneath the tunnel that leads to Error’s nest atop his tallest mountain peak. Summer fairies live nearby to Dream’s nest, which is within the giant willow tree settled on the tiny island in the lake of his valley. Nightmare’s underground nest stretches far out beneath his lands, and there are many entrances scattered around; usually next to roots by giant trees, and most of his fairies live down there with him, though a few will live in the trees up above, too. The spring fairies have no set colony anywhere because Ink has too many nests and he keeps making more; he often gives them away to his subjects since he couldn’t possibly have need of that many for his own tiny self (he thinks he has many, he’s not sure, at least his fairies say he does, so it must be true).

And as to bonds with the season fairies…

Nightmare might be seen as Queen more often than not, but many of his fairies also call him mother due to his nurturing nature. He has a close bond with them all, and he grieves every time one of them dies.

Dream is viewed as a guardian by most of his fairies, and they worship him for the light and warmth that he brings them. He is close to his subjects, but that is mostly what they are to him, his subjects. Still, he cares for them and wouldn’t wish for any of them to be hurt.

Error is seen as a deity by his fairies. They tread carefully when they know that he’s agitated, yet they worship him and bestow their admiration upon him whenever he graces them with his presence. Error isn’t the one who set this kind of relationship into place, but it is the one that developed due to his private nature. He’s not that close to his winter fairies, but he, too, cares for them and wishes to keep them safe.

Ink is nicknamed “father” by many of his spring fairies, but this doesn’t necessarily come from a very close bond to them, but mostly because he’s fathered so many of them. He’s playful and enjoys scheming and flying with his fairies, but he’s not very close to any of them.

#aufairyverse #utmv #ask for the fairy #general fairy info #fairy!nightmare #fairy!error #fairy!dream #fairy!ink #nightmare sans #error sans #dream sans #ink sans #error and ink are very alike when it comes to certain things #ink is just better at hiding some of them #gods this answer feels so messy but i don't know how to make it better #forgive me

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smreine · 11 months

Photo

Here’s a WIP design from my bestiary for my gothic fantasy novel. Gnolls are typically sorta hyena-human bipeds in fantasy, but I have a lot of sentient nonbipedal and non-industrialized creatures upon Her Divine Body. Do you like him better penciled or inked?

Description for images: One is a sketch, and the other has cleaner lines; both are monochromatic depictions of a four-legged thing that is kind of like a doggylionhyena with inquisitive eyes, visible fangs, a mohawk, a long tail, and strong legs.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how humans are animals and how I believe we are the dominant intelligent life form on the planet but far from the only one. I think about the lies humans tell ourselves so we can believe there is something Special and Different about us.

So I don't think we need to make creatures more humanlike in order for them to be treated as a complex fantasy society! They're lil dudes with language and some minor technology and history and rituals and families and they do not have opposable thumbs.

My 8yo asked me if the gnoll would be friendly, and I said that I thought the gnoll would be friendly if he were not hungry and you were not a rabbit. So that's now canon, they have to be nice. Or at least too lazy to eat human children.

It's a WIP because I will eventually format all bestiary pages in some consistent way that will have a more interesting design, like this. But this is also a WIP because I honestly did not take printing considerations into account with the colors and stuff.

(ID Below: A fake-parchment image labeled “The Beasts of Neus Mak Nama,” depicting a large eagle-like creature called a Roc. Native to world trees and the High Mountains, roc have been hunted near extinction in the wild by the Empire of Trees. Their diet consists of dire elk, ibexes, and beasts of Chaos. Their feathers are harvested for silk and their eggs for food. Size reference shows Alvar, Men, and Dwarrow, each smaller than the Roc’s foot.)

#fantasy creatures #bestiary #epic fantasy #gothic fantasy #atop the trees beneath the mountains #roc

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skyloftian-nutcase · 7 months

Text

He Runs, She Follows (Skyward Sword ficlet)

Whumptober day 15 - Suppressed suffering, "I'm fine."

There was something calming about the wind. It was a constant companion up in the skies, always caressing or pushing or fighting or helping. It sang or it screamed, carried leaves or uprooted plants. It was always there, always present, a familiarity in a world of change.

The wind on the Surface was different. Its noise was different, a rustling and whistling as it passed through mountains and trees. There were so many barriers to the wind on the Surface that sometimes there was no wind at all. The silence, the stillness of the air… it had been one of the most disturbing facets of that strange new world.

Link sat atop a lone sky island, staring down at the clouds beneath his feet as he dangled his legs over the edge. His loftwing lay curled up and fluffed beside him, feathers gently tickling his right ear. The wind played with his hair and his companion��s plumage alike, peppering a spritz of moisture against his face. His loftwing buried his head further into his feathers, fluffing up further against it.

The world looked so small down below. It was amazing how it was so vast. So empty. So overwhelming.

So exhausting.

Link had never been a particularly energetic person, but his energy had been present. He just wasn’t the best at directing it into focus sometimes. But ever since his journey… he’d just had no energy at all.

He’d tired to attribute it to his illness that he’d gotten at the end. Apparently he’d almost died. He remembered very little of it, and it… honestly didn’t bother him or surprise him that much. He supposed he should be more upset that he almost died, or grateful that he hadn’t, but… it wasn’t his first time almost dying on his adventure, and honestly… he didn’t have the energy to care.

Zelda was safe. It was over. That was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t over, was it? There was no going back to the way things were. He wouldn’t want to go back to the way things were. He was exhausted, but he was restless too. He hated the mixture, such a strange sensation of anxiety, of needing to do something, but also wanting to do absolutely nothing. His mind and body were constantly at war and he never could tell who won anymore. All he knew was he wanted to be alone.

He… felt so empty. His mind, once filled with contentment, was instead blank. When someone approached him he would grow irritable. Today he even started getting short with Zelda, and that was when he’d decided to fly away for a bit.

What’s wrong with me? Why am I always so tired now? I mean… I used to be sleepy before, but this is…

It wasn’t the same. Link wasn’t the best sleeper – he would go in spurts, and he often stayed up most of the night with bouts of energy that would end up with wood carvings aplenty and late morning sleeping and naps anywhere he could find them. But now… even sleep didn’t fix it. There wasn’t enough sleep in the world to heal whatever was wrong with him. And he hated it. It scared him and hurt him and he hated it.

Crimson stirred, his head poking out of his feathers, and he gently bumped his beak against Link’s head. The Skyloftian glanced up at his companion, tired eyes meeting wide, curious ones, and the knight-in-training crumpled in on himself a little. He hadn’t even been spending as much time with his loftwing as he used to because he just hadn’t had the energy to take care of him. The innocent gaze from his beloved companion was enough to make guilt settle into his heart, and he felt all the more wretched for it.

How much time had he wasted lying around doing nothing now? How many people could he have helped? How many times did he almost refuse to help others during his journey as it had dragged on? How often had he pushed Zelda away since its completion? How much had be abandoned his loftwing? Had he even spoken to Groose in the last few days? What was wrong with him?

His eyes stung, but the wind dried his tears before they could fall too far, its whooshing call covered his hiccups as he leaned into his loftwing, hugging his neck.

He almost missed the call of another loftwing over all the noise and emotion, but Crimson stiffened and perked up, calling back. Link hastily wiped the tears away, looking out to see Indigo, Zelda’s loftwing, circling the island. When his eyes caught movement below the loftwing, he saw that Zelda had leapt off and glided down to meet him.

Link tried to muster the strength for a smile. He really did.

“Hey,” Zelda said a little hesitantly. Her soft voice and careful gaze cut into him like a knife. She was approaching like it was her fault he’d been mad earlier, she was trying so hard to be understanding and kind, it wasn’t fair that she had to deal with him like this.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that anyone on Skyloft had to deal with his lack of energy and short fuse. But most of all, he had no right to be putting any burden on Zelda.

Link swallowed the lump in his throat, chest too constricted to speak.

Zelda slid hesitantly down to the ground beside him. His loftwing clacked his beak welcomingly, nodding his head a little, and then returned to curling into his little fluffy ball.

“You okay?” Zelda asked, staring out into the distance.

Link immediately felt himself grow colder than the wind could ever make him. He bit his tongue, he thought of something completely irrelevant, something logical or distant or funny to shut off any emotional reaction he was having. “I’m fine.”

“You weren’t… acting fine earlier.”

That cloud in the distance looked like a kikwi. How lovely. Kind of cute too. “Sorry about that. I think I was just tired. But I’m fine.”

“If you’re tired… maybe we should go back to the academy? You can get some rest, I can get you something to eat and drink.”

Movement meant using energy. Skyloft meant people and dealing with socializing. He felt the anger return, prickling on the back of his neck.

He kept his mouth shut. He didn’t like the person he became when his exhaustion drove him to speak too sharply. Not to people who sincerely meant well, at least. So he just didn’t speak.

“Link?”

He felt like he was made of stone. Immovable and emotionless. But the anger still bubbled, spreading from his back to his chest, scrunching it in like bunched up cloth in his hands. He bit back words once more.

“Link, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t deserve to be treated like this. She didn’t. It wasn’t like she hadn’t gone through hell and back, like she hadn’t had to sacrifice herself to protect everyone. Had he even considered how her journey had left her feeling? Especially since Impa had died?

“I’m sorry,” he finally choked out, and it was like opening a hatch to those geysers in the ancient cistern, because damn it all he could not keep his heart off his sleeve for long when it was bleeding so much. “I’m sorry I’ve been like this. I’m sorry I’m always tired. I’m sorry I’m—”

I’m not okay. I’m not okay I’m not okay I’mnotokay—

The silence was filled with the wind. It pushed the words back into him, pushed the thoughts away so he could just… exist again. Zelda’s eyes were intense on him, a heaviness and heat that was scorching him like the sun, but he ignored her, continuing to look at the kikwi shaped cloud.

“I’m sorry too.”

Link finally looked at her. Her gaze was on her hands, which were bunching up fistfuls of her skirt.

“Don’t,” he immediately said before emotions caught his voice in a chokehold. He swallowed against it. “Don’t be sorry.”

“This is my fault,” Zelda argued, her voice wobbling. “You almost died because of me, you’re exhausted because of me—”

“And if I wasn’t?” Link fired back, facing her, his anger spilling out of him. “If you hadn’t chosen me? If you were just down there alone with Impa? You would still be sealed away in that crystal, forever trying to hold Demise back only for the seal to break and for him to destroy everything and everyone. I would have died if you hadn’t chosen me.”

Everyone would have died. Not that Link was trying to emphasize that he rescued everyone… it honestly still didn’t really click. It felt wrong to even argue that point now. But what did feel right was to be angry, to immediately tear down Zelda’s faulty logic, to make sure she knew that this was not at all her fault.

But the tears on her face immediately made the anger recede, and he was left feeling guiltier than ever. He tried softening the blow. “Besides, Ghirahim’s a creep, and you definitely would’ve met him if he wasn’t too busy whining to me about everything.”

This finally pulled a laugh from his friend, though a sad little hiccup followed, and she wiped her tears away. It gave Link a moment, just a moment, to find a shred of energy in himself to actually be empathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated his earlier apology.

“You don’t get to start that too,” Zelda huffed sadly, giving him a weak punch in the arm. “If I can’t apologize, then you can’t.”

Honestly, he needed to apologize. His argument to Zelda had been correct – she couldn’t help the circumstances they had ended up in. She couldn’t help that destiny had demanded they sacrifice their innocence and sanity to protect everyone else from another war, from an apocalypse. But he could help snapping at everyone. He could help his own behavior. However, trying now, pushing past her rebuttal, would only bring the tears back and he… didn’t have the energy for that. He didn’t want to deal with that.

He felt so drained. He dropped the subject altogether.

“Link… are you sure you’re okay?”

This conversation was going in circles and it was going to drive him insane. Crimson grew agitated, sensing his own frustration.

“Look,” Zelda continued, rising to her feet. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong, but I know something is. And if you can’t talk about it, then… then okay. But… at least let me help?”

How the hell could she help?! What sort of help could anyone offer? He was just tired, he wanted to be left alone.

But this was Zelda. He couldn’t say that to her.

Link closed his eyes, and the wind blew harder. He took a deep breath, letting the moving air overinflate his lungs, giving him a dizzy spell, speeding up his heart rate as the gust pushed him back into the island a little bit. He tilted forward to fight it, losing himself to the sky for a moment.

Zelda was grieving and he had no right to add to that. Zelda was processing everything and he had no right to add to that.

“Let’s go back to Skyloft,” he said to appease her, though he didn’t move.

Zelda was quiet for a long time. When she finally acknowledged him with a small okay, it didn’t sound any more reassured than before. Crimson chittered anxiously, slowly standing and stretching one wing.

Link took another breath, energy flooding him with some unnamed emotion as the silence grew too deafening, the wind too quiet, Zelda’s stare too intense, and he pushed himself off the island altogether. The instant lift in his stomach, the immediate disappearance of the earth below, the sudden sensation of freefall overtook him, and goddess above he just wanted to be like this forever, freefalling with nothing to land on, nothing to hurt him, nothing to catch him, nothing to run to, and nothing to run from.

His loftwing flew alongside him, awaiting his call. The clouds grew closer, though the barrier they used to create was long gone. He passed through a small wisp of one and was instantly soaked and freezing, the air knocked out of his lungs. The jolt of reality came back to him, and his fingers found their way into his lips to whistle, bringing his loftwing below him.

When he started to climb once more, settled on Crimson’s back, Zelda and Indigo flew alongside him. He threw her a smile, and she gave a small one back.

The pair circled Skyloft for a minute or so before they both leapt off their mounts. Link landed closer to the academy so he could interact with as few people as possible. Zelda followed him.

“Link,” she called as he made his way to his room. He turned to her, and she gave another smile, small, hurting, but hopeful. “We’ll get better. I promise.”

Her words were so simple, and had so little energy behind them. She looked as exhausted as he felt. He was overcome with guilt once again, but this time he didn’t have energy to maintain it. Instead, he just walked towards her, falling easily into her embrace as the two leaned against each other. He remembered catching her just a week or so ago when she had exited that wretched crystal. He remembered how she’d trembled when she’d been walking alongside him. He held her tightly, trying to support her, but by all that was holy all he wanted to do was just sink into her arms as she had into his. But he wouldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t.

“We will,” he promised in return.

#breaking news boy who chased girl for months is now being chased by girl he was chasing originally #lots of chasing to be had on both sides #gah I hurt them so much and I hurt because of it but #by heaven there's no way either of them could've healed quickly or easily from all of that #though I'm sure they eventually did #at least they hugged?#idk guys it's 4am I'm in a low mood and listening to sad/low energy vibe music #so Link and I are vibing lol #skye time travels through the queue #writing #skyward sword #skyward sword link #ss link #skyward sword zelda #ss zelda #legend of zelda #whumptober

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zellink · 4 months

Text

nearer, my god, to thee

a post-botw zelink fic. [ one-shot // 11k words // E-rated for sexual content ]

>> Read on AO3

Summary: Link finally understands that it isn’t him who has absorbed this kingdom into his bloodstream—it is the kingdom, it is her, and she is surrounding him, swallowing him whole. A tent in a forest, a summer night full of stars, and two people who have always been part of the wild.

Notes: Written as part of Zelink Hype Squad server's Hestu Gift Exchange 2023-24 for @spices28 ⭐️ Special thanks to @1up-girl and @mustardcheesedog for being such amazing betas. ✨

nearer, my god, to thee

Hyrule has always been a beautiful land.

Rolling hills that bleed into meadows. Verdant canopies of trees that shield and cover whatever creature that wanders beneath. Rivers that run wild into everywhere and nowhere, into seas that lead to places unknown. Mountains that seem to scratch the sky. Canyons that go so deep, one might think the core of the earth is visible from a bird’s eye view.

And Link, upon waking up from his long slumber, has laid his eyes on every inch of the land. Has seen it all through summer’s rage and winter’s wrath, underneath stone archways in front of mansions long gone, from behind overgrown vines that wrap around fallen citadels. He’s lost and found himself, time and time again, in the Lost Woods and the Hebra Mountains and the far-flung corners of Gerudo Desert. Has absorbed this land into his bloodstream until he becomes one with it, until he’s just another permanent fixture of the landscape—another mountain in Lanayru, perhaps. Or another river that flows through Faron.

But when all is finally said and done, and he has bled and bled in the bowels of the castle and in the field, and a golden light shines in the sky and descends gently onto the grass, he realizes, finds—

That there is just one more part of Hyrule that he hasn’t absorbed into himself at all.

And that part is living and breathing and sitting in the saddle atop her white stallion, riding alongside his brown mare. Her cheeks are flushed from the late summer’s heat. Her long blonde locks are blown back by the evening breeze, the top a little bit mussed up and the braids across her crown slightly loosened from the day’s hot journey eastward.

The urge to extend his arm outward and run his fingers through those tresses claws inside him.

He clenches at the reins a bit tighter instead.

They continue to ride.

To their right, Wetland Stable is all lit up for the night. Link has been there before, too. A few months ago, he slept in a cot underneath that very roof after he had chased down a particular landscape portrayed in an image on the Slate, hunting it all the way into the forest just across the river.

In the end, he had come out of it with a singed brow and an arm covered in burns—classic memento from the Guardians—and the haunting fragment of a memory from one hundred years ago, where the woman he ached to bring home had despaired and cried in his embrace, among the rainfall and the mud.

The woman’s voice is what slices through his thoughts.

“Gods, I’ve forgotten how muscles can ache from too much use,” Zelda says. “I think we should stop for the night and get some rest. What do you think?”

Link smiles at her. There is no mud nor rainfall on her face anymore—only a few beads of sweat that his fingers long to wipe away. “Yeah, I agree.”

“Shall we head to the stable, then?” she asks.

He turns his head to look at the stable again. It’s not especially crowded—Wetland Stable never is, unlike Riverside or Dueling Peaks—but he sees a few visitors sitting around the communal cook pot, sees some other patrons conversing with the stablemaster, and thinks that they’ve had their fair share of strangers’ eyes upon them for the past month in Hateno.

They’ll have more of that in their destination, too: Zora’s Domain is filled with people who know exactly who they are, beyond their unassuming appearance. People who know of the titles from their former lives, know of the hefty past that they carry upon their shoulders.

He wants to take her somewhere else. A place unknown to anyone else except for him. No prying eyes, no whispering mouths. Only boughs of trees overhead, the soft sloshing of water from leaping frogs, and the chirps of restless crickets.

Wants to share that piece of wilderness with her. Consume it together.

“There’s this spot in the cove of Crenel Peak,” Link says. “There’s a pond and a lot of trees and sometimes there are fireflies, too. We can pitch a tent and rest there.” He pauses. “If— if you want.”

Zelda’s lips curve into a smile—wide, dimpling her cheeks, and his heart twists and twists. “That sounds lovely, Link,” she replies. “Let’s go there, then.”

They change course, pulling at the reins to keep left on the dirt path, then turning at the intersection and heading a little further north. Past the quiet fields and open meadows and the unobstructed view to the castle—all black and gray and no wisps of crimson at all against the twilight sky—until they reach the base of Crenel Peak, where the hills part to reveal an opening to a tree-filled recess in the side of the mountain.

Link dismounts first, hitching his mare onto a trunk on the outskirts of the small forest before offering Zelda his hand—gloved palm facing up. He knows she’s more than capable of sliding off her stallion herself, but, well—he’d never pass up the opportunity to have her touch grace his skin. She takes it, and he feels her lean her weight onto his hand as she dismounts. Feels the warmth even through her glove, feels his blood rushing towards where their bare fingers meet.

When she lets him go to hitch her own steed, Link lets out a slow exhale through his mouth.

Blames his sudden breathlessness on the summer heat.

He unfastens their shared traveling pack and tent from their horses’ backs while Zelda takes the bedrolls. Lets muscle memory from a hundred years prior overtake his body because this—working together with her like clockwork, preparing themselves for a night in whatever pocket tucked away within the kingdom—is something even a long slumber can’t ever erase from him.

They walk further into the cove until they find a small clearing where the pond awaits, right at the base of the hill. He takes out the sheets of canvas and the poles, and begins pitching the tent. Assembles the poles, connects one end to another, then inserts each pole into its corresponding grommet. As he stakes the corners of the erected tent into the ground, he sees her build a fire in his periphery, steel against flint atop a bundle of wood. Orange sparks fly, and then their camp for the night is finally illuminated, ready for their rumbling stomachs and aching bodies.

And anything else that might unravel as the night progresses, a voice within him says, though he chides it, pushes it away.

Link unlaces the traveling pack and searches for some wooden plates and spoons. Fights off a smile from breaking across his face when his fingers brush over their tangled belongings—the clasp of his additional pair of pants catching the strap of her silk camisoles; her hairbrush that somehow got stuck to his robe.

Eventually, he finds those wooden plates and spoons.

He sets the utensils atop a nearby tree stump, places a cook pot on the fire, and says, “I think there’s plenty of mushrooms around. Do you want stew or skewers?”

Zelda purses her lips, mulling over his question, and something warm shoots through his nerves as if it’s the very first time he’s uttered such a question to her in this century. He supposes he should start getting used to this—asking mundane questions about nothing, about everything. Where to stay for the night, what to have for dinner.

“Skewers would be better, I think,” she replies as she settles on a fallen log in front of the fire. Gives her sweaty forehead a cursory wipe with the back of her hand. “It’s too hot for a stew, don’t you think?”

Oh, he really could get used to this.

“Yeah, skewers sound good.” He smiles at her.

So Link spends the next ten minutes foraging for Hylian mushrooms around the area, putting each that he has picked into a cloth bag Zelda had fashioned out of his worn shirt back in Hateno. In the end, he’s gathered enough mushrooms (and some Hyrule herbs, too) to feed six: one portion for her, three for him, and two for leftovers that can serve as a light lunch tomorrow for the rest of the journey to Zora’s Domain.

He returns to the cook pot, procures the jars of oil and crushed rock salt from their pack, and begins cooking their dinner. Pouring a little bit of oil, then hovers his hand above the pot, gauging the heat before pouring all the picked mushrooms into it. He stirs and stirs with a wooden spoon, trying his damndest not to look her way too much lest he makes a mistake and burns himself on the hot iron.

(But then any burn or cut is worth it when it’s for her.)

Once the mushrooms are cooked through, Link realizes that he doesn’t have the wood sticks, so he serves the food in the bowl and hands it to Zelda.

“This is just… a bowl of cooked mushrooms,” he says, bashful. “Don’t actually have the sticks to skewer them. Sorry.”

A laugh bursts from Zelda. “That’s no problem, Link,” she says, grinning. “I don’t think we would be eating the wood sticks anyway,” she adds, before reaching for the bowl from his hands. Covering his fingers with hers, pressing slightly before taking it away.

His breath becomes ragged in an instant, though he knows how to quickly regain his composure, because it has happened many, many times before. In Hateno, in their shared home and on the streets and every place in between. A lingering touch here and there, fire through his veins. The air turning heavy each time, but holding themselves back as they ride out the initial shock of being alive together in this century, as they parse through their grief and loss and shared wounds.

But now they are outside and there’s a certain lightness that percolates through him that he knows hasn’t been there in ages, and they are alone together—so alone—and he knows it will snap.

It’s just a matter of when.

So he shoots another smile at her and goes to serve a bowl for himself. Settles on the log next to her—the side of his thigh touching hers all the way to their knees. Feeling his skin sizzle even through the fabric of his breeches. Eats and eats with barely any words exchanged because their shared silence is as natural as breathing. When they break it, it’s for her to comment on his talent of making even just mushrooms seasoned with salt and herb taste good, and he replies with thanks and heat rising on his cheeks.

It doesn’t take long for them to finish their meals. It has been quite a long day, after all.

He takes the bowl from her and washes their dishes by the pond as she takes their pack inside the tent, fastens the flaps together, and changes into her sleepwear. With a rag he scrubs and scrubs the grime off the cook pot, averting his thoughts to anything else other than the sound of fabric rustling from beyond that layer of canvas, which proves futile anyway.

It’s painfully familiar, because he knows he’s been here before, regardless of the scantness of his memories. He’s felt this so often, if not always. A century ago, in other places, bearing skin with fewer scars but one that still aches to touch her all the same.

With everything cleaned, he sets them on the same nearby tree stump to dry. Takes a deep, deep breath, then takes his bedroll and pulls at the laces to unfurl it atop the grass, in front of the tent.

Link stares at it for a while, just as he has done for the past three weeks—the same bedroll set on the floor beside the bed in their home. Imagines two bodies atop it instead of just one, pictures two sets of limbs searching for one another and tangling and joining. Swallowing those images down his throat, where they sear until they settle inside his stomach, dormant and docile, before they come up into his mouth again the next night. Over and over and over, because he knows that they have all the time in the world now and all that’s left to do is wait.

And he intends to swallow them all down and wait again tonight, though something in his gut tells him that maybe, just maybe, the trees and the open sky overhead might catalyze a bolt from the blue.

There’s more rustling from inside the tent, so Link decides to distract himself by undoing his baldric and belts, taking off his gloves, carefully setting the Sword against a tree, and then sitting down and unfastening the leather vambrace from his right forearm. Then it’s the patterned strip of cloth that he peels off from his arms, unwrapping, unraveling, until he’s only in his Champion tunic with the cotton shirt underneath, his pants, and his boots.

As he sets his protective leathers aside, Zelda comes out from the tent with her cream-colored nightgown finally wrapped around her figure—loose and sleeveless, with the thin straps hanging on her shoulders and the hem falling down to her mid-calves.

The sight knocks all the air out of his lungs.

Then his eyes settle on her face and he notices the furrow between her brows.

“Why are you setting the bedroll outside?” Zelda asks.

Link gulps. “I’m here to keep guard.”

Funnily enough, even he can hear the slight question mark that follows that sentence.

Zelda actually appears surprised by his reply. “From what? Hot-footed frogs?”

“There were bears here before,” he feigns obliviousness. “When I found this place the first time around.”

“Which I’m sure you’ve dealt with since I don’t see or hear them anywhere,” she says. There’s something fond in those emeralds of hers, like she understands exactly the predicament he’s found himself in because she’s in the thick of it, too—in the knowing and not-knowing, wanting to end it in the most perfect way possible—softly, gently.

“I’d like to keep watch with you, too, then.” A shy smile forms on her lips. “If you need the additional set of eyes, that is.”

Link knows she isn’t talking about bears anymore, knows that she knows he doesn’t need the additional set of eyes, because protecting her comes as natural as the blinking of his eyes, as inherent as his fingers around the indigo hilt of the Sword.

He doesn’t need the extra guard; he just needs her.

“Of course,” Link replies.

>> Continue reading on AO3

#now off i go to lose my mind working on my longfic #my fic #zelink #botw zelink #zelink fic #zelink fanfiction #botw fic #botw

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secretly-a-catamount · 1 month

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Water is eternal. It cannot be created. It cannot be destroyed.

Water is ancient. It fell from the heavens at the beginning of the world encased in rock, and, once it was freed, drowned the flames and ash. It falls to the earth still, a cycle that cannot be broken, an ouroboros eating its own tail.

Water is all-encompassing, everywhere. It is present in ever living thing. It seeps into that which is believed to be dead but is not.

Water births.

Water sustains.

Water kills.

The man walked up the misted dock with an assurance that could only be granted by absolute power; someone who was used to taking what he wanted, the very mountains crumbling beneath his will. His skin was paler than sun-bleached bone, and his hair was the color of burnished gold and fell in tousled waves to his coat collar. He wore black clothing, blacker boots, and a dark gray jacket that accentuated his musculature well, silver buttons neatly fastened through ever hole atop his wrists and up the deceptively delicate, almost swan-like curve of his throat. His blood ran slowly through his veins, each beat of his heart punctured by a wound that would never heal.

He stopped halfway down the dock, hellfire-green eyes scanning the partially obscured surface of the lake, and spoke.

“I need you to do something for me.”

The trees did not answer, gnarled roots and trunks bent, arms burdened with leaves bending down to be swallowed by the water, but the man had not expected them to. The mist did not answer either, but he had not expected it to, anymore than the trees. The wind, faint and weak, running the incorporeal tendrils of its fingers down his neck, didn’t answer, but he had not expected it to anymore than he had the trees and the mist.

“I said: I need you to do something for me.”

We heard you the first time, the response came from everywhere and nowhere, a thousand voices speaking as one but slightly overlapping, the angry buzz of bees, the deafening patter of raindrops against a metal roof, the howl of a hurricane, waves crashing against the shore, who are you, to think you can command the Element of Water?

“I’m the Enemy of Death.”

A moment of silence, then a loud crack as the end of the dock splintered off, then a thump as a mangled corpse pulled itself from the churning depths and heaved itself onto the splintered end of the dock.

The mage gasped and staggered back, watching as the animated corpse dragged itself towards him with the nasty scraps of bone against wood, and the wet slaps of wood against rotted flesh. The water, splintered boards, rusted nails, vegetation, and silt, came with it, reconstructed its body as it went.

By the time the Devoured was erected and whole, the Enemy of Death had composed himself again to the point of neutrality.

The Devoured smiled like a predator, the vines wrapped around her bones and ruptured flesh acting as muscles and ligaments, her remaining bits of skin splitting at the movement, peeling away from her ruined body. Blood and oil leaked from her empty eye sockets, and her black hair twisted around her form like a shroud. She was vaguely humanoid, vaguely feminine, and vaguely young. She wore the tattered remains of a Golden Year uniform and a Magisterium wristband.

“Hello, Tamara.”

Hello, Aaron.

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mrs-gauche · 1 year

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Hi! Any thoughts on the 'hidden track' at the end of the Bonus DLC Tracks for the new Dragon Age Vinyl set? "D'Read Koda" can be interpreted so many ways but 'dread bear'? Coda, the musical notation? (Do you suppose there's any connection to the bear and maiden graffiti art we see several places in Inquisition [or any connection between that mural and the one from The Missing {moon atop the bear and halla horns on the maiden?}])

Hi! Thanks for the ask! :D And yeah, I've been super curious about this as well! (And also the pre-sale for the vinyl now starting at the same day that the final volume of The Missing is coming out, May 10th 👀 but ALSO everything about the cover, like the GOLDEN CITY (omg???), the enormous DRAGON (Mythal???), the vines/tree branches (like Mythal's vallaslin/visions of her conquering in Trespasser??), the ECLIPSE in the background (according to Dalish mythology Mythal "created" the moon/"An Eclipse as Fen'Harel stirred"??), the summit/mountain beneath it (!!) and that single hooded person (with a staff resembling the headpiece of one of the two figures in the 2020 teaser mural/symbols in the new cinematic)?? The potential LORE revelations on this thing are absolutely bonkers, but I digress! 😂)

Anyway! I actually thought something similar when I first saw that mysterious hidden track name, that it has to be some kind of anagram or wordplay, given how much BioWare LOVES to do those and also with the musical term "coda" being spelled with a "k" for some reason, but what stood out to me especially was the random apostrophe that's in there, since the devs are also known for their (internal) "disputes" about the extensive use of apostrophes in DA for the elven language and names. lol

So to me the odd spelling plus the random apostrophe points more to it being an anagram for a specific elven term, but I have yet to decipher what it could be. 🤔

My second thought was if this "hidden track" could actually just be the final part in the "extended version" of the Lost Elf theme (starting at about 10:13), but then I looked up the game's files and noticed that this specific tune actually plays (though only once) when you first get to the Darvaarad and the full piece is about 2:40 minutes long (the hidden track being only 1:08), leading me to think this is probably what's titled "Qunari Atmosphere" on the tracklist. And after going through all the Trespasser music files I could find, there was nothing hinting at something like "D'Read Koda" either. :/

But you're right, "Koda" is also a term in the Dakota language meaning "friend/ally" or "little bear", but I'm completely at a loss as to what that could refer to. For all we know, it could be a reference to frigging Storvacker. 😂

As for your second question though, since you brought up "The Bear and the Maiden" painting/mural in connection to the mural in volume 3 of The Missing, there are actually a few other interesting aspects to this that I've been thinking about, but before I start rambling get to that point, let me just put the rest under a cut so people don't get spammed with an exhaustingly long text post. lol

First off, for reference, this is the painting we're talking about, featured in various places throughout DAI!

People have made quite a few speculations about this imagery over the years. For one, given that it is not exclusively found in elven ruins and filed under "Fereldan art" in the game's files, some people assume it could depict an old legend of the Alamarri. Others have suggested that it's actually just a little easter egg in reference to the "The Bear and the Fair Maiden" song in ASOIAF. lol

But by far the most popular take on this, is that this is depicting the elven gods Dirthamen and Ghilan'nain. Based on Ghilan'nain's sacred animal being the halla and the lady with her all white appearance and her antlers kinda resembling one as well. And Dirthamen's sacred animal being a bear (among others, I think). Which would pose the question though, why these two are portrayed in such a way, when there's nothing in the lore that could give us an explanation?

To me, it almost looks like the maiden is trying to calm the bear down/keep him in check, who has gone out of control and is now turning into a wild beast (that can apparently also breath fire? lol). With what we know of Ghilan'nain now, it's definitely possible that her horrifying experiments and creation of all kinds of freaky creatures might have inspired such imagery.

So, while I can see how you could draw a parallel to the mural in volume 3 with the way they're positioned/embrace each other, I don't know what else to derive from this, other than that it would point to the bottom "red one" being Ghilan'nain and the "green one" being Andruil and not the other way around, or that Andruil was maybe able to shapeshift into a bear? lol But if we're going with my assumption that the bear is losing control over itself, maybe it could refer to the stories of Andruil succumbing to madness from hunting the Forgotten Ones in the Void. As opposed to the mural in the comic, where they seem to be rather peacefully in love (to me at least).

But while we're at it, let us go back to Ghilan'nain and Dirthamen's potential connection real quick (because I've been thinking about it 😶)! What's interesting to me, is that these two have actually been mentioned together in the lore, too, looking at this ancient elven writing for example that is only revealed to you when using Veilfire at the Temple of Mythal:

"His crime is high treason. He took on a form reserved for the gods and their chosen, and dared to fly in the shape of the divine.The sinner belongs to Dirthamen; he claims he took wings at the urging of Ghilan'nain, and begs protection from Mythal. She does not show him favor, and will let Elgar'nan judge him."

"For one moment there is an image of a shifting, shadowy mass with blazing eyes, whose form may be one or many. Then it fades."

So there we have the two being involved in what appears to be a judgement on someone serving under Dirthamen, because of Ghilan'nain's actions. While we don't know how much of this actually happened, it definitely makes you wonder about their intentions here. Why would Ghil do this? And why specifically to someone serving under Dirthamen? What was the outcome? And what does this tell us about their relationship? (And now that I think about it, what if this sinner was actually the bear in the mural? lol)

As for the sinner himself. Now, I don't know about you, but when I reread this codex again after several playthroughs, particularly the “shifting, shadowy mass with blazing eyes” at the end, I thought “Wait. That kinda reminds me of something......”

Look, I know it doesn't appear that way when looking at my blog for like five minutes, but I certainly don't think that every single codex entry on elven myths should be automatically assumed to be about Solas. 😂 That being said, I can't help but feel like there's a connection to be made when looking at this other ancient inscription, that can be found in the final chamber of the Solasan Temple:

Faintly carved into the stone is a figure bound in chains. Two other figures have turned their gaze from the central image.

The script below the image is ancient, though Solas is able to provide a partial translation:

Pride in our accomplishments and in our hearts. That same pride became (a word meaning corrupted or altered) within him, he sought to claim (indecipherable), cast from favor and so he was bound.

Hidden from mortal eyes, death lies within.

To me, this text always seemed to perfectly match up with the ancient writing in Mythal's temple. A person being judged for claiming (godhood?)/daring to fly in the shape of the divine (a dragon?), put in chains and "bound" as punishment (by Elgar'nan?). And again, there are two figures involved. If the events of these writings do connect, was this "sinner" the one belonging to Dirthamen, taking wings by the urging of Ghilan'nain and them now silently accepting Elgar'nan's judgement, making those two the "figures turning their gaze"?

The thing is, if I'm presented with an ancient elven text about someone's PRIDE being corrupted in a place called SOLASAN temple, how in the world am I NOT supposed to draw an immediate connection to Solas here? 😂 I'm not saying that the sinner in this story had to be him per se, but if the age-old theory about Solas having been a spirit of Wisdom once who somehow turned into Pride is true, then there's still the question of how or why exactly this corruption occurred? And, if anything, the story of this sinner would provide at least one possibility for what happened to someone who had been corrupted in ancient times.

"Cast from favor and so he was bound."

If Cole's cryptic comments in Trespasser are actually about Solas (and Mythal?), then it's safe to say that Solas was himself bound ("He left a scar when he burned her off his face"), which does make SO much sense, considering that he values free will above everything, his furious reaction to the Well of Sorrows is SO telling, oh and also, he lead a motherflippin Slave Rebellion. 😂

But if we're looking for further potential connections between Dirthamen, Ghilan'nain and Solas... Well, Dirthamen is not only called the Keeper of Secrets, but is also always associated with sharing wisdom, knowledge and giving counsel to those in need. His symbols also include two ravens. Wolf and raven being known for pretty cool 80s synthwave music having a special bond in many real life myths and legends.

And Ghilan'nain is the only elven god we know of who was a "huntress of the People" before she ascended to become the youngest of the elven pantheon (possibly because of her relationship with Andruil or her ability to "create" things). As far as we know, Solas was also one of the People before he "became" Fen'Harel. So they were very much alike in that sense.

There's also the tale in which Fen'Harel gets captured by Andruil, because he had angered her by “hunting the halla without her blessing”. Some people have taken this to mean that Solas made a move on Ghilan'nain or that they had something going, so naturally, given that Andruil and Ghilan'nain are believed to have also been lovers, she was not very amused about that. lol (Which would make the rest of the story even funnier, where Andruil declared to “punish” him by making him “serve in her bed for a year and a day to pay her back”. lmao)

Which brings us finally back to the mural in The Missing volume 3, that could depict Andruil and Ghilan'nain embracing each other, perhaps even romantically (btw, if you want to know why I think so, check out my post on volume 3. :D).

I kinda joked about it at first, but if we assume that this mural was actually made by Solas as well, then you do have to wonder why he would even choose to paint such an intimate moment between Ghilan'nain and Andruil, people he arguably despises? Though it'll be interesting to learn what their relationship was like before his rebellion and Mythal's murder. I mean, who knows, maybe the before-mentioned tale actually happened and all three of them made out afterwards (willingly or not). 😂 (I mean, we're still talking about immortal beings here, so what else are they gonna do all day? lol) Or maybe Solas was just the Evanuris' personal portrait/mural painter at one point. lol

Anyway, to conclude, all of this is partially why I assumed for the longest time, that the two figures seen in the 2020 teaser mural could be Ghilan'nain and Dirthamen (also the fact that Dirthamen's vallaslin matched up perfectly with the silhouette of the right figure and obviously everything about Ghilan'nain and her horrifying experiments in Tevinter Nights).

...but with everything we've learned since then, I'm now actually leaning more towards it being Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan (if you want to know why, I highly recommend watching this fantastic analysis!).

The only thing that still kinda irks me with this, is the fact that the only elven god that's known for wielding a spear like this is actually Andruil.

However, it is super suspicious to me how the "goddess" seen in this concept art seems to break out of what looks like huge ocean waves and how this "grey sludge stuff" from Ghil's ancient "pools" in Tevinter Nights was described to have "smelled like the ocean" AND the mention of (capital P) Pride in elven myths having "stopped Ghilan'nain's hand when she was about to destroy her creatures of the deep sea". 👀👀 (Also, is it just me or does the figure in the 2020 mural look like she's having algae hanging down her headpiece? Not to mention the tentacles. lol) So there's that.

Also, and I know this is the silliest reason, but I don't know if BioWare would expect new or casual players to keep up with all these long "complicated" elven names, since "Ghilan'nain" and "Elgar'nan" do sound kinda similar and people might get them mixed up. lmao So having Elgar'nan and Andruil might be a bit more distinguishable, just for the sake of making it a little easier for new players lol (I mean, they have changed names before to avoid this problem, like when the Tevinter city "Qarinus" was turned into "Ventus" because it sounded too similar to "Qunari", I think? 😂).

I don't know if any of this actually answered your question, I feel like I got carried away by like a mile. 😂 I don't know how I got from "D'Read Koda" on the vinyl to tentacles, but here we are. 😂 Those are my thoughts on.... a lot of stuff. lol

#dragon age the missing spoilers #tevinter nights #dragon age the missing #solas #ghilan'nain #dirthamen #andruil #tinfoil time #da4

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